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  He heard voices in the hall. Chuck shut the drawer and turned away from the desk just as the door swung open and the captain walked in. The captain glanced at his desk and then at Chuck.

  He wore a tan khaki uniform with gold bars on his shoulders. A walkie-talkie was attached to his belt with the mike clipped to his breast pocket.

  “I am Captain Popov. I understand that you were referred to me by Boris Methodius.”

  Chuck nodded. “That’s right, Captain. Here’s my letter of introduction.” He handed it over. “Methodius wrote it this morning. Name is Bill Cash. I represent museums in America. I’m looking to purchase some original Greek statues, top-quality. I represent very wealthy sponsors. Boris said that you were the man to talk to.”

  Reading the letter with fascination, the captain nodded. He folded the paper. “You have come to the right place at the right time. We have a truly extraordinary statue. I’m talking world class. This would be a trophy piece for museums like the Hermitage in or even the National Museum of Art in Washington DC. Even a museum like that would rate this as a prize possession. It would likely be featured in all advertizing and draw crowds of people for many years.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Yes, but obviously the price is high. Maybe you would rather we show you some of the B-grade statues.”

  “The people I represent want only the best and they’ll pay market price.”

  “What if the price was $20 million?”

  “That’s a lot of money. My buyers can afford it, but what statue could cost that much?”

  “A life-size, newly-discovered thousand-pound silver statue of Poseidon.”

  “Pure silver?”

  “That’s right, but I don’t want to waste your time if you’re not serious. As I said, this is one of the premier artifacts in the world. In truth, it’s worth twice what I’m asking. This will sell very quickly.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “How soon could you get the money if you decide to purchase it?”

  “I can have the money wired. It’s their decision, but mostly likely, if it’s as advertized, they would put up a deposit, maybe $100,000, while they send out an appraiser. Of course, I’ll need photos, documents, a history of the artifact, a provenance, you know the drill. It’ll take a few days, but that’s light speed in the world of art museums, especially with a big ticket item like this. For starters, I’d like to see the statue, see if this is worth pursuing.”

  “Sure, but of course it’s not onboard.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, sir. We have it in a safe in a coffin factory on the island. It’s easier to secure there. We have armed guards, and it’s on private property, not easy to get access.”

  “Can we go now?”

  The captain looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I can’t go myself, but a few of my men can take you. Be at the big anchor on the boardwalk in half an hour.”

  “The big anchor?”

  “Yes, surely you’ve seen it.”

  “Of course. I’ll be there. Is this factory near Symi town?”

  “It’s across the island. Alright, Mr. Cash. We’ll put you ashore and my men will meet you there in half an hour.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Nineteen hours till shoot-down

  Chuck was met by two thugs. The first was a clean shaven hard-case with a swarthy complexion. His hairdo was piled up thick several inches high but buzz cut short on the sides. He probably weighed in a two-eighty but carried more flesh than muscle.

  The other tough was six-four, lean, hard as a rope, and from his eyes, he looked meaner than a snake.

  “You’re Mr. Cash?” the tall one said. His loathing eyes looked right through Chuck.

  Chuck nodded. It crossed his mind that the captain must have been hard-up for salesmen. These two clowns were never going to make it big as art brokers or museum curators until they improved their attitudes. Chuck figured he would have to be careful about pumping these guys for information on the Hood.

  “I’m ready to go see the Silver Poseidon,” Chuck said.

  A second car pulled up, but the two heavies didn’t get out.

  Narrow roads wound through Symi and climbed the mountainside. Chuck watched the scenery as they drove past parked cars, stone walls, and yellow homes. The windy roads highlighted the harsh geography of the island, much of which was undeveloped due to rocky slopes. The driver was constantly braking, turning, and accelerating. After at least twenty minutes outside of town, the driver pulled off the paved road to a gated dirt road. He opened the gate, pulled the car through, and locked the gate behind them. What followed was another twenty minutes of twisting and turning, but now churning up a cloud of dust. They arrived at an old factory and Chuck could see that the gravel track continued on down another mile to the coast, to a remote bay with a large pier then ran up into the hills to a mansion about a quarter mile past the pier.

