
          "The Holy Pledge" by Leonidas Hatzinikolaou.

          This is a political-religious thriller, scheduled to be published
          around Christmas 2001 or perhaps early 2002, and will get a best-seller's
          promotion. Marketing's already laying down plans for its pre-publication
          campaign. It's worth it. I read it myself, and I give it a
          five-star rating.
          The novel was originally written in Greek, and this is its
          English translation. If you like it, be sure to buy it when it gets
          to the stores. This way, I won't feel bad for posting it ;-)
          Meanwhile, enjoy!

          (I've also included some info that I copy-pasted from the
          supporting files).

          :-=Krispos@videssos=-:
------------------------------------------------------------------------

   The "Holy Pledge" is a high-concept novel, a political and religious thriller
inspired from present-day and historical events. Praised by the media for its
fast-paced plot, the richness of characterization and its accurate information
in topics ranging from Byzantine archaeology to cutting-edge technology, it was
received enthusiastically and was widely acclaimed in Greece by both reviewers
and the general public. To this day, after three years of a best-selling career,
the "Holy Pledge" remains firmly established in the market as a successful long-
seller.

   The novel's main concept is based on a historically supported original
hypothesis of the author, according to which the Islamic religion was actually
founded by the devious Byzantine diplomacy aiming to establish a strong military
foothold in the Arabian peninsula. Since the Arabs of the pre-Islamic
era had rejected Christianity, the Byzantines changed their tactics and devised
another scheme to unite the desert nomads under one banner: they planned and
meticulously organized the establishment of a new militant religion. To this
end they chose a suitably charismatic man, trained him, secretly baptized him to
the Christian faith, and invested him with the appropriate social status for his
task, through their connections in Mecca.

   The plot begins at the present, as Father Gregorios, a devout monk at
the monastery of St. Catherine, deep in the Sinai desert, accidentally discovers 
a Byzantine dispatch originally intended for Emperor Heraclius, which alludes to
a second document, the Prophet's "Protocol of Baptism." To Father Gregorios's
intense disappointment, however, this potentially explosive manuscript is not
found in the crypt. So he sets out to find it.

   And then all Hell breaks loose as the old monk and his companions realize
that they're being ruthlesly stalked by powerful enemies from all over the
world, in what they thought was an innocent quest to locate and retrieve a
Byzantine manuscript.

------------------------------------------------------------------------


                                 PRESS REVIEWS


      Leonidas Hatzinikolaou's novel "The Holy Pledge" is an exciting work of
      fiction... Cosmopolitan and baroque in its descriptive richness, it is
      exotic and full of suspense. Leonidas Hatzinikolaou's novel is first-rate
      material for a big-budget movie production.
      -MARIE CLAIRE

      Adventurous and imaginative... A novel which begins in the ancient cellars
      of St. Catherine's monastery in Sinai, but quickly casts in doubt the
      global geopolitical status quo.
      -ELLE

      The first sentence of Leonidas Hatzinikolaou's "The Holy Pledge" starts
      with the precision of a State document, and with the same attention to
      detail its inventive plot, its well-documented evidence, and the action,
      start to unfold.
      -MADAME FIGARO

      A torrent of a novel, thoroughly researched by the author, but above
      all a fascinating trip to the past, illustrating its unity with the
      present and the future. Right on the track of the "Name of the Rose."
      -COSMOPOLITAN

      Enthusiastically welcomed by the media and the public, the "Holy Pledge"
      turned to a best-seller on the first month of its publication.
      -DIVA

      A book full of suspense, in which the highly technological Present
      joins the historical Past, as the non-stop action and the racing plot
      blend together with sober reflection. 
      -MAXIM

      The novel went to the top of the best-selling lists... There's cultural
      and intellectual conflict within its plot, as differing customs and
      worldviews clash with each other through the pages of this gripping book.
      -LINK

      Riveting in its unpredictability... Reading this novel is like going
      treasure-hunting; as the author weaves the threads of the plot with
      extraordinary skill, one cannot easily guess the surprises that lurk
      within the next page. Tantalizing to the very last paragraph...
      -EINAI

      Leonidas Hatzinikolaou's cinematic prose delivers an exciting plot,
      spinning a contemporary cosmopolitan yarn which accurately reflects
      present-day reality. With this novel, Leonidas Hatzinikolaou proved
      himself a veteran of the genre.
      -KATHIMERINI

      A many-layered book, which promises and guarantees the satisfaction
      of multiple  readings. It's got the plot of a good classic novel;
      there's mystery, suspense, and a philosophical attitude.
      -ETHNOS

      A talented storyteller and a gifted writer, Hatzinikolaou captivates the
      reader.
      -ELEFTHEROS TYPOS


------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The Holy Pledge"
Copyright (c) 2001 Leonidas Hatzinikolaou

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means without the prior written
permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                     "THE HOLY PLEDGE"

                            BY

                  LEONIDAS HATZINIKOLAOU

                         ----------
                         P A R T  I
                         ----------

Chapter 1

          SINAI EGYPT: St. Catherine's Monastery
          June 26

Clutching a kerosene lamp with one hand and the railing with
the other, Father Gregorios climbed up slowly the ancient
stairway and entered the corridor that led to the Old Library. He
paused for a moment before he unlocked the door, waiting for his
heartbeat to ease down a bit, then stepped in and flipped a switch
on the wall. Light flooded the room. St. Catherine's monastery in the
Sinai did not lack electricity, but Father Gregorios remained attached
to the old tradition, preferring a candle or an oil-lamp to fluorescent
lighting. His library presented the only exception to the rule.
   He glanced toward the low sturdy table near his desk, where his
latest acquisition perched, the library's new color copier. Its mere
sight made his heart sing. He put on his glasses and hunched over
the machine to check the counter. Satisfied that it had not been used
since his last visit, he pressed the Power button and waited for the
LED screen to light up, delighting in the mystery of this technolog-
ical marvel at the heart of the Sinai desert.
   A few moments later the copier started with a soft whirr.
Nodding to himself, the old monk hurried across the room and
opened a tall steel cabinet where the 1975 manuscript collection was
kept.
   Mentally reviewing the last twenty-four hours, as he went about
his task, Father Gregorios decided that this had been one of those
days of strange synchronicity, when all kinds of things happen at the
same time, demanding continuous mechanical action. After the first
hour or so in such a non-day, time loses its meaning and sweetness
as it degrades into a cheap fuel, spent with the sole purpose of
keeping the human engine running.
   As usual, his day had begun at dawn with the liturgy of Orthros.
Halfway through, however, he was forced to leave the chapel when
a very upset Bedouin from the nearby Ayn Kin wadi, his old friend
Hussein Abdel Men'im, had arrived asking for him.
   Hussein was immensely relieved to see Father Gregorios.
Speaking fast in his clipping Arabic dialect, he explained to his
Christian friend that his seventeen year old firstborn Hassan had
stolen a Land Rover from the parking lot at the Fayrouz Hilton
hotel, and hidden it somewhere into the desert. Now he threatened
to drive it to Cairo just to keep his pre-arranged tryst with the
teenage daughter of an American diplomat he'd met at the hotel.
   Completely at a loss on how to handle this non-traditional situa-
tion, Hussein had run to St. Catherine's seeking help and advice
from Father Gregorios.
   The old monk had mustered his persuasive powers, and after a
couple of negotiating rounds with young Hassan he extracted from
him the promise that he'd immediately return the jeep to its rightful
owner and then come back to stay for a few days at the monastery
under his personal supervision.
   Father Gregorios's quid-pro-quo to Hassan had been his offer to
assist him in writing a letter to the American girl, in which the
young Bedouin would confess his feelings for her, along with his
reasons for not showing up at their rendezvous.
   Back at the monastery, Father Gregorios was informed that the
truck with the monthly supplies had arrived two days earlier
than expected. He had to supervise the unloading and transfer of the
supplies to their proper storage rooms, while a mixed group of
tourists kept pestering him for anecdotal information about the
various relics and monuments of St. Catherine's. For almost two
hours they wandered all over the place, trigger-ready with their
cameras, seizing on every opportunity to draft the passing monks as
temporary tour guides.
   At last the comforting stillness of the night had arrived, but he
could not rest just yet. Later. And he was looking forward only to a
few hours of sleep before the simantron, the wooden-bell, roused his
brethren for the Matins.
   Father Gregorios shook his head ruefully as he continued with
his work. He brought out from a drawer a thick sheaf of priceless
Byzantine manuscripts and placed them carefully on his desktop.
Then he parted the linen curtain of the front window to let in some
fresh air. He lingered for a few moments there, taking the opportu-
nity to open up himself to the coolness of the desert. He knew that
a few of minutes of quiet contemplation were enough to renew his
spirit.
   The deep, all encompassing silence, had laid siege to the
monastery, with the friars of St. Catherine's entrenched in their
religious keep, their few hours of sleep a short pause between the
Compline and the Matins prayers. They followed faithfully the
Orthodox monastic tradition, a way of religious life virtually
unchanged since the sixth century AD.
   Father Gregorios left the window in a better mood and turned his
attention to the work at hand. Professor Cyrus Schulman of the
American University in Cairo, a good friend of his, had phoned him
last month to ask a favor. He needed facsimiles of certain unpub-
lished Byzantine parchments for the paper he was working on,
which were kept at St. Catherine's library. This particular set had
been accidentally discovered in 1975 during a renovation project
and had been identified as supplementary to the famous Codex
Sinaiticus, once possessed by the monastery but now part of the
manuscript collection of the British Museum.
   The Codex Sinaiticus had attracted world attention when
Konstantin von Tischendorf, a renowned nineteenth-century
German scholar, had brought it to light in 1844 after a five-month
research effort in the archives of St. Catherine's Old Library. He
studied it in depth and left the monastery taking with him a sample,
as he called it, of forty-three parchment sheets.
   Several years later von Tischendorf returned to the monastery,
this time as a middleman, and after an extended period of negoti-
ating he finally bought it on behalf of the Czar Alexander II. The
agreed upon price was seven thousand dollars. Finally, in 1933 the
irreplaceable Codex Sinaiticus, which dated back to the fourth
century AD and contained the largest part of the Old Testament and
the entire text of the New Testament, was sold by the Soviet govern-
ment to the British Museum for half a million dollars.
   Father Gregorios had scheduled the copying of the parchments
for this morning. However, the early arrival of the monthly supplies
had put him between a rock and a hard place, because Fahad, the
Egyptian truck driver, was the only person he'd trust for the delivery
of the valuable photocopies to Prof. Schulman. Obviously, this
wasn't a package to be dispatched by mail, and private courier
services had not yet reached the Sinai desert. His dilemma, therefore,  
was clear-cut: either the copies would be ready by dawn, or his
American friend wouldn't be receiving them until next month.
   The monk smiled inwardly at the relativity of the concept of
time. A month is nothing but a grain of sand to a veteran anchorite
of St. Catherine's, but those thirty days could subjectively stretch to
a year for an impatient American living in the city, even if that man
was a scholar intimately acquainted with the vastness of historical
time.
   For a while Father Gregorios worked completely absorbed by his
exacting task of photocopying the sensitive parchments. The process
was demanding because the exquisitely illuminated manuscripts,
dating from 382 AD, were one of a kind. And his task was further
complicated by the fact that the parchment sheets were longer than
the maximum size accepted by the machine, so he had to copy them
in halves.
   As a rule, rare manuscripts are photographed and not photo-
copied to avoid damage, but his lack of time and the fact that the
new copier was in excellent condition persuaded Father Gregorios
to resort to this alternative. Besides, he rationalized, by making two
copies of the lot he could keep the extra set for his library, thus
saving the originals for special research needs.
   He was only four sheets short of completing his task when the
color of the Copy button changed to orange and the machine
stopped. Fearing the worst, Father Gregorios put down the
remaining parchments on his desk and opened the manual. He
flipped the pages nervously, checking out the list of troubleshooting
tips.
   No luck. The trays were okay, the ink cartridges were full, the
paperway jam-free. The machine should have been working.
   Getting increasingly upset, he sat down to think. Only four more
parchments to be copied, which-thank God-were not illumi-
nated. Therefore, since they contained no color illustrations, he
could copy them with the older B/W machine without significant
loss of information. Father Gregorios sighed in relief.
He still might make it!
   The only problem was that when the new copying machine had
arrived he had retired the old one, and taken it down to the
basement, to a small storage room opposite the cellar that housed
the monastery's big refrigerator.
   He glanced at the clock on the wall; too late now to get some
sleep before dawn. Business came first. He'd never fallen short on his
word and had no intention of starting now.
   He collected the four parchments and headed for the basement.
He'd move the old copier to the corridor and hook it to the
electricity outlet used by the refrigerator. Ten more minutes, and this
whole mess would be over.

                                ***

Abbot Theodossios closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair with
a small sigh. His pencil dropped through his stiffened fingers and
rolled on the thick book that lay open on his desktop. As his
leathery, gaunt face pulled away from the halo of his old-fashioned
lamp, his silent companion of countless vigils, the wrinkles lining
his face grew deeper, darker. His rich beard, however, resisted the
passage of time, giving to his features a younger appearance.
   He began to breathe rhythmically, immersing himself in a short
meditative prayer. Across his massive desk the two hands of the old
timepiece on the wall were about to merge at midnight. He had
stayed up late again, and his bones were aching.
   Common sense dictated that he should have wrapped up his day
and gone to bed, but during the long years of his tenure he had
realized that as the Archbishop of the Sinai, Paran and Raithou and
Abbot of the St. Catherine's monastery, he could hardly allow
himself a single hour of sleep, if he were to keep up with the count-
less duties and functions of his office. Indeed, it was still a mystery
to Theodossios, even after all those years at the helm of his abbey,
how his predecessors had administered to their substantially larger
flock than his own.
   Such thoughts always made him restless. His eyes snapped open,
and wandered over the open tome lying on his desk. Not the holy
Gospel this one, he thought wryly, but the current volume of the
monastery's accounts, brimming with records of their everyday
transactions.
   Well, at least the accounts balanced! Who would have imagined it,
that even at the heart of the desert the path to salvation passes
through a labyrinth of black and red logistical entries...
   Mentally scolding himself for his self-pitying thoughts, the abbot
switched off the light and walked out to the balcony for his nightly
rounds. At this hour all of the comings and goings of the friars had
stopped and the walled courtyard rested in silence.
Silence.
   It was the perfect backdrop for the magical night sky of the Sinai
that was glimmering like the crystal chandelier of St. Catherine's
basilica. Thousands upon thousands of bright stars provided an
exhilarating spectacle, affirming Theodossios's staple advice to his
brethren that when in prayer one should keep the head heavenward,
to absorb the divine presence above.
   Feasting his eyes on the desert sky Theodossios remained
perfectly still, as if even a single breath might shatter the luminous
wonder. Then, feeling again the pressure of time, he reluctantly
turned around and stepped onto the gallery that led off toward the
cells of the monks. He took his time as he walked, enjoying the rich
creaking sound the wooden boards were making under his soles.
   Sitting on a solitary chair at the far end of the empty gallery, St.
Catherine's young novice was gazing idly at the towering stone walls
across the courtyard, like a guard on duty after the first couple of
hours of an uneventful watch. When he heard the abbot he rose
quickly, slipping in a pocket the half-finished rosary he was weaving.
   "Your blessing, Holy Father," he said softly, as he lightly touched
Theodossios's hand with his lips.
   "God bless you, my child," answered the abbot, affectionately
patting his head. Approaching the wooden rail he peered at the
darkness, inspecting with sharp glances the corners of the court-
yard, the abbey's main gate, the rooftops of the buildings and the
domes of the church and the chapels.
All was as it should be.
   "It's very late, Philippos," he said turning back toward the novice.
   "You should get some sleep."
   Philippos had come to the Sinai five months ago, and immedi-
ately upon his arrival had insisted to be shown to the abbot. He was
a handsome youth, but his long black hair and his dangling earring
had given the monk manning the gate pause. When he was finally
brought to Theodossios, Philippos had surprised him by requesting
to be accepted as a novice and by speaking eloquently of his irrevo-
cable decision to receive the monastic vows.
   He had a teenager's looks but when the abbot had raised the
matter of his young age, Philippos had instantly produced his Greek
passport, which identified him as Philippos Manos, born in Athens,
age twenty-four.
   After a long discussion the abbot had permitted him to stay on a
temporary basis, giving him a chance to try out the monastic life for
a six-month period-time enough to put his professed religious
fervor to the test.
   The next day Philippos had surprised again Theodossios by
removing the earring on his own. The months had slipped by,
and as his trial period approached its completion he was consid-
ered by the other monks as the ideal novice: he followed all
advice offered, performed eagerly the assigned chores, and kept
repeating his firm resolve to dedicate his life to the service of
God. Determined to make a new beginning in life, he never
spoke of his past.
   "I'm not the only one who spends the night in vigil, Holy Father,"
Philippos said, pointing toward a brightly lit window across the
courtyard. It belonged to the Old Library, where ordinary pilgrims
were not allowed to visit. "Father Gregorios returned a short while
ago and it looks like Orthros will find him there."
   The abbot laughed good-naturedly. "In this particular case,
Philippos-and only in this one, mind you-I don't think Father
Gregorios offers the very best example to an aspiring novice. I've
told you again and again that our physical and spiritual resources are
to be treasured and to be exercised wisely and economically. Our
primary task here is not to serve the library, however much wisdom
it may contain. First we take care of our eternal soul, and by so
doing we worship the Lord. Then follows everything else." He
pointed with a glance at the library. "Of course, Father Gregorios is
perfectly familiar with all this," he added smiling, "although
sometimes he does get carried away."
   "Still, Father Gregorios is very competent in everything he lays
his hands on," Philippos objected, looking steadily at the small
window. A fleeting black silhouette cast a momentary shadow on the
curtain before vanishing back into the room.
The abbot had noted the special liking the novice had developed
for Father Gregorios, to whom he frequently turned for counsel.
   "Well, if it's not too much trouble, Philippos," he told the young
man, "why don't you remind Father Gregorios that he ought to
include some time for rest in the long list of his activities?"
   The young novice nodded gravely. Theodossios took out his
pocket-watch and turned it toward the nearest electric light. Half
past twelve. He should do well to take, once in awhile, his own
advice. He wished good night to Philippos and walked away in his
familiar easy gait.
   Manos did not move for several minutes, his eyes darting back
and forth from the abbot's shrinking figure to the library's window.
Only when the abbot had disappeared did he reach for the chair,
taking out from his pocket his half-finished work.

                                ***

With his morale sufficiently restored, Father Gregorios climbed
down the stairs taking extra care not to disturb his sleeping
brothers.
   The cellars were situated at the lowest basement of an adjoining
building. They were an integral part of its foundations and extended
deeply below the cobbled courtyard. Even the noontime heat
couldn't reach them, and for this reason they had always been used
as storage space for the perishable goods.
   Father Gregorios hurried through the basement corridors,
accompanied only by the swishing sound of his cassock and the
trailing shadows his kerosene lamp was casting upon the ochre-
painted walls. Soon he was standing outside the storage room with
the old copier.
   Everything down here was so quiet, the old monk thought, one
might suppose that the monastery was forsaken by Man and God
alike. And yet, just a few hundred yards to the south towered the
immutable presence of the Holy Mount, the only place on Earth
where God had revealed His existence to humanity and offered
tangible monuments of His Will.
   But is this a fact or a parable? The question surfaced unbidden to
his mind. Father Gregorios's faith was unshakable, but he was too
much of a scholar to blindly accept anyone's word on a matter that
concerned divinity. People were fallible. He knew, however, that
three major religions with billions of followers were in agreement at
this particular point; perhaps this rare consensus was an argument
for its truth.
   The old monk shrugged and opened the door. It was unlocked.
The air inside was cool and smelled of whitewash. There was a broad
bench along the left wall, full of carpentry tools and small
containers, while several wooden boxes with old clothing were
stacked on the opposite side. On a niche across the room stood an
unlit oil lamp, guarding the Crucifixion icon that hung on the wall
behind it.
   Father Gregorios placed the lamp he was carrying on the bench
and looked around him. He spotted the retired machine at the far
end of the room. Reaching for it, he pulled back the protective
cotton sheet spread over it, and tried to maneuver it outside. He
pushed with all his strength, but the heavy copier didn't budge;
obviously, ten years of continuous service had taken their toll on its
wheels.
   Several more blows at the steel frame of the supporting cart
produced no result either. Father Gregorios continued to struggle
with it for several minutes, but the sudden physical exertion was too
much for his age and after another round of shoving and pushing he
was close to collapsing.
   He wanted to keep trying, he needed to keep trying, but his wild
panting made him realize that his heart was unable to support this
exercise. He had an attack of dizziness. Perhaps it was only his
imagination, but suddenly the yellow lamplight had become
dimmer. He shivered. The air had turned cold.
   At this point he should have quit, but Father Gregorios was a
born fighter. Disregarding the alarming symptoms, he decided on an
all-out effort. He got a heavy hammer from the bench, grasped its
handle tightly, and delivered a strong blow against one of the
jammed wheels.
   The loud clang filled the room, but Father Gregorios only heard
the frantic beating of his pulse on his temples. Dismissing it as of no
consequence, he dropped the hammer, hugged the machine with
both arms and pushed it with all his strength, at the same time
letting out a loud cry in sheer desperation. The steel wheels
suddenly came free and the cart with the machine on its top shot
forward, crashing with a loud bang against the opposite wall. Father
Gregorios lost his balance and fell down on the stone floor.
   He never knew what really happened to him that night-had he
lost consciousness because of the fall or due to something signifi-
cantly worse, like a heart attack? Afterwards there was a dull, throb-
bing pain in his chest, which stayed with him for the several days,
but it could have been caused by the machine's metallic frame.
Or, so he hoped.

                                ***

When Father Gregorios regained consciousness he lay still for
several minutes, grateful he was breathing again without conscious
effort.
   As he looked up, the sad gaze of Jesus on the Crucifixion icon
caught his attention. He seemed to be looking straight at him, and a
sudden wave of love for the Savior suffused the old monk. A tear
rolled down his cheek, but he felt too weak to brush it away.
   He only noticed the gaping hole beneath the byzantine icon
when he tried to sit up. He froze on the spot, mesmerized by the
black splotch on the wall, but soon his surprise gave way to mixed
feelings of fear and hope.
   Father Gregorios's passion for secular knowledge and a rational
understanding of the world was hardly a secret at the monastery, and
this passion, which instead of undermining, rather bolstered his
faith, had given him a leading role in everything connected with the
written word. When it came to the thousands of the unpublished
manuscripts, codices, books and all sorts of Byzantine documents
archived in the St. Catherine's library, he was the undisputed expert
and the only person at the monastery intimately acquainted with the
contents of its hundreds of drawers, bookcases, safes, cabinets and
archival boxes.
   The historical discovery of 1975 had been one of the most
exciting and intense moments in his life, and ever since Father
Gregorios had been praying for a repeat of that miracle, firmly
convinced that a wealth of scholarly treasures awaited their turn to
resurface.
   As he sat on the hard stone floor, Father Gregorios was suddenly
gripped by the thrill of the unknown and the prospect of an exciting
gift within his grasp. At the same time, he dreaded a possible disap-
pointment, if his expectations didn't come true. All else was irrele-
vant, including the broken machine and the unfinished
manuscripts.
   From his vantage point he had a clear view of the collapsed wall.
Until this very moment he had never paid any real attention to the
niche. After all, it was only a panel covered with a layer of paint, or
so he had thought. He had always assumed that it had been
constructed to highlight the Crucifixion icon, which was a very fine
specimen of late Byzantine iconography. According to the abbey's
records, its painter had sought asylum at St. Catherine's immediately
after the Fall of Constantinople, and this particular icon was the  
earliest piece of his work at the monastery.
   Intrigued, Father Gregorios rose to his feet and approached the
broken wall. After a brief inspection of the remaining fragments of
the niche he realized the panel was actually a brick-and-mortar
partition, superimposed over the other two walls as they met each
other at the northeastern corner of the room.
   Realizing he had been holding his breath, Father Gregorios
exhaled slowly, and making a conscious effort to calm down. It
proved futile. He was simply too excited to relax.
   Why was the partition built?
   It was obviously a latter addition, an attempt to create a hollow
space between the two walls. With the passage of time the moisture
of the cement had evaporated and the partition had become brittle,
like a dried up sandcastle. And at the first push it had crumbled to
pieces.
   Father Gregorios suddenly looked behind him. What was that?
He listened carefully for a few seconds, but the silence was total. He
closed the door, just to be on the safe side, and picked up the
kerosene lamp. Navigating carefully through the fragments of wall
that lay scattered on the floor, among little pools of oil spilled from
the fallen cresset, he went back to the broken niche.
   The cracked surface around the hole looked like an eggshell just
after the hatch. Smiling at his fancy, which probably reflected his
desire for something to be there, Father Gregorios picked at the
remaining pieces of masonry to enlarge the hole. When he had
opened up enough space, he raised the wick of his lamp a few
notches and brought it close to the opening.
   The steady flame shone brightly on the upper part of the hollow
space, pushing further down the shadows. Father Gregorios leaned
closer and noticed that the cavity behind the panel was larger than
he had thought, which meant that a part of the external wall had
been chipped away. As the foundation wall at this level was more
than three feet thick, this had not endangered the superstructure.
   To his intense disappointment, though, the interior was empty.
Nothing at all-no designs on the wall, no evidence of an artist's
work. And most of all, no bookcase brimming with codices and
parchments, waiting for its discoverer.
   Father Gregorios sighed in frustration, the bitter taste of failure
filling his mouth. An empty crypt was hardly a crypt, and he couldn't
fathom the purpose of this camouflaged space. He had hoped for a
cabinetful of manuscripts, but obviously this was not to be.
   He knelt down to finish his inspection, casting a perfunctory
glance at the lower part of the crypt. He was expecting bare walls all
the way to the ground, but suddenly his eye caught a hump on the
floor by the northern wall. He leaned over eagerly, pushing the lamp
through the opening.
   Sweet Jesus, there's something down there!
   Flush against the wall and covered by dust stood a small chest
with a curving top. It must have lain there undisturbed for more
than a thousand years!
   Not trusting his shaking legs any more, Father Gregorios set the
lamp on the floor and with a trembling hand wiped off the perspira-
tion from his forehead. He murmured twice the Lord's Prayer to hold
back his galloping heartbeat, and took a few deep breaths. He
couldn't shake off the weird feeling that somehow his discovery had
changed irrevocably his world. He was treading on unexplored terri-
tory now, and wondered where this new path in his life was taking
him.
   The pungent smell of kerosene shattered his reverie, forcing him
to focus on the present. The air in the enclosed space was becoming
stuffy and it would get worse. He had to see this through, fast.
   Aided by the emergency flashlight he took from the bench,
Father Gregorios used the sleeve of his cassock to clean the box and
inspected the gilt handle that was attached to its lid. He tugged at it
lightly to test its strength and satisfied that it would hold the weight
of the casket he raised it slowly, brought it out through the widened
opening, and set it down on the bench.
   This was admittedly the handicraft of a master craftsman, Father
Gregorios thought, who had devoted many months of backbreaking
work to create its exquisite carvings. Intricate decorative bands ran
along its sides interspersed with floral patterns, and the burnish
somehow had kept its original luster. On its top there was a Coptic
cross framed by a circle, and a locking clasp was used to fasten the
lid to the body. With a prayer between his teeth, Father Gregorios
tried it.
   It was locked.
   Uncertain how to proceed, he passed his fingers through his hair,
noticing for the first time since his fall that his cap had dropped on
the floor. Not bothering to retrieve it, he turned back to his task.
   This was proving difficult. He put on his glasses and began a
thorough examination of the sealed box. Scrutinizing it from several
angles he noticed that it had a recessed underside and his probing
fingers touched a soft object attached to it. It was a small leather
pouch secured to the casket's bottom by a couple of nails and
fastened with a string that snapped when he touched it. With tremu-
lous fingers he opened the pouch and took out a little bronze key.
   The key fit the lock. Father Gregorios unlocked the clasp and
raised the cover, letting it rest against the wall. The flashlight was
not bright enough, so he took the lamp. The inside of the casket was
a mix of saturated purple-and-gold colors, which gradually resolved
into the plush velvet of the interior lining and a small heap of
glittering solidi, as the Byzantine gold coins were called. Among
them rested a thin golden cylinder.
   Father Gregorios looked at it in astonishment. He had never seen
such a gold container, although he had handled all kinds of boxes,
sheaths, and other protective cases for papyri and parchments. But
he remembered having read that cylinders of this sort were used by
the Byzantine emperors for the protection of extremely important
public documents.
   Setting aside for the moment the treasure of gold, Father
Gregorios reached tenderly for the cylinder, and was surprised at
how lightweight it felt. He removed its cap and took out from within
a rolled parchment of extraordinary suppleness. Encouraged by its
excellent condition he began to unfold it, inch by slow inch, at the
same time thirstily absorbing the emerging text of Byzantine script.
   As he kept reading, however, his initial exhilaration quickly
vanished, giving way to a growing uneasiness at first and then to
outright dismay. When at last Father Gregorios had finished reading
the manuscript, he grasped his throbbing head with both hands, as
if with this simple gesture he could stop it from functioning, from
thinking.
   It proved an impossible task. As if with a volition of their own,
his whirling thoughts kept buzzing in his mind without letup, effec-
tively paralyzing him. He knew that the manuscript's catalytic
revelations called for a restructuring of the world history of the last
fifteen hundred years, but for the present he was too confused to
even begin thinking in that direction.
   Finally he came to a decision. First he needed to secure the
parchment and then he could start making plans for the future. He
folded the manuscript, put it back to the cylinder, and stood up. A
sudden wave of nausea almost overwhelmed him, and Father
Gregorios realized that he had overestimated his physical endurance
by far. He desperately needed a rest. He collected his things quickly
and closed the casket.
   Enough for one night, he told himself. There would be plenty of
other nights in the future, to work on the manuscript. He made a
mental note to to tidy up the room the next day and slipped out into
the corridor, this time locking the door behind him.
   He walked back to his cell with the box tucked under his arm, a
confused and utterly exhausted old man, like a sleepwalker
returning to bed after several hours of aimless rambling through an
empty house.


Chapter 2
          ATHENS, GREECE: Omonoia Sqr.
          June 27


As Nikitas Paleologou shut behind him the door of Irene Douros's
notary office at the fifth floor of a gray and depressing office
building in Socratous Street, his barely suppressed feelings of
triumph finally burst free in a wild torrent of emotion, flooding
every living cell of his body.
   Six months of back-breaking work, countless sleepless nights
over proposals and counter-proposals, endless vigils at the
designing-board, interminable meetings and friendly talks inter-
spersed with innumerable hours of solitary work at his workstation,
all this monumental effort was condensed just a few minutes ago
into a pair of flowery signatures at the bottom of a multi-page
contract, plus a down-payment check for half a million dollars.
   Under the creative responsibility and technical supervision of his
architectural company Paleologou and Associates, twelve months in
the future the Greek high-biotechnology shooting-star corporation
Biomedics Ltd would be boasting her new extended complex of
administrative offices and research facilities at the affluent suburb of
Kifissia, in Athens.
   The architectural plans were based on Nikitas's inspired concep-
tion of a post-Byzantine rhythm, incorporating his personal vision of
Byzantium's probable architectural development if its millennial
history had not been violently interrupted by the Turkish Conquest.
   Nikitas had presented the first drafts to his client three months
ago at the specially equipped Projects' Room in his office, and his
presentation had been supplemented by a virtual exploration of the
facilities with the help of his powerful computer.
   At the press conference that had followed, the President and CEO
of Biomedics Ltd Asteris Dimakis had described the virtual tour as a
"breathtaking experience," expressing his personal conviction that
the awesome post-Byzantine environment would prove an inspira-
tional fount to his researchers, supportive of their efforts to unravel
the mysteries of Life.
   The claustrophobic elevator stopped at the ground floor with a
thump. Nikitas strode lightly past the building's door and walked up
Socratous Street. He was wearing a checkered Italian shirt, and his
favorite pair of faded jeans along with his custom-made moccasins
were giving him the appearance of a twenty-five year old. Actually,
he was thirty-five.
   Though overloaded with his leather attach� case and several
plastic cylindrical containers with copies of the architectural plans,
Nikitas stepped up his pace. He needed to reach his bank before
closing time, to arrange for the transfer of a fat, special bonus to the
accounts of his associates and the rest of his employees. Then
straight off for home, where other preparations were awaiting him.
   Vacation time! Fifteen whole days of obligatory rest for the
personnel of his company, himself included. Just the perfect tonic
before the beginning of a project, which would monopolize his
professional efforts for the next twelve months.
   The early-afternoon sun burned fiercely, but the tourists strolling
in Omonoia Square welcomed it. They kept ridding themselves of as
many clothes as they legally could, even as the locals were doing
their utmost to avoid the heat. And between those two groups were
also the illegal immigrants who cared neither way, but struggled to
begin a new life in Greece right from this bustling square at the heart
of Athens, their efforts stoked by their indomitable hopes.
   To his right Nikitas noticed several small groups of lawyers
rushing to the nearby Appellate Court for their last-minute errands,
making way through streets of unrelenting noise and gray oppres-
sion.
   Just another day at the downtown, Nikitas mentally shrugged.
He reached the square and went down the escalator for the
subway, then hurried to the terminal for the Pentagon line. It was
already twenty-five to two. He had barely enough time to reach his
bank.

                                ***

An hour later Nikitas walked out of the bank, his transactions
complete, and hailed a cab. Thankfully, the traffic had thinned out.
Only ten minutes later they were turning left onto Aghia Filothei
Street, leaving Kifissias Avenue behind them. A second turn brought
the cab to Dragoumis Street, forking left from Drosopoulou Square.
Nikitas got off at number nineteen, in front of the main gate of his
two-story house.

                                ***

When after the tragic loss of his parents in an automobile accident
three years ago Nikitas had decided to leave the United States and
relocate to Athens, the state of his family's old house in Filothei was
clearly reflecting its seventy years of age.
   His father had been a career diplomat who had served as a liaison
between the State Department and the succession of Greek govern-
ments after World War II, supervising the management of the
economic assistance funds authorized by the Marshall Plan for
Greece. Nikitas was born and raised in Georgetown, Washington,
DC.
   His parents had returned to their homeland in 1985, but instead
of settling in Filothei they had taken up residence at an apartment
building in Kolonaki, the most expensive quarter at the old part of
the city, to avoid the daily commuting between the northern suburbs
and the center of the city as they pursued their active social life.
   The number of friends and acquaintances of the Paleologou
couple was truly amazing, the net result of many decades of
intense diplomatic and social activity on the part of
Themistocles Paleologou and his wife Miranda. As a result, the
old house in Filothei was abandoned to its suburban solitude.
   When the funereal service was over, Nikitas had paid the house
a visit and had been instantly captivated by its baroque stonework,
the expansive interior spaces and its sprawling garden-the latter in
a truly virginal state. That mournful afternoon he had wandered for
several hours through the deserted house's innumerable halls, rooms
and corridors, employing his highly-trained imagination to imbue
them with vibrant life, to populate them with tasteful furniture, to
dress them up with musical sounds, sweet smells, happy people...
   Nikitas had been so absorbed, he had scarcely noticed the night
fall. Eventually he had departed for his hotel, but not before reaching
a firm decision: that his paternal house was not just another a piece
of real estate for him but the place he wished to live in.
   In the course of the following year Nikitas's work at MIT was
severely backlogged as a result of his repeated traveling to Greece, to
personally supervise the house's renovation. The final result,
however, had been commensurate with his efforts and talent,
making his house in Filothei a continuous source of pride and envy
for his affluent neighbors.
   Nikitas opened the door and reset the alarm. He jogged upstairs
for a quick shower and then down again to prepare a frozen meal.
Afterwards, he filled a tumbler with crushed ice and cola and went
out to relax in the sun-drenched veranda.
   The afternoon was still young. The sun had begun its westbound
descent, the abundant sunlight already matured to a rich lemon hue.
The manicured shrubs in the garden were casting elegant shadows
upon the lawn and the tall poplars running the length of the protec-
tive outer fence were beginning to stir in response to the fresh
westerly breeze.
   Stretched out in his favored chaise-longue Nikitas was relishing
the idyllic surroundings tip-toeing on the borders of sleep,
welcoming the temptation to put off for a few days his departure and
the fuss of making his travel arrangements.
   A low chime from one of his several telephone lines startled him
into spilling his coke on the floor. He shrugged and reached for the
handset.
   "Paleologou," he answered, idly wondering who this might be.
   "Hold on a moment, sir, I'm connecting you with Ms Douros."
Nikitas recognized the voice of the notary's personal assistant.
   "Good afternoon, Mr. Paleologou," the notary cut in smoothly.
   "I'm sorry for calling you at this hour, but we haven't made any
arrangements for the delivery of the notarized copies of your
contract. Should I send them by courier to your office?"
Nikitas considered for a moment. "Do you need anything else
from me?"
   "Oh, no, everything's in order. However, I was informed that your
office will remain closed for two weeks and I need to know where to
send the copies. They will be ready tomorrow."
   "Thanks for calling, Ms Douros, and I would appreciate it if you'd
keep them in your safe until we're back. My secretary will contact
you for their delivery."
   "With pleasure, Mr. Paleologou. I'll be expecting your call. Have
a nice vacation!"
   Nikitas hung up and lay back. This call was a natural spillover of
his last working day. As he closed his eyes the phone chimed again,
and he sighed in mock desperation.
   "Hello!" he said resignedly, picking up the receiver. The line was
full of static. "Hello, who's there!" he yelled. A woman passing on
the street turned sharply and cast him a strange look.
   "Speak up, please, I can't hear you. Who's there?"
   "Hello, Nikitas, I'm your uncle," Father Gregorios's voice finally
managed to bridge the distance from the Sinai. "Can you hear me
now?"
   "Uncle Gregorios, is that you? Yes, I can hear you fine. How are
you?"
   "I'm all right, but I don't have much time. Listen carefully,
Nikitas, and carry out my instructions to the letter."
   "Why, what's the matter, uncle?" Nikitas asked in apprehension,
as he reached for the notepad and a pen.
   "Please, listen. Take the first flight to Cairo, using your American
passport. When you arrive there, check in to a five-star hotel for a week,
then the same night go to the bus terminal for St. Catherine's. You'll find
it very easily-it's in the Abbasiya district. Buy a ticket for the eleven
p.m. Pullman to Dahab, which arrives here early the following morning.
Are you with me, Nikitas?" Father Gregorios asked.
   "Yes, I've written it all down, uncle," Nikitas replied. The instruc-
tions were baffling but he did not want to interrupt.
   "All right, then. When you get there, go to the local coffeehouse
and wait until ten o'clock. Then come up to the main entrance of St.
Catherine's. I'll be waiting for you. And remember: do not register
your passport by the Egyptian police."
   Nikitas laid down his pen and passed the receiver to his other
hand. "Okay, I got it. Now tell me uncle, what's happening there? I'm
not sure I can leave like that because my passport's due for a
renewal. What exactly is it that you want? Maybe I can help you
from here."
   "Nikitas, it's extremely important that you come here. Find a way
to renew your passport and follow the instructions I gave you. I'm
counting on you. Goodbye."
   The line went dead but Nikitas did not move. The idyllic after-
noon had suddenly mutated into a quite different entity. What was
the matter with his uncle? Was the monastery under some kind of
threat? His eyes wandered slowly over the shapely green forms
populating the garden, but the former peace and quiet of his
surroundings now seemed to be skin-deep, almost artificial.
   It hardly mattered to him that his vacation plans were upset; he
was worried by the mysterious directions and the serious tone in his
uncle's voice. With some regret Nikitas realized that his contentment
on account of his professional triumph had evaporated.
   Frustrated by his lack of more information, Nikitas went inside. He
tidied up the kitchen just to keep himself occupied and then began
pacing the living room, as he tried to concentrate on his next moves.
   The spacious living room was highly conducive to creative
thought. The heavy drapes created a stable lighting environment
which made easier his long hours of work on the computer. Further
back there was an elevated platform, where a long array of computer
monitors were casting about their bluish light.
   They were part of the powerful computer network Nikitas had
installed the previous year. He had placed its central unit within a
special structure in a separate room to protect it in the case of a
seismic tremor. Security conscious, he had even shielded the power
cords to avoid a Tempest electronic eavesdropping. The house was
networked with his office, while a T3 connection linked them both
with the Internet.
   The rest of the living room, which also doubled as a dining room,
was sparely but expensively furnished. Nikitas had discarded nearly
everything he had found in the house and traveled to Italy to order
the new furniture custom-made to his own specifications. From his
mother he had only kept her exquisite collection of rare Persian
Kirman rugs, which he had discovered neatly packed in the attic.
   As he paced up and down the room, Nikitas tried to formulate a
strategy. To be sure, there was no question of his not heeding his
uncle's call for help who, incidentally, was his only uncle alive. He
would travel to the Sinai, so the if of the matter was decided and the
same applied to the logistics of his trip. They were no obstacle, as
his comfortable financial state allowed him to organize such simple
matters with a couple of phone calls.
   That left only the matter of his passport. Well, he was in luck
there, too. The Cultural Attach� of the American Embassy in Athens
was a very close friend of his and Nikitas was sure he would oblige
him.
   No, his concern rather stemmed from the way he had viewed his
uncle since his childhood years. For Nikitas, Father Gregorios had
always been the quintessence of tenderness, of innocence, of sober
detachment from all worldly pursuits. He was also aware that this
image had exercised a beneficial influence on his development
throughout his adolescence, as a stabilizing antipodes to his parents'
hyperactive social model.
   Now, however, the alarming call from the Sinai threatened to reveal
an entirely different aspect of his uncle, sharply at odds with his ideal.
This was something Nikitas could neither explain, nor accept.
   At last his practical nature took over, forcing him to put an end to
his idle speculation. It was clear that the answers to his questions lay in
the future. Making up his mind to leave for Egypt as soon as possible,
he picked up the phone and dialed Michael Walker's number at the
embassy. He friend would be there at this hour because Michael was
working overtime this week, paying back borrowed time to a colleague
of his.


Chapter 3
          SUEZ, EGYPT: Sharm el Sheikh Highway
          June 29


A couple of hours after midnight the bus of the East Delta
Company running the line Cairo-Dahab suddenly cut speed,
took a spectacular right turn onto a dirt road shooting off from the  
highway, and after a few thrilling seconds screeched to a stop in
front of a small restaurant doubling as a resting place.
   This was the first of the two scheduled breaks in the trip.
Undeterred by the lateness of the hour nearly all the passengers got
off the bus, since the offered snack was included in the ticket price.
Nikitas tagged along to stretch out his legs.
   When the guests had taken their seats at the formica tables, a
sleepy waiter shuffled in and served them each with a deep bowl of
cous-cous and a can of Coca-Cola. Presently he retreated to his inner
sanctum, but only after he had turned up the volume of the old radio
receiver, to allow his visitors to enjoy the ever popular Egyptian
singer Umm Khulthum in the full.
   Nikitas eyed his own dish with suspicion, but when he sampled
it he discovered it was nicely cooked and quickly devoured it .
Until now everything had gone on smoothly. He had arrived this
morning at Cairo's International Airport and then had endured the
interminable traffic jams on the way to his hotel. Thankfully, the
Sixth of October Avenue had been relatively free. Shortly after
entering it, the Semiramis Intercontinental's minibus had turned left
to the Corniche El Nil street and delivered its passengers safely to
their destination.
   Nikitas's room sported a splendid view of the Nile, flowing majes-
tically along its eternal route seven floors under his balcony. The
grand panorama of the sprawling metropolis had been so capti-
vating, he had devoted a whole hour to exploring the outlying vistas,
starting from the Qasr-el-Nil bridge to his right, then moving left
toward the sumptuous old buildings of the Garden City to the
southwest.
   When he had had his fill of the eighteen-million city, Nikitas left
the hotel and took a cab to the Sinai bus terminal, where he bought
a ticket in accordance with his uncle's detailed instructions.
   On his return to the hotel, Nikitas reserved his room for a week,
paying in advance, and took back his passport. Before leaving he
casually mentioned to the manager that he was going to the south
on business, mentally congratulating himself at how convincingly
he had played the part of the American entrepreneur.
At eight sharp Nikitas had left for the bus terminal, preferring to
spend there the remaining hours until his departure.
   Despite his initial misgivings the bus proved a trustworthy new
model with a faultlessly operating air-conditioning unit. He tried
hard to stay awake in expectation of the Suez Canal, but was disap-
pointed when the bus reached the coast twenty-eight miles away
from the Ahmet Hamdi tunnel, which connects the city of Suez with
the opposite shore. Actually, he could see nothing. The lack of
decent lighting was frustrating and after a while he fell asleep in his
seat.
   Nikitas brushed aside his empty bowl and glanced around him.
There was a map hanging on the opposite wall and he got up to take  
a look. He had a passion for vintage maps and also a higher-than-
the-average curiosity for all modern ones.
   This particular map was covered with a protective sheet of clear
plastic that was stained and smudged all over. The location of the
restaurant was circled in red, as was the town of Abu Rudeis farther
to the south. After another twenty-five miles or so the highway left
the coast as it sharply veered toward the east, at last entering the
Sinai proper.
   A third red mark on the map indicated their next stop at the oasis
of Faran. After that the road continued its tortuous path through the
desert mountains, crossing the Watiya wadi before finally reaching
St. Catherine's monastery. From there the desert road continued all
the way to Dahab on the Gulf of Aqaba.
   With a last look at the dining room Nikitas opened the door and
went out to the courtyard. The air smelled fresh and the night was
quiet, but he was feeling curiously dejected. It seemed that the
restaurant's shabby interior and the loud plaintive music had a
dispiriting effect upon him. He returned to his seat, put on his
earphones, and switched on his Walkman.
   A few minutes later the rest of the passengers came back and the
driver started the engine, but Nikitas was already lulled into a deep
sleep by the "Don't Let Me Down", one of his favorite Beatles' songs:

          Nobody ever loved me like she does,
          oh she does, yes she does...


Chapter 4
          SINAI, EGYPT: St. Catherine's Monastery
          June 29


Father Gregorios hurried across the walled courtyard, his black
cassock billowing around his slender frame, heading for the
northern gate at the foot of the granite fortifications. Built by
Justinian in 530 AD, they had proved the monastery's everlasting
protectors. Six to nine feet thick at the base and thirty to forty-five
feet tall, the walls had survived the ravages of time and the attacks
of innumerable raiders, establishing St. Catherine's as the only
monastery in the world that could boast more than sixteen hundred
years of continuous, uninterrupted existence.
   In the past, all traffic with the outside world had passed through
the western gate that was built twenty feet high at the wall. The
visiting pilgrims were lifted up with the help of a primitive elevator,
manually operated by the monks.
   Since then, however, quite a few things had changed at St.
Catherine's mainly as a result of the spectacular rise in the number
of visiting tourists. The northern gate at the Tower of Kleber was
reopened, the old system gladly abandoned. Now the pilgrims had
immediate access to the holy sites inside the walls, while the monks
had managed to keep a measure of privacy within the interior parts
of the monastery.
   At this hour the courtyard was deserted, as the friars were still
occupied by their morning chores. Father Gregorios had chosen this
specific weekday on purpose because the monastery remained
closed to the public on Fridays and Saturdays.
   When he reached the gate he turned around and checked the
courtyard behind him. Satisfied that no one was in sight, he opened
the small window at the upper part of the barred gate. Few things in
a monastery could be kept secret for long and Father Gregorios was
well aware that his precautions were in essence a ritual reflecting his
cautious nature.
   It was already twelve past ten. Father Gregorios popped his head
through the window and immediately spotted Nikitas walking along
the path with his knapsack on his back, his hands deeply buried in
the pockets of his jeans. He was the perfect icon of a modern tourist.
Seeing him after almost three years, Father Gregorios was
overwhelmed by a wave of love for his brother's and Miranda's son.
A hard lump rose to his throat and a few tears sneaked out from the
edges of his eyes.
   Irked by his emotional volatility, the old monk hastened to wipe
them away, thinking that the intense excitement of the past few days
was threatening to get the upper hand. With an abrupt motion he
closed the window, raised the latch and threw the door wide open.
   Nikitas was standing smiling in front of him. Although they had
last met at the funeral of his parents, the emotional bond between
them was as strong as ever. Notwithstanding the mystery behind
Nikitas's invitation to the Sinai, his love for his uncle was solid.
Seeing the gaunt figure framed by the massive gate, he dropped his
knapsack and hugged him tightly with a sense of easy familiarity, as
if they had last met yesterday.
   After the first welcome Father Gregorios once more became his
usual practical self. He shouldered the knapsack despite the objec-
tions of his nephew, and headed briskly for the dormitories of the
monks motioning Nikitas to follow him.
Father Gregorios accommodated Nikitas at the hostel within St.
Catherine's that was reserved for special guests. His room was
situated at the second floor of the eastern wing, which parallelled
the fortification all the way to its southeastern corner.
   At this point just outside the wall an anonymous monk had
centuries ago carved into the mountain rock a stairway of three
thousand seven hundred and fifty steps, retracing the path Moses
had followed to the top of Mount Sinai, according to biblical tradi-
tion.
   The room's furniture consisted of a pair of iron-frame beds with
clean white sheets, and of a wooden nightstand with a kerosene
lantern on its top. On the one wall hung a Byzantine icon of
Panaghia Vrefokratoussa, which Nikitas estimated could not have
been painted later than the fourteenth century. Its mere presence
was a token of the trust the monks were showing toward their
distinguished visitors.
   It was almost noon and the heat had become oppressive. Nikitas
took out a leather flask from his knapsack and drank thirstily. Then,
he closed the shutters and lay down on the left bed with his clothes
on.
   He slept undisturbed for several hours. When he woke up it was
already dark. Coming from the courtyard he could hear the
rhythmic tolling of a wooden-bell, that was immediately followed by
the soft pattering of footsteps outside his door. They faded quickly
into the distance and all was quiet as before.
   Nikitas was reaching for the lamp when he remembered that this
was not his usual hotel room. He opened the nightstand's drawer for
a matchbox to light the lamp, at the same time wondering whether
the monastery had electricity. Suddenly the door opened without a
knock and someone slipped in. Nikitas froze.
   It was only Father Gregorios, carrying a lantern and his leather
briefcase. Seeing that his nephew was awake, he hung the lantern
from a fixture on the wall beneath the icon of Theotokos and sat on
the opposite bed.
   Nikitas greeted him and sat up on his bed with his legs crossed.
His pulse was already quickening, as he realized that the moment of
truth was near. However, he said nothing, waiting for his uncle to
speak up first.
They spent the next five minutes in small talk, mostly about
Nikitas's first impressions of the monastery. Eventually, Father
Gregorios broached the subject, when he asked for a detailed
account of Nikitas's trip to Egypt.
   "Let's take it from the beginning," he told him. "Have you
reserved your room for the rest of the week?"
   "Yes, although I can't see why," Nikitas said. "You know better
than me that during the summer months there's no lack of accom-
modation in Cairo."
   "Certainly, but this is not a matter of accommodation, but of
strategy," Father Gregorios said cryptically. "I hope you also remem-
bered not to register your passport to the police."
   Nikitas unzipped his knapsack and took out his American
passport. He passed it over to his uncle, who flipped deftly through
its pages.
   "Very well," he commented before giving it back. "As you may
know, all the tourists visiting Egypt are required to have their
passports stamped at a police station. It's a simple formality, which
for the most part is taken care of by the management of the hotels
on behalf of their customers. I only wanted to make sure that yours
would not be registered without your knowledge."
   "Why all this, uncle?"
   "We're taking a few basic precautions to not advertise your
arrival," Father Gregorios replied.
   "You're talking as if we're planning a crime," Nikitas joked.
   "You mustn't talk like that, not even in jest," his uncle scolded
him. "And yet, what I have in mind could be characterized as a sort
of a military operation that has to be planned meticulously because
we're not getting a second chance. Still, it's nothing to worry
about-soon you'll see for yourself how simple it really is."
   Father Gregorios did not speak for a while, absent-mindedly
turning his hat through his fingers. Despite his seventy-six years of
age his hair had only recently begun to show a few white strands.
Abruptly he put his hat on his head and stood up.
   "Come with me, Nikitas, and you'll find out why I asked you to
come here," he said in a commanding tone. Without waiting for an
answer he picked up his briefcase and the lantern and opened the
door. Nikitas slipped his feet into his shoes and followed him.
   They walked through the deserted corridors to an adjacent
building and reached Father Gregorios's cell without being seen. As
soon as they were inside, the old monk locked the door and made
sure that the window's shutters were closed and the curtains drawn.
   Nikitas saw that most of the room space was occupied by stacks
of books, and wooden crates obviously containing more of the same.
The rest of the furniture was spartan, with the exception of a dozen
of small Byzantine icons hanging from the walls.
   He was about to take a closer look at them when his uncle
gasped. He turned around and saw Father Gregorios kneeling down
on the floor, panting from the effort as he tried to pull out an old
chest from under his bed.
   Nikitas gently took him aside and dragged out the heavy chest
that was painted in a faded military green. It was locked with an
ancient looking padlock.
   "It's been my trusted companion since '42, from my time with the
Greek Brigade," Father Gregorios explained between his breaths.
   Nikitas was well acquainted with that part of his uncle's life-
how in the aftermath of Greece's occupation by the Germans during
World War II he had managed to escape to Egypt, and how he had
joined the Free Greek Army to fight at the of the English. His
performance was outstanding and at the end of the war he had been
discharged from duty with a lieutenant's rank.
   This was the bare-bones story. However, after its many repeats
with additional intriguing details and narrative embellishments, it
had acquired for Nikitas a quasi-mythical quality, like an oft-told tale
out from a children's storybook.
   As he stood now before an actual relic of that legendary past,
Nikitas was compelled to transpose those events, translating his
childhood's imaginative symbols to an adult's conception of reality.
He had no choice, as this was the only way he would be able to
function in a rational manner opposite his uncle's past.
   It was certainly the loss of a myth, but Nikitas was too preoccu-
pied to take notice. He couldn't help wondering whether the whole
affair of his invitation to the Sinai was related to some half-forgotten
story from the War.
Father Gregorios unlocked the padlock and took out the
Byzantine box he had discovered in the crypt. He deposited it softly
on his bed and motioned Nikitas to approach.
   "Take a good look at it and describe to me what you're seeing,"
he urged him. During the previous week the old monk had spent
many hours in polishing it, and its off-white ivory was reflecting
brightly the yellowish lamplight.
   Nikitas crouched by the bedside and studied it carefully. "Well,
it's made of ivory panels attached to a core wooden box, but these
decorative bands seem to be made of bone," he said after a while. "It
seems quite old, but nowadays you never know; it could be artifi-
cially aged." He looked up at his uncle.
   Father Gregorios nodded.
   "Anyway," Nikitas continued, "the carvings betray the hand of a
highly experienced craftsman. An artist, I should say. However, the
floral decorations are of a classic design, so I can't ascribe them to a
particular school. For more on that we'd need the expertise of a
qualified specialist."
   "What about the cross on its top?"
   "I really can't say, uncle. Was it made by a monk here, at St.
Catherine's?"
   Father Gregorios shook his head. "You got a sharp eye, Nikitas,
but you lack some critical information that I've got. This is an
authentic Byzantine chest," he continued, affectionately patting the
box, "although not a piece of furniture. It's a rosette casket, named
so by the circular bands or rosettes enframing its miniature reliefs.
This one was a traveler's companion for securing documents, money,
and other valuables. In my estimate it was made shortly before 640
AD, which means it's more than thirteen hundred years old."
He paused to let the fact sink.
   "But more importantly," Father Gregorios continued, "it contains
the biggest and probably most dangerous secret in the world."
   Nikitas nodded indulgently. Seeing his nephew's doubting eyes,
Father Gregorios threw open the lid with a flourish and took a step
back. Mildly interested, Nikitas leaned closer to take a look, and was
instantly gripped by the flashing reflections of the gold coins
scattered between the velvet folds.
   He raised his hand with an inquiring glance at his uncle, who
nodded back in approval. He dipped it into the box, hungrily feeling
the damascene fabric's rich texture. He scooped up a handful of gold
coins and let them trickle through his fingers.
   There was an immense gulf of time between him and their forger,
and yet, as he touched them he knew with absolute certainty that
these coins were creating a tenuous but real link with that remote
past. It was as if the fundamental feeling of touch somehow
transcended time, bridging an abyss of millennia. Nikitas tried to
visualize all the anonymous persons in Byzantium who had handled
and dealt in these coins, even had defined their lives through them,
and for an instant he thought he had sensed their presence.
   In the past Nikitas had visited many museums all over the world
for cultural and educational reasons, and had reached the conclu-
sion that their exhibits, showcased as they were in their protective
glass boxes, were only so much inanimate matter. In his opinion
they imposed a sterile sense of awe to the public, even as they
robbed it of a rare opportunity for an intuitive contact with
humanity's cultural past.
In most of the museums that past lay out of touch, as it were,
while this was definitely not the case here.
   Nikitas picked a gold coin and examined it closely. On its obverse
there were engraved two faces: one of a rough featured, bearded man
wearing a crown with a cross at its tip, and the other of a child to his
right, also crowned in a similar fashion. Between the two figures
stood a square Jerusalem cross with a Latin inscription running
along the coin's perimeter.
   On its reverse there was etched an elongated cross set upon a low
pyramid or platform of four steps. Still another series of Latin capital
letters encircled the whole composition.
Nikitas let it drop back into the chest and checked out a few more
coins, chosen at random. They were all identical.
   "The figure to the left is Emperor Heraclius," his uncle explained.
   "To his right stands his firstborn son Constantine, who by special
edict of his father was enthroned as a co-emperor when only a few
months old. This happened in 631 AD. These coins are called solidi
and belong to the purest currency ever circulated in the Byzantine
Empire."
Father Gregorios fished out the roll of parchment from the
golden cylinder and held it tenderly in his fingers.
   "There are forty-three coins inside this box, obviously the
remainder of a much larger initial sum. This is what was left to its
owner after his two years of continuous travel. When he started his
eventful journey this chest must have been full of gold."
   "What's the value of this treasure, uncle?" Nikitas asked.
   "Well, I haven't thought about it but since you have asked, let's
do some calculations," he replied and went to his desk. "Of course,
your question can only be answered by taking into account its
weight in gold, because the mint condition of the coins makes them
extremely valuable as archaeological finds."
He put on his glasses and jotted down a few numbers on a piece
of paper.
   "Now, then," he said looking up at Nikitas. "If we take into
account the fact that a Byzantine solidus weighed four and a half
grams, we've got 193.5 grams of pure gold, which is about 6.2
ounces. What's the current rate for an ounce of gold, Nikitas?"
   "About two hundred seventy dollars."
   "Right. In terms of its weight in gold, then, this treasure-trove is
not worth more than sixteen hundred dollars, give or take a few. Not
very impressive, eh? And yet, if this chest was ever auctioned, I
guarantee you that the bids would rise to the millions of US dollars."
   Nikitas was no expert when it came to the international market
for archaeological objects but he knew enough to reject this claim as
exaggerated. "You mean millions of drachmas, uncle, not dollars," he
corrected him.
   But Father Gregorios shook his head. "No, Nikitas, I mean
exactly what I said. Of course, I'm not referring solely to the box or
to the coins, which nonetheless constitute a remarkable find. It's the
terrible secret hidden within this chest that is inestimable, a secret
that could change the face of the world, as we know it."
   He rose and came close to Nikitas. "And not only that, it could
also rewrite human history of the last thirteen hundred years!"
   Father Gregorios returned to his desk and spread open the
rolled parchments, weighing down their curling edges with a
few books. He waved at Nikitas to approach and sat him down
in his own chair. Next, he pointed at the three sheets of parch-
ment, written in capital Greek. The letters were stringed
together, with no spaces between the separate words.
   "If I could make out the words, I might be able to read it," Nikitas
observed.
   "I never doubted it," his uncle agreed smiling. "Your father made
sure of that when he hired special tutors to teach you Ancient Greek,
and we both know you did quite well at that. However, these
manuscripts are for the experts. This set of parchments was a
dispatch to Emperor Heraclius by Modestinus, his special envoy on
a secret mission. In it, Modestinus relates the results of his three-
year-long traveling on his emperor's behalf. His language and
linguistic style are indeed abstruse at some passages, but this was to
be expected since Modestinus-like the rest of the Byzantine admin-
istration officials-strove hard to emulate the attic dialect. In that
respect he was a child of his age, as we all are."
   "This matter of using a variant of ancient Greek in all official
transactions has caused a huge amount of grief in modern Greece,"
Nikitas observed. "It was only in the late nineteen-seventies when
this controversy was finally resolved in a rational manner."
   "Exactly my own view, Nikitas, although I adore the Ancient
Greek for its precision and grace. Anyway, what most people forget
is that Modern Greek incorporates all the previous versions of the
Greek language. Moreover, I think it's idiotic to renounce the end
product of a smooth linguistic evolution, simply because it's spoken
by the entire populace and not only by a few scholars."
   Father Gregorios remained silent for several moments, then
briskly reassumed his businesslike manner.
   "All right, back to our subject. Now, you don't have to read the
original because I translated the whole document. It took me two or
three nights to do it, but it's finished now." He returned the parch-
ments to the cylinder and brought out from his briefcase a sheaf of
A4 pages.
   "It's not supposed to be a literary achievement," he said handing
them to Nikitas, "but it does convey faithfully the original sense."
Father Gregorios rose and went to the door.
   "The wooden-bell you heard earlier, Nikitas, was summoning the
friars for the dinner," he said. "They should be finished by now. I'm
going downstairs to bring you something to eat. I'll be right back. In
the meantime, I want you to stay here and read carefully the trans-
lation of Modestinus's letter. Lock the door and don't open it for
anybody while I'm away."
   He cracked the door open and peeked outside. As expected, the
corridor was empty.
   Nikitas rose quickly and went to the door. "Uncle," he
whispered, "who else knows of this manuscript?"
   "Only His Eminence Theodossios, St. Catherine's abbot, although
I'm sure he has already forgotten it," Father Gregorios replied smiling
and slipped out into the dark.

                                ***

   Nikitas leaned against the closed door and tried to think. All of
the high-flown scenarios he had concocted to explain his invitation
to the Sinai had proved wrong. He was still absolutely clueless as to
the nature of his own part in his uncle's script.
   Patience was the key with his precocious uncle, he thought
resignedly. It was a lesson he had learned young enough, as he had
learned the art of waiting. He drew up a chair and sat at the desk.
With the shutters closed the heat in the room was unbearable, but
there was nothing he could do about that, too.
   The shadows around him were forming bizarre shapes, given life
by the flickering lamplight. They filled the room, scattered here and
there like broken pieces of another, darker Universe, real yet
immaterial. Or, was there some invisible substance to them that his  
untutored eyes were failing to grasp?
   Nikitas suddenly remembered he had not locked the door. He got
up and turned the key once, then returned to the desk bringing the
lantern with him. As he picked up the first page, he was surprised to
see his hands shaking from the excitement and took a few deep
breaths to relax. Then he focused on the translation that was neatly
written in his uncle's formal script.

                                ***

          Written by the shadow of the Holy Mount, Sinai,
          the 20th of March, Indiction XIV.
          Modestinus to Heraclius, Emperor of the Romans.
          O most Pious Emperor, I salute you from Egypt.
          For the past fifty-three days I have wandered
          companionless amidst the busy throngs of its cities,
          defenseless under the merciless sun of its deserts,
          pursued without respite by the savage infidels. The
          whole province has fallen to the Saracenes but
          under the guiding hand of Christ our Lord, His Name
          be blessed, I have reached this holy place in safety.
          And here I shall stay, protected from our enemies.
          However, two years after my departure from the
          Golden Horn in Constantinople I am no longer your
          trusted envoy, but a simple peregrinator on his
          pilgrimage to the Holy Monastery of St. Catherine, in
          the Sinai. I find myself at a place where even the
          greatest of worries or the grandest of worldly
          schemes quietly disappear, like the desert's dust when
          the khamsin start to blow.
          But let me not squander your precious time, my Lord,
          as I lay before you my report.
          My previous dispatch was sent to Your Highness after
          my fruitless sojourn of forty-two days in Alexandria,
          during which my secretary Nicodemus and I had
          researched exhaustively the Archives of her famous
          Library .
          However, all of our efforts were in vain. We found
          nothing and I must confess I had despaired of ever
          locating the parchment. I was miserable because my
          failure had delivered the final blow to the sacred
          plan of the Great Patriarch Sergius, blessed by the
          Holy Spirit to bring God's Word to the stone-
          worshippers of Arabia.
          A few days after my report, on the eve of 14 September,
          Indiction XIII, I went to St. Anthony's Chapel in the
          Museum to attend the liturgy of the vigil. early the
          next morning, as I was leaving the chapel after
          Orthros, I was stopped by a young man in the
          courtyard.
          He greeted me by my name and told me that he was an
          apprentice librarian. He introduced himself and then
          boldly stated that he knew the true reason of my
          visit to Alexandria through the gossips and the
          rumormongers frequenting the Museum galleries.
          His admission took me by surprise, because until then I
          had been under the impression that we had
          safeguarded the secrecy of our research. I asked the 
          lad what else he wanted from me, and was surprised
          again to hear that it was rather I who would be at
          the receiving end.
          He had spoken politely, so I did not take offense at his
          presumption, but simply told him to proceed.
          Then the young man confided to me that while
          nearly everyone at the Museum was aware both of
          the objective of our search and of the erroneousness
          of our approach, no one intended to enlighten us. He
          did not elaborate on that, however, in view of the
          events that followed I have reached certain
          conclusions, which I fervently hope God will allow
          me to present to you in person, my Lord.
          At this point the lad took hold of my hand and used
          three of the secret signs, thus assuring me of his
          nobility. He said that he was prepared to perform his
          duty toward his Emperor and admonished me to
          focus my efforts in the Independent Wing of the
          Museum where the privately notarized documents
          were kept, wishing me every success in my undertaking.
          Then he saluted me and left.
          It is true, my Lord, that according to the
          classification system used by the Great Protonotarios
          in Constantinople, the document we were looking
          for should have been archived at the section reserved
          for all the official documents. Alas, this was not the
          case in the Museum of Alexandria.
          I realize now that I had made the mistake of
          unthinkingly applying a familiar procedure to a
          similar but alien situation, thus implicitly ascribing
          to it the property of universal validity.
          At any event, sire, the noble youth's suggestion
          rekindled my dying hopes and I immediately returned
          to my room with newfound enthusiasm. I announced
          the agreeable news to my secretary and early the
          next day we began exploring the archives in the
          Museum's Independent Wing.
          This time it took us only two days to discover the
          handwritten Confession. It was a moment that has
          remained deeply etched to my memory, the moment I
          first held in my hands the consummation of our
          Great Patriarch's efforts.
          At long last, after three years of anguish and toil,
          that manuscript presented to my feasting eyes the
          basic tenets of the Orthodox Christian Creed, written
          down in purple ink and signed in full by the hand of
          Abu al-Kasim Mohammed ibn Abd Allah ibn Abd al-
          Mutalib ibn Hasim. The same one, my Lord, who is
          better known in these parts as Mohammed, the
          Saracen.
          Aye, it was done. I had taken possession of
          Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, the official
          document that was signed by him immediately after
          his secret baptism as a fellow Christian of our Holy
          Ecumenical and Catholic Church, at the conclusion
          of his two-year catechism in Antiocheia.
          And I hereby attest under oath, my Lord, that the
          aforementioned Protocol bears also said
          Mohammed's personal seal.
          Alas, my moment of triumph was short-lived, as it
          carried within it the seeds of my future misfortunes.
          And yet, despite my hardship ever since, it is the
          nature of its cause that chills my heart. a cause so
          terrible that my quill hesitates to draw the letters
          shaping its ugly word.
          Treason.
          I was betrayed. The Empire was betrayed.
          as those days spring again to life in front of my
          weary eyes, it is with great difficulty that I keep my
          calm in order to fulfill my duty.
          Because however bitter the blows of our enemies may
          be, with God's help they can be endured. However, we
          are never quite prepared to fight back when
          treachery strikes in our midst.

                                ***

Breathing hard, Nikitas let the page slip through his fingers. It was
incredible, unthinkable even, that his own understanding of the
matter actually corresponded to the meaning the author wanted to
impart. No doubt some misconception on his part was at play here,
or else it was just a simple case of a mistaken identity.
   Otherwise... Well, if for a moment he hypothesized that the
name he had read referred to its most famous bearer, then an
immense religious structure was in immediate danger of toppling
down. This stunning revelation was undermining the very founda-
tions of a faith shared by hundreds of millions around the globe.
   A knock at the door jolted Nikitas out of his ruminations. The
Byzantine manuscript, the awe-inspiring atmosphere of the monastery and
the suggestive setting of his uncle's cell had excited his imagination.
Now what?
   "It's me, Nikitas!" he heard his uncle's voice.
   He unlocked the door and Father Gregorios walked in with a
large tray. There was pink-grilled lobster in an oval porcelain plate
upon it and three more smaller metallic dishes filled to the brim
with green salads, olives, and black bread. The monk set it down on
his desktop, brushing aside his translation, and motioned Nikitas to
begin eating.
   Nikitas needed no prompting-he was already salivating at the
sight of the steaming lobster. Realizing he had not eaten anything
since morning, he dug into it with gusto. With his first mouthful he
felt his mood lighten up as if an invisible sun had risen to warm his
heart.
   "I can hardly trust my eyes, uncle!" he said after a while. "Is
this the way you monks eat here?" he teased him.
   "Well, not so often as we would have liked," Father Gregorios
winked at him. "Once in a while, though, the villagers living by the
Red Sea or the Gulf of Aqaba bring us some fresh fish and a variety
of seafood. Of course, this is a special treat for my guest of honor."
He smiled and changed the subject. "Well? Did you read it?" he
asked nodding at the translation.
   "I read through to the part of the synonymy," Nikitas said.
   Father Gregorios sat heavily on his bed. He allowed himself only
three cigarettes per day, and now had a deep desire to smoke the last
one. However, this would be a foolish act in his cramped quarters
with the window tightly shut. His wish would have to wait.
   He raised his head and looked at Nikitas.
   "What did you say? 'Synonymy', spelled like 'coincidence'? Why so,
Nikitas? Isn't the text explicit enough, or have I failed with my trans-
lation?" he asked affecting a tone of surprise.
   "Now, wait a minute, uncle!" Nikitas exclaimed, momentarily
taken aback by the barrage of questions. He laid down his fork. "Do
you actually think this story is true? Do you realize what this
implies?"
   Father Gregorios did not respond at once. He slipped his hand in a
pocket of his cassock and brought out a ring. Its golden frame was plain,
but its rectangular top was adorned with an engraved black stone.
   "I also found this inside that box," he said, handing it to Nikitas.
He waited until his nephew had a chance to examine it before
continuing with his explanation.
   "This is one of Heraclius's signet rings," Father Gregorios
continued. "We know from various historical sources that a
Byzantine emperor would entrust his signet ring only to a person
enjoying his absolute confidence, and even then it had to be used
only in the context of a specific mission."
   "Obviously to lend to his documents the authority of the
emperor," Nikitas said. "For its bearer, this ring ����� have been a
sort of a power of attorney."
   "Exactly."
Father Gregorios took the ring back and threw it in his pocket.
   "Now, consider this," he said. "Next to the signature of Modestinus
at the bottom of his letter there's a stamp impressed with this ring.
In my opinion this proves conclusively that the parchment was not
written by a monk, nor by a mythographer of that age, but by a true
envoy of Heraclius."
   Nikitas had nothing to gainsay. Flooded with a torrent of new
facts and shattering revelations, he was fast approaching his satura-
tion point. He needed time to reflect, to evaluate, to organize his
thoughts, but even before that he had to finish reading the
document. He pushed the tray aside and reached for the rest of the
pages.
   Father Gregorios smiled to himself, as he watched the emotions
parading on his nephew's face. He knew Nikitas would eventually
sort things out, but in this particular case it was best that he did it
by himself.
   Nikitas cast him a measured glance and picked up the next page.

                                ***

          In the Sinai, 22 of March, Indiction XIV.

                                ***

          This morning I returned from the top of the Holy
          Mount, where I paid my respects to old Nilus, the
          saintly hermit and utterer of words sweet, wise, and
          holy. The devout old man offered me an invaluable
          spiritual gift to accompany me hence, a written
          account of his travels in the Sinai desert when he
          left his abode to visit the hermitages of the region.
          Although his precious gift was free, I did pay a price
          for it, my Lord, because the bitter cold on top of the
          Holy Mount has penetrated deeply into my bones, and
          since my return I have been gripped by unceasing
          shivering. One more reason, then, to complete this
          account soon, before my growing weakness forces my
          hand to a halt.
          back, then, to Alexandria. The night of the discovery
          of Mohammed's Protocol and shortly before dawn, a
          servant entered stealthily my room and delivered a
          hard blow on my head before I could defend myself. I
          remained semi-conscious but helpless in my bed,
          watching him in a daze as he broke the lock of my
          strongbox and took out the parchment. Although I
          still had my senses, I could not move.
          And then a miracle happened. the glitter of the
          golden coins within the box aroused his greed and
          He began filling the pockets of his robes, his mission
          completely forgotten. I had sufficient time to recover
          the use of my voice, and I cried out loud to alert the
          guard down the hall. to my great relief they
          immediately burst in and apprehended the intruder.
          Before noon the culprit had fully confessed that he
          had received his orders from my beloved secretary
          Nicodemus. The servant's task was to steal the
          document and in return Nicodemus had vowed to
          share with him the rich reward he was promised by
          Umar, the High General of the Saracens. A chest full
          of gold, my Lord, for the delivery of Mohammed's
          Protocol of Catechesis.
          I ordered ta once a thorough search of the whole
          city but Nicodemus was nowhere to be found. I am
          convinced that even now, as I put down these words,
          the renegade Nicodemus stands by the side of Umar, in
          betrayal of his faith and of my trust. Indeed, I have
          reason to believe that it was this renegade who
          inflamed the Saracens to invade the lands of Egypt
          and subsequently to march to Alexandria, in a
          desperate attempt at gaining possession of the
          Protocol.
          However, despite the treacherous scheme of
          Nicodemus, the Protocol of Catechesis was still safe in
          my hands. Even so, its existence was now a common
          secret among the men of my retinue and the soldiers
          of my guard. Therefore, I deemed it wise to act swiftly.
          If my former trusted assistant Nicodemus had
          succumbed to his avarice, how could I ever expect any
          better from simple soldiers?
          It was at this point that I first came to realize the
          military power of the Saracens and their terror of
          the document in my possession. The Arab conspirators
          who had destroyed their religious leader to strangle
          the fulfillment of his Divine Mission were on the
          rampage at the southern provinces of the Empire,
          seeking to eliminate the danger that threatened to
          expose their murderous act to their fellow tribesmen.
          I assembled my guard at once and dispatched them to
          Pentapolis with standing orders to await there my
          arrival. Then I donned a monk's habit and departed
          for the harbor of Paralos. I hid the parchment in a
          hollow Egyptian reed, thus resorting to a
          contrivance our ancestors had employed to secure
          for us seeds of the silkworm from the East. This time,
          however, I was carrying grains of hope for our Faith
          and the Empire.
          In Paralos chaos reigned supreme, as the fear for the
          invading Arabs weighed heavily upon the Christian
          souls of its inhabitants. Confusion was a constant in
          the streets and all those who could afford to leave
          they did so, heading for the most part to the north.
          Rumors of the great battles and the terrible defeats
          of our armies were reaching us daily.
          The entreaties of a solitary monk proved inadequate
          to securing a berth in a departing ship, but I had no
          other choice, as I dared not present the imperial seal.
          I watched the days pass by, until the Almighty in His
          infinite wisdom decreed that the time had come for
          me to be welcomed on a ship sailing for Rhodes. once
          There I would be able to muster a new guard and
          return immediately to Vassilevoussa.
          This was my plan as I left Paralos, yet things turned
          out quite differently. as is oft said, the only
          certainty in this world is that God acts in
          unfathomable ways.
          The overweight ship departed the next morning and
          sailed along the African coastline in an easterly
          direction. The first day of our voyage was
          uneventful. night came and we slept. With the first
          rays of the rising sun, while the morning haze still
          lay heavy, I was awakened by a great commotion.
          Seeking its cause, I discovered that we were
          surrounded by three ships of the Saracen navy. Before
          long the infidels had stormed our ship amidst a
          pandemonium of crying and screaming from the
          passengers.
          The Arabs forced our captain to turn tail and head
          back to the coast. We sailed to the southeast,
          eventually reaching the harbor of Rhinokouloura,
          already captured by the enemy.
          Our ship was impounded by their commander but we
          were all set free. It was an unexpected act of leniency
          on the part of the Saracens, which can only be
          explained, my Lord, as another manifestation of the
          infinite Love of our Savior.
          In Rhinokouloura I also learned that Amiras, the
          Arab military general, had placed the city of
          Peluzium under a siege and that all the ways leading
          to it by land or by the sea, were sealed.
          I had finally lost all hope of a speedy return home, if
          at all, and I confess that during the next several
          days I wandered through the overcrowded streets in
          total despair. I was unexpectedly delivered from my
          despondency when a thought entered my mind,
          namely that nothing was lost so long as I possessed
          the parchment.
          Indeed it was so, because Mohammed's Protocol of
          Catechesis had the power to change everything in an
          instant, if it could be brought to the attention of his
          true followers, those faithfully adhering to his
          teachings.
          Armed with my newfound understanding and in view
          of the fact that my immediate return to
          Constantinople was impossible, I made new plans. A
          few days later, on the Eve of the birth-day of Christ
          our Lord, I departed Rhinokouloura in the company
          of a band of Saracens heading for the desert.
          I was a lamb among the wolves, a Daniel in the lion
          pit. However, God granted me safe passage and I
          reached unscathed this spiritual oasis two months
          later.
          I send you, my Lord, this report together with the
          parchment of Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, for
          the salvation of our Faith and our beloved Empire.
          Brother Nicephorus will undertake the perilous task
          of carrying the lightweight, yet heavily laden with
          hope and promise, hollow Egyptian reed.
          Therefore, let us both my Lord, You from the serene
          crypt of the Big Church and I from the Holy
          Monastery of St. Catherine in the Sinai, join our souls
          in common prayer for Godspeed to Nicephorus. And
          let Christ our Lord blind the stalking eyes of the
          Saracens to the passage of our courageous wayfaring
          brother.
          With my best wishes, my Lord, for your health and
          prosperity, I salute You.

          Modestinus, son of Pamfilo, Your devoted servant.

                                ***

Nikitas turned over the last page and sat still. For a while neither of
them spoke, both of them immersed to their own private thoughts.
Presently, Nikitas pushed back his chair and rose with a sigh.
   "I'd like to go out for a walk, uncle," he said.
   "An excellent idea! Let's go to the courtyard for some fresh air.
You should sleep early, though, because tomorrow morning you're
leaving for Cairo. Now, come with me," Father Gregorios said and
stood up. "We'll have our stroll and I'll tell you about your mission." 
   He put the translation in the rosette casket, and this in turn back
into his army chest. He locked the padlock, and with Nikitas's help
shoved it under his bed. Then he took his briefcase, and opened the
door. The other monks had already withdrawn to their cells, so the
corridor was empty. Before leaving he checked the room out of a
decades-long habit, to make sure he had put out the lantern-no
need for an idiot fire at the monastery. Satisfied that everything was
in order, Father Gregorios took out from a pocket his third cigarette
of the day and locked the door.
   Nikitas was waiting for him by the stairway.


