Page 31 of Skotos
“US Embassy, please,” I replied, then realized we’d never asked the man’s name, despite his driving us around all day. “I’m Thomas. This is Will.”
The driver’s eyes flicked to us through his rearview mirror. A grunt was his only acknowledgment. No name followed.
So much for schmoozinghimfor information.
Will, sitting so close our knees rubbed together, was silent, his fingers drumming against the folder balanced on his knee. He was likely turning over every word Tzannis had uttered—and more importantly, the words he hadn’t.
We reached the embassy just after noon.
A pair of Marines stepped forward as we exited the car, rifles in hand. They checked our credentials and waved us through with curt nods. We waited a moment as our driver made a seven-point turn to escape the entrance and weave back into the flow of traffic.
“Guess the Royal Taxi Service is done for the day,” Will muttered.
The US Embassy building was unremarkable from the outside, but once inside, it was a different story: polished tile floors, dark wood panels, and the ever-present hum of air conditioning and quiet—if polite—tension.
The station chief, a wiry man who called himself McKeever, met us just past the security checkpoint. “Come with me,” he said, wasting no time on pleasantries. His voice was low and clipped, East Coast. He didn’t ask about our flight or palace visit. He simply turned on his heel and led us down two flights of stairs, through a maze of dull hallways, until we reached a heavy steel door marked COMMS, which he unlocked with a key from around his neck.
The aroma of machine oil tickled my nose the moment we entered the windowless room. There were two rotary phones on an empty six-foot folding table, a switchboard operator in a glass booth, and a large map of Europe with colored pins stuck in cities I didn’t want to think about.
McKeever pointed us toward the larger of the phones. “Line’s secure. Washington’s expecting you.”
“Is this room secure?” I asked, glancing toward the operator in the booth.
McKeever nodded. “You can sit in there and try to listen if you like. There’s an air vent that pumps in more white noise than a/c. I promise, my officer won’t hear a thing.”
“And you?” Will asked.
McKeever glared and said three words as though they explained how the world revolved on its axis. “I’m station chief.”
We stepped to the phone, and Will picked up the receiver. There were no chairs, so I stood close enough so he could hold the receiver between us. He dialed the number we’d long ago memorized and invoked our bird names for identification. “Emu here. With Condor. Patch us through to Manakin.”
The operator offered a challenge phrase, which Will answered, then there was a pause as the operator connected the call. Then a sharp click, followedby a voice we knew well—crisp, calm, with an edge of command that made my spine straighten despite the speaker being far away from us.
“This is Manakin. Go.”
Will glanced at me. “We’re on the ground in Athens. Chief McKeever is here with us in the Comms Center of the embassy. Line is secure.”
“Proceed,” Manakin said.
Will filled him in—everything from the slow crawl of access to the palace to the short-but-telling interview with Tzannis and the overall feel of caution and control surrounding Greek leadership.
Manakin didn’t interrupt.
When Will finished, the line was silent for a beat.
“Who’s Laskaris?” Manakin asked.
“Head of internal security for the palace,” I said. “Not exactly the warm and welcoming type.”
“Did he seem threatened by your presence? Or just annoyed?”
“Both,” Will said. “He kept us at arm’s length. Near the end of our conversation, he looked as though he wanted to say more, to speak his own thoughts or theories aloud, then he clammed up. There’s more here than we’re being told.”
“There’s always more in play than anyone says. You’re too experienced to be surprised by that now,” Manakin chided. Will’s face flushed. “They’re limiting your access. It’s curious—but not surprising.Throw in a far-right regent and a child king, and we might do the same to anyone snooping around our palace. Power vacuums make even the noblest institutions paranoid.” Another pause. “What about the guard—Tzannis? Could you trust him?”
“He believes something is off,” I said. “I could see it in his eyes. I don’t think he bought the heart failure story any more than the chief did.”
“But he’s not in a position to do anything about it. He looked terrified to even voice his concerns,” Will added.