  The car stopped and Chuck got out as dust washed over him. He casually eyed the ground but saw no tire tracks of an eighteen-wheeler, which he couldn’t picture on Symi anyway. He wasn’t surprised. Sebastian had said Vulcan Eye had once been on Symi but was then moved.

  The coffin factory was a decrepit, abandoned operation. The big old buildings looked old and dirty. Garbage was spread out across the land, which was overgrown with dead foliage. Chuck got an uncomfortable feeling. This did not look like a place to keep a multi-million dollar silver statue, but he didn’t say anything. The heavies from the second car stood by their car and smoked.

  Chuck followed Hairdo and Tough Rope toward the building. As he stepped inside the factory on wood floors that were dusted in shavings, Chuck inhaled. He always loved the smell of a woodshop although he preferred the scent of fresh shavings over the musky smell of this factory. The musky smell was probably connected to an abundance of deteriorating materials, including the grease on the old metal machinery of the coffin conveyor belt, which ran across the factory—up through the ceiling to the upper level and down through the floor to the lower level. Then there was years of dust and filth accumulation on everything. A layer of dust covered every piece of trash, every work bench, and every filthy window. The windows were so dirty Chuck couldn’t see outside.

  The interior told the story of a hasty shutdown at some time in the past, probably many years ago based on the ancient computers Chuck spotted on a few filthy desks. Some of the shelves were spilling old supplies that had been abandoned—either deemed worthless or the owner just didn’t care. Old pieces of second-rate furniture were scattered around.

  Wood, supplies, and even tools were scattered across dozens of work benches. It looked as if carpenters went home one day, but just never came back. Nobody ever came through and cleaned the place out. Vandals and thieves seemed to have mostly left the factory alone, which made Chuck wonder why… Did they have reason to fear coming here? Chuck was suddenly wondering who owned this place… And was there some kind of hostile takeover in the past …?

  The thugs turned around and looked at Chuck, who turned left and then right, as if confused. The tall one who looked as tough as rope walked around behind him.

  “Okay,” Chuck said, “what’s next? Where’s the Silver Poseidon?”

  The thug with the big Hairdo pulled a gun, but Chuck wasn’t exactly caught by surprise. At the same moment, the tall one, Tough Rope, made a sudden move.

  Chuck whirled, delivering a flying elbow to the side of Tough Rope’s neck. The tall one hit the ground as if he’d been hit by a speeding van. At the same moment Chuck pivoted on his left foot and leveraged his shifting weight. His right foot made contact with Hairdo’s throat.

  Hairdo’s handgun fired a wild shot as he sustained trauma. The bullet missed Chuck. Impressively, Hairdo staggered back, but kept his footing. Chuck followed up with a side-kick. This time Hairdo stumbled backwards. He crashed into an open coffin, the lid slamming down. Chuck spun around, expecting that Tough Rope would be coming after him from behind but that
was not the case. He was bleeding from the thigh. The stray shot had hit him.

  Chuck disarmed him then dragged another coffin over, leaning it on the one where Hairdo was evidently unconscious. That way, if he woke up, the weight on the lid would hopefully keep him trapped for a while.

  As the two heavies that had stayed outside were now yelling from the lower floor, Chuck ran over and barricaded the door by knocking over an old filing cabinet. He rushed back over to Tight Rope, who was holding his thigh to his chest.

  “Help me,” Tight Rope said.

  Hairdo was now pounding on the lid of the coffin, shaking the second coffin, which was holding the lid down.

  Tight Rope was sitting up, but Chuck slammed a cupped hand into his ear, knocking him onto his face.

  Heavies were pounding on the door, trying to get in. Hairdo was pounding on the roof of the old coffin.

  Chuck dropped a knee onto Tight Rope’s back. “Undo your belt buckle.”

  “You’ve got your knee on my back.”