Chapter 5
          CAIRO, EGYPT: International Airport
          July 1


The black and white cab dropped him off at the #2 Terminal
of the Cairo International Airport and headed for the crowded
ramp of the Taxi Station, briefly buffeted by the powerful sonic
waves of a landing Saudi Airlines Boeing 757. The rising heat was
beginning a new round of ruthless testing of the airport's Japanese
air-conditioning machinery, already straining to maintain a steady
temperature of 22� Celsius.
   Nikitas was perspiring heavily, but the African heat was the least
of his concerns. He strode into the main waiting room and headed
with a deliberately slow gait to the Olympic Airways' booth,
allowing himself sufficient time to mentally prepare for the act he
was about to perform. He was wearing a striped short-sleeved shirt,
khaki pants and a pair of dark sunglasses, and nothing set him apart
from the hundreds of tourists milling about in the lounge.
Right now, however, Nikitas was feeling extremely exposed.
He glanced at his watch: ten minutes to eight and his flight was
scheduled for 09:45 a.m.
   Nikitas was burdened with an additional traveling bag, which
was at the root of his agitation. To be precise, the cause of his unease
lay in its secret compartment, where his uncle had secreted the
Byzantine parchments. His mission was to take them out of Egypt.
Hopefully, in a few hours he would reach his new homeland and this
bizarre story would be filed away as just another experience.
To be forgotten ASAP. Better yet, to be erased from memory.
Permanently.
   And if something went wrong?
   No! Not a possibility this one. Not in his world!
   When the other night Father Gregorios had told him that his task
would be to carry back to Greece the original parchments, Nikitas
was stunned. He had always been a law-abiding citizen and the fact
that his uncle would even consider such an act was deeply discon-
certing. During the next hour or so he had tried his best to dissuade
him from his plan, but to no avail. It was like arguing with a
monolith. Eventually, when all else had failed, Nikitas had tried a
more direct approach, counting on its shock-value.
   "Do you realize, uncle, that you're asking me to become an
accomplice to a crime? Smuggling antiquities is a felony in Greece,
and surely here as well," he said without mincing his words.
   Father Gregorios, however, didn't miss a beat.
   "You're wrong, Nikitas," he calmly replied. "And I'll explain it to
you. First of all, I didn't ask you to carry the Byzantine parchment to
its true homeland for any reason of personal gain. You know me
better than that! Moreover, this is not an Egyptian document but a
national resource of Greece, and I assure you that very soon it will
be prominently showcased at a Greek Museum. But, never mind all
that; I'm going to ask you a simple question, which I hope will
remove any lingering doubt on your part."
   He paused, peering intently at his nephew for several seconds.
Nikitas noticed with alarm the throbbing veins on his temples and
tried to pacify him, but Father Gregorios instantly cut him off.
   "Listen, Nikitas: if a citizen of Greece, or of any other country for
that matter, would nonviolently remove the Elgin Marbles from the
British Museum to deliver them to the Greek State-from which
they were stolen in the first place and where they rightfully belong-
would you consider him or her a smuggler of antiquities? And
would you rush to the Scotland Yard demanding his arrest and
punishment? Or, would you insist that the Greek State gave back the
Parthenon frieze to the curators of the British Museum?"
   Nikitas stared at his uncle, at a loss how to respond. He was
sensing the validity of his uncle's argument but was emotionally
unprepared to subscribe to it.
   "Hear me out, Nikitas," Father Gregorios had persisted. "This
parchment has nothing whatsoever to do with the Egyptian civiliza-
tion. Egypt has its own rich heritage, but this is a Byzantine Greek
find. And since God has entrusted it to my hands, I shall take all the
necessary steps to keep it out of harm's way and to make sure that
it's awarded the recognition that befits it."
   With these words he had closed the subject and the rest of their
conversation had revolved around the content of Modestinus's letter.
The questions it raised were intriguing: had Mohammed's Protocol of
Catechesis actually existed? If yes, then where was it? Equally impor-
tantly, why Modestinus's letter had not been dispatched to the
Emperor?
   None of those questions had received a satisfying answer and
there was no guarantee it ever would. Real life had no running plot.
Therefore, his uncle had pointed out, their first priority was the
preservation of the parchment for posterity and its repatriation to
Athens with Nikitas's help.
Finally and very reluctantly, Nikitas had allowed himself to be
persuaded if not of the rightness, at least of the necessity of his task.
   Later the same night Father Gregorios had visited him in his
room, carrying with him an old traveling bag with a false bottom,
the legacy-as he had called it-of a dishonest pilgrim. That partic-
ular visitor had departed the abbey in a great hurry abandoning his
personal effects behind, when the Sacristan of St. Catherine's had
surprised him in his room as he was hiding under his mattress three
icons of the Byzantine era.
It was that bag Nikitas was holding now in his right hand as he
warily approached the airline's booth to check in his baggage.
   The elderly couple in front of him received their boarding passes
and moved on to the passport control. Weighted with gold from the
souks, the traditional shops of Cairo, the old lady walked away
pompously, proudly gripping her husband's arm as she kept casting
surreptitious glances around her, trying to gauge the number of
envious looks she attracted.
   As usual, the continuous plane departures were accompanied by
unintelligible announcements in several languages, while the
pungent smoke of a thousand Middle Eastern cigarettes was proving
a constant irritant as it slowly rose to join the permanent haze near
the ceiling.
   Suddenly Nikitas was fed up with his waiting and decided to
bring his psychological torment to an end. Seeing the booth in front
of him momentarily empty, he stepped in and dropped decisively his
traveling bags on the weighing machine. He kept only his knapsack
as his carryon luggage. He did not have to wait for long. A few
seconds later the clerk attached a tag to his battered bag without a
second glance and Nikitas felt a wave of intoxicating relief rush
through his blood. It was nearly over.
   He trod lightly through the passport control into the departure
lounge and chose a comfortable seat facing the window. In his
present emotional state he preferred to watch the planes rather than
the people, as they moved around. There was still an hour to go. He
breathed deeply and took off his sunglasses.
   Nikitas understood now perfectly well why his uncle had picked
him for the task. Like any other American tourist he passed almost
unnoticed. Not so, however, a Sinaite monk ambling around in his
distinctive black cassock, who most certainly would have attracted
the professional curiosity of the Egyptian Customs officers.

                                ***

When later the same morning the wheels of the Boeing 737 of Olympic
Airways' flight 326 brushed the tarmac of the Spata runway in
Athens, Nikitas had already forgotten the priceless treasure hidden
in the false bottom of his suitcase, at the cargo hold. Mesmerized by
the rolling tarmac, which suddenly bloomed out of nowhere to blot
out his panoramic view, his mind was preoccupied only by the
question where to pass the remainder of his vacation.
The parchment affair, so far as he was concerned, was finished.


Chapter 6
          SINAI, EGYPT: St. Catherine's Monastery
          July 3


The large canvas sack was emptying fast. Working quietly in the
cook-house among rising mounts of potato-peels, the three
monks were almost finished. As they went about their task, someone
would pick up a psalm tune singing nasally, in accordance with the
Byzantine tradition, then would fall silent again losing himself in
thought or prayer. A light breeze was blowing through the half-open
courtyard door. It was early in the morning and the big wave of
desert heat was still a couple of hours ahead.
   Manos glanced up at his two older companions, who were
completely engulfed by their private, transcendental world.
   Whole decades of lives uselessly lived, stupidly spent, he thought
scornfully. Despite their incessant babbling about free will and the
rest, they were no more self-determined than a peeled potato. This
struck him as an especially funny thought and Manos suddenly
burst into wild laughter, startling the pair of monks who looked at
him quizzically.
   He reassured them with a vague motion of his head--oh yes,
everything's fine, please go to bed, he smiled inwardly.
   It was five months almost to the day since Manos had arrived at
St. Catherine's and he already felt he was bleeding himself slowly to
death. His brilliant inspiration to seek refuge in the Sinai until things
had calmed down in Athens had proved very consuming when put
to practice, with the result that in the Sinai he was living a hermit's
life at twenty-four.
   He, who had never lacked a pretty woman since he was twelve!
   At that age Philippos Manos had made two innocence-shattering
observations, which had subsequently defined the north and the
south poles of his personal compass.
   His first realization was that he somehow exercised a powerful
sexual attraction not only to the women, but to the men as well. His
handsome, full-lipped face, emphasized by the bold lines of a pair of
bushy eyebrows, had repeatedly proved its worth as an irresistible
hawker of his erotic wares, a thing Manos had learned to exploit to
its fullest.
   He had started his escort career at thirteen and during the years
that followed he acquired a reputation in the high-society circles of
Athens for special skills and services offered. His high-powered
connections had come in handy later on, making up the nucleus of
his inner-circle clientele when Manos started dealing cocaine at
seventeen.
   All was done very discreetly, of course, and Manos never had to
go to the streets. Parlor dealing, he had proudly called it.
   His second observation was of a methodological nature: early on
he had realized that if he stared steadily and fearlessly the person he
happened to be with, he could pass the biggest lie as absolute truth.
   With those basic tools and his inexhaustible supply of audacity
and cunning, Manos had become one of the biggest yet least known
dealers of luxury drugs in Athens. His whole operation was running
smoothly until the moment one of his trusted lieutenants had
unexpectedly turned him in to the police. Manos barely escaped his
arrest and a few days later left the country with a forged passport.
   Sinai had seemed to him the perfect solution. The monks were
naive and gullible, the abbot a child's toy to his expert manipulation.
However, now that things in Athens were again looking up, it was
time for him to take his leave. And he would too, but first there was
a mystery that begged for a solution.
   Manos flicked his last potato into the pail and straightened up.
For a second he was tempted to spear with his kitchen knife the
wooden door just to shock the two monks, to see if he could pump
up some energy into their limp souls. A lost cause, he decided on
second thought. Even if he did, they would instantly deflate.
   The moment passed and he rose to clean up the room.
   As he went about sweeping the tiled floor, Manos thought about
the incident. All of his clues tended to confirm that something
important was afoot at the monastery, something he might exploit to
his advantage. And he strongly suspected that it revolved around
Father Gregorios.
   The strange occurrences had started a week ago, when he had
spied the old man wandering around in the dead of night. Manos
had purposely promoted his reputation as a stickler to the rules of
the monastic life, cultivating the image of a pious novice. Therefore,
when one night the abbot had jokingly asked him to go tell Father
Gregorios to work less and rest more, he had obediently complied,
thinking it a nice opportunity of living up to his role.
   That night he had looked for Father Gregorios everywhere, to no
avail. He knew, however, that the old monk could not have left the
monastery, as the gate was locked for the night. Finally, following a
hunch, he had located him in a seldom used storage-room on the old
basement. To be precise, he had heard him working at something
down there, because Father Gregorios had shut the door, effectively  
isolating himself within the room.
   Hammering away down in the basement, in the middle of the night?
This was strange behavior, indeed.
   His curiosity piqued, Manos stayed hidden in the shadows and an
hour later saw the old monk leaving the room with a small box
under his arm. He had checked the storage room but had found it
locked.
   Deeply suspicious now, during the following days he was on the
alert and noticed among other things that Father Gregorios had
several private meetings with the abbot, which had lasted substan-
tially longer than the norm. Last Saturday the mystery had deepened
even more with the unexpected visit of the old man's nephew.
Nikitas-that was his name-had passed the day incommunicado
and departed for Cairo early the next morning.
   Manos snapped out of his reverie by a subconscious awareness
that something had changed within the room. He glanced around.
The two friars had left quietly, leaving him alone. And the floor was
shining impeccably clean, as a result of his absent-minded efforts.
Manos put the broom back to its closet and walked out to the sunny
courtyard. Lively warbling reached him from beyond the western
wall that bordered with the lush garden outside the fortification.
   All was so peaceful, so boring.
   He heard a slow shuffle behind him, but ignored it. He knew
exactly to whom it belonged; to Father Nikolaos humming a psalm
between his teeth, as he sneaked into the kitchen for an early snack.
   Yes, it was high time he returned to civilization. A brief visit to
the old man's cell would probably solve the puzzle, boosting several
notches forward the countdown for his return to Athens .

                                ***

After his thorough study of the monastery's rhythms, Manos had
concluded that the most suitable time for his clandestine visit to
Father Gregorios's inner sanctum was during the dinner. So, early in
the afternoon he excused himself by pleading a headache and five
minutes after the wooden-bell's toll slipped quietly into the deserted
corridor.
   When he reached the door of Father Gregorios's cell he slowed
his pace and casually took stock of his surroundings.
   Nothing unusual so far.
   The corridor was dark and empty, creating the ideal setting for
his task. He approached the door and tried its bronze handle. It was
locked. That fact alone spoke volumes by itself. Manos had discov-
ered early on that locking doors in the monastery was considered an
unnatural practice.
   So, the old man had something to hide, after all!
   He took out a thin file from his pocket, inserted it into the keyhole
and defeated the fifty-year-plus lock mechanism in his first attempt.
He stepped into the room and closed quietly the door. Next, he
checked to make sure that the shutters were closed before turning on
his penlight and beginning a methodical search of the room.
To be on the safe side he had decided to allow himself a window
of eight minutes to complete his mission.
   The first object that caught his attention was the old monk's
leather briefcase on his desktop. He went hastily through its
contents but found nothing stranger or more valuable than the first
tome of Amantos's History of the Byzantine Empire, a few dozen color
photocopies of a medieval codex, stationery and writing materials,
all neatly secured in separate compartments.
   The desktop itself was brimming with stacks of manuscripts,
books, historical and literary reviews, and suchlike. Manos did not
have a clear idea of what he was looking for, but was confident it
would have little in common with Plato's marble bust on the
tabletop or the antiquated radio receiver upon a wooden �tag�re on
the opposite wall.
   He glanced at his luminous chronometer dial: five minutes left.
Turning his flashlight's beam toward the dark corners of the
room, he sensed that there was something was wrong, something he
could not quite put his finger upon. He stroked mechanically the
sparse beard he was required to grow, trying to concentrate. What
could it be?
   Manos's gaze wandered over the bookcases lining the walls and
suddenly he had his answer.
   There was no wardrobe. There wasn't even a chest of drawers in
the room. The old man had thrown away his wardrobe to create
space for his books!
   So, where did he keep then his clothing?
   There could be but only one explanation. He knelt on the floor
and looked under the bed, grinning in triumph when his searching
beam fell upon the ancient military trunk.
   He pulled it out, realizing with a glance that its padlock was even
easier to prise open than the door lock. Things were really looking
up, he told himself, gripped by a feeling of euphoria. He threw back
the cover and zigzagged the light through its contents. His attention
was instantly caught by a beautifully carved box and he felt that he
had found the prize he was looking for.
   Now he needed to proceed cautiously. He opened the box very
carefully, taking special care not to move or otherwise disturb it, and
directed the thin beam of his flashlight toward its interior. As so
many others before him, Manos was dazzled by the glitter of gold,
but his trained self-discipline quickly landed him back to reality.
   He checked again his watch: two minutes left. He felt an almost
primeval need to fondle the gold coins but knew that for the time
being this was out of the question.
   Sighing deeply like a frustrated lover, he withdrew his eyes from
the golden heap and then picked up the folded sheaf of A4 sheets
that was the only modern object within the box. He slipped them to
a pocket of his cassock and restored everything to its original
position.
   With ten seconds to spare from his self-imposed time-limit,
Manos locked again Father Gregorios's cell and stealthily vanished
into the shadows.


Chapter 7
          CAIRO, EGYPT
          July 6


Visitors of Cairo with a penchant for the exotic and in need for a
dose of benign adventure often deviate from their tame itiner-
aries, in a personal quest for hidden meanings and oriental truths.
   A few of them manage to locate Ali Sherif's coffeehouse, which is
safely tucked away in an anonymous alley of the shady Butneya
district. Those who actually enter the coffeehouse find themselves
amidst a colorful throng composed of men from all races, creeds and
persuasions, crowding through the thicket of marble-topped tables.
   They pass their time drinking coffee or sweet tea, eating balilas,
syrupy baklava and honeyed basbousas, relishing their nargiles or
smuggled American cigarettes. For several seconds these chance
visitors invariably remain frozen by the door loath to disturb the
mirage they're witnessing, thinking they finally reached their true
destination, the crown of their pilgrimage to Egypt.
   Of the regular customers of Ali's coffeehouse others spend many
hours there seemingly in deep meditation, others read over and over
last week's newspapers or simply talk among themselves, while
others yet enjoy with half-closed eyes the lethargic Egyptian music
that pours out unendingly from the establishment's portable cassette
recorder.
   For the businessmen, though, namely the traders in illegal antiq-
uities, Ali's coffeehouse has no relation whatsoever with the tradi-
tional tourist sights of the Egyptian capital. In the Cairo underworld
it's better known as a major clearing-house between the ostensibly
rival rings of smugglers, which intensively and methodically keep
on leeching the archaeologically fertile area from Upper Nilus to
Alexandria and from the Sinai desert all the way to the Libya border.
   To further their common cause these groups exchange informa-
tion and share resources between them and generally do whatever it
takes to satisfy the insatiable collecting appetites of their rich foreign
customers.
   The way the system works is simple: the local semi-legal agents
and dealers in antiquities who represent the foreign collectors place
their orders to certain middlemen, well-known in the underworld
and well-connected with the various Egyptian smuggling rings and
independents-the tomb-breakers, the fences, and the other small-
time dealers.
   When the merchandise has been secured the workflow becomes
reversed, with the dealers at the receiving end. They get the goods
ordered and pay the amounts due.
   Transaction complete.
   And Ali's coffeehouse offers shelter to a significant number of
dealers and go-betweens involved in this illegal trade.
   Manos leaned forward on the sticky tabletop, and tried once
again to make himself understood by the swarthy Egyptian with the
striped jellaba sitting in the opposite chair. Manos was trying to
make use of the modest Arabic he had learned during his stay in the
Sinai, but the ongoing pandemonium hardly made it any easier for
him to proceed with the rudimentary conversation.
   "Well, how can I be sure that this ancient letter exists?" Haled
Sal'an repeated his question for the third time. Although he was a
fluent English speaker, he had concealed that fact from the Greek to
widen his negotiating margin. Thus, if something went wrong he
could always pretend there had been a misunderstanding. He looked
at Manos through his half-closed eyelids, waiting for his reaction.
   "This, something you not worry about. The letter, I have it,"
Manos enunciated the syllables one at a time, at the same time
emphasizing with his hands their meaning. "Look, Haled. This
letter-very, very important. Not only because it is old, but because
of what it says."
   He took out from his pocket three typewritten pages and waved
them in front of Haled's eyes, a trick meant to fire up the Egyptian's
professional curiosity.
   Manos still found it difficult to believe he had discovered the
richest treasure of his life cached within a few papyrus sheets, as he
thought of the parchments. He had read Father Gregorios's transla-
tion several times before grasping its true import, before realizing
the inestimable value of the original manuscripts.
   His only problem was that he didn't have a clue where the
cunning old monk had secreted the originals, namely Mohammed's
Protocol and Modestinus's letter. Moreover, it was frustrating that he
didn't have a translation of the former to bargain with in Cairo, but
what the hell-he'd deal with it in the proper time.
   What he now needed was a rich buyer, or preferably several of
them. It all depended on this. Naturally, to convince the prospective
bidders he'd have to supply them with samples of his goods, and
that was the reason he had an English translation of the pages he had
found in the box. He had labored at it for the most part of a day, but
it had been worth his while.
   Yesterday after Orthros Manos had asked the abbot for a few days'
leave ostensibly for family reasons, spinning off a fictional story
about meeting some relatives of his, arriving from Greece to Cairo.
The abbot had readily agreed and he had boarded the last bus for
Cairo the same day. Immediately after his arrival at the capital early
this morning he had hired the services of an old scribe, who made a
living working with his typewriter at a stand near the bus terminal.
   An hour later Manos had folded in four his freshly typewritten
English translation and headed for Ali's coffeehouse, where,
according to the rumors circulating in the monastery, dealers of
illegal antiquities used to stop by for a drink and a chat.
Upon his arrival he had been lucky enough to find an empty table
and after long hours of waiting, several cups of coffee, and tactful
questioning, he had been approached by Haled, a merchant of folk
Egyptian art if one was to believe his calling card.
Manos surely didn't.
   Soon, however, Haled had expressed a strong interest in his story.
   "What am I to make of all this?" Haled complained, snatching the
typewritten pages from Manos. He held them casually before his
eyes, at the same time shaking his head in a gesture of despair.
In reality, though, during those few seconds he had scanned the
entire contents of the first page.
   What he read turned him pale beneath his dark complexion, yet
his rock-solid professionalism did not fail him and his wide grin
remained firm.
   "All right. Though I can't understand what it says here," he said
looking Manos straight in the eye, "there are people who know
better and if they like what they read, they'll pay a lot of money for
it. I'll take it to them, and we can meet again later this night to give
you their answer. Where are you staying?"
   Manos shrugged. He had not arranged anything for the night.
   "If you're looking for a good hotel nearby I can arrange it," Haled
continued. "It belongs to my wife's brother and he'll offer you a fair
price." He glanced at his plastic Swatch. "Now I got some other
business to attend to, so I must leave. This afternoon I'll go see the
people I told you about and at ten o'clock I'll be back at the hotel.
Are we agreed?"
   It was a beginning of sorts. Manos was perfectly aware of the fact
that illegal trafficking depended heavily on mutual trust, and trust
fed on time. Lots of time. Thankfully, the old man with the
typewriter had made him several copies of the English translation
with carbon paper.
   All right, he decided. He would give Haled Sal'an one copy, and
if everything went fine he'd be returning to Athens with a bucketful
of gold.
   "Okay, Haled, take me to the hotel," he answered cheerfully,
oferring his right hand to seal the preliminary deal.

                                ***

The so-called hotel was a decrepit old structure three blocks away
from Ali's coffeehouse which resembled a building marked for
demolition rather than a place for hosting people. The white-haired,
leathery receptionist gave him the key to a second-floor room with
a view to an interior, filthy courtyard, where the only standing object
was a dead tree circled by the rotting remains of a wooden bench.
   The courtyard, as well as the whole building, was wrapped up in
total silence; it would have come as no surprise to Manos if the old
man had told him he was the hotel's only customer, he thought
sarcastically as he paced his room.
   He saw few objects not welded to the floor or fixed to a wall. At
the same time, the yellowish bed-sheets adorned with green Arabic
monograms, the overturned cracked glass on the bedside table, and
the sealed faucet over the sink underscored eloquently the
overwhelming seediness. And to cap it all, a peculiar, moldy smell
wafted in from the wide gap under the door.
   Having been spared so far of serving time in jail, this room was
the worst place Manos had ever found himself throughout his whole
life.
   The receptionist had exchanged a few rapid-fire phrases with
Haled before handing him his key but had not asked for his passport
or a down payment, which had raised Manos's suspicions. After his
brief exchange with the old man Haled had repeated his promise to
be back at ten, and had left the hotel with the English translation in
his hand.
   Manos completed his reconnaissance of the room and opened the
door. He walked up to the end of the aisle and listened carefully for
several seconds with his ear firmly pressed on the last door. There
was no sound to be heard. He repeated the same procedure with the
rest of the doors, counting a total of ten rooms.
Silence all around. Either the rooms were vacant, or their
occupants out. Probably the first, he decided.
   He returned to his room and shut the door. No question about it:
something was very wrong but that was to be expected. Certainties
and big gains didn't go together. If he expected any significant
results, he should also be willing to take a few risks.
He spread out the sheets over the worn mattress and lay down,
with his eyes open, looking at the delapidated plaster of the ceiling.
   It was ten past six and he had a lot of thinking to do.
   At nine o'clock sharp, Manos shouldered his knapsack and climbed
down the stairway to the first floor, taking special care to avoid
making a sound. He was carrying with him the glass from the night-
stand.
   At the first landing he paused to check out the layout; it was the
same as in his own floor. Here too, at the corridor's far end there was
a window looking out to a narrow alleyway.
   He tiptoed gingerly toward it, trying not to step upon a creaking
board, and stopped when he was halfway through. He took leisurely
his aim along with a deep breath, and hurled forcefully the glass
against the closed window. As the windowpane shattered he ran
back and climbed up a dozen steps, hiding himself from the first
floor's view.
   The sound of breaking glass had resonated like a gunshot in the
funereal silence, jolting the dozing receptionist a couple of inches
out from his chair. The old man rose trembling to his feet and ran
shakily to the first floor, taking the stairs two at a time despite his
age. When he saw the scattered pieces of glass on the floor he cursed
out loud and rushed toward the window, hoping to catch sight of the
culprit.
   Taking advantage of his successful diversion Manos climbed
down the rest of the stairs without being seen and calmly walked out
the hotel's main entrance.
   The shadows in the neighboring alleys were deep, almost
tangible. Obviously this part of the city would never enjoy the
benefits of electric lighting. This suited Manos just fine, though.
Aided by his penlight, which he shielded with in his cupped palm,
he walked thirty yards before crouching low in a door's alcove.
This was as good a place as any other to wait for Haled, and of course
a lot safer from his hotel room.

                                ***

From his vantage point Manos was in direct visual contact with the
poorly illuminated entrance of the hotel. A few yards farther down
his alley intersected with two other roads in an Y configuration. A
series of red lamps on the leftside road were shedding dim light
upon the iron doors of their respective two-story buildings,
signaling to the passersby the nature of their wares on offer. The
hotel itself was standing out prominently at the tip of the intersec-
tion, between the smaller houses that cushioned it.
   His alley was shrouded in darkness. On both sides were shuttered
squat houses, seemingly abandoned. Manos could not tell whether
people actually lived there, or if for some reason the whole block
had been evacuated.
   He hardly cared. What really mattered was the outcome of his
rendezvous with Haled and his back that hurt as he crouched low.
Besides, three long hours had passed since sunset and the heat was
still oppressive. Manos was perspiring heavily and there was no
forthcoming relief, since the breezes from the Nile never reached
this part of the city.
   The minutes passed and he still waited patiently. He was not
suspicious of Haled for any particular reason, his practice of his
flawed vocation, however, had taught him to take seriously even the
weakest hunch.
   It was five minutes to ten when the events started to unfold fast.
Manos first heard the sirens of two police cars as they headed toward
the intersection at a dizzying speed, one arriving from the red-
district road, the other from the rightmost handle of the fork. Their
timing was perfect; both braked shrilly at the entrance of the hotel,
their front bumpers almost touching.
   Doors burst open, and from each car three Egyptian police
officers jumped out brandishing their handguns. They made a lot of
noise as they crashed into the hallway and climbed up the stairs,
while the drivers were revving nervously their car engines.
   Manos felt his inner core turn cold, and though more than once
he had proved to himself that he never lost control in the face of
danger, the mental picture of him ironbound at the hands of those
angry policemen sent a violent shiver through his spine.
There was no denying it now: they had come to get him, and not
some other of the hotel's phantom customers.
   Manos wasn't staying here a second longer. Keeping his eyes on
the anxious drivers, to make sure their attention remained fixed at
the hotel's entrance, he detached himself from the shallow alcove
and slipped soundlessly into the unknown shadows, running in the
opposite direction of the raided hotel.


Chapter 8
          CAIRO, EGYPT: GDSSI HQ.
          July 10


   "The incompetent fools! Not only they can't make a simple arrest, they foul
up everything and then they flush their shit upon our heads,"
burst out Captain Tharwat Al Sai'd, a thirty-five year old
officer serving in the General Directorate of State Security
Intelligence. The captain was referring to the latest report and its
attached three pages, which had arrived by special courier earlier
this morning from the Deputy Director of Internal Security (Cairo).
   The report contained a succinct account of a failed raid in the Al-
Qalaa hotel of the Butneya district. The raid had been decided on the
basis of an undercover agent's intelligence who worked for the
Agency for the Protection of Antiquities and National Treasures of
Egypt. Al Sai'd was aware that this particular hotel was frequently
used as a front by the police in sting operations, but despite the
auspicious setting the raid had become a complete fiasco-its only
result a brief report and a few typewritten pages to go with it, which
could have belonged to a novel.
   His colleague at the next desk shook gloomily his head and
continued with his entries in the Register. It was hardly a secret that
all failed inquiries and investigations undertaken by any of the
thirty-four independent law-enforcement Egyptian agencies eventu-
ally found their way to the GDSSI, which operated efficiently under
the personal oversight of the Minister of the Interior.
   Captain Al Sai'd read once more the attached pages, underlining
their salient points. They were supposedly the translation in English
of an ancient, or rather Byzantine manuscript. The official report
made it clear that the translation had circulated in Ali Sherif's coffee-
house, which was being constantly monitored by the police.
   The captain stroked thoughtfully his thick mustache. All the facts
in this case bespoke of amateurism. First of all, priceless
manuscripts rarely saw the light of day by sheer chance. The organ-
ized gangs of traffickers in illegal antiquities methodically combed
whole regions to unearth them, aided by highly-paid, first-rate
archaeologists-and they would have spotted an undercover agent
from a hundred yards. Secondly, the agent had reported that he had
dealt with a foreigner, a fact significant in itself, since all operations
of this nature had long since passed to the hands of his fellow
countrymen.
   No, the most likely explanation for the whole affair was that a
tourist had attempted a naive scam for some pocket money. He
would have probably fled the country by now, thanking his god for
his timely escape.
   Captain Al Sai'd pressed together his lips as he anxiously glanced
at the overflowing tray beside his desk, labeled Incoming in stenciled
Arabic script. If he worked overtime he had a fighting chance of
clearing it up today, but only if he didn't waste his precious time on
such foolishness.
   Normally he didn't mind putting in a few extra hours, however,
last night he had been on duty, which made it a day-and-a-half since
he'd last been at home. A mental picture of his pretty wife Aisha
flashed in his mind, prompting a sweet flutter of anticipation in his
belly.
   It helped the captain make up his mind. He picked up a large square
stamp with the indication ARCHIVE and brought it down decisively on the
first page of the report. Then, clearing his thoughts from the matter of the
failed raid, he reached eagerly for the next dispatch at the top of the tray.
   In the sixth underground level of the same building, where every
day from seven a.m. to three p.m. Captain Al Sai'd conscientiously
classified the incoming mail, GDSSI's secret heart was throbbing
electronically.
   In that lowest level of the GDSSI Headquarters building, located
even deeper than the Operations Center, the labyrinthine complex
sheltered and nourished the central processing unit of its supercom-
puter along with an extensive network of hundreds of workstations,
installed with the help of American computer experts during the
decade that followed the Camp David accord. In scores of ultra-high
capacity hard disks, magnetic tapes, and other state-of-the-art digital
storage media, millions of electronic files were stored and continu-
ously updated, cataloguing and tracking all possible enemies-
internal and external-of the Republic of Egypt.
   The accumulated wealth of classified information was protected
by a large number of sophisticated electronic barriers, building up
an ingenious system of hierarchical access privileges. Despite all the
security measures, however, all systems of such magnitude and
complexity possess their own kind of an Achilles's heel, which can
best be located and exploited by intruders penetrating it from
within.
   Working in one of the Filing Department's numerous booths,
Sergeant Nabil Amin, a graduate of Cairo's American University,
picked up the next document from the incoming tray and pressed
Ctrl-N in his keyboard. A green light started blinking in his 30"
screen, indicating scanner readiness.
   The conversion of the hard-copy documents into digital form
took place according to a highly standardized procedure. Sergeant
Amin took the document to be filed, asked for a new record in his
database program, and inserted it into the scanner's aperture. When
it had been digitized, he checked visually the quality of the scan, and
if satisfied he keyed in its main attributes into the proper fields-its
source, security grade and suchlike. In the field Keywords he entered
a few words that succinctly summarized its content.
   The latter operation was the only creative intervention on the part of
Sergeant Amin during the whole procedure, and for that he had attended
a special three-month seminar before assuming his duties.
   In this particular case it took the twenty-five year old sergeant
less than a minute to complete the scanning process for the report
originating from the Deputy Director of Internal Security (Cairo)
and the attached English translation of a Byzantine parchment. With
a sidelong glance at the dispatcher's form, Amin proceeded to fill in
the database fields.
   Everything went on smoothly until he reached the Keywords
field. Although the summarization of an administrative report was a
routine operation, no instructions were available in the official
manual about the rendering of an ancient text. Being a conscientious
employee of GDSSI who held in high regard his duties, Sergeant
Amin took his time as he studied the English translation, in an
attempt at discovering a clue on how to proceed. He noticed that the
dispatcher had underlined with a felt-tip pen several words he had
considered important.
   That was a lucky break for the sergeant. The captain's initiative
resolved nicely his dilemma, whether to select the keywords by
himself or after consulting with his supervising lieutenant.
   The marked text offered him an easy way out. Sergeant Amin
entered the underlined words to the database, faithfully translating
them to the Arabic language, with the exception of the toponym
Constantinople, for which he substituted its modern equivalent,
Istanbul.

                                ***

At the end of one more laborious day and shortly before leaving his
office at the Department of Supplies for the underground parking to
get his car, Major Hamid Kabli repeated with ferocious devotion a
routine, which in the course of the years had blossomed in his
imagination into a sacred ritual.
   First he locked the door of his office. His two assistants,
Lieutenant Nur and Corporal Ayad, had already departed a quarter
of an hour ago and if they had forgotten something they would have
returned by now.
   Next Kabli lit a Turkish cigarette from a packet he saved for this
purpose, deeply buried into one of his desk's drawers. Leaving the
packet there was his only concession to the extreme security
measures he observed, to make absolutely sure that not even a whiff
of suspicion would ever rise to link him with his true homeland.
   With the cigarette between his lips he sat heavily at the seat
facing the corporal's computer terminal. He connected a compact
plastic box to one of its ports and then pressed the Power button to
boot it.
   Soon, the confined space of the room was full of smoke. Enjoying
the rich aroma of the light-gray cloud, Major Kabli felt completely
relaxed and perfectly safe. If someone came knocking at his door
he'd find it locked, and would leave without a second thought. From
his perfect sanctuary and through his humble position in the GDSSI
hierarchy, Major Kabli had faithfully served his beloved motherland
for a very long time.
   All those years he dreamed of only one moment, a moment still
in the future but steadily approaching him even as he smoked his
cigarette: that of his retirement, the delicious crown of his career,
when he'd finally be able to visit his homeland for the first time in
his entire life, to openly listen to his true language and freely speak
in it with his compatriots.
   If everything went well, he would pass his remaining years in
permanent vacation at a seaside resort in the Aegean coast.
Which one? Well, did it really matter? Perhaps enchanting
Marmaris would be his choice...
   More than the prospect of a happy retirement, however, it was his
secret personal history which made Major Kabli so proud, because
he felt part of an ongoing marathon or even better, an athlete in a
relay race that still ran its course. Each afternoon, as he relished his
Turkish cigarette with his eyes closed, Kabli relived in his mind and
heart that distant, apocalyptic moment forty years ago when his
father had taken him down to the cellar and revealed to him the
Great Secret and the sacred mission that would consume the largest
part of his life.
   He had been the firstborn of his family and only ten years old.
That day little Hamid heard his father explain to him that his true
country was not Egypt but great and glorious Turkey, the country
which straddled two continents. That day, his father had continued,
little Hamid was being recruited on a sacred patriotic mission which
must needs remain secret even from his own mother, and his
brothers, and sisters.
   Sadly, they would never partake of the truth. Only he would, in
order to fight for his real country whenever and wherever he could,
eventually passing the baton of that heavy responsibility to his own
firstborn son when he himself would become a father.
   During the following years his father and a host of dragomans, or
guides, older men who took turns shaping his personality and
forging his allegiance to Turkey, methodically initiated Hamid to the
ideals and values of his newfound homeland. He learned that several
other underground ethnic families like his own existed in Egypt, and
elsewhere too, in which only the fathers and their firstborn sons
were aware of their real lineage and mission.
   During his puberty's formative years Kabli discovered that the
roots of those families spread more than a hundred years back in
time, reaching to the point when a line of native Egyptian usurpers
and their foreign allies had overthrown the legal Othomanic rule.
Thus had arisen the need for a continuance of the Turkish resistance
with other means. Almost a century later the underground patriotic
movement was no longer aiming at the reunification of Egypt with
Turkey, but was fighting to support her in any possible way.
   Major Kabli crushed the cigarette stub in a small aluminum box
he carried in his briefcase for this purpose, and concentrated on the
glowing monitor in front of him. Six months ago he had uploaded
to the network a special information retrieval program, given to him
by his controller.
   That program, called in computerese a worm, had stolen
processor time to collect and save into a secret file hundreds of
passwords giving access into the system's various security levels,
afterwards completely erasing all traces of its existence.
   Since then, whenever Kabli typed in his keyboard the proper
command the dormant program was activated and used the
compiled password list to perform a thorough search of the data
recently entered into the various databases. It looked for occur-
rences of certain keywords and needed no more than a few seconds
to finish its spying task.
   The major smiled to himself as he tapped the coded command to
activate the worm. Eight seconds later a red square started to blink
on the screen, alerting him that the program had located fresh data.
   He pressed F12 and the results of the search scrolled down in his
screen. It was an extensive list of dozens of summarized documents,
together with their respective high-resolution scans. A blue bar at
the bottom of the window indicated the total number and size of the
found files:

          Items 121 / Total size: 244 MB

   Satisfied, the major nodded a couple of times to himself. He took
from his briefcase a blank 1 GB diskette and inserted it into the Zip
drive he had connected with the computer. Next he selected the
command Copy to Disk from the menu and pressed Enter at the
system's prompt to confirm his selection.
   Twelve minutes later Major Hamid Kabli was heading for the
elevator. In his right hand he was holding his plastic briefcase with
the Zip diskette hidden away in a cleverly designed pouch.
   Despite his treasonous act he was deeply satisfied and perfectly at  
ease with the world. And it was time to go home. He had just
discharged successfully his patriotic duty.


Chapter 9
          SINAI, EGYPT: St. Catherine's Monastery
          July 11


Kneeling piously upon the stone floor of the St. Catherine's
chapel of the Transfiguration and a yard forward from the
carpet's edge, Manos projected exactly the image he had toiled so
hard to create: that of a devout novice, assiduously chipping away at
his soul and body in preparation of the definitive passage from
secular life to asceticism.
   For the most part the chapel was drowned in darkness. Adhering
to the ancient tradition, the friars used only candles and kerosene
lamps for illumination. The elderly sat in the pews as the younger
stoically remained standing throughout the service, but no one
failed to intone in a low voice the appropriate responses during the
Mass or chant the venerable Byzantine hymns.
   Father Gregorios officiated in front of the Iconostasis which
divided the sanctuary from the nave. He held a silver thurible in his
right hand, which from time to time he swung back and forth,
releasing little clouds of aromatic incense.
   Minute by passing minute, verse by sung verse, a divine peace
settled down into the church. It was welcomed by the gaunt, austere
faces in the Byzantine icons, which momentarily absorbed the
ephemeral candlelight only to reflect it back enriched, laden with
apocryphal meanings.
   The clear voice of Father Gregorios resonated through the
chapel.

          We give thanks unto Thee, O Lord God of the Powers, Who
          hast accounted us worthy to stand even now before Thy
          holy altar, and to prostrate ourselves before Thy compas-
          sion for our sins and errors of the people.

   While Manos was silently mouthing the words as he pretended to
sing along, his mind worked at a feverish pace. This night would see
the completion of his plan, and even now he could sense his
approaching victory. And with the money collected from the sale of
the manuscripts he would fund his glorious return to Athens.
   After fleeing the police the night of the raid Manos had wandered
aimlessly through the darkest alleyways he had ever seen, still  
another anonymous outlaw stealthily moving within Butneya's
protective cocoon. Finally the new day had dawned and Manos,
instead of scampering for cover as Captain Al Sai'd had supposed,
had boldly returned to Ali Sherif's coffeehouse.
   That day Haled Sal'an had not shown himself at Ali Sherif's estab-
lishment and probably would not set foot in the neighborhood for
years to come. Inviting Ali to his table, Manos had recounted the
events of the previous night, exposing Haled's real identity.
Then he'd asked Ali to sponsor the sale of his goods with a ten
percent commission.
   Ali had promptly agreed and the news of Manos's offerings were
soon making the rounds among the patrons. Shortly various types
approached him with their bids and counter-bids, and after three
days of shrewd bargaining the novice had returned to the monastery
with a firm deal for both manuscripts. And now the time had come
for him to root out the papyri from the old monk.
   He watched Father Gregorios as he set down the thurible and
approached the lectern, where the gold-bound Book of the Gospels
lay open.

          Shine within our hearts, loving Master, the pure light of
          Your divine knowledge and open the eyes of our minds that
          we may comprehend the message of your Gospel.

   His plan was simple. Shortly before the conclusion of the Mass he
would discreetly leave the chapel to waylay the old man in his cell.
He'd attack the unsuspecting monk as he returned, learn the where-
abouts of the papyri, and next morning he would be off for Cairo to
deliver and get paid.
   And the funny thing was that the old man would keep his mouth
shut because he, too, illegally possessed the manuscripts.

          For an angel of peace, a faithful guide, a guardian of our
          souls and bodies, let us ask the Lord.

   Patience, Manos admonished himself. Let the old man rant. Soon
it will all be over...

                                ***

Father Gregorios was in no hurry to return to his room. After Mass
he paid a visit to the abbot in his office, where both spent the next
thirty minutes digging out memories from their youth. Having
enjoyed his last cigarette with the permission of His Eminence, he
eventually wished Theodossios good night and left for his cell. 
   Father Gregorios had become used to the fact that by the time he
went to sleep the corridors were deserted. This night was no excep-
tion to the rule. He reached his cell and turned slowly the key in the
lock, so as not to disturb his sleeping brothers. They were getting
too little sleep as it was.
   As he closed the door behind him, Father Gregorios felt a familiar
shiver run through his spine, signifying the abrupt reawakening of
an old warrior's survival instincts in the face of impending danger. It
was too late, however, to react. Manos, already tense from his long
wait, flung his right hand around his neck, making him retch, while
with the other he slipped the blade of a kitchen knife into his half-
opened mouth.
   "If you let out a whisper you're dead, old man!" he breathed into his ear.
Father Gregorios was surprised to recognize Philippos's voice, at
the same time realizing that he fully meant his threat. He felt certain
that Manos would kill him without a second thought if he didn't
comply. Setting aside for the moment his burning questions about
the young man's motives for the attack, he tried to discipline his
thoughts.
   God might grant him a chance to reverse the situation, but if He
didn't he would have to create his own opportunity.
   The cell was still dark. Manos switched on his penlight and
pointed the beam toward Father Gregorios's face.
   "Listen, old man," he said sharply, "I got no time to lose. If you
want to live through the night, talk! Where did you hide the
manuscripts?"
   He tilted slightly the blade, drawing blood from the old man's
lips.
   Father Gregorios struggled to ignore the unforgiving steel and
the saltiness quickly filling his mouth, concentrating instead on the
words Manos had spoken. During World War II he had been one of
the two Greek officers transferred to the Long Range Desert Team, a
secret English military unit formed to undertake daring operations
behind the German lines. Half a century later Father Gregorios had
lost the physical prowess of his youth, but his body had not
forgotten the techniques which had helped him survive those uncer-
tain years.
   The novice was unaware of this facet of his past, and this gave
him an edge he might be able to exploit to his advantage.
   Manos pulled out the knife from his captive's mouth to allow him
to speak. Father Gregorios lowered meekly his shoulders and
covered his face with his hands, assuming a stance of total despair.
   "Why do you speak like that, Philippos? What has come over
you?"
   Irritated at the delay, Manos seized the monk from the hair and
pulled his head backwards.
   "You got ten seconds to understand what I'm talking about, old
man. I'm not joking!"
   "All right, all right," Father Gregorios answered in a low voice,
   "but please don't hurt me, my son. The manuscripts you want are
not here. I've hidden them elsewhere."
   "I'm all ears."
   "I hid them in the Sacristan's cell without his knowledge."
   "Why that?"
   "For protection. If they were discovered, they would blame him,
not me," Father Gregorios explained, making a grimace of pain.
   "Cool! You're a tricky old monk! You know, I'm beginning to like
you, man," Manos said sarcastically. "Okay, let's go there. You just
give those manuscripts to me and all will be fine," he ordered.
   Things were looking up fine, Manos thought smugly. The old
monk was obviously terrified of him to have so easily confessed his
theft, and in a little while the precious papyri would change hands.
   Stunned from his ordeal and looking shriveled from Manos's
rough handling, Father Gregorios walked out from his cell and
headed for the Sacristan's, ten yards down the corridor. He kept his
bloodied mouth covered with his hand, while Manos followed him
a couple of paces behind.
   He stopped in front of the door and stood there with his head
hanging down. Now came the crucial part of his strategy. He felt
Manos approach him from behind and then the sharp touch of the
blade's tip on his back.
   "Ask him to open the door and make sure he doesn't suspect a
thing!" Manos whispered menacingly.
   Father Gregorios took a deep breath and rapped the closed door.
   "Father Vassilios!" he called out loud.
   "Yes, who's there?" they heard the Sacristan's deep voice a few
moments later.
   "It's me, Gregorios. I come from His Eminence with instruc-
tions."
   They heard the creaking of a wooden bed followed by Father
Vassilios's heavy footsteps. Then the door was flung open.
   This was the moment Father Gregorios had chosen to act. A split
second before the Sacristan's appearance he fell on his knees, took a
half-turn to the left and let out a hard punch between the legs of
Manos. The novice doubled over gasping for air, but did not
immediately release his hold on the knife.
   From his almost supine position Father Gregorios delivered a
second blow to his face, which nearly broke his cheekbone. Manos
collapsed on the floor, his knife rolling away on the floor.
   "Father Vassilios, the revolver! Quickly, bring it here!" Father
Gregorios yelled from the floor.
   The Sacristan of the abbey, who was responsible for the care and
safekeeping of all the religious objects and holy relics of St.
Catherine's, had a 38 Smith & Wesson in his cell exactly for such an
eventuality. While Manos was making feeble attempts at raising
himself, Father Vassilios came back with the loaded gun. Despite his
advanced age-he was approaching eighty-two-his hand was rock
steady.
   Father Gregorios rose to his feet and picked up the knife. He
looked around him, trying to sort out the silhouettes which were
already crowding the corridor. The noise of the fight and the cries of
pain from Manos had awakened the sleeping friars. The doors of
their cells were opening one after the other, yet no one really under-
stood what was happening.
   Finally someone turned on the light bulb of the corridor and the
monks clustered around the principals of the episode. Father
Gregorios asked two younger monks to escort and lock up Manos in
an empty cell. They helped him stand up and led him off to his
temporary jail with the Sacristan following a few paces behind, his
gun at the ready aimed at Manos's back.
   Meanwhile, Father Gregorios entered the cell of Father Vassilios
and closed the door behind him. He needed some time by himself to
recover, both physically and psychologically, and to think things
through.
   What was happening here? How had Manos found out about the
parchments? He would play the detective through the night and
tomorrow, God willing, he would pay a visit to the temporary jail of
the novice-turned-troublemaker to seek out some answers.


Chapter 10
           RIYADH, SAUDI ARABIA
           July 15


From the original eighteen applicants only four remained seated
in the sumptuous low divans, clothed in forest-green velvet with
golden lining, which were arranged in a crescent-like pattern across
the length of the chamber's eastern wall. The next in line saw the
usher nodding discreetly at him and rose.
   He was lean and close to fifty, with a short salt-and-pepper beard
and a pure-white jellaba. He approached the Prince of the Crown,
who was sitting relaxed in his gilded, intricately carved chair, and
murmured the traditional greeting of the desert nomads.
   Prince Fuad ibn Abd al Aziz took his hand and shook it warmly,
then motioned him to the opposite chair. He asked his subject
politely to state his petition and turned the golden hourglass on the
table beside him.
   A thin line of fine red sand dripping from the upper glass
compartment created a fast growing heap on its bottom: the Bedouin
from the Tabuk emirate had exactly ninety seconds to present his
request.
When his allocated time was over, the prince touched lightly
with his fingertips the top of the hourglass, without taking his gaze  
off his petitioner. The man took the hint, bowed, and headed for the
exit.
   Prince Fuad made a mental note on how to handle the petition
and sat up, looking around him. Half a year had passed since his
enthronement as the Crown Prince and Minister of Foreign Affairs,
and yet the subtle luxuriousness of the Reception Chamber in the
newly built Ministry tower still suffused him with a deep feeling of
fulfillment. At long last, after so many centuries of deprivation and
ethnic marginalization, his people had resurfaced to the bright light
of the Arabian sun.
   A few yards farther, in the exact center of the marble floor's intri-
cate arabesques, rose the imposing structure of a shiny black cube.
Low fountains, spaced at regular intervals around its perimeter, were
sprinkling sweet melodious sounds, as the revolving, computer-
controlled water jets sprayed with perfect synchronization dozens of
crystal tubes containing varied amounts of water.
   Suddenly realizing that the last rays of the midday's sun had
retreated a few inches from the cube, Prince Fuad raised his arm in
a silent signal to the usher and prepared to depart. The majliss, the
open audience for his people, was over. He rose and headed for the
interior apartments of the Ministry surrounded by his personal
guard, a group of four thickset Arabs carrying their ceremonial
sabers in gold-plated scabbards and their automatic pistols in less
visible holsters.
   The three Saudis who had been waiting for their turn also left.
They would be the first in line at the next audience. Until then they
would stay in one of Riyadh's more expensive hotels as guests of the
government.

                                ***

The private elevator reached the top floor and the doors sighed
softly open. Prince Fuad left his security detail in the antechamber
and entered alone his opulent penthouse office.
   The first thing that caught his attention was the high-piled stack
of folders awaiting his personal review. Obviously, a busy day lay
ahead. He sat comfortably in his plush revolving seat and brought to
his lips the steaming cup of Greek coffee, placed on his desktop by
his secretary only seconds before his arrival.
   Crown Prince Fuad ibn Abd al Aziz, a member of the royal family
which governed the country since 1932, had come to his title after
the successive deaths of two kings. The former had died at the end
of a protracted illness, the latter when his helicopter had crashed
while he was overseeing the National Guard maneuvers.
   Those events had aided the accession to power of the royal
family's newer generation. The succession to the Saudi Arabian
throne had never been hereditary, but was based on the principle of
seniority and the personal qualifications of the monarch-to-be. Now,
for the first time since the establishment of the state, the age of the
Crown Prince, who traditionally also headed the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs, had reached the unprecedented low-point of fifty-six years.
   In the sixth months since his enthronement Prince Fuad had
settled down to certain work habits, which were reflected even in
small matters such as the layout of his desktop. Along with the
stationery, the writing materials and some personal items, there were
also several stacks of documents upon it, neatly arranged by his
secretary according to his well-established habits.
   Fuad's first line of priorities concerned all communication with
the King's office. The monarch dispatched on a regular basis
handwritten notes to the Prince's office, which served to authenti-
cate decisions he had already conveyed to Fuad either in person or
by encrypted videophone calls.
   Next in line were crowding the prince's daily briefings
concerning the current internal and external affairs of the state, as
submitted by the Al Istahbara al-Alma, the secret intelligence service
of Saudi Arabia. And last came the rest of the folders, which were
separately heaped on his desktop.
   Prince Fuad first skimmed the notes of his king, comparing them
with his own entries in his personal filofax.
   Nothing of interest here; they all checked.
   He pushed them aside, and opening the folder with the briefings
of Al Istahbara he started reading the comprehensive summaries,
which on a daily basis kept track of the major developments in state
and world affairs. Fuad was almost finished, when half-through the
fourth page his eyes did a double take, returning to entry #10.

          #10.
          PRIORITY: NORMAL.
          SUGGESTED ACTION: STANDBY.
          SUBJECT: EGYPTIAN INTELLIGENCE RING IN S.A. -
          CONTINUING SURVEILLANCE.
          FILE: 0090-28450068-K.

          Egyptian intelligence agents operating in Al
          Kasim remain under continuous surveillance.
          Our initial source [AA-2344] helped a further
          asset [AA-1856] penetrate into the nuclear
          cell of the Egyptian ring.
          According to updated intelligence, the
          Egyptian ring numbers twenty-three (23)
          members. Their activities mainly concern the
          probing of prominent citizens in the Shiite
          minority.

   Irritated by the unsolicited initiative of his Egyptian brothers in
his sovereign state, Prince Fuad decided that he was fast running out of
patience and that the time was near for drastic measures. A quiet
arrest and expulsion of the intruders would convey a definitive
message to the inventors of such inelegant tactics.
He noted the file number in order to ask his secretary for the
complete report of the case and proceeded to the last entry.

          #11.
          PRIORITY: NORMAL.
          SUGGESTED ACTION: ARCHIVE.
          SUBJECT: DISCOVERY OF ALLEGED BYZANTINE PARCH-
          MENT.
          FILE: 0010-99370018-K

          The English translation of a supposedly
          Byzantine parchment (dating from Year 8) has
          recently circulated in the illegal antiquities
          market of Cairo, Egypt. The owner of the
          original manuscript has disappeared and his
          identity remains unknown.
          In the amateurish translation of the allegedly
          Byzantine document the Prophet is depicted as
          a Christian missionary.
          The Committee for the Propagation of Virtue
          and Prevention of Vice attributes no religious
          importance to the incident, considering it as
          a naive attempt at defrauding wealthy western
          collectors of illegal antiquities.

   Prince Fuad felt his heart stop. He tried desperately to take a
breath but his muscles refused to contract, as if a superior force was
keeping his head immersed in a watery substance. He pushed wildly
his seat backwards and stood up. His hands had gone ice-cold, but
his forehead was sweating profusely. He gasped, at last succeeding in
letting the air in, but it took him several agonizing minutes to
restore his regular breathing.
   Badly shaken, Fuad paced the length of his office, which was the
size of a spacious apartment. When the first shock had passed he
forced himself to concentrate and think, at the same time mentally
appealing to his body to relax.
   In the artificial gloom of his office and the deep quiet created by
the excellent insulation, Prince Fuad had the eerie sensation that he
could almost hear his own thoughts as they cracked into his mind,
and though he tried to avoid it, more than once his concentration
was shattered by the mental replay of a certain event which had
taken place half a year ago, shortly after his nomination as Prince of
the Crown.
   That night, at the conclusion of the ceremonies and the begin-
ning of the festivities, the monarch had taken him discreetly aside
and led him to a wing of the palace normally inaccessible even to the
closest members of the royal family. They had walked through a
series of interconnected corridors, and finally come upon a small
chamber's hermetically sealed steel door. Actually, that room had
been a sizeable safe protected by high-tech security devices.
   The monarch had ushered Fuad in and then had shut behind
them the heavy steel door, practically sealing them from the rest of
the world. There was no way someone could eavesdrop that
insulated space. Next, the king had approached a wooden cabinet
set apart from the others, opened its topmost drawer, and brought
out an ancient-looking parchment.
   He'd kept it reverently in his hands for a few moments before
offering it to Fuad.
   At first Fuad had not appreciated the age of that parchment but
as he continued reading it with his excitement skyrocketing, he
realized that it had been written immediately after the death of the
Prophet by the hand of Islam's first caliph.
   He read on hungrily, devouring the faded script, but his excite-
ment gradually turned to anguish, to confusion, and then to relief,
that after so many centuries Islam's Ultimate Secret still remained
secure.
When he returned the parchment to his king his hands were
shaking and his eyes were asking questions that had no answer.
   The monarch had simply shrugged off his unasked questions.
Life had to go on and life would go on, so long as the Ultimate Secret
remained a secret. However, before leaving the chamber he
explained to Fuad that the manuscript passed from royal generation
to royal generation under an inviolable rule: only two men on earth
were allowed to concurrently know of its existence-the King and
the Crown Prince. Moreover, the protection of the Ultimate Secret
together with the preservation of Islam's unity lay in the province of
the prince's sacred duties.
   The revelation of the existence of that parchment and its frightful
contents had horrified Prince Fuad, soon, however, that first episode
of his princely life had faded into oblivion. Everyday life had
asserted its inalienable rights upon him and the months had blurred
into an undifferentiated whole.
   Until now. When a simple report had savagely breached the Gates
of Lethe, of human forgetfulness, and a development which threat-
ened to shatter the doctrinal foundations of an entire religion was
dryly summed up in one paragraph of the Al Istahbara al-Alma.
Half an hour later the prince had succeeded in controlling his
anguish over his faith's future and had settled on a tentative strategy.
At this point he needed more information. He had to lay his hands
on the case's complete file, provided he did it by subterfuge, so as
not to alert his assistants to his special interest.
   Fuad went to sit at his desk and reached for a sheet of paper.
Glancing at the still open folder with the intelligence reports he
jotted down:

                    Fetch me the files ##5-11

   To his secretary he would say that he needed those files for an
evaluation of Al Istahbara's quality of intelligence. Thus, he hoped
his real objective would pass unnoticed.
   Prince Fuad remained thoughtful for a long while, working
through the details of his strategy. When at last he was satisfied that
he had covered all the angles of the problem, he checked the time on
his gold watch and pushed a button on his videophone to connect
with the palace.


Chapter 11
           USA: Interstate Highway S-3
           July 20


William Pearsson blinked his eyes, irritated by the sudden
sunlight that had pierced the gray mass of clouds bathing in
painful brilliance the highway blacktop all the way to the horizon.
He rummaged in the glove compartment without taking off his gaze
from the road and put on the pair of dark glasses he found there.
Although he was certain that his Mercedes could cover large
distances without deviating a hairbreadth from the straight line, he
had learned a long time ago never to let a single thing to chance.
   And every day the world at large found a novel way to reaffirm
the soundness of his motto, he thought. Take for example this
unexpected outbreak of sunshine-only ten minutes ago he'd have
bet five to one that the approaching storm would have caught him
halfway to his destination.
   Pearsson smiled sheepishly that he had caught himself in a rare
philosophical mood, and concentrated again on the mysterious
summons that had reached him in his car as he was speeding toward
his summerhouse on the coast, where he planned to pass the
weekend.
   The standard emergency summons to Newbury Street HQ was
annoying but it made perfect sense. The signal was a strong waft of
burning rubber, which was released by a chemical reagent embedded
in a special microchip of his cell phone. The acrid odor was
produced when a certain four-digit code was dialed by the caller
after Pearsson answered the call, and it offered a first-rate excuse for
him to return to his base if he happened to be in the company of
other people.
   The only drawback was that the bitter smell lingered for a long
time in the air-conditioned environment of his expensive car. Even
now, half an hour later, it had not been totally absorbed.
   The highway to Boston was almost empty. To his right he
suddenly noticed the warning traffic sign and changed lane,
preparing for the exit. He stroked absentmindedly his unshaved
face, a weekend's luxury. In his mid-forties, tall, with fair hair and
light-blue eyes, Pearsson had well-established habits and firm
convictions about the world. Unmarried on principle, he possessed
a degree of independence that came in handy in his line of work and
his personal lifestyle closely mirrored the disciplined existence
required by his professional pursuits.
   As he took the left exit to Interstate 90 he wondered, and not for
the first time, what kind of emergency he going to face. There was
only one eventuality that really scared him, however: the unpre-
dictable leak, the unexpected pull of the rug from under his feet, the
shove that would send him tumbling down the cliff.
   Suddenly Pearsson felt an ominous tightening in his stomach. He
shifted in his comfortable seat, but the constriction did not immedi-
ately ease off. If there was a leak to the Americans then the very
existence of his organization would be at risk, since the Terms of
Understanding contained specific and inviolable obligations on its
part if it was to retain its guest-privileges on American soil.
And those terms had been repeatedly and flagrantly violated.
As General Director of the organization Pearsson knew better
than anyone else how many times they had ignored the fundamental
provisions of their secret covenant. If this fact ever became known
to the United States' authorities, he would soon be looking for a new
job-or even worse.
   Those were not heart-warming thoughts and Pearsson sighed
with relief when he saw the outline of the Hancock Tower jutting
out from the familiar skyline of downtown Boston. He slowed down,
glancing at his watch. Half past one in the afternoon. He passed
through Copley Square and took Dartmouth Street, heading for his
favorite parking lot. He left his car there he went on foot toward
Newbury Street. At this hour the road was crowded with people
shopping at the expensive stores.
   Indifferent to the appealing storefronts, Pearsson quickened his
pace and shortly was climbing the stairway of an old brownstone.
There was a small shop on the ground floor, selling Indian art. That
was an innocent front. The rest of the building was occupied by one
of the most efficient intelligence organizations in the world, its main
task-according to its secret charter-the preservation of the
current status quo in the Middle East and the Islamic world.

                                ***

Pearsson reached the front door but found it closed. For a moment
he stood there at a loss, then remembered that it was Saturday and
pushed the bell-button. Beside it there was a shiny bronze plate with
an elegant, engraved inscription:

                   "Global Clipping Services, Inc."

                                ***

The door opened with a light buzz. Pearsson walked in, waved
hurriedly at the guard on duty and headed for the elevators.
   The corridors were deserted. Nobody challenged him for his ID,
no sophisticated electronic locks demanded proper authorization. In
the majority of the building's interior areas the organization had no
more cause to implement tighter security measures than any other
trade establishment in Newbury Street.
   There was a valid reason for this. When the intelligence agencies
of the oil-producing countries in the Middle East had realized in the
aftermath of the Gulf War that a future blitzkrieg similar to that of
August 1990 could be the last for some Arabic sovereign states, they
had decided to join forces and cooperate in intelligence gathering.
However, since a total exchange of intelligence was unthinkable
even between sister Arab countries, they agreed to establish in the
United States a private company under the misleading title Global
Clipping Services, Inc., which presumably would offer media clipping
services in an international scale.
   Actually, it would be the hub for the collection and processing of
that portion of intelligence, which the founding member-countries
would be willing to share.
   They had located its headquarters on American soil because of its
greater potential for secrecy and freedom of action, far from the
inquisitive eyes and ears of the Israeli Mossad and from the
numerous Islamic fundamentalist sects as well. For the same reasons
its existence was known only to the President of the United States,
his National Security Adviser, and the Directors of the FBI, CIA, and
NSA.
   However, Global Clipping Services, Inc. had undertaken the
express obligation to confine its activities to the collection,
processing, and distribution of intelligence among its member states
in the Middle East. A fundamental article in the secret Terms of
Understanding agreed between the Arab members and the United
States government specifically prohibited the initiation of field
operations anywhere in the world.
GCS had repeatedly violated that provision, a fact that had
become the permanent headache of its General Director.
   Pearsson opened the door numbered 202 and entered his office.
Said Al Sawaf, his Arab liaison with the Council of Representatives,
was already there, comfortably seated in a plush leather chair. Dark-
skinned, handsome, and tailored in Savile Row, Said could easily
have made a career as a high-fashion top-model. Actually, he was
military attach� in the embassy of a major Arab country.
   "You arrived earlier than I had expected, William. How so?" he
asked. Said, an Oxford graduate, despised the diminutive Bill of
Pearsson's first name, which was the name everybody else used
when referring to Pearsson. In his right hand he was holding a pipe,
a remnant of his academic sojourn in England.
   "Good afternoon, Said," Pearsson returned the greeting in a crisp
voice. He sat at his desk, leaning forward on his elbows. "No
mystery to that," he continued. "Just think that all the way back I
had the distinct impression that I was the only fool in the whole
state absolutely determined to ruin his weekend."
He drew back when he saw a little cloud from Said's pipe heading
toward his direction. He had quit smoking fifteen years ago.
   "Sorry about that," Said grinned disarmingly.
   "No matter," Pearsson replied. "All right, then. What's the
worst?"
   "It's nothing like this, William," Said replied calmly. "But then
again, I'm not exactly sure what it is we have in our hands. You may
want to take a look at this."
   He took from the coffee table beside him a computer printout
and offered it to Pearsson, who skimmed its contents quickly and
gave it back.
   "We'd agreed to sit tight for a few months," he protested. "It's too
early and too risky for a new operation."
   "Yes, I completely agree, but you see the order comes from high
above," Said remarked, briefly glancing toward the ceiling. He
opened his briefcase and slipped the document inside. "This arrived
today with the diplomatic pouch from Riyadh," he continued,
meaningfully staring at Pearsson. "Which means it left the capital
yesterday."
   Pearsson nodded impatiently. He didn't need Said's gloss on the
subject to understand the implications of that fact. Friday is a day of
rest and prayer in the Islamic world, and in traditionalist countries
like Saudi Arabia the prohibition of work is strictly enforced. As a
result, the mere fact that the authorizing document was dispatched
on a Friday indicated its monumental importance for the sender.
   He remained silent for some time, idly gazing at the lustrous
surface of his desktop. He let his eyes wander over the soothing
rosewood patterns until he felt he had regained a measure of calm,
enough to confront this unreasonable request of his employers.
   "Okay, give me the story in a nutshell," he finally said.
   "Boot your terminal, William, and I'll give you the passphrase to
the complete file. From an operational point of view, of course, the
matter is rather simple. Speaking of its timeliness, though... well,
that's quite a different matter."
   Said Al Sawaf felt no compunction in criticizing his superiors'
orders in private with Pearsson. In the presence of third parties,
however, he would passionately defend those same decisions.
   "Please, read the file and tell me your opinion." He took out a
diskette from his briefcase and handed it to Pearsson. "Here's the
passphrase," he said.
   The lack of special security measures in GCS's premises was
explained by the fact that there were no hardcopy documents related
to the agency's real activities anywhere in the whole building. The
only documents to be found in unlocked cabinets were those
concerning its legitimate clipping business. The basic concept which
sharply differentiated Global Clipping Services, Inc. from its more
conventional intelligence counterparts referred to the nature and
location of its archives: all intelligence gathered and processed by
the organization on behalf of the member-states was digitally
archived in the storage media of its computer network, and there the
security safeguards could be characterized as paranoid.
   In addition to the rest of the computer security measures, GCS's
regulations provided that no encryption passphrase could be less
than 512 characters long, and the keys were carried in specially
manufactured diskettes that could only be read by the organization's
custom-made computer terminals.
   Pearsson entered the system and supplied the appropriate codes
to the successive challenges. When he uploaded Said's passphrase a
new window opened in his screen, containing the text of a brief
report. He started to read, realizing right from the first line that it
bore no relation to the usual GCS intelligence stuff. No fanatic
Palestinian cells in a member-state, no worrisome activities on the
part of Saddam Hussein's successors in Iraq, no anti-regime threats
of extremist splinter groups.
   Nothing like that. He discovered to his surprise that the alleged
threat came from the unearthing of a Byzantine manuscript,
containing the so-called Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis. This
was described as an official document which proved Mohammed's
conversion and subsequent baptism to the Christian faith. GCS's
task was to locate and retrieve this manuscript by any means
possible.
   Pearsson looked up at Said. Both men were aware that the
innocently worded phrase "by any means possible" authorized the
use of supreme violence-in other words the termination of human
life.
   "Now, if this manuscript really exists, I don't think we'll have a
hard time tracking it down," Pearsson observed, as he read the
report for the third time. "But, if it's a sham-as I think it is-then
our mission, Said, will turn into an exercise in public relations,
namely how to apprise our distinguished principal of his great
fiasco."
   He logged out and turned to his colleague. "Or, to state it more
bluntly: I got a great respect for our political bosses, yet even the
shrewdest tactician can be had once in his lifetime."
   Said regarded him silently. At first his own reaction had been
similar to Pearsson's, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. Perhaps he
had been shaken by the gravity of the socio-political consequences
in case the parchment proved to be true. Not an agreeable prospect
to contemplate, he thought.
   He tapped mechanically his pipe in an ashtray.
   "What's the source of this intelligence? Egypt?" asked Pearsson.
   "No. My side. But I checked it afterwards and found out that
Egypt had archived it, too."
   "Archived? That's interesting. I wonder what that means. Are our
Egyptian colleagues less gullible, or less imaginative than us?"
   Said shrugged with a cryptic smile.
   Pearsson picked up a pad of legal paper. "Anyway, I got a feeling
we'll find out very soon," he added. "I'll start preparing an outline of
our strategy right now, and I'll have the detailed action plan ready by
Monday. You, Said, should make arrangements for the Council to
convene on Wednesday."
   Said Al Sawaf slowly shook his head. "Not in this case, William.
My orders are to convene the Council by tomorrow evening at the
latest. The representatives have already been notified."
   Pearsson stopped writing and looked up at Said thoughtfully.
Maybe this case hid more than struck the eye, and not only on the
opponent's side, he thought. Perhaps he ought to approach the
matter with greater care and objectivity, and above all quick action.
Of course, this spelled long hours of work through the night. He
decided to write off completely his already spoiled weekend.
   "All right, Said, by tomorrow evening everything will be ready,"
he announced to his assistant. "You can arrange the meeting for nine
p.m."
   "Perfectly," Said acknowledged and rose. "I'll take care of the
bureaucratic stuff, and I'll inform Riyadh we've started working on
the case." He took his briefcase and opened the door. "See you
tomorrow, William. Take care."
   The door clicked shut automatically behind him and Pearsson
was left alone with his notes. He was going to have a very busy
weekend trying to make sense of this peculiar situation, heavily
pregnant with exciting possibilities.

                                ***

In the Meetings Room, down at the second basement of the GCS
building, all the seats around the elongated oval table were
occupied. Pearsson was chairing the meeting with the help of his
computer notebook which was plugged-in to the main computer
network.
   Opposite him at the far end of the conference table was sitting
Said Al Sawaf, while at either side of him were seated the represen-
tatives of the member-states of GCS, all of them high-ranking diplo-
mats attached to the embassies of their respective countries in
Washington.
   No one spoke and nobody smoked, because for security reasons
the room lacked an air-conditioning unit. There were no other
openings, either, and the air was already stale. Pearsson had noticed
before that under these circumstances meetings tended to last less
than thirty minutes. He smiled cynically to himself, as he remem-
bered the golden rule set forth by a management guru, that the
success of a meeting is inversely proportional to the comforts offered
to its participants.
   He consulted again his watch, irritated by the prolonged delay, when
in a small console set into his desktop an LED indicator changed to green,
signaling that the counter-surveillance scanning procedure was success-
fully complete. They could proceed now. Pearsson coughed lightly and
pushed the Record button to activate the digital recording machine.
Then he looked up at his audience and spoke in perfect Arabic.
   "Esteemed gentlemen, representatives of the member states.
Upon your arrival here you had the opportunity to familiarize
yourselves with the subject of tonight's session."
   In front of him each representative had a flat-panel computer
screen which enabled him to review the material Pearsson had fed to
the system through his own terminal. Most of them had already
absorbed the available information.
   "The Operations Unit of our organization was assigned this case
yesterday afternoon. I will state for the record that in my considered
opinion this particular assignment, as well as any whatsoever assign-
ment at this juncture, risks to expose our activities in violation of
the Terms of Understanding with the American authorities."
   He paused for a moment to observe the effect his words had on
the participants. There was no reaction. None visible, at any rate.
Well, he had expected as much from a group of seasoned diplomats.
   "Having said that, I confirm that an unambiguously clear and
valid order was issued by a member-state," he continued. "Pursuant
to which our organization was mobilized, a detailed strategy
devised, and its initial stage implemented. I find myself in the
pleasant position to inform you that all our preliminary steps were
successfully carried through.
   "Now, for the latest update. During the last twenty-four hours
there were some rather dramatic developments. I'll return to this in
a moment but first I wish to remind you that according to standard
procedure you will receive a folder with the printouts of all the
relevant files upon your departure, to be submitted to your
overseeing authorities.
   "Also, the security grade of this particular operation requires the
representatives of the corresponding oversight authorities who will
receive the dossiers to have the rank of a deputy minister or higher.
   "And as always, from this moment on all subsequent updates for
the case will be released exclusively through our computer
network."
   Pearsson took a few sips of tepid water and let his gaze rest on
each of the diplomats in turn. They returned indifferent, almost
bored stares.
   "And now I return to the most recent developments. Here is a
summary of the events," he continued unruffled. He had bet with
himself that before the meeting was over he'd have those bored
diplomats dancing on their toes.
   "Yesterday at 23:30 local time the author of the English transla-
tion was apprehended in Cairo. He had returned to his usual haunt,
the meeting place of traders in illegal antiquities and of other
criminal types, which had been placed under continuous surveil-
lance by Egyptian operatives acting on my orders. He's a common
criminal. He was interrogated by our men and confessed that the
translation was his own handiwork, based on another text written in
Modern Greek.
   "That second text in turn was a translation of the original,
supposedly contained in a Byzantine papyrus dated to 18 Hegira or
640 AD according to our captive, but most probably in a parchment.
All available information tends to confirm our analysts' working
hypothesis that the Byzantine parchment was discovered about a
month ago in St. Catherine's monastery in the Sinai by a Greek
monk, named Father Gregorios. The monk's full secular name is
Gregorios Paleologou."
   Pearsson looked again at his audience, gauging their reactions.
As a rule the representatives remained wholly impassive throughout
the meetings, and not for the first time he asked himself if their
apparent apathy was a manifestation of their training and self-
restraint, or was due to their complete indifference for the outcome
of the session-whatever the subject under consideration might be.
This time he was surprised to notice a few wrinkles of worry
lining the faces of two or three participants.
   "Unfortunately, our captive did not see that parchment,"
Pearsson went on. "He did see, however, the box where it was found.
He gave us a detailed description of it and of its contents, and our
expert analysts believe it's authentic. Even as I speak the text in
Modern Greek is being processed in accordance with the latest
techniques of content analysis, to ascertain whether it really is a
translation of an original document drafted in Byzantine Greek or
just a modern work of fiction.
   "I've been assured that by tomorrow morning we shall have the
experts' official report. However, their preliminary conclusion is that
the Byzantine manuscript exists.
   "That's where the good news end. In response to our alert Cairo
reported that Gregorios Paleologou has already departed the country
for Athens, Greece. A search for him was immediately initiated and
our unit in Athens was activated to that effect.
   "It is assumed that Paleologou had made arrangements for the
transfer of the parchments to Greece at a later date, but his hand was
forced when in the 11th of July the captive attempted to extract the
original manuscripts from him by violent means. His attempt was
foiled and the captive, after his neutralization by the other monks,
was kept locked in a cell. A few days later he was expelled from the
monastery by the abbot's order.
   "Another fact worthy of note is that the captive never revealed to
Gregorios Paleologou the unsuccessful police raid in the Al-Qalaa
hotel, which took place on the 6th of July. As you may realize, this
gives us an important advantage: Paleologou doesn't suspect that the
Egyptian police is aware of the existence of the parchments."
   Pearsson scrolled down the text on his screen, ready to proceed
to the last part of his briefing. Satisfied that for once the members of
his audience seemed to be casting away their apathy masks, he
enumerated his conclusions.
   "Gentlemen, the facts of the case thus far seem to support the
following conclusions:
   "Firstly, the Byzantine parchments do exist and in all likelihood
they are authentic. I take it as a given that tomorrow's official report
will confirm this assumption.
   "Secondly, these parchments are in the possession of a Greek
Orthodox monk named Gregorios Paleologou, his last known
traveling destination Athens, Greece.
   "Thirdly, while the motives of Paleologou remain obscure, his
behavior clearly indicates his intention to make use of the parch-
ments.
   "Fourthly, the very existence of the Byzantine manuscripts
constitutes a clear and present danger to the social cohesion of the
member-states you represent. A study to that effect has been
included in the dossier you will receive."
   The time had arrived for Pearsson to deliver his coup de gr�ce.
Although up to this point the participants had followed his briefing
with unusually high alertness, he felt that their interest was of a
purely academic nature, for the most part intellectually motivated.
To shake them up he needed something a lot more powerful.
   "Gentlemen," he announced dramatically after several moments,
   "if it's not clear to you yet, I wish to point out that the Byzantine
manuscripts in the possession of a Christian monk represent a
neutron bomb ticking away at the foundations of your religious
establishment."
   His words achieved their intended effect, creating turmoil and
consternation among the representatives. Finally divorced from
their equanimity, several of them started to speak out loud to each
other, protesting noisily, or even slapping the table with their hands
in an attempt at attracting Pearsson's attention.
   Completely indifferent to the disturbance he had caused,
Pearsson continued mercilessly.
   "And if the contents of those parchments ever find their way to
the international media or the Internet, Gentlemen, I think you
should contemplate a change of faith!"
   At these incendiary words the diplomats jumped up from their
seats, shouting long strings of deprecations in Arabic. Two of the
youngest among them tried to physically seize him but they were
held back by their seniors, who had successfully outfaced many an
awkward situation in the course of their careers.
   "Shame to you!" several voices were heard from around the table.
Pearsson stood up and peered at them with a steady gaze until
the clamor had quieted down. Then he nodded gravely.
   "I completely agree with you. It would be a shame not to act with
the determination and efficiency this critical situation requires. We
have been presented with a life and death situation, and as such it
should be approached. This, Gentlemen, is the message I wish you
to impart to your superiors.
   "Now, regarding our initiatives, I propose the following:
   "Firstly, that we spare no effort in trying to locate and take
possession of the parchments. Once this is achieved, the original
documents shall be exhibited at a plenary session of this Council to
quell any doubts regarding their fate.
   "Secondly, that my proposed detailed plan of action be accepted.
   "Thirdly, that the attached budget be approved.
   "And now, Gentlemen, I'm at your disposal for any further clari-
fications."
   Somewhat appeased by Pearsson's skillfully formulated response, the repre-
sentatives remained quiet for a while, as they assimilated his rapid-
fire revelations and proposals. At last the silence was broken by a fat
delegate in his fifties, who tapped a fingertip on the table. He had
bushy white hair but sported a coal-black mustache.
Pearsson turned to face him, and nodded his permission to
speak.
   "That monk, the one who discovered the parchments, how old is
he?" asked the delegate.
   "Seventy-six and he's been in St. Catherine's since 1948. I have
his file in my possession. He comes from a notable family in Athens,
and served with an English Special Forces unit in North Africa
during World War II. His military record is impeccable.
Notwithstanding his monastic vows, he maintains active social
relationships with several important public figures of Greece."
   "And how can you explain his sudden decision to abandon a way
of life he has followed for more than fifty years, to involve himself
in such a shady affair? What's your personal view of his motives?"
   This was a question that had tormented Pearsson more than any
other. If he could somehow unravel the motives of the old monk, he
would be able to predict more accurately his next move. What was
the meaning of his flight to Athens? What did he intend to do there?
The bitter truth of the matter was that he knew next to nothing
about the motives of the most important player in this game.
   "Let me answer your question in a negative formulation, sir,"
Pearsson said, "because at this point we lack the data for anything
better than that. My personal belief is that his behavior cannot be
explained by attributing to him motives of personal gain."
   "Isn't there a way to convince the monastery's abbot to cooperate
with us?" another delegate cut in, raising another issue which had
been analyzed in depth by Pearsson's team.
   His think tank had opined that a careless move on their part, like
an untimely approach of St. Catherine's abbot, could lend an unwel-
come political character to the whole matter, effectively condemning
GCS into a backstage role.
   "Sadly, we're quite vulnerable in this regard, although pressure
can be applied in the direction you mentioned," Pearsson carefully
replied. "Abbot Theodossios is well-regarded by high-ranking
government officials and other influential Egyptian citizens, so if we
pressure him we'll only secure his reluctant cooperation while
suffering a severe setback by the disclosure of our knowledge as
concerns the Byzantine parchments.
   "No, sir, I think it's better we assumed a waiting stance for the
time being."
   The discussion lagged again for several moments. The air had
become stuffier and Pearsson felt certain that the delegates would be
exhausted by now, especially after their recent outburst. He was
thinking of ending the session, when a diplomat in his early thirties
with a teenager's looks coughed discreetly and raised his voice.
   "Mr. Pearsson, which will be the fate of our captive in Cairo?"
   "That man had a Greek passport issued in the name of Philippos
Manos," Pearsson replied, relieved he was given the opportunity to
close the session with a minor issue. "However, our experts estab-
lished that it was a forgery he had used to avoid being arrested for
drug trafficking in an international scale. There's a Red Alert against
him issued by Interpol after its notification by the Greek police.
Obviously Philippos Manos, or more accurately Andreas Dekakis,
had taken refuge in the Sinai to avoid his impending arrest.
   "Now, concerning your question: if this were a standard arrest,
the apprehended would have been extradited to the Greek authori-
ties in a matter of weeks. You realize, of course, that for security
reasons we cannot allow that. This person will remain in custody
until the conclusion of the operation, at which time a final decision
concerning his fate will be taken in view of all relevant factors to the  
issue."
   There were no more questions from the delegates. Pearsson
breathed deeply, as he turned to face them.
   "If there are no more questions, Gentlemen, let us proceed with the selection 
of the Executive Member in the current operation, code-named Byzantine Memory."
   He tapped a command in his keyboard to run the program which
would randomly generate a set of numbers from one to six. Instantly
a different number appeared in each delegate's screen, which speci-
fied his order in the lot-drawing procedure.
   When the member-states of GCS had decided to get involved in
secret field operations in violation of the Terms of Understanding,
they had devised a system that would offer them the benefit of
plausible denial, in case their American hosts discovered their illegal
activities.
   That system was based on a simple principle: the member-state
selected to undertake the execution of the operation remained
unknown, even to the rest of GCS's members.
   In the center of the oval conference table was set a crystal vase
containing six hollow, golden spheres, which could be unscrewed
and parted to their two hemispheres. In the mother-of-pearl hollow
of one of them was engraved with black ink the Basmalah, the
famous formula-prayer from the Koran: bi'sm llah ar-rahman ar-
rahim-in the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.
   The members of each delegation chose one sphere on behalf of
their corresponding state in the order specified by the computer.
Then they left the GCS HQ and returned to their respective
embassies in Washington, where they separated the pair of
hemispheres. The member-state with the sphere containing the
Basmalah took charge of the operation and anonymously notified
Boston through the computer network that its execution had
started.
   However, most of the times Pearsson could tell the identity of the
anonymous member-state by small details and telltale signs, like the
accent and pronunciation of her agents, the vocabulary and syntax
of their written reports, their favorite weaponry, their methods of
operation, and other similar factors. Still, the formal secrecy of the
selection process made it possible for the member-states to officially
deny their involvement to any and all illegal operations. Equally
importantly, this applied not only to the Americans, but to the other
non-member Islamic states as well.
   Pearsson observed with interest the delegates as they emptied the
crystal vase, idly wondering about the identity of his partner-to-be.
Personally, he couldn't have cared less, but professionally speaking
he had his preferences.
   He felt it in his bones that Byzantine Memory would prove very
different from the other operations preceding it. Having lived for
many years in the Middle East, Pearsson was aware of the powerful
religious emotions harbored and ready to be unleashed at a
moment's notice by large population segments, and was equally well
acquainted with their unpredictable character.
   What he couldn't quite grasp, though, was how a few pieces of
tanned skin with a number of ancient symbols drawn upon them
could produce the dreadful results presented by his analysts in their
various scenarios... How a few hundred words could have the power
to overturn a globally established religious order.
   As he came out of his reverie, Pearsson saw that the selection
ritual was complete. He touched the Stop Recording button and shut
down his computer. Then he rose, unlocked the Meeting Room's
door, and stood beside it until the last of the delegates had departed.
Only then did he exit the room himself.
   Said Al Sawaf was waiting for him at the end of the corridor.
   "It's a little bit late, Said," Pearsson said as he came to him, "but
if you finally learned how to keep a secret or two from your wife,
like every man should, there's a nice little bar close-by." He looked
at him grinning. "Well, what do you say?" he teased his Arab assis-
tant, knowing all too-well what his answer would be.


