Page 30 of Skotos
“And what did the doctors say?” Thomas asked.
Laskaris hesitated for the first time. He didn’t translate for the sergeant, answering himself, “They said it was natural causes. Heart failure, most likely.”
“And you believe that?” I asked.
It looked as though someone had frozen time. Neither Laskaris nor theLochiasblinked. I wasn’t sure they breathed. The air in the room grew even staler, and I wondered—for the briefest moment—if that question might earn us an escort out of the palace, and possibly Greece.
Then Laskaris reached down, patted theLochias’sshoulder, and said something in Greek. The young man stood, nodded curtly toward us, and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
Our questioning had come to an abrupt end.
Thomas began, “Forgive an impertinent question, but—”
Laskaris lifted a palm, then fell into the chair as though the world had somehow offended him.
“My king was in excellent health,” he said, his tone belying a man who’d slept little, and whose heart, hard though it was, still struggled to keep itself together after the loss of his monarch. “He exercised daily and ate well—as well as any royal, at least. The royal physicians examined him every three months and never found anything amiss.”
Laskaris ran a hand across his stubbly head, then crossed his arms and blew out a heavy sigh.
“So, no,AgentSnead, I do not believe this was a natural death.”
The way he nearly spat the word “agent” left no doubt about what he thought of our cover stories.For the briefest moment, I wondered if our mission might not be better served with a little honesty about our roles—but that decision was well over my pay grade, especially as we sat across from a foreign officer.
“Poison?” Thomas asked.
“I am a guard, not a police investigator.” Laskaris shrugged.
“Were the king’s lips discolored? His tongue? What about his eyes?” Thomas pressed.
Laskaris looked pained. “No, I did not . . . trouble his person. That is a job better suited for doctors, and they have rendered their conclusion.”
Then he hesitated, his eyes darting to his hands to the framed evacuation route.
We waited.
Finally, he straightened, the steel returning to his eyes. “You will not be permitted audience with any member of the royal family. Will there be anything else?”
Frustrated and resigned, Thomas looked to me.
Then, on a whim, as I stood to leave, “Chief Laskaris, are you familiar with any organization associated with the symbol of an ancient spearhead?”
The chief’s head cocked. “An arrowhead?”
“No, a spearhead, like the kind the ancients wielded.”
Laskaris thought a moment and then shook his head. “None come to mind, not in Athens, at least. What is this about?”
Thomas quickly stuck out his hand for Laskaris to shake. “Thank you, Chief Laskaris, I believe we are done for the moment. We may have further questions after consulting with Washington.”
“Of course,” Laskaris said, meeting Thomas’s gaze but shooting a sideways glance in my direction. “I will show you out.”
15
Thomas
Our driver, a slim man with thinning hair and eyes that never stopped moving, said nothing as we climbed into the back of the black government-issue sedan, merely straightened his uniform coat, ran a hand over his barely-present hair, and settled in behind the wheel. He pulled out from the palace gates and headed toward Vasilissis Sofias Avenue, navigating the congested streets of Athens with the stoicism of a man who’d seen war—or rush hour, whichever was worse.
“Where to now?” the driver asked.