  Chuck removed his knee, and Tight Rope loosened his belt. “What do you want my belt for?”

  Chuck grabbed a loose end and ripped the belt free. “You’re bleeding badly. You could die very quickly unless you put a tourniquet on your leg. I’m taking your belt away.”

  “No, I need it. Help me, please!”

  “You were about to murder me. And now you want help?”

  “Please!”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give the belt back to you for a tourniquet if you give me some info.”

  “No way!”

  The belt hummed through the air and made a loud snapping noise.

  Tight Rope screamed.

  Chuck gave him five more lashes across his back.

  Chuck felt adrenaline as the belt whipped and cracked. Tight Rope’s screams caused Hairdo to stop pounding on the inside of the coffin.

  “You like that?” Chuck said. “You want ten more?”

  Tight Rope was writhing in pain. “I’ll talk.”

  “Whose mansion is that down the road?”

  “It belongs to the Hood.”

  Chuck heard creaking footsteps. Someone was sneaking up the coffin conveyor belt from the lower floor.

  Chuck dropped the belt and slipped out the back window, jumping down from the second floor. When he landed, he executed a skydivers’ roll to protect himself from injury. He fled over rocky terrain but was shot at. He dove into an old aqueduct and scampered down the ditch, staying low. He crossed a road by going under it, using an old Roman culvert for cover.

  Staying low, he scurried along the deep ditch for a quarter mile. Then he low-crawled behind scrub brush to a cliff. There he used the tough scrub to lower himself over the edge down to a shelf on the cliff and what looked like the entrance to a cave, but it turned out to be just a depression in the cliff beneath an overhang. He immediately regretted this location because the rock was crumbling away. Chunks of stone cracked on the rocky slope below.

  Chuck heard voices on the cliff just above his location. They were speaking Greek now, one of the languages Chuck was fluent in.

  “I heard falling rocks.”

  “He didn’t go over the cliff, moron.”

  Ten feet below the hunters, Chuck lay on the ledge and didn’t move. The whole ledge felt unstable.

  Chuck hoped they would go away, but then someone started heaving big rocks down at the shelf, which broke away. Crumbling stone calved off and fell from beneath Chuck’s stomach. At least he had enough rock under him to stay hidden, and they left after a few minutes. After a while, Chuck got out his phone and dialed up Angela.

  “Where are you?” she said.

  “Over by the coffin factory.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Enjoying the views. Right now I’m looking down toward the coast at the private pier in Protagoras Bay.” Chuck knew the bay name because on the flight to Symi, he’d memorized every geological feature on a local map. It was part of his regular preparation for every mission.

  “Views from the coffin factory?”

  “No, the meeting’s over. Now they’re trying to kill me, so I’m lying low. Listen, Sebastian said that you were both blindfolded when you were taken to Shavaro. Would you recognize Shavaro if you saw it?”

  “I wish I could forget it.”

  “What are you doing right now?” Chuck said.

  “Writing code, trying to finish the virus.”

  “You said you came here by speed boat, right?”

  “Yes, Lawrence provided one for me.”

  “How long would it take for you to bring the boat around the island and meet me at Protagoras Bay?”

  “An hour maybe.”

  “That’s fast. Can you leave right now? They may have set a trap for me on the road … maybe left a sniper behind in case I come out of hiding and try to walk back to town.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Half an hour later, Chuck climbed back up to the top of the cliff and began hiking down to the coast. He just hoped there would be no trouble when he got there.

  CHAPTER 7

  Eighteen hours till shoot-down

  Forty minutes later, Chuck saw the boat.

  From his hiding place behind a big rock set back from the beach, he watched the approaching boat with awe and alarm. She looked to have a length of twelve meters and a beam of four. Gray shades of camo spread out crooked designs on her hull. Angela had told him she had a speed boat, but this wasn’t even close to what he had in mind. This looked like some kind of high-tech, high-speed military interceptor. The more he thought about it, it made sense given that she’d made a sea crossing. The amazing thing was how beautifully she soared through the choppy waters. This was a dream boat. She cut through waves like butter.