Chapter 12
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           July 21


After the noise and the clamor of Kifissias Avenue, the peaceful
quiet of Dragoumis Street was a thunderous statement in its
own right. Nikitas stretched out his left hand through the open
window of his white Mercedes convertible, and pressed a button in
his remote control to activate the sliding gate of his house. The car
rolled smoothly on the gray flagstones of the miniature driveway
and headed for the garage.
   A couple of hours earlier Nikitas had disembarked from the
ferryboat Knossos in Piraeus, returning home after a five-day tour of
Crete. He had passed his brief vacation driving through the pristine
landscape from coast to coast, exploring the ivory southern beaches
during the day and savoring the festive nightlife of the Cretan
cosmopolitan villages by the moonlight.
   His tanned skin and his light mood bore witness to his success on
both premises of the familiar ancient Greek maxim "Nous ygies en somati
ygie"--a healthy mind in a healthy body. He was returning to
his homebase feeling strong and refreshed, ready to undertake the
most ambitious project in his professional life to date.
   The garage was a separate structure in the back of the garden.
Nikitas picked up his baggage from the trunk and took the path that
led to the front door of his house. Behind him the aluminum roll-up
door of the garage closed automatically .
   As he walked through the brush that formed a decorative hedge
between the two parts of the garden, he noticed the dark outline of
a man sitting on a bench in the veranda. The dim porch light fell on
his back, leaving his face in the darkness. Curious rather than
alarmed, Nikitas dropped his baggage to the ground and hurried to
his house.
   He had only taken a few steps when he realized who his strange
visitor was.
   "Uncle!" he exclaimed in a loud voice that startled the old monk
who was dozing on the bench. "What are you doing here?"
   Father Gregorios calmly straightened his back and smoothed
over his black cassock before answering. "What am I doing here?"
he asked, teasingly imitating Nikitas's surprised tone. "Why, I'm
waiting for my beloved nephew to finally come home!" He rose and
hugged him. "Here we meet again, and not awfully long after your
visit!"
   "Why didn't you say, uncle, that you'd be coming? I would have
stayed here for you. How long have you been waiting out here?"
   Father Gregorios noticed Nikitas's baggage on the path and
walked slowly toward it with his nephew tagging behind.
   "I arrived here early in the afternoon, and I rested my weary
bones just fine in the veranda. Of course, I had to convince first the
security guard who rushed here when I tripped the alarm that I was
neither a thief nor a disguised criminal!" He lifted a suitcase and
turned back toward the house. Nikitas took the rest and followed
him with a smile in his face.
   "In the Sinai you told me that your vacation would be over
today," Father Gregorios continued, "so I decided to come here first.
I would have waited a little more and then I'd have gone to a hotel."
   "That's not what I meant," Nikitas shook his head. "Why didn't
you sent me a message you were coming in the first place?"
   "To say the truth, Nikitas, this is sort of an unscheduled trip,"
Father Gregorios admitted sheepishly. "But, nothing to worry about," he
added brightening. "I'll explain everything to you later."
   At the main door Nikitas inserted his index finger into a slot built
in the wall and waited for several seconds. With a short beep the
security system accepted his fingerprint and prompted him for his
eight-digit code. Nikitas punched it in and the door opened with a
soft click.
   Inside they were welcomed by a refreshing coolness. In Nikitas's
house the air-conditioning unit operated around-the-clock, as also
did his computer and security subsystems.
   "When the taxi left me outside," Father Gregorios said inspecting
the spacious living room, "I had difficulty in recognizing the
mansion. You had mentioned a renovation in your letters but never
would I have expected this masterpiece. Congratulations, Nikitas!
You gave the old house a sparkling new life."
   Father Gregorios stood smiling in the midst of the room with his
hands deep in his cassock. For a moment he stared appreciatively at
his nephew, who began to fidget under his uncle's praising look.
   "I also see a whole new set of locks around here," the old man
continued, referring to the various security devices Nikitas had
installed. "You brought back quite a piece of the American
lifestyle... Well, never mind that-who knows, maybe I'm the one
who lives in the past," he murmured wistfully.
   Nikitas sensed something deeper in this statement and was
tempted to ask for an explanation, but then changed his mind. His
uncle would be exhausted from his trip and this sort of discussion
could certainly wait till morning. Moreover, he had a few things to
attend to himself, starting from checking his e-mail messages. Five
days were a long time to be away from a computer.
   "I think you should get some rest, uncle. Come on, I'll take you
to your room," he said and went out to the veranda to get Father
Gregorios's single suitcase.

                                ***

Nikitas was standing at the end of the line, which never moved an
inch. He knew that the smart thing for him would be to leave and go
home, but before that he had to remember, what for God's sake was
he waiting here for? Where did this line lead to? Once again he tried
hard to remember-did it lead to a train, to a plane, to an intercity
bus? Well, perhaps he had a ticket or something. He checked his
things, the suitcase in his right hand and the jacket in his left... Hey,
wait a minute, he had not taken a jacket with him but a second bag,
that with his uncle's Byzantine manuscript. Oh God! Where was it?
He had forgotten it somewhere. Now what? He froze, and his hands
went cold. This couldn't be him! He never behaved in such a foolish
fashion, to leave unattended his uncle's priceless treasure. He had to
go back but after such a long time-was it an hour?-what chances
were there of finding it again? His anguish paralyzed him, as the
weight of his loss was too heavy to bear. Despairing he detached
himself from the motionless human line and ran through an indif-
ferent crowd. No way he'd find his bag again, someone must have
stolen it by now. Then the crowd started to thin and he was able to
run faster, and faster. Thankfully, he remembered clearly where he
had last sat; it had been in an endless row of yellow plastic seats
lined against the wall. Just a bit farther now, he was getting close.
Over there, yes, that was the place and, lo! His precious bag was still
standing on the floor, though open, and yet-what a miracle!-the
parchments were still there, untouched, as if all this time they had
been waiting for him to return...
   The feeling of intense release that coursed through his body
jolted him and he woke up, drenched all over in sweat. For a couple
of minutes Nikitas remained unmoving in his bed, until his heart-
beat had slowed down. Then he took a deep breath, got up, and
opened the window.
   It wasn't that the air in his bedroom had gone stale-the air-
conditioning was taking good care of that. But by opening the
window Nikitas wanted to reach out, to re-establish his rapport with
the real world, to discard the last vestiges of his peculiar nightmare.
   He leaned on the windowsill and gazed out in the darkness. The
night sky had taken a yellowish hue, dimly reflecting the myriad
lights of the sleeping metropolis. He heard the sound of a lone car
passing by, but this also quickly faded into the distance.
   From time to time, just like tonight, Nikitas perceived intensely
the fundamental solitude of personal existence. As in the world of
his dream, he wondered whether he was anything more than an
orphan unit, a lost monad among millions of others busily pursuing
their solitary existence, never really communicating between them.
Or was he the one only possessing free will, while the rest simply
performed clockwork acts, pre-determined since the beginning of
Time? Was he the solitary denizen of an Universe held incommuni-
cado by God?
   Letting the light breeze caress his cheek, Nikitas wondered wryly
what his own specific gravity was in the vastness of the world at
large. Did his presence at this particular time and place on the planet
add a little bit of weight, even of a microgram, to the cosmic
balance? Or, should he consider the possibility that his existence
might actually subtract from the universal scheme?
   Nikitas tried to think in a rational way about his dream. If he
reversed his viewpoint and examined it from the inside-out, so to
speak, what was the fate awaiting all those crowds, so alive in the
context of his dream, now that he was awake? Were they biding
their time in some phantom dimension as they patiently waited for
his return, to breathe life into them when he dreamed again?
   It was the ancient riddle of the dreaming butterfly, which came to
haunt him from time to time.
   He shivered involuntarily.
   Solipsism on one hand and the reality of human interaction
on the other--here was a koan to exercise the spirit.
   He pulled back from the window and sat upon his king-size bed.
There was no light in the room other than the glowing green dial of
the electric timepiece on the nightstand, tirelessly morphing away
unending series of digital seconds. Deciding he had no sleep, Nikitas
padded to his bedroom's bathroom. He splashed cold water into his
face, then rubbed it vigorously with a fresh towel.
   Clad only in his slacks, he opened gently the door and climbed
down the stairway, trying not to make any noise that might disturb
his uncle. Father Gregorios had gone early to bed after eating a light
meal, actually a salad and a slice of bread. Shortly afterwards Nikitas
had followed his example.
   The house was quiet. He went to the kitchen and turned on the
coffee machine, then took a seat by the table. In a minute hot water
started to drip through the filter. The soothing sound, enhanced
with the comforting aroma of fresh coffee, softened his tension. He
began to feel drowsy and rose before he changed his mind and
returned to bed. He poured himself a steaming cup of coffee and
wandered toward the back of the house, following the corridor that
led to the main storage room.
   At some point since since he had woken up by his dream, Nikitas
had grudgingly reached the conclusion that his uncle's unexpected
visit had affected him deeper than he had thought. If dreams
propelled to the surface of one's consciousness the hidden parts of
his personality, then his nightmare had revealed to him a number of
concerns he never suspected they existed.
   Toward the end of the renovation Nikitas had installed in his
bedroom a high-grade steel safe, in which he kept all his personal
documents and a set of DVD-ROM disks with a complete backup of
his computer archives. Acting on a whim upon his return from Cairo
he had not locked the parchments in his safe, but had placed them
instead within the corridor's false roof, just outside the storage
room.
   Was then his dream a warning of sorts issued from his subcon-
scious, trying to communicate his subliminal misgivings about the
hiding place he had chosen?
It was all idle speculation. Nikitas was too practical to base his
decisions in the lore of the subconscious.
   He set his cup on the floor and used a light aluminum ladder to
reach the ceiling. He pushed a tile back and felt with his hands the
empty space within. To his surprise, he was flooded by a wave of  
relief when his fingertips touched the fire-resistant steel-box.
   It was still there.
   And why shouldn't it?
   He pulled out the box, folded back the ladder, and went to his
desk in the living-room. He took several sips of warm coffee as he
gazed thoughtfully at it, then unlocked it.
   Since his arrival from Cairo this was the first time Nikitas had
paid any attention to the parchments. He adjusted the angle of his
desk lamp for better lighting and took them out of the box. Curiously,
they felt like old paper, though in reality they were made
of specially treated goatskin.
   He sat still for a minute, concentrating on his feeling of touch, as
if it could bridge the immense gap of time which separated him from
their author. He had a similar intuition when he had handled the
gold coins in the monastery, but this time any insight eluded him.
   Finally, shaking off his contemplative mood, he set out to work.
   He placed the first sheet of parchment on the glass-plate of his A3
flatbed scanner and ran the appropriate program in his computer.
From the menu he selected RGB Mode 24-bit, Resolution 800-dpi,
Descreen None, and pressed Enter. In a few seconds the scanning
process was complete. He followed the same procedure with the
other two sheets until all three images had appeared in the screen,
and saved them to the hard disk.
   Nikitas then proceeded to work on the digital images of the
parchments. He enlarged them each one in turn, and examined their
photographic details. The resolution was finer than a professional
photograph taken by a conventional camera, and as a research tool
the digital images were even better than the originals, because with
the help of proper imaging filters he could remove the accumulated
dust, their scratches, and the skin blemishes. When the enhance-
ment process was complete Nikitas would print them in tiles in his
color laser printer-then on those copies he would be able to work
freely.
   What was that? Work on the parchments? Surely not he-his
uncle maybe, if he was still interested in that. As for himself, this
whole process would be more than enough to alleviate any feelings
of guilt due to his own lack of interest for the manuscripts. After this
night he should sleep better, too; no more nightmares for any lost
parchments.
   After two hours of work in deep concentration Nikitas was
through with the digital enhancement of the parchments. He pressed
Ctrl+P and two minutes later picked the six A4 pages from his laser
printer. He pasted them together in pairs and placed them on his
desktop, side by side with the originals.
   "Exquisite! Here it is, resurrected right in front of my eyes, the
original document exactly as it would have been when Modestinus
penned his signature," Father Gregorios exclaimed over his
shoulder.
   Nikitas, deeply absorbed in his task, had not noticed his uncle
who had entered the room several minutes ago and had quietly
watched the last phase of his work. The sound of his voice jolted
him out of his seat.
   "Uncle? Aren't you sleeping?" He glanced at his watch: five to four.
   "It's four o'clock in the night!"
   "Oh, that's all right, Nikitas, I got permission from my bed. Like you
did, obviously," he answered jokingly.
   "You think it's funny?" Nikitas retorted. "You've just arrived
from a long trip and you need a lot of rest. Please, uncle, go back to
your room and we'll have a nice talk in the morning."
   "What you really mean, Nikitas, is that I-the poor, old man that I
am-I need a whole night's rest to recover from a two-hour flight,
while you're in perfect shape after marching and stomping all over
Crete for five days. Right?"
   "I had my car with me, uncle, remember?" Nikitas said
resignedly.
   "Yes, I'm sure you did," Father Gregorios said, as he affection-
ately patted him on the back. Then he pointed at the parchments
which lay beside the printout.
   "Here's the original and there's the clone. Now, both of these
documents contain the same message," he mused, "and yet only the
originals have the power to excite us, to fire our imagination with
pictures of a long-gone past... Did you ever wonder why, Nikitas?
It's as if the passage of time has lent them a fourth dimension which
speaks directly to our soul. It seems that this ancient piece of skin is
firmly anchored to the distant past and its mere presence helps us
grope our way back to it."
   Nikitas slowly bobbed his head. There was no need for him to
speak. His uncle could have been describing his own feelings. He
leaned back in his seat, letting his gaze wander in the half-darkness.
The white walls had taken a deep-bluish cast as they reflected the
light of the bank of monitors.
   He reached toward the Byzantine relic and caressed its smooth
surface with the tips of his fingers.
   Father Gregorios was sitting on a couch, lost in some distant
episode of his life. "I remember, Nikitas," he suddenly said, "a
question I asked once to a great French historian visiting the
monastery. He was a famous professor in Paris, at the University of
Sorbonne. My question was rather an observation, how he must
wish for a time machine that would enable him to travel back to all
the ancient civilizations he had been studying throughout his life. At
that time there was still fresh in my memory an article I had read,
reporting the findings of an informal survey among archaeologists,
to the effect that most of them would give their right hand to be able
to time-travel into the past."
   Father Gregorios stopped talking and Nikitas supposed he had
told the whole story, but as his thoughts started to wander around
the topic of time travel his uncle picked up again the thread of his
narrative.
   "His answer impressed me to such an extent, I can still quote it
almost to the letter: 'all things ancient, my friend Gregorios,' he had
replied, 'stir our innermost feelings because they were baptized in
the divine essence of lethe, of human forgetfulness. It's like a
shadow: you can call it the absence of memory, or you can acknowl-
edge that you're dealing with something bigger, something eternal.
And the larger the quantity of lethe, the greater the feelings of awe it
incites.'
   "I stared at him dumbfounded. With a simple phrase the
professor had helped me solve, sever if you wish, the Gordian knot
of my ignorance. And don't think, Nikitas, that at that time I was just
a naive, junior monk taking his first step toward knowledge; I had
already read most of the ancient writers, and along with my theolog-
ical studies I was also keeping track of the modern philosophical
trends.
   "But there's more.  
   "'And here's something, Gregorios, that you'll never read in any
scholarly paper,' the French savant had told me after a while. 'The
most powerful motive, intoxicating as a strong aphrodisiac, which
spurs a real archaeologist to devote a whole lifetime to fieldwork and
research is not the accumulation of knowledge, neither his academic
success. No, sir. It's using the ancient artifacts he discovers to delve
deeper into the mysteries of accumulated time or lethe.'"
Father Gregorios smiled wistfully and looked at his nephew.
   "You see, Nikitas, with a time machine my friend the professor






would no longer be an archaeologist but a simple tourist of the past.
There would be no more feelings of primeval awe in his travels, no
more wild excitement, no more shivers in the spine from the frisson
of novel discoveries."
   He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. The sound of a passing
truck reminded Nikitas that dawn was near. He put back the parch-
ments in the steel box and returned it in its hiding place under the
roof.
   Now that he had saved the parchments as digital images he felt
better. His uncle might be right about the magic and the charm of
the originals a scientist, though, could work equally well-if not
better-with the digitally enhanced copies.
   When he returned to the living room he saw that his uncle had
opened the front door and was standing on the threshold. Outside
the sky toward the east had taken a lighter cast but the rich residen-
tial neighborhood was still very quiet. It would remain so well into
the morning.
   "I need your help, Nikitas," Father Gregorios said without
turning back. He was gazing at the poplar trees, their foliage turned
silvery by the light of the sodium lamps in the street.
   "What for, uncle?"
   "My initial plans were quite different but the situation has
changed radically by several unpredictable events. As things stand, I
don't have the time to search for people I can trust." 
   The pre-dawn chill forced him back. He closed the door and
returned to his seat, waving at Nikitas to sit opposite him. When
both were comfortable he sketched out the events of the previous
weeks, which led to his untimely departure from the monastery.
   "You realize, of course, that from the moment the secret was out
I had no other choice but to come to Greece," he finished.
   "Uncle," Nikitas said, "you don't need me to tell you that my
home is your home for as long as you wish. And if there's anything
else I can do, you only have to ask for it."
   He stopped speaking, as he tried to choose his words for what he
was about to say. He didn't want to give Father Gregorios the false
impression that he was indifferent to his concerns.
   "Still, you should know that in a few days I'll be immersed in an
enormous workload," Nikitas pressed on. "You said it yourself that
my vacation was over. Tomorrow starts my most important project
ever and I won't have a moment to spare for anything else."
   Father Gregorios did not immediately respond. He needed
Nikitas's help for what he was planning, but he was also certain that
deeply within his heart Nikitas desired the same.
   "If you're so crystal-clear about your true wishes, Nikitas, what
were you doing down here with the parchments in the midst of the
night?" he asked.
   "Listen, uncle, the fact that I spared a little time to prepare a copy
from the originals doesn't cancel what I've just said!" Nikitas
protested. He suddenly realized that his uncle had not gone into any
specifics. "And now that I think of it, you still haven't told me the
kind of help that you need," he added.
   Father Gregorios smiled to himself with the dilemma Nikitas
faced. He wanted the best of both worlds-he wanted to help, but
without disrupting his schedule. The old monk leaned toward him
conspiratorially.
   "Listen to me, Nikitas," he said in a low voice, "something's
stirring inside of you, and that something is already taking decisions
on your behalf. Soon, you'll be aware of it."
   Nikitas looked at him puzzled but said nothing.
   Father Gregorios rose and stretched himself. A warm, rosy feeling of
hope suddenly seized him, hugging him sweetly for several moments.
It was a feeling that came to him only at the break of dawn.
   It provided him with a fresh supply of hope at the beginning of a
new day. A magic pillow to rest upon... for a couple of hours, anyway.
   "Let's go and get some sleep before the sun rises up," Father
Gregorios said briskly, and started toward the stairway. When he
reached the first step he paused.
   "Oh, concerning the matter of your help, haven't you guessed it
yet, Nikitas? It's simple. We're going to search for the lost
manuscript! We may have to move heaven and earth as we go
looking for Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, but rest assured, my
son, we shall find it."


Chapter 13
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           July 22


When he entered the kitchen, the first thing that caught his
attention was the note on the table. On a piece of paper
folded in two he recognized the casual script of his uncle.

                                ***

          Nikitas,
          Nikos Danezis, the journalist, will present his new book in
          Hilton this evening.
          The event starts at 19:30.
          Come at your convenience. I'll meet you there.
          Your uncle.

                                ***

   Nikitas stared at the note for several moments, mentally
summing up his day. This morning he had gone to his office to
allocate the various tasks to his associates, in regard with the
Biomedics Ltd project. He had skipped lunch and worked straight
through in the afternoon, and after ten hours of intense, creative
activity, he was exhausted but complete. On the ride home his only
thoughts had been of a relaxing shower and a quick meal, followed
by a couple of hours of rest in his chaise-longue. Obviously, after his
uncle's note he would have to take a rain check on the last item.
   He checked the time in the clock on the wall; the presentation
would begin in twenty minutes, so if he moved fast he could be there
in time for the finis. He was tired but curious, too. During the day
Danezis's name had been mentioned more than once by his assis-
tants, who had commented on the political excitement his new book
had stirred.
   Still, Nikitas could not understand why his uncle had wanted to
attend the presentation of a politically motivated autobiography;
until now he had never evinced any special interest for Greek
politics.
   And more to the point, why did he need him there?
   He shrugged, unable to come up with an answer. For the time
being his shower had a higher priority, and after that whatever
scraps of food he would be able to hunt down in the refrigerator.

                                ***

Nikitas parked his convertible a block away from the Hilton and
waited a few seconds for its top to fold back. Only an inch or two
higher than the skyline, the early evening sun was bathing the cubist  
apartment buildings of Athens in a light-sepia color. This, and the
leisurely pace of both pedestrians and vehicles, were lending
Vassilissis Sofias Avenue the feel of a faded pre-war postcard, much
like those in his father's collections.
   The large conference hall at the Hilton was packed to capacity.
Many Greek celebrities and other influential public figures had
rushed to register their presence and pay their respects to the
veteran of political journalism, who in his new book presented the
last ten years of Greek political history in a refined, autobiograph-
ical mode.
   Notwithstanding the quality of the book's contents, the political
pundits had had a field day in analyzing and explaining the motives
of the author, namely why he had picked the politically idle
summertime season to release his book. Many views had been set
forth, all agreeing on a common point: this was not a journalistic but
a political event.
   As Nikitas walked down the right aisle alongside the wall, he
kept glancing toward the seated crowd, trying to spot his uncle. The
event was coming to a close, he could see that. Straight ahead from
his elevated position upon a raised platform, entrenched behind a
thick barrier of microphones and tape recorders, the author was
taking questions from the audience. He was flanked by his
publisher, a man in his early forties with a puffed-up face and a
yearly income considerably higher than his legitimate business
warranted, a couple of smooth-faced public relations advisors, and
several close friends, all of them members of the Greek Parliament.
   Father Gregorios was sitting in a first-row seat. He noticed
Nikitas and waved at him, pointing meaningfully to the empty seat
beside him.
   "You came right on time," he commented when Nikitas had
joined him.
   Nikitas shrugged his shoulders.
   "What I meant was," Father Gregorios continued with a smile,
   "that if you'd arrived earlier, you'd have been extremely bored by  
now--if not worse."
   "What's worse than getting bored in a situation like this?"
   "Getting angry. At the nonsense of some people."
   "Is it really that bad?"
   "Well, I didn't expect it to be any better," Father Gregorios
replied. "For starters, is there anyone who actually believes it's
possible to speak about political events before at least a hundred
years have elapsed? Who doubts that anything written or said sooner
than that is simply political propaganda in disguise?"
   "Some would agree, others would consider it a radical view,"
Nikitas observed. "They'd say we got a moral obligation to involve
ourselves in everyday politics, at last by expressing our opinions.
But in principle I agree with you, though I haven't lost my faith at
the quality their work and the truthfulness of certain courageous
investigative reporters."
   Father Gregorios nodded in agreement. "Sure, there are those,
too. But tell me, Nikitas, how many times have you seen such a
reporter presenting his new book at the Hilton?"
   "Then, why are we here?"
   "You'll see. They're almost through now."
   Ten minutes later Danezis thanked his audience and the hall
began to empty, although several of his closer acquaintances
approached the platform to congratulate him for his work. Father
Gregorios was among the first to head for the exit, opening a path
through the crowd with Nikitas closely trailing him.
   They were halfway through the room when Father Gregorios
slackened his pace and approached a tall, heavyset man as the latter
was squeezing past the last seat of his row. He stood in front of him,
blocking his way.
   "Demosthenes, my dear friend, how many years have passed
since we last met?" Father Gregorios nearly shouted to make himself
heard in the din of the crowd.
   Demosthenes Klonis, a member of Parliament and former
minister in a coalition government between a rightist and a centrist
party, looked up in surprise. Although five years younger than
Gregorios, his all-white bushy beard was giving him the air of a
good-natured scholar.
   "By gosh! Is that really you, Gregorios!" He laughed as he vigor-
ously shook Father Gregorios's proffered hand. "Well, these days I'm
hardly surprised at anything, and yet... I never thought I'd see you
here. From the Sinai desert to the Athens Hilton! Quite a step, my
man. You live by extremes, Gregorios-you aim either too high or
too low."
   "Certainly, my friend, though we two never quite agreed where's
the high and what's the low. Or am I wrong, Demosthenes?" Father
Gregorios counterattacked. He grinned and patted Nikitas on the
back. "And this is my nephew, Nikitas, an accomplished architect."
   "The son of Themistocles, right? Well, I can't say he resembles
you in any way, though he might," Klonis teased Father Gregorios.
He was referring to the one-sided, adolescent infatuation of
Gregorios for Miranda, Nikitas's mother, before the war, before she
was married to his brother Themistocles.
   "I think we're blocking the way here. Let us move on," Father
Gregorios said hastily, slightly embarrassed by Klonis's remarks. "We
can go to Hilton's coffee shop Byzantino for a cup of tea, if you
wish," he proposed.
Demosthenes Klonis consulted his watch and nodded.

                                ***






   "Let's go," he said, "but I can only stay for half an hour. I have an
appointment in my office, which I'd rather not cancel." He gestured
to the police officer assigned to him for security reasons to inform
his driver of the delay, and set off hurriedly.
   "I'm not surprised in the least! There are still a couple of years
until the next election, but you Demosthenes were always in for an
early start," Father Gregorios repaid his jest in kind, and quickened
his pace to keep up with the loping gait of his friend.

                                ***

   "I have a hypothetical question for you, Demosthenes," Father
Gregorios said to Klonis. He took a generous sip from his cup and
smacked his lips in satisfaction. Byzantino was crowded and it had
been a stroke of good luck that they found a table which had just
emptied. A polite waitress had taken their order, shortly returning
with Greek coffee for Father Gregorios, a glass of cola with crushed
ice for Nikitas, and a cappuccino for their distinguished guest.
   "I confess the thought has crossed my mind, Gregorios, that our
meeting couldn't be an entirely fortuitous occurrence," Klonis
observed. "Which you just now confirmed. No, no need for a
protest," he joked raising his hand.
   Father Gregorios smiled, but said nothing.
   Klonis glanced around the room, spotting acquaintances here
and there. When he had taken his measure of the place he brought
out the silver case with his expensive Havana cigars, and passed it
on to his companions. They declined politely. He took a cigar for
himself and lit it with economical motions. He inhaled deeply and
puffed away a ring of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling.
   "Well, Gregorios, I'm at your service," he said, turning his gaze
to his old friend. "Tell me, what do you need?"
   Father Gregorios cut right into the subject. "You served as
Minister of Foreign Affairs for two years," he said.
   "Almost. Twenty-two months to be exact."
   "That will do. I presume you possess both the knowledge and
the experience to answer my question, which is this: if--and
I'm stressing the hypothetical mode--if it was revealed that
sometime during his lifetime Mohammed, the founder of Islam, had
officially disavowed the truth of his religious revelations, what do
you think the reaction of the Islamic world would be?"
   Klonis didn't answer immediately. He raised the cup to his lips
and took a few sips. Then he leaned comfortably back to his seat,
savoring in his mind Father Gregorios's peculiar question. He
enjoyed playing challenging intellectual games, more so when they
were related to his field of expertise, namely politics.
   A group of foreign executives was making a fuss, as they began
to rearrange their seats in a nearby table. The evenings Byzantino
doubled as a restaurant, and they had come for a light meal before
their scheduled tour of Athens-by-night. Klonis, used to thinking
clearly in noisy surroundings, was not bothered in the least.
   "First of all, I cannot see the reason why Mohammed would do
such a thing. Why should he spent a lifetime at building an intricate
religious and social structure, only to demolish it in the end,
especially when the new religion was firmly rooted in the largest
part of the region we today call Saudi Arabia?
   "But there's more than that. Such an act would be suicidal, and I
mean it both literally and figuratively. Personally, I doubt he would
be able-I mean in a physical sense-to do something like that. I'm
certain his closest associates would employ all means at their
disposal to dissuade him from such a move."
   He tapped absentmindedly his cigar in the crystal ashtray.
   "Anyway, the militant character of his religion was alien to such a
decision," he added. "As you very well know, Gregorios, by the year
632 AD Islam had mutated from a purely religious movement to a
socio-political one, with a well-organized standing army that saw
action only too often. Suffice it to say that the financial resources of
the fledgling movement were not based in voluntary donations on
the part of its followers, but on plundering the passing caravans. The
phenomenon was so common they had a name for it: they called the
attacks razzias."
   Father Gregorios felt his pulse quicken, as Klonis's observations
fired in his mind a sequence of new associations. He knew that
Mohammed had died unexpectedly in 632 AD as he was preparing
a military campaign. All the Arab chroniclers of the time, however,
had treated the death of their Prophet in a vague and brief fashion,
attributing it to a sudden disease.
   Wasn't it strange that such an important event, the death of
Islam's founder, had not deserved more than a passing mention?
How did that compare with the thousands of volumes written about
the death of Christ? Where lay the truth?
   In addition, if one accepted as a working hypothesis the premise  
that Mohammed had not died of natural causes, how did this fit the
portrayal of Omar as a murderer in the manuscript of Modestinus?
   However, there was a catch here: Omar, Islam's second caliph,
had succeeded Mohammed two years after his death; what had
transpired in the intervening period?
   Father Gregorios made a mental note to put to order with the
first opportunity his loose thoughts. Right now, though, his discus-
sion with Klonis took precedence.
   The exchange between the two men had intrigued Nikitas, who
listened attentively but remained silent. He was barely acquainted
with the specifics of the topic under discussion. Moreover, he
wanted to leave to his uncle the choice of disclosing to Klonis the
discovery of Modestinus's letter.
   "True, only too true," Father Gregorios agreed. "Still, let's leave
alone Mohammed's motives for the moment and let's take for
granted, hypothetically of course, his renunciation of the Islamic
teachings. What I'm really interested in, Demosthenes, is the socio-
political dimension of the matter. What would be the probable
reaction of the Islamic world in such an eventuality, in such a
scenario, if you will?"
   For the second time Klonis speculated briefly on what lay behind
that question. Despite his being a monk and a priest, Gregorios
wasn't the kind of man to spend time in idle theoretical discussions.
No, his friend was holding back something, something that had
launched his interest for Islam and things political. And, if his
intuition didn't entirely fail him, the unexpected presence of his
nephew gave a fresh dimension to the whole matter.
   Looking at them now he could spot in their eyes the intense
interest, with which they were waiting for his answer. Should he
stoke their fire? Well, why not? He would explain to them the
parameters of the subject, because he trusted Gregorios implicitly
that he would never attempt any foolishness.
   "All right," Klonis continued, "but first let's clarify what we mean
by 'Islamic world.' During my time in the Ministry, the Directorate
for Bilateral Affairs was planning for various political eventualities,
or scenarios as you correctly labeled them, by taking into account
three fundamental parameters. Those were the country's under
consideration political and military leadership, its religious leader-
ship, and its populace. This applies to Muslim countries, of course,"
he reminded them.
   "There were also other factors taken into account, but they could
all neatly be classified under the term special circumstances of the
country in question. For example, no meaningful comparison can be
made between Pakistan and Saudi Arabia as regards the influence of  
the Muslim element in the policy-making process, despite the fact
that both countries belong to the Islamic world. Don't you agree?
   "On the other hand, we have to appraise each country's specific
geopolitical significance, which can broken down to its historical
record, its political practices, its natural resources, its position on
the map, and so on. These parameters make up the raw materials
which are handled by specially trained analysts, heavily relying on
expert computer systems and massive databases to create plausible
political scenarios."
   "Is this true of our country, too?" Nikitas asked.
   "Oh, yes, it's also true of Greece," answered Klonis. "Don't let the
standard propaganda mislead you, that our policy-makers are inade-
quately informed. They're not. I can assure you from personal
experience that nowadays any administration possesses powerful
analytical tools, extensive information resources, and a firm grasp of
the international political setting. That's basics. What comes
between this point of departure, though, and a final political
decision, well, that's another matter altogether."
   He left his cigar in the ashtray and took out a small notebook
from his jacket. He tore off a page and with his fountain pen drew
three rectangles side-by-side in its top. Inside the first he jotted the
words Political Leadership, inside the second Religious Leadership,
and within the third People. He looked up at Nikitas and Father
Gregorios, who were observing him closely.
   "Setting aside the secondary factors I mentioned, let's limit our
discussion to these three, since they refer to the most powerful
forces likely to react to the kind of stimulus you described,
Gregorios.
   "First we have the political leadership. Needless to say, a state's
political leadership never reacts in an impulsive or sentimental way,"
he grinned. "It acts according to its integrity, either for the interests
of the people it represents, or... for its own."
   "I suppose, Mr. Klonis, you're referring to non-democratic
regimes, since a democratically elected leadership represents the
public will by definition," Nikitas interrupted. He felt on firmer
ground, now that the discussion had entered a more familiar topic.
   "Sadly, Nikitas, I'm speaking of all political systems," Klonis
replied with a shrug. "Theoretically, this is a valid objection you
mentioned, but I'm sure you know that such concepts belong to the
sphere of the deontological, the should-be, which seldom corre-
sponds with its ontological counterpart, namely the what-is."
Nikitas did not comment, as he waited for their guest to go on.
   "You know," Klonis continued expounding one of his pet
subjects for discussion, "my experience in politics has taught me
that ninety-five times out of a hundred, political leaderships identify
with the current status quo, whichever this may be. This is a proven
historical fact, gentlemen! Look at the most radical revolutions of
human history and observe what they've brought down and what
they have left untouched... If you do, you'll realize that during the
past three millennia very few things were actually changed in a
fundamental way."
   He picked up his forgotten cigar and turned it mechanically in
his fingers, as Father Gregorios and Nikitas watched him quietly.
   "So, when the cream of all the new ideas continuously gets
caught in the filter usually referred to as the Establishment," Klonis
resumed, "you can imagine the reaction of a political leadership to
such a subversive concept.
   "First line of defense: attempt at its suppression, at a cover-up of
the whole matter. Second line? Denial and ridicule. Third line and
onward-well, put your imagination to work..."
   "A brief parenthesis, Mr. Klonis," Nikitas interjected. "Has there been
a Greek government that operated in the way you just described?"
   Klonis gave him a melancholic smile, slowly shaking his head.
There was a bitter dimension to Nikitas's question, as certain
memories from his political career would attest. Sadly, in this case he
was obligated to answer as a shrewd politician, rather than as an
honest political person.
   "Letting aside the personal motivations and intentions of all
persons involved, all I can say is that Greek foreign policy was never
independent enough or effective enough to operate in this way.
Concerning the rest of our government's activities, well, I only
served as Minister of Foreign Affairs-how should I know?" he said
with a disingenuous glint in his eyes.
   "The truth is that until this moment politics didn't rank high in
my interests," Nikitas admitted. "What intrigues me, though, is why
political argumentation such as yours isn't being taken up by the
Greek media."
   Klonis cast a meaningful glance at Father Gregorios who nodded
back, and undertook to explain a basic fact of political life to
Nikitas.
   "What my dear friend has shared with us, Nikitas, is purely his
private opinion. You should have been aware of the fact that the
opinions expressed by statesmen in private discussions very rarely
correspond with their public positions." Without allowing Nikitas
time to comment, Father Gregorios pointed with his finger at the
second rectangle Klonis had sketched.
   "Let's proceed to the next factor," he urged him.
   "Come now, Gregorios, this part belongs to your province!"
Klonis said in mock-protest. "Besides, I think we've started to gener-
alize, which has increased our risk of reaching false conclusions."
   "All the same, I would appreciate your opinion," the old monk
insisted.
   "Very well, then. My premises are based on the concept of human
nature, which seems to have remained unchanged for thousands of
years." He took the sheet of paper in his hands and gave it a cursory
glance. "What common characteristic do the first two rectangles
share? Obviously, the word leadership. By definition leadership
exercises authority. It has power, therefore it runs the risk of losing
it." He looked at both of them. "Agreed?"
   They nodded in agreement.
   "So, here's my opinion in a nutshell," Klonis continued. "I'm
certain that if the Muslim religious leadership felt that it was in
danger, it would side up with the political leadership to achieve its
primary objective, namely of concealing or ridiculing the threat."
   Father Gregorios said nothing for several moments. Nikitas was
thinking furiously, as he tried to assimilate Klonis's lesson of applied
politics and reconcile it with his former beliefs. It wasn't an easy
task.
   Suddenly Klonis broke into laughter.
   "What's the matter?" Father Gregorios asked him, smiling thinly.
   "Nothing really, Gregorios. I just remembered the anecdote of the
man in the street in a New Year's Eve, who's approached by a TV
reporter and asked for a wish in view of the coming year. The man
looks up at the sky and answers with a shake of his head: 'Oh God,
please, let our leaders leave us alone!'"
   The anecdote was thrown into the discussion with a perfect sense
of timing, and it helped to dispel the accumulated tension. The
former minister let a few more moments pass in silence, then leaned
over the table and drew two oblique lines under the rectangles,
shaping a capital V.
   "So, according to my analysis we anticipate a coordinated
negative response from these two factors or parameters," he said
pointing at his sketch. "Now, let's move on to the third parameter.
The People." He looked them with sparkling eyes. "And that's the
slippery part in the scenario-making business, the part where the
projections, the predictions, and the extrapolations may fail. Not all,
mind you, not most of them, but certainly a statistically significant
number of them to make a difference. As a result, one should
exercise caution when evaluating a newly created scenario. If I were
to use poetic diction, I'd say that the people are a mighty river,
which many have attempted to tame and contain only to have it
realign its course and roar back at them from another direction."
   "But Mr. Klonis, you yourself implied that with the support of
powerful computers it's possible to predetermine the public's
reactions," observed Nikitas.
   "And so it is, Nikitas. Such estimates are being made routinely in
all the decision-making centers of the globe. The major problem,
however, lies elsewhere."
   "Where?"
   "The biggest problem, or rather the biggest headache of all
aspiring prophets, is the so-called Adverse Randomness
Phenomenon or ARP, a shorthand for all non-predictable, totally
unexpected attitude changes in the public due to apparently
insignificant events. Let me repeat it for emphasis: due to apparently
insignificant events.
   "What does this mean? I'll explain. If we study humanity's histor-
ical record, time and again we come across insignificant events that
for some reason or other were inordinately magnified in the collec-
tive awareness of the people, with the result that they eventually
functioned as a switch of sorts, sparking sequences of extremely
important social and political developments. Simply said, they had
wonderful or evil consequences, depending on the observer's
viewpoint.
   "Therefore, while the reaction of a specific social group at a
particular point-in-time t can be, more or less, safely predicted, we
can be less sure of t+1- of the next point in time-even less of t+2,
and so on because the mere passage of time gives rise to an infinity
of small-scale events which may prove unpredictable catalysts of
primary ones."
   "All this is fine and well, Demosthenes," Father Gregorios inter-
jected, "but you still haven't said anything about the third factor."
   "I was coming to that. Taking into account the parameter People
in its Islamic context, I would say that the probabilities are equally
split. In other words, I there's a fifty percent chance that the people
of an Islamic country would follow the dictates of their political and
religious leaderships, and this would be the end of the matter.
   "There's an equal chance, however, that their religious passions
would be wildly inflamed and everything would burn down like dry
grass."
   Father Gregorios saw Klonis steal a glance at his watch and
nodded in understanding.
   "We're leaving shortly, Demosthenes," he said, "but first tell me
this: what, do you think, might push the public opinion towards one
or the other direction?"
   "That's exactly the point I was trying to make, Gregorios. Both on
theoretical and practical grounds this can't be determined. Call it free
will, or the indeterminacy principle, or whatever-it is purely a
matter of your personal worldview.
   "But I would go one step further. The catalytic event I told you
about won't necessarily be purposeful. The greatest mystery in the
scenario-making business is that a world-shaking change can have
its root to an apparently random, even unobserved event. If I say
that the catalyst can be a strangely shaped cloud or a minor traffic
violation, don't rush to mock me. That's the essence of the concept
indeterminable event."
   He rose and Nikitas asked discreetly the waitress for the check.
   "There's something more, Gregorios, which has to do with the
workings of probability theory," Klonis added as an afterthought. He
smiled at Nikitas. "As an architect, Nikitas must be aware of it. I said
earlier that there's a fifty percent chance the Islamic world will react
in a specific way and a fifty percent chance it will react in the
opposite, right? Actually there's a subtler interpretation of that state-  
ment..."
   "Yes? How?" Father Gregorios said expectantly.
   "It could also mean that with a certainty factor of one hundred
percent, half of the entire Muslim population on the planet-some
four hundred million people-would rise against their political and
religious leaderships... Of course, what specific form their uprising
might take, that's another matter which we may have the opportu-
nity of discussing sometime in the future."
   They left their table and headed for the exit. As they walked
through the crowded Byzantino, Klonis took Father Gregorios aside
and spoke to him in a low voice.
   "If you wish, I can recommend an expert, a trustworthy analyst
who might be of help in whatever you're involved with."
Father Gregorios considered his offer for a few moments. "Thanks, but
not yet," he answered cryptically, as he escorted Klonis to his black car.


Chapter 14
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           July 22


When they returned home Father Gregorios offered to prepare
dinner for both of them and went immediately to the kitchen.
Nikitas walked out to the veranda, where his uncle shortly returned
with a deep bowl of Greek rustic salad, a jar with aromatic olives
from Kalamata, several slices of wheat bread, and a jug of apple
juice. Nikitas helped him to lay the table and they ate with gusto.
   After a while Nikitas picked up the remote control to check what
the TV channels were offering, but soon he abandoned his quest for
an interesting program.
   "It seems that during the summer all the TV stations go through
their own kind of hibernation," he commented disappointed.
   He turned off the TV set and clicked on the stereo unit,
wondering what sort of music would fit the moment. After a brief
consideration he decided to try classical music although the
occasion might call for something lighter.
   Well, not exactly, Nikitas mentally corrected himself. In view of
Demosthenes Klonis's ominous warnings any kind of music would
be considered light enough for the occasion.
   He pressed a few buttons in the stereo remote and the first
smooth sounds of a string orchestra started to flow from the veranda
speakers, ponderously coalescing into Bach's fifth Brandenburg
concert. The complex musical threads filled up the open space all
the way to the depths of the garden, where a line of thin pillars with
elegant light bulbs on their tops was casting white light on the
surrounding trees.
The music was exquisite, but Nikitas needed to talk to his uncle.
After a few minutes he turned down reluctantly the volume.
   "That was good, the music I mean," Father Gregorios said.
   "Sometimes I wonder whether Bach had a Byzantine streak in his
blood-culturally speaking of course, not in a strictly musicological
sense."
   "Hmm, that's an intriguing thought, uncle. For my part, I'd love
to hear his Brandenburg concertos performed in Aghia Sophia of
Constantinople," Nikitas said. He paused for several moments, then
changed abruptly the subject. "I'd like your opinion about our
earlier discussion with Klonis. I found his analysis very persuasive,
though it's hard for me to accept the fact that our manuscript incor-
porates such a terrible weapon."
   Father Gregorios put down his fork and looked up at him.
   "Klonis has an exceptional mind, a straight character, and a great
experience which is buttressed by two academic degrees, one in law
and the other in mathematics. In addition, he's a self-made man who
got his education at a time when a high-school degree was consid-
ered by most people in Greece a solid academic asset."
   He wiped his lips with a paper napkin and finished off the rest of
his apple juice. "It's my firm belief that during his two years in the
Ministry he promoted the foreign affairs of this country by a factor
of ten."
   "How do you manage to keep abreast of all the latest develop-
ments in Greece, uncle?" Nikitas wondered.
   "The Sinai is not the Antarctica, Nikitas!" Father Gregorios
laughed good-naturedly. He reached in a pocket for his third
cigarette and struck a match. "To return to your previous question,
however, I disagree with your description of Modestinus's letter as a
lethal weapon."
He puffed out a small cloud of smoke and stood up to stretch his
legs.
   "Is it better, uncle, if I call it an important asset, or even a major
negotiating advantage?" Nikitas asked with a grin.
   "Listen, Nikitas," Father Gregorios said ignoring his remarks,
   "weapons presuppose or entail wars, and wars have absolutely
nothing in common with our Christian faith. As a matter of fact,
they should have nothing to do with any religious faith."
   "If that's so, then the unbroken chain of savage wars in the course
of millennia only proves that humans throughout history had
nothing in common with faith or religion, despite everyone's assur-
ances to the contrary," Nikitas retorted.
   "There's always hope for the better," Father Gregorios replied
calmly. "In the meantime, think of this: what portion of the popula-
tion is taken up by the various groups, which use war as a tool to
promote their own illicit interests? I should think a lot less than the
merely negligible. Right? So, think again about the wars and of those
responsible for them. Now, concerning you so-called weapon, let me
remind you, Nikitas, that our manuscript only refers to Mohammed's
Protocol of Catechesis-we don't possess the original document."
   "Which probably has turned to dust many centuries ago," Nikitas
said.
   "No! The original exists. It exists, and we'll find it," Father
Gregorios said heatedly. "What would be the meaning of the
discovery of Modestinus's letter if the original Protocol of Catechesis
were destroyed, or if it was beyond our powers to find it and restore
it to Christendom?"
   He turned his eyes toward the sky as if searching for a sign, for
the divine affirmation of his unwavering faith, but saw nothing more
than the city's yellowish afterglow. How he missed the astral dome of
the desert! When he gazed at the myriads of stars from his cell in the
monastery, he always felt he was witnessing the second day of
Creation.
   "That's a theological argument, uncle," Nikitas observed.
   "The only valid in this situation," Father Gregorios retorted
tersely.
   "Okay-let's assume that we do find it. Of what use would it be
to you?"
   Father Gregorios crashed his cigarette in the ashtray and came to
stand in front of Nikitas. "Of what use is glass of water to the thirsty,
Nikitas? The Orthodox Church thirsts mightily for the Truth. Is this
not enough of a reason? Should we also aim at practical results? But
even seeing things under your utilitarian viewpoint, is there a nobler
result that the triumph of Truth? For my part, I believe that every
time a single person in the world partakes of the Truth, the whole
world instantly rises to a purer level."
   Father Gregorios drew close a chair and sat down, leaving Nikitas
in an emotional turmoil. From the moment his uncle had arrived to
Athens, he felt he was being propelled into a maelstrom of unpre-
dictable events, spiraling with each passing moment inexorably
toward its unknown center. He had unintentionally walked into an
adventure which possessed its own remorseless logic, and more than
once he had felt the need for a short break to straighten things up,
to move to the driver's seat and grab the wheel. However, everything
kept happening so fast, he didn't even understand what this
metaphor meant-even if he did, where would he drive the vehicle
of his life?
   As he listened to his uncle describing his grand vision, a vision
so far beyond the restricted conceptual system of everyday life
which is structured by the formula: work+wages+wants, Nikitas
sensed a half-forgotten feeling stirring deeply within him.
It was a strange feeling, but at the same time so familiar...
And then it surfaced up to consciousness and he wondered how
he could have forgotten it, the peculiar excitement of an impending
discovery, the unfathomable optimism of creativity.
Oh, yes, he had felt it before, but not for some time.  
It was this inexplicable blend of explosive energy which several
times in the past had commandeered his hand and created on his
behalf what the other people called his masterpieces.
Armed with this insight, Nikitas quickly made his decision.
In the last couple of days he had organized his professional
affairs, assigning all the preparatory tasks of the Biomedics Ltd
project to his associates. His own creative work, which would be
demanding his physical presence at the office, would begin later.
Perhaps after a month. There was plenty of time until then.
   "All right, uncle," he said. "We'll start our search for the original
document of Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, but under one
condition," he warned and waited for Father Gregorios's questioning
look before going on.
   "Before making any moves whatsoever, we'll verify the age of the
parchments that you discovered in St. Catherine's. If they really are
so old as their author asserts, then we begin. Agreed?"
Father Gregorios smiled widely and offered him his hand.
   "Agreed!" His eyes were sparkling from conviction.


Chapter 15
           BOSTON, USA: GCS HQ.
           July 22


Seventy five hundred kilometers to the northwest of Athens the
day was nearing its end. In downtown Boston the elderly propri-
etor of the Indian arts-and-crafts shop in 167A Newbury Street
closed it a quarter of an hour earlier, and hurried to a boutique down
the road to try an outfit she had spotted earlier that morning.
   She waved cheerfully at the uniformed janitor and dashed off.
The white-haired septuagenarian tipped his hat, then went inside
and locked the building's door. He nodded to his younger assistant,
who immediately proceeded to update the log in his computer
terminal.
   Three minutes later the officer on duty in the Department of
Global Communications was alerted by a warning sound, accompa-
nied by a flashing icon in the screen of his monitor. Shortly, they
were replaced by a set of three horizontally tiled windows with the
following message blinking in the uppermost one:

>>>>>>>>>>> CONNECTING... CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.
>>>>>>>>>>> REMOTE LOCATION: ATHENS, GREECE.
>>>>>>>>>>> LOCAL TIME: 23:36'

   The communications officer pressed a red button in his console
to alert the Greek translator on standby, who was taking a nap in his
bunk. The shifts of the communications personnel were following a
4-hour pattern, with those not on active duty relaxing in private
booths.
   The Greek burst into the office and rushed to his workstation,
taking his place in front of a modified stenographer's keyboard that
was connected with the computer. His screen was identical to the
one monitored by the communications officer. All incoming analog
signals were first digitized, then automatically processed by the
computer and stored in magnetic and optical disks for later retrieval,
with the exception of those flagged as extremely important commu-
nications which required a human operator's live feedback.
   The operator had just put on his pair of professional earphones
when the text in the topmost window in his screen scrolled down to
report the caller's ID:

>>>>>>>>>>> DIALING (ORIGIN): (30-1) 6900325
>>>>>>>>>>> ATHENS-GR TELEPHONE DIRECTORY ENTRY:
            "NIKITAS TH. PALEOLOGOU"

At the same time in the middle window appeared the target
number:

>>>>>>>>>>> DIALING (TARGET): (30-1) 7458000
>>>>>>>>>>> ATHENS-GR TELEPHONE DIRECTORY ENTRY:
            NEWSPAPER "THE DAILY PRESS"

   The Greek operator heard four rings before the call was answered
by a female voice. The alert AUDIO RECORDING started to blink on
his screen and he began transcribing the exchange to its original
language. The Greek text was automatically translated into English,
and both appeared in two running columns on the bottom window.

                                ***

          SPEAKER >1: DAILY PRESS, MAY I HELP YOU?
          SPEAKER >2: EXTENSION 501 PLEASE.
          SPEAKER >1: PLEASE HOLD.
          >>>>>>>>>>> PAUSE. ELAPSED TIME: 06 SECONDS
          SPEAKER >3: HELLO.
          SPEAKER >2: HI, NIKOS. HOW'RE YOU DOING?
          SPEAKER >3: WHO'S THIS?
          SPEAKER >2: HEY, COME ON. MAKE A LUCKY GUESS MR. ANGELOU!
          SPEAKER >3: HMM, I GUESS I CAN'T...
          SPEAKER >2: NICE PUN. ALL RIGHT, NIKOS, THATSS ME, NIKITAS.
          SPEAKER >3: NIKITAS, AS IN "NIKITAS PALEOLOGOU"? WELL, HELLO THERE!
                      LONG TIME NO SEE, MY FRIEND! HOW ARE YOU?
          SPEAKER >2: JUST FINE, THANKS. HOW'S THE PAPER?
          SPEAKER >3: WE'RE ON THE RIGHT TRACK, GROWING UP FAST. HARD
                      WORK, THOUGH. WHICH REMINDS ME, NIKITAS,WHEN WILL
                      WE DO THE FEATURE WE TALKED ABOUT?
          SPEAKER >2: WELL, WE'VE JUST STARTED WORK ON THAT PROJECT. GIVE ME
                      A MONTH OR SO.
          SPEAKER >3: OKAY.
          SPEAKER >2: LISTEN, NIKOS, I NEED A FAVOR.
          SPEAKER >3: SURE, WHATEVER.
          SPEAKER >2: ACTUALLY, IT'S RELATED TO THE PROJECT YOU MENTIONED.
                      I NEED EXPERT HELP FROM A BYZANTINOLOGIST, A UNIVERSITY
                      PROFESSOR OR SOMEONE VERY KNOWLEDGEABLE. YOU GOT ANYONE IN
                      MIND?
          SPEAKER >3: HOLD ON A SEC.
          >>>>>>>>>>> PAUSE. ELAPSED TIME: 12 SECONDS
          SPEAKER >3: ARE YOU STILL THERE, NIKITAS?
          SPEAKER >2: SURE.
          SPEAKER >3: OKAY, I GOT IT. HIS NAME IS APOSTOLOS
                      NIKOLOPOULOS, HE'S A FULL-TIME PROFESSOR AT THE
                      UNIVERSITY OF ATHENS. HE COVERED THE BYZANTINE
                      ERA FOR US IN A SPECIAL ABOUT THE DEVELOPMENT OF
                      THE GREEK CIVILIZATION IN THE AEGEAN. I KNOW HIM
                      PERSONALLY. HE'S VERY ASTUTE.
          SPEAKER >2: PERFECT. WHERE CAN I FIND HIM, NIKOS?
          SPEAKER >3: YOUR LUCK HOLDS. HE WAS HAVING HIS VACATION IN
                      THE ISLAND OF ASTIPALAIA, BUT AT THIS MOMENT
                      HE'S IN ATHENS. ACTUALLY, I TALKED TO HIM YESTERDAY,
                      AND HE TOLD ME THAT HE CAME BACK FOR THE
                      PRESENTATION OF DANEZIS'S BOOK AND THE
                      ANNUAL PRESIDENTIAL RECEPTION. YOU KNOW THE STUFF. HE'LL
                      BE IN ATHENS TILL THE END OF THE WEEK.
          SPEAKER >2: IT COULDN'T GET ANY BETTER!
          SPEAKER >3: DO YOU WANT HIS HOME NUMBER?
          SPEAKER >2: NO NEED FOR THAT. I'LL VISIT HIM TOMORROW AT HIS
                      OFFICE. THANKS, NIKOS, I OWE YOU ONE.
          SPEAKER >3: A PLEASURE. HEY, NIKITAS, DON'T YOU FORGET THAT
                      FEATURE, OKAY?
          SPEAKER >2: NO WAY. SEE YOU, NIKOS.
          SPEAKER >3: RIGHT. BYE, NIKITAS.

                                ***

>>>>>>>>>>> CONNECTION CLOSED.

                                ***

   The Greek translator scanned quickly the Greek text and entered
a command to replay the recorded exchange. He was certain he had
not missed a word, but the rules called for an obligatory second
hearing. The next step was to add to the translated text his personal
comments, clarifying the cultural nuances of the idiomatic phrases
the speakers had used, amplifying on the underlying context, and so
on.
   It was all routine. He was an expert in his field, and was confi-
dent he could wrap it up in thirty minutes tops.


Chapter 16
           ATHENS, GREECE: Kapodistrias University
           July 23


To Nikitas's eyes the deserted, winding corridor in the second
floor of the School of Philosophy's building looked like a huge
python, sleeping off a hearty meal.
   Every office and study hall, every lecture room and amphitheater
was hermetically shut, abandoned. Even the operator in the switch-
board had answered his earlier call after more than a dozen rings.
Miffed by his intrusion, the operator had curtly declared that Prof.
Nikolopoulos's office was probably situated on the second floor and,
no, sir-no one was available for more information.
   Nikitas had checked his watch; it had been ten past nine in the
morning. Hopefully, the information holders would arrive before
noon at the University of Athens.
   He walked on, checking one by one the closed doors as he
headed leisurely to the far end of the corridor, accompanied by the
squeaking sound of his sneakers on the freshly mopped floor.
At least someone was taking care of the serpent's physical needs, he
thought wryly.
As he moved along, he feasted his eyes on the colorful profusion
of announcements pinned upon the walls. All sorts of paper stuff
was pasted there, from long-forgotten lists of student exam grades to
seminar schedules, and from notifications for scholarships offered to
sizable handmade posters, which advertised student parties in well-
known nightclubs and discos of Athens.
A veritable mosaic of student life, spread all over the wall.
Several yards short of the corridor's end a half-opened door
caught his attention. An aluminum plate upon it read:

               Department of History & Archaeology
                    Professor A. Nikolopoulos

   He pushed the door open and went in. Behind a desk in the
brightly sunlit lobby was seated a young woman. Probably a student,
offering to the professor a helping hand during the summer season,
Nikitas thought. In the opposite wall there was another door,
obviously leading to the a private office. It was closed.
   "Excuse me, is Professor Nikolopoulos in his office?" he asked
politely.
   "No," the young woman said without taking off her eyes from the
book she was reading. She had a deeply tanned, pretty face, with
slender mediterranean features. Nikitas smiled and approached her
desk.
   "Are you a member of his staff?"
   "Not yet."
   It was as he had imagined; a favorite student of Nikolopoulos,
working on her future career.
   With a fluid motion she flipped her pencil in the open page and
closed her book, fixing her gaze at Nikitas. Her emerald green eyes
seemed to glow from within.
   "Do you have an appointment with him?"
   "No, but I hoped I'd find him here".
   She shook her head. "A police officer called a short while ago and  
said that Professor Nikolopoulos had a car accident on his way to his
office. Nothing serious, thank God," she hastily added , "but he'll be
staying at the hospital for a several days."
   Nikitas's heart sank and a familiar pain returned as the news of
Nikolopoulos's accident resurrected another memory from his past,
the memory of an embarrassed, tinny voice informing him over a
transatlantic telephone connection that he had lost his parents...
That he would never see them again, ever. Since then, the ordinary
phrase car accident for him had become charged with dreadful
connotations.
   Suddenly Nikitas felt exposed, as if he was intruding. The young
woman was still looking at him, waiting for his reaction.
Embarrassed, he backed a couple of steps.
   "I'm sorry... Thank you..." he uttered awkwardly and left the
room.
   He quickly went down the two floors and for several minutes
paced aimlessly in the building's front yard. To fight off the oppres-
sive feeling of abandonment which had descended over him, he
decided to go for a drive in the city. He got into his car and for a
short while fiddled with the tuner, trying to find some old, hard rock
music. At last he tuned into a station with a special program for "The
Who" and turned on the volume. He started the engine and the car
quietly left the campus.
   Nikolopoulos's accident had complicated things and completely
ruined his planning. From the moment Nikitas had decided to get
involved in this matter, he had approached it as another architec-
tural project, first compiling a list with the preparatory tasks and
then scheduling them through the next several days. His planning
was good, but had to pass first through the bottleneck of finding an
expert byzantinologist. Which was proving now an elusive goal.
   For a moment he thought to call his journalist friend and ask him
for another recommendation, but then remembered that Nikos
worked the night shift and at this hour he would be asleep. He didn't
have the heart to wake him up.
   Moreover, he doubted whether Nikos could be of any more help
in this particular case, and not through his fault. It was high
summer, and the intellectual elite of Athens seemed to have
immigrated to the islands. Nikitas shook his head as he thought
back at the University's deserted corridors, wondering if he was
pursuing an impossible goal, looking for a respectable academic
before September.
   He suddenly realized that traffic had come to a stop. He leaned
out the window and saw that farther down the street three or four
double-decked tourist buses had closed it off, as their drivers franti-
cally maneuvered to fit them in a slot at an overcrowded parking lot.
   The parking space was at the root of a rocky hill, but hardly an
ordinary one: it was the Acropolis hill. Nikitas was surprised to
discover that his aimless driving had brought him here. Was it a
trick of chance, or had he driven his car subconsciously to a place
he was holding dear?
   He had fallen in love with Acropolis the first time he had visited
the sacred rock, but it had taken him several months after his reloca-
tion to Filothei to realize that there was a basic difference between
his own attitude toward the ancient monuments of Greece and that
of an average Greek citizen.
   Because Nikitas had grown up in the States, he had not internal-
ized the rich imagery of all the ancient ruins scattered throughout
the country, so he did not perceive them as an almost natural exten-
sion of the landscape. In contrast to a born Greek, who casually
disregarded them as part of the scenery, in Nikitas's eyes all things
ancient stood clearly apart from their modern surroundings, like
bold lettering in the midst of plain text.
   He had a weakness, however, for Acropolis, where during the last
couple of years he had spent countless hours trying to restore it in
his imagination to its erstwhile splendor.
   Right now, a single glance toward its direction was enough for
him to realize that he could not have chosen a better time for a visit.
He spun the wheel to the right and entered the parking lot.
   Five minutes later Nikitas had joined the milling throng of
tourists and was following the broad stairway to the top, his dark
mood lightening up with each step he took.

                                ***

The hours passed fast. It was late in the afternoon when Nikitas slid
down from a marble column base in Parthenon's southern corner
and took a few steps to stretch his limbs. The tall shadow of a still
standing pillar, which had temporarily sheltered him from the
burning sun, was beating a fast retreat.
   He passed his fingers through his hair-it was so hot! He had
chosen the ancient rock as an aid to meditation, but somehow his
body had crossed the border of wakefulness and had fallen asleep.
His only excuse was that the soothing murmur of the tourist groups
had provided a mesmerizing accompaniment to his lethargic
thoughts, easily lulling him into sleep.
   Looking around him, Nikitas thought of the paradoxical cosmo-
politan air enveloping the ancient site. Tourist groups from all over
the globe were drawn together to Acropolis due to their common  
bond. They were the cultural progeny of Parthenon, returning two
and a half millennia later to pay homage to the cradle of the Western
civilization.
   At this hour, however, the crowd was sparse. Following leisurely
the winding path through the ruins, Nikitas probed his feelings for
the first time since morning. He was doing well; his earlier dejection
had traded places with a still formless optimism. This was enough of
an incentive for him to go home and methodically analyze the
current situation. All he had to do was revise his plans and get going.
He was coming to understand that his earlier disappointment had
been irrational and a bit immature.
   Farther down the path a slim feminine figure was gesturing
enthusiastically as she expounded some historical point to an
elderly couple. Her stance suggested that she was playing the role of
an amateur, though well-informed guide, shedding light on some
obscure historical detail. Nikitas glanced down at the small group as
he passed them by, and was momentarily confronted by the same
emerald eyes that had captivated him in Nikolopoulos's office.
Startled by the coincidence, he stopped in his tracks.
After her first casual glance toward him the young woman had
turned back to her listeners. Sensing that she was being watched,
she looked again toward Nikitas, this time recognizing him.
   "Hi! You're the one who came to see Professor Nikolopoulos this
morning," she said. Her companions looked at him with curiosity,
then started to talk between them.
   "It's an amazing coincidence!" Nikitas exclaimed. "To meet again,
and at a place a thousand years years removed from your own
specialty. I'm assuming, of course, that you're majoring in Byzantine
history under Professor Nikolopoulos."
   The young woman nodded smiling. "You guess is partly right. I
do have a Ph.D. in Byzantine archaeology, Mr.-"
   "Nikitas Paleologou," Nikitas filled in, as he offered his hand.
   "Anastasia Rozaki," she answered and gave him a firm
handshake.
   "You certainly look a lot younger than your degrees warrant, Ms
Rozaki," Nikitas observed.
   She shrugged the compliment off and pointed with her chin
toward the elderly couple, which was resting on a slab of marble.
   "Mr. and Mrs. Despotopoulos are family friends from Germany and
I'm guiding them through the monuments of Acropolis. I'm afraid,
though, that I've been exhaustive in more than one sense of the
word..."
   Nikitas glanced at the couple. "Well, perhaps they only wish to
experience the comforts of the place like our ancestors did, and not
only as a another pair of modern tourists," Nikitas said mock-
seriously.
   Anastasia broke into soft laughter. "That's a creative thought, Mr.
Paleologou, though I wouldn't attribute to my guests this particular
motivation," she said. "I think they're simply tired."
   Nikitas was hardly interested in defending his opinion; he only
wanted to prolong his encounter with this engaging stranger he
happened to meet twice the same day. He was thinking fast for an
excuse to continue the discussion, when he had a sudden insight
that was related to Anastasia Rozaki's academic expertise.
   "You mean your guided tour has come to an end?" he asked her.
   "Yes," Anastasia replied, consulting her watch. "It's time we left."
   "Do you have a car?" Nikitas asked.
   "No, Mr. Paleologou, because..."
   "Nikitas would be better, please."
   "All right. I was saying that I'm staying in Athens on a temporary
basis. I've come to submit my application to the University of Athens
for a lecturer's position in the department of Byzantine History and
Archaeology, but if it's not accepted I'll return to Germany."
   Nikitas remained quiet for a few moments although he had
several burning questions for Anastasia Rozaki, one of them
extremely important for his future plans. Despite his impatience,
however, he realized that this was not the proper setting for him to
explain his predicament to Anastasia.
   With his peripheral vision he saw her walk over to her guests and
talk with them in a low voice. At this hour it would be very difficult
for them to find a cab. They would be terribly inconvenienced,
unless...
   He approached them and spoke rapidly to Anastasia.
   "I can drive you back in my car," he offered. "I was leaving,
anyhow," he added hastily. "Where are you staying?"
   Anastasia's guests looked relieved at his offer and looked up at
her expectantly. She vacillated for a few moments, then seeing the
expression on their tired faces, she shrugged.
   "Okay. Thanks. My apartment is in Ambelokipi, behind the
Hilton," she said.
   "Perfect! It's on my way," Nikitas answered excitedly. At this hour
the traffic would be heavy, so at a rough estimate he would have at
least half an hour to breach the subject that interested him.
There was hope, after all!
   "Well then. Madam, sir!" he addressed the Despotopoulos
couple. "We're leaving at your convenience."


Chapter 17
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           July 23


When Anastasia arrived in Filothei with Nikitas's visiting card
in her hand it was already dark. The brightly-lit house at the
back of the garden instantly caught her attention, its luminous halo
seemingly levitating against the black backdrop. Its presence was so
powerful, she half-expected waves of gentle music pouring through
the open windows, signaling a festive event in progress.
   However, the garden was hushed and the only guest in sight was
Nikitas Paleologou, who was waiting for her in the veranda together
with an older man, clad in an Orthodox priest's habit.
   That should be Father Gregorios, his uncle, Anastasia
thought.After the obligatory introductions Nikitas led them both
into the living room. On a low platform set in its far end there was
a series of terminals and monitors. They were all turned on,
presenting an impressive array of exotic screensavers. The discreet
lighting and the soft instrumental music created a relaxed setting,
highly conducive to a comfortable discussion.
When the three of them had taken their seats in a pair of sofas,
Nikitas reached to his briefcase on the low table in their midst and
brought out the printout of Modestinus's letter.
   Anastasia looked at him curiously. During their drive to
Ambelokipi Nikitas Paleologou had talked mostly about himself and
his professional pursuits, then, shortly before reaching her apart-
ment building, he hinted that he needed her academic expertise. He
had vaguely described a project requiring her specialized knowledge
of the Byzantine history but had not entered into any details.
   Nikitas had been keenly interested in her curriculum vitae, and
she had obliged him by explaining that she had grown up in a small
German town. Her parents were Greek immigrants who had
relocated there from a larger city, to be near their work at a pharma-
ceutical industrial plant. After she had graduated high school
Anastasia had gone on to study at the University of Heidelberg,
where last year she had received her doctorate in Byzantine history.
Her dissertation had treated the topic of the contribution of
Themata-plural for Thema, an administrative division of the
Byzantine Empire-to the empire's defense against her external
enemies.
   At the conclusion of her studies, however, Anastasia had felt a
compelling need to return to her homeland, which she had known
only by the bedtime stories and fairy tales of her mother and her
brief stays with close relatives in the village of her parents. It had
taken her several months to sort out her ambivalent feelings, but she
had finally decided to refuse the generous offers of her German
professors for a fellowship in Heidelberg and seek a lecturer's post at
the University of Athens.
Submitting her application had been her personal reason for
visiting Professor Nikolopoulos's office earlier the same morning.
   Before leaving Anastasia at the entrance of her apartment
building Nikitas had invited her to Filothei, where he and his uncle
would explain what they needed from her. She had vacillated for
several moments, but eventually had accepted the invitation.
   Nikitas tapped at the sheaf of papers he held in his hand. "Before
we begin our discussion," he said to the young byzantinologist, "you
should read this text. Of course, this is not the original document
but an exact facsimile."
   He handed her the printout and rose. "While you're at it, I'll get
us something to drink." He glanced at Father Gregorios, then turned
toward her. "I know what my uncle wants. What about you,
Anastasia? What would you have?"
   "Well, since I was invited for business, I'll take a glass of caf�
frapp� glass�."
   Her gaze lingered at Nikitas, but when he marched off toward the
kitchen she was instantly absorbed by the manuscript.

                                ***

Ten minutes later Anastasia returned the printed pages on the table
and sat up. "There's no doubt that this is an impressive document,"
she said. "Even if it proves to be a forgery, it's an exquisite forgery,
perpetrated by a master counterfeiter."
She smiled and turned toward Nikitas, who shifted impatiently in
his seat.
   "You're ready to protest, I think, but you shouldn't, Nikitas," she
said calmly. "You should not confuse the importance of a document
with its possibly forged content. There have been many instances,
when forged documents changed the course of history."
   "Not a comforting thought in this particular case," Nikitas
replied dryly.
   "The manuscript is authentic," Father Gregorios announced in a
tone that brooked no contest.
   His uncle's blind faith in the manuscript prodded Nikitas to
change sides. "Just a minute, uncle," he interjected. "Let's keep in
mind that we invited Anastasia here exactly for that reason, to hear
her objective, professional opinion." He turned back to her. "Okay,
then. What's your first impression of it? Do you really think it's a
forgery?"
   "To answer your question with an one-word statement, no, I don't
think so. I believe this is a document of extraordinary value-of
historical value, that is-and up to a certain point we can prove this
quite easily. But first we need to make a distinction between two
different things: of the manuscript as a physical object, and of its
content, which claims correspondence to true events."
   She looked at her hosts, waiting for their comments. Satisfied by
the looks on their faces that they were with her thus far, she went
on.
   "Now, authenticity in the first, namely the material level, doesn't
necessarily imply the same in the other, that is in its content.
Actually, there are four possibilities."
   "Let me try to enumerate the possible combinations according to
your reasoning, to see if I'm following you," Nikitas interrupted her.
   "If we set aside the trivial cases of the manuscript and its contents
being both authentic or forged, we're left with two other possibili-
ties: either our manuscripts per se-I mean the parchments as
writing material-are authentic while referring to false facts, or the
parchments are a fake though their contents are true."
   Nikitas felt his excitement grow rapidly. He stopped for a
moment to catch his breath, then plunged on. "This last case,
however, is a bit tricky. If true, it means that our manuscript was
written at a later date or by a person other than the undersigned, and
yet it relates true facts. What do you say to that, Anastasia?"
   "I completely agree. It's a thorough analysis of the situation we're
facing."
   "You hinted before, Ms Rozaki, that the authenticity of the
manuscript can easily be verified," Father Gregorios said. "Would
you, please, elaborate on that?"
   "Yes. I was referring to the authenticity of the message's
container, namely the parchments. With the help of modern
technology we can date it fairly easily. Moreover, there are certain
additional clues which seem to support the authenticity hypothesis.
From the viewpoint of paleography, for example, I could say that its
uncial script dates between the second and ninth century AD.
   "That's a significant fact," Nikitas observed.
   "Right. And we can probably narrow down this interval even
more, if we take into account the fact that by the seventh century AD
the uncial script had fallen into disuse in the preparation of private
documents. One could argue that Modestinus's letter retained its
private character despite being addressed to the Emperor."
She leaned over the table and picked up the printout.
   "Then, there's the matter of its author's linguistic style," she
continued. "From my first read I got the impression that it fits
perfectly the linguistic peculiarities of that era. Furthermore, if we
take into account its syntax and grammatical structure, plus the
vocabulary being used, I believe we can safely assume that the
document wasn't written later than the first half of the seventh
century AD. Which is in accord with the date provided by its own
content."
   Father Gregorios gave a nod of approval, obviously satisfied.
   "This corresponds with my own estimate, too."
   "Why can't I shake off the feeling that there's a big but hovering
throughout your analysis, Anastasia?" Nikitas remarked. "Or, am I
wrong?"
   "Look, Nikitas," she shrugged, "all the factors I enumerated are
well known to scholars, therefore they could be taken into account.
There are cases of very convincing forgeries that took many toilsome
years to complete. Huge profits or scholarly distinction are the most
common motivating factors, and a rough unofficial estimate that
circulates among archaeologists raises the number of forgeries which
unknowingly are exhibited as authentic by major museums around
the world to a ten percent of their total holdings."
   For a minute no one spoke, as they quietly absorbed Anastasia's
analysis. Nikitas picked the stereo remote and changed the instru-
mental music with a Vivaldi concerto. The stately, baroque music
rang true, and despite a millennium's gap between the date of the
Byzantine manuscript and the birth of the Italian composer, it fit
perfectly the atmosphere of their discussion.
   "That's why one needs a detailed account of the place and the
means employed for the discovery of an artifact for a proper evalua-
tion-archaeologically speaking, of course," Anastasia said.
   "Why so?" Nikitas asked.
   "If an archaeological object is found in a virgin site, this fact
alone constitutes a presumption of its authenticity." She pointed to
the printed pages. "Despite my earlier analysis, for a forgery of such
a high caliber a great deal of expertise is required, so we can safely
assume that it if this manuscript is a fake it could not have been
forged earlier than the eighteenth century AD. Why? Simply because
the world lacked the necessary knowledge before 1708, when the
treatise Palaeographia Graeca by Bernard de Montfaucon set the
foundations of Paleography."
Father Gregorios rose from his seat and started to pace nervously
the living room.
   "The manuscript is authentic," he repeated. "The crypt where I
found it was undisturbed for more than thirteen hundred years. No
doubt about that," he stated emphatically, looking steadily at
Anastasia.
   She withstood his gaze and shrugged. "Then, this is a bona fide
document. Anyway, as I already said that's the easy part in the
authentication procedure. I can have it checked for radiocarbon-14
content if you'll provide me with a very small piece of the original
parchment."
Nikitas glanced questioningly at his uncle, who nodded back.
   "Yes, we can do that," Nikitas said to Anastasia. "When will you
be ready to start?"
   "Tomorrow. If we send it for processing abroad, with my
academic connections I can have the results in a few days' time."
   "Perfect!" Nikitas said, satisfied that things were finally taking
specific form and shape. "Now we can proceed to the next question,
the harder one as you've already said: how can we be absolutely sure
that the text is also authentic?"
   "Well, Nikitas," Anastasia replied with a smile, "there's an easy
way to do it. For my part, I'd be a hundred percent certain of its
authenticity if you brought me the original of Mohammed's Protocol
of Catechesis, the document which was the raison d'�tre of
Modestinus's communiqu� to Heraclius."
   Anastasia's request touched Nikitas in a peculiar way. Once again he
had a deep insight that the matter of St. Catherine's parchments was
not a simple game of knowledge and logic, neither an exercise in
exegesis, in other words a theoretical discussion that revolved
around an ancient manuscript's content. They were dealing rather
with a document which had already manifested very peculiar
dynamics by spurring its owners to action, in contrast to the average
archaeological find which consummated its purpose of existence at
a Museum's showcase.
   No, the Byzantine parchments were part of his reality, and
were claiming center stage not upon a shelf, but in his personal life.
He threw a glance toward his uncle, who had stopped his nervous pacing
and was standing unmoving to his left, and caught him examining
him closely, as if witnessing his progress to self-discovery.
   "No doubt that some proof of the existence of Mohammed's
Protocol of Catechesis would definitely validate the manuscript's
contents," Nikitas said turning back to Anastasia. "Assuming that
the retrieval of the Protocol of Catechesis is temporarily impractical,
though, where do we stand? How can we address the validation
problem relying solely on Modestinus's letter?"
   "But... until this moment I was under the impression that my
task was somehow related to Mohammed's original document, not
this incidental letter. Isn't this why you asked for my help?"
Anastasia asked. She seemed to be baffled at the turn of events. "This
letter makes it absolutely clear that it was attached to the Protocol of
Catechesis; you mean those two documents weren't found together?"
   "Unfortunately, no" Father Gregorios replied. "Modestinus's
letter was alone. Therefore, either the Protocol of Catechesis was not
dispatched to the emperor and lies hidden elsewhere, or it was sent
without the accompanying letter."
   "And in our best-case scenario it reached safely its recipient,"
Nikitas added.
   He rose abruptly and went to sit in front of a terminal. He keyed
in a command to open the file with the translation of his uncle, then
rolled his chair a couple of feet back to have an unobstructed view
of both the monitor and his audience.
   "After several readings of my uncle's translation," he began, "I
realized that I had to devise a strategy to delve deeper into its
meaning, otherwise I would only succeed in memorizing Modestinus's
letter." He clicked the mouse on the vertical window bar to scroll the
text several lines down. "Initially I had thought to tackle the authen-
tication problem by adopting the viewpoint-the tactics, if you will-
of a detective who specializes in art forgeries," he continued. "Very
soon, however, I realized that I lacked the necessary historical and
technical scholarship to play that role, not counting the fact that the
age of Heraclius is considered one of the most obscure Byzantine
periods, since very few extant primary sources refer to it."
   "Yes, this generally holds true for the period between 600 AD to
700 AD," Anastasia agreed.
   "Right. So, at a next stage I tried this: I read the translation many
times, in an attempt at locating any inherent contradictions in
Modestinus's narrative."
   "Plot inconsistencies, so to speak," Anastasia said.
   "Exactly! Say, he reports a fact on page one, line twelve, then on
page three, line eighteen he relates another event, in another
context, whose underlying assumptions contradict the former.
Something like that. Well, I did it, but the text seems to be free of
inconsistencies."
   "This, of course, adds another point in favor of its authenticity,"
Anastasia remarked.
   "That's true. Yet, there is something on which I need your
feedback." Nikitas hesitated several moments, then went on. "I said
the text seems to be free of inconsistencies because... I think I
located one. Well, not an inconsistency really, but a conflict with a
known historical fact which I happened to be aware of due to my
interest in Byzantine architecture."
Father Gregorios looked at him sharply, waiting expectantly.
Anastasia's eyes flashed, but she, too, contained her excitement.
   Before answering their unspoken question Nikitas inserted a disk
into the DVD-ROM drive and tapped a command. Almost instantly
the giant 60" screen in the opposite wall came to life, presenting
them a high-resolution external view of Aghia Sophia, the great
Orthodox Church of Constantinople.
   "During my post-graduate studies in MIT, I had volunteered to
conduct a complete structural study of Aghia Sophia in
Constantinople," Nikitas said. "I had chosen that church partly
because of my Greek heritage, and partly because of my keen
interest for the architectural legacy of the Byzantines.
   "So, I traveled to Constantinople twice, the last time staying there
more than a month until I had completed the necessary fieldwork.
   "My task had been the development of a computerized model
illustrating the consecutive stages of Aghia Sophia's building
process. In other words, I used the data I had collected of the
church's existing structure to feed the computer program, which
calculated and described week by week, month by month the
progress of its construction as if Anthemios and Isidorus, the
Byzantine architects, had come to life to reenact their five-year-long
building of the church. Naturally, such an undertaking would have
been impossible without the aid of a special CAD software package,
developed specifically for this purpose by another MIT team."
He pressed another key and a detailed floor plan of Aghia Sophia
replaced its external view.
   "This sounds like an extremely difficult project, Nikitas. You say
you handled it all alone?" Anastasia asked incredulously.
   "It's true that only a decade ago my project would have required
many years of work and a large team of dedicated researchers,"
Nikitas replied. "As I told you, though, I had a set of advanced tools
at my disposal and a high-speed connection through Internet-2 to
MIT's supercomputer.
   "Anyway, the technical aspect of my work was irrelevant to me at
that time. I had chosen a project that was close to my heart, and
cared for nothing else. That month in Constantinople I had averaged
twelve to fourteen hours a day in my fieldwork."
He picked a thin laser pointer and directed its red beam to the
blueprint on the giant screen.
   "This is Aghia Sophia's floor plan as it exists today." He opened a
smaller window with the translation of Modestinus's letter. "Now,
take a look here; according to my uncle's translation, Modestinus
wrote this:

          Therefore, let us both my Lord, You from the serene crypt of
          the Big Church and I from the Holy Monastery of St.
          Catherine in the Sinai, join our souls in common prayer for
          Godspeed to Nicephorus.

