“Sorry,” he shrugged, “don’t speak the language too well, but I do speak another.”
He pulled the van onto a side street and climbed out, beckoning the boys to follow him. They resisted for a moment, confused, even angry, but one by one they came forward. As they stepped toward Blaine, he handed each boy five worn American dollar bills, more money than any of them had ever seen before. The beggar boys gathered together to share their shock and then glee, jumping up and down and babbling away joyously, ultimately hugging McCracken with thanks all at once. He fought them off as best he could but they stubbornly clung to him. Blaine finally managed to force them off with instructions in decent Greek for them to be on their way. The boys resisted, then at last moved off together as McCracken climbed back into the van.
Five minutes later, the bound and gagged body of Manolokis abandoned in the nearby brush, Blaine headed south. The ride would be long and the roads unfamiliar, but the route to Fass’s villa outside of Sfakia was reasonably straight and Natalya’s directions were precise. His Heckler and Koch was history, lost the night before on some Athens street, and Natalya had done her best to fill the gap with a pair of Brin 10 semiautomatic pistols. The substitution was acceptable and Blaine had stowed both of his fresh pistols under the seat.
He knew little about the part of Crete he was heading toward. Natalya had mentioned only a countryside rich in history and containing a subterranean well of ancient caves. Of Fass’s villa little was known other than its hugeness. Fass himself was a mystery man, a smuggler of anything if the price was right. His perverted sexual leanings were the only thing known of him for sure and this the authorities did nothing about. Crete was his territory, its lavish beauty in direct contrast with the evil of a man who many believed to be a direct descendant of the devil.
It was two hours before McCracken found the private road that would take him to Fass’s villa. Video cameras rotating from their tree posts signaled its location even as they tracked his arrival. He guessed there would be plenty of guards lining the road as well, but they would be well hidden and would appear only if the vehicle seeking entry was deemed a threat.
Several miles back Blaine had stuffed the Brin 10s in his belt beneath his baggy linen jacket. His last touch was to put on the floppy, crinkled hat and tilt it just enough over his eyes to put them in shadows. He steadied himself with a deep breath as the entrance to Fass’s villa, a huge white stone gate, appeared before him. The guards on either side seemed to recognize the van and paid it little heed as he approached.
He cracked the window a few inches as he drew closer, braking the van to a walking clip. The guards never moved. The gate began to swing electronically open and they waved him through.
The courtyard is very large. A fountain, beautifully manicured lawns and shrubbery. Follow the driveway to the left where it winds in a semicircle before Fass’s mansion. The procedure is for the guards to meet the van and take delivery of the contents. From that point you’re on your own.
Natalya’s description of the villa was absolutely precise. She had left out only its true magnitude. It was certainly one of the largest houses Blaine had ever seen, built entirely of white stone.
McCracken speeded up the van as he headed toward the circular drive in the front of the mansion. At the same time, he lifted one hand from the steering wheel and pulled a razor blade from the dashboard where he had left it. For the rest of his plan to work, the mansion guards would have to be distracted enough not to notice he wasn’t the real Manolokis. Bringing the razor blade to his forehead, he made a quick slice in an old scar. Blood began pouring out instantly, dripping into his eyes. Perfect. Nothing beat blood for a distraction.
He was honking the horn when he screeched the van to a halt directly before the double entrance doors.
“Help! Help!” he called, throwing himself clumsily out of the van and making sure there was ample blood on his sleeves as well. The guards were running up. “They forced me off the road, took the boys!”
“Who?” the lead guard demanded in Greek.
“Fass! I must see Fass!”
McCracken was counting on the element of surprise once he was escorted into Fass’s chamber. A quick motion to draw his guns or knife and the Greek would be at his mercy. All the guards in the world would do him no good.
The guards were leading him into the mansion.
“He’ll be angry, I know,” McCracken continued, making no effort to clear away the blood from his face. “But it wasn’t my fault. He’ll have to understand that….”
They had reached a huge circular stairwell and ascended it toward the mansion’s second floor. The hallway at the top was long and curving. Guards flanked him on either side as they led him down it. Blaine kept his breathing rapid in mock panic but inside he was calming himself to his task.
“In here,” the lead guard signaled, throwing the door open to what must have been Fass’s chamber.
Blaine picked up his pace just a little as he entered, ready to spring now, hands already starting for his guns.
The sight of a half dozen men wielding automatic rifles froze him in his tracks. Behind the guards was a huge desk, and Blaine caught a glimpse of the man behind it.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. McCracken,” said Megilido Fass.
Chapter 16
“Please,” Fass continued, “make yourself comfortable, but first drop your weapons on the floor.”
McCracken emptied his belt deliberately, one of Fass’s white-clad guards on either side of him. Both moved closer for a frisk.
“Be careful of this one,” Fass warned them. “He could strip your rifles away in the blink of an eye.”
“It’s nice to have my skills appreciated for once,” Blaine said, the frisk nearly complete.
Fass rose from behind his desk. “Here,” he said, tossing a towel to McCracken. “The blood is most unbecoming to you.”
Blaine caught the towel in midair and swiped away at his forehead, noticing for the first time a television monitor sitting atop Fass’s desk.
“I recorded your performance outside on tape,” the Greek explained. “Most impressive.”
“I’m expecting royalties every time you show that.”
“And rest assured I will show it often. It will be added to my permanent collection.”
Blaine surveyed the scene before him, searching for options. Fass was not at all what he expected. The Greek smuggler was tall and gaunt, dressed in a white suit, white shirt, and white silk tie. His flesh was bronzed by the Mediterranean sun and his jet-black hair was slicked down close to his scalp. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of narrow sunglasses. A young boy, dressed in white shirt and pants, stood behind him against the back wall next to a dry bar. The servant had long curly locks that tumbled to his shoulders and couldn’t have been older man fourteen.
“You were expecting me,” Blaine said.
Fass chuckled, grinning devilishly. “An old friend of yours made a number of phone calls telling us to be on the lookout.”
“Vasquez …”
Fass nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased you remember him. He called me twice. For some reason he was sure I would be your next target.”
“You could have killed me downstairs if you wanted to.”
“Of course I could have.” Fass beamed. “But there would have been no sport in it.” He tilted his stare toward the monitor. “No permanent recording of your exploits for an epitaph.” Fass grinned again and pulled something from his pocket as he summoned the boy from the dry bar to his side. “Human life is nothing but a possession to be dealt with and replaced accordingly. Man is an intrinsically dispensable creature. Life and death are merely relative states of being I control within these walls.”