  Fearing that this was the Hood and his bodyguards, Chuck stayed low in his hiding spot. The boat purred up next to the dock. After a moment, a pretty girl emerged on deck—Angela.

  Chuck jogged over to the boat. “What’s this?”

  “They call her the Baracuda,” Angela said.

  “And Lawrence gave this to you.”

  “They gave me an hour of training, but I told him I was already an experienced boat driver.”

  “Then what was all the training for?”

  “Special features. Lawrence said it was an international emergency that I get to Symi fast. Why are you tying up the boat, Chuck? I thought we’d be leaving right away.”

  He tied the lines for Angela and gave her a kiss on both cheeks as she stepped onto the dock. “I want to show you something.”

  “You said there’s a sniper around. I think we should get out of here.”

  “If there’s a sniper, he’s a few miles up the road in case I try to go back to town. He wouldn’t expect me to go this way. Listen, Angela, you said you’d recognize Shavaro, right?”

  “Yes, why do you keep asking me that?”

  “I think it’s about a half mile up the road, set back from the coast.”

  “I know. Sebastian and I were held here for three weeks before we were taken to Cypress. We escaped on the way.”

  “On the way to where?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere in the Turkish-controlled part of Cypress.”

  “Angela, I need to check Shavaro out. The Vulcan Eye anti-missile system could be there. If so, hundreds of lives could depend on my alerting the US Navy so they can secure it. Eighteen hours from now, the Hood is planning to shoot down three airliners.”

  “Chuck, the SEALs already searched Shavaro. It’s not there. We need to go.”

  “The search was months ago,” Chuck said. “Things can change.”

  They walked a half a mile up the dirt road until the estate came into view. Chuck took Angela by the arm and escorted her behind a huge ten-foot high boulder off to the side. They both stood there, and for a moment, neither of them said a word.

  A hundred yards to the west of the house were the ruins of a Greek amphitheatre cut in
to a curved hillside. Two massive Greek columns—each sixty feet high—marked the entrance. The rest of the theatre was rubble. The most amazing sight was two massive stone heads—fourteen-feet high—which dominated the site of ancient ruins. Dozens of cracks gave one of the stone faces a shattered, wrinkled look. The nose was broken off. On the hillside above, the stone walls of an ancient fortress were cut into the landscape.

  “They’re not all ruins,” Angela said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The heads. They’re opposites. One is in perfect condition. The Hood had it made. The other is all cracks and defects. It’s very old. The flawless statue represents the Hood when he was young and handsome. The cracked and broken head represents the Hood after his accident. The two heads represent the contrast of beauty and ugliness—just like the Hood.”

  “He sounds self-obsessed.”

  She stared trance-like at the landscape. “He said he was addicted to beauty—including me—but also ugliness, like him. He said I was to be his living art. He said he had big plans for me. He spent a lot of time with me, preparing me… grooming me to be his wife. Thank God Sebastian got us out.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  She shook her head. “He humiliated me…he…” She pressed her lips together and turned away.

  “I’m sorry.” Chuck was quiet for a minute. “What’s inside?”

  “A seven thousand square foot mansion full of artifacts.”

  “Why so many?”

  “All he cared about was symbolic art.”

  Chuck shook his head. “He sounds like a sad person.”

  “Nothing matters to him outside of his own self-interest. On the way to Cypress, I watched him kill four innocent fishermen in cold blood. He enjoyed it. I swear to you, I saw him smile beneath the mesh of his veil.”

  “Where was Vulcan Eye?”

  “It used to be in that airplane hangar beyond the house.”

  “Stay here, Angela. I’m going to have a look around. There could be security around.”

  “They won’t hesitate to kill you—believe me.”

  Chuck nodded. “If it’s safe, I’ll wave for you to approach. If I don’t signal you in ten minutes, go back to the boat, drive back to town, and forget that you ever met me.”