                                ***

Nikitas paused as he waited for the comments of Father
Gregorios and Anastasia, but none came. When the silence threat-
ened to become unbearable, he asked the question himself.
   "Tell me, uncle, since you translated it, what does this phrase
mean?"
   Father Gregorios shrugged. "It's such a brief passage, how can I
say anything else than the obvious? Here Modestinus's writing
clearly reflects his inner state of mind, not any external events.
Moreover, if you're hinting at his suggestion to the Emperor for a
prayer, it was standard practice then for a devout person to visit a
church's holy crypt and pray for guidance or the intervention of the
Holy Spirit and the Saints. This practice is still followed in Greece,
and probably elsewhere, too."
   Nikitas grinned and shook his head. "But we're not talking about
an ordinary church, uncle; we're talking about the Church, with a
capital C. Please, take a look at Aghia Sophia's floor plan. You, too,
Anastasia."
   "It would take us at least an hour to sort out the complexities of
the diagram," Anastasia protested.
   "Actually, it's simpler than that," Nikitas said in a low voice, "and
I'll tell you why: there's no crypt in Aghia Sophia!"
   Father Gregorios turned his head and looked at him as if
thunderstruck. He seemed both surprised and enlightened at the
same moment.
   "Yes, of course! I should have thought of it myself," he
whispered.
   "Is this a verified fact, Nikitas?" Anastasia was skeptical.
   "Absolutely," he replied. "Remember, after the persecutions of
the Christians had ended and the Christian faith was established as
the official religion of the Romans by Constantine the Great, crypts
continued to be built only for a very specific function: to preserve
the bones or other sacred relics of the church's protector saint. There
were no oppressed Christians to create a need for catacombs to be
used as safe havens.
   "It follows, then, that if there were no sacred relics to protect they
built no crypt in the foundations of a new church."
   Anastasia did not say anything, as she thoughtfully gazed at the
screen, and Nikitas felt a stab of disappointment at her lack of
enthusiasm. He glanced at his uncle, who was standing aside with
an unlit cigarette in his hand. He was also totally absorbed by his
thoughts.
   "Surely you don't need me to remind you that Aghia Sophia is not
dedicated to a saint of that name, but to God's Holy Wisdom-Sophia
in Greek," Nikitas added. "Why, then, Modestinus's reference to a
nonexistent crypt of the Great Church in Constantinople?"


Chapter 18
           ANKARA, TURKEY: DGA-2/MIT HQ.
           July 26


Colonel Mustafa Sabri, Head of the 2nd Directorate of Greek
Affairs (DGA-2) of the Milli Stihbarat Teskilati or MIT, the
National Security Agency of Turkey, looked thoughtfully at the
cigarette stub between his fingers, and decided on a last draft before
burying it into his overflowing ashtray. He nodded to himself, and
turned his attention to the monochrome monitor set on the wall
across his desk. It was projecting a panoramic view of Ankara, real-
time fed by an array of cameras on top of high-rise building C, which
was part of a governmental housing project to the northwest of the
Ulus area.
   Although the gray pictures filling the screen were imparting the
mood of a rainy, melancholic day, the temperature outside his office
was approaching 39o Celsius as the Anatolian sun mercilessly
hammered down Turkey's capital this hot summer's day.
   Sabri grimaced, as the smell of burning cigarette filter reached his
nostrils. He crushed impatiently the culprit stub and went to stand
in front of the monitor, avidly taking in the anonymous, crawling  
mass of people in the Ataturk Bulvari Avenue, which divides Ankara
in two parts as it stretches all the way to the Presidential Palace. The
feeder cameras had not been installed for security reasons but to
provide a low-tech reflection of the outside world to his office,
which was completely sealed off from it. There were no windows or
any openings that might compromise its high-level security.
   However, this fact bothered him not in the least. On the contrary,
in his line of business isolation increased in proportion with one's
rank.
   The colonel was well aware that for most of the government
employees symbols of high status were the size and ostentatiousness
of their offices, especially when coupled with a steady flow of invita-
tions to official occasions and events. Not so for him, though. His
very existence was known only to a handful few, but his power
soared high and reached far and away.
   And wasn't this that really mattered?
   He returned to his seat and for the hundredth time lovingly caressed
the spread-out rice-paper roll which had lain undisturbed
on his desktop for the last three days. It was the map of an urban
area in metropolitan Athens, delineated by Kifissias Avenue to the
north, Katechaki Street to the southwest, Dimokratias Avenue in the
northeast and Messogion Avenue to the south. More importantly, it
was also the reason why Sabri was exuding pure complacency those
last three days, something which he seldom did.When five years ago
the Greek military had overhauled the operating procedures of the
War Operations Amphitheater in the heart of the Ministry of
Defense in Athens, they had dealt a quiet but decisive blow against
the Offensive Operations Section of the Turkish Defense
Department.
   Although the Greek WOA had become virtually impregnable to a
conventional weapons attack, that was not the heart of the problem
for the Turkish military; it was the communications that mattered. If
Sabri could find a way to cut off the WOA from the rest of the Greek
Armed Forces, he would not mind letting the Greek brass remain
there in comfort for the duration of the hostilities.
   However, as a result of the Greek WOA restructuring, the few
antennas on top of the Greek Pentagon building now played a
subsidiary, almost decorative role, since they were being used only
for the reception of civil band satellite broadcasts and for the relay
of unencrypted, unclassified communications. The entire military
telecommunications network had been dispersed to a radius of three
thousand feet from the Pentagon. Working quietly and under ficti-
tious names, agents of the Greek Intelligence Agency (EYP) had
bought out or long-term leased a number of conveniently situated
apartments in the surrounding area, where all the necessary
telecommunications' and computing equipment was secretly
installed.
   The whole operation was a great success. The telecommunica-
tions hubs were networked by optical fibers with the MoD's subter-
ranean headquarters, thus ensuring the smooth and uninterrupted
flow of information to and from the WOA in case of war.
   To counter this critical advantage of the Greeks, a new and top
secret department had been created in the folds of the Turkish
National Security Agency, staffed with personnel drawn from its
innermost circles under the directorship of Colonel Mustafa Sabri,
who had passionately dedicated himself to his mission.
   After two years of intense efforts and huge expenditures which
rose to the tens of millions of US dollars, Sabri had won his personal
war the moment a copy of the Integrated Plan of the Greek MoD's
Telecommunications Dispersal Project had finally reached his
hands. It was this map that was spread out on his desktop, and now
he was pondering what would be the most advantageous moment to
make the announcement of his great success to the Turkish National
Coordinating Intelligence Committee, in which his own agency
participated with one vote.
   A short buzz suddenly shattered his reverie. Sabri saw in the
intercom monitor the melancholic face of his adjutant and personal
assistant Captain Kadir Tahmaz, and pressed a button to unlock the
steel door of his office. Tahmaz entered the room and gently placed
near the edge of the desktop a sealed buff envelope, taking care not
to touch Sabri's pet map.
   "From the Cairo unit," he said laconically and hurried to catch
the door before it closed automatically.
   Colonel Sabri stared at the envelope for a few moments, trying to
guess which one of his developing projects it concerned. He sorted
his estimates by descending degree of probability, then opened the envelope
with his paperknife and leaned back in his chair to read the report.

                                ***

The colonel returned to his luxury penthouse early in the evening.
After his customary cold-water shower, Sabri served himself a bottle
of soda from the refrigerator and lay down on a chaise longue in the
balcony. The brightly-patterned canvas awning, along with the
bushy plants that thrived in their huge, ornamental flowerpots, were
sufficiently protecting his privacy from the prying eyes of his
affluent neighbors.
   During the rest of the day his attention had been sidetracked
from the Cairo report by numerous other official matters. Now, as he
sipped his drink and was starting to relax his thoughts turned back
to that strange affair.
   The seemingly fortuitous discovery of the papyri and their
aggressive peddling in Cairo's underground market had puzzled him
more than a little. Notwithstanding his suspicious nature, Sabri's
long experience in the collection and sifting of raw intelligence had  
taught him that chance events were a very rare specimen indeed;
most of the times the events that came to his attention were
purposeful but cloaked to conceal the all-too-human will behind
them, with its very concrete goals and objectives.
   His first read of the report had led him to the tentative conclu-
sion that the story had too many blind spots to be true, although he
could not entirely disallow that possibility. However, whether true
or false mattered little to him. The important thing in this case-as
well as in any of his cases-was to discern its particular slant,
namely the most profitable way of exploiting it and turning it into
an asset in his relentless quest for personal power.
Slanting the cases, as he smugly referred to it, was a skill Sabri had
honed to perfection.
   In regard with the manuscripts there were two possibilities. The
first and most likely was that the supposedly Byzantine documents
were actually nothing of the sort, and if so he only had to decide
how he would present the matter to the Committee.
If he presented them as authentic documents, he would be able
to take advantage of the political implications of that fact; then
again, he could refer to the whole affair as another instance of dark
machinations on the part of inimical forces, since enemies to his
country, whether real or imagined, abounded. Now that the stinging
thorn of the Greek Ministry of Defense was removed, this matter
needed only some fine-tuning and voil�: enters the new Great
Threat, which would justify the continuing existence of his depart-
ment along with an increase of his budget.
   What if the manuscript was genuine, though?
   The more Sabri kept thinking about it, the more he began to feel
the stirrings of nagging doubts. Despite the dictates of his profes-
sional experience he was increasingly becoming convinced that
something big lay hidden behind this strange report, and although
he still believed he was dealing with an ill-conceived and -executed
fraud scheme, part of him was bothered by something he could not
yet pinpoint or analyze.
   In similar situations Sabri's best recourse lay in quick action. He
took his empty glass to the kitchen sink, then went to his private
study and booted his PC. As he waited for the operating system to
load he started to mentally compile a list of the items, for which he
needed additional information. When finally the desktop appeared
in the screen, he double-clicked the icon of a stylized telephone
handset to connect with his office, keying in a sequence of
passwords to the appropriate fields.
   When a secure connection with his department was established,
Sabri reeled off his list to the officer on duty. As he patiently awaited
his man to retrieve the data, he was already shaping alternative
action plans for all of the possible answers to his questions.


Chapter 19
           ATHENS, GREECE: Embassy of the Republic of Turkey
           July 28


          TURKISH MINISTRY OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS
          EMBASSY OF THE REPUBLIC OF TURKEY IN ATHENS

          THE AMBASSADOR'S OFFICE

          DEPT. OF CIPHERS & CODES
          DECODING OFFICER: ARIF MADEN
          ONE-TIME PAD: 805.GR.ATH.990023
          SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET #03
          FILE ID: FL/200/200/65.1248
          RECIPIENT: HEAD OF MIT/DGA-2/ATHENS.
          CC: -/-

          BODY OF MESSAGE:

-START-
OBJECTIVE: INITIATION OF SURVEILLANCE. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
NUMBER OF PERSONS: 1. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
SEX: MALE. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
NAME/SURNAME: GREGORIOS PALEOLOGOU. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
NAME OF FATHER: NIKITAS. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
CITIZENSHIP: GREEK. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
AGE: 76. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - --
PROFESSION: GREEK ORTHODOX PRIEST/MONK. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
RESIDENCE(LAST KNOWN): MONASTERY OF ST.CATHERINE, SINAI. - - - - - --
PRIORITY: FOR IMMEDIATE ACTION. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - --
-END-



                         -----------
                         P A R T  II
                         -----------



Chapter 20
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Kardak Hotel
           July 28


The gray swollen clouds that had blanketed the last twenty-four
hours Constantinople's sprawling city on either side of the
channel together with the chilling breeze from the sea of Marmaras
were presaging a heavy midsummer's storm. The waters of Bosporus
had taken a quivering leaden cast, and the prudent fishermen in the
villages that dotted the coastlines of the two opposing continents
already had moored their ca�ques, taking advantage of the heaven-
sent opportunity for a nargile at the local coffeehouse.
   In the city proper, however, life was following its own special
rhythms. Under the permanent twilight of its narrow alleyways, as
well as in the splendor of its brightly-lit bazaars, nothing seemed to
be out of the ordinary; the hum and din of the crowds were rivaling
in versatility the traffic noise, and the exhaust fumes of the crawling
cars were intermingling with the thousand odors of the city to create
a rich solution. As usual, Constantinople was being besieged by its
own inhabitants.
   Nikitas took a long last look at the brooding horizon, where the
wandering Asiatic landmass was fading quietly into the Bosporus
shoreline, and walked back into his plush hotel room. With the
touch of a button the sliding balcony door was shut automatically,
accompanied by the soft swish of the curtains as they drew together.
   The background noise was shut out, too. Nikitas thought that his
room was extraordinarily quiet and, his professional interest
aroused, pressed an ear to the wall. There was not a single sound to
be heard. The insulation was fantastic, he thought admiringly. He lay
on the bed with his clothes on and mentally performed a string of
simple calculations, as he worked out how many square feet of
usable space had been sacrificed to achieve this effect.
Quite a lot, he decided with a soft whistle.
   Finding himself for the first time since last week without any
immediate concerns, Nikitas briefly studied the menu of the stereo
music channels offered by the hotel before making his selection,
then closed his eyes for a brief rest.
   The last five days had been hectic as he had found himself
immersed in a mountain of preparations, which had feverishly
climaxed this morning when he had been forced to cancel their
same-day reservations for Olympic Airways' flight 321 to
Constantinople because he had not yet received all of their equip-
ment. Much to his relief, the last consignment had been delivered to
his house early in the afternoon, so they were able to reserve three
seats for the late-evening flight 850 of the Turkish Airlines.Their jet
had taken off at a quarter to nine from the Spata Airport in Athens
and landed a hundred minutes later in the International Airport of
Constantinople. It had taken Nikitas, Father Gregorios and
Anastasia almost an hour to reach the Kardak Hotel, the largest and
newest hotel of Constantinople, where they had checked in separate
rooms reserved through his travel agent in Athens.
   For his part, Nikitas kept wondering whether those precautions
were actually serving a purpose; he could not imagine anyone taking
an interest at their arrival, with the exception of the endemic
cutpurses and small-time thieves infesting the big city. Yet, even they
would hardly frequent a hotel of Kardak' class.
   On the other hand, Father Gregorios had readily agreed to the
precautionary measures Anastasia had suggested. Nikitas was
certain that his uncle had taken a liking to her right from their first
encounter in Filothei. He himself had had no choice but to tag
along. They had agreed not to hold a meeting within the hotel, and
Anastasia had even insisted that they avoid any contact between
them even in the privacy of their rooms.
   So, before entering the hotel they had agreed to meet the
following morning at nine o'clock a short distance down the street
leading to Kardak. After that they had exchanged good-nights,
checked in, and immediately retired to their rooms.

                                ***

When Nikitas snapped open his eyes he realized he had dozed
longer than intended. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told
him that it was 23:22'.
   He considered calling the room service for something to eat, then
changed his mind; better that he go out to take a first taste of
Constantinople, or at least of Kardak's cosmopolitan environment.
Several years had passed since the last time he had been in the city
and things tended to change quickly in this part of the world,
especially in the great metropolitan centers.
   He refreshed himself, picked up the hard-plastic case with his
notebook computer and left his room. In the far side of the corridor
he saw two of the eight elevators with their doors open and headed
that way.
   He decided to try the roof-garden restaurant and touched the last
button. After his sound-proofed room and the quiet of the interior
of the hotel, the loud music as he opened the door hit him with the
force of a blast. For a few moments he waited undecided, then went
in. He probably needed the change.
   Although the rooftop was crowded, there were still several tables
free and he chose one close to the railing to enjoy an unhindered
view of Constantinople. When he had placed his order Nikitas
decided it was high time he sorted out the jumble of last week's
events. Contrary to many, he had a knack for concentrating in the
midst of a crowd. In fact, he half-seriously entertained a quasi-
metaphysical belief that on these occasions he was receiving an
added mental stimulation from the social energy generated by the
crowded environment.
   His wandering thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the
young waitress who brought him a deep salad bowl with tomatoes,
chopped cucumber and slices of fresh onions in olive oil, along with
a bottle of mineral water. She smiled at him politely and left. Nikitas
started with the appetizer, as he began to watch the action around
him.
   The night sky was a depressing black, but the likelihood of a
downpour had temporarily decreased. However, the effect was
considerably softened by the delicious smells wafting from the grill
in the wooden kiosk, which made Nikitas's mouth water. Surprised
he was so hungry, he thought the same was probably true of the
other patrons as well, mostly Americans, who had chosen the roof-
garden restaurant for a safe initiation into the delights of traditional
Turkish cuisine.

                                ***

As he waited for his order to come, Nikitas focused on the recent
developments. Their meeting with Anastasia in Filothei had proved
a powerful catalyst, for two reasons: first, because his observation
regarding Aghia Sophia's nonexistent crypt had shed bright light
toward the right direction. His reasoning was simple; if the church
did not possess a crypt, then Modestinus was referring to something
completely different which potentially opened new ways.
   It was a working hypothesis that could prove their own thread of
Ariadne, a thread they could not afford to ignore however tenuous
it might seem unless they wished to impart to the whole matter the
character of a theoretical exercise.
   And that was something his uncle would never allow to happen.
   At a secondary level his suggestion had a cathartic effect upon
himself, crystallizing his coalescing realization that their discus-
sions of parchments and manuscripts was not just small talk, but
had a clearly defined practical aspect which was inviting them to act.
   Despite such moments of enlightenment, Nikitas felt certain of
nothing. Even his perception of an accelerated pace in the recent
developments could be a figment of his imagination, or due to a
purely subjective emotional state. It hardly mattered. His emotional
confusion was a minor affair, in view of the dramatic changes his
whole life was undergoing before his very eyes.
   Of the days that had followed their meeting in Filothei only a
handful of fleeting images and muddled memories remained, and
justifiably so: in a matter of five days the three of them had
compressed several weeks' worth of preparations.
   As agreed, Anastasia had made arrangements for the dating of the
original parchments with the help of a minute piece of Modestinus's
letter she had received from Father Gregorios.
   Early on she had explained to them that the standard procedure
for measuring a sample's content in radioactive carbon-14 was to
transform that sample into carbon dioxide CO2 and then to let the
collected gas remain for at least a week in a special container, until
an array of sensitive sensors had processed a sufficient quantity of
the emitted radiation for dependable results.
   When Anastasia had contacted Dr. Jeffrey Waters, the scientist-
in-chief at the Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit in the
University of Oxford, she had been informed of a newer method for
radiocarbon dating which permitted the direct measurement of the
radioactive isotopes and was thus much faster than the traditional
method of scintillation counting. It was called Accelerator Mass
Spectrometry (AMS) and yielded results in a single day. Anastasia
had eagerly agreed on the faster procedure and dispatched the same
day by international courier the sample to Dr. Waters.
   Three days later they had received their results, though Nikitas
never succeeded in making Anastasia reveal how she had shortcut
the laboratory's long waiting list. However, the important thing was
that the test had conclusively dated the parchments between 635-
650 AD.
   Another matter had been the reconcilement of Modestinus's
revelations with the accepted historical facts about Heraclius's age.
This was a historian's task, and as such had been undertaken by
Anastasia. Earlier this morning she had phoned him in Filothei and
announced in triumph the completion of her assignment and the
preparation of a detailed reconstruction of all the events which had
led to Modestinus's letter.
   His uncle, too, had not been idle. Dedicating all his energies to
preparing their trip and their stay in Constantinople, he had called
on past favors from his contacts in Athens and then had contacted
by telephone the Archdeacon in the Chancellor's Office in
Constantinople to make arrangements for his meetings at the
Patriarchate.
   His reception by the Ecumenical Patriarch was set for tomorrow
at noon. Father Gregorios had repeatedly expressed to Nikitas and
Anastasia his optimism and his conviction that their mission, which
he always took care to qualify with the adjective sacred, would
garner the support it merited from the Head of the Orthodox
Church. Although until now he had not revealed the true purpose of
their trip to anyone, he intended to confide to the Ecumenical
Patriarch in their private meeting.
   Nikitas's main task had been to lay the groundwork for their
attempt at discovering Aghia Sophia's unknown crypt, which had
meant drawing up a detailed plan for the necessary fieldwork and
procuring all the materials and tools needed for its implementation.
   Regardless of his newfound enthusiasm, Nikitas was well aware
of the obstacles they would meet along their way. His deep under-
standing of the Great Church's structural intricacies was flashing a
warning light about their scant chances of success. He knew that
theirs was a project better suited to a big and well-equipped team of
experts, who could be looking forward to a breakthrough after
several weeks of back-breaking work.
   Surely only a misinformed person would expect that a group of
three made up of a cleric, an archaeologist, and an architect, might
succeed in such a venture.
   Father Gregorios had listened quietly to Nikitas's protests
regarding the feasibility of their undertaking, but no argument and
no reasoning had even dented his resolution. He had stated categor-
ically that God was on their side, and that their only real choice was
proving themselves worthy of their cause.
   "Christianity needs Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis and she
shall have it," he had declared.
   Concerning their meager resources, Father Gregorios had said
that they should not forget a striking fact: Modestinus's letter had
not been discovered by a numerous archaeological team, but by a
single man. Besides, he was totally convinced that Nikitas's exten-
sive knowledge of Aghia Sophia's architectural structure virtually
guaranteed their success.
   As a result, Nikitas had immersed himself in his task, not only to
justify his uncle's confidence in him but to raise their chances of
finding what had remained hidden underneath the Great Church for
over thirteen hundred years.
   He had started his research by transferring all of his files
concerning Aghia Sophia to a DVD-ROM, which would allow him
easy access to his trove of stored information from wherever he
happened to be. Next he had contracted TotalSearch(r), an USA-
based research and information retrieval company, to perform an in-
depth search in the Web and in a number of specialized online
databases, such as Lexis-Nexis(r), Dialog(r), the Dumbarton Oaks
Research Library and some smaller ones, for any information
pertaining to Aghia Sophia, its architecture, and its history. Lastly, a
computer software engineer had helped him program a virtual
walkthrough in the interior of the Church, by utilizing Nikitas's
personal collection of photographs and diagrams of Aghia Sophia.
   At last his preparations had been completed. Nikitas had
accessed TotalSearch(r)'s site with his customer's ID and password,
and downloaded to his hard disk the files of the results that totaled
268 MB. Satisfied that everything was ready, he had proceeded to
pack the equipment they would be taking with them from Athens,
and which they would supplement by several essential purchases in
Constantinople.

                                ***

Nikitas's wandering thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his
order, a thick charbroiled steak, which he had chosen not only
because he savored the dish but also because he firmly believed that
few things could go wrong in its preparation. He took a sip of water
and fell onto his meal.
   Although it was getting late, newcomers kept pouring in. To his
left a large party of Japanese businessmen patiently waited while
several waiters joined together three tables to accommodate them.
Near the bar a respectable white-haired gentleman was escorting a
young lady to the exit. Nikitas smiled to himself as he calculated the
formula that should yield her age in relation to the gentleman's, and
reached the conclusion that it was something like his age divided by
two, minus ten... Then his attention was briefly caught by the public
phone on the opposite wall, and he wondered who would be able to
use it through all the noise.
   He turned back to the panorama of the city extending all the way
to Asia. The resplendent dome of Aghia Sophia, which rose like a
luminous mushroom over a dark forest of lesser, insignificant build-
ings, reminded him of his purpose in Constantinople. He finished
off quickly the rest of his meal and brought out from a pocket a pair
of miniature but powerful binoculars. He leaned back in his seat and
studied the radiant Byzantine monument.
   Several months ago the Turkish government had announced its
decision to convert Aghia Sophia to a mosque, hoping that its
demagogic measure would help dispel the steadily rising wave of
public discontent, resulting from the administration's inability to
implement its pre-election extravagant promises.
   As an added bonus the Turkish Prime Minister had also
announced a convocation of Muslim religious leaders from all over
the world, that was to take place in Constantinople the day of the
official consecration of Aghia Sophia as the mosque Aya Sofya. That
date had been set for next October, the month of the forthcoming
Islamic Ramadan.
   Naturally, the international Christian community had reacted
unanimously and vehemently against Aghia Sophia's conversion and
the Greek government had launched an intense diplomatic
campaign, but to no avail. The voices of protest were being ostenta-
tiously ignored by the Turkish government in a display of its bizarre
nationalistic-fundamentalist stance.
   From his vantage point close to the railing Nikitas could clearly
see the scaffolding which had been erected around Aghia Sophia for
the renovation works. It reached all the way to the top of its central
dome, while down on the ground the perimeter of the Church was
sealed off with an unbroken chainlink fence to prevent the tourists
from entering the courtyard.
   The museum was closed to visitors and the whole complex had
the appearance of an ordinary worksite. It was shrouded in darkness
with the exception of the great dome, which was bathed in the
brilliant light of dozens of floodlights. It seemed to Nikitas that the
Turkish government was determined to recast Aghia Sophia as a
glamorous point of reference not only for the Turkish, but for the
international Islamic movement as well.
   Even so, Nikitas and his companions were offered a rare oppor-
tunity. If Aghia Sophia had been open to the public, they would have
had twelve hours at the most to finish their search. As it was, when
they entered the church tomorrow night they would have forty-eight
hours at their disposal, since the site would be closed for the
weekend.
   As a matter of fact, it had been this convenient time-window that
had tipped the scales in Nikitas's mind in favor of the trip.
   He returned the binoculars to his pocket and signed the check.
For a second he entertained the thought of staying a while longer,
but he suddenly felt so tired that he decided to go to bed. Tomorrow
morning they were committing themselves to a great adventure and
he had to renew his depleted energy reserves.
He might need them.

                                ***

Just before dawn a short-lived storm took some weight off the heavy
overcast, allowing the morning sunlight to slip through momentary
gaps in the clouds and brighten with casual dabs of rich yellow the
waking city.
   The growing traffic reflected the increase in the temperature and
soon the streets were filled with slow-moving vehicles, keeping pace
with the human masses on the sidewalks.
   Nikitas rendezvoused with his uncle and Anastasia two blocks
down the street from Kardak and the three of them walked along
Jumhuriyet Jadesi to Taksim square. They picked a small coffee-
house and ordered a cup of Turkish coffee each, since they already
had breakfast at the hotel-seated in separate tables.
   "I feel quite embarrassed, if not outright ridiculous, when we
playact the strangers at the hotel," Nikitas said after his first sip.
   "Hmm, I can see why, Nikitas. Still, I agree with Anastasia that
these precautions are necessary," Father Gregorios observed.
Sometime during the last couple of days he had started to call her by
her first name. "Why should we object to a safeguard which may
prove to our advantage?"
   Anastasia tasted her coffee and nodded approvingly. It was on the
same par with a well-brewed Greek coffee.
   "We must never forget that we're not here on an official archaeo-
logical mission," she said and threw a glance to Nikitas. "Moreover,
the black cassock of your uncle is not exactly invisible. Do we need
to make things more difficult than they are?"
   "Yeah, you may be right," Nikitas reluctantly admitted and
turned to Father Gregorios. "Speaking of cassocks, since we came
here I was meaning to ask you this, uncle: how do you feel in this
city, with its well-known history of persecution of the Greek popula-
tion, in an Orthodox priest's habit?" he asked.
   "Look, Nikitas," Father Gregorios replied. "I don't think
Constantinople's social environment is intrinsically inimical to us,
or that everybody sees in my cassock a red cloth. Definitely not. I
think-and there are many historical examples to prove it-that
during the last fifty years the Greeks and the Turks have successively
become friends or enemies according to the dictates of certain shady
elites of this country. When it's time for the two peoples to turn
enemies all kinds of stratagems are drawn out of the propaganda
handbooks and put into effect to inflame the passions of the Turkish
populace, eventually creating ugly and dangerous situations."
   He finished off his coffee and set his cup aside. "To answer your
question, though," Father Gregorios continued, "I tell you this, my
son: with the grace of God and the desert's sting my feelings of
passion and fear let me alone quite some time ago. What I wonder
instead, is how all the people in the street would feel if they knew of
Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis and what it portends for their
faith."
   "I don't know about theirs but your faith, uncle, is as solid and
indestructible as the Pyramids," Nikitas countered smiling.
   "How about discussing our schedule for today?" Anastasia inter-
jected. "I think it'd be practical for us to go once more through our
timetable."
Father Gregorios paid the waiter and nodded his agreement.
   "All right, it's ten a.m. now," she said glancing at her watch. "At
noon, you, Father, will have a private audience with the Ecumenical
Patriarch. Nikitas and I will be in the antechamber and I hope his All
Holiness will have a minute to give us his blessing." She saw Father
Gregorios nod, and went on. "Now, regarding our project, Father, do
you think we can count on His assistance?"
   "I sincerely hope we'll have it, Anastasia. Nikitas has told me
there are certain supplies we must buy here, so as a minimum we
need someone who knows both the Turkish language and
Constantinople's marketplace."
   "Fine," Anastasia agreed. "Afterwards, we'll have lunch out
together and early in the evening we'll return to the hotel for our
final preparations before checking out."
   "Shouldn't we keep our rooms till we're through with our
search?" Nikitas asked.
   "It's best that we check out and get our passports back,"
Anastasia insisted. "I'll feel safer with my passport in my purse,
rather than at Kardak's front desk. As for our personal things and the
rest of our baggage, well, we can leave those at the hotel for
safekeeping until our return."
   "All right then, we'll do it this way," Father Gregorios
announced.
   "A last reminder," Anastasia said. "According to Nikitas's plan,
we'll have to wait until it's dark before we enter Aghia Sophia."
For a short while no one spoke. As the moment of action
approached, the magnitude of their task was looming enormous.
   "Let's go somewhere else," Nikitas finally broke the silence. They
rose and went outside to find a cab.

                                ***

They sat in silence and waited for Father Gregorios who had been
received a quarter of an hour ago by his Holiness the Ecumenical
Patriarch and Archbishop of Constantinople and New Rome.
Anastasia picked up a religious periodical from the table beside her
and flipped through its pages, while Nikitas studied the room's
decoration. Behind his oaken desk sat erect Rev. Athanassios, as he
busily updated in his flowing script the thick book of the minutes of
the Committee for the Archives and the Patriarchal Library.
   It was Rev. Athanassios who had welcomed them at the main gate
of the Patriarchate's building complex, and offered to take them on
a brief tour through the premises. Nikitas had refused politely. He
wanted to be near his uncle when he got out.
   After ten more minutes the large, intricately carved door of the
Patriarch's office opened and Father Gregorios came out first,
discreetly signaling them to rise. Behind him followed his All
Holiness, who approached them smiling. Nikitas and Anastasia
kissed his proffered hand and received his blessing, while Father
Gregorios and Rev. Athanassios stood close by.
   And then it was over. The Shepherd of the Orthodox Ecumenical
Church returned to his duties and they left the anteroom, climbed
down the grand marble stairway and went out into the inner court-
yard.
   Father Gregorios remained silent until they had put some
distance between them and the Patriarchal House's entrance. Then,
he shook his head in disappointment and spoke in a low voice.
   "Unfortunately, he cannot offer us any help. His All Holiness
explained to me that the current political situation is so delicate, he
cannot risk his involvement in a project of this nature."
   "Did you make it clear, uncle, that we only ask for a trustworthy
interpreter to lend us a guiding hand in Constantinople?" Nikitas
asked anxiously.
   Father Gregorios shrugged his shoulders. "The Patriarch
confided to me that the Fanarion complex is under constant surveil-
lance by the Turkish authorities and admitted quite frankly that he
would not have acceded to my request for a reception, had he
known of my visit's true purpose. He even hinted that in view of the
nature of our undertaking we should not have ventured to Fanarion
at all."
   Nikitas saw Anastasia stare at him meaningfully. Her insistence
for security precautions was now taking a new dimension.
   "It's like living in an occupied zone," he observed.
   "Have you forgotten we're not in Greece, Nikitas?" Anastasia
asked him sarcastically.
   "That's totally irrelevant," he retorted. "My point is, I never felt
so oppressed in any other place."
   "Well, just remember that this country is not in the best of terms
with our own," Anastasia said.
They had almost reached the outer gate. "When we leave the
Patriarchate, we must pretend we're ordinary pilgrims," Father
Gregorios advised them. "Don't forget what I told you: the whole
area is being watched," he whispered.
   "Well, enough is enough!" Nikitas burst out angrily. "There are
certain limits I refuse to go past. For my part, I won't play the slave
even if half of Constantinople's police force lies in wait outside that
gate."
   With a swift motion of his hand Father Gregorios grabbed
Nikitas tightly from the arm and pulled him close to him. "Save your
anger for tonight," he whispered fiercely to his ear, "and now do as
I tell you!"
   They were interrupted by a familiar voice which was calling
Father Gregorios's name. Looking back toward the Patriarchal
House they saw Rev. Athanassios hurriedly approaching them,
waving them with his hand to wait.
   "I would ask for a favor, Father," he said in a loud voice when he
reached them. "I was distracted by my work and forgot it. I have a
nephew, a student in the University of Constantinople, who knows
the city like his palm. Since it's vacation time, I thought he could be
your guide in Constantinople and show you around. It would also
help him make a little extra pocket money as well."
   "Your suggestion is a welcome boon, Father Athanassios, because
we needed a guide and were thinking of asking our travel agency for
one," Father Gregorios replied in the same volume. "We'll be very
happy to have your nephew undertake the task."
   "I have written down his name and phone number. If you give
him a call in the next couple of hours, you'll find him there."
   He handed Father Gregorios the folded note, who took it and
slipped it in a pocket. Then Rev. Athanassios shook hands with each
one of them.
   "God bless you all!" he wished them and turned back.
   A few moments later a small group of three Greek pilgrims left
the Patriarchate through its main gate. Outside they paused briefly
to cross themselves, as they took a last good look at the traditional
headquarters of Orthodoxy. Without a word they ambled toward the
center of the city.
   Ten minutes later Father Gregorios brought out from his pocket
the folded note and stopped to read it. Nikitas and Anastasia leaned
closer to take a look at its contents.

                         Ioannis Makridis
                       Telephone: 277-1176
                         � God bless you.

   Father Gregorios memorized the number and tore it to pieces.
   "Let's find us a telephone booth," he said and resumed his brisk pace,
leaving unmentioned the fact that the note was written in the
familiar script of his All Holiness, the Ecumenical Patriarch of
Constantinople.

                                ***

The speeding car took a sharp turn, braking hard when the driver
saw him. However, the smooth cobblestones were slippery and it
veered wildly, bouncing over Nikitas's shoes. Soon after a lively six-
year old boy ran toward him, brandishing the remote control of his
toy car like a sword. He stopped when he reached Nikitas, looking
sheepishly into his eyes. Then he glanced at his mother, who smiled
back encouragingly, and mustering his courage he snatched the red
Porsche that lay between Nikitas's feet. He ran away shouting in
triumph but thirty seconds later the whole incident was completely
forgotten, as he and his Porsche were racing to the opposite direc-
tion.
   After roaming the Kapali �arsi, Father Gregorios had suggested
that they stop for a short rest at the public park in the Sultan Ahmet
square, between Aghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Sometime
toward noon the dark gray clouds had shifted to the horizon and the
sun had come out. As a result those benches that faced it were
empty, the others full. Nevertheless, after a walk through the park
they had located one in the sunny side under the shade of a large
laurel shrub. It was a place ideally suited for relaxed conversation,
and they had sat down in relief.
   The square was crowded with tourists and Turkish young
mothers out for a stroll with their children. Far-off they could see
the park of At Meidani, where the Hippodrome was during the
Byzantine one-thousand-years' empire.
   What was today the featureless oblong park of At Meidani, until
1453 AD it had been Constantinople's most important cultural and
civic center. Now, though, the excitement of the races, the passions
of the political gatherings, and the yearly chariot tournaments of the
opposing Green and Blue factions were all forgotten, and the
chariots substituted by minibuses driving the tourists around the
park, then heading off for their next stop in their fixed itineraries.
Only Constantinople's oppressing summertime heat had
remained the same, its last link with a glorious past.

                                ***

Half an hour after their departure from the Patriarchate, Father
Gregorios had phoned Makridis and arranged to meet him in the
commercial center of the city. He arrived twenty minutes later, and
when Nikitas saw him he felt that he could trust this slender youth
with the long hair and the easy air about him. He immediately
handed him the shopping list he had prepared, as there was no time
to lose, plus ten thousand dollars in cash.
   Makridis had left in a hurry after making arrangements with
them for their meeting later that evening. According to Nikitas's plan
he would rent a van for the weekend, load in the equipment he
would buy, and come to wait for them at Kardak's parking space.
   Relieved that the last obstacle was taken care of, the three of them
continued their tour of the bazaar Kapali �arsi, with Anastasia
frequently stopping at the stalls and the carts brimming with various
items of women's clothing, leather wares, belts, shawls and jewelry.
   Nikitas had noticed that she showed minimal interest for Turkish
folklore artifacts. Curious, he asked her why, and was told that due
to her specialty in archaeology a large number of authentic artwork
passed through her hands, so she had lost interest for the imitations.
   Father Gregorios had walked leisurely through the interminable
galleries like a man without a care in the world, hardly one who later
on would attempt an act all Greeks had wished for ever since the
Fall of Constantinople.
   More than anything else, however, Nikitas had been intrigued by
the reactions of the public at the sight of his uncle. During their
walk he had been impressed by the respect accorded to Father
Gregorios by the Turkish public, whenever the black-clad monk
stopped to look at a suq or to a peddler's wares. Nikitas had also
noted that those people were deferring to his uncle spontaneously,
and not out of the false respect shown toward a prospective client.
   After the bazaar they had lunch in one of the few surviving Greek
restaurants in Constantinople, intending to visit a park afterwards
for an hour of quiet talk and relaxation.
   When they had finished their meal, the Greek proprietor had sat
at their table and answered all of their questions concerning the
Greek community of Constantinople. It was he who had suggested
the park near Aghia Sophia, with a warning not to be fooled by the
seemingly balmy weather.
   "When the sky sports clouds like these," he had told them
pointing at the blackened horizon, "we Constantinopolitans have an
old saying: they're not leaving before watering our hair."

The young mother with her son and his red Porsche trailing behind
them started for home. Her husband would be returning soon, as he
wrapped up his nine-to-five workday in a multinational corporation,
and would be very disappointed if he found the house empty.
Anastasia nodded a greeting at her as she returned from the nearest
fountain, where she had gone to wash the fruit they'd bought on
their way to the park. She sat down next to Father Gregorios and
offered them a couple of peaches each.
   "I've brought with me all of my notes about Heraclius and his
age," she said biting deeply into her juicy peach. "Delicious!" she
added.
   In the middle of the wooden bench sat Father Gregorios, leaning
back with half-closed eyes and hands clasped together upon his lap.
He felt sufficiently rested and was now prepared to give his full
attention to Anastasia. The fruit would have to wait.
   "I'll take the events in a chronological order to give you the
whole picture," she continued. "They make up a story like a fairy
tale, but actually it's everything but a fairy tale. All its twists and
turns, all the little details, are based on accepted historical facts.
   "For my part, all I could think of at the conclusion of my research
was why this particular interpretive historical model, which
explains an entire sequence of otherwise unexplainable events, had
not been put forward to date by some scholar as a working hypoth-
esis, or simply as a credible piece of historical speculation.
   "I think this is a riddle in itself."
   "Maybe those events form a kind of magic picture-you know,
Anastasia, a drawing that can be seen in two ways," Nikitas
proposed. "If you don't know beforehand a second view exists, you'll
not seek it."
   "Could be. Keep in mind, however, that in this case the alternate
view presupposes an interpretive restructuring of a whole chain of
established historical facts. Which is definitely not an easy thing to
do, especially without Modestinus's letter." She brought a Filofax
out from her purse and opened it at a bookmarked page.
   "All right, then," she said. "Let's go time-traveling back to Anno
Domini 600 and see the world with the eyes of a Byzantine man who
has stopped for a brief rest, like we did. Maybe at exactly this spot.
This area would have probably been a public park even then.
   "Now, if for a moment our man turned away his thoughts from
religion to politics, he would speak of the two great enemies that
threatened vast stretches of the Byzantine Empire: the Avars to the
North and the Persians to the East. Those two enemies were not to
be scorned; by the standards of that era they were superpowers, two
mighty empires with their own social, political and military struc-
tures.
   "In the north, the empire of the nomadic Avars occupies an enormous
territory, extending from the depths of Asia and the Caucasus mountains
to the Danube. Mind-boggling, isn't it? And in the east the Persians have
succeeded in reviving their idiosyncratic blend of imperial wealth and
power. Picture them as a recast of the Persians who had invaded ancient
Greece a thousand years earlier in conquering lust.
   "Now, let's talk about the Byzantine Empire itself. Are there any
good news at this end? Hardly. The empire is tired, which translates
to poor finances, low reserve funds, and empty imperial coffers.
Overall she's in a bleak state, and though seriously threatened by
powerful enemies she's in no position to respond."
   "And who's responsible for the empty treasuries, Anastasia?"
Nikitas asked.
   "No one and everyone. What does this mean? It means that on
the one hand the empire's political and economic system isn't the
best possible one, while on the other certain administrative practices
make it even worse. And there are the emperors, too. Let's keep in
mind that apart from the notoriously bad ones there are the so-called
great emperors, who impoverished the state through their ill-
conceived and ill-executed policies.
   "I'll give you a name to mull over, if you will: Justinian. He's a
textbook example to this effect. We've all heard of Justinian's fame
as a great Byzantine Emperor, right? He waged lengthy wars in the
east and the west-not himself, mind you, but through his
generals-and commissioned the building of Aghia Sophia, of this
enduring symbol of Christendom. Yet, how many of us are aware of
the fact that upon Justinian's death the people were literally starving,
the empire totally bankrupt?"
   "You answered my question quite clearly, Anastasia," Nikitas said
with a grin.
   "Thanks. Back to my story, then. Emperor Maurikios was
enthroned in 582 AD and kept on fighting the Persians for the best
part of a decade. Finally, in 591 AD the king of Persia Hosroes II
made peace with the Byzantines in part as a token of his personal
gratitude toward Maurikios, because the Byzantine emperor had
supported him against the rebel Persian general Varam.
   "However, at this point neither side entertains any illusions about
the peace agreement, because everyone knows that the newborn
peace won't outlast the opponents' mutual fear of each other. Still,
so long as the Persians believe they can't win the next war, it will
remain wishful thinking on the part of their generals."
   "In other words, we're talking about superpower balance,"
Nikitas said.
   "Yes, indeed. As the things stand, Maurikios faces the seemingly
insoluble riddle of maintaining the current level of fear on the part
of the Persians by making use of his very limited resources. In
modern parlance we would say he's considering the effectiveness of
his deterrence measures. He has a small army but the empire's
borders stretch for thousands of miles, and the continuing threat of
the Avars in the north does not permit him to divide it in two.
   "Then, in the midst of his anguished deliberations, a high-
ranking cleric visits him and proposes an ambitious strategy, uncon-
ventional but feasible.
   "Before going any further, let me clarify this: it's a well-estab-
lished fact that throughout its long history the high-powered
Byzantine diplomacy put into effect quite a number of such bold and
unconventional plans, as the one I'm about to describe. So, don't be
surprised by its scope and its complexity, or its audacity.
   "As a matter of fact, the basic concept of the cleric's strategy
offered nothing new because it had been repeatedly employed by the
Byzantines in the past with considerable success. The plan provided
for the creation of a suitable military force at the southern borders
of Persia that would tie down valuable enemy resources, thus
making the reconstruction of the Persian war machine almost
impossible. Under the specter of the new threat right at their own
backyard, the Persians would be in a situation similar to that of the
Byzantines, who were severely handicapped by the Avars at the
north.
   "As I've said, the first part of the proposed strategy incorporated
standard Byzantine tactics, and it would have been among the first
options considered by Maurikios in his search for a solution.
Anyone would have thought to use the Persians' southern neighbors
against them-but how? That was the unsolvable problem.
   "This was because of the lack of money to bribe them?" Nikitas
asked.
   "That too, but it wasn't the only difficulty," Anastasia replied. "It's
true that according to a time-honored diplomatic practice the
Byzantines offered respectable quantities of gold to the various
border tribes in exchange for military services. You know, Nikitas,
this practice has been criticized by modern writers as undercutting
their military readiness, but that's because they failed to grasp a
fundamental aspect of the Byzantine mindset: they were rich, and
preferred to keep their empire intact by spending their money in lieu
of their blood.
   "But now the nearly empty coffers could cover only basic expen-
ditures-supplies for the standing army, the wages of the civil
servants, maintenance expenses, and suchlike. There was not
enough to set aside for hired foreigners.
   "Still, the lack of funds wasn't the main reason why their classic
strategy of paid-for affiliation could not be implemented in this
particular case. To the south of Persia stretched the vast reaches of
present-day Saudi Arabia, which were inhabited by a number of
fierce nomadic tribes, though none of them powerful enough to
constitute anything more than a nagging thorn at the Persian hump.
And I haven't mentioned the traditional infighting among the
Arabian tribes, which was one more obstacle towards achieving a
unified front against their northern neighbors."
   Anastasia popped-up the cap from a plastic bottle and took a big
swig of mineral water. Nikitas suddenly became aware of a half-
eaten peach in his hand and quickly finished it off. Next to him
Father Gregorios was smiling at the antics of a pair of little twin
brothers, who were pushing around enthusiastically their double
baby carriage.
   "I suppose we're about to return to the cleric's strategy. By the
way, do you have any idea who he was?" Nikitas asked.
   "More on that shortly," Anastasia replied. "Now, his scheme was
absolutely brilliant, incorporating a long-term solution. Not only it
offered to Maurikios a way out of his impasse, it also prepared the
ground for an undertaking of a different nature, which had probably
been the cleric's true goal right from the beginning.
   "Item one: the suggested strategy presupposed the unification of
all the dispersed tribes in the Arabian Peninsula under one banner.
A bold assertion for the time, if not outright impossible. The
proposed unification had been repeatedly attempted in the past by
aspiring Arab chieftains but without any permanent results, because
a key factor was missing: a common, all-powerful bond to unite the
tribes despite the minor differences that stood in the way.
   "Item two: what better than a new religion to undertake this task,
one that would help create a national consciousness among the then
pagan Arab nomads?
   "Unfortunately, the Christian Church could not play this role.
The inhabitants of that region were well acquainted with the
Christian faith and they had completely rejected it. Therefore, a
missionary approach could hardly have the desired effect.
   "Item three: a suitable substitute should be used in its stead
which would help implant the idea of a monotheistic religion to the
pagan nomads, thus preparing the ground for their eventual conver-
sion into the Christian Faith.
   "In hindsight we can easily argue that the necessary interim stage
of the surrogate monotheistic religion, until the time matured for
the advent of Christianity, was a major shortcoming of this
approach-you know, a lot of things can go wrong in an under-
taking of such immense proportions. And yet, looking at the whole
scheme with a pair of Byzantine eyes we have to agree that the
interim stage offered a rare advantage: the religion-to-be, unfettered
by Christianity's doctrinal bonds, could be infused with a generous
dose of militaristic bias, enough to guarantee the creation of the
desired military force for the protection of the Arabian-Persian
border." 
   "Brilliant!" Nikitas exclaimed, clapping enthusiastically his
hands. "I can't imagine a better strategy being conceived by the
foreign-policy think tanks of our day."
   "And we're still in the beginning," Anastasia laughed. "Wait till
you've heard the practical details of the plan."
   "I'm all ears!" Nikitas grinned.
   "All right. Let's tackle the historical facts, then. Emperor
Maurikios hears the cleric and sees in his plan the salvation of his
empire. He instructs its inventor to proceed with the formulation of
the canons and the doctrines of the new religion, and then orders his
chief spymaster to be on the lookout for a suitable man to undertake
the critical mission of introducing the new faith to Arabia.
   "The efficient imperial intelligence network does not take long to
complete its task. We're now in 593 AD, two years after the peace
agreement with the Persians.
   "The candidate is a twenty-three year-old Arab who travels
regularly from Mecca to Antiocheia in his capacity as assistant
caravan guide. According to the Byzantine intelligence, the young
Arab when in Antiocheia unfailingly attends the catechism of
various Christian priests. Also, he has more than once publicly
declared his intention to be baptized.
   "The representatives of the emperor sound him out on the
proposed scheme and the young visionary gets excited with the
opportunity to transplant the sacred teachings of the Christian faith
to his pagan homeland.
   "The young Arab's nomination for the mission is approved by the
palace and the plan is quickly put into effect. The prophet-to-be
receives catechesis in private for a period of two years and at its
conclusion he's baptized in petto, namely in secret. An official
document, a Protocol of Catechesis is drawn to that effect, signed by
himself and the emperor's representative.
   "And guess what: his full name is Abu al-Kasim Mohammed ibn
Abd Allah ibn Abd al-Mutalib ibn Hashim, more commonly known
as Mohammed the Prophet.
   "Meanwhile in Vassilevoussa, the Reigning City, as
Constantinople was proudly called by the Byzantines, the initiator of
the plan has written down the doctrines of the new religion, and the
package of parchments is handed over to Mohammed. He is
instructed to make the necessary arrangements and then wait for the
emperor's official notification before he starts preaching.
   "Naturally, the plan provides for the social advancement of the
neophyte Mohammed. Under the guidance of the Byzantines and
with their discreet support the orphan youth rises several rungs up
on the social and financial ladder. He gets married with the rich
widow Khadijah, whose cousin Waraka very conveniently is a
convert Christian. Of course, when we zoom in at this level of
historical detail it's gets nearly impossible to know what exactly
transpired, however, we can safely assume that in this instance
Waraka played the role of the matchmaker.
   "We have arrived now in 595 AD. Mohammed is comfortably
settled in Mecca, where he lives harmoniously with his by fifteen
years older wife. In time he has at least six children by her. And all
the while, the package with the doctrines of the new faith lies undis-
turbed inside a cave, a short distance from Mecca. Mohammed
continues to believe firmly in the Christian God, as he patiently
awaits the emperor's messenger from Constantinople."
   "Fascinating!" Nikitas whispered. "It seems to me that Greek
politicians could learn a trick or two from our Byzantine ancestors
about the management of foreign affairs..."
   "Nikitas, please don't interrupt Anastasia," Father Gregorios protested.
   "No problem," Anastasia said. "I also agree that the reconstruc-
tion of the historical events prompted by the discovery of
Modestinus's letter is impressive, to say the least," she added,
shuffling her notes. She took a fresh page.
   "Well, eventually Mohammed reaches the age of thirty-three, the
proper age to start preaching the new faith according to the pattern
established by Christ, when something terrible happens in
Constantinople. In 602 AD a common soldier named Fokas-not
Nicephorus Fokas, he reigned in the 10th century-usurps the
throne in a violent uprising, kills Maurikios, and wipes out the
imperial family. During his brief reign he becomes the worst
emperor ever in Byzantium; to be precise, I would profile him as a
psychopathic murderer. The people of Constantinople, who had
been tricked by Fokas to support him, now suffer greatly under his
terrorist regime. No one's life or property is assured and the tradi-
tional enemies of Byzantium take heart, and start preparations for
new campaigns.
   "It took Fokas only eight years to bring the empire in a state of
imminent collapse.
   "These are critical times, and the Senate takes it upon herself to
find a solution before it's too late. It contacts in secret the Exarchos
of the northern African province, that is its governor, and begs him
to intercede and save the empire. He acquiesces, but on account of
his advanced age he promises to dispatch a military force led by his
son Heraclius. In the meantime Heraclius's cousin-your namesake,
Nikitas-manages to secure wheat-producing Egypt. In the spring
Heraclius sails with his fleet toward Constantinople.
   "Strangely, he reaches Vassilevoussa several months later, in
October, and captures it without a battle. Both the people and the
Senate welcome their liberator and despite Heraclius's sincere objec-
tions he's proclaimed emperor, while Fokas meets his end in the
hands of Constantinople's enraged populace.
   "It is 610 AD.
   "The bane of the people is dead, but the political situation is still
desperate. In the frontiers, as well as in the interior of the empire,
chaos reigns supreme and if several years ago things were not going
well, now they're tenfold for the worse. Heraclius doesn't know
where to start patching things up.
   "At this juncture our cleric reappears, only this time from his
elevated position as the new Ecumenical Patriarch of
Constantinople, in which he was elected only a few months ago.
He's the great Sergius, an exceptional man who will repeatedly
support Heraclius in the still harder times to come, even by surren-
dering to him all of the Church's treasures to be used in the wars
against Byzantium's enemies.
   "To put his gesture into perspective, this was the only time in the
history of the empire that such a promise was made and kept.
   "So, Sergius steps forth and reveals to the emperor his far-
reaching plan, which for the last eight years had been gathering
dust. As expected, Heraclius gets excited by the unexpected bonanza
and authorizes him to proceed without delay. Sergius immediately
relays the order to Mohammed, that the time has come for him to
begin.
   "As a result Mohammed has his first vision of Archangel Gabriel
a couple of months later, in December 610 AD, who brings word
from God that Mohammed is to be His Messenger and Prophet.
Tentatively at first and more confidently as the months pass,
Mohammed preaches to his friends and acquaintances, while at
regular intervals he continues to visit a certain cave in the mount
Jabal Hira to the southeast of Mecca to pray to the God he really
believes in and to consult his cache of parchments for guidance in
regard with the increasingly complex doctrinal matters of his fledg-
ling religion.
   "A year later Mohammed is openly preaching in Mecca, and his
teaching emphasizes two points: the existence of only one God, and
the need for the unconditional surrender of the faithful to His Will.
   "The years go by and Mohammed's religion grows. It attracts
many followers, eventually forcing Mecca's socio-economic estab-
lishment to react violently against the newfangled faith-as it's
perceived-which is seriously threatening the current status-quo. As
a result, Mohammed retreats to Medina in 622 AD accompanied by
a nucleus of faithful followers. Once there he immediately begins to
plot his return. And since Byzantium cannot come to his aid, finan-
cially speaking, due to a new war with the Persians, Mohammed
organizes his followers in a military fashion and sanctions the
looting of passing caravans.
   "Increasingly the prospects of the new religion are looking up. In
628 AD Heraclius wins the war against the Persians, King Hosroes II
dies, and his successor Siroes signs with Heraclius the so-called
Perpetual Peace Treaty.
   "Two years later Mohammed returns triumphantly in Mecca as a
conqueror. He makes sure that all of his former foes submit to his
leadership and then he proceeds to convert the Arabian Peninsula in
its entirety.
   "And finally there comes a time when Mohammed feels strong
enough to tackle the last stage of his plan, and starts making prepa-
rations for the transition of his followers to Christianity.
   "Were he a lesser man he would have guessed that by doing so he
was preparing his own downfall. Mohammed, though, was too
devoted to the true Faith to see that."
   Anastasia paused and lifted the bottle of water to her lips. Father
Gregorios turned toward her, smiling approvingly. She had done an
admirable job at fitting the stray pieces of a millennium-old puzzle
together.
   Nikitas, on the other hand, had been so engrossed in her tale, he
felt as if he had awakened from a deep slumber. He looked around
him and was surprised to see that the park had emptied. There was
only a small group of tourists across the street waiting for the bus to
drive them back to their hotel. He glanced at his watch and realized
with a jolt that time had slipped faster than he had thought.
He rose to his feet, feeling a rising tension within him as the hour
for their undertaking came closer.
   "I think we should be leaving, if we're to keep our appointment
with Makridis." He shot a look toward his uncle and saw him nod
in agreement. Anastasia collected her notes without protest and they
all headed for the avenue.
   "Why don't we go on foot to the bridge," Father Gregorios
suggested. He meant the bridge of Galatas which spanned the
Golden Horn harbor, bridging the old town with the new. "We
still have some time in our hands and walking there will give us
the chance to hear the rest of Anastasia's report."
   "Well, I think we've reached the fundamental question of the
matter," Nikitas said as they walked, "which is this: what was it that
caused the collapse of Sergius's extraordinary plan? What was the
reason for that dramatic historical reversal, which resulted in the
consolidation of Islam as an autonomous religion? Because it's plain
to me that Sergius's scheme backfired in the worst imaginable way,
delivering an unprecedented blow to the Byzantines and to the
Christians in general."
   "It all started," Anastasia said, "when Mohammed revealed to his
closest associates the secret he had kept hidden for so many years.
At some time between 630 and 632 AD he felt confident enough to
initiate the final stage of his teachings, the stage of Christianization,
so he assembled his lieutenants and advisors to announce his inten-
tions."
   "And that was a mistake on his part?" Nikitas asked.
   "It was tactical mistake. Think about it, Nikitas. Suppose you are
the leader of a religious sect and your agenda includes the buildup
of a devoted following to disseminate your version of the Truth. You
may be an enlightened person, but how can you expect all of the
members of your entourage to be that? Now, if they passionately
supported you what would you think of their motives?"
   "We'll just have to wait for my Enlightenment, Anastasia, before
I'm able to answer that," Nikitas joked. He looked at his uncle and
discerned the hint of a smile in his lips. Unruffled, Anastasia, went
on with her line of reasoning.
   "Fine. If a religious example makes you uncomfortable we'll
leave it aside and come to more familiar ground. Let's talk about
business. You hardly need to envision yourself running a company,
Nikitas, since you already do that. Tell me, then, why do your
associates stay with you?"
   "Why? There are lots of reasons for that, Anastasia... it depends
on the case," Nikitas said.
   "I don't think there are so many reasons, Nikitas. In my opinion
there are only two: profit and trust. They trust you that you'll lead
them to profit."
   "That, too. You can't separate those two concepts in business."
   "It's more pervasive than simply business-profit in its wider
sense means a lot more than purely economic benefits. But never
mind that, now. Let's go back to Mohammed. By revealing his secret
Mohammed alienated himself from both categories of followers, the
purists and the opportunists.
   "There were those who suddenly realized that all this time they
had placed their faith to a lie, and the others who perceived him as
a real threat for their present and future interests. In my opinion the
fact that an intelligent and insightful leader of Mohammed's caliber
didn't anticipate the consequences of his revelation, only serves to
exemplify the depth of his commitment to Christianity.
   "However, for some time no one dares to react. Mohammed's
closest associates are reeling from his unprecedented revelations, yet
they cringe at the thought of confronting their charismatic leader.
Moreover, they still hope he may change his mind. Nothing is lost
yet; outside their small circle, no one has an inkling of the terrible
truth.
   "Once again events are set in motion by Mohammed himself. In
June 632 AD he announces to a great gathering of the faithful that
preparations are under way for an expedition to Syria. They all
think, of course, that they're going on a military campaign.
Mohammed, however, reveals to the members of the inner circle his
real purpose.
   "What was his reason for this expedition? No one knows for
sure, yet if we filter the known historical facts through Modestinus's
letter, we can safely assume that Mohammed, possibly acting in
concert with high-ranking officials of Heraclius and clerical repre-
sentatives of the Patriarch Sergius, was preparing a wholesale
conversion of his followers to the tenets of Christianity. He probably
intended a collective, celebratory baptism of his army. At any rate,
he was planning a fait accompli, which would introduce the
Christian faith to a great number of his followers and consolidate
the transformation of his own teachings.
   "Mohammed's announcement has the ring of an ultimatum and
when his lieutenants realize that his mind is set, they panic. I'll
return shortly to that, but you should understand that when I'm
speaking of Mohammed's inner-circle I'm referring to the few men
really close to him. Foremost among them is his father-in-law, Abu
Bakr, father of his young and ambitious wife Aisha.
   "By the way, in case you're wondering, Khadijah, Mohammed's
beloved first wife, had long since passed away-she died in 619 AD.
   "It's a significant fact that throughout their common life
Mohammed strictly adhered to the principle of monogamy, but after
her death he married repeatedly. Aisha had been his favored wife and
a lot younger than himself. The prophet had liked women; at the
time of his death Mohammed left behind twelve widows and eleven
concubines."
   "It seems to me that the pattern: first marry for the money, last for
the youth, was a truism throughout the centuries," Nikitas thought-
fully observed.
   "Hmm, you could say that," Anastasia replied, "although history
also teaches us that time and again a lot of first wives were forced to
comply with that model and lay down their rich dowries at the feet
of their rapacious husbands," she added.
   She took a good look at their surroundings. Without realizing it
they had reached the seaside avenue, Kennedy Jadesi. Far ahead she
could make out the rising arc of the Galata Bridge.
   "What now?" she asked. "Are we taking a cab?"
   "Let's walk a bit more," Father Gregorios proposed. "I think it's
important we have a clear view of what really happened back then.
We can take a taxi afterwards for the rest of the way."
   "Okay, then," Anastasia agreed with a pleased expression in her
face. "I had stopped at the point where Mohammed's followers
started to swarm to Medina from all over Arabia, to take part in the
scheduled campaign. As the D-day approaches the conspirators are
hard-pressed for a solution, then, two days before breaking camp
they decide to act.
   "From this point onward all of the contemporary sources which
refer to those events become hazy. The Arab chroniclers of that
period only tell us that on 8 June 632 AD Mohammed died
unexpectedly and quite inexplicably, too. They mention a disease
but don't go into any details, though it's an established historical fact
that Mohammed had been in perfect health and only 62 years old.
   "He died at the house of his favorite wife Aisha, and as the
Byzantine historiographer Theophanis notes, '...in this year
Mohammed passed away, the false prophet and leader of the Saracens.'
   "After much wrangling among his aspiring successors, which
dragged on for a couple of days and almost ruined the Muslim
community, the sixty-two year old Abu Bakr is appointed Caliph,
namely successor to the Prophet.
   "As I earlier said , Abu Bakr was Mohammed's father-in-law and
Aisha's father. At first he attempts to postpone Mohammed's
campaign but under growing pressure from the assembled crowd he
announces that it will proceed as scheduled.
   "So the Muslim host eventually departs. The mystery is that it
vanished into thin air for a period of time between thirty-three to
seventy days, depending on the source. To date, no one knows where
or how this sizeable army spent nearly two months before returning
to Arabia, though one thing is perfectly clear: it did not engage in
any fighting.
   "Let me orient you in this matter with a few citations:
   "According to the historian Mirkhond the army reached the Gaza
area, but finding no available enemy-if you can believe that-
returned with empty hands. Goeje in his classic Memoire sur la
conqu�te de la Syrie plainly admits to confusion regarding the where-
abouts of Abu Bakr's army during the seventy days of the expedition,
while in his Annali dell' Islam Caetani asserts that the same campaign
lasted only thirty-three days.
   "Now tell me, doesn't this point to the fact that Mohammed's army
was meant to serve a completely different purpose rather than fight?"
   "Hey, wait a minute, Anastasia," Nikitas said. "How can you
imply that Mohammed was murdered by his own top assistants
when they were all members of a religious party, and as such they
would have been bound by the moral values they were preaching?"
   Anastasia smiled and gave him a sly look. "Let me answer yours
with a question of mine," she said. "For how many of your acquain-
tances, or even close friends, would you bet your life that you know
the moral values motivating their actions, regardless of their own
justifications?"
Nikitas shrugged without replying.
   "Well, I've had my answer," she said smiling. "But if we can't be
sure even of that, how can we afford to be dogmatic about people so
far removed in time, especially when immense personal interests
were at stake?"
   Although the look in his face made it clear that Nikitas had not
been entirely convinced, she decided to let the matter rest at that
and proceed with her account.
   "You know, Nikitas, I'm not asking for your blind faith in this. I
think that you'll be able to judge my theory better after you've
listened to some well-established historical facts.
   "The first successor to Mohammed, Abu Bakr, dies two years
later. The contemporary chroniclers differ in their opinions
regarding the cause of his death; some report that he fell victim to a
high fever, while others-among them Suyuti, who draws his
material directly from the reliable Ibn Saad and Al Hakam-tell us
that Abu Bakr was poisoned the night of 23August 634 AD.
   "Let's go on to the next Caliph. Umar I was murdered by a
Persian renegade on 3 November 644 AD, and all the historians
agree that his assassination had been arranged by a team of conspir-
ators called Comrades of the Prophet, also members of Mohammed's
inner circle.
   "What do you say to that, Nikitas?" asked Anastasia, but before
he had a chance to reply she raised her hand. "No, wait a minute!
There is more.
   "Mohammed's third successor was Osman. Did he live out a
peaceful life worthy of a religious leader? Hardly. He was assassi-
nated by another band of conspirators in 17 June 656 AD. They
broke into his house and killed him as he was studying the Koran.
According to a scholarly opinion the instigator of Osman's murder
was Ali, the husband of Mohammed's daughter Fatima from his
marriage with Khadijah. However this may be, after Osman's assas-
sination Ali was proclaimed Islam's fourth Caliph.
   "Not even Ali, however, lasted for long. In January 661 AD Ali
was wounded in the mosque of Kufa with a poisoned dagger wielded
by Abn Rahman, a Muslim. He died several days later."
   Anastasia paused and took a deep breath. Her voice had become
hoarse because she had to speak out loud to be heard above the din.
At this hour the traffic in the streets was heavy and the passers-by
were crowding the sidewalks of the once famous Grand Rue de Pera,
as they walked uphill the street toward Taksim Square. Sadly, its
former elegant name had been changed to Istiklal Jadesi.
   The dark clouds had reclaimed their prominent position in the
sky and the atmosphere was stifling. Without slackening his pace
Nikitas turned to face her.
   "Listen, Anastasia, I'm not disputing the fact that you've done an
excellent job of restructuring certain historical events in the light of
Modestinus's letter. I'm personally convinced that a dark mystery
surrounds Mohammed's death, and the murders of his successors
seem to validate your suspicions concerning his own demise.
Nevertheless, has the thought crossed your mind that you may be a
bit prejudiced in this matter? I mean, I happen to know several
Muslims and they're all decent, honest people."
   Anastasia snapped her head toward him with a startled expres-
sion in her face. "What did you say? I, prejudiced against the
Muslims?" she exclaimed. "How can you say that, Nikitas? You
thought that all this time I was passing judgment to Islam as a
religious or ethical system? I'm a scientist, for God's sake, not a
Christian missionary! I only referred to a few well-known historical
facts, re-interpreting them in the light of the manuscript that you
presented to me-remember? That was all, nothing more and
nothing less."
   Nikitas said nothing and his stony expression did not betray his
feelings. Father Gregorios looked completely absorbed by his surround-
ings, although his intriguing half-smile was still lingering in his face.
   "You know, if these facts disclose some unpleasant facets of
certain historical figures," Anastasia pressed on, "the responsibility
lies with themselves for perpetrating their reproachable acts and not
with the historian who brings them to light! Yes? And as regards my
attitude toward the Muslims, please keep in mind, Nikitas, that
when I was a little girl I used to play every day with my Turkish,
Muslim friends, since their neighborhood bordered with mine."
   'All right, all right, I meant no offense," Nikitas said raising both
hands in a conciliatory gesture.
Anastasia nodded curtly.
   "This talk is fine and good," Father Gregorios said calmly, "and
right now totally irrelevant. When, God willing, we return to Athens
we'll have time enough in our hands for a thorough discussion of the
subject. What we need to know now are the bare facts, not their
moral significance. So, are you through with your historical recapit-
ulation, Anastasia?" he asked her.
   "Yes, Father, almost. There remains only one last topic: how these
events tie in with the discovery of Modestinus's letter."
   "You succeeded in finding the answer to this question?"
   "Yes I did, but only because Modestinus supplied us with a few
missing links in the chain of the historical events. Let's go back to
the summer of 632 AD, when Mohammed died. With his untimely
death the international political situation, at least as Heraclius
pictured it in his mind, was overturned. While the Byzantine
emperor was on the verge of welcoming a new and powerful ally, he
suddenly becomes an unwilling witness to the emergence of a
ferocious enemy that starts campaigning against Byzantium with a
heretofore unknown fanaticism.
   "How did this happen? What impelled Abu Bakr and the rest of
the Caliphs to launch their repeated and frenzied attacks against the
neighboring Byzantine provinces? Religious fanaticism? Economic
interests? Both? Or some other, less known reason?
   "In Vassilevoussa the great Patriarch Sergius sees his plan
crumble, and dies of a broken heart in 638 AD. The chroniclers of
the day report his passing away with dramatic simplicity: '... in the
thirteenth of the month December in Indiction 12 perished Sergius, the
Patriarch of Constantinople.'
   "A profound sadness seizes Emperor Heraclius, who withdraws
to himself. His last hope rests with the discovery and disclosure of
Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, which could force his successors
to acknowledge Christianity as their true faith and put an end to the
hostilities.
   "Naturally, the Caliphs are aware of the existence of the Protocol
of Catechesis and fight tooth and nail to get it back, or at least to
destroy it. Modestinus, a special emissary of the emperor, succeeds
in locating the document in the Museum of Alexandria, in the
archives of the private deeds. His assistant, blinded by the prospect
of easy riches within his grasp, attempts to steal the parchment but
fails. In fear for his life he seeks and receives sanctuary from Omar.
He stays with him, probably for the rest of his life, offering his good
offices for the retrieval of the explosive manuscript.
   "In 29 January 642 AD Omar captures Alexandria. Believing that
the parchment is still within the Museum but not knowing its exact
location, he sets it on fire and along with it the world-famous
Library of Alexandria."
   "Another mystery is solved after so many centuries," Nikitas
mused. "I've read somewhere that the destruction of Alexandria's
Library had always been an unsolved riddle."
   "Only too true. Modestinus's letter makes it clear, though, that
Omar arrived late in Alexandria. The document wasn't there and
neither Heraclius's envoy, who had successfully crossed Egypt
arriving in the Sinai on 26 January 640 AD. His last known act in the
monastery was preparing a detailed account of his mission, which he
intended to dispatch to the emperor together with the Protocol of
Catechesis. The trustworthy monk who would carry them both in a
hollow cane, was bound to leave for Constantinople in May 640 AD.
   "And here dries up our well of information... and the questions
take over. What happened after that? Why the letter of Modestinus
was found alone? Did the Protocol ever reach Emperor Heraclius
and if yes, what was its fate? If not, what happened to the monk
from St. Catherine's and to the cane he was carrying?
   "You may think I'm asking a lot of questions, but in reality that's
only a small sample of those I want to ask. But never mind-tonight
we may get some answers, or we'll just have to wait for the next
fortuitous discovery in the Sinai," Anastasia finished grinning
impishly.
   "Your research is outstanding," Father Gregorios praised her.
   "You really deserve a lot more than a lecturer's position in the
University of Athens."
Anastasia shrugged but did not comment.
   "I, too, agree with my uncle, Anastasia," Nikitas said. "You
succeeded in bringing to light a historical period until now veiled in
darkness. But I've got something to add: even if the Protocol of
Catechesis did reach Emperor Heraclius, say sometime near the end
of 640 AD, the bad state of his health would not have permitted him
to take any action whatsoever. Isn't it true that he died shortly after
that?"
   "Heraclius died on 11 February 641 AD," Anastasia said.
Father Gregorios nodded as he crossed the sidewalk, motioning
Nikitas and Anastasia to follow him. His playful smile had vanished,
but his eyes were sparkling brightly. He stopped when he reached
the street and took stock of their surroundings. They had reached
the vast expanse of the Taksim Square at the center of the Beyoglou
area, the Peran of the Byzantines. Far ahead to his right he could
make out the beginning of Jumhuriyet Jadesi, leading straight to the
Kardak.
   "Enough of the Past!" he said suddenly. "It's time we reached out
toward the Future," he added in a softer tone and raised his arm to
hail a passing cab.


Chapter 21
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           July 29


The monotonous rattling noise kept rising steadily until a couple
of teenage boys materialized around the corner at the far end of
the street, furiously prodding their skateboards like a pair of jockeys
their race horses, oblivious to the trail of sonic exhaust they left
behind.
   They rolled on swiftly over the heated tarmac with their
ballooning trousers madly fluttering in the artificial breeze. The
teenager in front was bouncing expertly a basketball as he sailed the
street, while his friend was following closely behind him. Halfway
through the deserted road the youth with the ball braked without
warning, forcing his companion to veer sharply to the right to avoid
him. He missed him by a hairbreadth. Managing to keep his balance
he screeched to a brake, yelling enraged at his companion.
   "Whatcha doin', you asshole? You tryin' to maim me or
something?"
   The leader, better known in his circle as Johnie the Shriek looked
at him impassively as he let the ball spin upon his finger. He let a
few moments go by, then tilted his head towards a villa across the
road, only barely seen behind a silvery-green line of tall poplars.
   "That's the house Doc told us about," he announced.
He walked toward the gate with his skateboard dangling from his
hand, and took a long look at the plate next to the bell button.
   "It says Nikitas Paleologou," he finally said with a scowl.
   "Oh yeah? Then whatcha waitin' for?" the other jeered, still
angry at him. His own nickname was Hammer.
   Shriek brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, hefted the ball with
his two hands and with a calculated throw tossed it inside the
garden. Then he climbed calmly over the low outer fence and
jumped inside. The ball had fallen on the lawn, midway through to
the house. He ignored it, and hurried instead toward the main door.
   Meanwhile, his friend had attacked the mailbox's lock with a
steel pin. He opened it on the second try and nonchalantly collected
the mail. There were several envelopes which he evenly distributed
into the voluminous pockets of his baggy trousers. When he was
through he locked the box again and backed off a few steps.
   When his partner in the garden stepped through the inner
perimeter which was protected by invisible laser sensors, the alarm
of the sophisticated security system was instantly activated and a
pre-recorded announcement started repeating itself cautioning the
intruder that the police had been contacted and was on the
way.Shriek hesitated for a moment. He had not been forewarned of
the security system and the alarm had taken him by surprise. A rush
of adrenaline pumped into his veins and he felt his heart fluttering,
but that lasted only for a few seconds, until his self-control, molded
the hard way in the streets, reasserted itself and he started to run
toward the house as fast as his legs would take him.
   He stopped when he reached the porch and with a few sharp
glances checked its surrounding walls until he spotted a suitable
location close to a lighting fixture. He brought out from his pocket
a miniature camera complete with a compact transmitter, the whole
device not larger than a spyhole, and pressed it forcefully against the
spot he had chosen on the wall. He took a deep breath to calm
himself, all the while listening to his heartbeat compete in loudness
with the alarm horn, and counted five seconds before releasing his
hand.
   The cylindrical object remained attached to the wall.
   Relieved, Shriek did not lose a second. He turned around and ran
back toward the gate, ignoring the basketball. Hammer was waiting
for him in the midst of the street. He jumped over the fence and with
a spectacular plunge smoothly alighted upon his skateboard,
thrusting against the blacktop with his right foot.
   It took the two friends only a few seconds to disappear around
the next bend down the street.
   In a couple of minutes they had reached Kifissias Avenue. They
leaped onto the sidewalk and stopped at the first public telephone
booth they encountered. Shriek picked up the receiver and dialed a
cell phone number, biting impatiently his knuckles while it rang.
   "Mr. Argyros?" he asked when a familiar baritone voice answered
his call. The answer had been a gruff speak up! but Shriek went on
unconcernedly. "Everything's taken care of. Yes, I got the material
from the box." He remained silent for a few moments, as he
memorized the instructions he was given. "Sure, Mr. Argyros," he
finally said and hung up.
   "Doc told me to go to the bar for a treat," he said to Hammer with
a grin.
   "Cool, and about time, too," his partner said. "Been dry for a
week and it makes me drool just thinkin' about it. Okay, let's move!"
   Having secured several free cocaine hits from their employer,
they tucked their skateboards under their arms and hailed a cab for
the rest of the way to their familiar haunt.

