Still, it was difficult just to stay in this hotel room and wait. She wanted so desperately to be doing something, anything, to help Jason. As she paced up and down the room, she wondered how close he had come to guessing that she was the Judas goat, leading him into the trap. But hadn't she begged him to give up his stubborn search for those scrolls? Hadn't she almost confessed her involvement? But then, when he had begged for her support, how could she undermine his confidence and courage by letting him know that she had been informing on him? How could she know that her calls had come from someone who was using Father Bartolomeo, using her faith in him and their long-standing friendship, using her faith in the Church itself, using her love for her child. And kidnapping! Despicable! And now the first man she really cared for was in jeopardy because of her. Her guilt and apprehension made it impossible for her to concentrate oil any plan to assist Jason. She simply had to put her trust in Father Bartolomeo.
Now she sat looking at the luncheon tray of ratatouille with bits of lamb that she'd had sent up by room service. It looked good, it smelled good, but she simply couldn't eat it.
With shaky hands she poured a cup of tea and took it to a chair by the window. She was looking absently out the window at the hundreds of boats on the quay of the perfect horseshoe harbor, when the telephone rang.
The room clerk said, "There is a gentleman here."
He will ask for you by your maiden name. Father Bartolomeo had said.
"And he asked to see me?" Taylor
The clerk sounded perplexed. "He is asking for Miss Wright. What shall I say, Mrs. Phillips?"
"Send him up, please," she replied.
She opened the door to a middle-aged man in a business suit. His ruddy face crinkled into an ingratiating smile and his blue eyes gave her an appreciative once-over as he said, "Al Rozmyslowski. I’m told you'd be expecting me, Mrs. Phillips."
"Mrs. Phillips?" she asked, suddenly defensive.
"Or Miss Wright. Naturally, Father Bart had to tell me that you were really Mrs. Phillips. He had to tell me a lot of things?”
"How'd you get here so soon?" she asked. Not only had he arrived sooner than she'd anticipated, but he was not the sort of person she'd expected.
"I fly fast," he said laconically.
"You're a friend of his?"
"I pilot a plane for a big company. I was on my way to Athens Rome
"Old friends?"
"Oh, sure, we go way back. Oh, I see. He never mentioned it. Well, that’s okay. People always think of priests as leading sheltered lives. I guess some of them do. But lots of them have seen more and heard more than you or I ever will. The Padre's a tough little guy."
Little? She'd always thought of him as— But then, this man was well over six feet tall. But if he was a pilot, why was he dressed in a business suit? Lord, she had to trust someone!
"Mrs. Phillips, do you want to go check on Van Cleve's whereabouts? I got a helicopter, and I gather that's why I'm here."
She shook her head as she paced. "I'm worried to death about him, but..."
"But?"
"How much did Father Bartolomeo tell you about this?"
"Everything."
"Well, then, you can see that—"
The phone rang. Before she could think about waiting, she snatched it up. Thank God, it was her sister's voice. And the words were so beautiful:
"Tay , he's home! He's safe and perfectly all right! I can't say anything more, not a word, right now."
"No, not allowed. He's asleep, anyway. No more for now— can't—" And she hung up abruptly.
Taylor sobbed uncontrollably for a minute, then she pulled herself together, laughing and gulping as she blew her nose.
"Now what were you saying about a rescue mission?” she said to Al.
"I gather the boy's safe."
She nodded. "I feel as though Christian Barnard had just given me back my heart."
"I’m mighty glad," he said. "Now about this little foray— you'd better change into some warm, comfortable clothes. Slacks, good walking shoes, just in case. Might help if you could cover your hair. We can pick up a fisherman's cap for you. Better if you didn't look quite so feminine. They don't like women on Mount Athos or anywhere near it. No females of any kind. Not that I don't like the way you look, understand." He grinned. And she grinned back—her first smile in days.
As they came out of the hotel, she remembered Father Bartolomeo's warning about her being followed. Just because Jonny was safe didn't mean she and Jason were. She looked around as they got into her car.
"You drive, Al," she said. "I'm still shook up."
As they drove down Phillipou Street, the wide boulevard through the city, traffic seemed deliberately choreographed to hamper their progress, and Taylor felt her nervousness increase as Al patiently started, stopped, and crawled along.
"It's this damn fair they're having," he said.
Soon they saw crowds on the street and heard music and saw the Ferris wheel turning.
"I keep thinking everything in Greece has to be old," he went on. "Hell, I thought Thessaloniki was going to be a cute little cobbled one-street town and here it is, looking like Barcelona, all modern and half a million people and about as quaint as Omaha."
"Important city," said Taylor, mechanically. "Always has been. Named after Alexander the great 's sister."
'Thessaloniki," said Al "That's some first name. Wonder what her last name was.”
