Page 24 of Skotos
“I did!” Though I rather enjoyed him being the one off-balance for a change. “Just be glad we didn’t eat asparagus last night. You’d stink a lot worse.”
He hopped off me, scowling at what dripped off his abs and onto his trousers, then did the most dignified, loving, deeply marital thing:
He raised his middle finger and stormed off toward the bathroom.
1. In a radio broadcast in October 1939, Winston Churchill said, “I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. That key is Russian national interest.”
13
Thomas
The flight from Paris to Athens was uneventful, save for the anxiety that rode in the silence between us, and the way my neck locked up from folding into a window seat made for a toddler. We’d sat side by side, our shoulders pressed together and arms touching in the unavoidable way airlines squeeze human sardines into their can.
The hum of the engines couldn’t quite drown out the questions swirling in my head.
By the time we stepped off the plane onto the warm concrete of Ellinikon Airport the morning sun was already bright enough to sting.
A black Opel with diplomatic plates greeted us at the bottom of the stairs, where a young officer in dress uniform offered a tight smile and curt nod. Next to him stood a man in a rumpled suit, clearly the type who made his living in gray hallways and long shadows.
“Agents Barker and Snead.” The disheveled man inclined his head. His accent dripped with more honey than any baklava ever baked. “Welcome to Greece. I am Lieutenant Markakis of the Ministry of Public Order.”
Markakis didn’t offer a hand, just opened the door and climbed into the front passenger seat, leaving us staring at the uniformed driver, suitcases in hand.
So much for Greek hospitality.
The drive through Athens was quiet, punctuated only by the screech of tires and the faint shouts of vendors. The war’s signature was everywhere. Bullet holes riddled walls, doors, even sidewalks where terrible marksmen clearly missed their shots. Scaffolding leaned against half-finished restorations like drunkards outside a pub, while the tired eyes of civilians glared at us with curiosity but little warmth.
Will watched the people, his brow furrowed, likely cataloging every face like we were trained to do.
The Opel crawled up to a gray building, its stark concrete walls standing like a fortress near the heart of the city. Inside, we were led through a tiled corridor to a sunless room where ceiling fans stirred stagnant air, as though some clever bloke had thought whisking the cauldron might magically cool it down. It took only a moment standing therewithin the stale breeze to realize just how wrong he had been.
Our guides excused themselves when a tall man in a crisp police uniform greeted us. His shoulders squared like a soldier, and his eyes narrowed with shrewd calculation.
“Lt. General Stavros Alexandridis,” he said. “Thank you for coming. We are grateful for American cooperation.”
Nothing about the man looked or sounded grateful.
In fact, he sounded positively resentful.
I blew out a sigh and then tried to cover it with a hand, as though a yawn had forced its way out without my consent.
Alexandridis filled us in quickly. King Paul’s death was officially ruled natural, but whispers swirled of foul play no one could quite identify. We asked a few questions about the palace and the royal staff, and were surprised to learn that no one had interviewed the crown prince or queen, despite the pair being the last to see the king before his death.
Alexandridis went on to explain that following the foreign minister’s appointment as regent, tensions were rising fast. Protests from the left were being met with growing threats from the right. It wasn’t a full-blown revolution—but the fuse had been lit, and authorities were bracing for what might come next.
“There are rumors,” Alexandridis said, “of foreign agitators, possibly Soviet. We do not know.”
When Will asked where the general thought we should begin, the man passed us a name scribbled on a slip of paper:Nikos Tzannis.
“He is the deputy commander of theEvzones,1 and was one of the first to respond when the king collapsed,” Alexandridis said. “He has . . . unusual theories.”
“TheEvzones?” Will asked.
Alexandridis nodded. “The royal guard. They protect the family and ceremonial grounds, like the Tomb of the Unknown.”
Will and I exchanged glances. Theories were better than silence, and a royal guardsman was more likely to share secrets than a policeman or spy. At least, I hoped that would be the case.
“Where can we find him?” I asked.