                                ***

With an elaborate motion he replaced the cell phone on the confer-
ence table and looked up slowly at the men and women seated
opposite him. He was dark-complexioned, stocky but muscular, and
his well-shaved cheeks projected an almost palpable feel of smooth
silkiness.
   Antuan Edesen aka Elias Argyros leaned back comfortably in his
chair and let the silence stretch before resuming his speech. He was
only thirty-six, but Colonel Sabri had entrusted him with the leader-
ship of the Athens DGA-2 unit. As the rest of those present in the
room he did not have diplomatic cover, which was the price they all
had to pay for their highly illegal activities in Greece. They had
opted for flexibility and efficiency in lieu of security.
   But even their lack of diplomatic immunity was more of an
academic nature. Actually, they were not hard pressed for extra
security measures. Since DGA-2 had been established in the heart of
the Turkish MIT the Greek Intelligence Agency had known of it and
its activities only by hearsay. There had been just a single case when
the Greeks had come close to apprehending one of its agents in
Athens, but the Turk operative had preferred to commit suicide
rather than be captured.
   Edesen spoke Greek like a native and possessed the necessary
official documentation to prove his corresponding nationality in
case of need. He had a small bar in the Ambelokipi area of Athens
under his assumed name Elias Argyros, which served as a cover for
his everyday meetings. Moreover, the establishment offered him the
opportunity to have a ready-made pool of young people at his
disposal, many of those eager to be enticed by the promise of drugs
into lending a hand to whatever small tasks he assigned them.
   During the past hour the team of select operatives assembled to
locate Father Gregorios's whereabouts in Athens had been
comparing notes in a safe apartment, a few blocks away from
Edesen's bar.
   "Let's wrap it up, then," Edesen said, self-satisfied after the last
call. "In pursuance to order FL/200/200/65.1248 there was initiated
an urgent search to locate the Greek citizen Gregorios Paleologou.
Although the 'Paleologou' surname is not rare in Greece, with the
help of our database resources coupled by intensive coordinated
fieldwork on our part we succeeded in discovering the subject's
temporary residence in less than seventy-two hours.
   "Report #034 of our task force indicates that the subject's house
in Filothei is deserted. Its owner departed yesterday, destination
unknown. Of course, we will try to track him down, but we must
not disregard the possibility that he may return to Filothei any time
now. To cover that eventuality I had a remotely-operated feeder
camera installed there, which is connected with our main telecom-
munications hub. We'll be alerted electronically the moment a
resident enters the house.
   "As of now your assignment is terminated and you'll reassume
your usual covers. That is all."
   Edesen pushed back his chair and rose. He took his cell phone
and attach� case, and left the apartment without another word. The
rest of the Turk operatives would follow him at half-hour intervals,
with the last one securing the safe house for any future use.


Chapter 22
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Kardak Hotel
           July 29


They were late for their appointment. Makridis was waiting for
them in the forest-green van he had rented from Hertz and
parked near the hotel's main entrance. When he saw the three of
them getting off the cab, he sounded the horn a couple of times to
catch their attention.
   "Everything's in order, Mr. Paleologou," he said to Nikitas when
he came over. "A few things were hard to find but find them I did!"
he beamed.
   "Thank you, Yiannis, thanks for everything," Nikitas replied. A
pressing weight had just gone off his chest. "And please, call me
Nikitas," he added with a smile.
   Yiannis nodded with a serious expression on his face. He came
out of the car and slid open its lateral door to let Nikitas check the
supplies.
   Nikitas made sure that everything was in order, before reminding
the rest of them that it was time to carry out the last stage of their
preparations.
   "Let's check out and wait in the lounge until its dark," he urged.
   "Now that we're actually leaving the place I don't think it matters
anymore if they see us together. Besides, since we're all Greeks
they'll probably think we met each other at the hotel."
   A boisterous thunderclap drowned his final words. They all
turned their eyes toward the blackened sky, now being crisscrossed
by lighting. The air was moist and had the tang of impending rain.
   "Wow! It seems we've thought of everything except bringing
umbrellas for the storm," Anastasia laughed.
   "Let this storm be our only worry tonight," Nikitas said seriously.
   "Amen," Father Gregorios concurred.
Makridis locked the car and followed them into the hotel.

                                ***

An hour later they were sitting in the main lounge sipping their
refreshments. They had checked out, leaving their traveling baggage
at the hotel for safekeeping.
   "So, in a short while we'll be taking our leave of the acclaimed
Kardak," Nikitas said. "Well, waiting for something to happen has
always been exhausting to me-every hour I spent here felt more
like a day," he added thoughtfully. "By the way, the name Kardak
prods at a memory I can't quite pinpoint; what does it mean in
Turkish, Yiannis?""The Kardak is the newest and most prestigious
hotel in Constantinople," Makridis answered. "It's less than three
years since it's been completed, although at the beginning of its
construction it was called by another name. Halfway through its
completion, however, an international incident took place in the
Aegean which almost sparked a war between Turkey and Greece.
From what you told me, all of you were out of the country at that
time so you may not remember it, but it was provoked by the
Turkish government when it sought to forcibly and unlawfully
annex a cluster of Greek rock islands named Imia. In Turkish, they're
called Kardak.
   "Six months after that incident the president of the multinational
corporation which owns the hotel was discreetly approached and
asked to rename it Kardak, so that the government would possess
another propaganda tool for its claim over the Imia rocks. Just
think," he added angrily, "when a visitor checks in the hotel, along
with the usual printed stuff in his room he also finds a flashy
brochure, propagandizing their distorted view of the Imia incident."
   "We found nothing like that in our rooms," Father Gregorios
observed.
   "Of course you didn't, Father, they knew you were Greeks!"
Makridis exclaimed.
   "Well, if we'd known about that, we'd never have chosen this
place," Nikitas said incensed by Yiannis's revelations. Little else was
capable of infuriating him faster than a sneaky approach. "I wonder,
though, why we were not informed of this in Athens."
   "They should have known, because the propaganda doesn't stop
in the brochure," Makridis continued. "They've created an entire
series of assorted slogans to go together with their tourist advertise-
ments abroad. For example, in a recent centerfold ad of the Union
of Turkish Travel Agencies in the TIME magazine, there was a full-
page photo of the Imia islands next to one of the Kardak hotel, with
the caption:

                     From Our Smallest Island
                       To Our Largest Hotel!

   "Yes, the Turkish government was always well-organized in things
like that," Anastasia observed.
   "No mystery to that, since they always manage to come up with
original, illicit claims," Father Gregorios commented. "There's a
certain kind of genius for that, too. First they lay down their demands
aggressively and then, with advertisements and paid announcements
in the media, they tone down the initial international outcry and manage to
convince the unsuspecting peoples of their supposedly good faith."
   Nikitas glanced at his watch and shook ruefully his head. This
was a fascinating discussion but would have to wait; their task was
still looming immense ahead of them. It was time to go.
   "Yiannis, we're leaving now," he told Makridis. He took an
envelope out of his pocket and offered it to him, as they shook
hands. "We're very grateful for your help," he thanked him.
   Makridis accepted the envelope without opening it. "Thanks,
Nikitas, although I'd have helped you anyway, money or not. There's
something, however, I wish to ask of you..."
He hesitated, and Nikitas nodded at him encouragingly.
   "Well, it's just that I don't want to miss such a chance, to visit
Aghia Sophia for the last time before they turn her into a mosque!"
he blurted out as he looked sheepishly at Nikitas.
   Makridis's request caught Nikitas by surprise and his first
thought was to refuse, but after some consideration he thought it
was not such a bad idea. The worst that could happen to Yiannis
would be to lose a good night's sleep, while any help offered by him
during the preliminary stage would be welcome. He smiled at
Yiannis his agreement and saw him grinning back excitedly.
   Ten minutes later the four of them rose and walked across the
sumptuously furnished lobby, dragging their suitcases with the
equipment they had managed to sneak in through the Turkish
Customs. They stepped through the front door and found
themselves alone in the Kardak's front courtyard.

                                ***

When they reached Aghia Sophia it was completely dark. The
massive cloud coverage had blacked out all lingering traces of the
twilight, ushering in early the night. The horizon over the Sea of
Marmaras was almost continuously crisscrossed by electric-blue
flashes of lightning and the air was heavily charged with static
electricity.
   A beneficial side-effect of the fast approaching storm was that the
traffic had thinned to a trickle, as the Constantinopolitans had
rushed home with the first signs of the impending downpour.
Totally empty, the sprawling complex of Aghia Sophia had the aura
of a godforsaken place, spurring in Nikitas a sudden surge of
inexpressible sadness. He got out the car and walked up to the
chain-link fence surrounding the complex, the rest of his team
following behind.
   "First we'll unload here the equipment from the van, and then
carry it into the Church, okay?" he said to Makridis. "But before
that, I think you'd better drive the car a few blocks down the street
and park it there. We'll start for the Church as soon as you're back."
   "Right," Makridis said.
They took out the crates with the mechanical apparatus, the
various tools, and provisions for forty-eight hours, and stashed them
alongside the fence as if the materials belonged to the worksite. For
maximum effect they picked a spot opposite the prefabricated cabin
built within the courtyard, which served as the headquarters of the
project supervisor.
   When they were through Makridis quietly drove away the van,
while Nikitas left the others and approached the chain-link fence
with a pair of pliers. He hunched close to the ground and leaned
against the fence to wait for Makridis's return, but after several
minutes of solitary watch in the cheerless night his depression
shifted its focus and mutated into a fierce, nameless rage.
   The sudden onrush of fury took him by surprise. It was a feeling
intense and unexpected, and he felt a wave of dizziness engulfing
him. He was forced to grasp tightly the steel wire to keep himself
from collapsing to the ground. Then his momentary confusion
turned to bitter clarity as he remembered a similar episode that had
taken place several years ago, the only other time in his life he had
experienced such a fit of blind rage.
   He had been living in Washington DC, then. One afternoon, as
he was walking in one of the busiest parts of the city, he had noticed
three teenagers crowding over a ten-year old black boy in the bay of
a building's door, beating and kicking him in the head, in the belly,
in his little legs, all over him. The little one was already bleeding and
as he stood there helplessly accepting the blows, he only could only
moan and gasp.
   Afterwards Nikitas had learned that the boy was mute, and
homeless too. At the time, though, his faculty for rational thinking
had been suspended. A bottomless rage had erupted from his
depths, and like a flood of scorching lava burned away his reason.
Instead of yelling for help, he had blindly hurled himself against the
three sadistic punks with a thunderous growl.
   The passers-by, who had not been aware of the drama unfolding
only a few yards away from them, had paused and looked at him
uncomprehending. More importantly, the little boy's tormentors
became aware of Nikitas as he was sprinting toward them and the
wild glint in his eyes convinced them to abandon their malicious
game. They turned tail and ran. One of them, however, had not
moved fast enough and had the benefit of taking a solid punch from
Nikitas which had dislocated his jaw.
   When the police arrived on the scene they found Nikitas blood-
soaked, holding tightly the weeping boy, trying his best to comfort
him.
   Now, several years after that incident, his inexplicable rage
momentarily took over his rational processes for the second time in
his life, although this once Nikitas did not have a blood-and-flesh
opponent to fight with. He tried to breathe slowly, still leaning on
the fence. In the lull between the sharp cracks of thunder he could
hear his uncle and Anastasia whispering between them a few yards
away; thankfully, they had not noticed his inner turmoil.
   When he finally found a measure of calm, Nikitas thought that
an improvised self-analysis could help him overcome his lingering
agitation and regain his balance.
So far so good, but where should he start from? How was he to
penetrate the shell of his emotional confusion?
   Was it that his cherished moral values for equality and justice,
deeply ingrained to him since his childhood years in the United
States, had reasserted themselves with unprecedented force? Or, was
it that some sort of Collective Consciousness had come awake,
allowing primeval memories of his Greek heritage to resurface?
   There were strange feelings fighting within him, demanding...
what?
   Revenge?
   Or retribution?
   And did it really matter what was the exact cause of his rage?
   He thought not. What did matter, though, was his sudden realiza-
tion that his heart could no longer endure the pitiful Present, that he
couldn't accept the humiliation of having to enter clandestinely,
like a common burglar, the greatest and holiest monument of
Orthodox Christianity, which was built fourteen hundred years ago by his
forefathers and cemented with their faith, their blood, their hopes.
   It was the same Church that had nourished the Christian faith for
a millennium, before falling victim to a frenzy of conquering lust
and plundering madness.
   Oh, but a lot of time had passed since then, one might say.
   So, what?
   Although it was beyond Nikitas's power to make a difference, to
alter the past, who would be insolent enough-and unjust
enough-to ask him to bow his head, smile in hypocritical under-
standing, and give his absolution to that historical crime?
   What's past is past, no?
   Well, not quite. Not quite indeed.
   Nikitas did not endorse the doctrine of lobotomizing the
historical memory every once in a while. Let five hundred, a
thousand or ten thousand years pass; okay-so, what did it mean? Does
flagrant injustice mellow, sweeten over time?
   Does a Holocaust become obsolete?
   How could a sane person not cry: guilty! to the slavers and perpe-
trators of mass killing during the five hundred years of tyranny and
oppression following the Fall of Constantinople?
   And, what about the genocide of other peoples, over and over again,
up to the present time?
   When a murderer deprives a human being of his only life on
Earth for all the duration of eternity, Nikitas thought, can that murderer 
demand a limitation for his crime?
   He didn't think so.
   Let the two countries, then, at both sides of the Aegean work
their way towards a peaceful coexistence, but at the same time the
guilty party should step forward with a sincere apology, renouncing
their hideous past.
   While Nikitas remained lost in his whirling thoughts, he only hoped
Makridis would take his time coming back. The last thing he
wanted was to be seen like this by the people who were counting
upon him for his creative initiative and firm leadership.
   Leadership! This was another consideration. Yes, he could offer that.
And he would. So, he might be able to make a difference, after all.

                                ***

Makridis, however, didn't take long to return. When Nikitas spied
his outline against the courtyard's lighter background he blinked his
flashlight a couple of times, signaling him his exact position.
   Half a minute later Yiannis was crouching beside him, giving him
the thumbs-up sign that all was well. Nikitas nodded and asked him
to hold up the rectangular piece of chain-link he had cut off at three
sides from the fence, so that Father Gregorios and Anastasia could
pass through. Then they did the same for them, as they carried their
supplies and equipment inside the courtyard. They did not have to
worry about the night watchman; back at the hotel Makridis had
assured them only one guard stayed for the night, and he never left
his cubicle at the front of Aghia Sophia after sunset.
   Nikitas decided to try the nearest of the side doors of the church's
southern wall, reasoning it would be the one used by the workers.
He was not disappointed, and the door was not even locked. It
opened with a thin screech and he found himself confronting the
interior's total blackness.
   He left it open and instructed the others to begin carrying the
equipment inside the church, while he would be taking a look at the
supervisor's cabin. He cautioned them not to accidentally turn on a
flashlight before closing the door. Until they had moved all of the
equipment, they had to get by with whatever light was reaching
them from the blazing floodlights atop Aghia Sophia's main dome.
Though not much, it was sufficient for their purposes.
   Five minutes later he was through with his inspection. He went
back to the church and opened the ancient door a few inches,
enough for him to slip in, then quickly closed it behind him.
   He was stunned by the quiet grandeur of the interior space,
sparingly lit by their flashlights. From an architectural point of view
Nikitas knew the church like the palm of his hand; he had been
there countless times and made numerous detailed drawings and
three-dimensional miniature models of it. Also, as recently as
yesterday he had walked through its aisles with the help of the
virtual reality simulator installed in his house in Filothei.
   Yet, for all that, he was ill-prepared for the magnificence
confronting his eyes. The central, majestic dome of Aghia Sophia
had justifiably been praised throughout the centuries as an architec-
tural marvel, as a masterpiece of immense volume and extravagant
proportions which paradoxically seems to float into the air when
Constantinople's sunlight floods its forty windows, suffusing the
church like a golden shower of luminous arrows.
It's a unique spectacle, which every written account of Aghia
Sophia in the past tried to capture and communicate to the reader.
Nevertheless, no visitor or researcher in the last five hundred years
had the opportunity to witness the reverse optical miracle, how a
minimal source of light within the Great Church was multiplied a
thousand times, filling its vast reaches with an ethereal lumines-
cence rising to its very top, as if in a gesture of supplication to Christ
Pantokrator.
   As Nikitas stood unmoving, deeply touched by the mystical
phantasmagoria, a passage from Procopios of Caesarea which he had
recently read when reviewing the material collected by
TotalSearch(r), rose unbidden to his mind:

          The church is singularly full of light and sunshine; you
          would declare that the place is not lighted by the sun from
          without, but that the rays are produced within itself, such
          an abundance of light is poured into this church...

                                ***

   He was so subdued by the mysterious splendor that for a moment
he thought the light might show on the outside. Then he remem-
bered the precautions they had taken, and laughed with his silly fear.
Even so, his eyes automatically searched for the windows of the
church and was relieved that the apertures were covered with
opaque plastic sheets.
   When he lowered his eyes Nikitas was startled to see Anastasia
standing in front of him-she had approached him soundlessly, like
a cat. She put a finger on her lips, telling him to be quiet. Alarmed,
he looked anxiously around him but noticed nothing untoward.
Looking back questioningly at Anastasia he saw her point with her
chin toward his uncle, who was standing alone under the dome.
   He saw Father Gregorios spread out a purple cloth upon a
makeshift table, which he had assembled by placing a rectangular
wooden panel on the backs of four chairs. He smoothed away its
folds and wrinkles, and set upon it a pair of bronze candlesticks.
Then he brought out from his handbag two white candles, tucked
them into their cups, and lit them ceremoniously.
   Soon the priest was enveloped in their soft, rosy glow. Satisfied,
he took out from his bag a thin book and a silver thurible, and lay
them both upon the purple cover.
   Nodding to himself he knelt down on the hard floor with his
hands clasped together, his forehead resting on the table's edge. Over
his black cassock he had thrown a gold-threaded officiating stole.
He closed his eyes.
Nikitas took a few steps toward him, then stood still.


          Evlogimene e vassilia tou Patros kai tou Yiou kai tou
          Agiou Pneumatos, nen kai aei kai eis tous aionas ton aionon.


          Blessed is the kingdom of the Father and the Son and the
          Holy Spirit, now and forever and to the ages of ages.


   Father Gregorios's crystal-clear voice had formulated the sacred
words which had not been voiced in the holy grounds of Aghia
Sophia for more that five centuries, and those words flew away,
blossoming like delicate spring flowers, and were thirstily absorbed
by the soft curves and the sharp edges, by the smooth surfaces and
the rough, denuded walls of the eternal Byzantine sanctuary of the
Christian faith.
   Then they were reflected back to its farthest reaches, throbbing
with life and light, to finally return to the humble priest, brimming
with divine promises and ineffable hopes.
   Time paused and the endless series of numbers, which reached
far back into the past and spelled out Byzantium's unrealized history,
was summed up.
   And a new, blank page was opened.


          Yper tou agiou oikou toutou kai ton meta pisteos, evlavias kai
          phovou Theou eisionton en auto, tou Kiriou theithomen.


          For this holy house and for those who enter it with faith,
          reverence, and the fear of God, let us pray to the Lord.


   This was the first time Nikitas had ever heard his uncle offici-
ating a liturgy, and was surprised by the melodious timbre of his
voice. He knelt down and closed his eyes.
   A few moments later they were full of burning tears.


          Tis Panagias, ahrantou, yperevlogimenis, enthoxou,
          thespinis imon Theotokou kai aeiparthenou Marias meta
          Panton ton agion mnimoneusantes, eautous kai alilous
          kai pasan ten zoen imon Christo to Theo parathometha.


          Remembering our most holy, pure, blessed, and glorious
          Lady, the Theotokos and ever virgin Mary, with all the
          saints, let us commit ourselves and one another and our
          whole life to Christ our God.


   The moments turned to seconds and the seconds to minutes, and
those in turn were transmuted into an ethereal substance that soared
toward the heavenly dome, together with the perfumed frankincense
smoke emanating from Father Gregorios's thurible.


          Oti eleemon kai philanthropos Theos yparheis kai soi
          ten thoxan anapempomen, to Patri kai to Yio kai to Agio Pneumati,
          nen kai aei kai eis tous aionas ton aionon.


          For You are a good and loving God, and to You we give
          glory, to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, now
          and forever and to the ages of ages.


   For the faithful who attended the Holy Liturgy upon their knees, it
all seemed to last a single eternal moment, an incomprehensible
paradox that perhaps can only be bridged by faith.
   When Nikitas finally realized that the soothing voice of his uncle
had stopped, he opened his eyes. He rose to his feet and saw that his
companions were assembled together a few yards away from him,
while under Aghia Sophia's central dome nothing betrayed the fact
that for a short while the Holy Altar had been resurrected there for
the first time since 1453 AD.
   Nikitas was surprised that he was feeling completely calm. His
former anger had given way to solid determination.
   He brushed away the dust from his pants and headed toward his friends.

                                ***

He hugged each one in turn and kissed them on the cheek. He felt
like in the eve of Easter, when Christians exchange kisses of broth-
erly love, and was certain that the others felt the same way, too.
Father Gregorios was glowing from within, while Anastasia and
Makridis were behaving as if they had known each other for a long
time.
   He stayed with them for several minutes, relishing the almost
tactile feeling of pervasive harmony, then detached himself from the
gathering motioning Makridis to join him.
   In the cabin of the project's supervisor Nikitas had spotted a
device indispensable to his plan-a telephone set. Now he returned
there with a portable toolkit and took the receiver in his hands. It
was an old fashioned model, with a rotary dialer and a fixed cable.
   He snipped it off, joined it to a hundred-meters roll of telephone
wire he had brought with him, and let the wire unroll as he walked
back to the Church. Once inside he uncoiled a few extra yards of
wire, cut the line again, and attached a standard phone jack to its
loose end. Then he looked around the church and easily spotted
several electricity outlets which supplied power to the scaffold
towers inside the church. An electrical outlet meant an inconven-
ience less, because now they could dispense with the electrical
power generator Makridis had bought.
   He dragged an empty wooden crate where they had stacked their
equipment and set upon it his portable computer. He plugged its
transformer into the power outlet and booted it. While waiting for
the operating system to load, Nikitas inserted the jack of telephone
line into the appropriate computer socket, thus enabling his 56-kbps
PCMCIA modem card to connect with the telephony network.
   Tonight he needed a fast connection with his computer server in
Filothei, so he could not use his cell phone, which allowed only a
14,400-bps modem connection.
   When all was ready Nikitas doubled-clicked a custom-designed
communication application in his notebook and typed into the
connection dialog field the long-distance extension 0030-1 for
Athens, Greece, followed by one of his telephone numbers in Filothei.
   After the modem's familiar protocol negotiation buzz, he was
relieved to see the standard UNIX(r) prompt materializing in his
computer's display:

          login:

Perfect! He had established contact with his server in Athens.
Nikitas hastily keyed in his user ID:

          NikPaleologou

When prompted for his password he typed:

          Constantinople_not_Istanbul

   The next question concerned the server he wished to log on; he
selected the Sun UltraSparc(r) workstation he used for demanding
architectural work and keyed-in the necessary commands to run the
application he was going to use. When he was through, he left the
connection on.
   Satisfied that everything was proceeding smoothly he went on
with the next stage of his plan. From a pouch of his computer case
he brought out a folded blueprint of Aghia Sophia's ground plan,
printed by one of his plotters on large-format paper. Makridis, who
all this time had been observing him closely, noticed that between
the straight lines outlining the church's outer walls were scattered
many small circles at seemingly random points. They were colored
either red or green.
   Nikitas studied the blueprint for a few minutes, then rose and
unpacked the theodolite and the tripod which came with it. He set
it up, instructed Makridis how to operate it, and with a red and a
green chalk began marking the blueprint's circles at their correspon-
ding locations on the floor. It was a tedious and time consuming
work that took them almost an hour to complete, and they were
both drenched in sweat when they were through.
After a brief rest, Nikitas cracked the door open and peeked out.
The storm had already started and was growing in intensity with
each passing minute. He smiled inwardly as he remembered the
prophetic words of the Greek restaurateur, come partly true-the
outpouring had started but hardly a Constantinopolitan was out in
the streets to receive its blessings.
   He shut the door and headed to his uncle. The time had come for
his final briefing. He found him sitting on a crate, immersed in
thought. Anastasia, on the other hand, was wandering around with
her flashlight at the ready, pointing its beam here and there as she
appraised the few remaining decorations in the interior of Aghia
Sophia.
   He called her to him and fetched three more crates for them to sit
down. Before joining them Anastasia went first to the carton box
with their provisions and returned with biscuits and several cans of
apple juice, which she passed around.
   "All right, then," Nikitas began when he had taken a sip from his
can. "I thought you'd be interested to know where we stand, and
where we're going on from here. The good news is that the prepara-
tions for our search are complete, so we're ready to move on to the
main stage of our project. There are no bad news as yet, but you
should realize that the hard part is starting only now. To avoid any
premature disappointments we should keep in the forefront of our
minds the immensity of our task: we're single-handedly initiating a
search for the crypt of Aghia Sophia, without being sure that it even
exists!
   "As I told you at our first meeting, there's no record of a crypt and
no reason for its construction in this particular church, and yet it is
exactly this fact which bolsters our belief that at some point in its
Byzantine past a number of secret subterranean chambers were built
underneath Aghia Sophia. We are obligated to believe that, if we
accept the authenticity of Modestinus's letter.
   "I repeat: this is a colossal undertaking, and even this character-
ization is an understatement of the truth. I already explained to you
why locating the crypt without high-tech support would be an
impossible task-not only for us, but for anyone not willing to take
this building apart to find it."
Nikitas smiled and took another sip. "There's only one method,"
he resumed, "which offers a glimmer of hope, and it presupposes the
availability of a powerful computer for the analysis of the data
collected in the field, namely here, through specialized instrumen-
tation." He pointed at his portable computer. "Thankfully, we had no
trouble connecting with my computer in Filothei, so the first condi-
tion has already been met. Also, the rest of the necessary instru-
mentation is right here, waiting to be used."
   "Aren't you exaggerating just a bit, Nikitas, when you speak so
highly of high technology' contribution to our quest? I mean, hi-
tech support has become routine in all instances of scientific
research and the archaeologists are no exception to the rule, as they
use computers all the time," Anastasia objected. "Take me, for
example. Before starting a new project I use a sophisticated program
in my computer, which simulates down to their last detail all the
procedures of an archaeological dig in order to organize it more
efficiently before the actual fieldwork begins. What does your
computer have more to offer?"
   "I'll explain," Nikitas said. "You, Anastasia, make use of your
computer as a superior tool for the administration of your resources.
Basically, that's for planning purposes. That's good. But what we're
going to do tonight is even better: we'll use a computer purely as an
instrument of scientific research, and there's a mountain of a differ-
ence between the two approaches. It's the difference, say, between
planning where to put a telescope and actually using one."
Anastasia shrugged her shoulders. She wasn't exactly convinced
but could wait for the results-if any.
   "All right, then," Nikitas continued. "We'll employ the following
procedure: a specialized high-precision hammer will deliver a series
of strokes against the floor, thus generating several hundreds of
controlled, miniature seismic waves. Yiannis and I have marked
those spots with green chalk. On each separate point the hammer
will deliver a few dozen blows, their force and duration precisely
controlled by the computer."
He rose and took off the plastic cover from a cylindrical device
about three feet long.
   "This is our portable hammer, still in experimental state, which I
borrowed from the Materials Science research lab in Athens. I chose
this particular type not only for its advanced features, but also
because it's made out of a certain hard polymer instead of metal. As
you can guess, this was our only chance of passing baggage inspec-
tion at the airports of Athens and Constantinople without setting off
any alarms.
   "On each predefined spot this hammer will generate a specific
number of vertically propagating seismic waves, quite undetectable
by our senses, which nonetheless will be picked up, measured, and
recorded in turn by an extremely sensitive seismograph.
   "Of course, for the seismograph to be able to function first we'll
have to deploy a set of sensors on the red circles you see marked on
the floor. Each sensor contains a mini-processor which will convert
on-the-fly the analog readings to digital form, then transmit the data
in real time to the instrument through a microwave connection. For
this purpose the seismograph is equipped with special telescopic
antennas."
   Nikitas opened one of the crates with their equipment and
returned with the seismograph in his hands, a machine that resem-
bled a stereo unit.
   "This instrument is another experimental prototype I managed to
secure from the MIT in the States-don't ask me how. Although it
can handle in real time incoming data from sixty-four sensors simul-
taneously, tonight we shall employ only sixteen. They should prove
enough for Aghia Sophia's contained space.
   "Now, if this is our system's north pole, the south pole lies in
Filothei. Because when the raw data are collected and processed by
the seismograph they'll be transferred to my portable computer
through its USB port, then uploaded to Athens.
   "And a final matter," Nikitas said assuming a mock-serious
expression. "Due to our special circumstances the Turkish State will
have to cover our long-distance connection expenses, but what the
heck!" he laughed. "They grabbed from us a whole empire, are they
complain now for a few telephone units?"
   Nikitas's joke was meant to break the tension his continuing
explanation had created among his listeners. He paused for a few
seconds, then went on.
   "Needless to say, the locations of the red and green marks upon
the floor were not chosen in random. To give you an idea of the
number of calculations needed for their positioning, just think that
my workstation in Athens can perform a complete structural
analysis of an eight-story building in three seconds while for the
positioning of those circles the same computer used half an hour of
processor time.
   "Therefore, the next stage of our search includes setting up the
seismograph, getting the necessary data from the sensors, and
uploading them to my computer in Athens for further processing.
My workstation will perform an intricate examination of the struc-
tural stresses in the foundations of Aghia Sophia, and if everything's
goes well-and if a crypt truly exists down there-the expert system
will locate it."
   "How long, Nikitas, will it take for the computer to give us the
answer?" Makridis asked.
   "My estimate is that it will need about an hour after the upload
of the data," Nikitas replied and smiled, amused that the expression
on Yiannis's face showed he thought it too long.
   "Look, Yiannis," he tried to explain without sounding didactic.
   "I'm using specialized software for this task, powered by an engine
based on multi-dimensional geometry algorithms. It will perform
ten times more calculations than NASA's computers did when they
plotted Viking-2's landing on Mars in 3 September 1976 with the
precision of an inch."
   "Go on, my son," Father Gregorios said. "I know you'll do the
best you can, and that is quite a lot, I'm sure."
   "All right," Nikitas said, realizing that his listeners were
overwhelmed by his technical explanation. "The sooner we start, the
sooner we'll finish." He listened for the rain and was satisfied that it
was continuing unabated. "Only let us pray we won't be discon-
nected on account of the storm," he added.

                                ***

During the next hour Nikitas's plan unfolded rapidly. When the
sensors were deployed he asked his companions to pick a place
where they would stay until the collection of the seismic data was
complete, so that the hypersensitive seismograph would not inter-
pret any movement on their part as relevant data. Then he started to
move the precision hammer from each point to the next, allowing it
to operate for five minutes in each spot.
   It was a monotonous and unexciting ritual which he conducted
by himself. At one point he noticed that Yiannis was dozing with his
head tilted over his chest, while Father Gregorios and Anastasia
were carrying a conversation in muted whispers. He began to feel
increasingly drowsy himself, and realized that it was only the
chronometer which was keeping him awake, reminding him every
five minutes with its insistent buzz to move the hammer.
   As the minutes dragged on, however, even those short breaks
proved inadequate to help him maintain full alertness. Nikitas's
lowest point came when he suddenly snapped open his eyes to
discover himself still in the grip of a bizarre feeling; he was vividly
picturing the Great Church transformed into a conscious organism
at the throes of death, while the rhythmic, hollow sounds of the
ever-pounding hammer were actually the sounds of a massive defib-
rillator desperately trying to jolt it back to life.
   This was a king-size nightmare, he told himself as he rose stiffly
to his feet. While waiting for the hammer to stop he took a bottle
from a nearby crate and sprinkled a generous amount of water on his
face, hoping to regain a measure of alertness. Thankfully, the whole
procedure was nearing its end.
   Shortly the artificial seismic activity was complete and then it
was waiting time again. Nikitas felt his excitement rise at the
prospect of a positive result and was pleased to discover that his
former drowsiness had completely vanished. He double-checked the
FTP transfer log in his computer to make sure all of the files had
been uploaded to Athens, then repacked the instruments and
poured himself a cup of hot coffee from one of Anastasia's thermos.
   With the plastic cup in his hand he nervously paced up and
down, letting the soothing contrast between the silence within the
church and the rain's steady patter loosen the tight knot he was
feeling in his stomach.
   An hour passed. Nikitas was considering whether he should
inform his uncle of their progress thus far, when his peripheral
vision caught a blinking alert in the computer screen. He hurried
back and saw that a new window had opened with a horizontal
status bar showing the downloading progress.
The computer was receiving the data from Athens!
   He sat upon his makeshift chair behind the computer, his heart
already wildly thumping from the excitement. Now that the answer
was so near at hand his patience had dissolved, which made him
wonder how he had managed to keep his calm for more than an
hour. He glanced at the clock in the computer's screen toolbar: sixty-
two minutes had passed since the data had been uploaded to
Filothei.
   Then a message flashed in the screen:

          Downloading complete

   Nikitas tapped the command for the decompression of the
received file and double-clicked on its icon to open it.
   The window was suddenly filled with the outline of Aghia
Sophia's floor plan drawn in light gray lines, deviating from the
original blueprint in two ways: first, to the southwest of the central
nave an asterisk was marking the upper-left tip of a black rectangle
which extended well beyond the southern wall of the church; and
second, a similar shape, this time painted white against the window's
gray background, was occupying the central part of Aghia Sophia's
northern side with several smaller circles and squares drawn
seemingly in random on its surface.
   Nikitas frowned and scrolled down the image to study the
attached text. It explained in detail the two solutions fitting the
input, clarifying the meaning of the altered floor-plan. Nikitas felt
his heart soar at the news and clapped wildly his hands .
   "Hey, everybody, the crypt exists!" he yelled and heard his voice
echo strangely in the vast interior of the church. He didn't care in the
least-strangeness was quickly becoming his bread and butter.
   Father Gregorios, Anastasia, and Makridis were all jolted awake
but it did not take them long to understand what had happened.
They rushed toward him with looks of feverish anticipation.
   "Is it true then, Nikitas?" Father Gregorios asked, praying for the
answer that would confirm the historic event.
   "Listen uncle," Nikitas replied grinning, "there are two mutually
exclusive possibilities according to my computer's data analysis." He
motioned them to come close and take a look at the screen.
   "You see this black rectangle here, and the white one over there?
Well, those two rectangles outline the two alternatives. Either there's
a huge chunk of concentrated mass buried beneath the black
rectangle, corresponding roughly to a couple of modern containers
filled with solid lead, or..."
He paused dramatically.
   "Yes?" his uncle prodded him, impatient for once.
   "...or there's a huge vacuum beneath the white rectangle,
probably a sprawling complex of catacombs."
   "My God, it's true then," Makridis whispered awed.
   "Why this particular choice?" Anastasia asked diffidently.
   "Because," Nikitas explained patiently, "after an in-depth analysis
and evaluation of the collected structural and seismological data, the
expert system came up with only those two interpretive models.
Both of them explain consistently the entirety of the data, therefore
both of them are possible. However, since they're mutually exclu-
sive, only one of them can be true."
   "I see," Father Gregorios said. "And because the idea of such an
amount of lead being buried in Aghia Sophia's foundations is
absurd-were it gold, of course, it would be another matter
altogether-we should conclude that the crypt exists," he added.
   "Exactly, but not a single crypt, uncle," Nikitas corrected him.
   "There's a great number of underground crypts down there, and
that's why I labeled them catacombs. See here?" he said pointing at
the screen. "Those scattered circles and squares are bubbles of empty
space under the church's floor at various depth levels."
Nikitas took a deep breath and looked at them with glittering
eyes. He was drunk by success.
   "So, where's the entrance of all those crypts?" Anastasia asked.
They all looked up from the screen toward him.
   "Well, Anastasia," he replied with a grin, "the computer says we'll
have to find that out for ourselves!"

                                ***

"A note of caution! What this map shows is the approximate
position of the catacomb complex in the foundations of Aghia
Sophia," Nikitas explained when the first wave of euphoria had
passed. He was already planning the next stage of the search.
   "In a regular archaeological expedition this would be the time to
start digging, eh Anastasia?" he asked her.
She nodded back.
   "Of course, no such luxury for us," Nikitas continued, "so we've
got to locate the entrance by other means-you know, high
technology or not, this isn't a task for a computer. We must work out
the riddle for ourselves."
   Father Gregorios walked up to Nikitas and hugged him. "For my
part, Nikitas, I want to tell you how proud I am for all that you've
accomplished these few hours," he said in a deep voice barely
concealing his emotions.
   Nikitas smiled back at him. "My work here is only part of the
story, uncle," he said. "You mustn't forget our preparations back in
Greece and even earlier, starting with your translation of the
manuscript. There's also the support of a host of precision instru-
ments, including computers." He pointed at his notebook computer.
   "Which reminds me, we can disconnect now from the network." He
hunched over the keyboard and tapped the necessary commands.
   "You're wrong, Nikitas, if you believe that the machinery should
take the credit for you success," Father Gregorios retorted. "As
Anastasia said, nearly everyone uses it and yet you're the one who
discovered the crypts beneath the Great Church."
   Nikitas lifted his shoulders in obvious embarrassment. Sure, they
had taken the first step, confirming the existence of an underground
crypt-complex in Aghia Sophia. Without the exact location of the
entrance, however, it would be as if they had accomplished nothing
at all.
   And the clock was eating voraciously their precious time.
   "What are we doing now?" Makridis voiced the same concern.
Nikitas took a printout of the revised floor plan from his portable
printer and handed it to Anastasia.
   "Please take this, and see if you can make anything out of it."
Anastasia took the printout and headed to the north wall. When
she reached the area depicted by the white rectangle she paused and
started pacing its perimeter in a searching pattern, scanning the
floor with her flashlight's thin beam. Several times she knelt down
and studied closely the flagstones, looking for hairline traces of a
trapdoor or some other opening.
   "May I have some more light here, please?" she suddenly asked.
Makridis was the first to respond. He ran to the pile of tools
stashed by the Turkish workers near the southern wall, and located
an electric hurricane lamp with an extension cable. He plugged it
into an electricity outlet and carried it to Anastasia. She hooked her
flashlight in the belt of her overalls and continued her inspection
using the bright light of the lamp. Ten minutes later she came back,
her face a mask of disappointment.
   "I can't find anything," she said tiredly. She sat down on a crate
with a sigh and turned to look at Nikitas. "Isn't there some way to
use the seismograph to find the hidden entrance?" she pleaded.
Nikitas shook his head. "We might work out something if we had
several weeks at our disposal. As it is, no."
   No one could refute that, and for a minute they all sat in silence
sharing a common thought: with the exception of Yiannis, who lived
in Constantinople, they had traveled to a hostile foreign country on
a dangerous mission risking not only their dignity, but their freedom
as well, and yet... they were now facing the prospect of defeat, while
only half an hour ago they had been rejoicing at success.
   It was a bitter anticlimax.
   Frustrated by their inactivity, Nikitas rose and went out into the
courtyard. The strong wind and the oblique sheets of rain battering
the external scaffolding had cut visibility down to a few yards. The
world had contracted to a roiling tub of water, he thought, almost
cuing them to retreat to a safer place...
   Where might that be? Underground?
   He checked again his watch: five minutes to midnight.
   Jesus Christ! A mere three hours had passed since they had
arrived in Aghia Sophia and he felt as if they'd been here for three
days.
   He was pondering his next move when a ripple of hard determination,
seemingly out of nowhere, passed through his body. He let out a
small sigh of relief and relaxed, allowing himself to bask
in the welcome feelings of hope and certainty. Closing his eyes, he
shut out momentarily his thoughts, content at having his faith restored.
   Several minutes later Nikitas was ready to resume his mission.
Leaving the protection of the scaffolding he hurried back to the
church, toward his companions.
   The lines of dejection drawn on their faces caught him by surprise.
Had he been like this himself, just a few minutes ago?
   "All right," he said brightly. "Since we don't possess any solid
facts to work with, let's call up our imagination to the task! No use
huddling together like players in the locker room after a lost game,"
he chided them.
   He saw his uncle's face immediately catch up and reflect back his optimism. 
At the same time Makridis, spurred by his words, spoke up hesitatingly.
   "We might approach the matter as if we were in the position of
those who built these crypts-I mean, if we'd been in their shoes,
where would we have put the entrance?"
   "That's an excellent idea!" Nikitas exclaimed, looking expec-
tantly at Anastasia and his uncle.
   "Do you really believe, Yiannis, we could ever simulate the
thought processes of a people so far removed in time from our
own?" Anastasia said smiling condescendingly. "And if a researcher
once in a decade accomplishes this achievement, it constitutes the
culmination of a whole life of intensive study in his specific field."
   "Aw, come on, Anastasia, don't be so pedantic!" Nikitas inter-
jected. "Yiannis didn't ask us to instantly adopt the worldview of a
person belonging to that era. We're talking about a practical choice
that was made by a few engineers back then. Things didn't change
that much in this regard-buildings still have walls, doors and
windows, regardless of their changing forms. Under the viewpoint of
functionality some quantities do remain immutable throughout the
eons. And I believe the same applies to social behaviors as well."
   "Oh, yes? Well, name for me one social constant!"
   "Simple enough. I don't think there ever was a time in the history
of the human race when personal interest wasn't the favorite naviga-
tional tool for the majority of the people."
   "You know, Nikitas, your attitude toward human nature might be
construed as cynical," Anastasia warned him.
   "You may call it however you wish, Anastasia, but that won't
change the fundamental truth of my statement," Nikitas replied.
   "Let me say something," Father Gregorios suddenly spoke up,
interrupting their argument. Until that moment he had been
standing aside, immersed in his thoughts. "I think we should look
for an exit, instead of for an entrance," he added slowly.
   "How do you mean, uncle?" Nikitas asked surprised.
Father Gregorios stepped forward and looked each one in turn as
he slowly shook his head. His eyes caught and reflected back the
yellowish glimmer of a candle still burning on a nearby crate. He
nodded to himself, as if making up his mind, and continued.
   "I liked the concept behind Yiannis's suggestion, so I turned it in
my mind for a while and I think I have something to contribute. I
asked myself the following question: if I were an emperor's chief
mason and was instructed to build a crypt in the foundations of
Aghia Sophia to be used by the emperor himself, where would I
place its entrance?" He paused and looked at the others inquiringly.
When no one ventured a reply, he shrugged and answered his own
question. "Well, the obvious answer is nowhere!"
   Father Gregorios peered at his silent listeners, trying to gauge
their comprehension by their reaction. No one moved. Finally,
convinced that they had no inkling of his intuition he smiled and
went on.
   "Actually, it's very simple," he explained. "Since the crypt was
destined to be used by the emperor, it's only reasonable to assume
that its entrance would be somewhere in the premises of the Grand
Byzantine Palace, which bordered with the Great Church."
   "You mean, uncle, we went to all of this trouble for no reason at
all?" Nikitas blurted out.
   "No, no, wait a minute," Father Gregorios protested. "As I said,
it would have been unreasonable to have the emperor come to the
church in order to enter the imperial crypt. It's absurd. It follows,
then, that the entrance was built inside the palace.
   "On the other hand, I can very well imagine the emperor coming
out of the crypt to enter Aghia Sophia! More than that, I remember
having read several Byzantine chroniclers mentioning unexpected
appearances of the emperor into the Great Church on the occasion
of some official function or other."
   "Extraordinary!" Nikitas exclaimed enthusiastically. "You realize,
of course, that this changes the setting dramatically and I mean it
both literally and figuratively-in the former case by the architec-
tural point of view. This fresh approach sets new parameters,
constraining to a large degree the initial excess of possibilities."
   " Is this an architect's jargon, Nikitas? Would you please explain
what you just said?" Anastasia complained.
   Nikitas smiled, nodding reassuringly. "What I meant was that
now we can get into the boots-or whatever they were wearing-of
the Byzantine architects who built the crypts, because now we got
the same data they had."
He extended his right hand fingers and started ticking them off.
   "Item: there had to be an opening that led from the crypts and
into the church.
   "Item: the design of said exit should be worthy of the Byzantine
emperor.
   "Item: said exit was to be used by the emperor only on special
occasions that demanded his ritualistic entrance into Aghia Sophia,
and I say that because there were other entrances connecting this
church with the palace.
   "Conclusion: we should not be looking for a hidden trapdoor or
some other equally insignificant opening, but for a highly visible,
probably lavishly decorated door, through which the emperor would
arrive into one of the church's main aisles."
   "Since you yourself are an architect, Nikitas," Makridis said,
   "where would you locate an exit with all the characteristics you just
mentioned?"
   "Hmm," Nikitas said gazing thoughtfully at the northern side of
the church. "Taking into account Aghia Sophia's structural layout, I
think I'd build it inside one of those columns over there which are
sufficiently massive for the purpose."

At last they had a well-defined objective. Nikitas used a pencil to
mark on Aghia Sophia's floor-plan all the columns of the northern
aisle which he considered good candidates, then picked up his flash-
light and headed there for a closer inspection. When he had reached
the far side of the north wall he saw that the columns were
surrounded by scaffolding from floor to ceiling.
   "That's a real bonus," he muttered to himself, and went to a pile
of tools heaped by the wall. It did not take him long to find what he
wanted. He hefted a sledgehammer and a long steel crowbar, and
returned to the series of imposing pillars. He chose the central one
and climbed up the wooden planks of the scaffolding, taking with
him the lantern Anastasia had used earlier.
   "What are you going to do now, Nikitas?" she nearly shouted
from the column's base.
   "This one's a prime candidate because it's centrally situated, so
I'm starting with it," Nikitas explained. "I'll attempt to remove its
marble paneling and check out what lies underneath."
   "Have you ever tried this before?" she insisted.
   "Something similar, yes, though Aghia Sophia is my first...,"
Nikitas replied with a laugh and vanished behind the plastic
sheeting surrounding the scaffolding.
   A few moments later the silence was broken by the clanging
sound of steel against stone, as Nikitas attacked the joints of the
panels. He had decided to start from the top of the column in an
attempt at removing the paneling in a single piece, to minimize its
damage.
   Yes, he told himself, there would be some damage done to the
paneling and that pained him, as he had never been an adherent of
the maxim the end justifies the means. This time, however, he was
fiercely hoping for a glorious ending, which would truly justify the
hammer and the steel bar he was wielding against the ancient stone.
   Ten minutes later Nikitas paused to take a breath and rest his
cramped fingers. By this time he was fairly certain that the imperial
door did not hide behind the pillar's southern face. He leaned over
the narrow walkway and shouted down to his friends that next he
was going to try his luck at the eastern side of the column.
   Once there, it took him only a couple of strikes to realize that
their sound had a hollow ring in it. He felt his fingers become slick
from the perspiration and took a few moments off to wipe them on
his trousers, afraid that the hammer would slip through his fingers.
His heart was suddenly beating hard, and his breath came out short.
His whole experience, several years worth of it, was clamoring in
his mind that he was only a step away from achieving a break-
through, yet he remained stubbornly silent. He refused to mislead
his friends with false hope. More determined than ever he picked up
the hammer and resumed work, each strike taking him one step
closer to certainty.
   Although he had tried his best to avoid it, without warning a long
rectangular piece of paneling dropped off from the column and
crashed down with a hideous noise, miraculously breaking only in
two pieces. Shaking his head in exasperation Nikitas looked up to
assess the damage done and found himself staring at a wide, black
aperture gaping at him. His fingers involuntarily released the
crowbar as he leaned over to peek inside.
   He was met by empty space. At first he thought that the column
was hollow all the way from base to top, but a second look
downward revealed an intricately carved wooden structure
extending a couple of feet from the opposite wall into the hollowed-
out column. It resembled a wooden closet which rose to a height of
three yards. He moved the lamp back and forth and caught the
glittering reflections of metal set into the wood. Were they golden
hinges?
   "Nikitas, are you all right?" he heard his uncle's anxious voice
reaching him faintly from the floor. His companions, alarmed by the
sudden crash of the stone had gathered near the pillar, wondering
what was happening behind the opaque plastic veil.
   Nikitas took a step backwards and pushed away the cover, as he
leaned toward them. He tried to shout, to share with them his joy,
but his voice failed him.
   "We found the entrance," he only managed to utter.

                                ***

It took them less than a quarter of an hour to complete the prepara-
tions for the reopening of the imperial gate, which led into Aghia
Sophia's secret crypts. Nikitas carefully peeled off another rectan-
gular piece of paneling from the column and with the help of
Makridis set both pieces against the nearest wall.
   Father Gregorios and Anastasia went back to the southern side
and packed their things, to be prepared to leave the church as soon
as they returned from their underground exploration. They decided
not to take anything else down there with them, except Nikitas's
portable computer, to help him record any archaeological finds of
interest they might discover.
   When their preparations were complete they gathered before the
sealed gate. The closet with the gilded cedar door, which projected
two feet from the western side of the hollowed-out column, was a
fine specimen of Byzantine art at its apex. Nikitas had guessed
right-the gate was worthy an emperor. Its entire, well-preserved
surface, was completely covered by intricately carved designs of
proto-Christian symbols, a lifetime's work for several master
craftsmen.
   However, the hinges were not of gold, as Nikitas had assumed.
Gold is soft and would hardly support the weight of that massive
door. Anastasia told them that in accordance to Byzantine practice
they should be made out of gilded iron or even bronze.
   The subject, however, was of little interest to Nikitas. He only
hoped the hinges were in good working order, so that they would
not have to force their way through the impeccably preserved
imperial gate.
They had been standing unmoving in front of the door for several
moments, ready to take the first step, when Nikitas raised his hand.
   "Just a moment," he said and turned to Makridis. "How many
yards of electric power extension wire did you buy, Yiannis," he
asked him.
   "A roll of one hundred meters, which is about one hundred and
ten yards."
   "Right. Now, since we're going to need a source of bright light
down there, I suggest we take the generator with us. This way with
our present supply of wire we'll have at least a hundred yards'
freedom of movement from the generator's position. It will allow us
to keep our flashlights for emergency use only."
   No one objected to that. Nikitas and Yiannis brought the coil of
wire and the generator, and once again lined in front of the imperial
gate, which promised to take them one thousand years back in time
to uncharted Byzantine territory. Nikitas took the point, with
Anastasia behind him. Next to her came Yiannis with the generator,
while his uncle brought the rear.
Father Gregorios made the sign of the cross and whispered a
short prayer. Then Nikitas took the first step.


Chapter 23
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Dolapdere Jadesi
           July 29


Hairettin Bakan had several legitimate reasons to be satisfied
with the course his life had taken during the past twelve
months. With five children, a wife, and his in-laws depending on
him for food and shelter, until last year Hairettin had to work hard
to scrounge a living in Tepe, a small village lost in the middle of
nowhere fifty kilometers to the northwest of Erzurum, Turkey. His
patrimony amounting to a total of ten acres inherited from his
father-hardly enough to provide adequate sustenance for his
family-Hairettin had always been on the lookout for whatever
scraps of additional work he could get.
   Denizen of a world harshly taxing even an hour of rest, Hairettin
had only prayed that things would not become any worse than they
already were.All of that had changed dramatically when Ajim, a
second cousin from the side of his father, had visited Tepe after
many years of self-exile. Ajim's visit had not been motivated by
nostalgia but by a compelling need to prove to his erstwhile fellow
villagers that he had become a powerful and worthy person. As it
turned out, he was not disappointed; being a police officer in
Constantinople, Ajim was given a hero's reception.
   Naturally, Hairettin had been among the welcoming committee
and in a quiet moment, alone with his cousin, he had implored him with
tears in his eyes to help him find any kind of work in the city. If Ajim
would arrange something for his poor cousin, he'd told him, it'd serve
a good cause and establish once and for all Ajim's great power.
And with a meaningful wink to his cousin, Hairettin had
implied that there were still several unconvinced villagers in Tepe,
challenging Ajim's achievements behind his back.
   He had obviously been very persuasive, because Ajim did not
forget him. Three months after his visit to Tepe he asked him to
come to Constantinople, where he had secured a courier's position
for him in the police force.
   When Hairettin relocated with his family and visited Ajim for the
first time, he fell to his knees and kissed his cousin's hand, declaring
his eternal gratitude toward him.
   At this moment, however, as he splashed with his motorcycle
through Constantinople's deserted streets wrapped up in his issue
waterproof jacket, with the pounding rain calling forth images of the
small cataract nearby his village, his gratitude toward Ajim had
reached an all-time low. Hairettin was silently cursing between his
teeth everybody who had played a part in bringing about this
moment, not excluding himself from the list.
   Especially himself, he thought bitterly and cursed again.
   Eventually, he became tired of cursing and tried to cheer himself
up. Not all news was bad-the Kardak was close-by. He had one last
collection to make, and then his shift was over. Say, an hour at the
most, and he'd have the infinite pleasure of lying supine upon his
dry soothing cot, gazing at his bedroom's ceiling. Exactly where he
should have been by now.
   As a rule Hairettin looked forward to his calls at the Kardak, and
thought it a pity that his itinerary brought him to the hotel on a
skip-day basis. The boys at the front desk liked him well, and took
him back to their small common room for a glass of Greek raki. This
was the reason why he always left the Kardak for last, and by Allah,
tonight the accursed storm demanded his usual tonic.
Yes, he'd rest his chilled bones for a quarter of an hour, maybe a
little more, before riding back to Headquarters for the delivery of his
courier's pouch.
   With his morale restored for the moment Hairettin sat up on his
motorcycle's slippery seat and gave the throttle a jaunty twist.

                                ***

The moment Hairettin Bakan was entering Kardak's parking lot,
Belkis Dama was glancing again impatiently at her watch: twelve
past ten. Although her shift had ended twelve whole minutes ago,
she was not allowed to leave her booth before completing all of the
day's entries into the computer database; worse luck for her that the
remaining records had not reached her yet.
   She stared absentmindedly at the screen through the gray filter
attached to her monitor. Her task was entering the names of the
customers in all of Constantinople's hotels into the "CheckHotel"
database, developed by the IT Department of the metropolitan
Police. It was a monotonous but not taxing work. Belkis was a fast
typist and she always finished her quota about an hour before the
nominal end of her shift, but tonight the courier who collected the
computer diskettes from the big hotels was late in coming, probably
due to the horrible rain. As a result, she had missed the last bus and
would have to take a taxi to go home.
   At least it would not take her more than ten minutes to complete
the update from the moment she got her hands on the delayed
batch, since the diskettes contained information formatted in accor-
dance with her database specifications.
That's why she liked the really big hotels-they made everyone's
life so much better...
   She sighed and let her imagination free to soar, to break away
from the sterile confines of her typist's cubicle in the fourth floor of
Constantinople's Police Security Directorate. Belkis had already
taken this year's leave, but the next summer... all of her options
were still open. She might try one of the fabulous hotels in Smyrna.
Who knew? Maybe she'd choose the one her friend Aishel and her
fianc� had picked up last summer, and afterwards kept talking about
it throughout the winter.
   Belkis felt a lump rise in her throat and a sudden heat burning
her cheeks. Damn the computer screen filter, she thought. She wiped
her eyes  with her fingers and shut them tightly, struggling to visualize Smyrna 
with her marvelous resorts, and somewhere among those wonderful, mythical
entities her own pitiful, very real self.


Chapter 24
           ANKARA, TURKEY: Chankaya Jadesi
           July 29


The desolate plain was empty for as far as the human eye could
see. Not a patch of withered shrubbery in sight, nor a dead tree's
husk-not even a piece of stone larger than a pebble... nothing at all
to break the yellow hard flatness crunching under the rubber soles
of Sabri's military boots. A company of young recruits was huddling
nearby, all of them eighteen-year old youths who for the last hour
had been glancing nervously around them and behind; mostly
behind. Sabri was anxiously trying to find some cover for all,
because everyone was sensing the presence of Evil coming fast their
way.
   Even though Its presence had not yet taken a definite shape, no
one had the slightest doubt that they would instantly recognize it,
each one in his own way, as It would plunge upon them to plant Its
claws deeply into their memories and their souls to suck out Its form
and substance from their precious vital energy. The thought of that
supernatural leech was enough to make Sabri sweat profusely,
soaking his crisp military uniform.
   And It came, and though It was expected, Its arrival took them all by
surprise.
   At first there was an imperceptible change in the texture of the
air, a faint tremor in the horizon's tightly drawn curve. Then that
shapeless, and at the same time mysteriously familiar Presence,
began to materialize slowly, very slowly, in front of Sabri, anony-
mous and yet enticingly intimate, trapping his attention in a point-
less struggle to pinpoint It in space and time, to attach the name he
knew he should remember if he were to...
   ... survive?
   He struggled on and on-no, he couldn't give up, it would be the
end-but It kept pressing Its presence upon them and suddenly the
boy-soldiers had had enough; they threw down their guns and
turned to each other, hugging each other, hiding their faces from
their unspeakable doom.
   Just then, their old-fashioned wireless unit started to ring. Sabri
heard it and knew deep in his heart that if they somehow managed
to answer it they would be saved, because the message waiting for
them spelled their salvation. It spelled the name of the Beast. So he
stood up and yelled at the frozen trooper who was somehow still
clinging to his wireless unit.
   "Answer it, damn it, answer it!"
   The sharp ringing of his private number in his bedroom finally
penetrated Sabri's consciousness. He snapped open his eyes only to
find himself breathless, drenched in his sweat, though there was
nothing wrong with the air-conditioning unit. He allowed himself a
few moments to catch his breath, then picked up the receiver. It was
the secure line connecting his penthouse with the office.He pressed
the button for the two-way scrambler and counted up to six, giving
himself some more time to come fully awake, to let his conscious
mind eradicate even the feeblest trace of his awful nightmare.
   Just the daily collection of my subconscious garbage, he told himself
as he reche for the handset. Everything was fine. He nodded reassur-
ingly to himself, ignoring the tinny voice from the phone that was
calling his name for the third time.
   "All right! What's the matter?" Sabri said gruffly at the mouthpiece.

                                ***

Five minutes after the emergency call from the DGA-2 Headquarters
Sabri was hurriedly getting himself into his uniform. His driver was
coming with his car to drive him to the nearest military airport,
where an Air Force jet was ready to fly him to Constantinople. Once
there, he would be briefed on the latest developments by the local
head of the police, who would place himself under his command.
   Sabri felt certain that in a few hours he was going to flush out
Paleologou & Co., wherever they might have sought shelter. In
Constantinople nothing remained hidden for long-not from him,
anyway.
   As he was buttoning up his khaki shirt, Sabri once more congrat-
ulated himself for trusting his intuition. Something big was
happening there; Byzantine manuscripts and Orthodox priests loose
in Constantinople-yes sir, that made up for a highly explosive mix.
He sat on the bedside to put on his shoes, all the while recycling
in his mind Kadir's urgent communication.
   Twelve minutes before his secretary's call the DGA-2 supercom-
puter had issued a Red Alert for Paleologou. The alarm meant that
Paleologou had been located and urgent action was in order. How
mystifying, though, that the subject had been found in
Constantinople of all places!
   As a result, a bit of self-recrimination was necessary here. He had
complacently assumed that the priest would turn tail and bury
himself somewhere in Greece until the things had quieted down,
while all the while he had been roaming his own country!
   There was a moral in this: in his line of business there was no
place for a priori premises or self-evident truths. The available
evidence always had to be double-checked against the facts.
Had he fallen so low that he couldn't trust even his own self?
Sabri thought wryly.
   But then again, the impudence of the priest was something else!
It only served to prove that his initial hunch had been right all along;
a serious game was being played under his nose, and it was high
time he claimed a seat for himself.
   Thankfully, the computer was programmed in such a way that
when DGA-2 issued a warrant for a person, copies of it were
electronically forwarded to all of its subsidiary units, including
those at home. Now, if only the hotel traffic were updated on a daily
basis instead of every other day, he would have caught the Greeks
red-handed.
   As it was, Kadir had reported that according to the preliminary
police dispatch Paleologou and his party had checked out from the
Kardak only this afternoon.
   Sabri tried to console himself with the thought that the Greeks
had left most of their luggage at the hotel for safe keeping, so they
clearly were intending to return. Why so? he wondered. It was an
intriguing piece of the puzzle and he felt that something might come
out of it.
   As he stood for a total of five seconds in front of his big bedroom
mirror combing his hair, Sabri thought the matter several times over,
and decided he would issue an order for the daily updating of the
hotel traffic databases. Progress came about painfully.
Then he picked up the emergency suitcase he always kept at the
ready for similar occasions and hurried to the door.


Chapter 25
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Beyoglu District
           July 29


Hell for little Fatme was neither an abstract idea, nor a theolog-
ical topic of debate in a gathering of erudite scholars. Far from
it. For her it was part of hard reality- her reality-and the unbear-
able pain accompanying it served only to substantiate its existence.
Hell for Fatme was a personal affair.
   It had a name, too.
   Ruhi Abdullah.
   When Madam Saneya's twelve year-old prot�g�� began to rise up
again, slowly detaching herself from the cylindrical instrument of
torture that was piercing her, an immense wave of blessed relief  
overwhelmed her little body and she burst into burning tears which
carved hot trails down her cheeks. Swollen with rivulets of cold
sweat and a portion of her innocent soul, they quickly traversed the
length of her naked body, hesitated for a heartbeat at her fingertips,
then started dripping onto the bare floor copiously watering
Abdullah's black heart.
   When the tip of the warted wooden phallus set on the floor had
almost left the lips of her immature cleft, Fatme, obeying to
Abdullah's unvoiced command, began contracting again her
quivering muscles, relentlessly lowering herself toward the floor
until the molesting phallus transmuted into a red-hot iron rod
melting her insides, until her desperate cries for mercy strangled
her-all the while praying for the moment to come when Ruhi
Abdullah would finally signal her with his little finger to raise
herself up.
      Her skinny legs were uncontrollably trembling from the effort as
she once again dipped herself into hell. The vast, benevolent world
of a child's heart had now shrunk for her into a fiery needle,
expanding inside her with each passing second to unendurable
proportions. The black-painted walls of the room were suffocating
her, edging closer and closer like a tightening noose. Her eyes were
staring ahead, but no images registered to her brain-neither the
stains of her tears that framed her feet, nor the pool of blood
spreading underneath her legs.
The twelve year-old Fatme saw nothing, heard nothing, and had
even forgotten that a God existed to hear her prayer for deliverance.
   Two yards farther on a cheap wooden chair rested fat Abdullah
with several inches of his bottom spilling over to every direction. His
shirt was unbuttoned and he was breathing heavily, but his beady
eyes were absorbing the pain deeply etched on the girl's face in a
cold, calculating manner. With his left hand he was playing with his
Mongolic mustache, while his right never strayed far from the
handle of his old-fashioned, silver revolver.
   Abdullah had started from very low. As a young man he had
frequented the gyms and wrestling grounds of Constantinople, in
the hope that some day he would become a great athlete. However,
due to his unruly character and chronic lack of self-discipline,
things had not turned out exactly as he had envisioned them. His
actual career had begun when he and some of his friends had
accepted a small sum of money to pose as left-wing students and
help break up from within a large anti-government demonstration.
That was when Abdullah had discovered he had been paid for
something he had immensely enjoyed.
   During the following years a ruthless streak in his character and
his infinite cunning had earned him respect and recognition
amongst the various factions of Constantinople's small-time thugs.
He cultivated a large number of useful connections, not only in the
criminal underworld but in the paramilitary organizations as well,  
and successfully carried out several missions on behalf of a certain
friendly intelligence agency.
   The next major step in his career had been his appointment at a
well-chosen post in the police, followed by his spectacular rise in the
hierarchy with the help of his influential backers. Finally, a couple
of years ago Ruhi Abdullah had become Chief of the Police Security
Directorate in the greater urban area of Constantinople.
   Abdullah was not a gambler, but many years ago he had played,
just once in his life, Russian roulette with a Texan, a former opera-
tive of the CIA. Although they had barely known each other, that
night at the height of their drunken stupor they had bet the Texan's
silver revolver, a family heirloom from his great-grandfather who
had fought in the Civil War.
   The next day had dawned only for lucky Abdullah and the
revolver became his magical talisman. And it came in handy,
sometimes; for example, when several months ago a girl had feebly
objected to his perverted game he had shot her on the spot,
dispatching her to Allah to further argue her case-as afterwards he
had boasted to his aides.
   Madam Saneya, the bordello owner, was well aware of Abdullah's
vicious nature and catered to him accordingly. On his regular
monthly visit to her establishment there was always a twelve year-
old virgin awaiting him in the Black Room. There he seated his bulk
in the solitary chair, feasting his eyes on his tortured victims until
the bleeding girls dropped down from shock or sheer exhaustion.
   Then, with the unfortunate girl lying down completely helpless,
Abdullah rose from the chair and threw his two-hundred-fifty-
pound body upon her in a futile attempt at jerking to life his
diminutive manhood.
   After he was gone the severely abused girls had to be carried to
the hospital. Even so, last year two of them had died due to excess
hemorrhage.
   Little Fatme had become an orphan when her parents were
arrested on the charge of being members of an illegal left-wing
organization and were thrown to jail, never to face a court, never to
come out alive. Madam Saneya, well connected herself, had immedi-
ately placed the girl under her patronage considering her a profitable
addition to her human menagerie, though it remained to be seen
whether she would survive Abdullah's hellish treatment to continue
serving her patroness.
   The outcome was still hanging in the balance when God heeded
Fatme's prayers and the miracle happened.
   As Fatme's rationality was yielding, seeking solace and forgetful-
ness in the bleak moonscape of insanity, the door crashed open and
a young sergeant of the Turkish Military Police burst in. Ignoring
ostentatiously the depraved setting he snapped to attention in front
of Abdullah.
   "I have orders to accompany you at once to the military airport
of Atak�y," he informed him in a clipped voice, failing to address
him as 'sir.' He had been forewarned by a member of Abdullah's
security detail down at the bordello's ground floor what to expect in
this room. Abdullah's rank and position meant nothing to the
hardened sergeant, himself a member of an elite military corps, but
the scene in the Black Room was enough to turn his stomach.
   Abdullah said nothing but rose slowly, easing the revolver into its
adorned leather sheath. He approached Fatme, who was struggling
in vain to dry her gushing tears as her thin body shook convulsively
from her sobbing. His sport for tonight had been spoiled, and what
was the meaning of adjourning his session with her for another
time? The novelty, the virginity of the event, had forever been lost.
   Suddenly Abdullah was consumed by a cloud of dark rage,
compelling him to take out his gun and destroy there and then the
niggardly body that had defied him, erasing the despicable creature
from the face of the earth.
   Still, with the impudent sergeant hovering behind him this would
be an act of pure insanity and Abdullah had not yet lost his mind.
   Or, so he thought.
   He took another step forward.
   Abdullah threw a last furious glance at little Fatme and then his
hand snapped out like a writhing snake, delivering a brutal blow to
the little girl, catapulting her against the opposite wall.
   And then, the man who had opened the gates of Hell for Fatme
when she was twelve, turned around his swollen fleshy mass and left
the room in a rage.


Chapter 26
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Atak�y Military Airport
           July 30


The moment the tires of the landing military aircraft brushed
the runway, Sabri left his seat and headed for the exit. He did not
have to wait for long. Early on apprised of his arrival, the personnel
on duty hurried to open the hatch and he was rudely welcomed by
the lashing of the rain, which was bound to handicap his manhunt.
He had not expected this, although the pilot had muttered some
unintelligible phrases over the intercom about the current weather
conditions in Constantinople.
   From the top of the metallic ladder he saw the head of
Constantinople's DGA-2 branch and the Chief of the local Police
Security Directorate waiting for him with opened umbrellas. Sabri
knew the latter from past operations. The man had his quirks, but
was dependable and brought results.
   When he reached them they quickly shook hands and ushered
him to a police cruiser waiting nearby. It sped away heading for the
Police Operations Center, while Abdullah took it upon himself to
brief their guest.
   He talked fast for a minute and wrapped up his short speech by
assuring Sabri that all the available police force was already
deployed, and was right now combing every square foot of
Constantinople. Sabri did not doubt him, but at the same time he
considered Abdullah's assurances a poor substitute for his lack of
concrete results.
   Anyhow, the Chief of Police Security was not the problem. What
was still bothering him was why a Greek monk, together with a
Greek-American architect and an obscure archaeologist-for whom
there was no record in DGA-2's databases-had come to
Constantinople.
   More than that, where were they now?
   Sabri sunk deeper in the seat shutting off Abdullah's verbiage,
and tried to put himself mentally in the shoes of the Greeks.
What would he have done, then? Where would he have gone?
   If he were, what? A... Greek monk?
   Here even his rich experience had nothing to offer. It was impos-
sible for him to assume the viewpoint of a Christian monk, and Sabri
was smart enough to realize his limitations. Of course, that left him
with the other two Greeks, but even so, even supposing that the
architect's or the archaeologist's professional expertise was an essen-
tial parameter in this matter, the abundance of Byzantine
monuments in Constantinople made any guessing pure speculation.
   He needed more data.
   In the Police Operations Center he was met with a great deal of
activity but zero progress. The fugitives had vanished as if
swallowed by the earth. Hundreds of police officers had been
dispatched to all the hotels, from the Hilton and the Kardak to the
lowliest and shadiest establishment, while others were out checking
out the myriad pensions and unofficial rooms-for-rent.
   Sabri had a feeling they would find nothing. He was convinced
that the Greeks had not checked out from the Kardak to hide
elsewhere, but for some other reason he had yet to discover.
   He snapped a few orders around to coordinate the search, and
asked the officer on duty where the baggage was that had been
seized at the Kardak. When he was told that it was stored at the
basement of the same building, he sent him to fetch the suitcases of
the Greeks to his temporary office.
   Soon Sabri was hungrily leaning over the personal effects of his
prey. He forced open the locks of the suitcases with his penknife and
took a cursory look at their contents, then neatly arranged them by
their owner. One of them obviously belonged to the priest, the other
suitcase to the architect, the last to the woman archaeologist. Fine.
Next, he emptied their contents on a desk and then ordered them
into two piles; the first for clothing items, the second for the rest.
   Not bothering with the clothing he focused his attention to the
various little objects of everyday use, attempting a tentative classifi-
cation of them. There were items of personal hygiene there, two city
maps, a tourist guide of Aghia Sophia, a number of receipts from
various small purchases in Constantinople's bazaars, a digital
Walkman, a Swiss army pocketknife, a black rosary, a pair of a
woman's sunglasses-the list was virtually endless.
   He sighed and lit a cigarette. Nothing there. And yet, deep within
him he felt there was something he had overlooked. He went over
the two piles again, still missing the vital clue. 
   Uncertain how to proceed, Sabri decided to employ a simple
procedure he followed from time to time when the familiarity of a
situation became deceptive, turning his awareness away from the
obvious. He took each object in turn in his hands, pronounced
aloud its name, then set it aside.
   Item one, two, three, four...
   When he reached the tourist guide he frowned. What was the
meaning of this, of a tourist guide of Aghia Sophia? How had it come
to their possession, considering that the former museum was closed
for the duration of the renovation works? The booklet had been
found in the architect's suitcase-wasn't he aware of the fact that the
museum was closed to the public?
   He flipped through its pages searching for its date of printing.
There it was, in the page next to the last: Copyright 1988. Sabri knew
that these tourist booklets had stopped being published when Aghia
Sophia was closed down, but until that time they had been reprinted
on a yearly basis. This meant that the architect had not obtained his
copy from Constantinople but had brought it from Athens-
obviously for a purpose.
   Yes, for a purpose, he said out loud, seeing with perfect
clarity where he would find the Greeks. He only hoped to be
there on time.


Chapter 27
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Church of Aghia Sophia
           July 30


The heavy door opened easily. Makridis had sprayed the hinges
with a special fast-action lubricant and allowed it to soak for a
few minutes. The door had groaned but held. Nikitas opened it a
third of the way and slipped inside, illuminating the enclosed space
with his flashlight.
Right in front of him he made out the granite threshold of a  
spiraling stairway leading downward.
   He tried the first stair with his foot to make sure it had not come
loose after a thousand years of disuse, and satisfied that it was
holding firmly he started to descend. His friends followed his lead.
Father Gregorios took a few seconds to shut the door and hurried
after them.
   After two full turns they reached a wide landing surrounded by a
circular wall, with a single arched opening giving to a broad
corridor. Nikitas thought the antechamber provided a convenient
place to set their base, so he asked Yiannis to put down the gener-
ator he was carrying and start the engine.
   He tried several times but nothing happened. Frustrated by the
unexpected hitch, Nikitas knelt down to take a closer look at the
machine.
   "No!" Anastasia suddenly hissed.
   "What's the matter?" Nikitas looked at her alarmed.
   "Stay away from the floor," she warned. "There could be a layer
of poisonous gas near the ground. If due to a decomposition process
there was created a gas in this crypt, being heavier than air it would
rest low, close to the ground. It's an effect that was observed in
several archaeological sites which had remained sealed for long
stretches of time and had contained certain organic materials to start
with, releasing poisonous gases as they decomposed. It never
crossed my mind that this phenomenon could apply here, but the
fact that the generator refuses to start may be due to the presence of
other gases having replaced oxygen," Anastasia explained.
   "We'll check it right away," Nikitas said and lifted the generator
a couple of feet higher while Makridis tried again the starter. Again,
nothing happened.
   "No, that's not it. Maybe a soldering has come loose," he said
glancing at his watch. "But as we lack the time to look into it, we'll
just have to use our flashlights. It's a good thing we got a spare set
of batteries each."
   "Nevertheless, I suggest we take with us the loose end of the
extension cord we'd use for the lamp," Anastasia said. "That way,
even if we come upon a branching corridor we'll remain in contact
with our point of reference."
   "In other words, you're talking about a modern version of
Ariadne's thread," Nikitas said with a smile. "Why not? We should
keep in mind, however, that it will only be good for the first hundred
yards or so, which are the total length of the wire," he added. He
plugged the jack of the extension wire into the generator's power
supply socket and passed the roll to Makridis.
   They started along the domed tunnel in a single file, keeping the
same formation as before. Nikitas noticed that the walls were
constructed of classic Byzantine brickwork while the floor was
covered with square gray flagstones.
   Very soon they realized that the overlords of Aghia Sophia's
netherworld were absolute silence and absolute darkness. Even
though their flashlights were providing them with enough illumina-
tion to point out the way, their thin beams were laughable pricks
against the back of the megathere of total blackness.
   As they walked the minutes kept jostling each other in monoto-
nous succession, imposing their own peculiar rhythm. The subter-
ranean world began to take a heavier aspect, and after a while they
stopped talking. It came as a reflection of their emotional state
rather than a conscious decision. Eventually, no sound could be
heard other than their dry footfalls on the stony floor.
   A few yards before the wire ran out they reached the first
branching. A pair of new corridors identical to their own forked
ahead of them in an Y configuration. They had to decide whether to
go right or left.
   Nikitas signaled them to wait and took a small compass out of his
pocket.
   "This is a poor substitute for the gyroscope we should have taken
with us," he complained. "That's an omission on my part. If we had
one of those here we'd be able to fix our position exactly in all direc-
tions, including the vertical."
   He noted the direction of the needle and squatted on the floor
with the portable computer on his lap. He tilted backwards the flat
screen and booted it.
   "Our objective is to locate the underground imperial chambers,"
he said as he started to tap on the keyboard. "In the hard disk of my
computer I've saved a detailed map of medieval Constantinople.
Now, taking into account the distance we have covered thus far and
the orientation of the main tunnel I'll be able to determine our
whereabouts, and then I'll try to correlate our present position with
the location of the palace as shown on the map. This will help us
decide on our new direction."
   Nikitas keyed in the file's name and pressed Enter. As a color map
of Constantinople circa 1200 AD filled the screen they all gathered
around him to watch.
   "According to my guesstimate we covered eighty-five yards in a
northerly direction, therefore we must be somewhere here," Nikitas
said pointing to an unmarked area on the map. "As you can see, this
area lies well beyond the walls of Aghia Sophia and is also outside
the Great Palation sprawling complex, namely the palace of the
Byzantine emperors."
   He pressed a pair of keys together to enlarge the map by fifty
percent. "Let's be a bit more specific," he continued. "Taking into
account the scale of the map, I'd place us here," he said tapping his
finger at a certain point on the screen, then glanced toward the
forking tunnels. "The left branch veers in a southwesterly direction,
while the right one extends toward the northeast. Therefore, to head
for the Great Palation we should take the left turn that leads to the
Hippodrome. As you can see, the right one would take us further
away from our objective."
   Nikitas studied the map for several more minutes, then clicked
shut the computer's cover and stood up.
   "Hey, did you just feel something in your face?" Anastasia
suddenly asked.
   "What was it, Anastasia?" asked Father Gregorios.
   "A breath of air! Did you feel it too?"
The others shook their heads.
   "If it wasn't a trick of my imagination I'd say there's a hidden
ventilation system down here," Anastasia insisted.
   "Right, one more thing to check out along the way. Now, let's get
moving!" Nikitas urged impatiently, starting toward the leftside
tunnel. "Come on!" he repeated once more without looking back.