A tan car moved in behind them.
"Probably the same as his—the Great."
"I wouldn't mind that. It'd be easier than the one I got."
He glanced into the rearview mirror from time to time, then he asked suddenly serious "Tell me, can you handle a gun?"
Taylor looked at him quickly, saw that he was not joking, and replied, "My father taught me skeet-shooting, but I haven't done it for years."
"Okay," Al reassured her. "It probably won't be necessary. I just wanted to be sure you wouldn't panic if I gave you a I gun and told you to use it.”
"I won't panic," Taylor said.
They came to a vacant lot near the square that housed the fairgrounds, and Taylor could see the helicopter with a crowd around it.
"Here we are," Al said as he pulled over. "Now to find a parking space." He looked over at Taylor and said, "I'd better let you out here so you won’t have to walk so far. They let me land the copter here because of the fair. It makes another attraction. You go over there and wait for me. I'll park the car and join you as soon as I can. Don't talk to 1anyone!"
Taylor nodded and jumped out. She watched as Al slowly drove away to park her car, but soon lost sight of him. She had the feeling she was being watched and looked around, remembering the car that had been behind them for a while. It was not in sight now.
Sauntering, she pretended to look at the displays of pottery and television sets and dreadful plaster statues of Achilles, as though caught up by the holiday spirit of the throng and the music. But she kept looking back in the direction Al had done, still feeling uneasy and very alone as she worked her way toward where the helicopter was.
Someone bumped into her and she stumbled, lurching into the arms of a man with spiky red hair.
Then she felt the hard muzzle of the gun stuck in her ribs. "Keep moving, lady," he said quietly. "Let's just keep moving.”
“Who are you?" she said, desperately looking for Al.
"Move!" he commanded.
With one arm around her waist, he walked her briskly away from the display booths. An old lady selling honey cakes from a tray slung from a leather strap around her neck stood in front of them, chattering eagerly. The man pushed the woman aside and they kept going through the crowded square toward the empty lot and the helicopter, the old lady following closely, with a persistent sales pitch in Greek.
"What's the old bitch saying?" the man asked.
“The way you're holding me, she thinks we're newlyweds," Taylor said. "She wants you to buy me a cake." The man said nothing and continued to guide Taylor toward the helicopter. The sleek brown craft was surrounded and being much admired by the crowd.
The old lady was still nattering, then she darted in front of them and, walking backwards, kept saying, "Goo' luck! Goo' luck!"
"Oh, for Christ's sake!" The man stopped and, holding Taylor by her wrist, fished out some change for the old woman, slammed it on the tray, took the proffered cake, and shoved it into Taylor's hand.
He steered her through the crowd, right up to the copter, and helped her up to the craft's step, muttering, "Smile, Mrs. Phillips, they're taking your picture."
She turned, standing on the step. Incredibly, there was a photographer aiming at her. "Smile!" the red-haired man ordered her, and she felt the gun in her spine as she looked around for Al. Should she yell?
"Don't even think of screaming," he said, as though reading her mind.
He opened the door of the tinted bubble. She stepped into it and her captor followed, then crouched down in the seat behind her.
About thirty years old, he had hair like a red hairbrush and the thinnest rodent face—two profiles put together—and very pale blue eyes. A large brown splotch on one side of his face looked like the burn made by a chainsaw on the end of a log.
"Who... who are you?" She'd seen him before.
"You can call me Melhick, lady," he said, "'cause that ain't my name."
"What do you want?"
"What I want is for you to be a nice girl and you won't get hurt. Just keep your mouth shut and wait for your friend." He looked over his shoulder. "And right, on schedule, here he comes.”
"Hey, pretty girl," Al said as he opened the bubble's door “all set for—" He stopped talking when he realized he was looking into a gun barrel. He froze
"Get in," Melnick ordered. "Come on, let's get this thing off the ground."
Al slowly got in the pilot's seat and fastened his seat belt.
"Well, this is a new wrinkle. What kind of flight plan you got in mind?”
"Just shut it up and get it up," Melnick said. Then he muttered, "Never did like finks."
"I've never even seen you before, mac.''
"Nah, but the lady here knows what I'm talking about, don’t you lady?”
Taylor's mind was spinning. How could they know I called Father Bartolomeo? Of course! I called him from the room they had reserved for me at the hotel. They had either the room or the phone bugged.
Then, suddenly, Taylor wheeled around and confronted the man. "It's because you cowards no longer have my son, right? You don't need me anymore!"
The woman's vehemence caused the man to lean back, out of her reach. “Take it easy, lady!"
Al was clearly stalling for time when he asked, "How'd the ' kid get away?"
"Hell, I don't know. Not my department! Now get this thing flying!"