                                ***

Soon the ground began to tilt downhill and the tunnel grew increas-
ingly narrower. As they walked they felt they were being sucked in
by a huge funnel and bizarre echoes started to fire up their imagina-
tions. Thankfully, the tension was being relieved by the loud
clattering of Father Gregorios's leather heels on the stone flagstones,
which were providing them with a comforting rhythmic accompani-
ment. After a while they became sure that Anastasia was right; the
air was steadily freshening up.
   Walking in single file permitted them to conserve their batteries
by letting only Nikitas's flashlight on. Anyway, there was not much
to be seen, even though the layout of the underground tunnels had
significantly increased in complexity. They were coming upon forks
almost every twenty yards, smaller offshoots twisting away from
both sides of the main tunnel like a dead tree's crooked branches.
Anastasia was aching for a chance to explore them but Nikitas kept
them going at an unrelenting pace. She hoped she would get her
chance sometime later.
   By now they were acclimatized to their narrow confines and the
abrupt change in their surroundings took them by surprise. Nikitas
abruptly stopped and the others crowded beside him, staring with
undisguised awe at the vast round chamber that spread out beyond.
   Their tunnel ended here.
   Playing his flashlight's beam in front of his feet, Nikitas saw a
flight a ten wide stairs leading downward to the lower level of the
great rotunda ahead of them. Obviously, they needed more light
here. He signed the others to turn on their flashlights and walked
on.
   From their vantage point they had a panoramic view of the open
area and their first thought was that they had reached a great natural
cavern whose farthest sides were sheathed in darkness. It took them
only a couple of minutes, though, to realize that the telltale signs of
a natural formation were missing. The floor stretched out uniformly
flat and was completely dry, while the walls of stone-so far as they
could illuminate them with their flashlights-had a rough, but
clearly man-made cast.
   They climbed down the few stairs in slow-motion movements,
quiet, full of wonderment for the mysterious structure. The cylin-
drical area expanded around them, strikingly resembling a rotunda,
albeit in larger dimensions than any other similar monument they
knew. Had they stumbled upon the lost mausoleum of the Byzantine
emperors?
   Scattering to different directions they tackled first the perimeter
of the immense rotunda. Nikitas was the expert here. He studied
carefully the architectural details captured by his flashlight's beam,
and was soon convinced that he could not even begin to speculate
how such a massive structure could have been built before the
second half of the twentieth century.
   He was also uncertain about the nature of the material used for
its construction; the wall seemed to be made out of stone, but then
again its texture was reminding him of a cement hybrid he had seen
a couple of years ago at a construction materials fair.
   Viewed from afar the rotunda's left-hand semicircle seemed to be
interspersed with small alcoves arranged in neat parallel lines,
stacked one upon the other. Nikitas approached a section of the wall
and discovered that they were far larger than he had initially
thought. His experienced eye had been tricked by the scant light and
the lack of a familiar object of reference. Actually, each one of the  
alcoves was the size of a small room. And they all were empty.
   Intrigued, he returned to his friends who had gathered at the
center of the chamber and were scrutinizing the two smaller struc-
tures that stood there.
   The one closer to him was obviously a chapel, but hardly an
ordinary one. It was an exact replica of Aghia Sophia, reproduced in
exquisite detail and with such mastery that it had fooled Anastasia
into attempting to push open its main door, which proved to be only
a painting on the surface of the wall.
   Its three-dimensional realism was breathtaking. They quickly
examined the other sides and confirmed that the same was true for
all of its apertures, including the dome's windows and several of its
wall recesses. The model deviated from the original only in that an
ancient-looking monastery bell was fastened by a short length of
rope to a wooden pole erected near the chapel's southwestern
corner. They left it alone without attempting to touch it, afraid that
the rope would disintegrate at the slightest pull.
   While Nikitas examined the miniature church, Father Gregorios
went over to the far side to take a closer look at the alcoves. He
returned in a hurry, speaking up even before he had reached them.
   "This is no burial place or mausoleum," he announced breath-
less. "See over there the hundreds of alcoves built into the wall?
Well, however unbelievable it may seem to you, at some point in the
past this whole chamber was a functioning monastery."
He was met by uncomprehending stares.
The old man nodded and smiled. "I the doubt in your eyes," he
said, not in the least discomfited. "Well, after fifty years of living a
monk's life, trust me when I tell you that I can recognize the signs of
a religious communal existence."
   "But why build a monastery here?" Makridis voiced their
thoughts. "Is this a place, Father, one willingly would choose to
spend his life?"
   "Of course, the lack of furniture in the alcoves handicaps our
imagination in this regard," Nikitas interjected.
   "Well, you're both right. But I'm sure there was a very good
reason, Yiannis, why this monastery was built in the first place, and
why men took their monastic vows here," Father Gregorios replied.
   "The alcoves in the walls were actually their cells and every monk
would have used his own ladder to climb down to the lower level. It
would have been his umbilical cord with the rest of the world. In
this peculiar setting I wouldn't rule out the existence of a symbolic
hierarchy reflected in the positioning of the ladders," he mused.
   "Yes, I can visualize that," Nikitas agreed, remembering how the
alternating vertical arrangement of the alcoves had puzzled him. It
could be explained if one took into account the need for ladders;
that arrangement made sure that the ladders would not be
obstructing the alcoves of the immediately lower level. But as his
uncle had said, there could be a symbolic element at play here too,
with the monks moving higher according to their spiritual progress.
   "Something else has strongly impressed me since we entered the
catacombs," Anastasia said after a while. "This whole complex of
underground tunnels, the rotunda included, has the feel of a steril-
ized area. I mean, everything's so neat and so clean, it's as if at some
point in the past the whole area was purged and then sealed. The
average archaeological dig, you know, is a lot messier than this."
   "Back there, Anastasia, I saw a large heap of bricks together with
other building materials," Makridis observed.
   "Yes, I noticed it, too," Anastasia replied. "I suppose they were
the leftovers from the construction of this chapel, but even so they're
neatly arranged."
   None of them could speculate on that, so they moved forward. A
dozen yards farther they came upon the second construction, a
hemispherical structure made of a darkish material. The whole
shape resembled a rustic oven blown out of proportion, with a
diameter of twenty feet and a height of ten.
   It was the first time Nikitas had set eyes upon a similar structure.
He mentally reviewed the basics of architectural history but was
unable to correlate it with a concrete historical example. After a
while he admitted to himself that he had absolutely no clue about its
functionality.
   He approached it and slid lightly his hand over its surface. It was
not as smooth as it looked from a distance; actually, it was quite
rough. Taking a closer look with the help of his flashlight he saw
that the surface was dotted with innumerable minuscule pores, and
was suddenly hit with the realization that it was made out of baked
clay. It had the texture of earthenware.
   Nikitas walked around the conical structure and managed to
locate what he was looking for: a thin vertical crack running down
its length. He traced it with his fingers upwards and then down
again all the way to the floor.
   He had outlined the shape of the Greek letter pi.
   Certain that he was facing the cone's entrance, Nikitas continued
his search for a handle while his friends were watching him in
silence, mystified by the whole procedure. He discovered it two feet
lower from the door's top. It was an iron bar deeply embedded in the
clay.
   He passed on his flashlight to Anastasia, grabbed the handle with
both hands and lifted it slowly. He gauged its weight at nearly sixty
pounds. With Yiannis's help he lowered it carefully to the ground.
   Then he turned to look at his companions, panting from the
effort. They were smiling encouragingly at him. Nikitas acknowl-
edged their support with a nod and turned back to the rectangular
hole. There was nothing he could see from where he was standing;
the interior of the cone was enveloped in black. He took his flash-
light and stepped through the opening.
   Nikitas looked hungrily around him and felt his pulse acceler-
ating, his heart beating faster. He was witnessing a wonder: the
modest clay chamber was brimming with Byzantine icons.
Hundreds, or even thousands of them were stacked in orderly heaps,
while dozens of others were hanging loose from the concave walls.
He was in the midst of a riotous feast of multicolored forms and
shapes.
   As he moved the light over the richly painted surfaces of the
forgotten icons, illuminating the thousands of the saintly figures, of
the holy men and women, of the venerable Christian martyrs, their
mystical forms momentarily caught his eye and serenely gazed back
at him.
   The peculiar layout of the conical enclosure and the sophisti-
cated arrangement of the suspended icons gave Nikitas the impres-
sion that he was standing in the midst of a crowded congregation of
the faithful. Seized unexpectedly by a swelling, inexpressible feeling
of reverence, he turned back and looked at his uncle, who was
waiting patiently just outside the opening.
   "Come, uncle," he whispered hoarsely as he stepped aside to let
him in.
   And then it was Father Gregorios's turn to lay his eyes upon the
priceless icon trove of Orthodoxy, to absorb the splendor and the
holiness emanating from the sacred forms. Luxuriating in the
glimmering light that was reflected back from the golden hues of a
myriad icons, he made three times the sign of the cross and knelt to
pray, thanking God he had been blessed with this sight.
   After a while he rose again and went out to his companions.
When Anastasia and Yiannis had also visited the conical chamber he
addressed them all, his voice trembling from deeply felt emotion.
   "Here we are-four ordinary people privileged to witness
Orthodoxy's lost treasures!" he said.
   "You mean, uncle, you were aware of the loss of these icons?"
Nikitas asked incredulously.
   "Is there anyone who hasn't heard of Iconoclasm, Nikitas? The
eighth- and ninth-century Byzantine movement against the religious
use of imagery?" Father Gregorios asked. "This invaluable religious
and spiritual treasure contains Aghia Sophia's lost Byzantine icons
which everyone thought had been destroyed during the iconoclastic
movements. But now it all fits together-the monastics who lived
here had obviously undertaken the sacred mission of their preserva-
tion..."
   Father Gregorios's face took a faraway expression as he examined
the ramifications of a novel idea. "Yes, indeed," he continued, "we
can take this reasoning one step further: this rotunda must have
been built to provide shelter to the monks themselves in the face of
the ruthless persecution of the Byzantine State, creating a secret
religious haven which forever remained hidden. Naturally, one of
the practical tasks of the monks in this underground monastery
would have been the rescue and preservation of their beloved
icons."
   "So this strange-looking clay structure was constructed specifi-
cally for that purpose," Anastasia said.
   "Well, it seems that it accomplished its objective," Nikitas
observed.
   They replaced the cover to its former position and left the cone
without disturbing its contents.
   "The sooner these icons return to their homeland, the better,"
Makridis suddenly said, still touched by their sight.
   "Vassilevoussa is their home city, Yiannis," Father Gregorios
reminded him in a kindly tone. "Besides, for the time being I think
they'll be safer here than anywhere else."
   "That's only too true," Makridis agreed. "I can imagine the sort of
a fight that would erupt at the announcement of their existence,
with the Turkish authorities scrambling to praise and acknowledge
them as part of their own cultural heritage!" he scoffed. "By the way,
Father, how would you estimate their value?"
   "Those who believe, Yiannis, will measure it by their faith. The
rest... well, in gold."
   "I'm thinking about something else," Nikitas interrupted.
   "Assuming we're in the right track for the imperial palace, how
come the existence of this underground monastery was kept secret
from the iconoclast emperors, who would be using the tunnels to
reach Aghia Sophia?"
   "There can be but one explanation, Nikitas," Anastasia said. "The
existence of this tunnel complex must have been forgotten before
the beginning of Iconoclasm, namely before 726 AD. On the other
hand, in view of the rotunda's functionality, we can safely assume
that during the reign of Heraclius it had not yet been built."
   It was a theory that made sense. But now that their most pressing
questions had been answered, they once again felt the urgency to
press on. A closer examination of the round wall revealed that eight
tunnels were shooting off from it, evenly spaced along its perimeter. 
Some of them probably led to the facilities of the monastery. One
of the tunnels, however, was an extension of the one they had
followed as they came here. They conferred briefly and headed that
way.

                                ***

They resumed their single-file formation with Nikitas at the point.
After the vastness of the rotunda they felt diminished, like tiny bugs
crawling through a constricted pipe.
   After a while Nikitas decided to stop counting his paces, since the
increasingly tortuous turns of the tunnel canceled any attempt at
orientation without the support of sophisticated equipment. Again
he blamed himself for failing to foresee that need.
Perhaps he had not really believed they would achieve that
much...
   The winding domed corridor led them to an elongated rectan-
gular chamber, which according to Nikitas's rough estimate was
situated somewhere beneath the central palace area. It was probably
an adjunct to its sprawling foundations.
   When they had walked the length of the room, they realized that
the chamber was actually an underground atrium. Its four sides were
lined with small rooms facing to a common central opening while a
colonnade running the length of its longer side was forming a
peristyle.
   The smaller rooms held the promise of new revelations and they
eagerly began searching them. However, they discovered only
various everyday-life artifacts, remnants of a long-forgotten age
which still remained almost totally unexplored in its quotidian
details.
   A larger room than the rest soon caught their attention. It must
have been an armory, judging from the great numbers of Byzantine
weapons that were stacked in racks and shelves, protected in leather
sheaths or quivers. There were also many sealed wooden boxes
scattered at the back.
   Anastasia picked up several weapons in turn, touching and
turning them in her fingers as she scrutinized the minute details of
their craftsmanship. Putting back a bow to its shelf she spoke out
loud her thoughts.
   "Very, very roughly, I'd date it between the fifth and seventh
centuries AD."
   In another room they discovered more boxes with the remains of
Byzantine military uniforms, some of them extremely well
preserved. Another room gave the appearance of having been used
for the storage of general supplies.
   They went through several more chambers until they came upon
the only one that had its entrance sealed. They concentrated their
flashlight beams on its fa�ade and saw three lines of darker brick-
work built into the lighter background, shaping five words in capital
letters:

                             HERACLIUS
                            KING OF THE
                              ROMANS

   The spartan epigram touched Nikitas even more than the
thousands of Byzantine icons had. He was startled by the surprising
depth of his feelings and wondered at the invisible bridge he had
crossed these past weeks. It was a momentous crossing, which had
more than once opened up for him vistas of previously inaccessible
emotional resources.
   All of his familiar unanswered questions perched again fleetingly
in his thoughts as those few words, Heraclius, King of the Romans,
after more than thirteen hundred years had found another human
being to breathe life into them, raising them up from the nether-
world of the inanimate symbols.
   Could it be, Nikitas asked himself, that the far past still existed
tightly coiled within us, hibernating, waiting for the proper signal to
wake up and penetrate our life? 
   Although not a new thought, the mere concept of it excited him
immensely. If true, it offered infinite possibilities for personal explo-
ration and if not... well, it simply meant that he was experiencing
the effects of an intoxicating cup of wishful thinking, seasoned with
a few drops of sweet nostalgia. In other words, he was just strongly
reacting toward Heraclius's impressive historical figure.
Nikitas was aware that his involvement in the matter of the
Byzantine manuscript had not left unaffected his psyche, but he
understood that on an intellectual level. However, finding himself
staring at a piece of ancient wall that could be blocking the entrance
to Heraclius's most intimate secrets, he felt a sudden urge to drop
down to his knees in honor of that glorious figure.
   "I think we've come to the end of the road," he finally said
addressing his companions, who were standing quietly beside him.
   "No, Nikitas, not yet!" Father Gregorios said gently. "We need to
take the final step."
   Nikitas understood him well but was reluctant to follow his
suggestion. "But this means we'll have to break down the wall," he
pointed out.
   Father Gregorios was aware that in his nephew's mind the act of
tearing down the wall was imbued with overtones of despoilment, if
not outright sacrilege. Anastasia might also have her own objections
based on archaeological grounds, though they would be of a more
practical nature. Still, Father Gregorios was totally convinced that
any hesitation now was reeking of sterile sentimentalism.
   "We must," he simply said.
Nikitas shrugged, mentally washing his hands. With those two
words his uncle had taken responsibility for his choice, and he
implicitly trusted the purity of his motives.
   Focusing his attention on the short length of wall blocking their
way to catharsis, he examined carefully its craftsmanship, drawing
on his professional expertise.
   "To break it down the right way we need a percussive drill," he
declared. "We've got a battery-operating one up in the church. I'll go
with Yiannis to get it."
   "All right. How long do you think it's going to take you?"
   "If we hurry we'll be back in twenty minutes. In the meantime,
you stay here and have a nice rest."


Chapter 28
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Kabasakal Jadesi
           July 30


The police cars sped frantically through Constantinople's
deserted streets, the wailing of their sirens failing to reach other
ears than those of their occupants. In the leading car Colonel Sabri
was seated next to the driver, relishing his cigarette as he absent-
mindedly watched the windscreen wipers laboring back and forth,
barely holding their ground against the pounding rain.
However, despite his relaxed attitude his mind was occupied by
more pressing matters.
   As soon as he had realized that Aghia Sophia was the target of the
Greeks, he had ordered his adjutant to mobilize the necessary force
police to cordon off the museum in a radius of two hundred yards.
Next he had dealt with the operational details and now, a quarter of
an hour later, he was heading there with a force of ten squad cars,
fervently hoping the Greeks would still be there with whatever it
was they had come to take away.
   The radio receiver screeched and a Headquarters operator
announced gruffly the arrival of the first police unit in Aghia Sophia
and the discovery of a man-sized hole in the surrounding chain-link
fence. The hole was made by a cutting tool, and there were tracks all
around of several adults who had entered through the opening.
   Sabri heard dispassionately the news confirming his theory. He
picked up the microphone and ordered not to make any move before
he arrived there. He also instructed the dispatcher to contact the
technical department and ask them to turn the night into day
throughout the Aghia Sophia area. The Greeks would have no
opportunity to sneak out under cover of darkness.
   He returned the microphone to its hook and sat back, slipping
easily back into his relaxed mood. There were some noises from
Abdullah as he clumsily attempted to start a conversation but he
ignored them, and they soon died away. Sabri closed his eyes,
already tasting the excitement of the hunt.
   The blessed hour of action was approaching fast.

                                ***

Sabri raised his hand and the elite troopers of the police raid unit
quietly followed him. He clambered through the hole in the fence
and headed crouching toward the church. Though aware of the
futility of his precautions, since the heavy rain was providing
adequate cover anyway, the psychological need for them was so
deeply ingrained in Sabri, he just could not shake them off.
   He noticed the half-opened door of the supervisor's cabin and
approached it carefully as his men dispersed. Then he spotted the
telephone wire trailing out of the shed. Not bothering with the cabin
he picked it up, and followed it toward the church's southern wall.
When he reached the gate in the southern wall of Aghia Sophia he
stood absolutely still as he listened to the sounds of the courtyard
for several minutes. There was only the falling rain. Still, patience
was his way. Satisfied at last that no man-made sound was coming
from the church, he threw the door wide open and burst in with his
flashlight turned off and his gun at the ready.
   Although the interior was completely black, Sabri did not grope
in the dark. He ran confidently to take cover behind an even darker
mass which should be the nearest pillar, according to the detailed
floor plan he had briefly studied at the Operations Center.
Once safely there, he paused to take stock of his surroundings.
He was still alone, as the rest of his unit was waiting outside for his
order to break in. There was a solid block of light entering the
church from the brightly-lit courtyard through the opened door. It
was more than enough for him to take the measure of its interior.
   Convinced that the Greeks were not hiding anywhere near, Sabri
completed what proved to be an one-man operation and walked out
to the courtyard. He ordered the commander of the raid team to
secure Aghia Sophia, then went back again and threw up the master
switch in the electricity fuse-panel.
   Although a preliminary search of the interior area confirmed his
initial assessment, the troopers dispersed strategically following
standard procedure. The colonel continued his own inspection and
soon located several crates of equipment which could not belong to
the renovation project. He asked for an assistant and with his help
opened them one by one.
   One of the crates had been dispatched directly from the United
States. It had the logo of the MIT printed on its four sides, along
with a brief description of its contents:

                   PROTOTYPE SEISMOGRAPH No F-02-4
                MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY
                 DEPT. OF SEISM. OBSERV. & RESEARCH

   Sabri whistled appreciatively. This box contained nothing less
than a one-of-its-kind seismograph freshly out of an MIT lab! With
a lightning realization he fit the last piece of the puzzle, solving at
last the mystery torturing his mind since the folder from Cairo had
arrived to his office.
   The Greeks had broken into the museum to search for an under-
ground crypt-and they had probably found it!
   Yes, his conclusion was logical and totally compatible with the
otherwise inexplicable fact of their disappearance. Here was the
explanation, of how the Greeks had performed their vanishing act;
they simply had never left the grounds of Aghia Sophia.
   He tapped the stone floor with his heel as if he wished to auscul-
tate the church's foundations. He could almost see the Greeks
crawling down there... Well, they would come back in their own
good time, but come back they would, because they would never
leave without those unique instruments.
The Greeks would play their part and do his job for him, so he
only had to wait for them to show up.
   That was all fine and well, Sabri thought after the first rush of
excitement had passed, but he should not overlook the possibility
that his own people could succeed in locating the opening through
which the Greeks had gained access to the crypt.
   If he could find it, it would speed things up. He called his
adjutant and gave the necessary orders for the initiation of two
thorough searches, one for the underground entrance and another
for the car the Greeks had used for the transportation of their equip-
ment from the Kardak to Aghia Sophia.
   When the police officer had left to relay his orders, Sabri took out
his cell phone and dialed the home number of the dean of the
University of Constantinople, with whom he had a long-standing
friendship.
   His academic help in this matter would be welcome.


Chapter 29
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Aghia Sophia's Crypt
           July 30


What saved Nikitas was a simple omission of the raid unit's
commanding officer: he had not thought it relevant to ask the
searching party to go quietly about its work.
   Still, he could hardly be blamed for his mistake; he and his men
were trained to fight, not to conduct searches. After the first
moments of tension during the raid in Aghia Sophia the troopers
had relaxed, so it was only natural that during the next fifteen
minutes the search for a hidden trapdoor degenerated into high-
spirited jesting and banter.
   A man was laughing and yelling at a fellow officer to come and
take a look at a certain item of personal hygiene he had discovered
in a trash heap by the northern aisle when Nikitas climbed the last
step of the spiraling stairway, with Makridis following a couple of
paces behind. Only a single breath separated him from pushing the
imperial gate open.
   The unintelligible exclamation in Turkish coming from a few
yards away was a colossal shock. His rising hand froze, his heartbeat
virtually stopped. Thinking that he was only seconds away from
their discovery and arrest he stayed nailed on the spot, dreading the
horrible moment of exposure... when the door would be flung wide
open and he would be pinned down by the riveting brightness of a
police flashlight.
   He could not think any further than that.
   Yiannis had also heard the trooper and stood motionless three
steps behind Nikitas, fearing the worst.
   Time dilated as the seconds kept ticking slowly, agoniz-
ingly so, and still the door did not open.
   At last, when several minutes had passed, Nikitas accepted the
fact that for some unfathomable reason they were reprieved. He
allowed himself the luxury of once again naturally breathing, before
he whispered to Makridis his burning question: what had the
Turkish phrase meant? Yiannis told him, but his answer confused
Nikitas even more.
   What was going on here?
   That the unthinkable had happened and Aghia Sophia swarmed
with Turkish policemen, there was no doubt of that. However, since
the crypt's entrance had not been discovered he supposed that the
Turk's shouting concerned something else-maybe the rectangular
piece of paneling they had placed against the wall.
   So, luck was favoring them and they had gained a little time, but
what good was it? They were still free, but now the catacombs were
transformed into an extended prison. Like mice caught in a maze,
their discovery was only a matter of time. Because how long could
they last without food and water?
   He touched Yiannis on the shoulder and they both went down
the stairway. At the antechamber they paused. Nikitas wiped off the
sweat from his face and closed his eyes, as he tried to calm down the
violent beating of his heart, while Yiannis squatted on the floor and
waited for him to sort things out.
   Nikitas's whirling thoughts slowly coalesced into a few  
overwhelming questions. What, for God's sake, had happened and
suddenly their very freedom was at stake? Was it possible that this
was to be his fate, to rot in an unspeakable Turkish jail? To see every-
thing dear to him come to an abrupt end, as he became violently
uprooted from all the things giving meaning and purpose to his life?
And another thing, too: did this mean their mission was nothing
more than a tragic mistake?
   He was drowned by an avalanche of questions posing implacable
Dilemmas, uncertain how he would have resolved them, had he known beforehands
where the events would have led them.
   Perhaps he would have decided not to come.
   But then again, he might not. He felt that despite their desperate
situation his determination had not yet abandoned him.
   No, Nikitas thought. Their mission was right and their amazing discoveries
in the catacombs proved it. Man-made law might still deal harshly with them, and
they were risking nothing less than their freedom, possibly even their lives,
yet he was certain that History granted them license to claim back after five
hundred years what was due to their people.
   It was called natural law, and no one would deny them their rights.
   So, what now? Should he stand back and let the events take the
lead in his life? He knew, though, that such a choice ran contrary to his
inner core, so he really had only one option: to keep drinking from the well of
freedom until he sucked it dry.
   Thinking about a solution, it suddenly dawned to Nikitas that the
catacomb builders would have probably provided for such an
emergency, as he now faced.
   He needed time to pursue this reasoning further.
   Then his flashlight dimmed. The batteries were running low.
He snapped out of his reverie and looked down at Yiannis,
recognizing in his eyes a reflection of his own feelings, a mixture of
anguish and of uncertainty together with a generous dose of steady
resolve.
   "Let's go back to my uncle and Anastasia, and... don't worry,
Yiannis," he said encouragingly. "We'll make it. Believe me,
somehow we'll make it. We've seen that the crypts were designed not
only to hide but also to protect. I'm sure we'll find our way out."

                                ***

In the underground atrium Nikitas quickly briefed them all on the
threat from above and shared his views about their chances of
escape. Anastasia turned pale, but Father Gregorios did not allow
their morale to plummet; he stepped in and with his characteristic
sobriety gave the proper tone.
   "Let us be calm and let us act," he said, but his reserved state-
ment made all the difference in the world. The atmosphere immedi-
ately relaxed.
   On their way back to the atrium Nikitas had stopped briefly at
the pile of the leftover building materials in the rotunda and had
taken with him an iron hammer, which might prove useful in
breaking down the wall of the imperial chamber. Its rotten wooden
handle was unusable and he threw it away, but the solid block of
iron was capable of handling the job. He hefted it and began
pounding the wall, cracking little holes in it. Yiannis then enlarged
them with the help of a few sharp stones he had collected from the
heap.
   Soon they had created an irregular gap in the wall. When they
were satisfied that it was large enough they took a few moments off
to catch their breath and then passed unceremoniously through the
hole into the sealed chamber. Father Gregorios and Anastasia came
right behind them.
   Their flashlights revealed a spacious square chamber, far larger
than they had expected, since the sealing wall was only a section of
its one side.
   At the far end of the room rose the imposing bulk of a tomb
covered in white marble paneling, probably encasing the emperor's
remains. On its upper side stood an unpretentious wooden cross.
Moreover, no intricate carving nor flattering epigram graced the
roughly hewn marble, which gave the overall impression that it was
hastily prepared. Anastasia approached the tomb for a closer inspection,
while the others wandered about the rest of the place.
   Nikitas soon realized that the chamber could not have been built
as a sanctuary for the emperor's body after his death. All the signs
pointed to the fact that someone had actually lived there,
using the room as his workplace or as a retreat.
   The whole length of the southern wall was covered by tiers of
wooden shelves containing innumerable pigeonholes for rolls of
papyri and parchment codices. Hundreds of them were occupied,
with little dangling tags denoting the contents of the rolls.
   Father Gregorios put on his glasses and began reading them out
loud. He recited world-renowned names, among them of Aristotle,
Herodotus, Thucydides, and of many others, along with the titles of
lost literary works written by ancient and Byzantine Greek authors.
Rare writings of ecclesiastical literature were there, too.
   The central part of the chamber was occupied by a massive oaken  
desk. Simple in its craftsmanship, without drawers or any other
ornamentation, it had obviously served as the imperial desk
whenever the emperor had thought it necessary to work in his secret
office. Only a thin layer of dust was covering its smooth surface
despite the passage of thirteen hundred years.
   Nikitas was intrigued by the seventh-century writing tools
scattered on its top. The sight of the well-preserved, homely room
fired his imagination with vivid images of a tired, deeply disap-
pointed man, striving to fend-off a lethal threat he had unwittingly
created. Throughout his life Heraclius fought enemies to no end.
What thoughts would have crossed his mind, Nikitas wondered,
during the last days of his reign?
   He walked behind the plain desk with a feeling of reverence he
had rarely felt before. The ancient writing tools fascinated him and
he leaned over for a closer look. A thick book lay open upon the
desktop. It was a codex of the Gospels. As Nikitas skimmed through
the page, his eyes caught a phrase written in Greek:

          Nen e psyche mou tetaraktai, kai ti eipo? Pater, soson me ek tes
          oras tautes? Alla thia touto elthon eis ten oran tauten...

          Now is my soul troubled; and what shall I say? Father, save
          me from this hour: but for this cause came I unto this hour.

   He let the beam glide over the rest of the page, but stopped when
he noticed several roundish stains of dissolved ink clustered
together. He had difficulty in breathing as he stood staring at them.
They were resembling-could it really be?-drops of... tears?
   Was he actually witnessing the ethereal vestiges of the tears shed
by the anguished emperor in his final days as he read the Gospels,
brooding over the uncertain future of his beloved empire?
   Shaking with emotion Nikitas stepped back and managed to take
a deep breath. No one had noticed his inner turmoil, and he was
thankful for that. He felt as if an incomprehensible connection had
been momentarily established with the far past, offering him a
glimpse into the heart of a man now thirteen centuries dead. It was
not a feeling anyone else was likely to understand and he decided to
keep it to himself.
   No, he mentally amended, he would respect the emperor's privacy,
too.
   With an abrupt motion he closed the book and walked away. To
distance himself from the desk, both physically and psychologically,
he approached the wall opposite to the library shelves. A low, rectan-
gular bench was running along its length, brimming with a multi-
tude of strange implements, vessels, and other tools made up mostly
of glass and clay, although among them were interspersed a few
made of bronze. Nikitas thought they resembled chemistry equip-
ment and asked Anastasia to come and take a look.
   She glanced at the bench and confirmed Nikitas's guess, saying
that the existence of those instruments was corroborating what the
scant Byzantine sources of that period asserted regarding Heraclius's
pioneer scientific activities.
   "Emperor Heraclius was well-known for his love of true scientific
research, a fact that set him apart from the average Byzantine intel-
lectual who preferred the theoretical studies and philosophical
speculation to practical experimentation," Anastasia explained. She
looked down at the hundreds of objects crowding the bench.
   "The emperor not only was an ardent supporter of learning and
the arts," she continued, "he was also the only Byzantine emperor to
be personally involved in experimental-in this case chemical-
research. He was experimenting continuously, at least when he
wasn't campaigning, and was the author of several scientific books
now lost forever. For example, the chroniclers of the time mention
the Syntagma Irakliou Tou Vassileos Ek Tis Astroas Kiniseos, a treatise
concerning the movements of the planets, the Irakliou Avtokratoros
Peri Chimias, dealing with chemistry, and the II Kefalaia Peri
Chrysopoiias, about the chemical properties of gold."
   "I'd bet copies of them won't be far away from here," Nikitas said
pointing at the well-stocked library.
   "If this was Heraclius's private chamber," Father Gregorios spoke
up from the shelves, "we should also find here his personal collec-
tion of important state documents."
   "What I can't quite understand is the complete lack of prepara-
tion for his entombment. It's as if it was carried out furtively and in
a great hurry," Nikitas observed.
   "Well, something like that must have happened immediately
after his death, in view of the royal infighting for the succession to
the throne," Anastasia said. "When we leave here I'll explain it to
you in detail."
   "Aha! That's what I was searching for!" Father Gregorios
suddenly exclaimed. He had pulled out from under a shelf an
ancient looking box with a bronze cover and was gazing happily at
its contents, the dozens of yellowish cylinders neatly stacked inside.
Each one tapered off to a short conical projection.
   As the others crowded around him to see the discovery that had
sparked his enthusiasm, Father Gregorios picked up one of the
cylinders and turned it searchingly in his fingers. He opened the
conical cover and peered inside, then closed it again and put it back
in the box. He did the same with several more cylinders, while his
companions were wondering what he was seeking.
   "What are you looking for, uncle?" Nikitas finally asked.
   "Father Gregorios has discovered the box where the emperor
kept the most important and most secret documents of the empire,"
Anastasia answered in his stead.
   "But how can we be sure of that?" Makridis asked.
   "Well, it's a matter of deductive reasoning," Anastasia continued.
   "From what I've seen these wooden cylinders have a thin coating of
pure gold, both in their inner and outer surfaces, to insulate their
contents against all kinds of environmental hazards including the
simple passage of time. Naturally, this treatment was accorded only
to the documents of the utmost importance-like, for example, the
treaties with important nations.
   "For my part, I wouldn't be surprised if we found here the
original of the celebrated Perpetual Peace Treaty which was signed
between Heraclius and Siroes, the king of Persia. I guess that for
present-day historians these cylinders are the equivalent of sealed
bottles reaching them across the oceans of time."
   "Oh yes, Anastasia is right. However, we came here to find this!"
Father Gregorios triumphantly exclaimed, waving like a banner the
golden cylinder he had singled out.
   He smiled at the way they stood looking at him and with a
magician's flourish he tried to prize it open. The cover, however, did
not budge. The cylinder was hermetically sealed. He gazed at it
longingly for several seconds, then turned to Nikitas and placed it
softly in his hands.
   "This is the end of our road, my son," he announced contentedly.
Nikitas held the cylinder like a newborn baby. Even with its
golden plating it still felt feather-light. Along its length there was a
short inscription in calligraphic lettering:

                         MODESTINUS'S RESPONSE



Chapter 30
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Church of Aghia Sophia
           July 30


The Turkish police officer greeted politely Professor Tugrul Sabah
and showed him the way to the colonel's makeshift office-
actually a battered desk and a couple of chairs-within the church
of Aghia Sophia.
   The archaeologist was the dean's choice, when Sabri had asked
him for a knowledgeable and reliable byzantinologist. He was fifty-
four, with a pencil mustache and a pair of myopic glasses resting
upon his sharp nose. His hair was thinning at the top but he looked
younger than the man in the picture Sabri was holding in his hand.
   The colonel had thoroughly studied all the available public
details of the professor's life while waiting for him, along with the
private information included in his MIT file, and was now ready to
argue his case in a way consonant with the professor's temperament
and set of moral values.
   Until a few months ago Professor Sabah had been the General
Superintendent of Aghia Sophia, but had resigned his post immedi-
ately after the decision for its conversion to a mosque was
announced. His widely known expertise had easily secured him the
directorship of the Turkish Administration of Byzantine
Monuments, even as he was being flooded by tempting offers from
several foreign universities.
   Sabri's first impression of the professor, however, was indicative
of his own interests and could be summarized in one word: accom-
modating. The characterization was also supported by certain
incidents mentioned in his file.
   Aghia Sophia was enveloped in silence. After almost an hour of
the noisy and unprofitable moving back and forth of the troopers,
Sabri was finally fed up and had ordered them to quit. Most of them
were now lounging near the southern door, while others were
guarding several strategic points inside the church.
Sabri introduced himself to Sabah and cut right into the subject.
   "Thank you for coming here so promptly, professor," he began.
   "What we will discuss here tonight, of course, is a state secret and as
such must be treated by you. You're an employee of the government,
so there's no need for me to elaborate further on this," Sabri said.
Sabah acknowledged his point with a nod.
   "To make a long story short, professor, a small group of Greek
smugglers of antiquities discovered an underground crypt
somewhere within Aghia Sophia," Sabri continued carefully
monitoring his guest's facial expression. He did not fail to notice the
visible widening of Sabah's pupils.
   Aha! Sabri mentally noted. Aghia Sophia still holds the good
professor in her thrall.
   This was good because it expanded the limits of his manipulative
tactics. However, since Sabah was remaining silent, he had to take
the next step himself.
   "I'd appreciate your comment on that," the colonel said.
Professor Sabah lifted a couple of inches his stooping shoulders.
   "Well, it comes as no surprise to me, colonel-this is something we
ourselves could have accomplished a long time ago," he replied
straightening up his glasses. "Last year I had personally submitted to
the National Antiquities Administration a detailed proposal, asking
permission for specific archaeological activities in Aghia Sophia.
Unfortunately, my application was rejected without any explana-
tion."
   Sabri was well aware of the reasons Sabah's proposal was turned
down, and not only because he had studied his file. Any initiative
that even slightly touched upon the affairs of Greece went through
a veritable tug-of-war between all the co-competent and competing
government agencies before receiving authorization.
Naturally, one of those agencies was the DGA-2/MIT.
   "Ah, professor, what a shame! I had no idea," Sabri answered
hypocritically. "So, you consider it probable that one or more secret
underground rooms may exist in this building?"
   "I do and I always did. As a matter of fact, I've written a paper to
that effect that was published in a well-known archaeological
review."
   "I see. Well, since recent events seem to validate your scholarly
views I'm needing your help, professor, to locate that entrance."
   "You mean, the Greeks refuse to reveal it?"
   "It's nothing like that," Sabri laughed. "If they'd honored us with
their presence, things would have been significantly simpler.
Unfortunately they're still missing. But, all indications point to the
fact that they're still inside the crypt, and I hope they'll not have us
wait for long," Sabri added with a cold smile.
   Professor Sabah gave no sign that he appreciated the colonel's
humor. He stood up, looking thoughtfully around the place that had
been his second home for many years. Despite the lateness of the
hour his mind was crystal clear. Every Friday he usually stayed in
his office well into the night reviewing the pending administrative
affairs. As a matter of fact, he was leaving for home when Sabri had
called to invite him here.
   "If they had no accomplice from the outside, it will not be diffi-
cult for me to discover the crypt's entrance," he said turning toward
Sabri. "Because they would be unable to eradicate all traces of their
entry."
   Sabri nodded his agreement. He had thought of that himself, but
he lacked the expertise to recognize and interpret those traces. This
was the reason he had called the dean of the University of
Constantinople.
   Misinterpreting Sabri's lack of response as hesitation, Sabah
added hastily, "I know this place better than my own home, colonel.
Give me an hour, and I assure you that if a door was opened here
tonight, I'll point it out to you."


Chapter 31
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Crypt of Emperor Heraclius
           July 30


Father Gregorios slipped the golden cylinder in a pocket of his
cassock and walked out of Heraclius's chamber. He stood still for
a few moments in front of the broken wall, whispering a blessing for
the first truly Greek emperor of Byzantium. He ended his prayer
with the sign of the cross and followed the others.
   They had discussed it briefly and had unanimously decided not
to open the cylinder before they returned to a safe place. Anastasia
had gone a step further, arguing that they should wait until they
were back in Athens where they would be able to utilize the univer-
sity's specialized archaeological facilities. She had insisted that this
was the only way they would not place at risk its valuable contents.
Although by then Nikitas's curiosity had peaked, he agreed,
convinced of the wisdom in her words.
   And Father Gregorios had taken it upon him to protect the
cylinder until that time.
   When the excitement of their great discovery had settled down
their fears and uncertainties for their future returned stronger than
ever. The achievement of their mission had offered them emotional
release, but at the same time had deprived them of their lust for the
hunt. There was nothing to be gained now while there was every-
thing to be lost. Subdued by their diminished prospects they
gathered quietly together, wrapped up in the enigmatic shadows of
that long-forgotten dream, the Grand Byzantine Palace.
   This night the emperor's trusted guard would not be stepping
forward to defend them.
   On his way back to the imperial chamber Nikitas had considered
the matter of finding another exit, and was convinced that the
catacomb builders would have provided not one, but several
escaping routes. His conclusion offered a glimmer of hope, and as
the four of crowded together in the atrium uncertain of their next
move, Nikitas outlined his reasoning.
   "Let's leave aside for the moment the interest of the emperors
themselves for a secret exit," Nikitas began. "We all saw how the
monastery in the rotunda was established to provide shelter for
hundreds of monks facing the persecution of an inimical religious
regime. I consider it self-evident that they would have taken some
measures against the possibility of their being discovered and, of
course, their secret exits would not have led either to Aghia Sophia
or to the palace," he concluded.
   "After what I saw here tonight I don't doubt it for a moment that
the emperors and the other high officials of Byzantium would have
taken similar precautions, too," Yiannis commented.
   "And what if in the intervening time those exits were built over?"
Anastasia asked. "Isn't it reasonable that after thirteen hundred
years, areas that once were free should be covered with buildings?
There's a whole city up there, you know."
   "In that case, Anastasia, we'll just keep looking until we come
across a free exit," Nikitas replied tersely. This was not the proper
time for pessimism or a defeatist attitude. He opened the computer
case and placed the machine on his lap, then turned it on and
retrieved the two maps of Constantinople.
   "I got good news for you," he said after a while. "By superim-
posing the modern map of Constantinople upon the medieval one, I
can see that there are still wide areas near Aghia Sophia which are
either city parks or simply undeveloped lots. Let's hope we'll get
lucky and find a suitable exit." Leaving the matter at that he closed
the notebook and rose to his feet.
   Seeing that from each side of the atrium started a separate
corridor they decided to examine them all in turn, until they found
the one leading to freedom. They entered the one heading to a
southwesterly direction but before long they realized that an exhaus-
tive search strategy was impossible; the corridor they were following
forked again and again into secondary tunnels, which under the
dimmed light of Nikitas's flashlight were looming like horizontal
abysmal wells.
   "I'm afraid that instead of heading toward an exit we risk getting
lost for good," Anastasia complained after a while. "Maybe we
should go back to our starting point before it's too late."
   Her warning was alarming: if they got lost in the labyrinthine
catacombs, escaping the Turkish police forces would be the least of
their concerns.
   For Nikitas, however, going back and willingly surrendering his
freedom-whatever portion was left of it-was an unthinkable act
and he supposed his uncle and Yiannis were of the same mind.
Especially Yiannis, who as a resident of Constantinople and a Greek
possessed some first hand knowledge of the Turkish police methods.
   "Let's try something else. If we consistently begin choosing the
forks with the same orientation, say the left-hand ones, we won't get
lost," he proposed, scrapping the scheme for a systematic explo-
ration of the tunnels.
   For the next half-hour they walked in heavy silence, pausing
only once to change the batteries of their flashlights. They needed to
be replaced, because when Nikitas's battery had died he had used the
other flashlights in turn. However, those packs were the last. They
all understood now that the hourglass was tipped over and, with the
exception of Father Gregorios, no one dared to contemplate what
could be waiting for them at the end of the road.
   Contrary to the conditions they had faced thus far the atmos-
phere gradually turned humid, but they failed to take notice of it
until Anastasia slipped at something slick and wet, inwardly
shuddering at the thought of what she might have stepped onto.
   It was only a small puddle of water, though. When Nikitas heard
the sounds of splashing he immediately retraced his steps to check
it out. Focusing his flashlight where Anastasia was pointing with an
expression of loathing in her face, he saw a narrow rivulet flowing
in from another tunnel.
   "We'll follow it," he said firmly.
   "But if we abandon our rule for the forks we'll become irretriev-
ably lost, Nikitas!" Anastasia protested. "This runnel may have run
for hundreds of yards before reaching this junction."
   "You're right, but I still think this is our best chance of finding
the exit we seek," Nikitas replied in a steady tone. "Have you
forgotten, Anastasia, the weather outside Aghia Sophia when we
entered the crypts? Up there it's still raining heavily. Now, if we're
lucky following this runnel will get us closer to the surface."
   By now they were ready to pick at any straws of hope coming
their way, so they decided to follow Nikitas's advice and started back
following the trickling water. Their morale took another boost when
they discovered that the ground was gradually sloping upwards,
supporting Nikitas's theory. They went past several other forking
tunnels before reaching the end of the rivulet or, more precisely, its
source.
   They had entered a cavity which had the appearance of a natural
formation. Even the brickwork walls which were the hallmark of the
tunnels had given way to packed dirt. They took a few steps into the
cave and almost stumbled upon a narrow granite stairway, leading
up to a wider landing six feet high from the floor.
There the stairs mysteriously stopped.
   "What's the meaning of this?" Yiannis exclaimed. "It's a blind
stairway-it's leading nowhere!"
   Nikitas, however, understood. He shook his head disappointed,
and climbed up the wet, slippery stairs all the way to the top,
maintaining precariously his balance. Once there he directed his
flashlight just over his head and nodded to himself when he saw the
dangling mass of tree roots protruding from the ceiling.
   "Yes, we've found an exit all right, but it's already been used," he
sighed, making no effort to disguise his bitterness. From his vantage
point the ceiling loomed tantalizingly near; actually, it was more
than ten feet away.
   "What do you mean, Nikitas?" Father Gregorios asked.
   "In my opinion, when this stairway was built only a couple of
feet would have separated it from the ceiling," Nikitas explained.
   "Whoever needed to use it would only have to dig a hole through a
foot or two of dirt, before breaking out onto the surface. And this is
what happened sometime in the past, then, after the exit was used
the ground stabilized on a higher level for some reason or other."
He pointed with his flashlight at the tangled mass of the roots.
   "Up there a bush or a tree is growing now, probably in one of
Aghia Sophia's public parks."
   "And we're just standing here with our freedom staring at us, and
can't do a damned thing about it," Anastasia exclaimed in frustra-
tion.
   "It's too high-we can't reach it," Nikitas agreed.
   "I don't see any clumps of earth littering the place," Yiannis
observed.
The ground around the stairway was packed flat, clean.
   "Yiannis, listen: more than a thousand years have passed since
that time," Nikitas said as he climbed down the stairs. "Anything
could have happened during that time. Anything. Perhaps those
who stayed behind sealed back the exit to keep the secret. Or, the
pluvial waters washed the cave clean. We'll never know what really
happened."
   At a sudden inspiration he took out his cell phone from its plastic
case attached to his belt. First he dialed the Patriarchate's number
and then 115, the cell phone company's operator in Constantinople.
Nothing on both counts. Even so near to the surface he could not
establish a connection with the cell phone network.
   They left the place disheartened. They were hopelessly lost in the
vastness of the subterranean labyrinth and their rescue would be
purely a matter of luck.
   And yet, no one had the courage to voice this terrible truth.


Chapter 32
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Church of Aghia Sophia
           July 30


   "This is the entrance to the underground crypt," Professor
Sabah said to Sabri. He was pointing at the closed door set
into the hollow column.
   "Thank you, professor. You lived up to my expectations," the
colonel replied in a vaguely ironical tone.
   Sabah had picked the end of the thread when he came across the
rectangular piece of paneling left by Nikitas against the north wall.
With his intimate knowledge of the church it had taken him only a
few minutes to trace its origin and thus the hidden door.
   Watching now closely the colonel for his reaction, Sabah saw him
remain motionless for several moments, as he stared at the closed
door.
Well, this could be the proper time to learn something more
about those smugglers, thought the professor.
   "Is your agency cooperating with the Greek authorities in this
case?" he asked.
   Sabri instantly snapped out of his reverie. "As I've told you,
professor, this is a developing case and a highly secret at that. We'll
see how things turn out, and then we'll take proper action," he
replied noncommittally.
   "It's inconceivable that the archaeological treasures buried within
Aghia Sophia's crypts should fall prey to common smugglers," Sabah
commented. "It's enough that not a few times they take the lead in
new archaeological frontiers," he added.
   "Do I detect a certain sympathy for the smugglers, perhaps due
to your common scholarly interests?" Sabri asked him sarcastically.
   Professor Sabah shrugged. "None whatsoever. Throughout my
life I have consistently opposed all forms of wrongdoing and I
believe, Colonel Sabri, that my impeccable conduct thus far gives
me the right to criticize anything I see fit. Besides, sometimes our
penal laws tend to exaggerate for reasons of political expediency."
   "And what might this mean?"
   "We're all aware, colonel, of the fact that never a day passes
without a terrible criminal act or other perpetrated in our country.
However, by and large these acts do not attract media attention in
proportion to their seriousness, nor are they publicly castigated as
they deserve," Professor Sabah continued warming to his subject.
   "For example, have you ever heard the label enemies of the State
assigned to gangs of rapists, or of kidnappers, or to the common
killers that infest our country? I should think not. Have we
regressed then to the point of treasuring property-ancient artifacts
included-higher than life and human dignity?"
   "To answer your barrage of questions with a question of mine,
professor," Sabri replied suavely, "aren't you afraid that these views
of yours might be misinterpreted under certain circumstances?"
   Sabah removed his glasses and looked Sabri unwaveringly in the
eye. "I am perfectly aware, sir, with whom I'm having this discus-
sion," he said slowly. "And my answer is an emphatic no! I fear
nothing in this regard-not when those views are the views of a man
who has rejected numerous offers for highly prestigious positions
abroad, so that first he would not leave his country, and second he
would not embarrass himself by handling exhibits obtained by
stealth. Yes, Colonel, there are stolen antiquities on display in
respectable museums worldwide."
   By now Sabri was barely holding back his anger, unaccustomed to
being lectured to. It was time he put an end to this theoretical
discussion that was leading them nowhere. He turned about,
motioned the archaeologist to accompany him, and headed back to
his desk. While the professor expounded his subversive theories, he
had settled on a strategy; he would allow another half-hour for the
Greeks to show up, and then he would act.
   "What would you say, professor, if I officially recommended you
to undertake the exploration of Aghia Sophia's crypts?" he asked
Professor Sabah when he had sat down at his desk.


Chapter 33
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Aghia Sophia's Catacombs
           July 30


As their aimless wandering continued the shafts and the tunnels
seemed to proliferate. Had they come full turn around or
entered a separate part of the subterranean complex? They had no
way to answer that. The long hours of roaming through the tunnels
had taken their toll on them but Nikitas was worrying more about
his uncle, even as he marveled at his endurance. He had yet to hear
a sigh of tiredness from his lips.
   If the forced march had drained their physical resources, the
relentless, abysmal blackness of the tunnels had depleted their
psychological reserves. A minor nuisance at first, the prevailing
darkness had gradually been transformed into their biggest enemy
because the moment their flashlights failed, that moment their
hearts would effectively stop beating.
Without light they would stay forever in the labyrinth they had
entered to conquer.
   Their brisk pace eventually degenerated into a pathetic shuffling
of the feet. Nikitas was still at the point, but try as he might he failed
to locate another runnel to follow.
   They were approaching a triple intersection when Nikitas
thought he heard a faint noise behind them. He paused and signaled
the others to remain silent. A few moments later they all could hear
the sounds clearly-unmistakable sounds of footsteps approaching
them from their right.
   So, the Turkish police had finally penetrated the catacombs and
somehow managed to follow their trail, Nikitas thought. Despite his
bitterness, for a split second he was relieved-yes, their enemy was
breathing down on their necks, but at least they would not waste
their lives marooned in the catacombs of Aghia Sophia...
   His relief vanished the next moment, as he remembered the price
they would have to pay for their salvation. This thought hardened
his resolve to proceed regardless of the consequences, but the final
choice could not be his alone. He covered the bright beam with his
palm and turned to his companions. A glance at their rigidly set
expressions, dramatically accented by the half-light, was enough for
Nikitas to recognize in them thoughts similar to his own. He nodded
gravely in mute recognition, now ready to come to grips with the
new threat.
   Seeing that the ground in the left-hand tunnel was gently sloping
downward, Nikitas decided to follow the middle one to avoid
descending to a lower level. He mustered his remaining strength and
set off at a lively pace, while the rest of the party followed as fast as
their legs could carry them.
Several minutes later they realized with both relief and despair
that the sound of the threatening footfalls had died away.
   At least the gradient of their tunnel was steadily rising. It was a
hopeful sign, though this fact by itself guaranteed nothing. At every
turn of the way they faced the possibility of reaching a dead end.
With his lips tightly pressed, almost holding his breath, Nikitas
feverishly prayed for their luck to keep.
   Glancing surreptitiously toward his companions he noticed that
they were walking stiffly, with their eyes fixed at some distant, invis-
ible point. Obviously, he was not the only to have rested his hopes
in God's hands.
   As always, Nikitas thought, his uncle presented a sharp contrast
with the rest of them, exhibiting inexhaustible physical and spiritual
reserves. His gait remained springy and his lips were always
hovering near the promise of a smile. How could he accomplish that
feat under these circumstances? Was it because of his unshakable
faith, or was he aware of something else which they ignored?
   Or, was it that his faith and knowledge were simply the two faces
of the same coin?
   They kept on shuffling along until the maze of the unending
tunnels became their nemesis, grimly bent on holding their bodies
and their souls in its eternal thrall. They had gone beyond despair,
as they apathetically moved their feet, when abruptly an obstruction
materialized before them out of the all-enfolding blackness.
   It was a simple wooden door with a spherical handle, which
appeared under Nikitas's dimmed flashlight so suddenly and so
unexpectedly, that he bumped upon it with a loud thump. His
friends, who had been drifting in the nebulous worlds of their
obscure thoughts and prayers, had no time to react and blindly fell
upon each other.
   This incident, which in any other setting would have been a
comic sight, now it sparked feelings of distress and confusion.
   Had they reached a dead end?
   The answer could spell out life or death for them. To spare his
friends the suspense of waiting to find out, Nikitas switched off his
flashlight and twisted the door's handle before they had a chance to
realize what was happening.
   The door opened quietly and revealed to his wondering eyes a
scene defying his reason. He shuddered, steadied himself with a  
deep breath, and stepped through.
   With this he shut off behind him the sterile world of the
catacombs and entered the vibrant world of light and motion.
   The world of Life.
   Before him Nikitas saw hundreds of candles burning in a variety
of receptacles, ranging from the thin solitary candlesticks to
ponderous candelabra and from the glittering sconces upon the
walls to the grand chandelier suspended from the central dome.
They were burning sweetly, quietly, pouring their tranquil light to
the farthest reaches of the orthogonal chamber, which could not be
anything else but a church.
   Nikitas felt a chilling shiver run the length of his spine as his
world violently restructured itself. Then everything for him became
natural again, only fresher, and he was purged from the painful
memories of his endless, anguished running through his under-
ground prison.
   Light, exhilarating Light!
   He stepped aside, looking around him. His companions had
followed him in and were ecstatically absorbing their surroundings.
Every square inch of the wall behind them, on either side of the
door, was painted with religious scenes from the New Testament,
closely resembling the iconostasis of a Christian chapel.
   If Nikitas's initial conception of this place as a chapel was true,
then the wooden door they had come through should be giving
access to its chancel; not to the tunnels. What was its real function
then?
   He surveyed the interior, looking for windows or other openings
in the walls. There was none in view. They were still completely
isolated from the outside world, whatever that might mean.
   His uncle was kneeling in front of the altar, whispering praise to
God for their timely deliverance. But had they been saved? Nikitas
wondered. Although their adventure was not yet over, he did not
feel alone or harassed any more. No doubt someone was tending this
chapel and they only had to find him, and let him know of their
predicament.
   He noticed that Anastasia and Yiannis were still feasting their
eyes on the exquisite sight of the pristine chapel, observing together
with him and his uncle the unspoken rule for silence.
   Five feet farther stood a delicately wrought iron railing which
separated them from the nave; and still further back the darker
outline of a double door, which occupied the largest part of the
opposite wall.
   The door was closed but it hardly mattered. Buoyed by their
miraculous reprieve they headed toward it in a light gait. Even so,
Nikitas mentally braced himself against any unpleasant surprises the
other side might be harboring before turning the bronze handle.
   After the brightness of the chapel he was confronted with an
undifferentiated black. He clicked on impatiently his flashlight and
took a few steps into the darkness, as he heard one of his friends pull
shut the chapel's door.
   They were at the end of a narrow corridor that stretched out for
at least fifteen yards, enclosed by high walls painted a faded ochre.
The bare wooden floor was impeccably polished, reflecting brightly
his flashlight's beam. Nikitas looked up and saw that the ceiling was
twenty feet high. That was too high for a conventional corridor. He
motioned his companions to follow and walked down its length, his
mind refusing even to speculate about its nature or purpose. He
simply accepted it at face value and hoped for the best.
   When they reached its end they found three more doors, one
straight ahead, the other two at either end of the lateral walls. They
were all closed.
   This pattern reminded Nikitas of the triadic branchings in the
underground tunnels and made him wonder whether the same rule
applied here. But why three and not four or more, or even less? Was
there a symbolic meaning attached to the rule?
   The pile of his unanswered questions was growing bigger by the
minute.
   Yiannis stepped forward and tried the doors. He discovered that
he could open only one of them, whereas the other two were either
locked or sealed. Obviously they were not meant to have any choice
in the matter. Conversely, they lacked the capability of getting lost
through ignorance.
   They stepped through the door to the next corridor and then to
the next one, and so on, each time coming upon one door that could
be opened. The layout was probably designed with the aim of
making them lose all sense of orientation, Nikitas thought. They had
already been through a horrible labyrinth, now they were making
their way through a second preconfigured maze, which was leading
them either to captivity, or to final freedom.
   And as before there was no one by their side to whisper
comforting words or issue a warning. The endlessly repeating corri-
dors remained devoid of sound, of light, of movement, of life. Once
again they became part of a monotonous, mechanical procession,
walking on and on, but without getting the satisfaction of actually
gaining ground. They lapsed into an existence of repetition, of lack
of thought. And again they were totally surprised when their
unexpected deliverance literally lashed their faces.
   Nikitas had just walked through another door, but instead of
stepping into a sterile corridor he was welcomed by a strong blast of
wind and the pouring rain. He was drenched to his bones in a matter
of seconds.
Wiping the water from his eyes he saw that he was standing on a
first-story roofless balcony facing a deserted interior courtyard.
   Celebrating his return to the upper world, he tilted his head to
the direction of the torrential rain and stood there with his eyes
closed, his arms outstretched, joyously greeting his freedom.
He was too absorbed to notice that his friends were also reacting
in a similar fashion.
   Eventually they sobered enough to take a look around them. To
their right a rickety old stairway led to the ground floor. Thinking it
the most beautiful sight of their lives, they trotted the way down and
followed a narrow flagstone path across the empty courtyard to a
low whitewashed door.
   Nikitas threw back the latch and stepped through into a dark,
deserted alleyway somewhere in the old part of Constantinople.

                                ***

They had to walk for ten minutes before Yiannis had got his
bearings. Behind them they had left a seemingly uninhabited two-
story decrepit building, not far from the railway leading to the
Jankurtan station. After a deliberately wide circle through
Constantinople's empty streets, they reached Tefikhane road, only a
block away from the alley where Makridis had parked their car.
   The storm was showing its firsts signs of slackening when they
turned around a corner and saw their van farther down across the
street. The traffic, of course, was nonexistent. They conferred briefly
and decided to cross the street at this point and approach their car
from the sidewalk. Thankfully, the city lighting had broken down
and the shuttered storefronts gave an air of abandonment to the
whole block.
   Yiannis reached the car first and quietly open the driver's door.
They had agreed that they would all sit on the front seat, to avoid
the noise of sliding open the side door. They had seen the floodlights
surrounding Aghia Sophia's courtyard and heard the ominous
sounds of police sirens fading in the distance.
   No one entertained any doubts as to the nature of their prey.
They slipped inside the car pressing close to each other. The
made themselves as comfortable as they could, and Yiannis turned
the starter with the headlights off.
   The sudden growl of the engine jolted the Turkish police officer
awake. He had been assigned watch duty for this street, considering
himself lucky because its deserted looks promised a minimum of
action. Soon he was dozing on and off sitting in an alcove, virtually
invisible to a casual onlooker on account of his immobility. When he
realized that a car was about to leave he jumped out of his hideaway,
shouting at the driver to wait for his inspection.
   Makridis was alarmed by the clamor, but did not lose his self-
possession. He floored the accelerator and the van shot forward.
Seeing his suspects making their escape, the policeman brought out
his pistol and started to shoot blindly in the dark, shakily aiming at
the receding vehicle.
   He did not stop them, but moments before the van disappeared
around the next corner he had the satisfaction of hearing a dry
cracking sound as its rear window broke into a thousand pieces, hit
by a lucky shot.

                                ***

Yiannis was well acquainted with the layout of the area and quickly
drove them away from the danger zone. They had to distance
themselves as fast as possible from the locality of Aghia Sophia, now
that their escape was a matter of public record. He fully expected the
entire police force to be thrown at their pursuit; he had seen it
happen several times in the past, but never from a fugitive's
viewpoint.
   However, driving aimlessly through the streets was not nearly
enough. They had to devise a plan, to decide on a destination. This
was a night with strange events popping up all the time, and Yiannis
realized with surprise that he had first met his companions only the
day before-hardly long enough for sharing with them a life-and-
death situation.
   And yet he felt as if he had known them for ages. Casting a
surreptitious glance to his right he decided that he did not regret a
single moment of the last twenty-four hours. All the same, he hoped
they had come to Constantinople prepared for their current predica-
ment and had a plan to fall back upon, because he surely had none.
   The same thought had crossed Nikitas's mind, as he reflected
how amateurishly they had undertaken such an adventurous
project. He believed the blame lay with himself; he should have
considered, even theoretically, the possibility of being discovered by
the Turkish authorities. Now that he had not come prepared he
would have to improvise.
   What more than anything else bothered Nikitas, however, was
how the police was alerted to their presence in Aghia Sophia. With
the heavy storm raging throughout the night he could discount the
possibility that they had been noticed by a passerby, and the same
applied to Aghia Sophia's aged watchman; from what Yiannis had
told them his real duties called for nothing more complicated than
turning back the occasional tourist approaching his kiosk in the
futile hope that a small bribe would open up Aghia Sophia for him.
   Therefore, there was only one possible explanation for their
discovery, and this Nikitas did not like at all. Not only because of
betrayal's bitter taste but also due to its cascading results, starting
with the fact that by now the Turkish authorities would have
prepared complete files on him and his companions. This compli-
cated to a large degree their departure from the country or even
made it impossible.
   After several minutes of agonizing deliberation, Nikitas decided
that only one man was able to bail them out. He had an aversion for
getting help from any quarter but since their desperate situation
called for drastic measures, the least he could do was brush aside his
personal preferences and get on with it.
   He unclipped his cell phone and dialed a number in Athens. After
a few seconds a pre-recorded message informed him that the roaming
service was suspended due to technical reasons--obviously
because of the storm, Nikitas thought, and returned the phone to
his belt.
   It seemed they would have to resort to more traditional telecom-
munications means, to something like a public telephone booth, he
thought wryly.
   "When we'll have put enough distance between us and Aghia
Sophia," Nikitas said to Yiannis, "please find us a telephone booth.
I need to make a long-distance call." He sunk back to his thoughts,
looking ahead but not really seeing the wipers as they hypnotically
kept sliding back and forth. The storm had lost its fierceness, giving
way to a steady drizzle.
   Yiannis drove them to a distant neighborhood, where several
telephone booths were installed side-by-side for the use of the guests
of a nearby International Youth Hostel. At this hour of the night,
however, the only sign of activity in the street was the hostel's purple
neon sign, flashing on and off with a steady hum.
   When the van stopped Nikitas got out through the driver's door
and hurried to the nearest booth. As he pulled aside its folding door
the thought crossed his mind that thanks to Anastasia's foresight
they had at least come off with their passports.
   It was a consolation of sorts. He had his passport with him, and
he had the telecard he had bought to call Makridis.
   Being pursued was far from being trapped, he told himself as he
inserted the telecard into the slot and dialed a familiar number in  
Athens.


Chapter 34
           ATHENS, GREECE: Michael Walker's Apartment
           July 30


The phone on the nightstand trilled and its melodious sound gave
a feathery caress to his sleeping consciousness, immediately
dissolving into the silence that followed it. The second trill made an
imperceptible crack in his awareness. The third insinuated itself
deeply within and with a decisive thrust severed irrevocably the
riddles of his dreaming, like the ancient sword that so arrogantly cut
off the Gordian knot dispatching its unanswered questions to
eternal oblivion.
   Michael Walker snapped open his eyes and picked up the phone,
expecting to hear the coded phrase recalling him to the embassy.
   "Hello," he said in English.
   There was static, noise, and then the voice of Nikitas at the other
end of the hissing line.
   "Hello, Michael," he said.
   Michael, fragile and wiry, with wispy red hair that made a
strong statement about his Irish ancestry, was Nikitas's only child-
hood friend. They lived in neighboring houses in Georgetown,
Washington DC, and as it turned out, fate had preordained that the
two of them should grow up together. They were friends for several
years when an incident had transformed their friendship into broth-
erly love.
   It took place when they were both ten years old. A beautiful
Saturday morning in late spring their parents took the two boys and
Melissa, Michael's five-year old sister, to an amusement park fifteen
miles to the south. They went there through the whole routine--the
great wheel, the ghost-rides, the bumping cars, and everything else
that came their way. Finally, after an hour and a half of serious fun-
hunting, their parents decided to take a break and a cup of coffee at
the local cafeteria.
   Left to their own devices, the children went on an exploration
spree. Michael was the first to notice the huge poster with the three
dancing dolphins, advertising a forthcoming show in the park's
specially constructed pool. With Melissa trailing behind them, the
two boys soon located the deep oval pool in the adjoining hall.
   Its double door had been unlocked. The two boys and the little
girl tiptoed in, their eyes wide in fascination and wonderment. They
approached the low railing and leaned over to look down at the
pool, marveling at the oily, undisturbed surface of the sparkling
water, which reflected brilliantly the light green color of the curving
walls.
   To Melissa's eyes it was all a huge amount of green Jell-O trapped
into the largest jar she had ever seen.
   The accident happened without warning. Slipping through the
vertical bars of the railing, in a split second Melissa was helplessly
sinking in the pool, desperately thrashing about while making feeble
gurgling noises. Although the pool was built deep to accommodate
the dolphins, the water's crystalline clarity allowed her frozen
brother to see clearly all the horrible details of her struggle.
   As Melissa's frantic flailing started to slacken, Nikitas climbed
over the rail and plunged into the pool. It was a heroic act because
to his childish eyes the wide expanse of water was looming like a
supernatural colossus, a bottomless watery monolith. Despite his
terror he swam with all his strength toward Melissa, thinking that
any instant now they would be both swallowed by a powerful
monster rising from the depths.
   Nikitas had not dived to save Melissa; he only wanted to reach
her and take her into his little arms, so that she would not be
meeting alone her terrible fate.
   His courageous act was an electrifying catalyst that brought
Michael to his senses. He burst through the door running wildly into
the adjoining cafeteria, at the same time crying for help from the
grownups who were leisurely drinking their coffee.
   It took only a few seconds to rouse the whole room. Their parents
rushed where Michael was pointing and in a couple of minutes
Melissa and Nikitas were safely out of the pool, threatened only by
the suffocating hugs of their parents.
   Since that day Michael had loved Nikitas like a brother.
   The years had passed and their friendship had matured. Michael
had studied law, had taken a Ph.D. in Political Sciences, and began his
career in the State Department, following a well-established family
tradition. He was currently Cultural Attach� class A in the American
diplomatic mission of Athens, Greece.
   "Nikitas, where the heck have you been? I was looking all over
for you since yesterday. By the way, have you got any idea what time
it is?" he yelled to be heard over the static. Eirini, the beautiful
Greek girl he was engaged to and was marrying next September,
shifted in the bed.
   "Give him my love, too," she said without opening her eyes.
Michael, however, was already listening to Nikitas's story.
   "All right, Nikitas," he said in his professionally calm voice when
his friend had finished his tale. "First of all-stay cool! I promise
you all will be fine. I'm taking over, now. You just stay out of trouble
and call me back in an hour. I'll have specific instructions for you
then. You got that?" he asked again, and made sure Nikitas had
understood him by having him repeat his directions. Then he slowly
lowered the phone.
   He rose and started to dress. This matter could not be handled by
the phone. He would have to pay a personal visit to Bernard
Freeman, the CIA station chief in Athens.
   Freeman owed him, on account of various favors Michael had
done him. Now it was the CIA man's turn for a partial payback of his
debt.


Chapter 35
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Church of Aghia Sophia
           July 30


Colonel Sabri was having a fit of uncontrollable rage. Five
minutes ago he had personally received a police officer who had
reported the escape of the Greeks, and now he bitterly regretted his
own complacent tactics in this case. How come had he thought that
outwaiting the Greeks at Aghia Sophia was a sound strategy? Wasn't
it obvious that since they had found one secret entrance to the
catacombs, they could easily have discovered two or even more?
Now he had to search for them throughout Constantinople.
He had fallen victim to his overconfidence, that was what he had
done. He had foolishly underestimated his enemies and burned
away his advantage of surprise. At least the fugitives were in his turf,
trapped in his own country.
   But now the case had turned personal and he was determined to
do everything in his power to capture them.
   When Sabri had been informed of the blunder of the police
officer, he had asked to personally interview him . Shortly, a man
trembling from the fear of losing his job was brought before him,
babbling nonsense. It took a huge effort on Sabri's part to convince
the frightened-to-the-death man that the sky was not going to fall
upon him. Finally the colonel had managed to piece together his
story, but what a story it was! When he sent the policeman away he
was assured of only one thing: that the passengers of the van-yes,
this had been the officer's complete description of it-were four.
At least his suspicions of a fourth member in the gang were
confirmed. He was probably a native Constantinopolitan.
   Realizing suddenly that his continuing stay in Aghia Sophia was
meaningless, Sabri ordered the temporary sealing of the under-
ground complex and the suspension of the renovation project.
Before leaving the grounds he assigned the preliminary secret explo-
ration of the crypts to Professor Sabah, with the proviso that all of
his assistants would have to be approved by the DGA-2.
   He rose and sent his adjutant for his car. When it arrived he
collected his things and went out to the courtyard.
   "Let's go for a ride to Fanarion," he instructed the driver, as the
man opened the passenger's door for him.


Chapter 36
           CONSTANTINOPLE, TURKEY: Near the "Independence" Hostel
           July 30


The hour passed quickly. The Greeks parked the van two blocks
away from the hostel and went back on foot. Nikitas again
picked a telephone booth and dialed nervously his friend's number.
   After two rings Eirini answered the call and told him that Michael
had not yet returned, but had called and left a message for him. She
then told him that the message was only a telephone number in
Constantinople that went together with a name, Mahmut Abit.
Nikitas was to call him and repeat his telephone number before
saying anything else. It would be up to Abit from that point on to
give him the necessary directions.
   When Nikitas asked Eirini what would be the price for Abit's
involvement, she replied that Michael had attended to the matter.
   "Nikitas, you just take good care of yourself! And as soon as you
come home, give us a call."
   Nikitas felt a sudden lump rise to his throat and remained silent.
He held the receiver pressed to his ear even after Eirini had hung up,
fighting back the swelling emotion threatening to engulf him.
   Simply a by-product of heightened stress, he tried to reassure
himself, while taking care not to let the others catch a glimpse of his
face.
   When he had calmed down he dialed the number he had
memorized. A male voice answered the call in the first ring.
   "Hello?"
   Nikitas recited the telephone number.
   "All right. What is it you want?"
   "I wish to speak to Mr. Mahmut Abit," Nikitas said.
   "Speaking," the voice answered.
   "I've been notified to call you, Mr. Abit."  
   "Yes. You're the man from Athens. Listen. A ca�que is sailing at
five a.m. sharp this morning. If you make it, fine, otherwise give me
a call tomorrow afternoon."
   Nikitas assured him that he would be there at five and received
detailed instructions how to reach their rendezvous site. He repeated
the names of the streets Abit gave him to be sure he had got them
correctly, and hung up. Then he turned to his friends, who were
waiting outside the booth with anguished expressions in their faces.
   "We got eighteen minutes to catch our boat for home. Let's go!"
he said quickly and motioned them to the car.

                                ***

They reached the pier with three minutes to spare. Mahmut Abit was
there waiting for them, leaning against a rusty container box-a
shadowy figure wrapped in a stylish raincoat, with a glowing
cigarette stub between his fingers. While his face had no distin-
guishing features his overall presence radiated a high-tension aura,
barely contained within a shell of arrogance.
   Having had a chance to study from up-close the tall, gaunt figure
with the long hair and the hawk-shaped nose, Yiannis whispered to
Nikitas that Abit was probably from Turkmenistan.
   As a matter of fact, until a few years ago Mahmut Abit had been
one of CIA's local men in Constantinople, tending his own private
affairs on the side, none of which were legal. His CIA controller was
aware of that, but was turning a blind eye so long as he needed Abit's
services. It was after the ending of the Cold War and the house-
cleaning that followed in the intelligence community, that the
agency decided to discontinue its association with Abit.
Still, he had not been forgotten.
Abit was involved in the extremely profitable activity of trans-
porting illegal immigrants, mostly Iraqi Kurds, from Turkey to
Greece. Freeman knew this, so when Michael pressed him for help
he recommended Abit as the right man for the job.
   The pier was deserted and would remain so for more than an
hour. Abit remained motionless for several seconds, and then with
an imperceptible nod acknowledged the presence of the Greeks,
pointing with the burning tip of his cigarette toward a small boat
moored at the dock.
   As the party of four started for the Turkish ca�que, Abit casually
flicked his cigarette stub to the sea and approached them slowly.
Speaking for the first time he told them in English that they should
be thankful to Allah for their good luck: his boat normally sailed at
midnight, but tonight it was delayed on account of the heavy storm.
   Nikitas and his companions said nothing. They boarded the boat,
and saw Abit going to talk with the Turkish captain, who all this
time was standing alone in the navigation cabin. After his final
instructions Abit returned to the black Mercedes S420 that was
parked at the end of the pier, and sat in the driver's seat to watch the
boat departing the harbor.
   Shortly before sailing the captain told them in broken English to
hide themselves under a heap of filthy canvas sheets, dripping wet
from the rain, and to remain there until they were through the
Straits. Since the boat was camouflaged as a fishing boat they had to
keep up the appearances, so that in the course of its passage through
the Hellespont Straits no one would suspect that dozens of hapless
Kurds were huddling together inside its suffocating hold.
   They followed the captain's instructions without protest and ten
minutes later the Turkish ca�que sailed from Constantinople's harbor
to a southwesterly direction.


Chapter 37
           NORTHEASTERN AEGEAN SEA
           July 30


To their great relief, after several hours of grinding at their ears
the sound of the boat's badly maintained engine had retreated to
the background of their awareness, becoming virtually inaudible.
Sitting together near the bow, the four Greek passengers had
abandoned themselves to the rhythmic swelling of the waves,  
splashing against the hull. Strangely, no one was sick as yet. It
seemed that in the aftermath of their escape from the catacombs and
the Turkish authorities they were inoculated against any lesser evils.
And with their clothes already soaked by the storm, the spray of the
sea was only a minor nuisance.
   Dawn had found them in the northeastern Aegean, but had not
brought them the release they had expected. The overcast sky and
the the sea's uniform grayness were depriving the world of its third
dimension, lending to everything a limp flatness.
   The captain had deigned at last to unlock the hold and from its
small opening every so often popped up the head of an exhausted
immigrant for a lungful of precious fresh air, for a taste of the
freedom to come. A sharp glance from the captain, however, was
enough to put off for a while any further similar attempts.
   When the Straits were left behind them, the Greeks had brushed
away the smelly canvas sheets and gathered together to review their
situation. In his almost unintelligible English the captain had
informed them that their destination was a remote beach in
northern Chios. With a few extra gestures he had managed to
explain that his ca�que was hugging tightly the Turkish coast as it
sailed to the south, remaining in the Turkish national waters until
the moment it would head west for Chios.
If all went according to plan, in five to six hours they would be
treading again Greek soil.
   They were exhausted, but no one felt like sleeping. Wrapped up
in canvas sheets they had picked up from under the heap and were
therefore drier if not cleaner, they were quietly discussing their
experiences in Constantinople, the marvels they had witnessed, and
the sights they knew they would never see again.
At some point Nikitas asked Makridis why he came with them
instead of returning to his home in Constantinople.
   "I'm burned now," Yiannis answered matter-of-factly, without the
slightest hint of bitterness in his tone.
   His lack of regret was very revealing, Nikitas thought. Was it true
then, that the few remaining Greeks in Constantinople had devel-
oped a fatalistic attitude toward life because of their periodic
suffering at the hands of the Turkish authorities?
   Yiannis went on to explain that since the Turkish police had
established the identity of the three travelers from Greece it was only
a matter of time before they also found out his, and repeated
emphatically that his involvement in this case was not the kind of
thing to remain secret in Constantinople. Too many eyes had seem
them, and too many people were eager to talk-for a price, of
course. As things had turned out he would have to transfer his
academic credits to one of Greece's universities.
   Besides, Yiannis confessed, this was not exactly a disagreeable
prospect. He had remained in Constantinople solely for his father's
sake, and was now greatly excited by the thought of relocating to
Athens.
   Another topic of discussion was the fate of Aghia Sophia's
catacombs now that they were discovered by the Turkish authorities.
They argued back and forth, finally agreeing that regardless of the
intentions of the Turks they should take steps on their own to adver-
tise the existence of the crypts to the international media, and even
to Turkey herself.
   "I'm certain that if the average person of that country could be
heard, many a lingering injustice would have been put to right,"
Nikitas remarked.
   Father Gregorios, however, was of a different mind in the
publicity issue. He insisted that under the present circumstances
only the Greek government could take the responsibility of publi-
cizing their discoveries, on account of the political and national
overtones of the whole matter.
   "The responsibility for such a decision is too heavy a burden for
such a small and arbitrarily formed group of citizens like our own,"
he had declared. "It should be based on a broad, democratic
consensus."
   Two other topics had fired unrestrained speculation: the myste-
rious chapel, which had liberated them from the prison-like
catacombs, and the adjoining building with its peculiar labyrinth of
interlocking corridors. Nikitas had stressed the fact that there was a
great number of combinatorial possibilities of the triple doors and
the series of corridors, concluding that the particular configuration
which had led them to freedom was purposely designed.
   But what was the reason for the existence of the labyrinth? Who
had guided their steps all along? And who continued to have access
to the crypts of Aghia Sophia fifteen hundred years after her
construction?
   They had failed to come up with any satisfactory answers, but
the talk had allowed them to relax. They lay down on the deck and dozed
on and off. After a while Anastasia remembered their trophy, the cylinder
of Modestinus, and asked Father Gregorios if she could take a look at it.
He smiled and took it out from an inner pocket of his voluminous
cassock, holding it tenderly with three fingers, as if in benediction.
   The mere presence of the cylinder somehow mellowed the stark grayness
surrounding them, absorbing the gloom and transforming it into radiant light.
Anastasia gasped. She took it from Father Gregorios and turned it between her
fingers, her face reflecting her feelings of awe and fascination.
   "It scares me," she whispered almost to herself, "when I
think of what we've risked for this small container. Isn't it weird, that
at some point we were ready to sacrifice our lives for this relic of a
long-gone past?"
   She had spoken in a low voice, but Father Gregorios heard her.
He shrugged. Why disagree, when she made perfect sense? Nikitas shifted
closer under the canvas, taking care not wake up Yiannis.
   "I'm also worried about the human suffering that this cylinder will
surely cause, when its contents become public knowledge," she added
thoughtfully.
   Father Gregorios looked perplexed. "Why suffering?" he
wondered. "None of us wishes anybody harm, nor do we conceive
ourselves as a flight of avenging angels, wielding the manuscript like
a fiery sword. On the contrary, as a Christian I want to prove with
the aid of the Protocol of Catechesis that no religious doctrine could
ever justify acts of violence and destruction. Such doctrines are not
only dogmatically false, they're also historically untrue. There's only
one universal and self-evident dogma, the dogma of Love."
   "Father, you're not taking into account the established interests,
religious or otherwise, which will fight back tooth and nail against
any such attempt," Anastasia retorted.
   "Nevertheless, it's our duty to take the first step. Apathy or indif-
ference is a fault of the misinformed, Anastasia, who equate the
teachings of love with the voluntary submission to the forces of
evil," Father Gregorios replied.
   Anastasia was silent for a moment. "Contrary to you, Father
Gregorios, I don't subscribe to the necessity of a collective decision,"
she said. "I believe there are cases, in which the privilege of choice
devolves to the individuals, and when that happens they must be
ready to accept the responsibility and decide conscientiously for the
common good."
   And with that she raised her arm and hurled the golden cylinder
into the sea.
   Father Gregorios, who had been following attentively her
arguments, took a moment to realize what had happened.
   Not so Nikitas. He had been watching Anastasia closely, relishing
both her words and her intellectual poise, when he caught the flash
of the golden arc before the cylinder was lost in the waves.
   For the fraction of a second his mind refused to acknowledge
what his eyes had seen. It was impossible! Beyond logic, beyond
imagination. Simply put, it was inconceivable that the trophy they
had so dearly bought would be lost like this. His reason refused to
accept that it could fall victim to a silly emotional outburst.
   And the same time Nikitas felt his body move of its own accord.
It pushed aside his stunned consciousness, took a couple of steps
across the deck, and dived into the frothy sea as his uncle was
turning toward him in slow motion, a mask of profound desperation
covering his face.

                                ***

When Nikitas broke surface the boat had vanished. For a moment
he thought he had glimpsed his uncle gesturing wildly on the deck,
then all was lost behind a huge wave crested by white foam. He
started to swim at a furious pace and with a few strong strokes
managed to change orientation and head toward the spot he had
seen the cylinder fall. His progress was slow, as he was continuously
fighting to keep his head out of the roiling sea.
   On the other hand, the water was pleasantly cool and the big
waves held no terror for him. He was an experienced swimmer and
knew how to confront them at an oblique direction, how to balance
expertly on their crests, and when to move forward to his destina-
tion. Nikitas was mostly hampered by the billowing clouds of micro-
scopic seadrops which were mercilessly lashing his face.
   Several minutes passed and he was starting to feel the first pangs
of despair, half-regretting his impulsive dive into the sea. Stranded in
the midst of the Aegean he was fighting for his life for the second
time--or was it the third--in the last twenty-four hours. His strength
was quickly deserting him, spent twice as fast in his double effort to
stay afloat and to keep looking for the cylinder, even as he tried to
ignore the water pouring into his eyes and muddling his vision.
And yet, it was probably due to his blurred eyesight that he was
able to discern the shimmering light about ten yards to his left,
whose faint glimmer he might not have otherwise noticed. He
changed his course, keeping his eyes continually fixed on the golden
dot as it kept bobbing against the sea's gray backdrop.
   Immensely relieved, Nikitas mustered his last reserves and swam
determinedly toward it. Only a few more yards to go, he mentally
repeated, then two, one, and he was finally clasping his fingers
around the cylinder. A cursory inspection reassured him that the
hermetically sealed container was not taking in any water. Satisfied,
he secured it under his belt and decided to stay there as he waited
for the rescue to come.
   He turned over and floated on his back, gratefully abandoning
himself to the seething sea.

                                ***

When Father Gregorios saw Nikitas being swallowed by the waves,
he jumped up and ran toward the captain gesturing wildly. Yiannis
was jolted awake and rushed after him to see what was the matter.
Father Gregorios reached the helm and began shouting at the
captain to turn the boat back and search for his nephew. The Turkish
captain, however, only shook his head, showing no intention of
changing course.
   "His problem, not mine," he announced cynically.
Outraged, Father Gregorios hurled himself against the captain in
a frantic attempt to take hold of the wheel, but before he had a
chance to come close the Turk slid his hand inside his raincoat and
brought out a pistol, then aimed it coldly at the old man.
   Father Gregorios had no time to react because Yiannis threw
himself at the Turk, stopping with his body the round meant for the
old monk. He fell to his knees with his hand clutching his right side,
soaked in blood from the wound.
   Completely disregarding his personal safety Father Gregorios fell
upon the captain and managed to grasp the gun. At the same time,
a Kurd immigrant jumped out from the hold and threw his arm
around the captain's neck, immobilizing him in a tight hold.
   Father Gregorios struggled for several seconds with the Turk as
he tried to wrench the pistol from him, which during their brief
engagement went off once. Fortunately, no one was hurt. At last the
old fighter managed to tear it away and backed off a couple of steps,
panting from the exertion. He levelled the gun toward the captain
and took aim at his heart with a steady hand.
   "Turn around the boat or I'll shoot you on the spot and take the
wheel myself," he growled, and his withering look gave expression
to his determination. The Turk could only manage a feeble nod. At
a sign from Father Gregorios his Kurdish ally released him from his
powerful grip but stayed behind him watching him closely.
   Defeated, the Turkish smuggler spun the wheel sullenly. The
ca�que listed dangerously to the port, then steadied back and
changed course toward the northeast.

                                ***

It took them half an hour to locate Nikitas. As a matter of fact, it was
he who spotted them first and let the boat approach without trying
to attract their attention, seeing that the ca�que on a collision course
with him. He waited until it came within shouting range, then took
the cylinder from his belt and waved back and forth, hoping that its
reflection would catch their attention. He was aware that any
attempt at shouting to make himself heard over the booming wind
and the boat's engine was a lost cause.
   After a few minutes the Kurd's sharp eye noticed the golden shine
among the waves. He shouted at Father Gregorios, who was tending
Yiannis's wound. The bullet had entered his right side and had to be
removed at a hospital. When he understood what the Kurd was
trying to communicate, he gave the order and the ca�que stopped a
few yards away from Nikitas.
   Even so, he swam hard to cover the short distance. At last he got
hold of one of the rubber tires lining the boat's hull and pulled
himself shakily on the deck aided by the Kurd. Once there he first
handed the golden cylinder to his uncle, and then collapsed on the
wet planks letting out a long sigh of relief.
   Reassured that Nikitas was not hurt but only exhausted, Father
Gregorios signaled his ally to accompany him and approached the
captain in his booth. With his pistol cocked he asked the Turk to
show him their exact position on a map. The captain shrugged indif-
ferently, but complied. He approached the map pasted on the
starboard bulkhead, and tapped with a finger on the blue area to the
southeast of Lemnos.
   Father Gregorios studied it for a minute and decided on a change
of course. Yiannis needed immediate medical attention and Chios
was too far for that. He ordered the captain to resume their original
direction and head for the nearest village in the northern coastline
of Lesvos. The Turk tried to protest, but the gun in Father
Gregorios's unwavering hand left no room for discussion. He turned
the wheel and the boat veered to the south.
   All this while Anastasia had kept her distance from the unfolding
drama. She was sitting rigidly on the heap of canvas sheets gazing at
the horizon, silent, remote. Her stance might be calculated to show
her total indifference for what was happening; or, she might really
be in a state of apathy, shocked by the tragic consequences of her act.
At any rate, she sat unmoving as she stared at the open sea, her hair
blown backward by the strong wind, her stiff posture that of an
archaic statue.
   Nikitas's rescue had a catalytic effect upon her. The moment he
stepped aboard she unfroze, instantly becoming her usual self.
While he lay down panting only a few feet away from her, Anastasia
approached him timidly and looked for several seconds intensely at
him with a sorry expression in her face. When she realized that he
refused to look back at her she knelt by his side, touching his face
tenderly with her fingertips.
   "Will you ever forgive me, Nikitas?" she whispered close to his
ear, wiping away her tears with a coquettish gesture. "I tried to be
true to my beliefs for the benefit of all the good people in the
world... I guess I was blinded to the needs of those nearer to me, of
the ones I really care."
At that Nikitas turned up his head and looked her in the eyes. His
former rage had congealed into an icy indifference.
   "Listen. Right now Yiannis is fighting hard for his life. This is not
the time for apologies or foolish remorse," he said in a cold voice.
   He rose to go to his uncle. He turned his back to her and Anastasia
was left alone.


Chapter 38
            ISLAND OF LESVOS, GREECE: Petra - Mitilini
            July 30


They disembarked on the coast of Petra, several kilometers south-
west of the small town Mithimna. The illegal immigrants
scattered in the open country, thanking God for their deliverance
from their ersatz prison. Only a few local people were around,
though it was close to noon; the sun was too hot for anything but
the most necessary of chores.
   Father Gregorios noticed that their Kurdish friend had not left
with the others and motioned him to come near. He offered him
some money and a note with Nikitas's phone number in Filothei,
telling him to call if he ever succeeded in reaching Athens. The Kurd
gratefully touched his lips to Father Gregorios's hand, asking for his
blessing, and hurriedly left for the hills.
   In the main square they met a villager who agreed to drive them in his
pickup truck to Mitilini, the island's capital, thirty-five miles away. They
prepared a makeshift bed in the truck's carriage with some old blankets
the villager brought them, and carefully laid Yiannis there. Nikitas and
Father Gregorios stayed with him, with the Turkish smuggler sitting
opposite them, while Anastasia went to sit front with the driver.
   When they arrived in Mitilini they drove straight to the General
Hospital. The doctors who examined Yiannis were reassuring,
insisting that his condition was stable, and prepared him for
immediate surgery. Thankfully Yiannis was conscious, so his
companions were able to talk with him and agree on a plan for their
next moves.
   They discussed Yiannis's deposition to the local police and
prepared to leave. There were too many loose ends that needed to be
taken care of, and Yiannis was in good hands now. Father Gregorios
hugged him lightly, because of his wound, and promised that he
would soon return to Mitilini. Before leaving Nikitas deposited the
necessary amount of cash to cover Yiannis's hospitalization
expenses.
   Their last stop was at the police station where they handed over
the Turk. They had agreed beforehand on a stripped-down version
of their ordeal, not only because in this stage it was not expedient to
reveal all the events that had transpired in Constantinople, but also
because those events would hardly be believed if they were told-
however detailed and accurate their account of them might be.
   As a result, to the police station's commander they reported that
the Turk was red-handedly apprehended by them while disem-
barking illegal immigrants onto the island. He had used his gun  
against them to avoid his arrest and shot a relative of theirs, who was
undergoing surgery at this very moment. After their deposition they
presented their passports to the officer on duty to prove their identi-
ties, and Father Gregorios handed over the pistol to the commander.
After two hours the paperwork was finally finished. They signed
the necessary papers and left for the harbor.
   During the next hour Nikitas tried unsuccessfully to find air
tickets for their return. In every travel agency he visited he received
the same answer, that all flights to Athens were booked until the end
of the week, and, would he try his luck with a standby reservation?
Nikitas, however, was fed up with the spate of unforeseeable events
in his life, so he bought instead three first-class tickets for the ferry
to Piraeus sailing the same evening at seven.
They spent the remaining hours until departure in a seaside caf�.
When at half past six the approaching ferry sounded its horn, Father
Gregorios placed a last call to the hospital and was immensely
relieved when he was told that all had gone well and Yiannis was
doing fine after the removal of the bullet.
   They were cheered by the good news and boarded the ferry in an
optimistic frame of mind. A polite steward showed them their
separate cabins, and Nikitas and Anastasia dropped immediately to
their beds in total exhaustion.
   Father Gregorios, however, had still another matter to attend to.


Chapter 39
            CENTRAL AEGEAN SEA: F/B Miaoulis
            July 31


            Athens, July 31st, ...

            To:
            His Excellency the Prime Minister of Greece
            PERSONAL - CONFIDENTIAL
            Dear Prime Minister,
            I write this letter to you to inform you of certain events
            which recently transpired in Constantinople, Turkey, and
            concern our country's vital national interests.
            Please allow me, Sir, to remain anonymous for the present.
            However, should the need arise, I will not hesitate to step
            forth and offer to you my good offices...


   Father Gregorios went on to describe in detail the salient events
of their stay in Constantinople, omitting only their names and any
information that might reveal their identities.
   He finished his report, inserted the handwritten pages into an
envelope with the Miaoulis F/B logo, and sealed it carefully. Next
morning he would post it as registered mail, personally addressed to
the Prime Minister of the Greek government.
   He prayed that it would reach his hands. Father Gregorios knew
perfectly well that the democratic responsibility he was espousing
had a last hurdle to overcome: the Prime Minister's personal assis-
tant, who handled his daily mail...


Chapter 40
           ANKARA, TURKEY: DGA-2/MIT HQ.
           August 1


Colonel Sabri opened briskly the door of his office and his gaze
automatically dropped to his overflowing desktop. He was only
gone for a couple of days, but his work had kept on piling. There
were dozens of new folders, fresh reports, and memos on his desk, a
thick pile of recent issues of the official Government Gazette on a
separate table, and loose paperwork all over the room needing his
personal attention.
   He took a step back and asked his private secretary to go in and
put some order on his desk. He should fill a tray with the hyper-
urgent documents and disregard the rest-for now. Sabri would
tackle those first, leaving everything else for after the lunch. Right
now he needed some time to think about Aghia Sophia and the
opportunities it was offering for his career.
   He entered the small bathroom adjoining his office, leaving the
door half-open, and began shaving with economical movements. He
often shaved in his office when returning from out of town missions.
It was like the times of old in the camp, the only difference being the
higher stakes in the game he was playing now right from this office.
Yes, they were high enough to induce a severe case of vertigo to the
uninitiated.
   He tilted back the razor as he laughed sarcastically and then
resumed his shaving while concentrating on the matter at hand.
   His visit to Fanarion had not brought the results he had hoped.
First of all, the Patriarch had left him waiting for ten minutes in his
office's antechamber before he received him. This offensive and
humiliating behavior had stung him, despite the fact that his visit
there in the midst of the night was unexpected.
   There was also the serene and dignified demeanor of the
Ecumenical Patriarch, who would not allow himself be convinced to
see things as he was told. After several minutes' worth of small talk
they had reached an impasse, at which point the leader of the inter-
national Orthodox community had brought his audience to an end,
telling him that he was expecting an official memorandum
concerning the issues under discussion.
   Loath to leave empty-handed, Sabri had insinuated that the
Turkish government might employ other, less official means to
communicate its intentions, but the Patriarch had bidden him good-
night, tacitly refusing any further talk on this level.
He had to do something about it, and he would, too, vowed the
colonel.
   Sabri was rinsing away the foam from his cheeks when his
personal line buzzed. "See who's on the phone, Kadir, and tell him
to hold. I'm coming in a minute," he shouted to his personal assis-
tant who was still occupied with his files. He muttered something
under his breath but reached for the phone.
   The colonel was reaching for his after-shave lotion when his
secretary lifted the receiver and unwittingly set off the bomb that
was meant for Sabri. The man was instantly killed, his body blown
into a thousand pieces.
   Sabri managed to hold on to his consciousness for a couple of
seconds, hardly enough time for him to be surprised when the
mirror shattered in front of his staring eyes, or to wonder why the
bottle suddenly flew from his hand. As his brain desperately strug-
gled to contain the thundering noise, he dropped like a stone into
the bottomless pit of non-awareness.


                         ------------
                         P A R T  III
                         ------------


Chapter 41
           PIRAEUS, GREECE: Main Pier
           August 1


The F/B Miaoulis arrived in Piraeus at dawn. Of all the passen-
gers, only Father Gregorios and Anastasia were without a
traveling bag-even Nikitas was carrying his portable computer.
   His first priority, when they reached the city's main avenue was to
look for a phone booth, since he had lost his cell phone in the sea.
He bought a telecard from an all-night kiosk and dialed his home
number to check his voice mail. He keyed in his PIN and listened to
the saved messages.
   There were five messages from his assistants at the office, which
he skipped. There was another from a married couple, friends of his,
inviting him to their villa in Santorini. He smiled and pushed again
the button to hear the last one. It was from Michael, asking him to
contact him.
   Nikitas dialed the number Michael had left and waited several
seconds for the call to go through. It was automatically forwarded to
another number. Michael answered it in the second ring .
   "We did it, Michael!" Nikitas exclaimed when he heard his
cultured accent. "We've arrived in Piraeus, with the ferry-"
   "Hold it there!" Michael interrupted him. "Do not say a word,
and most of all don't mention any names, okay?" he warned. After
several seconds of silence he went on. "Just listen, my friend. I'm
convinced there's something fishy going on here-I mean at my
end-but I don't think I can learn anything more than I do. The
problem is that the person who helped me get you here has a black
list with your name on it, though there's absolutely no reason for it
to be there!"
   Michael took a deep breath and pushed back his rising anger.
Machinations behind the scenes was a given in his line of work,
however, when innocent people were falsely accused in secret they
lacked any means of legal recourse.
   "I'd say that right now the best for you, my friend, would be to
drop everything and take an extended vacation," Michael continued
in a calmer tone, dutifully avoiding to mention Nikitas's name. He
was trying to approach the matter in a reasonable way, because he
knew that the only tactics that might work with Nikitas were reason
and common sense. "By the way, it's good you called me so early,
because in a few hours I'm flying to Washington. It seems that I'm
needed in an emergency, and I'm taking Eirini with me."
   As he stood at the booth listening to Michael's friendly advice,
Nikitas increasingly got angrier. Contrary to his friend, who
sometimes took those manipulative tactics for granted, there was
nothing he disliked more than a stab in his back and thinly veiled
threats from invisible sources.
   "No, Michael," he suddenly erupted, "my life is my affair and not
some damned faceless bureaucrat's! Do me a favor and remind to all
those guys that I'm still an American citizen. Tell them, there's a lot
of important men and women in Washington who know me and
respect me."
   Nikitas took a breath and looked around him. The early morning
sun had grown brighter and the traffic had taken its usual rhythms.
The locals were hurrying to their work, the tourists walked about in
leisure. Despite their obvious differences, however, all of them were
sharing a common characteristic: they were treading firmly the
ordinary world, where a threat had a face and there were no
shadowy figures lurking in the darkness of the night-except,
possibly, on their television screens.
   "Look, man," Nikitas said, heeding Michael's warning for discre-
tion, "I'm telling you, I am not not running away from my own
home, okay? Now, what additional security measures would you
recommend?"
He heard Michael's sigh at the other end of the line.
   "Your two citizenships have got them all confused," he replied.
   "From a legal point of view you're absolutely right, but sometimes
legalities fade into fine print... Ah, hold on a minute." Nikitas heard
Michael cup the receiver and talk to someone else. Then he was back
with him.
   "Okay then, this is what we'll do," Michael went on. "From the
moment you arrive to your house and for the next forty-eight hours
you'll be protected around the clock by agency resources. Don't ask
which one's, though I'm sure you can guess. I'm sorry, but I can't
arrange protection for you beyond that, because it would result in a
breach of the hospitality rules for the American mission in Greece.
We're obligated to abide by a certain diplomatic etiquette. So, at the
end of the forty-eight-hours period you either drop it all, my friend,
or assume full responsibility for your safety."
   "I won't quit," Nikitas said calmly.
   "Oh God, what's the rush? Can't you at least wait for me to return
from Washington? I can take a leave and help you out with this-
whatever it might be!"
Involving Michael in this matter, however, was the last thing
Nikitas wanted to do.
   "Listen, M-err... friend, everything's fine and everything's
getting better by the minute," Nikitas said. "You can't imagine how
much you've already helped. Now we're safe and there were some
very interesting developments." Yiannis's condition was proving him
a liar, but he was not about to discuss that over the phone. "I hope
that in a few days everything will have come to a happy conclusion.
So, I'll see you when you're back from Washington. Have a nice trip
and kiss Eirini for me."
   "Take care, my friend," Michael said in a serious tone.
   "Remember, I'm being married in September and you're my best
man."
Nikitas was thoughtful for a while, until the voice of a woman
waiting to use the phone booth brought him back to reality.
   "Have you finished your call, sir?"
Nikitas apologized to her for keeping her waiting and walked
back to Father Gregorios and Anastasia.
   In this peculiar game of changing rules, it was now their move.


Chapter 42
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           August 1


Despite Michael's misgivings their trip to Filothei was
uneventful. Before leaving Piraeus for Athens, Anastasia had
asked Nikitas to let her stay in his house until the things had settled
down a bit.
   "As Yiannis rightly said, those people are capable of anything,"
she argued, referring to the Turkish police and the assortment of
Turkish paramilitary organizations which might be involved in the
case.
   Nikitas objected that it was ridiculous for her to feel like a
refugee in her own country. At the same time, though, the admoni-
tions of his friend kept coming back to him. What was this list
Michael had mentioned? Who were behind it? He made a mental
note to bring up the subject with Michael as soon as he returned
from the States.
   Realizing his own ambivalence in the matter of their security, he
assured Anastasia that he had no objection at playing the host to her
until such time as she would feel safe enough to go home.
Relieved, she had departed for downtown Athens to attend to
some affairs of her own. Then she would pay a brief visit to her
apartment for a fresh supply of clothing, and after that she would
take a taxi to Filothei.
   On his arrival at the house Nikitas checked his mailbox. He saw
that it was empty, but made nothing of it. After all, he had been away
only for a few days. Nevertheless, when he entered the house he
went immediately to the security console to read the log, and saw
with a sudden tightening in his stomach that there was a record of a
breach in the laser fence.
Without delay he called the security agency he had contracted to
respond to the alarms, and asked for the manager.
   He was told that the alarm had been set off by children playing in
the street, when they entered the garden to retrieve their ball. It had
scared them away, and they had fled leaving the ball behind.
It was false alarm, thank God! Nikitas thought relieved.
Over the next several hours Nikitas and Father Gregorios tried to
catch up on their professional and social agendas, respectively.
Nikitas went to his living-room office, to return his voice mail calls.
He gave fresh directions to his assistants and apologized to his
friends in Santorini that he could not come visiting to any time
soon.
   How he wished he could...
   Using a separate telephone line from his room upstairs Father
Gregorios also placed a series of calls to Athens and Egypt, renewing
contact with his friends and acquaintances.
   In the early afternoon they went out to eat in the suburb of Kato
Halandri, to a taverna well known for its grilled-meat specials. After
their adventures of the previous days, they both felt that they needed
not only the delicious food, but the taverna's familiar and friendly
environment as well, to help them reestablish their emotional
contact with conventional reality.
   They ate and talked of anything that came to mind, with the
exception of their trip to Constantinople. An hour and a half later
they returned home accompanied by a glowing feeling within, and
retired to their rooms with the understanding that they would
devote at least a couple of hours to their afternoon siesta.
Anastasia arrived early in the evening and Nikitas showed her
upstairs to one of his spare bedrooms.
   In the meantime, Father Gregorios had sequestered himself to his
room, and his conspicuous absence had prompted her to inquire
whether he had done so on account of her.
   "I'm afraid this is something you'll have to ask him for yourself,"
Nikitas had replied vaguely, refusing to further discuss the subject.
   Later on they took a glass of iced juice each and walked out to
the veranda. Relaxing on chaise-longues they began making plans
for the night, tacitly agreeing that after risking their lives in the
catacombs of Aghia Sophia they had earned the right for a few hours
of simple, secular entertainment...
   None of them even remotely hinted at the episode with the
golden cylinder.

                                ***

They returned from their outing at one o'clock in the morning
feeling emotionally recharged. Father Gregorios had asked Nikitas
to take them for a ride through the greater metropolitan area of
Athens, and he had willingly agreed, deciding on the route from
Ekali to Vouliagmeni to cover both worlds, the northern hills and
the seaside suburbs to the south.
   Father Gregorios had taken the back seat in Nikitas's convertible
Mercedes under the pretext that he needed the space to relax,
allowing Anastasia to sit next to Nikitas. She also had seemed
excited by the prospect of an extended tour through Athens.
   There had been a temporary truce implicitly agreed between
them, regarding the cylinder and the ugly developments which had
resulted by Anastasia's thoughtless act. Undoubtedly, that subject
needed to be raised sometime but it was clear that its discussion
would not take place this particular night. As a result they were able
to relax.
   During the first hour Father Gregorios had not missed an oppor-
tunity to comment on the current topography of the areas they were
passing through, as compared with his childhood memories. In his
opinion, the changes in the scenery reflected better than anything
else the profound social transformation that had occurred in Greece
during the second half of the twentieth century.
   This was at the beginning, because from some point onward his
mood had changed dramatically. He remained quiet, shunning any
attempts at further talk, as he avidly absorbed the fleeting images
flashing across the window-so different from the ones he was
perceiving with the eyes of his imagination.
   And all the while he was keeping his hand in the pocket where
the cylinder was nestling, as if its continuing presence offered him a
static point of reference, a measure of comfort.
   Nikitas had noticed early on the change in his uncle's mood and
had respected it, letting him alone in the privacy of his feelings and
thoughts. Anastasia offered snippets of small talk, to smooth over
the gaps in the conversation.
   At this hour the traffic was light. Nikitas took a left turn into
Kifissias Avenue at its intersection with Alexandras Avenue,
reckoning to be home in ten minutes at the most.
   He was mulling over his morning conversation with Michael,
when the black Mercedes that had been steadily following them
sixty feet behind reminded him of the protection Michael had
promised him. He adjusted the rearview mirror, trying to make out
the faces of their security detail through the Mercedes's darkened
windows, but it was impossible to see anything. They were impene-
trable.
   At the limits of Filothei he left Kifissias Avenue and followed his
usual route toward Dragoumis Street. He stopped at the front of the
house as he waited for the door to open, and Father Gregorios
stepped out of the car to stretch his limbs.
   Everything happened in a flash.
   The moment Father Gregorios had closed the door behind him
and started for the gate, a smoke bomb went off in the empty road,
instantly reducing visibility down to zero. Before Nikitas had a
chance to react he heard the shrill sound of screeching tires right
behind his car, and even as he was reaching for the door handle two
bulky forms darted out from the back of the black Mercedes. They
fell on the old monk, immobilized him, and started to drag him
toward their car.
   Father Gregorios's desperate efforts to break away from their hold
were in vain. Irritated by his resistance one of the thugs hit him
squarely in the face, while the other kept him on his feet. They went
on, nervously glancing around them.
   Nikitas had almost gotten out of his car, when a dark stain
blossomed under the right eye of one of the kidnappers. He was
catapulted several feet back and fell upon the sidewalk with a hollow
thump. The other one, instantly realizing what had happened,
released his hold on Father Gregorios and dropped down flat on the
street. He glanced to his right and left like a trapped animal.
Father Gregorios remained unmoving where he had fallen.
The yellowish smoke still lay thick in the road. The man started
to crawl toward his car, abandoning his intended victim. He reached
the Mercedes unharmed and jumped in through the opened back
door.
   Even before he had pulled his feet inside the car, the driver
flattened the accelerator and the black car vanished into the smoke
with a deafening roar.
   Nikitas ran to his uncle as the latter was trying to raise himself,
pushing against the asphalt with trembling hands. He hugged him
tightly and made sure that he had not been hurt. Convinced that
there was nothing wrong with his uncle other than a few superficial
cuts and abrasions, he signaled Anastasia to take over and went to
see the man lying motionless on the sidewalk.
   He was a sight Nikitas had not been prepared to face. The deadly
bullet had broken off part of his skull and sprayed his brain all
around the body.
   A single look was all Nikitas could take. He immediately snapped
his head aside and took a few fast breaths, furiously concentrating at
not becoming sick.
   "We'll take care of this, Mr. Paleologou," he heard a male voice
behind him. Startled, he turned around and saw a man in his late
thirties, in a blue short-sleeved shirt with an assorted tie. He had
approached him without a sound.
   "I'm sorry about it, sir, but we had orders to protect you at all
costs. Now, if you'll excuse me, we need to move fast."
   He motioned with his hand to no one in sight and instantly a
man wearing a pair of peculiar goggles materialized through the
smoke-screen, and helped him carry away the dead body. They
returned shortly, sprayed the sidewalk where the body had lain with
a chemical substance, and left as quietly as they had come.
   A few minutes later Dragoumis Street was restored to its former
state of tranquillity. When the smoke dispersed it revealed a few
dozen stars in the sky and a pale half-moon. The sidewalk, miracu-
lously, was completely clean.
Business as usual, Nikitas thought wryly. There was no indication
that the neighbors had taken notice of the episode in the street.
   Nikitas shook his head and went back to his uncle. He found him
standing on his feet, leaning against Anastasia for support. He
related his exchange with the man from the American embassy, who
was obviously the leader of the team responsible for their safety. The
Americans had removed the corpse and all of the stains, so there was
no cause for worry. Father Gregorios nodded tiredly and with
Anastasia's help headed for the gate.
   Nikitas watched them until they had entered the garden, and
then went back to his car. He drove it to the garage, and when its
rolling door had clanged shut behind him, he leaned back in his seat
with a big sigh of relief.

                                ***

The violent episode in Dragoumis Street exercised a profound
catalytic effect on Father Gregorios. His attempted abduction, the
unnecessary violence, and the death of a man in front of his eyes had
touched him deeply. True, he himself had fought in the war, but that
was different in many ways. Back then there had been a just cause to
fight for. And there were rules. But now? He wondered which dark
and evil powers were unleashed by their acts.
   Or, should he have already learned that the forces of evil were
constantly active, always on the move, and it was simply his own
turn to have them come knocking in his door?
   Oh, how he longed for the Sinai! He had come from the desert
with a message of love, but was met with death and persecution.
   That same night, before retreating to his room, he took Nikitas
aside and offered him the golden cylinder.
   "You keep it, Nikitas," he told him. "Take it... it has become a
burden to my soul."
   Nikitas took it and went to his room. He filled the big oval
tub in his bathroom and slipped into the scalding water for an hour
of peace, hoping that his total immersion in it would insulate him
briefly from harsh reality, expanding his inner space and offering to
his confused thoughts an outlet to dissipate. He was holding
Modestinus's cylinder and gazed at it as if it were a powerful
talisman.
   An hour had passed and he was precariously walking the tightrope
towards the mental state he wished to achieve, when he heard a knock at the
door.
   "It's me, Nikitas," a soft voice called.
   It was Anastasia.
   Nikitas took his time to answer. First he poured a generous
measure of bath shampoo into the water and whipped it to a rich
froth. Then he lowered himself deeply into the tub and pressed a
button to his right, to open the locked bathroom door.
   There was a brief buzz and a click, and Anastasia padded in with
a strange smile on her face. She was wearing only a loose T-shirt that
reached down to her knees.
   She picked up a low porcelain stool and sat by the tub.
   "You know, I was thinking of you," Nikitas told her. She leaned
forward, resting her face on her fists.
   The latest unpleasant developments had prompted Nikitas to
reconsider the recent events, including Anastasia's fateful predic-
tions shortly before she had thrown the cylinder into the sea.
Although he was not yet sure who was in the right and who in the
wrong, his erstwhile certainties were dented.
   "Me, too," she whispered, locking his eyes with her gaze. "And
I'm here to prove it."
   She dipped her fingers in the water, scooped up a ball of foam
and spread it with a lazy motion upon his cheek.
   "When I was a little girl," she said dreamily, "I loved seeing in the
movies beautiful women taking their bath in tubs brimming with
pure white foam, and somehow they would always have the oppor-
tunity to flirt with the jeune premier. Since then I've always wanted
to do the same..."
   "Methinks tonight you'll get your wish, little missy," Nikitas said
in a falsetto voice and laughed, dragging Anastasia toward him. She
lost her balance and splashed into the water, sprinkling the room
with frothy droplets.
   Soaked to her skin she rose slowly with her eyes closed, letting
the soapy water run over her deeply tanned body, luxuriating in the
liquid sensation on her breasts, on her taut belly, her thighs. When
the perfumed runnels had finally run their course she opened again
her eyes, curled the tip of her tongue over the foam in her lips, and
blew it away with a coquettish grimace of mock-displeasure.
   She turned to Nikitas with a big smile at him that made him feel
as if someone had turned on a hidden light switch buried deep
within him. Anastasia saw him stiffen, his gaze trapped by the pair
of sharp tips which were insistently pushing their way through the
wet cotton of her T-shirt.
   She noticed he had unconsciously curled his fingers into tight
fists.
   And she heard his breathing roughen, coming out in small gasps.
Anastasia rose to her knees and with an indolent motion threw
her arms around his neck, letting her head fall backwards. Her
naked body disappeared in the water as her T-shirt ballooned into a
bell-shape.
   Confident of her power upon him she unlocked her hands
and with a sliding motion eased herself out of the soaked piece of
cloth. She let one, two, three whole seconds elapse. Then she rose in
a writhing motion, completing her primitive erotic dance, and stood
in front of Nikitas without touching him-mesmerizing him rather,
as a predator its prey.
   Then she lowered herself lazily upon him, sinking her hand
deeply into the tub, her expert fingers inquisitively probing,
hungrily reaching out for him...

                                ***

Nikitas snapped open his eyes, suddenly realizing he had fallen
asleep. A jumble of recent memories flooded his brain and he
glanced around for Anastasia.
   She was not there! Among the bundle of towels on the floor there
were shimmering little pools of bath water, while remnants of dried-
up puffs of foam had formed abstract decorative patterns on the
walls.
   He was alone. Right. A thin stab of disappointment sliced
through his heart and he wondered why. What was he expecting
from her?
   His gaze wandered aimlessly over the pleasing curves of his
bathtub, and...
   The golden cylinder was missing!
   He jumped out of the tub in trepidation, ran across his bedroom
out to the stairway landing, and climbed down taking the stairs in
pairs, careless of his nudity and of the dripping water. He was
panting when he reached the living room, and there he stopped in
his tracks when he saw Anastasia comfortably stretched out on a
sofa. She was calmly watching TV, wrapped up in his blue bathrobe.
The cylinder was resting on its top at the coffee table beside her.
She turned and smiled at him wickedly.
   "Wow! What a fitting end to our tumultuous night!" she teased
him.
   Nikitas was too embarrassed to react, as she purposely shot him a
meaningful glance towards the lower part of his body. He came to her
and kissed her lightly on the lips, retrieved the cylinder, then headed
back to the stairway.
   "We'll talk about it in the morning," he promised with a wink,
as he hurried back to his room.


Chapter 43
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           August 2


By the next morning the passions of the last few days had dissolved and
they all were in a much lighter mood. Despite the emotional
battering they had taken, their bodies had collected gratefully their
much-needed rest and started to broadcast messages of renewed
optimism. Since everything was possible, why shouldn't everything
work out in the best possible way?
   The fine weather had also played a significant part in their trans-
formation. Constantinople's raging storm and the grayness of the
Aegean had given way to the sun-drenched expanse of the Attiki
basin. And although Athens sported its own brand of smog, right
now they would not change a single dot in the map of their
surroundings.
   Nikitas and Father Gregorios were lured into the dining room by
the delicious aroma of the rich breakfast Anastasia had prepared for
all. They ate heartily, everyone in good humor. Surprisingly, last
night's incident had helped to restore the cohesion and harmony of
their relationship.
   After their daily telephone communication with Yiannis in
Mitilini they were assured that he was recuperating well, and his
release from the hospital was only a matter of days, of a week at the
most. So, when Nikitas raised the matter of the cylinder, they felt
ready to broach the subject.
   The big question was how to proceed to release the parchment it
contained. They agreed that there should be no more delay in
opening the cylinder, in order to put an end to the adventure that
had almost claimed their lives.
   The next item in their agenda was selecting the appropriate
procedure which would guarantee the safety of the cylinder's
contents at first contact with the air. Anastasia mentioned several
occasions of rare archaeological finds, of parchments and papyri,
which had crumpled to dust when touched by the archaeologist. She
suggested that they open the golden cylinder in a depressurized
environment, but added that she was not aware of a suitable facility
in Athens. Perhaps they should entrust it to a research lab of some
other country, she had proposed.
   "No need for such drastic measures. I think I can take care of
this," Nikitas had countered and proceeded to brief them on the
groundbreaking architectural project he had contracted for
Biomedics Ltd. During his preliminary work Nikitas had personally
supervised the design of the labs for the depressurized robotics
units, and had learned that similar facilities were currently opera-
tional in the company's premises in Peania, a few miles to the north
of Athens.
   Feeling his pulse quicken at the prospect of having the cylinder
unsealed, Nikitas called Asteris Dimakis, the chairman and CEO of
Biomedics Ltd, who proved very responsive to his request. Realizing
the urgency of the matter, Dimakis arranged with Nikitas an
appointment for 11:00 a.m. later the same day.
   That left them with very little time to prepare. Nikitas and
Anastasia hurried upstairs to get dressed, while Father Gregorios
walked out to the garden to enjoy the day.


Chapter 44
           BOSTON, USA: GCS HQ.
           August 2


William Pearsson was seething with anger, the more so as he
had no specific target for venting it.
   He had taken an instinctive dislike for Byzantine Memory right
from the beginning, and gone emphatically against it on the record.
Now he blamed himself, because despite his precautions he had
failed to anticipate the recent unexpected turn of events, he hoped
they would not prove disastrous for his organization. Many years of
conscientious, hard work on his part were hanging in the balance
because of a bunch of idiots, who could not use their heads as
instruments of thought- if they possessed a sufficient quantity of
gray matter to be included to the homo sapiens species.
   For the umpteenth time Pearsson dropped heavily into his chair
and tried to put some order to his thoughts, in the futile hope of
finding a way out of the mess. There was none he could think of. He
unlocked the last drawer to his right and pulled out a flat metallic
bottle he was saving for similar desperate situations. He gulped
down a long draft and glanced at his watch: Said Al Sawaf, his most
trusted and dependable assistant, was twenty minutes late.
   Where was GCS heading to?
   Until yesterday the operation had proceeded singularly smoothly.
The executive partner chosen by the lottery ritual had activated his
network and placed his material and human resources at the
disposal of Global Clipping Services, Inc.
   In addition, Pearsson had accomplished what the heads of intel-
ligence agencies always have dreamed of since time immemorial,
namely to set up his own source within the opponent's headquarters.
As a result, the quality of the incoming intelligence was fabulous
and Pearsson had started to relax.
   He should have known better.
   Yesterday morning Byzantine Memory's executive partner had
violated one of the most fundamental rules of the organization,
which expressly forbid the termination of human life without his
own authorization. Worse than that, he had failed at the attempt.
   As a result Colonel Sabri, DGA-2/MIT's director, had ended in a
military hospital with a few broken ribs, having opportunely traded
places with his unfortunate personal assistant. From now on GCS
would be burdened with one of the most cunning, high-ranking
officials of the MIT, who would move heaven and earth to discover
those responsible for the botched assassination attempt. And who
was to blame him?
   This was the first of his problems. The other one concerned an
equally failed attempt to apprehend an old man in Athens, despite
the request of his local operative to remain in a standby mode.
Pearsson had been forewarned that the situation was still fluid, and
certainly not ripe for direct intervention.
   The executive partner, however, had ignored his order for non-
interference. All in all, in complete disregard to the chain of
command he had carried out a pair of rogue operations which had
resulted to a pair of corresponding fiascos.
   There was more: one of their agents had ended up quite dead in
the hands of the CIA.
   How much time they had left, Pearsson wondered, before the
Americans came knocking at their door?
   The light tap at the door startled him. A strange omen, he thought
as he pressed the button to let his visitor in. Said Al Sawaf entered
the room impeccably dressed. Pearsson looked up at him, grinning
inwardly. The time had come for the unperturbed diplomat to lose a
chip or two off his armor, he thought. He was certain that the recent
developments would see to that.
   He nodded in welcome to Said, raising inquiringly the bottle. He
knew that his assistant drank nothing stronger than non-alcoholic
beer, and yet he never lost an opportunity to tempt him. Up to now
all of his efforts had failed miserably.
   Pearsson handed Said a printout of the recent events and waited
impatiently as the young diplomat quickly skimmed it.
   "Well, what do you think about your compatriots?" he asked
sarcastically when Said lifted his eyes from the sheet.
   "How can you make such an assertion, William, when we don't
know the nationality of the executive partner?" he retorted.
   "Yeah, that's our weakest point," Pearsson complained. "That one
of ours can hurt us with his stupidity and remain untouchable."
   Said shrugged. This was the reverse side of the non-accounta-
bility principle. Still, he had weightier matters to occupy his atten-
tion than GCS's internal problems. Those he preferred to leave to
well-paid professionals, like Pearsson.
   He was a diplomat.
   "I'm thinking of submitting a motion to the Council for a waiver
of the executive partner's anonymity in this particular case,"
Pearsson announced. "When the Americans come to flay me alive, I
want to know where to send them. If I do that, Said, can I count on
your support?" he asked looking his assistant straight in the eye.
   Said Al Sawaf took out his pipe and turned it in his fingers. "You
better not do it, William," he said lowering his eyes. "You know, all
these years we've been together, this is the first time I've seen you in
such a state of mind. In my opinion you're reacting emotionally,
rather than critically. Have you considered this?" he asked.
   Pearsson did not immediately answer, as he mulled over Said's
observation. He might not be far off the mark, he thought. Swayed
by the gravity of the situation he might have allowed his anger to
take the upper hand, which, of course, did not bespeak of profes-
sionalism.
   "How should one react when the roof of his house is ready to
collapse?" Pearsson asked bitterly. "Especially when everything's
due to a bunch of irresponsible nincompoops?"
Said continued to gaze at him thoughtfully. He lit his pipe and
inhaled deeply.
   "You always acted in a condescending manner with respect to
those you label my compatriots, William," he observed, "and as a
result you overlooked certain possibilities in your appraisal of the
events ."
   "Like which?" asked Pearsson, not bothering to refute Said's
allegation about his condescending behavior.
   "That the actions, which you condemn so forcefully, could be
purposeful maneuvers in a greater game, rather than foolish acts of
impulsive idiots," Said said.
   "By my definition, any activity not part of my unfolding strategy
is a blunder," Pearsson insisted, "regardless of its underlying motive
or its subsequent justification."
   "Ah, but those idiots do have an aim, my friend William... Their
aim is the defense of personages so powerful and so highly placed,
that they can afford to tear down your roof, as you called it, in an
instant if only that would benefit them," Said retorted as he blew
aside a puff of smoke, in consideration of his American friend.


Chapter 45
           ATHENS, GREECE: Biomedics Ltd's Labs
           August 2


The sixty-years-old owner of Biomedics Ltd was waiting for them
in the lobby.
   "My dear Nikitas, I'm so glad I can finally be of help to you," he
said after the mutual introductions were over. Asteris Dimakis had
always been fond of Nikitas and was calling him by his first name, a
fact with special significance in Greece where a social relationship
on a first-name basis implies great familiarity and affection.
Dimakis showed them to his office and asked them politely to
make themselves comfortable.
   "Would you believe it, Nikitas, I'm the only one left in the
premises? Each year we have the same thing all over again: when the
summer arrives even my most trusted employees come knocking at
my door asking for their vacation, and they simply vanish... Only
the janitor, being about my age and not overly fond of sweating
about in the beaches, is here to keep me company," he grinned.
   Nikitas smiled. He knew those remarks bore no relation with
reality, because Dimakis had a solid reputation both as a competent
manager and as an understanding employer. And he had the habit of
always choosing the best; the average resume of a Dimakis's
employee easily exceeded twenty typewritten pages.
   "What can I offer you? Dimakis asked.
   "Thank you, Mr. Dimakis, we're just fine," Nikitas spoke for all
of them.
   "I understand," he said rising from his chair. "Work comes first."
He strode out of his office and guided them to the elevator. While
they were waiting, he turned to Nikitas.
   "After you called, Nikitas, I instructed my staff to initiate the
standard procedure for releasing one depressurization unit from its
current application. It should be ready by now."
   The elevator took them down to the second basement. Dimakis
led them through a veritable maze of research cubicles. When they
reached their destination he introduced them to the operator of the
unit.
   "Dr. Kontoyianni is responsible for the operation of this unit, and
will follow your specific instructions, Nikitas. I wish you every
success," he said and started on his way back. "And, don't forget to
see me on your way out, Nikitas," he called out before disappearing
behind a partition.
   Father Gregorios brought out the golden cylinder and handed it
to the scientist. Nikitas tapped his finger at its tapering top, which
extended almost two millimeters from the main body.
   "What we need, Dr. Kontoyianni, is to have this cylinder's top cut
off, to examine its contents under vacuum conditions," he
explained.
   She nodded and approached the unit. She opened a metallic
drawer at the lower part of the cubicle and inserted the cylinder in
an upright tube.
   "This is the decompression cabinet," she explained. "It's here
where the removal of the air takes place before the insertion of the
object into the main unit for further processing. The same procedure
is followed in the reverse before the extraction of the object."
   The tube was fairly small, so depressurization did not take long
to complete. Dr. Kontoyianni inserted her hands in the robotic
controls and began a series of fine adjustments.
   She secured the cylinder with a pair of high-precision pincers and
set it upright on a metallic turntable. Next she turned on the laser
scanner which recorded the dimensions and various physical
characteristics of the slowly revolving cylinder. Nikitas glanced at
the controlling computer's monitor and saw that it had created a
complete model of the scanned object. Hundreds of varicolored lines
were revolving in the screen in perfect synchronization with the
original on the rotating disk.
   Then the biologist took her seat behind the workstation console
and zoomed in to that portion of the cylinder that Nikitas had speci-
fied. She tapped a series of commands at the keyboard, then rose
again and approached the unit, as her three guests were literally
holding their breath watching her manipulate the controls.
   A few moments later a thin rod descended slowly from a
glittering protuberance set into the metallic frame at the upper part
of the unit. When it approached the top of the cylinder they noticed
that it served as the axis of an extremely thin disk.
   Dr. Kontoyianni noticed their puzzlement and explained that the
disk was a miniature saw made up of an extraordinarily hard alloy,
with thousands of sharp indentations in its perimeter, too small to
be seen with the naked eye.
   As the precision saw would begin spinning around its axis with a
velocity of thousands of revolutions per second, the vertical rod
would lower it down at the exact height she had specified through
the computer. Then it would start to move tangentially against the
cylinder's surface at the root of its lid, slicing it off.
   The procedure went on exactly as Dr. Kontoyianni predicted. The
motion of the miniature saw was so precise that the top was cut off
without being disturbed even by a hairbreadth. Dr. Kontoyianni
then used another rod with an elastic cup at its tip to remove the
sawed-off piece.
   With a few adjustments in the controls of the camera monitoring
the unit's interior, the biologist was able to zoom onto the rolled
parchment which could be seen within the cylinder. Anastasia asked
her to take it carefully out, so that they could check out its condi-
tion.
For this the biologist switched to manual operation. With a few
skillful flicks of her fingers she gently pulled out the roll and
brought it near the window. They stared at it in fascination, agreeing
that its obvious suppleness testified to its impeccable condition.
   When Anastasia was satisfied of its integrity and resilience, Dr.
Kontoyianni inserted the parchment into the decompression tray,
since there was no point to test its durability by attempting to put it
back in its container. She also placed the cylinder and its cut-off top
in another tray and flipped a pair of switches.
   A couple of minutes later the Byzantine parchment was safe in
their hands. Nikitas put it in a plastic cylindrical case for architec-
tural blueprints, and Father Gregorios slipped the empty golden
cylinder in a pocket.
   They were about to leave when Dr. Kontoyianni approached Nikitas
with a puzzled frown on her face and took him aside.
   "If you had clarified, Mr. Paleologou, that the lid was not
mechanically attached to the main body but held in place due to the
differential in atmospheric pressure, the extraction procedure would  
have been greatly simplified ," she said.
   "What exactly do you mean, Dr. Kontoyianni?" asked Nikitas,
perplexed.
   The biologist raised her hand and showed him a small object she
was holding between her thumb and forefinger. It was a golden ring,
two tenths of a millimeter thick, with a diameter equaling that of the
cylinder.
   "I found this in the second decompression tray when I initiated
the standard maintenance procedure," she told Nikitas. She trans-
ferred the ring to her open palm. "As you can see, this was cut off by
the microsaw right here," she said pointing to its lower perimeter.
   "So?" Nikitas asked, still confused. "What's wrong with that?"
   "What's wrong, Mr. Paleologou, is that this little ring would not
have existed if the cylinder's lid was physically attached to the main
body!" she replied with a hint of impatience in her voice. "Because
if that were so, there would have been only the cylinder and its lid.
The existence of this ring, however, can be explained only by the
assumption that the top of the cylinder was not permanently
fastened to its body, but held to it by a pressure differential. Of
course, this presupposes that the interior of the cylinder was depres-
surized. Then, the moment there was created a vacuum inside the
unit, that pressure differential was equalized and the lid was freed.
From that point on we only achieved to cut off a thin slice from the
cylinder below the seat of its top, and that for no reason at all. It had
been loose all the time."
   Nikitas looked at the her mystified. "But this presupposes a prior
depressurization of the cylinder!" he exclaimed.
   "That's exactly what I was saying all along," Kontoyianni
answered, satisfied she was finally coming through. "Now, if you
take a look here, you'll see that my assumption is supported by the
data supplied by the laser scanner.
   "According to the procedure log, the vacuum within the unit was
not lessened in proportion with the volume of air which the cylinder
should have contained, neither was recorded a respective lessening
of the cylinder's weight after its opening. Quite the contrary: the data
collected by the sensors indicate that the interior of the cylinder had
contained an 87% vacuum."
   Nikitas was completely at a loss. He explained to Dr. Kontoyianni
that he had been unaware of the cylinder's special traits, thanked her
profusely for her expert help, and headed for the elevators.
   "Let's pay Mr. Dimakis a short visit before going home," he said
absent-mindedly to his uncle and Anastasia who were waiting for
him, wondering whether he could come up with a reasonable expla-
nation of the cylinder's strange properties.

                                ***

During their drive back to Filothei Nikitas did not mention his
private conversation with Dr. Kontoyianni. Her conclusions
presented a scientific riddle that he wished to explore first by
himself. He drove with his attention seemingly firmly focused on the
road ahead, but his mind was otherwise occupied. What he was
seeking was a loose end in this puzzle, a fresh viewpoint allowing
him to formulate a hypothesis capable of integrating all of its pieces.
   Was it possible that thirteen hundred years ago the Byzantines
could have developed special techniques for depressurizing a
container? He did not think so. If he remembered well from his
college years, the first scientific experiment for the creation of a
vacuum was recorded in the Renaissance. 
Yes, he was certain of that, though he did not recall any further details.
   He glanced to the rearview mirror and checked on his uncle. He
was relaxing in the back with his eyes closed. In the passenger seat
Anastasia was absorbed in her thoughts. Well, since this was a
matter of history, he could try to learn something from her, Nikitas
thought.
   "What was the highest level of Byzantium's technological
advancement?" he casually asked her, not wishing to reveal his
interest for the subject.
   "Are you referring to its entire millennial history, or to a specific
period-say the seventh century AD?" she replied.
   Nikitas managed to keep a straight face; Anastasia sometimes was
too perceptive. However, he did not have to answer because after a
brief pause she continued expounding her question.
   "I mean, it's obvious we can't equate Byzantium of 1450 AD with
Byzantium of 500 AD! For example, fifteenth-century military
technology included gunpowder and formidable cannons, while
back in the sixth century the sword reigned supreme, as non-
Byzantine Europe was beginning its slow dive into the Dark Ages."
   "Yes, you're right," Nikitas readily agreed, relieved he had not
betrayed his special interest. "A thousand years of political conti-
nuity can hardly be grasped. Actually, I was referring to the apex of
their technological advancement. For example, did they ever have
the technology to hermetically seal containers for the protection of
their contents?"
   "This takes us to food preservation techniques," she replied
thoughtfully, turning to face him. "How on earth did you think of
this example, Nikitas?" she eyed him suspiciously.
   "I'm asking out of pure curiosity, that's all. It just popped to my
mind," Nikitas answered her with an innocent expression.
   She shrugged and let it pass. "I'm no expert in the history of
technology, but I seriously doubt it that they ever employed
techniques of such sophistication. That happened much later. There
was the famous experiment of the Magdeburg hemispheres which
was performed by Otto von... Guericke. Yes. That was his name. He
used the air-pump he had invented to remove the air from the
hemispheres, with the result that several horses could not pull them
apart."
   "Oh yes! That's what I had in mind," Nikitas said. "Do you
remember when this experiment took place?"
   "I can't give you a specific date, but it was in the mid-seventeenth
century." She nodded to herself. "Anyhow, the Byzantines had a
great passion for mechanical things and gadgets. It seems that they
shared a common love with your fellow Americans, Nikitas. By the
eighth century many an extraordinary mechanical device was
installed in the Hall of the Throne, intended to impress the foreign
embassies, regularly arriving in Constantinople to pay their respects
to the emperor."
   This was one of Anastasia's favorite subjects. She shifted in her
seat toward Nikitas, and tried to reconstruct a typical reception of a
foreign diplomat in the Grand Byzantine Palace, drawing on her
deep knowledge of the extant historical sources .
   "Imagine, Nikitas, the moment when a foreign emissary falls
down to perform the full proskynesis, prostrating himself in front of
the emperor with his forehead touching the ground. He remains
there unmoving, waiting for the emperor's permission to rise again,
when he suddenly hears an angry roaring coming out of a pair of
gilded lions crouching at the foot of the throne, even as the throne
itself starts to elevate until it reaches the roof amid flights of
mechanical eagles, circling majestically the hall. Do you doubt it,
that the average barbarian diplomat would depart the palace in a
state of cultural shock?"
   "You don't mean, Anastasia, that the whole performance was
automated!" Nikitas was astonished.
   "It was, down to the last detail," she replied emphatically. "The
simple pull of a lever was all the emperor needed to set it into
motion."
   Nikitas glanced in the mirror and caught a smile in his uncle's
face, who seemed not in the least surprised by Anastasia's story. He
would have probably read a lot of stuff like that, Nikitas thought.
   A short while later Anastasia spoke up again, returning to
Nikitas's initial question. "I was thinking about your question,
Nikitas," she said, her gaze fixed on the traffic.
   "Yes?"
   "It's hard for us to realize it, but the creation of a vacuum as a
means for the preservation of perishable objects presupposes more
than just the development of the appropriate techniques for the
extraction of the air."
   "What else, Anastasia?"
   "It presupposes the development of a whole body of scientific
knowledge about bacteria and microorganisms and their effects on
the decay of organic matter. In other words, why bother to create a
vacuum, if you don't know what good it is to you?"
   "Let's go sit at the dining table," Father Gregorios said when they
arrived home. He led the way and took the chair at its head, with
Nikitas and Anastasia to his right and left. When they were comfort-
able, Nikitas placed the plastic case in front of his uncle and
unscrewed its cover.
   Father Gregorios brought out the rolled parchment with extreme
care and unfolded it on the top of the table. A first glance told him
that the written text was clear and perfectly legible. More that that,
it was one of the best specimens of a seventh-century manuscript he
had ever seen. He reached for his glasses and began reading the
elegant uncial script.
   The minutes passed slowly. Despite the air-conditioning,
Nikitas's hands were clammy and several times he felt his heart
beating so hard, he thought everyone at the room would be able to
hear it pounding.
   At last Father Gregorios removed his hand from the parchment,
which instantly curled back, and looked at them over his glasses.
   "I'm sorry. This here is not what we've been looking for," he gravely
announced.

                                ***

   "What?" Nikitas blurted out. It was the only thing he had not
expected to hear, that they had brought back from Constantinople
the wrong cylinder.
   "Because this parchment does not contain Mohammed's Protocol  
of Catechesis, as we had assumed," Father Gregorios replied in a
subdued voice.
Anastasia snatched unceremoniously the manuscript and hastily
perused its contents. Nikitas pushed back his chair in anger and rose
to his feet.
   "For God's sake!" he shouted frustrated. "If this isn't
Mohammed's Catechesis, then what is it? What's this thing I risked
twice my life to get it?" He began pacing the living room.
   Father Gregorios levelled his gaze at him until he had caught his
eyes, and with a flick of his head motioned him to return to his seat.
   "Sit down, Nikitas," he said calmly but in an authoritative tone. "I
understand your emotional turmoil, but it's imperative that we see
clearly where we stand-and for this we'll need every ounce of our
sobriety. You see, I don't think we've reached the end of our path."
   Nikitas shook his head in disappointment, but said nothing and
returned to the table. He leaned forward and looked inquiringly at
his uncle.
   "Will someone tell me what's happening?" he asked, barely
suppressing his feelings of impatience.
   "I'll tell you, Nikitas," Anastasia said, sitting up in her seat. She
patted the parchment in front of her. "As your uncle has said, this
manuscript isn't the Protocol of Catechesis but a detailed account of
a monk's journey to the numerous hermitages or sketes scattered in
the Sinai desert. He signs the report as Nilus the Sinaite, and in a
postscript dedicates it to Modestinus, wishing him a speedy
recovery."
   "Now, hold on a minute!" Nikitas protested. "Are you trying to
tell me, Anastasia, that this parchment here is completely irrelevant
to Modestinus's letter? Well, fine! Why then did we find it in a
cylinder with the inscription Modestinus's Response?"
   "One possibility is that it found its way there by mistake,"
Anastasia replied. "In that case, however, there should have been
another cylinder containing the Protocol of Catechesis."
   "Which due to the misplacement error would have been entitled
Nilus's Journey or something to that effect," Nikitas observed bitterly.
   "No, you're wrong there," Father Gregorios cut in. "There weren't
so many cylinders in that box, no more than thirty at any rate, and
I examined them all, and not only their inscriptions. I also took a
look at their contents. Come to think of it, this was the only cylinder
that was hermetically sealed, isn't that strange? Anyway, I can assure
you that there was no other cylinder even remotely referring to
Modestinus or to the Protocol of Catechesis. Neither to Nilus for that
matter." He took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly his eyes.
   "Nevertheless, I wouldn't be so certain that this parchment is not
related with Modestinus; in fact, Nilus's name is explicitly
mentioned in Modestinus's letter-you can check it out in my trans-
lation."
   "I'll do just that," Nikitas said and left the table. He returned
promptly with a copy of the translation prepared by Father
Gregorios and leafed through the pages.
   "I guess you're right, uncle," he conceded after a while. "He refers
to a manuscript that can't be other than this. Listen to his wording:

          "'This morning I returned from the top of the Holy Mount,
          where I paid my respects to old Nilus, a saintly hermit and
          speaker of words sweet, wise, and holy. The devout old man
          offered me an invaluable spiritual gift to accompany me
          hence. It is a written account of his travels in the Sinai
          desert, when he left his abode to visit the hermitages of the
          region.'"

   "Fascinating," Anastasia mused. "On the one hand it complicates
things, on the other it simplifies them."
   "Would you care to explain, please?" Nikitas asked.
   "Since we know for certain that this manuscript had been in the
possession of Modestinus, plus the fact that we discovered it in the
imperial chamber, we can safely assume that Modestinus dispatched
to Heraclius in lieu of his letter," she explained. "Let's keep in mind  
that a hollow cane has a limited volume, so it could hardly have
contained all three documents. A choice needed to be made, and this
parchment here proves that Modestinus gave higher priority to
Nilus's narration than to his own letter."
   "And this complicates the situation?"
   "No, this part simplifies it," Anastasia continued with a smile,
   "because it explains why Modestinus's letter wasn't sent to the
emperor. We had been wondering about it until thirty minutes ago,
remember? However, this discovery poses a new question: why did
Modestinus consider it so important, as to send this instead of his
letter?"
   Fed up with the unexpected complication, Nikitas rose again and
started to pace the hall. Their situation defied logic and common
sense, too. He had always firmly believed in the power of careful
planning and impeccable organizing and yet, since his involvement
in this matter, he had watched both techniques founder repeatedly.
Whenever he thought they had finally grasped the underlying
thread, new events conspired to disappoint him.
   He stopped his aimless pacing and turned to Father Gregorios.
   "Time and again you've counseled equanimity, uncle," he said. "All
right then. What course of action do you propose?"
   "Let us study the manuscript in depth," he replied laconically.
   "This should be our first task, which I will undertake the assistance
of Anastasia. I cannot make any predictions at this point, but I'll say
this: our future actions will be defined by our analysis of its
content."
   He looked at them and his eyes betrayed his physical exhaustion.
   "Sadly, in a mission like our own there can be no constants-every-
thing's fluid up to the last moment. It's in the nature of things and
you, Nikitas, must learn to rejoice in the mystery of the unexpected
rather than curse it. Besides, don't forget that our trip to
Constantinople was based on the special meaning of just a phrase-
an innocuously sounding phrase of Modestinus."
   He took the parchment and put it back in the plastic case.
   "Please make several copies of it, Nikitas, to protect the original,"
he advised. "I'll work at its translation throughout the afternoon, so
that afterwards each of us will have an opportunity to study it
separately. When we're ready we'll get together to discuss it. I'm
certain we'll find our way out of the impasse."
   He beamed at them and rose from his seat. "All right, then!" he
said as he handed Nikitas the plastic case, "who's next for cooking
duty?"


Chapter 46
           ANKARA, TURKEY: General Military Hospital
           August 2


When he opened his eyes and found himself lying on a bed in
the room 712 of the Military Hospital of Ankara, Colonel
Sabri's first thought was whether he had time enough to defend
himself.
   He was perfectly aware that those who'd tried to kill him would
not be content with a half-finished attempt, and his admission to the
military hospital would only allow them finish him off that much
easier. The hospital's military hierarchical structure would be a
bonus to an assassin coming for him, so long as he wore the right
uniform and was equipped with the appropriate badges.
   Sabri acted fast. Hardly a minute had passed since his awakening
and he'd already dialed a secret emergency number to DGA-2
headquarters through his bedside phone. He knew he could trust
with his life the man who would be answering his call.
   No, he mentally corrected himself, he could trust no one as yet-
he simply had to act as if he trusted someone.
   With a few clipped phrases, Sabri gave the necessary orders to the
officer on duty, and when he was through he asked him not to hang
up, but keep the connection alive. Then he placed the receiver on
his bedcover, knowing that every sound in his room would be
captured by the tape-recorder running at the other end of the line.
A black-box of sorts, in case something went wrong.
   He lay back upon his pillow, indifferent to the pain he felt.
Waiting time, now. If during the next half-hour everything went
fine, he would be transferred to a special clinic, a DGA-2's sub-
contractor in certain off-the-top-secret projects. Once there, inner
circle assistants would take over guard duty, at the same time
personally delivering to the clinic the required medicines and super-
vising their dispensation to their boss.
   Ten minutes had passed since his call when the door opened
without a knock and a young doctor walked in. He smiled encour-
agingly to Sabri and set about to describe to his patient the extent of
his wounds, taking special care to reassure him that he had
sustained no permanent injury and would be ready to leave the
hospital the day after tomorrow. At the end of his long-winded
speech, the doctor happily announced a twenty-day leave-of-
absence for Sabri, which he considered absolutely necessary for his
complete recuperation, both physical and psychological.
   Sabri thanked him profusely and fired off a series of questions at
him, meant at delaying his departure. Then his DGA-2 team burst
into the room and methodically started preparing his transfer
despite the doctor's heated protests. Ninety seconds later the colonel
was checked out.


Chapter 47
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           August 2


Later in the evening Nikitas with his uncle and Anastasia and
drove to a large supermarket in Halandri for fresh supplies. It
was also a diversion to help him dispel his dejectedness.
   After lunch the day had passed as planned. Anastasia spent
several hours at a workstation carrying out an extensive biblio-
graphical research about Nilus the Sinaite, drawing her material
from various online sources. Starting from several well-organized
university libraries she prepared a preliminary list of citations,
which she supplemented with material from other specialized
research centers. During the last stage of her research she logged on
a couple of comprehensive commercial databases and downloaded
the full-text content of the articles she had selected.
Father Gregorios had retreated to the solitude of his room, where
he completed the translation of Nilus's narration.
   Nikitas once more followed the same procedure as with
Modestinus's letter; he scanned the manuscript, then digitally
enhanced it with Adobe's Photoshop(r). Finally, he saved the images
in his hard-disk, made a backup, and printed several copies of them
in his color laser printer.
   After an hour of shopping in the supermarket they returned
home. Nikitas was waiting for the sliding door to open when a
police car pulled over in front of his car. A police officer came out
and tapped lightly on his closed window.
   "Good afternoon, officer," Nikitas greeted him, lowering the
window. "What can I do for you?"
   The police officer nodded a salute and glanced at the sheaf of
papers in his hand. Then he looked up and asked Nikitas if he
owned the house at the number nineteen.
   "Yes, I do," Nikitas said.
   "Then you are Gregorios Paleologou?"
   "No, I'm Nikitas Paleologou. Gregorios Paleologou is my uncle."
Wondering what it was all about he got out of the car. Anastasia and
his uncle followed suit.
   "What's the matter, sergeant?" Father Gregorios asked. "I'm the
one you asked for."
   The police officer faced Father Gregorios. "This morning, Father,
we received an urgent dispatch from Mitilini's district attorney,
ordering our precinct to serve Gregorios Paleologou, Nikitas
Paleologou and Anastasia Rozaki with urgent summons. You are to
present yourselves to a court official in Mitilini to testify as defen-
dants in the criminal proceedings initiated against you by the local
authorities, concerning the case of the Turkish citizen Ahmet
Abalioglou, who is accused of trafficking in illegal immigrants."
   "What?" Nikitas shouted enraged.
   "Hold on a minute, Nikitas," Father Gregorios cut him off.
   "We're indeed the persons you mentioned, sergeant," he addressed
the police officer, "but I cannot understand your use of the word
defendants; surely you meant witnesses."
   The police officer shook his head. "No, Father, these papers are
summons for defendants. From what I can see you're accused of
smuggling illegal antiquities from Turkey, including a Byzantine
golden cylinder of contents unknown."
   "This is outrageous!" Nikitas was indignant. "The Turk is the
smuggler and we get to be accused? What's happening here?" he
asked the police officer.
   The sergeant consulted briefly his documents before he
answered. "It's true that in cases such as this we usually proceed
with caution, especially when the charges involve respectable
people, like you. There's always the risk of a false accusation and I've
seen quite a few such cases in my twenty-year career." He hesitated,
as if he had said more than he intended, but the presence of Father
Gregorios tipped the scales to their favor.
   "All right," he continued, "I'll say this, strictly off the record: the
Turkish citizen asserted in a sworn statement that when he discov-
ered you were carrying illegal antiquities he attempted to stop you,
but you threatened him with a pistol. He tried to defend himself and
in the ensuing fight a third person was wounded, a young member
of your team."
   "These are shameless lies!" Nikitas exclaimed. "Is the district
attorney of Mitilini so naive, as to actually believe the outrageous
lies of a totally unscrupulous slaver?"
The police officer shrugged. "What can I say? I was ordered to
serve these documents to you and I had no choice in the matter."
   He handed each of them their respective summons and had them
sign the corresponding receipts, which he slipped in a plastic folder.
   "Normally, when the accused resides in another town than the
district attorney's, they give their depositions at the local office," the
policeman explained. "If the district attorney of Mitilini wants you
there to testify, she probably wishes to cross-examine you with the
Turk."
   The police officer looked them thoughtfully for a few moments,
then snapped a salute and returned to the police car.
   "Err, there's something more," he said, hesitating by its open
door. "The district attorney has also issued an injunction that
forbids you to leave the country. A colleague of mine, who works at
the police station of Mitilini, told me that the injunction was issued
to prevent you from exporting the cylinder to a foreign country. The
Turkish authorities were also notified to begin an investigation on
their part," he added. He nodded, got into the car, and drove away.

                                ***

Their session began in a heavy atmosphere. All through the day they
had been so absorbed with the puzzle of Nilus's parchment, they had
scarcely had any time to brood over the threatening events of the
past few days. The summons, however, had jolted them out of their
scholarly immersion, forcing them to realize that reality had just
taken a short break before continuing with their relentless harass-
ment.
   Strangely, instead of shaking them the summons had enraged
them. Being the target of a foreign power was scary enough, but
understandable. On the other hand, the blatant distortion of the
truth, coupled with the fact that a Turkish criminal was being
brought forward as a credible witness while they were being shown
the bench of the accused, this transcended the limits of coincidence.
The recent events had taught them to be on their guard against
everyone and everything. Paranoid mentality? Perhaps, but could
they afford anything less?
   However, the burning question was whether their summonses
were due to excessive eagerness on the part of the local DA, or due
to other inimical forces busily at work against them.
Once again Father Gregorios intervened to restore their faith.
   "Let's put aside our darker thoughts, saying an emphatic no! to
despair," he advised them. "Instead of emotionally crippling
ourselves we should be looking onward, toward hope. And don't
forget this: we have God's blessing, or we'd never reached this far in
our quest."
   He scrutinized their faces, searching for a visible sign that he had
struck a chord in their hearts. How could one transfuse blood from
his soul to another human being?
   "You may think I'm speaking as a priest," he continued, "but
you're wrong. I'm just spelling out for you the word reason. Allow
optimism and faith get a hold in your hearts and everything will turn
out for the best, this I can promise you."
   He took a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair. "Well, any
questions?" he asked smiling.
   "What about some music?" Anastasia offered.
   "Fine idea," Nikitas agreed. He picked the remote control and
tuned in to a satellite station playing non-stop jazz music. Benny
Goodman's clarinet and the bright notes of pre-war swing flooded
the dining room.
   "Nice music," Father Gregorios commented wistfully. "Takes me
back to my youth."
   "That's good, uncle, because tonight we'll need every bit of your
inspiration," Nikitas said and placed the translated manuscript
before him. "Now then," he tapped his finger on the table to signal
the beginning of their brainstorming session. "To make a long story
short, I studied carefully the translation but still have no clue as to
why Modestinus substituted his own letter with Nilus's.
   "This is item one in my list. Another topic which continues to
puzzle me is why Heraclius considered this parchment so valuable,
as to devote a golden cylinder for its preservation. I got no answer is
forthcoming on this one, either. I'm sorry. There was simply nothing
out of the ordinary in Nilus's travels. According to his own words-
if we accept the manuscript as authentic-Nilus went out on an
extended tour in the Sinai desert to visit the sketes established there
by Orthodox hermits. They were living in solitary seclusion for the
most part, but occasionally Nilus happened to come across two or
even three ascetics teamed together in a single hermitage. 
   "Be that as it may, I got no doubt that his lengthy narration will
prove an invaluable historical source for the byzantinologists around
the world, even though a bit boring for the average reader on
account of his repetitive narrative style: Nilus arrives to a skete and
the hermits joyously greet him, they share their food with him, they
relate the most significant events of their former lives as ordinary
men, analyzing their motives for taking up a hermit's life.
   "The discussions usually take place by the fire under the stars. In
this cozy setting, old Nilus always has the final word; he makes a
short speech aimed at bolstering their morale, cheering them along
the thorny path they've chosen, and freely gives practical advice on
such arcane topics as how to fight drowsiness or to resist the various
temptations of the flesh.
   "Eventually, they all pray together and retire for sleep.
   "At first light the next day Nilus departs for his next destination.
   "You see now why I wasn't able to pinpoint some extraordinary
event in the narration of Nilus? Each day a carbon copy of the rest."
Nikitas shrugged, glancing toward his listeners.
   "I agree that your synopsis, Nikitas, accurately reflects the bare
bones of Nilus's account," Father Gregorios said smiling, "but it
hardly does justice to its spirit. It's a mistake to say that his narrative
does not address the average person; it does, but it addresses the
average religious person. You have to keep in mind this distinction,
Nikitas, because this is the key to understand the manuscript at a
deeper level. It requires of the reader to adopt a certain mental
attitude, a special stance toward it, which bypasses the risk of
boredom inherent to a superficial reading of most texts with a
religious content."
   "Nevertheless, I don't think you can accuse me, uncle, of reading
it in a shallow way," Nikitas protested.
   "Of course not! However, you opted for the scientific approach
while I was referring to the reader who would read it to harvest its
spiritual fruits." Father Gregorios shrugged. "Anyway, so long as our
objective is not an analysis of Nilus's text from a doctrinal viewpoint,
your reasoning remains valid. I also agree that we have absolutely no
clue as to why this parchment replaced Modestinus's letter in the
hollow cane." He turned to Anastasia, who took notes as they talked.
   "I hope Anastasia will help us shed some light on this riddle."
Anastasia nodded and consulted the slips of notes spread out
before her.
   "Yes," she began, "but first a remark on something Nikitas said in
passing. He said, if we accept the manuscript as authentic, implying
that Nilus the Sinaite might not be the author of this parchment."
   "That's exactly what I meant," Nikitas said. He opened his mouth
to speak, then suddenly stopped. "Wait a minute. I'll go get us
something to drink, because it seems we'll be at it for a while. What
would you have?" he asked them both.
   "Coffee's fine," Anastasia said.
   "And a glass of apple juice for me, if you please," Father
Gregorios asked.
As Nikitas headed for the kitchen Anastasia pushed quickly her
chair back and rose to her feet.
   "I'm coming, too!" she called at Nikitas and followed him
hurriedly.
   "All right, just don't take too long!" Father Gregorios murmured
to himself with a faint smile.
After their break for refreshments Anastasia was ready to proceed.
   "More than anything else the following two questions occupied me
today," she began. "First, did Nilus the Sinaite actually exist? And if
yes, what do we know about his life? Secondly, how should I
proceed to establish the authenticity of this manuscript?
   "Let me say at this point that Nilus of Mount Sinai or Nilus the
Sinaite, has no relation whatsoever with St. Nilus, whose feast day
we celebrate on 26 September. The latter was born in Calabria in 905
AD and died in 1005 AD. He lived up to his hundredth birthday, if
the records of the time are to be believed. St. Nilus promoted the
Greek asceticism in Italy and was one of the founding fathers of the
famed abbey of Grottaferrata nearby Rome.
   "Nilus the Sinaite, on the other hand, lived in the age of
Heraclius, about three hundred years earlier. He was an historical
person and whatever little we know about him is based mainly on
his extant literary work entitled, Narration of the monk Nilus, relating
to the slaughter of the monks of the Sinai and the captivity of his son
Theodoulos.
   "In this autobiographical work Nilus recounts a series of tragic
events caused by the raids of Arabs in the Sinai desert. I'm referring
to the period before their conversion to Islam, when the Arabian
tribes were still practicing idolatry. Nilus vividly describes his
personal suffering and the tribulations of his son Theodoulos, who
was captured by the Arabs and subsequently sold as a slave. After
many adventures the chronicle ends with the release of Theodoulos
and the return of Nilus to his former ascetic life.
   "The interesting thing in this work is the difference of opinion
among contemporary scholars about whether Nilus in his Narration
was referring to real or fictitious events. Some hypothesized that his
account was a hagiographic novel--the first and only one of its kind,
in fact. You realize, of course, that the answer to this question is
especially relevant to our own undertaking."
   "Oh yes, I'm aware of it," Father Gregorios said. "As a matter of
fact, our library possesses a priceless codex of the tenth century-
numbered 437, I think-which includes the work you just
mentioned, Anastasia."
   He paused as he looked thoughtfully at her. "I only wonder why
I didn't make the connection myself," he said. "Well, never mind
that... you know, the old age and all that," Father Gregorios added
with a melancholic smile. "But tell me, Anastasia, what is your own
opinion as to the historicity of the events described in the Nilus's
Narration?"
   "I am pretty much convinced that Nilus refers to historical
persons and describes real events," she said. "And he peppers his
story with a wealth of intriguing details which I confirmed from
other sources."
   "Where was exactly his retreat?" Nikitas asked.
   "This question, Nikitas, cuts right into the heart of the matter,"
Anastasia said. "You see, according to the chroniclers of his age,
Nilus passed a large part of his life in his skete on the summit of the
Sinai Mount together with two other hermits. I managed to locate a
transcript of a theological discussion between Ioannis Moschos,
Sofronios of Jerusalem, and Nilus, about certain devotional matters.
The discussion took place on the Holy Summit and resulted to a
change of opinion on the part of Moschos and Sofronios, who after-
wards admitted freely that they had been completely convinced by
Nilus's theological arguments. Such was the power of that man."
   "So, what's the connection between Nilus's skete and our parch-
ment?" Nikitas asked.
   "The connection lies in the fact that in our manuscript Nilus
mentions the summit of the Holy Mount as the point of his depar-
ture and of his eventual return."
   "I see. Modestinus received it from him up there, so it was really
Nilus who wrote it" Nikitas observed.
   "Patience-we'll come to that shortly," Anastasia told him. "For
the time being the important thing is that in his writings Nilus spoke
about real events."
   "All right," Nikitas said. "Nilus wasn't a fiction writer. How does
this helps us with the parchment of the golden cylinder?"
   "I told you, Nikitas, I'm coming to that. Establishing the
manuscript's authenticity was the second subject I mentioned when
I started."
   "Good. I'm being impatient, but I think everyone here has won
the right to be that. Now, you agree that Nilus himself signed our
parchment?" Nikitas insisted.
   "Yes, I do," Anastasia replied resignedly. "But not because Nilus
mentions the Holy Summit as his abode, or at least not only for that.
That fact hardly constitutes a proof of its authenticity, and since
there's no other extant manuscript written in Nilus's script for a
graphological comparison of his signature, I followed an indirect
way of verification.
   "In the course of my bibliographical research I came across a
paper written by Foteini Theodorou, a young Greek scholar,
published in the prestigious journal Byzantion.
   "The paper's entitled, Nilus's Narrations: Micro-level Teaching, a
new Criterion of Stylistic Differentiation, in Byzantion, Tome LXIII:
224-236.
   "The originality of that paper lies in the fact that by employing a
novel method of quantitative analysis of the text of Nilus's
Narrations, the author succeeded in quantifying and measuring the
stylistic characteristics of his prose. Based on her findings I only had
to apply the same method of quantification to the text of our
manuscript, and then to sit back and compare the results."
   "Which are?" Nikitas asked impatiently.
   "Bottom line? With an error of 3.26%, which statistically is
considered as insignificant, we can assume that Nilus the Sinaite
authored himself this manuscript."
   "Excellent! Congratulations for your outstanding work,
Anastasia," Father Gregorios exclaimed, impressed by her scholarly
expertise.
Anastasia smiled at him, obviously pleased by his heartfelt praise.
   "This is a landmark finding, so let's recapitulate what we've
learned thus far," Nikitas suggested, curious to see whether their
theoretical discussion had any practical results.
   "Sometime in 639 or 640 AD," he continued, "the emperor's
special envoy Modestinus undertakes to locate the so-called
Mohammed's Protocol of Catechesis, an official record of
Mohammed's baptism as a Christian. Modestinus first searched in
Antiocheia and then went through the archives of Alexandria's
Museum. After a lengthy period of grueling efforts he succeeds to
unearth it, although he's forced to seek shelter in the monastery of
Saint Catherine in the Sinai on account of the Arab invasion of
Egypt.
   "During his stay there, Modestinus visits Nilus the Sinaite on the
Holy Summit. As he leaves, he's given a precious gift, a manuscript
relating Nilus's journey to the Sinai desert-actually this manuscript
here, according to Anastasia's research," Nikitas said, pointing at the
sheaf of pages before him.
   "On his return to the monastery," he continued, "Modestinus
finishes his letter to Heraclius that my uncle discovered a couple of
months ago. In that letter, Modestinus explicitly mentions Nilus's
gift."
   Nikitas paused to take a sip from his cup, glancing inquiringly at
his listeners. "Are you with me thus far?" They both nodded.
   "All right, then. Over thirteen hundred years needed to pass for
Modestinus's letter to see again the light of day. However, in its crypt
no other document was found. And although we can hypothesize
that Heraclius received both of the documents mentioned in it, we
have only verified this for Nilus's account, since we got it right here,
in our hands.
   "As a result, the fate of the Protocol of Catechesis still remains
uncertain.
   "Now, let's talk about us. Armed with Modestinus's letter we
discovered Aghia Sophia's secret complex of catacombs, and in the
chamber of Heraclius we found a golden cylinder with the inscrip-
tion Modestinus's Response, containing Nilus's manuscript instead of
the Protocol of Catechesis.
   "So, what comes next? Because at this moment I got the feeling
we're chasing our own tail," Nikitas said disappointed.
   "In this regard, I think you're wrong, Nikitas," Father Gregorios
disagreed. "When we started this discussion we asked ourselves
several questions, a number of which were answered. I believe we're
ready now to take a shot at the why of the whole matter."
   "In my opinion the answer to that is contingent to data
that we lack," Nikitas retorted.
   "That may be so," Father Gregorios agreed, "but then again we're
not writing a doctoral dissertation. We don't have to prove anything,
Nikitas. We only have to make the most of the available facts, and
decide intelligently on a course of action."
   "I have a working hypothesis on the sequence of the historical
events, which goes like this," Anastasia spoke up. "Heraclius
receives the hollow cane with the two parchments and places them
both in the golden cylinder for safe keeping. Now, after some time
he takes out the Protocol, perhaps to study it, possibly to show it to
his counselors-it's not important. He's very ill, though, and he dies
before he has a chance to return the valuable parchment to its
original location. Thus, the Protocol of Catechesis gets lost."
   For a moment, Nikitas and Father Gregorios said nothing as they
appraised Anastasia's disheartening scenario. Nikitas turned off the
stereo to allow them to concentrate better, but the quiet soon
became depressing.
   "However unpalatable Anastasia's hypothesis may seem, it's
founded on hard historical evidence," Father Gregorios suddenly
said. "According to our facts, the monk from Saint Catherine's who
left with the documents of Modestinus should have delivered them
to Heraclius near the end of 640 AD. We know that the emperor died
a few months later, on 11 February 641 AD. The dates match, so this
is a hypothesis we ought to take seriously."
   "No," Nikitas cut in, "that can't be true and there's a valid reason
for this." His uncle and Anastasia looked up perplexed, and he
decided it was time he let them in to the findings of Dr. Kontoyianni.
   "The way the golden cylinder was sealed, it could not have been
reopened either by Heraclius or by anyone else," he said and paused
in mid-sentence as he was hit with a sudden realization. "When
Heraclius sealed the golden cylinder," he slowly resumed, "he never
intended to open it again!"
   "Now, hold on a minute, Nikitas," Anastasia exclaimed. "What
do you mean by saying the way it was sealed? How exactly was it
sealed?"
   "The golden cylinder was first hermetically sealed, then depres-
surized-can you believe it? The Byzantines had pumped the air out
of it!" Nikitas said excitedly and went on to relate his private discus-
sion with the biologist of Biomedics Ltd. "I didn't mention it at the
time because I thought it as a purely technological problem,
unrelated to anything else. Well, I don't think so anymore. I realized
that regardless of the techniques the Byzantines could have used to
achieve this result, the fact that they did it, illustrates Heraclius's
intention to preserve the cylinder's contents not for him, but for his
successor or successors. Which in turn can only mean one thing, at
least according to my experience."
   "Go on," Anastasia prompted when he hesitated.
   "I think it means that the cylinder did not contain an archived
document-which then should have been available for retrieval-
but a document meant for future action. It was sealed because
Heraclius knew that he was dying and wanted it safely handed down
to his successor, who would undertake the required action."
   "Of course! It makes sense," Father Gregorios exclaimed,
slapping his hand on the table. "Moreover, this explains why the rest
of the cylinders were kept unsealed-they contained archival
material."
   "Yes, this contrast is what gave me the idea," Nikitas admitted.
   "Unfortunately Heraclius's project, whatever it was, died with
him," Anastasia said.
   "Why?" Nikitas asked.
   She glanced at her notes and shrugged. "Because of the fierce
fight for his succession," she said. "I can give you, if you want, a
brief version of the events which transpired immediately after his
death in 641 AD."
   "Please, go on."
   "Well, Heraclius passed away on 11 February and was succeeded
to the throne by his son Constantine II. He, in turn, died mysteri-
ously three months later on 24 May. After Constantine's death the
crown passed to the fifteen year-old Heracleonas, son of Heraclius's
widow Martina, but a few months later, on 28 September 641 AD,
Heracleonas was forced to accept his eleven year-old nephew
Heraclius as a co-emperor.
   "The following year Heracleonas's fortunes took a turn for the
worse, as he and Martina were banished to Rhodes, with the little
Heraclius remaining to the throne as Byzantium's sole emperor. At
this juncture Heraclius changed his name and continued his reign as
Constantine III, otherwise known as Konstas."
   "Jesus! This explains why everything was forgotten. I mean, not
only the golden cylinder, but Heraclius's private underground
chamber as well," Nikitas exclaimed. "He would have passed the
secret to his son Constantine II, who obviously took it to his grave
three months later when he died unexpectedly... I only wonder
how."
   "There were rumors of poisoning," Anastasia said.
   "Oh." Nikitas looked inquiringly at his uncle.
   "Yes, there's some evidence pointing to this," he agreed. "Now, I
would like us to go back to our manuscript. Since Nilus's narrative
reports on nothing else but on hermits living in the Sinai desert, the
key to all of this must lie with one of those ascetics. Obviously, one
of them attracted the emperor's attention to such a degree that he
prepared this strange bequest for his successors."
   "Modestinus also must have known," Anastasia said, "and that's
why he dispatched Nilus's account to Heraclius instead of his own
letter."
   "He was one of Heraclius's most trusted men, after all," Nikitas
concurred.
   "Good. We've taken another step forward," Father Gregorios
said. "However, there are dozens of names mentioned in Nilus's
account; how do we single out this monk? Do you think it can be
done?"
   "Yeah... Why should a great emperor care about an anonymous,
insignificant hermit shortly before his death?" Nikitas voiced their
thoughts. "Except... if this hermit was not anonymous at all-I
mean what if Heraclius already knew him? But even so, he should
have been involved in something really big, for the emperor to act in
this way."
   "He could have been a fugitive trying to avoid the emperor's
justice," Anastasia suggested.
   "And you think that Heraclius would have charged his successor
with locating and punishing a man, probably already dead by the
time he would be found?" Nikitas asked smiling. "No, Anastasia, it
doesn't make sense."
   "All right," Father Gregorios said, "for the time being let's keep
in mind that we're looking for a hermit of special importance for
Heraclius, and probably for the empire as well. It could be
something political. Therefore, we're dealing with a pseudo-hermit,
with someone who chose the solitary life of a monk out of expedi-
ence."
   "What would you say being a false hermit entails, uncle?" Nikitas
asked.
   "He'd be a man without a past, living his life as it came, and
without a future to look forward to," he replied. "And I don't mean
this last one in a metaphysical sense. Even the humblest of monks
leaves behind him a token legacy-you know, a few notes with his
thoughts, a short account of his spiritual struggles, of his religious
experiences, or simply a brief record of his overall monastic life.
   "There were many texts of this nature written by anchorites
throughout the centuries. Since Anastasia has online access to many
Byzantine sources, she could check out the names that Nilus
mentions in his narrative, and see who of them left any surviving
works or are otherwise known from other ecclesiastical sources.
This way, I think we might be able to trim down our list."
   "That's a very good idea, Father," Anastasia agreed. "And we're
fortunate to have those online resources at our disposal, because
only a couple of years ago this undertaking would have demanded
several weeks of intensive research. However, now that the
ambitious Vatican Project is finally complete and their database with
the thousands of manuscripts is online, I can prepare a list with the
names of the hermits mentioned by Nilus and query the Vatican's
Library, along with several more research institutes. If everything
goes well, we'll have the results in about an hour." She rose and
headed to one of the workstations with a copy of Father Gregorios's
translation.
   "Excellent. As soon as you're finished, Anastasia, let me know. I'll
be upstairs," Father Gregorios said and stood up. When he reached
the stairway he paused. "Nikitas, would you please bring me the
original parchments, if you're through with them?"he called over his
shoulder and started toward his room.