Al inserted the keys and switched on the ignition, and the great blades began to rotate. Then he pulled up a handle by his right side and the crowd fell back and watched, in awe as the helicopter rose slowly from the ground. He shoved the stick forward and the craft tilted and sped across the square and then up over the roofs of the stores and over the Ferris wheel and the fairgrounds and the statue of Alexander the Great.
"Okay, mac, any particular destination you got in mind, or do you just want the scenic tour?"
"Yeah, smartass. There's a little paradise island off the tourist circuit where we can have a picnic." He pointed to the baklava cake still in Taylor's hand. "With that." Then, in a different tone, he added, "Bear south, buster, and stay low." As they flew along the coast, Taylor was inwardly damning herself: Stupid, stupid, stupid! But what could she have done differently? Just sit in the hotel forever? She looked at Al and he gave her a reassuring nod. Surely he had some plan. When they landed he would somehow take care of this maniac. He'd asked her if she could use a gun that meant he must have one aboard somewhere. But where?
How ironic! Jonny was safe—God had answered her prayers. But now she might not live to see him!
In twenty minutes a cluster of five islands not far off the barren coast came into view. Actually, they were little more than flat rocks, and none was longer than a hundred yards, nor did any of them have vegetation.
“Ease her down on the little gem to the right” ordered Melnick. "Got a nice little beach.”
The copter started going down slowly.
"How long have you been following me?" Taylor asked, stalling. “There's something familiar about you. I think I've seen you before."
"And you could never forget my handsome face, I know," said Melnick.
"You . . . dammit you were at the bar! You were at the Golden Sphincter the day Phillips Taylor got killed! You killed him, didn't you?"
He laughed easily. "Lady, what makes you think I go around killing people?"
"And you're probably the one who took Jason's film and tapes from his stateroom, and— oh, God! — you're probably the one who killed that poor old man and cut off . . . oh, no!"
"Lady, do I look like a killer?"
Al was pale as they hovered over the island, but he said coolly, "Okay, mac, if you kill me, how do you get off the chopper?”
The man gave a wry grin. "You're not the only flyboy in the world, you know.”
The helicopter sagged down on the rocky beach, tilting slightly in the strong wind, and settled delicately there, its blades still turning.
Al said quietly, "Okay, now what?"
"Out."
"Out?"
"Out," repeated Melnick with finality, looking at both of them.
Taylor got out first, crouching under the blades, her knees shaking. Ridiculously, she was conscious of the baklava's stickiness in her hand. She looked down. A wave broke over the rock's edge and slithered around below her feet.
Melnick followed Al as he got up to get out of the craft, never taking his eyes off the pilot as they stood under the slowly spinning blades.
"Nothing personal," explained Melnick to Al. "It's the girl they want. You just got in the- way.
He slowly raised his pistol and pointed it at Al's chest.
Suddenly Taylor uttered a great scream. The gunman's head spun and she smashed the handful of baklava into his eyes. She dove to the ground at his feet as the man fired blindly. Almost at the same moment, Al brought an open-handed chop down hard on Melnick's wrist, and the pistol spun and clattered to the rocks below, and bounced into the water.
Melnick's arms shot out, and Al felt the thin, steely fingers sink into his neck like the tines on a rake. He felt his face flush, felt the searing pain behind his eyes as they bulged from his head, felt the world spin as he started to pass out. Al tried striking and kicking blindly, but he was helpless. Then he managed to thrust his hands out and into Melnick's armpits. He felt his own fingers dig into the other's ribs. The two swayed and strained there for a moment bouncing against the fuselage of the helicopter, Al fighting to stay conscious.
The blades, he thought, the blades! With a great effort, Al tensed his arm muscles. Then, with every bit of strength left in him, he suddenly jerked the man up and off his feet. The shadow of one turning blade went past as he lifted Melnick higher into the air, and then he was able to boost the hit man up just high enough for the next blade to catch him on the side of the head.
The blow was of such force that Melnick's body was yanked from Al's grasp. It was flung across the rocks into the shallow water, the top of his head gone, like the top of a boiled egg severed by a table knife. A big wave surged in and took the body out with it in a swirl of crimson.
Al lurched to where Taylor lay on the ground, rigid with horror.
"You all right?" he gasped.
"Guess so," she whispered.
"Let's get out of here," Al said. “You were great. There's a shotgun in the back seat but no way I could get to it."
"Oh, Al!" Taylor said as she turned her face away from the sight of the body floating in the sea.
"Come on. Let's go. There's probably another one just like him trailing your friend right now."
Taylor's shivers subsided as Al sped the helicopter on its Way to Vatopedi. He shouted to be heard over the noise.
"There it is, Mount Athos—the Holy Mountain. All six thousand gorgeous feet of her."
Taylor looked silently at the beautiful, thin finger of land stretching ahead of them, jabbing out into the sea with the cone of mountain at the tip rising into the sky. She could see the incredible architecture of the ancient monasteries dotting the rugged coastline, and she wondered which of them might be Vatopedi.
"Do you think we'll be in time?" she whispered.
They cruised offshore for an hour, looking at the monasteries and trying to find Vatopedi. Taylor remembered looking at Jason's guidebook, and Al had brought only the usual charts and maps, which did not identify the monasteries by name.
Since he had not known to which monastery he might be going until he spoke with Taylor, his flight plan had simply specified Mount Athos.
"I can radio the tower at Thessaloniki but that wouldn’t be wise." he said.
"I think I see it! Yes, those look just like the funny fluted domes! And the courtyard from the picture of Vatopedi I saw in Jason's book!"
He hovered around as she confirmed it, then said, "Okay, you'd better get that cap on. Tuck your hair up into it."
She started to search through her purse. "I could pencil on a little mustache with eyebrow—"
“That won't be necessary. You won't be getting out. I'll do all the talking."
"You speak Greek?'
He shrugged. "Enough to get by. There's more to this job than just flying the plane. Bosses often find themselves tongue-tied in foreign countries."
He banked around the spacious courtyard and they could see the gradual swarming of the black robes streaming from every direction as the chopper finally came to rest behind the belltower of the katholikon.
Al lifted up the transparent canopy. An aged monk approached the craft cautiously, and Al asked if he could tell them where to find Jason Van Cleve.
The old man tugged at his umber beard and turned to the others. Al repeated it several times, but the monks only buzzed back and forth among themselves.
Taylor suggested, "Ask for Andoni, the guide." This brought an immediate response that Al didn't understand.
"What are they saying?" he asked Taylor.
Taylor replied, "It seems that Andoni and Jason had their diamoniterion revoked—their permit—and were asked to leave."
Al then asked where they had gone, and it appeared that nobody knew. Two of the monks pointed to the south, others argued with them.
Al asked Taylor, "What do you think?"
"They probably went back to the Pegasus Taverna in Ouranopolis. That's where Andoni lives, and that's where I dropped Jason off."
"Ouranopolis it is," said Al. "And I'm hungry."
The Pegasus Taverna was dark. Al pounded on the door, then tried it.
"They could be around here somewhere," he said. "The door's not locked."
Several of the people who had observed their landing in a field at Ouranopolis were still in awed attendance. One of them, a very old but very agile man, whisked past Al and went into the house.
Al looked at Taylor and they followed. The old man was greeted with obvious pleasure by both the black dog and the yellow-striped cat. He nodded curtly to Taylor and Al, and said in English, "Feed... I feed for Andoni... when not here... when he be guide... I feed..."
Al said to Taylor, "You stay here. I'm going to find a phone and call my office in Rome. Be right back."
Taylor told him that Andoni had lost his permit to be at the old man was pouring milk for the cat. He worked about the kitchen like one who knew where things were kept.
Taylor asked him in Greek, "Where is Andoni?" The old man reverted to his native tongue with relief and told her at length of how Andoni had been approached by someone who wished to go to Vatopedi.
Taylor told him that Andoni had lost his permit to be at Vatopedi. Could he have gone anywhere else, since he had obviously not come home?
The old man just looked at her for a moment, then he brought out the food for the dog-—bones and cornmeal mush from the cellar, all cooked together—and Taylor waited as he ladled it into a long, trough like container. The man was thinking. One could see the process working, as first his lips would move silently, then his eyes would roll heavenward, then his brow would wrinkle.
Finally he came over to Taylor and said, "I am sorry. I not know."
She was about to turn away, then she asked, "How long have you known Andoni?"
"Since he little boy. I know his father! I know his mother! I know him when they send him to monastery!"
"Andoni was sent to a monastery?" she asked.
The old man nodded as he concentrated on putting the milk container back in the pantry.
She asked, "What monastery was Andoni sent to as a boy?"
The old man said, "Simonopetra." He indicated the direction with an impatient clutch at the air and shouted, "Simonopetra!"
"Simonopetra," echoed Taylor.
Just then, Al came in. "Taylor—" he began.
"Al, I think we've got it! The monastery at Simonopetra, that's probably where Jason is!" Then she gasped, "Al, what's the matter?"
He looked distraught and white, but he tried a weak smile.
"Called Rome
Apprehensively, Taylor
"And the bad news?"
"Vatican news release announces, quote, much lamented deaths of two esteemed cardinals, of apparently natural causes, unquote. One of them was our friend."
Al nodded.
With a sob, Taylor
"I can lose a friend like him by my death," she murmured, “but not by his."
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