                                ***

Ten minutes later Nikitas joined him upstairs, bringing with him the
golden cylinder and the plastic architect's case with Nilus's parch-
ment. Father Gregorios asked him to close the door and take a seat.
   "I came to my room not because I was tired, but because I wanted
to have a private talk with you," he told him
He took the golden cylinder and turned it absent-mindedly in his
fingers. Nikitas took a chair and sat close to his bed.
   "In a few hours a new day dawns, Nikitas," Father Gregorios
began. "I think it's time we decided what we're going to do." He
opened a drawer in the nightstand and took out the paper with his
summons. "We can't ignore this, even though it's nothing more than
a documented manifestation of absurdity."
   Nikitas nodded in agreement. "You can say that again, uncle,
though there's something else also bothering me." He hesitated,
reluctant to burden Father Gregorios with one more problem, but it
was a matter that concerned their safety and he ought to know.
'Tomorrow at noon expires the forty-eight hour period Michael had
promised me and our invisible, protective umbrella will fold down.
I don't even want to think what could have happened to us without
their timely intervention the other night."
   "One more reason, then, to do our deciding now," his uncle
remarked.
   "I agree. During our discussion downstairs I kept thinking them
over, and I always came to the same conclusion," Nikitas said. "You
must leave tomorrow for Mitilini, uncle. You need to go there, not
only for yourself but also to excuse my absence. Fight those ridicu-
lous charges and if worst comes to worst you should hire the best
local counsel and have the authorities search for the Iraqi immigrant
who helped us in the boat. He was an honest man, and I'm confident
he will tell the truth if brought to the witness stand. Besides,"
Nikitas continued with a smile, "in Mitilini you'll have the opportu-
nity of seeing Yiannis at the hospital."
   Father Gregorios was silent for a moment, as he calculated the
pros and the cons of Nikitas's plan.
   "All right. Suppose I do go to Mitilini, since at least one of us has
to go there to represent the rest. What about you? How can I leave
you here?"
   "Not to worry, uncle," Nikitas replied with a grin, "because
simply I won't be here. I've decided to follow this whole thing to its
natural conclusion, whichever this might be."
   For a few moments Father Gregorios sat looking at his nephew
with a puzzled look on his face. When he finally understood the
meaning of Nikitas's casual phrase he sat up rigidly in his bed.
   "To the Sinai! You want to go to the Sinai? You must be joking,
Nikitas! If someone should go there, that's me and no one else." He
rose and began pacing the room.
   "I can cite you a thousand reasons, uncle, why you're the only
person in the world who can't go back to the Sinai," Nikitas said
mildly and started to tick off his fingers. "First of all, because even
the rocks know you there-just imagine the kind of target you'd
present. Also, think of the cassock you're wearing; it's like a magni-
fying glass which focuses everyone's attention upon you. But most of
all, have you forgotten there's an injunction forbidding you to leave
the country?"
   "This injunction applies equally well to you, Nikitas," Father
Gregorios retorted.
   "Sure, but you're forgetting my American passport, although I
don't intend to use it in this case."
   "Why? No, forget that! I don't want even to speculate on what
you're cooking up now," Father Gregorios said in a mock-serious
manner, smiling when he realized the tactics Nikitas had employed
to convince him. He shrugged resignedly, already coming to terms
with the proposed scheme.
   "What would you do in the Sinai?" he finally asked.
   "Well, that depends partly on the results of Anastasia's research,"
Nikitas said, treading carefully now that he had won his victory.
   "Basically, I intend to learn as much as I can about the mysterious
hermit."
   "Fine," Father Gregorios reluctantly agreed. He approached the
open window and looked out toward the silvery outlines of the
poplars and the deeper shadows beyond. Armed criminals were
probably hiding there this very moment, observing them, recording
their movements, planning their destruction. He shivered.
   "What I'll say to you now, Nikitas, may seem a change of subject,
but I'll say it anyway and I'd appreciate it if you let it go without a
comment." He turned around and faced his nephew. "This is my
advice: do not trust anyone at all, at least not before your task is
complete and with God's help you're safely back home."
   Nikitas nodded, realizing that his uncle was referring to
Anastasia. "Agreed," he returned, "but you, uncle, will stay in
Mitilini until you've heard from me, okay? And something else:
you'll take the original parchments with you, because they'll be safer
there than anywhere else. Besides, I'm working on a plan to make
our enemies completely lose their interest in you," he finished with
a mischievous grin.
   He placed the plastic case with the parchment on the nightstand,
taking the empty cylinder with him. Later he would also retrieve
Modestinus's letter from its hiding place within the false-roof.
   "I'm taking it with me," he said, as he headed to the door.
   "What are you going to do?" Father Gregorios asked him.
   "You'll see, uncle, you'll see... Just wait until tomorrow," Nikitas
replied enigmatically and left the room.

                                ***

Anastasia looked at them, flushed with excitement. Her research was
complete and she had succeeded in ticking off almost all the names
of her list. There were two occasions, however, for which she had
drawn a complete blank in the digital archives.
   "Of those two, the first entry refers to a skete of a pair of women,
a very rare instance of female asceticism in the Sinai during the
seventh century AD," Anastasia explained to Nikitas and Father
Gregorios who had come down to the dining room to discuss her
results.
   "Let's not forget," she continued, "that from the moment
Heraclius stopped paying the Arab nomads their yearly tribute-
about 629 AD-the erstwhile guardians of the Sinai desert routes
turned to robbers, who raided the area on a regular basis. The terri-
tory became very dangerous for its inhabitants and the travelers, and
you can imagine how a woman hermit would have fared in that
environment."
   "It's a very interesting case from a historical point of view, but I
wouldn't seriously consider a female candidate for the role of the
rascal, due to the unique socio-political status of women in
Byzantium, wouldn't you agree?" Nikitas said. "As a rule women
were not active participants of Byzantine political life, so I doubt it
whether Heraclius's legacy could have been prompted by a woman's
acts."
   "Even though what we're doing now is crystal-gazing at muddy
waters, your view of a woman's societal position in Byzantium is
correct," Anastasia agreed. "Normally, a woman acting alone and not
through a male intermediary would have had little opportunity to
play a significant political or economic role in Byzantium." She let
out a breath. "So, let's proceed to the next entry which refers to the
hermit Eusebios.
   "I couldn't find anything on this one too; Eusebios remains a
completely unknown figure to date. I can only tell you what Nilus
himself wrote of their encounter. He says that Eusebios chose to live
in a cave with a small opening near the ground to heighten the
degree of his self-abasement, as he was forced to crawl into his
abode.
   "Then again, when Nilus asked him his name, he replied that he
didn't deserve of one, so Nilus euphemistically named him Eusebios,
meaning devout man. And there's one more little detail concerning
this mysterious hermit, which the ever attentive Nilus jotted down;
he says that he noticed the stylized icon of a dromon, namely a
Byzantine ship, tattooed in the right hand of the hermit along with
three smaller crosses, and rightly concludes that at some point in his
life Eusebios must have served in the Byzantine navy."
   "What exactly were those dromons? Freighters or warships,
Anastasia?" Nikitas asked.
   "They were the imperial navy's battleships," she replied. "Now,
listen to what else I noticed: in his narrative Nilus often quotes the
brotherly wishes and blessings he exchanged with the hermits when
they parted company. What Eusebios told him has a rather strange
ring to it-he mentioned to Nilus that in his prayers he never failed
to ask forgiveness for his sins not only from God, but from the
emperor as well."
   Anastasia's last observation was a catalyst for Nikitas, who was
instantly convinced beyond any doubt that they were following the
right track. Although he could not explain it rationally, he was
absolutely certain that a set of invisible wheels was set in motion,
defining his future course. With another surge of excitement he
pushed back impatiently his chair.
   "This hermit Eusebios, he's our man," he said and started to pace
the room, already planning his next actions. The feeling of having
regained control had infused him with a sense of euphoria and well-
being.
   "Yes," he repeated, glancing from Father Gregorios to Anastasia,
   "Eusebios is our man, and now he will have to break his silence."


Chapter 48
           ATHENS, GREECE: Filothei
           August 3


   "Somebody's at the door," Anastasia announced backing off
from the window. The intercom buzzed.
   Nikitas glanced at the bank of the four color monitors that were
connected with the exterior surveillance cameras and grinned. "Our
means of transportation has arrived," he declared mischievously as
he pressed the speaker button. "We're coming," he spoke to the
built-in microphone and walked down the hall.
   Father Gregorios was already there and so was their baggage.
With Anastasia trailing behind him Nikitas opened the door and
stepped out.
   They walked down the garden flagstones, their bags in their
hands. The weather was clear, promising a fine day, with dewdrops
still dotting the foliage of the elegantly trimmed bushes as the
surrounding poplars fended off the early-morning sunlight. Further
down, the path snaked through the lawn sprinklers and they were  
enveloped by the powerful fragrance of wet grass. Their hearts
soared.
   It was just the right day for traveling.
   Nikitas had risen an hour earlier to make a few phone calls in
order to activate his plan. One of them was to his bank's manager.
He asked him for an armored van, supposedly to carry certain
valuables from his house to his safe-deposit box. The manager, who
respected Nikitas as a person and valued him as a customer, was
only too happy to oblige. Ten minutes later he had called back to
report that he had arranged for the van to arrive to Filothei at eight-
thirty a.m.
   When Anastasia woke up Nikitas briefed her on their planned
departure, but if she was surprised she did not show it. In addition,
when he told her of his decision to travel to Egypt she made it quite
clear that she was joining him.
   "I'm coming with you and not only for Eusebios's sake," she had
announced, taking his hand into her own.
   Apart from a suitcase with his clothing and his personal acces-
sories, Nikitas also took his portable computer and put into a brief-
case the golden cylinder. As he told them, he had replaced Nilus's
manuscript to its original container, which he intended to secure at
a safe-deposit box along with the letter of Modestinus.
   "I think that's the best way to get rid of our pursuers, once and
for all," he explained. "When they finally get it into their heads that
they've got nothing to gain from us, I think they'll crawl back to
their holes."
   The armored van was waiting at the front of the house with its
engine running. Besides the driver and his partner there was a third
member of the crew, an armed guard, who would accompany them
at the back to watch over Nikitas's briefcase during the drive.
   When the guard saw them coming out through the gate,his bank
he flung open the back door of the van, while another kept watch
from his position several yards away. Father Gregorios climbed up
first, followed by Anastasia. Nikitas passed on his computer to her
and was about to hand her the briefcase, when its cover suddenly
flapped open and the golden cylinder rolled down on the asphalt
making a muted clinking sound.
   Nikitas momentarily lost his composure. He glanced furtively
around him, to make sure there was no visible threat, and then
unceremoniously grabbed the cylinder and threw it back in his brief-
case. The guards had reflexively lowered their hands to their belts,
looking about apprehensively. Finally, Nikitas jumped into the van.
The security man locked the door and the armored car sped toward
Kifissias Avenue.


Chapter 49
           PIRAEUS, GREECE: Main Pier
           August 3


A couple of hours later Nikitas and Anastasia were leaving the
central subway station in Piraeus, heading for the piers. Thus
far everything had gone on smoothly, and Heraclius's golden
cylinder was put out of harm's way in the safe-deposit box Nikitas
rented for the purpose. At last, he felt secure in the knowledge that
no one had any reason to keep on stalking them, and tried to convey
his confidence to his companions.
   Father Gregorios did not need it anyway, being his usual
optimistic self. He had taken a cab for the Spata airport, to take his
chances with the standby list for Mitilini. The only favor he had
asked of Nikitas was to call him as often as possible.
   All the piers in the sprawling harbor were occupied by ferries
recently arrived or shortly departing for various destinations in the
Aegean. As usual, there were numerous tourists strolling along
Piraeus's main street in a last-minute attempt to savor its sights,
while others were crowding the docks as they waited for boarding
time. The most impatient of them were sitting on their overstuffed
bags with their tickets in their hands.
   Pacing leisurely the length of the pier together with Anastasia,
Nikitas took delight in the gusts of the sea breeze, blessing silently
the carefree tourists and wishing he was one of them.
   The horn of a departing ship brought him back to reality. He
stopped at the nearest card-phone booth and dialed a number he had
memorized. As the line started to ring he smiled encouragingly to
Anastasia; everything was going to be fine. She smiled back and
strolled to a nearby kiosk.
   Everything was going to be fine! Really? Well, perhaps, but only
after he had taken care of this last task. They had to throw away their
identities before they left, to shed their worn-out skins, threadbare
since Constantinople. To be able to fly freely they needed to be
transformed into another entity-which practically meant fresh
documents to prove their much-desired metamorphosis.
   They needed new passports.
   "Yes?" a voice answered his call.
   "Mr. Stamos?"
   "Yes."
   "I'm Michael's friend. We talked together the other evening,"
Nikitas said, realizing he had probably woken him up. It didn't
matter. They had arranged a follow-up call for today at this hour.
   It was Michael again who had come to his aid, smoothing over
his way with his well-placed connections. Nikitas had a brief talk
over the phone with his childhood friend, whom he'd managed to
locate in a conference room at the State Department, and explained
his problem. A couple of hours later Michael had called back and
supplied him with a name: Dimitris Stamos. Ex counterfeiter, ex
police informant, at the present active in the extortion business and
a legitimate major shareholder in a well-known nightclub by the
seaside avenue. Always willing to assist in special situations, if the
right persons asked it of him with the appropriate monetary incen-
tives.
   "Okay, the deal's on," Stamos said. "Do you have the pictures?"
   "I got them with me," Nikitas replied. Before taking the subway
for Piraeus, he and Anastasia had been photographed in an
automatic booth at the commercial center of Athens.
   "Colored pictures, right?"
   "As agreed."
   "OK. I'll meet you at the pier where the ferry Rhodes docks,"
Stamos went on. "I'm not far, I'll be there in twenty minutes. I'll be
wearing a yellow T-shirt." With that he hung up.
   Nikitas replaced the receiver in the hook with a mental shrug. It
would be foolish of him to expect good manners from a crook. He
had taken the next step and that was what counted.
   He went over to Anastasia, who was leafing through a magazine
she had bought at the kiosk. When she noticed him she raised
inquiringly her head.
He answered her with a wide smile.

                                ***

Nikitas walked slowly toward the pier where Rhodes was docked. A
port official had told him that the ferry was sailing in two hours for
the Dodecannese islands. He had left Anastasia with their baggage
sitting on a sidewalk bench down the street and continued alone.
The less Stamos knew about them, the better. For the same reason
he had not given his real name and Stamos had not asked. Of course,
the counterfeiter would know their assumed identities, but that
could not be avoided.
   Nikitas made a preliminary reconnaissance of the crowd patiently
awaiting boarding time. On board the ship the deckhands and the
stewards in their black-and-white outfits were bustling about,
making haste to complete their sailing preparations in time. By now
several hundred tourists were waiting at the pier. Nikitas left the
throng behind him and headed for the steadily lengthening queue of
parked trucks and cars. He made out three or four pairs of tourists
riding their bikes, but there was no Stamos in sight. Completing his
rounds, he returned to the passenger assembly area.
   Twenty-five minutes had elapsed since his call.
   Suddenly he became aware of a commotion several yards away. There was
angry shouting in Italian, and when he turned he saw a party of Italian
tourists yelling in protest against a biker riding his Harley-Davidson through
the crowd, indifferent to the confusion and outrage he was leaving behind.
   A few moments later Stamos came casually to a stop in front of
Nikitas, as if he had known him all along. He said nothing, only
waited expectantly with his hand outstretched.
   Nikitas handed him the envelope with their photographs and
Stamos slipped it in the plastic knapsack resting on his lap. He
zipped it shut and revved the engine.
   "At six in the evening, here with the money," he said, banking the
bike as he turned around. He rode again through the indignant
crowd, turned right onto the seaside avenue, and was soon lost amid
the heavy traffic.
   Nikitas stayed still for a while, watching Stamos's receding back.
This provocative behavior could hardly be impulsive, he decided. It
was too indiscreet for a man balancing on the edge of the law. He
was certain Stamos had presented a caricature of himself, and his
supposedly roughness had to be a well-rehearsed act. Why though?
What was the reason behind the image Stamos had striven to
project?
   More importantly, how had he recognized him so easily?
   This was another matter he would have to take up with Michael
when they again met.
   Instinctively he checked his surroundings before heading back to
Anastasia. All in all, he was satisfied by the turn of the events. They
had secured new passports, new names, new identities. In a few
hours he would have them in his hands, and then he would be able
to severe the umbilical cord tying him with his past.
   Temporarily, of course. Nikitas had no intention of renouncing
his life--quite the opposite, in fact. This was a tactical retreat, to get
a small advantage against his pursuers.
   He hoped it would give him the edge that he needed.

                                ***

At eight past six Nikitas returned for the second time to Anastasia
waving their passports in triumph. They hunched together and
flipped their pages eagerly, and discovered that according to them
they were now an Australian married couple, Martin and Melanie
Phillips.
   His motives and criminal record aside, Stamos had proved a
professional. He had digitally retouched their photographs to alter
their facial characteristics, though an inconvenient side-effect of it
was that they would have to disguise themselves to match their
pictures. The Australian in the photograph was bearded, while his
wife had her blond hair cut short.
   Anastasia needed only a passing glance at the photographs to
reassure Nikitas that with a wig she could change her appearance in
a snap, whereas she preferred him shaved, exactly as he was. She
thought that there was no need for Nikitas to make a change on him.
   They picked their bags and hurried to the travel agency they had
visited in the morning. A quarter of an hour later they walked out
with their tickets for the last available first-class cabin in the cruise
ship Mediterranean Beauty, scheduled to stop at several Greek islands
of the Aegean, in Limassol of Cyprus, and in Alexandria, Egypt. The
ship was sailing at eight, so they had enough time left to complete
their preparations.
   Nikitas and Anastasia agreed that their trip was blessed with the
best of omens.


Chapter 50
           MEDITERRANEAN SEA: Aboard the "Mediterranean Beauty"
           August 9


Aboard the cruise ship several days passed in an eyeblink. Nikitas
and Anastasia adjusted easily and thoroughly to the role of a
recently married couple, playing their respective parts convincingly
in front of their fellow passengers out of their cabin, and performing
flawlessly for their own pleasure in the privacy of their luxurious
suite.
   In the rare occasions that Nikitas happened to be alone he kept
wondering about the nature of the overwhelming feeling, which had
completely dominated him ever since they had sailed from Piraeus.
He could describe with so many words, but how could he
properly name it?
   Unrestrained passion? Abysmal sensuality? Well, it could be, but
actually it was a deep thirst that he was feeling, a deep erotic thirst,
and the longer he kept thinking about it, the more he became
convinced that this phrase captured the essence of his emotional
state. Only those two words had the power to communicate the
insatiable hunger devouring him from within. Erotic thirst. Every
time Anastasia was by his side, his own will turned to jelly, and all
he could think of was to urgently spend himself inside her.
   In a moment of rare sobriety, six days after their departure, Nikitas
decided he could not put off any longer the call he had promised a
week ago to his uncle and went to the communications room. The
young operator was reading an Arabic newspaper. He politely
acknowledged Nikitas's request for a phone call and a couple of
minutes later offered him the receiver. True to his role, Nikitas spoke
in English. He asked the receptionist of his uncle's hotel in Mitilini
to connect him with Father Gregorios's room, and was immensely
relieved when she told him to hold-his uncle was there!
When his clear voice answered the call, Nikitas knew immedi-
ately that everything was all right.
   "Yes, Nikitas, everything's fine," Father Gregorios confirmed.
   "How about you, though? I was expecting a call from you sooner."
   How was he really? Nikitas asked himself. He was wondering
about this quite a lot, lately. However, this was not the right time for
brooding. Brushing aside his doubts, he made an effort to concen-
trate to the business at hand. He implied to his uncle that he could
not speak freely, and let him take the lead.
   "What do you think of this, uncle," Nikitas said, mimicking an
Australian accent. "I'm aboard a pleasure boat heading for
Alexandria."
   During the next ten minutes he updated Father Gregorios on the
developments following their departure from Athens, while being
acutely conscious of the operator listening in to his every word.
   "Now that I've heard from you, Nikitas, I can finally leave the
island. I'll take Yiannis with me. He's recuperating nicely, by the
way." With that, Father Gregorios revealed to Nikitas his destina-
tion.
   "I'll be waiting for you there, praying continually for your
personal safety and the success of your sacred mission," he added
passionately.
   Father Gregorios once again wished him Godspeed and Nikitas
finished his call with the promise that he would be very careful upon
his arrival in Egypt. The line went off with a loud click and Nikitas
handed the receiver back to the operator.
   "My regards to your wife, Mr. Philips," the young man
told him, as Nikitas opened the door.
Surprised by his interest in Anastasia, Nikitas stopped in his
tracks.
   "I'm a Cairene myself, as your wife," the operator explained.
   "Excuse me?" Nikitas blurted out.
   The young man did not catch Nikitas's astonishment and
serenely went on. "And to think that I learned of it only yesterday,
when she came here to call a relative in Alexandria. You know, she
even speaks my own dialect!"
   Completely at a loss, Nikitas gestured vaguely with his hand and
walked out in a hurry. He closed the door and leaned against the
wall in total confusion. His mind was reeling, as he tried to recon-
cile all that he knew of Anastasia with the operator's casual remarks.
He stayed frozen for several minutes in the empty corridor, until the
faint musical sounds from the discotheque finally penetrated his
awareness.
   What a relief that the rest of the world has not stopped along with
my own, he thought. He took a deep breath and decided to go down
to the bar. If he had some time with himself, he might discover the
magic formula which explained it all.

                                ***

Half an hour later Nikitas still had a hard time in focusing his
thoughts. Most of the passengers had already retired to their cabins,
relinquishing the place to the night owls. The Contemporary Music
Band, as the ship's brochure called it, had followed suit and a DJ had
taken over the console.
   Two girls in their late teens were huddling together at the next
table as they compared notes on the day's harvest of new acquain-
tances, planning fresh strategies for tomorrow. One of them, a petite
brunette, glanced at him several times but was eventually discour-
aged by his obvious lack of interest.
   Nikitas, however, had registered nothing of this. He gave free rein
to his galloping thoughts, though unwilling to follow the trail they
were leaving. What was he doing here, anyway? Had he come here
to think things over, or just to be alone?
   Questions, and more questions, and even more questions...
   How could the woman he had known so intimately these past
few days, ultimately have proved a stranger? Even disregarding their
common experiences since their accidental meeting in Athens, the
timeless days that they had spent together this last week had not
been enough for him to see through the real Anastasia?
   He shook his head ruefully, as he imagined Professor
Nikolopoulos in her place. He would probably never meet the man,
but how different his personal life would have been if that morning
Nikolopoulos had reached his office in safety!
   And something else: why should he allow the communications
officer-a complete stranger-throw him off balance? The very
concept of Anastasia as born and raised in Cairo was absurd.
   So, what if this was a stupid mistake on the operator's part? What
if Anastasia knew Egyptian so well, that he had taken her for a
native? She had probably studied that language in depth to access
bibliographical sources in the original.
There was only her phone call to be explained. Well, she could
have called a relative of hers in Alexandria, asking for assistance.
   Nikitas was a reasonable person and this was a perfectly rational
explanation of Anastasia' behavior-her alleged behavior, he
corrected himself-if the communications officer was to be
believed. And the more he kept thinking about it, the more his
certainty kept growing that in Alexandria one or other of Anastasia's
relatives would be at the pier to meet them.
   Like the elderly couple in Acropolis.
   As a result, he felt compelled not to mention his exchange with
the operator; he didn't want to spoil her surprise.
   "So, here I find you at last!" Nikitas suddenly felt Anastasia's
husky whisper in his ear. "What's my naughty boy doing here all
alone?" She threw her arms around his neck, and pressed her cheek
over his. "Or, are we not so alone?" she added with a meaningful
glance toward the girls.
   Her unexpected appearance jolted Nikitas to such a degree that for
several moments he could not articulate a coherent phrase. He said
nothing, but looked up at her with obvious embarrassment. "Here,
take a seat," he finally managed to utter. Anastasia declined. She took
instead his face in her hands and planted him a passionate kiss.
   "No thanks," she said. "Because just now I realized that I already
miss our little cabin. Which, by the way, you shouldn't have left,
especially when I needed you the most," she complained.
   "But you were asleep when I went out!" Nikitas protested, recov-
ering from the shock. He paused. "Oh, you mean you need me even
in your dreams," he grinned and rose to his feet.
   "Let's leave this pathetic place and I'll tell ya all. And more. We
may even continue my dream from where you left it unfinished,"
Anastasia laughed and guided him gently out of the bar.


Chapter 51
           MITILINI, GREECE: Main Pier
           August 9


Captain Yiorghis was waiting for them at the old pier. When he
spied the cab turn the corner and come to a stop at the far end
of the dock, he hurried to lend a hand. He knew that the young man
was fresh out of the hospital and was needing assistance.
   For three running nights Captain Yiorghis and his ca�que had
stayed docked in Mitilini, and three times his fellow fishermen had
seen him idling in his boat as they sailed into the harbor with their
catch of fish. How long before they started to talk? Captain Yiorghis
had watched them in shame, and all the money in the world were
not enough to make him pass a fourth night moored. Thankfully, an
hour ago Father Gregorios had called him up and bid him to prepare
the boat, thus sparing him the embarrassment of having to cancel
their agreement.
   As Captain Yiorghis walked over to the parked taxi, his footsteps
were ringing clearly in the stillness of the night. At this hour all was
quiet, and even the nearby tavernas, which remained open almost
until dawn during the weekends, had long since closed, their chairs
upturned onto the tables.
   The taxi had stopped where the short wooden pier joined the
road. Captain Yiorghis arrived there as Father Gregorios was getting
out from the passenger seat. The driver also helped, and the three of
them carried Yiannis aboard the ca�que.
   When the driver had left, Captain Yiorghis asked his only
deckhand to come up and help him carry Yiannis to his cabin. They
took him below and put him to rest on a narrow bunk, which the
captain used from time to time to ease the pain in his back. The
years had passed, and the white-haired fisherman would be turning
seventy years old in just a few months.
   Reassured that Yiannis was as comfortable as possible under the
circumstances, Father Gregorios went up and leaned against the
railing, letting his gaze wander over the dark outline of the small
town of Mitilini, his shelter during the past week.
   Everything that he had told Nikitas was true. His lawyer had
made the appropriate noises to the right places and their legal affairs
had taken a turn for the better, although his immigrant ally had not
yet been found. However, three other Iraqi Kurds from the Turk's
boat were apprehended by the police, and they had truthfully
described the fight with the Turkish captain which had resulted to
Yiannis being shot.
   After that, the DA was obligated to change her views regarding
their alleged crimes, and she had promised Father Gregorios that the
injunction forbidding their departure from Greece would be
rescinded.
   The diesel engine suddenly purred and the boat started to move.
The ca�que was well built and had been lovingly maintained for the
two decades Captain Yiorghis had owned it. It sailed almost sound-
lessly, with the old captain personally supervising its maneuvering
toward the exit of the harbor. Once clear of it the captain set course
due north, and soon the island of Lesvos was left far behind them.
   Following his long-established habit, Captain Yiorghis took the
first shift behind the wheel. Like any veteran sailor he kept his gaze
locked at the direction of their course, except for a stealthy glance
or two toward his cassocked passenger standing motionless at the
bow, having turned almost one with the blackness of the night.


Chapter 52
           ATHENS, GREECE: Markantonis's Mansion
           August 10


The reception was nearing its end. In the Markantonis mansion,
built at the heart of Ekali's exclusive suburb, only the family's
closest friends remained, celebrating the silver anniversary of the
wealthy couple. Twenty-five years of marital life had flown as freely
as this year's summer, which surprised no one; in a way, today's
festivities had been pre-ordained half a century ago by their parents
who had made the match.
   Although all of the social events hosted by the Markantonis
couple had long since become something of an institution among
the Athenian high-grade socialites, this one had surpassed all expec-
tations. The ruling factions of Greece were represented in their
entirety, from the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Athens to
the obscure, but highly influential shipowners.
   Of course, the bankers had the lead, as was only natural. The
Markantonis and Koryzis families reached deeply in the genealogical
labyrinths of the country's financial establishment, and their closest
friends were considered the cream of Greece's banking circles.
Relishing the coolness of the garden and the antics of the
teenage daughters of the remaining VIP guests, who were splashing
half-naked in the pool, gathering curious glances and eliciting
varied emotional responses from the audience, Gabriel Drossos did
not immediately notice the high-ranking executive of a major multi-
national investment corporation who had quietly approached him.
He saw him only when the man stood smiling in front of him. He
rose quickly to his feet and shook vigorously the proffered hand.
   "My dear Euthyboulos, there's such a crowd here tonight, I
almost regret my coming," Gabriel Drossos declared with his charac-
teristic bombast.
   "The many have left but the few select remain," Euthyboulos
Gregoriou observed with a smile.
   "Here, have a seat, my friend," Drossos urged him as he made
space for him on the white marble bench. "What's the news on your
side? It's whispered that you're preparing a major push in the
consumers' credit sector; I wonder, is it true or just market manipu-
lation tactics?" he asked him in a friendly conspiratorial tone.
   The two bankers chatted for several minutes, comparing notes on
market trends and current governmental economic policies. Then,
before their conversation had degenerated to an exchange of plati-
tudes, Gregoriou squeezed lightly Drossos at the arm.
   "A favor between colleagues," he said casually.
   "Whatever you need," Drossos replied at the same tone.
   "There's a certain client of mine, that I wouldn't want to let down.
He wishes for, err, security reasons, to take a look at the contents of
a safe-deposit box in your bank... let me see, I have the number
written down somewhere here," Gregoriou continued, as he
searched his pockets.
He brought out a slip of paper and looked up at Drossos.
   "I'm talking about a gentleman, Gabriel, whose gratitude is always
very concrete-as a matter of fact, I was asked to thank you in
advance for your assistance." Gregoriou opened his right hand and
showed Drossos the slip. It had a seven-digit number written on it,
preceded by the dollar sign.
   Drossos bobbed his head thoughtfully.
   "It goes without saying that I'll do my best, but is your client
aware of the fact that the box's second key is not in my possession?"
   "He already told me it presents no problem at all," Gregoriou
replied, gratified by Drossos's quick acceptance. He leaned again
toward him. "My client advised me that the matter will be handled
in two consecutive appointments," he whispered. "First, his repre-
sentative will present himself to you, posing as the owner of the safe-
deposit box, and will attempt to make use of his key. However, he
will soon realize that he brought the wrong one. He will leave to
correct his mistake, and when he returns, well, rest assured that his
key will function... By the way, I was promised that his second visit
will take only eight minutes-then, the whole thing will be behind
us."
   Drossos remained silent for several moments, thinking of the
huge sum of money he was about to receive. He would put to good
use, no doubt about that.
Gregoriou misinterpreted his silence for hesitation.
   "Of course, it's quite unnecessary for me to state the obvious,
Gabriel, that the contents of the safe-deposit box will not be
disturbed," he added hastily.
   Drossos shrugged and smiled. For such an amount of money, its
contents be damned, he thought. "No objection, Euthyboulos. Now,
when does your client require this service?" He was literally
salivating at the thought of the seven-digit number, but after a
thirty-year career he had learned how to cloak his eagerness.
   "As soon as possible."
Drossos rose from his seat and offered his hand to Gregoriou.
   "Ask your client, Euthyboulos, to send his representative to my
office next Monday. And please explain to him, if you will, that his
thanks are welcome-though this is, of course, only a favor between
two colleagues and friends," he grinned and headed toward the
mansion's floodlit porch.


Chapter 53
           ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
           August 12


Before leaving the ship, Nikitas and Anastasia visited the captain
to inform him of their intention of skipping the rest of the
cruise, and told him that for family reasons they had to stay in
Alexandria. He wished them luck, and asked an officer to give them
back their passports.
   From the moment they had made out Alexandria's harbor in the  
horizon Nikitas had passed in a state of growing excitement, as he
waited for Anastasia to break her silence and reveal her secret
arrangements. His hyperactive imagination had compiled dozens of
scenarios for the sort of the reception awaiting them at the port-
how Anastasia's relatives would receive them, and how they would
respond to his presence. It was as if he had regressed into adoles-
cence; all of his long-gone anxieties had resurfaced.
   Despite his expectations, however, Anastasia mentioned nothing,
even as they climbed down the plank to the pier. Once there, she
looked around her in obvious delight, as if this were her first visit to
Alexandria.
   But Nikitas still nurtured a faint hope that all would soon be
explained, though he was standing at the pier surrounded by their
baggage with no one else in sight. Only when she suggested that
they take a room at the Alexandria Hilton did he finally accept the
fact that there was no reception forthcoming.
   They took a cab and checked in at the Hilton using their
Australian passports, but stayed no more than ten minutes in their
room. Anastasia wanted to go shopping, then have lunch out. They
left their baggage unopened and decided to start from the old part of
the city.
   As they were leaving, she noticed that Nikitas had taken with him
his portable computer. She frowned, and asked him why he had not
left it in their room.
   "We're only going out for a walk, Nikitas, not to explore the  
tombs of the Pharaohs," she remarked sarcastically.
   "And I'd only trust the Pharaohs not to steal it from the room,"
Nikitas replied curtly. "I would have left it at the front desk," he
continued in a milder tone, "but that would have taken us an extra
ten minutes. Right now I need to go out and get some air so I I'll
carry it with me, if you don't mind."
   Anastasia shrugged. "It's your hand," she said and hailed a cab.
Alexandria's center was choked with people and all sorts of
crawling vehicles. The alleyways narrowed at some places to such an
extent, that the pedestrians and the traffic merged into a single
creeping mass with its own peculiar rhythm. Scenes, which in a
western metropolis would have been considered ludicrous, here
were making perfect sense.
   A silver XJR Jaguar was patiently following a party of young
Egyptian women walking unconcernedly in the midst of the street
as they exchanged bits of gossip, while behind the highly-polished
car a cameleer was visibly enjoying the rhythmical sway of his camel
as if he were alone one thousand miles into the desert.
   "What happens if we get lost in this crowd?" Nikitas asked
Anastasia at some point.
   "We'll meet back at the hotel. Whoever gets first should wait for
the other, either in the bar or in our room," she suggested.
Eventually they were caught up by the rhythm of the crowd and
let the human flood carry them away in an improvised itinerary.
Anastasia strolled along with a dreamy expression in her face.
   Not so Nikitas, however. As the fleeting images of the populous
city which was situated at the borders of the East, as its exotic
sounds and the thousands of novel scents conspired to overload the
senses of the uninitiated, Nikitas tried to distance himself from all
that and with Alexandria's map in his hand memorized their
progress through the maze of the narrow roads and alleyways.
   "Can you understand anything of what he says?" he asked
Anastasia when he saw her pause at the cart of an itinerant vendor
hawking loudly his wares.
   She hugged him and ruffled his hair. "Who cares what he says,
honey?" she said, bending over the heap of colorful clothing. "What
matters is what he's selling, right?" she added and picked up a
striped shirt in her hands.
   Her carefully worded answer fueled Nikitas's suspicions. The
hours after their arrival in Alexandria had passed agonizingly slow,
as he waited for a dramatic disclosure on her part which would
explain satisfactorily her secret phone call aboard the cruise ship.
   Unfortunately, this did not happen and now Nikitas was pushed
against the wall. The recent events lent weight to the hypothesis that
Anastasia had a darker side, despite his belief that during the last ten
days he had come to know her well.
   Paradoxically, the pandemonium reigning in Alexandria's market
helped him arrange his thoughts. Shyly at first and the with growing
assurance, his reason, this erstwhile passionate defender of
Anastasia's ambiguous actions, started to protest that his uncertain-
ties needed to be resolved. He ought to learn the truth, if not for his
own sake, then for the sake of his uncle and of Yiannis who were
hurt by her actions.
   He had to reach out and tear aside her secret veil.
   Although his determination kept hardening by the minute,
Nikitas became aware of one more thing: he was fervently hoping
that behind that veil he would only discover his own, silly suspi-
cions.


Chapter 54
           ATHENS, GREECE: Psichico
           August 12


Drossos tried to present his most agreeable face to his visitor, but
before long he realized that his anonymous client worshipped
the god of silence. Afterwards, Drossos would not be able to recall a
single utterance on his part; what he remembered of the man were
his nods, his headshakes, and a few grunts in response to his
questions.
   However, the banker was flexible if nothing else. He easily tuned
in to his visitor's wavelength and personally guided him to the vault
with the safes, the key of box 104 dangling from his little finger.
   Once there, they both followed the procedure Gregoriou had
outlined. Although they had the whole room to themselves, the
silent stranger played his role to perfection.
   He brought out his key and tried to unlock the safe-deposit box.
Realizing in his second attempt that he had the wrong key, he turned
about and left the bank in a hurry, signaling that he was coming
back.
Despite the fact that Drossos knew exactly what the stranger had
come for and had observed closely his every movement, he was
unable to detect by which method he took the lock's imprint.
   An hour later the stranger returned and waited until Drossos had
left the vault before opening Nikitas's safe-deposit box. He video-
taped its contents with a mini-camera he had brought with him,
then opened the golden cylinder and took out the rolls.
   He was no scholar, but he understood that they were written in a
variant of Greek, probably of ancient Greek. He spread them out on
a nearby table, photographed them quickly with his camera, and
returned them to their original place.
   His mission successfully accomplished, the man left calmly the
bank and headed leisurely for the jeep that was waiting for him one
block down the street.


Chapter 55
           ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
           August 12


Seeing Anastasia loiter in a shop, Nikitas slowly walked away. He
crossed the road to the opposite sidewalk and stopped next to a
rectangular placard advertising the movie shown at a nearby theater.
From his vantage point he had an unimpeded view toward
Anastasia, while at the same time he was covered by the board.
   Anastasia spent some time checking a variety of Egyptian scarves
and shawls, taking them out one-by-one from their small plastic
hangers. Seeing her so unselfconsciously absorbed, Nikitas felt a
ripple of sadness run through his heart- how fast he was forgotten,
he thought. He checked back his bitterness in time, before he was
overwhelmed by it, and forced himself to wait without thinking. A
few minutes later he saw her approach the shopkeeper with a bright
piece of cloth in her hand. She handed him a green bill and took the
plastic bag he offered.
   From this point on, Anastasia's movements made it quite
clear that she had noticed Nikitas's absence. Obviously aware
that shouting out his name was pointless in the overall din
of the street, she waved her arms back and forth, hoping that
Nikitas might catch the movement if he was also looking for
her.
   After a couple of minutes, when she was convinced that they had
lost each other, Anastasia walked farther back at the sidewalk to
avoid the pressing crowd, and brought out a small dark object from
her purse. At first Nikitas thought it was a compact, but then recog-
nized the shape of a cell phone.
   Anastasia had never mentioned to him that she possessed a cell
phone! And not only that: they had discussed that subject before
leaving Piraeus, when he had mentioned that he did not intend to
replace the cell phone he had lost in the Aegean, because he knew
that their pursuers could use it to track him down.
   However, if Anastasia possessed a cell phone she must have
brought it from Greece; why then her visit to the communications
room on the cruise ship to make her phone call?
   As soon as Nikitas asked himself that question, he had the
answer: in the midst of the Mediterranean Sea her cell phone would
have been useless. Now intrigued more than ever before, Nikitas
focused on the scene across the street, bracketing out everything
else.
   Eventually, Anastasia put the phone back in her purse. With an
irritated gesture she shooed away a couple of barefoot children
begging her for a coin, and walked away in a hurry.
   Nikitas followed her. The heavy traffic, both in the streets and on
the sidewalks, was shielding him nicely from Anastasia, although he
ran an increased risk of losing her in the crowd.
   They had crossed several streets when she entered an antiquated
confectionery shop sporting a few round tables on the sidewalk. On
its faded signpost there was written the word Elite in latin charac-
ters. Nikitas stopped at the opposite corner, bracing himself for a
long wait, praying that Anastasia had not decided to pass the rest of
her day sipping coffee at this little caf�.
   He was not let down.
   Five minutes later he realized with a jolt that the pretty brunette
leaving the coffeeshop was Anastasia without her blond wig. He
turned away from her and took a few steps toward the intersection.
At his part of the city the cars did not have to contend with the
pedestrians and though the traffic was still heavy, the streets were
not congested.
With his peripheral vision Nikitas watched Anastasia walk over
to the end of the sidewalk and hail a passing taxi.
   Following her proved easy. He waited until two or three cars had
passed, then stopped a cab and got into the passenger seat.
   "Give you fifty dollars, okay? Just follow taxi there. Try them not
see us!" he told the driver in broken English, at the same time illus-
trating his instructions with animated gesturing.
   "No prob, mister," the driver replied in a New Yorker's accent.
   "No problem at all." He grinned and pressed hard at the accelerator.
   As he drove, keeping a discrete distance from Anastasia's taxi, the
driver zigzagged through the traffic in the characteristic carefree
Egyptian style.
   At some point it became obvious that Anastasia was leaving the
center of the city, heading toward the affluent suburbs. Shortly, their
surroundings took on a new aspect as the houses became bigger and
fewer, well-hidden behind luxuriant gardens. Even the suffocating
summertime heat had decreased, as the wide thoroughfare gave
access to the fresh sea breeze. The neighborhood was projecting an
aura of serene opulence, a fact Nikitas casually mentioned to the cab
driver.
   He glanced at him, shrugged, and rubbed together thumb and
forefinger. Lots of money here, he seemed to mean. Nikitas smiled
in understanding, wondering whether this gesture had become an
international symbol, or was simply something the driver had
picked up during his stay abroad.
   Before Nikitas had a chance to ask, he was thrown back to his
seat as the driver suddenly floored the brake. He pulled the car over
several yards down the road, and Nikitas caught a glimpse of
Anastasia's cab turning to the right and vanishing into the depths of
a walled-off villa. There was a brass plate set in one of the pillars by
the iron gate, but they were too far away to make out the inscription.
   No matter, he thought--it would be in Arabic script.
   "That's Farid Hilal's mansion," the cab driver answered his
unvoiced question.
   "Really? Have you heard of him?" Nikitas asked surprised.
   "Hilal's the right hand of Alexandria's Governor," the driver
explained as he turned to look at Nikitas. "That building over there
was once the consulate of a black-African country, but after a
successful military coup it was closed down by the new regime. Hilal
then stepped in and bought it." He squinted his eyes as he tried to
remember the date. "That was about three years ago," he added.
   The driver recounted then to Nikitas the rumors concerning
Hilal's descent. He was very well versed in his intimate details and
Nikitas heard him with half an ear, as he attempted to evaluate the
new developments. How did this new piece of the puzzle fit together
with the rest?
   Frustrated by his fruitless speculation, Nikitas decided that the
last thing he wanted was to get entangled in the mystery of
Anastasia, a mystery already several notches deeper since her visit to
Farid Hilal. As a matter of fact, he thought, he'd better leave the
subject alone, bitterly realizing that their make-believe honeymoon
during the cruise had proved just that: a cheap fake.
   However, now that the pretense was over the events were once
again rolling without the least consideration for his own wishes. If
he wanted to keep up the pace, he should not waste a single minute.
Thankfully, the seeds of a plan were taking root in his mind,
though it was still too early for a definitive choice.
   Nevertheless, he knew quite well what his next move should be.
And he also knew that so far as he was concerned Anastasia had
just crossed over their personal Rubicon, retreating from their
common present to their irrevocably dead past.

                                ***

   "A great welcome to my best friend's only nephew!" Zissis
Konstantinou greeted him warmly, as soon as Nikitas introduced
himself. The old man shook his hand smiling, and ushered him in.
   "Come in, come in, make yourself comfortable!" he invited him.
Nikitas walked into the living room of Konstantinou's modest
groundfloor apartment. A humble sofa with a pair of assorted chairs,
a wooden bookshelf brimming with Greek and Egyptian books, a
formica table, and a kerosene stove made up the old warrior's basic
furniture.
   Nikitas settled on the sofa and the old friend of his uncle took a
chair opposite him.
   "Where's now Gregorios?" Konstantinou asked.
   "At home, back in Athens," Nikitas replied, not wishing to
impart more information than absolutely necessary.
   "So he left for Greece without giving me a call, eh?" he
complained. "God help me, my son, your uncle's too non-conformist
for a monk!"
   Nikitas smiled at the old man's explosion. He was aware that
Konstantinou and his uncle had developed a very close friendship
during World War II, when both of them had belonged to the same
special operations unit of the English army. As a child, Nikitas had
loved to have his uncle-whenever he visited them in
Washington-tell him stories of their common adventures, most of
them routinely ending with the one saving the other's life.
   After the war Konstantinou had taken permanent residence in
Alexandria. He had lost a leg near its end and that had made it diffi-
cult for him to find a job. Finally, the Greek Community appointed
him general caretaker in one of the Greek schools. A few years ago,
however, the school had closed down due to lack of students and
Konstantinou was transferred to the Community's library as an act
of kindness, to complete his retirement time.
   A pensioner now, Konstantinou lived in a small apartment near
his former workplace. He was still a regular patron of the
Community's library, lending them a helping hand whenever it was
needed.
   He rose to his good foot leaning heavily on his wooden crutch
and went to the kitchen to prepare coffee for both of them, despite
Nikitas's protests that his company was enough. He returned shortly
with their cups and a bowl with biscuits, all neatly arranged on a
round tray.
   When they had taken their first sip he asked Nikitas how he
could be of service.
   "If it were only for your uncle's greetings, you'd have just called
me, son," he observed with a sidelong glance at Nikitas. "There must
be something that you need, and I'm here to help you."
Nikitas nodded and took out of his computer case the translation
of Nilus's narrative. He gave it to Konstantinou. The old man put on
his glasses and began reading.
   "All right," he said when he was through. He returned the sheets
to Nikitas and took off his glasses. "As I understand it, the hermit
who wrote this report went for a long walk into the Sinai desert,
then came back where he'd started from: to the Holy Mount."
   "Precisely," Nikitas said. "And with this as a fixed point of refer-
ence, I'd appreciate your help, Mr. Zissis, in reconstructing Nilus's
journey through the desert. Before I left Athens my uncle told me
that you're the only person knowledgeable enough to offer me assis-
tance in this matter."
The old man shrugged the compliment off, but grinned in satis-
faction.
   "Well, Gregorios is right. I know each square foot of that area not
only from my war days, but also because during the next five years
I participated in several survey missions ranging deeply into the
desert," he said without a trace of false modesty. "Of course, I'll do
my best to help you. Now tell me, Nikitas, this: are you interested in
retracing the complete route of this Nilus through the desert, or do
you wish to locate a specific place of those he visited?"
Konstantinou asked, showing his perspicacity.
   Nikitas had already decided that he could trust him implicitly, so
he did not hesitate. "What really interests me, Mr. Zissis, is Nilus's
visit to the cave of Eusebios."
   Konstantinou asked for the translation papers and leafed through
the pages for the relevant excerpt. He studied it carefully for several
minutes, then looked up at Nikitas, thinking that the young man
had inherited his mother's features.
   He remembered vividly the day he had met her for the first time
in 1943. Miranda. She had been so beautiful! Nikitas's character and
personality, however, clearly reflected his uncle's. No doubt,
Gregorios was this young man's spiritual father. Was there a stronger
bond than this one? Konstantinou wondered.
   With a conscious effort he came out of his dear past, so often and
so brightly returning in flashes to claim a piece of his present those
past few years. "Come with me," he said to Nikitas as he stood up,
emphasizing his words with an inviting nod.
   They passed through the kitchen and walked out to a rectangular
inner courtyard. A fig tree, growing at the root of the opposite wall,
spread out its low foliage all the way to their side.
   "Within a month the figs will be ready for the picking,"
Konstantinou said pointing at the tree, then turned to the right and
walked several yards alongside the wall. He stopped in front of the
locked door of a sheet-metal construction leaning against the outer
wall of his apartment. He unlocked the old padlock, opened the
door, and turned on an old-fashioned switch.
   Light came on from a solitary electric bulb hanging from the roof.
Satisfied that all was as he had left it, Konstantinou stepped aside to
let Nikitas in.
   Nikitas walked into the shed and saw that it was almost wholly
occupied by a low rectangular table, with a complete three-dimen-
sional model of the entire Sinai Peninsula resting on its top. Molded
from plaster and painted over in natural desert hues, it presented
such a convincing miniature view of the real thing, Nikitas only
needed to half-close his eyelids to imagine that he was observing the
terrain from an airplane window.
   "It's my whole fortune and whatever's left of my life,"
Konstantinou said in a low voice, satisfied by Nikitas's surprised
expression.
   "My uncle said nothing of this," Nikitas whispered shaking is
head, dazzled by the model. It was a veritable work of art. Being an
architect, he was in a position to fully appreciate its creator's genius.
   "Well, he obviously didn't wish to spoil the surprise,"
Konstantinou beamed. He leaned over the table and tapped lightly
the peak of the Holy Mount. "You probably wonder how this exquis-
itely crafted model has ended here," he said as his eyes lovingly
caressed the relief map, feasting on details only he could recognize.
   "No, I didn't make it," he added quickly, anticipating Nikitas's
question. "Even if I were such a skilled craftsman, I would have
needed a large number of highly detailed maps to work with, which
I never had. An Englishman was commissioned for it at the begin-
ning of the war, when things were not looking up for them. The
English were determined never to surrender, and a decision had
been taken to continue the war in the Sinai desert if Cairo was ever
lost."
   Konstantinou went to the opposite wall and sat heavily in the
only chair of the room. His dreamy expression told Nikitas that he
was time-traveling again, sixty years back in the past.
   "At that time they were a stubborn folk, not like nowadays,"
Konstantinou continued. "After the Suez fiasco in '56 something
broke in their collective soul. Call it a trampled national pride, call
it cynical realism-it's the same thing. Until that time they had
firmly believed in their invincibility... remember, they'd recently
fought successfully the biggest war in history.
   "Those events had changed everything, as a sequence of political
and military incidents proved to them that in the future they would
be second-runners or worse. You should realize, Nikitas, that once
you admit you're running for the second place, soon you're going to
discover that you finished third or fourth. Its a downward spiral
from that point on."
   For several moments the old warrior remained silent, lost in his
memories. Nikitas simply stood and watched him, at a loss whether
to interrupt his thoughts or not. Possibly his sharing with the
English military of the freshest and most youthful part of his life
under those very special circumstances had pushed Konstantinou
over the boundaries of a single national identity. Nikitas had noticed
how much it pained him the way history had treated the English.
This double identification was something that he himself, with
his double citizenship, was able to understand quite well.
   "After the war," Konstantinou suddenly said, "Headquarters
decided that this was just a useless old map to be destroyed. You see,
the new technology was already making inroads into the army. By
sheer luck that I happened to notice it one day I was visiting a
colonel friend of mine. I offered to save them the trouble of
disposing it and they didn't object, so long as I'd be willing to pay a
token price for it-the price of one pound. Can you imagine that?
One pound for this! I was happy to oblige and since then this map
has shared my life."
   Konstantinou seemed to wake up from a deep slumber, slowly
rising to the present like a diver breaking surface after a long dive.
He stood erect and tapped the floor forcefully with his crutch.
   "Well then," he said brightly, "let's see how we can flush 
Eusebios out of his rabbit hole!"

                                ***

   "Now, tell me this, Nikitas: since you've have read Nilus's story in its
entirety, did he ever visit the same skete twice?"
   "No. There was a fresh encounter on each day."
   "I see. Well, we know that Nilus started his journey here,"
Konstantinou said lightly touching the Holy Mount with the tip of
his crutch. "We also know that he traveled for three weeks; that's  
twenty-one days of walking through the desert, a hellish experi-
ence."
   "He was accompanied by another monk-"
   "A whole army of monks would not have made the least bit of a
difference, Nikitas. My point is that they were crossing the desert on
foot, so a large company would not have lessened the extent of his
personal exertion-unless, of course, they were carrying him, which
obviously wasn't the case.
   "Now, by taking into account the endurance limits of an average
male person, we can make an educated guess in respect with the
farthest point that he reached. Since he was traveling in a northerly
direction, the limit of his ten-day outbound journey-we have to
allow an equal length of time for the return leg-is right there!"
   Konstantinou picked up a wooden pointer from the table and
drew a straight line on the sand sixty miles to the north of St.
Catherine's, running at right angles to the direction Nilus had
followed. Then he sketched a second one, parallel to the first,
passing through the Holy Mount.
   "Nilus traveled in the area between these two lines," he said. "As
you can see, Nikitas, the Gulf of Aqaba poses a natural barrier to the
east."
   "So, according to you Nilus moved along this axis during the first
leg of his travel," Nikitas said and drew with his forefinger a thin line
starting from the Holy Mount and intersecting the two parallel ones
at right angles.
   "Exactly. We can discount the possibility of traveling to
the west before he met Eusebios," Konstantinou observed.
   "How so?"
   "Because Nilus says it himself that when he left Eusebios's cave
he headed due west. Now, by taking this direction Nilus did not
continue along his previous course; rather, he took a short detour
before heading back to the Holy Mount."
   Konstantinou smiled and raised a hand to prevent the question
Nikitas was ready to ask. "Yes, you want to know how I came to that
conclusion... well, it's really simple: by counting the days elapsed
since Nilus began his journey through the desert. Taking into
account his preceding visits, we see that he arrived at the cave of
Eusebios in the ninth day. Therefore, if he just turned about and
headed straight back home-which he didn't, since during his
return trip he never visited twice the same skete-we'd have a total
of eighteen days of travel time. Three days would be missing from
the total of the twenty-one.
   "How, or more precisely, where were those three days spent? As I
see it, Nilus reached the farthest point of his journey at the cave of
Eusebios, so when he writes that at the break of dawn he headed due
west, he probably means that for the next three days he made a wide
circle in a westerly direction before turning southeast and heading
for home.
   "His itinerary pattern resembles a triangle, with the Holy Mount
and the cave of Eusebios at its two tips, while the third one lies
somewhere to the west-where exactly it's of no concern. That's why
it took Nilus another twelve days to return home."
   "Therefore, the cave of Eusebios lay at some point along the line
passing through the farthest limit of his journey," Nikitas said,
pointing at the first line Konstantinou had drawn.
   "Well, at this point things are getting somewhat tricky," the
old man replied thoughtfully. "Maybe yes and maybe no, because
that line marks the farthest point an average person could reach
if he stretched himself to the limits of his endurance. Besides,
let's not forget that Nilus stopped at every skete he came by, so he
probably never went that far. A conservative estimate would
place Eusebios's skete within a strip of land starting from that
farthest line and extending a distance of a three days' walk to a
southerly direction-say all the way to the wadi Sirtaba."
Nikitas shook his head. "Even with those restrictions, we're still
left with a very large area," he observed.
   "We're not through yet," the old man cautioned him. He took
again the translation and leafed through the pages. "Come here and
take a look," he invited Nikitas. "Nilus himself gives us some
poignant details of his visit to Eusebios."
   Nikitas approached him and peered over his shoulder, following
with his eyes Konstantinou's finger as it traced the passage he was
reading in a loud voice.
   "Right here it says that Nilus and his companion were greatly
discomforted as they approached Eusebios's skete, because a deep
layer of sand covered the path."
Konstantinou noticed Nikitas's confusion and smiled.
   "This desert, Nikitas, is not the Sahara. For the most part it's
made up of high, rugged mountains and arid ravines or wadis.
Naturally, there are sandy areas here and there, but not predomi-
nantly. Actually, the Sinai desert supports a wide spectrum of
wildlife, a fact most people are unaware of."
   "My own impression, even after my visit at St. Catherine's, was
that the Sinai's a classic desert with sand dunes and all of that,"
Nikitas confessed.
   Konstantinou nodded and went on. "Nilus's description of his
approach to the cave of Eusebios indicates that he had entered a dry
ravine-a wadi as it's called in Arabic. The orientation of that wadi,
however, must have been from the east to the west, because it had
to look toward the Arabian Peninsula."
   He paused and Nikitas was momentarily afraid that he had one
of his lapses. But Konstantinou turned abruptly toward him and
looked him in the eyes.
   "In southern Jordan, yes, but mostly in Saudi Arabia-that's
where you'll find the vast, empty expanses you associate with the
concept of a 'classic' desert, Nikitas. Wild, inhospitable... deadly."
He shook his head slowly. "Yes, I could tell you a few things about
An' Nafud or Rub al-Hali, which is five times bigger than Greece."
He waited for a minute before continuing, to let Nikitas absorb
the relative sizes of the two areas.
   "What's of interest in this specific case, though," Konstantinou
continued in a businesslike manner, "is that the khamsin winds
blow from the direction of the Arabian Peninsula. They're winds hot
and dry that carry huge amounts of fine sand as far as the west coast
of the Gulf of Aqaba, even into the Sinai desert. For that reason the
wadis with an easterly orientation are often inaccessible or make for
rough going, due to their deep sand deposits."
   "If this is so, would not Eusebios have run the risk of having the
opening to his cave choked up?" Nikitas asked.
   "A pertinent question," Konstantinou smiled and patted him on
the back. "Yes, this danger was real. But, as our Greek ancestors used
to say, o�d n kak�n �mig j kalo� -there's no evil without some
unintended good side effect. You should pray for that cave to be
buried in sand, because this is your only hope of discovering it."
   He replaced the pointer at the edge of the table and started to
pace the room. There was a last point he wanted to make perfectly
clear to Nikitas.
   "Now listen, my son," he continued, "If the cave is indeed buried
in the sand, this can only mean that Eusebios wasn't acquainted with
the quirks of the Sinai desert. Because no one else, but a person
totally ignorant of its ways would have placed the entrance of his
home facing the east, thus exposing it to the ruthless khamsin
winds."
   "There's no doubt as to the orientation of his entrance," Nikitas
observed, "since Nilus devotes several lines in praise of the early
morning sunlight that flooded the interior of the cave."
   "Precisely. I was also impressed from that passage." Konstantinou
put on his glasses and flipped the pages of the translation. "It's
somewhere here... Yes. Right here where Nilus sings praise to the
glory of God, taking occasion from the profusion of light within the
cave and the morning sun's brilliance. This can only be explained by
assuming that the cave opened toward the east."
   "I think we've made some progress, Mr. Zissis," Nikitas said, "but
something that you mentioned earlier still puzzles me. You said that
I can only discover Eusebios's cave if it's buried in the sand. Why so?
One would have thought that this would have made things harder,
not easier."
   "I'll explain. You only wonder about this, Nikitas, because you're
trapped by your preconception of the Sinai desert as a great expanse
of land without a trace of life or human presence," Konstantinou
replied. "You must understand that if the cave was visible, it would
have been discovered and rediscovered by now hundreds of times by
the locals, who literally comb every square inch of the desert in
hopes of unearthing ancient artifacts."
   The old warrior approached Nikitas and lowered his voice.
   "Since the war everyone in Egypt plays the game of treasure
hunting: the young and the older people, the great and the
humble-class and social position mean nothing when it comes to
it. If you think, Nikitas, that Greece is swarming with criminals
trading in illegal antiquities, well then, I can't begin describing the
situation here..."
   Konstantinou turned about and walked to the door.
   "These things, however, are of no concern to you," he said gazing
at the opposite wall of the courtyard, his imagination once again
feverishly active, retrieving faces and names of comrades lost in a
war half-a-century old, reliving adventures that would never find
their way in the history handbooks.
   "Go, Nikitas, go find what you're looking for," he suddenly said
out loud. "I don't know what that is, but in you I recognize my own
passion when I set foot to old Alexandria so long ago, to fight for the
things I cherished the most..."


Chapter 56
           ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT: Farid Hilal's Villa
           August 12


Anastasia had abandoned herself greedily to the hands of her
experienced lover. Farid Hilal's skillful, inquisitive fingers were
exploring for more than an hour secret nooks in her body she had
forgotten they existed. She was only praying he would resist the
temptation of surrendering to his passion for a while longer,
delaying the climax of their erotic feast for as long as possible.
   For his part, Hilal was nurturing no illusions of their motives for
being together. He was well aware of the multitude of the forces
clashing within him and knew that he would have liked it a lot
better, had he lived his life in an older, a purer age, when women
knew exactly their true position in society and a gentleman's harem
reflected on this earth the traditional view of a Muslim's Paradise.
   However, he was also intelligent enough to understand that this
was an impossible dream in his age, especially in his adoptive
country. But, perhaps his dreams might come true sometime in the
future, and somewhere else, too...
In the meantime, he had allowed his libido to find a more
innocent outlet in the decoration of his bedroom.
   It was a hallmark of his character that the decorators he had
selected among the dozens of applicants had no relation whatsoever
with Islam or the Arabic culture. After a close scrutiny of their
proposals, Hilal had contracted Architettura Tradizionale S.p.a., one
of Rome's largest architectural companies, for the project. The result
was fabulous, at least according to his own esthetic criteria. His
bedroom had the look of a rich Hollywood setting, equipped with a
multitude of props that helped him quench his visual thirst.
   In the center of the immense room rose an elaborate pavilion
surrounded by a series of slender pillars supporting a cupola, all
done in the style of the Abbasid caliphs era. The complex arabesques
laid out on the frieze were clearly reflected in the half-moon-shaped
pool opposite the pavilion, whose still waters were slowly changing
color, illuminated by a hidden array of revolving lasers.
   Where the pavilion ended, a series of overlapping thick Persian
carpets took over, paving the way to the elevated platform which
accommodated Hilal's king-size bed. His working-bed, as he lovingly
referred to it. The surrounding walls were covered by rare-wood
paneling with bronze studding, while the burning incense and the
soft Arabic music added the final atmospheric touches to his master
bedroom.
   Anastasia opened her eyes and glanced toward the young maid
who was kneeling at the foot of the low platform, avidly drinking
with her eyes his master's performance. Hilal's philosophy made a
sort of inverted sense, Anastasia thought with an inward smile: if he
could not have his harem of wives, he certainly could afford a host
of beautiful serving girls...
   Momentarily distracted by the mesmerizing gaze of the dark-
skinned woman, Anastasia attempted to rob the Ethiopian maid of
her primordial power by analyzing the motives behind her sexual
behavior, when she felt a familiar tingling at the underside of her left
wrist. She knew that the metallic plate of her wristwatch she was
wearing military style for this purpose, had conducted a mild
electroshock to her skin. It was not a painful sting, but strong
enough to jolt her out of her sexual bliss.
Her lover smiled smugly, attributing her sudden twitch to his
own conscientious efforts, and re-doubled his sexual exertions.
Anastasia, aware that time was running out now, allowed her body
to reach its final release and slide into Hilal's pool of syrupy pleasure.
Five minutes later she was slipping out from her lover's sweaty
embrace.
   "I have to go to the bathroom," she whispered to his ear and
despite his protests and counter-offers she rose, took her purse and
hurried to the bath.
   Anastasia stood under the shower and let the hot, pressurized
water pelt her mercilessly until her skin turned pink. The call had
reached her at an inopportune time, she thought, but she could
hardly complain. At headquarters they were still under the impres-
sion she was out shopping with Nikitas.
   When she was ready to handle the business at hand, she left the
shower cubicle without turning off the spout and sat on an onyx
stool. She took out her cell phone and dialed a twelve-digit number.
When a female voice answered her call, she gave her password and
pressed the scrambling activator button.
   "What's the emergency?" she said affecting an irritated tone.
   "A change in tactics," a male voice replied. "You must immedi-
ately return to the hotel together with Paleologou. Two operatives
from Interrogation will be there to take over. As soon as that
happens you'll be discharged of your duties."
   "Why? What happened?" Anastasia exclaimed.
   "We opened Paleologou's safe-deposit box in Athens and went
through its contents. Guess what: the Hellenist scholar who studied
the photos reported that they were pictures of the first pages of
Plato's Symposium, Oxford edition, photocopied and magnified two
and a half times, then bleached in a chlorine solution," the voice in
the phone explained.
   This was one of the very few moments in her life that Anastasia
felt completely at a loss. Quite plainly, she had been way off the
mark in her evaluation of Nikitas. Now, even his accidental disap-
pearance in the market took a radically different meaning.
   Regaining her composure, she fed to her listener a heavily
censored version of the recent events, saying that she was separated
from Nikitas in Alexandria's crowded streets. She picked in random
an area of the city where she was supposedly right now, and stressed
the fact that during the last couple of hours she was wandering
around searching for Nikitas.
   Before hanging up, her caller gave her a new set of instructions.
She was to return immediately to the hotel and wait there for
Paleologou. When he arrived, she should keep him in their room
until the interrogators took over. Then she would be free.
   Anastasia dropped her cell phone back in her purse and turned off
the shower. She was angry with Nikitas for tricking her, with herself
for being taken in, and was in no mood to face her impatient lover.
Then her training took over and she stood up, determined to have a
second round with Paleologou. She'd take her blood back.
However, this was the first time that things had not turned out as
planned.


Chapter 57
           ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT: Konstantinou's Apartment
           August 12


Nikitas left Konstantinou's apartment with renewed optimism.
His uncle's best friend had helped him delimit the area within
which lay Eusebios's cave as narrowly as possible, and had advised
him on the means he should use for carrying out his search.
   "Before you leave I'll say this to you," he told Nikitas as he saw
him out. "Watch out, my son! And I don't mean the dangers of the
desert--they've been known and documented since thousands of
years." He reached for Nikitas and grabbed him by the shoulders.
   "Watch out for those who take pleasure in hurting people, the
ordinary people like me and you. Because you'll not avoid them. So,
be ready for everything, Nikitas, and God be with you!"
   Nikitas shook Konstantinou's outstretched hand as he thanked
him again, and then walked out into the scorching midday heat. His
next destination was Alexandria's Central Bus Station.


Chapter 58
           EGYPT: Alexandria-Cairo Highway
           August 12


The shuttle bus running the Alexandria-Cairo line departed
according to schedule. It soon left behind the outer suburbs of
Alexandria's greater metropolitan area, headed for Cairo via the
desert highway at a hundred kilometers per hour.
   The panoramic window and his elevated seat offered Nikitas a
great view of the countryside. The fact that the TV set was broken
down also helped a lot. The quiet was a welcome gift, especially
when shortly after their departure most of the passengers dozed off.
   Outside the early afternoon sun was burning fiercely on anything
that lay exposed. Within the bus, however, the passengers were well
insulated from the heat by the powerful air-conditioning unit. The
cozy surroundings made Nikitas feel safe for the first time since he
had seen Anastasia enter Farid Hilal's villa. He stretched out his legs
and leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed. He had at least a
couple of hours to himself and there were things he ought to
consider.
   Although Anastasia was the last thing he wanted to think of,
Nikitas was still seething by her betrayal. But-could he call betrayal
an enemy's behavior? Because this is what she showed herself to be.
   A question of semantics. If not betrayal, then surely deception,
and the worst of it was that it would have far-reaching conse-
quences, since its roots reached a long way back in time. To be
precise, Nikitas thought, they went back all the way to the begin-
ning. Anastasia had been with them right from the start and knew
everything they had been through-if not more, because of her
expertise.
   The implication was that those behind her also possessed the
same knowledge.
   Well, despite what they knew, was there anything they did not?
Nikitas started to mentally tip off his fingers. First, they didn't know
where his uncle and Yiannis had taken the original manuscripts.
   That was good. Second, they didn't know where he was. This was
even better, because he was in a foreign country all by himself. And
third, they were ignorant of his intentions, where and how he would
begin his search for the hermit's cave.
   Notwithstanding the fact that his pursuers would have consulted
their own experts, Nikitas firmly believed that as of now he was one
step ahead in the game. Furthermore, he was convinced that
Anastasia's employers would give a higher priority to hunting him
down instead of to preparing an expedition to the Sinai, assuming
there would be ample time for that after his capture.
   There were two other separate incidents concerning the golden
cylinder, which Nikitas was unable to reconcile: Anastasia's attempt
to get rid of it by throwing the cylinder into the Aegean, and the
abduction attempt against his uncle to possess it. There was a funda-
mental inconsistency between those two events: if their pursuers
had wanted the cylinder at all costs, why had she tried to dispose of
it?
There was simply no logical explanation of that contradiction.
Nikitas had decided to turn the page and turn his attention to his
more pressing concerns when the driver suddenly braked hard,
catapulting his dozing passengers to their front seats. The bus came
to a stop and a heavily armed, uniformed police officer climbed up.
He stood motionless next to the driver, quietly scrutinizing the
frozen passengers.
   The silence on stretched for a couple of minutes. The Egyptian
women were keeping their heads low, while their male escorts for
the most part feigned sleep. Those unlucky enough to be caught by
the policeman's stare hardened their features into masks of indiffer-
ence.
   After a while the policeman nodded slightly, as if silently
answering a question to himself, and started along the aisle toward
the rear checking the ID's of the passengers. There was an audible
collective sigh as everyone visibly relaxed. Relieved that it was only
a routine police checkout, the passengers rummaged in their purses,
briefcases, and folded kerchiefs for their papers.
   Nikitas, however, sat frozen in his seat. If he was the search's
target, then the game was over before it had started, and for a
moment wondered if his uncle and his friends would ever hear of
him again...
   Ten minutes later the police officer was leaning over him, his
outstretched hand mutely challenging him for his papers. Nikitas
handed him his Australian passport. The Egyptian glanced at it
perfunctorily and returned it with a smile-the first exception to his
scowling look since he'd got on the bus.
   "We're proud you've come from your distant country to visit
ours," he said in English. "Have a nice stay in Cairo," he added with
a tilt of his head. He returned the passport and proceeded to the next
passenger.
   When he got off the bus and the rear door was closed, the driver
started quickly the engine. He floored the accelerator and turned on
the radio for some badly needed music. Nikitas breathed deeply
along with the rest of the passengers, wiping off the sweat from his
hands on his trousers. He felt he had just lost one of his spare lives.
The bus veered to the left as it joined the highway, accelerating
toward Cairo.


Chapter 59
           ANKARA, TURKEY: DGA-2/MIT HQ.
           August 12


   "Send him in!" Sabri grunted through the intercom and his
personal assistant ushered Professor Tugrul Sabah into his
newly renovated office. The colonel greeted him warmly and
motioned him to a seat.
   When the professor had sat down, Sabri took his own seat at the
desk and leaned forward, resting his chin upon his fist. He peered at
the professor for several seconds, observing him closely. As always,
he had a home base advantage.
   It was a well documented fact, Sabri thought with satisfaction,
that even a law-abiding citizen felt uncomfortable when at police
station-let alone in MIT's dreaded headquarters. In the course of
his long career the colonel had learned to utilize the semi-conscious
fear of his visitors, that was justifiably rooted into the rich record of
power abuse on the part of certain governmental organizations.
   "Well, Professor Sabah, what have you got for me?" he asked.
Sabah opened his briefcase and took out a thin folder. "This is my
detailed report, colonel. In brief, what you called Aghia Sophia's
crypt is actually an extended underground tunnel complex, dating
back to the Byzantine era. From what I've seen, its most character-
istic feature is the triadic pattern of its branching tunnels that
alludes to the Christian cross, the most powerful of all Christian
symbols."
   He leaned forward and neatly placed the folder in front of Sabri.
   "Despite my efforts I could find no underground construction,
which is a riddle in itself. It doesn't make sense for the catacombs to
have been built for no reason at all. In my opinion, there must be a
great number of secret passages leading to unexplored chambers. I
suggest we immediately proceed to a full-scale excavation which
will give us a more detailed picture of the underground complex."
   "Were there any finds?" Sabri asked almost indifferently.
   "If you mean any concrete archaeological objects, no. For that
reason it is imperative that we continue the excavations."
   Colonel Sabri looked at Sabah in a calculating manner, betting
with himself on the professor's probable reaction to his forthcoming
request.
   "There will be no excavation, professor, but for reasons of public
interest the crypt shall be sealed. I'm referring to something quite
permanent. You will be assigned a special team, which will under-
take the task of filling up with cement the entrance to Aghia Sophia's
catacombs."
   For a few moments Sabah thought he had not heard him clearly,
but seeing Sabri's serious expression, he realized that the colonel had
meant every word he had said.
   "You want me to do what?" he exclaimed indignantly, completely
forgetting where he was or whom he was addressing. "To cement
over the crypt of Aghia Sophia? Are you mad? This is unthinkable!"
He jumped up to his feet and made to leave.
   "I'll complain to the Prime Minister in person for your
harebrained scheme, colonel!" he shouted in outrage.
   "Aw, come on professor, please forgive a public servant's awkward
attempt at raising a laugh," Sabri said resignedly. "Nobody's going to
harm your precious crypt. On the contrary, the real reason I invited
you here, Professor Sabah, was to ask your help in speeding up the
procedures for the declassification of this great discovery."
   Professor Sabah slowly lowered himself into his chair, feeling
embarrassed for his emotional outburst. Sabri watched him thought-
fully. He had bet on both sides, of course, so that he had both lost
and won. This was his way: he gambled by covering all possible
outcomes.
   He threw a hidden switch under his desk, signaling his assistant
to place his visitor under surveillance after his departure.
   "Everything's fine, professor," he spoke soothingly. "Tonight I'll
study your report, and tomorrow we'll have a final chat before your
return to Constantinople. You'll get your excavation permit in no
time at all, I'm certain of that."
   Sabah thanked him politely and left the office.
   The colonel leaned back in his seat, shaking wistfully his head.
The thing with the so-called experts was that they were heavily
opinionated for everything under the sun. Actually, they saw the
world through the distorted lens of their specialized knowledge,
thus failing to grasp the larger picture.
   Take this Sabah, for example; his whole universe was predicated  
by the concept archaeology, while Aghia Sophia was nothing more
than a huge carton brimming with treasures. How then could he
explain to the good professor that Aghia Sophia was not an ordinary
museum, but the enemy's outpost behind their own lines? That so
long as they were allowing that building to stand, Constantinople
still remained at heart a Byzantine city? Could he understand that
her foundations were still nurturing the collective soul of the enemy,
or that its continuing existence constituted the north pole of
Greece's national compass?
   And how would the professor react, if he learned that the renova-
tion project was nothing more than an elaborate smoke screen for
his inspired plan? A plan that were to become public he would be
shot for high treason?
   Aghia Sophia's everlasting symbol had to be destroyed, but this
could only happen if the building itself was razed down. And that
wasn't as easy as it sounded-it had to be brought about in such a
way, as not to provoke a global reaction against his beloved country.
   Sabri's plan was simple, as it was brilliant in its peculiar
Machiavellian conception. In the course of the renovation project
the museum would be undermined with high-grade explosives, and
from that point on its fate would rest solely in Allah's will. The
triggering mechanisms would be set in such a way, that they would
need an earthquake stronger than five points in the Richter scale to
be activated.
   Expert seismologists had assured him that an earthquake of that
magnitude was expected during the next decade. When that
happened, his life's work would bear fruit. Aghia Sophia would
become a memory, broken down in a million pieces, and he would
be the chosen one to complete Mehmet the Conqueror's half-
finished work, as he assigned both the church and its eternal symbol
to eternal oblivion.
   This was his masterpiece and his legacy for the future Turkish
generations.
   Colonel Sabri sighed and opened his eyes. There was a minor
obstacle to his grand scheme and it was time he took care of it. He
pressed a button in the intercom. "Tell Arslan Gediz to come to my
office at once," he murmured at the microphone.
   In a couple of minutes Gediz was standing at attention in front of
the colonel.
   "There's a certain Professor Tugrul Sabah," Sabri told him. "Get
his file and study it thoroughly. I want you to have him terminated
by tomorrow morning. Make it look like an accident."
   "What kind of an accident?" the MIT hitman asked.
   "A car accident is acceptable," Colonel Sabri replied and rose to
leave. He had an appointment that he was not missing for anything
in the world.


Chapter 60
           ANKARA, TURKEY: Aysel K.'s Apartment
           August 12


The colonel gazed appreciatively at the young woman spread out
on a sofa in her expensively furnished living room, her face
buried in her hands. She was softly sobbing, and Sabri wondered
whether a feeling of remorse was in order. As it was, he felt nothing
but anticipation. Victory was beckoning him from around the
corner.
   "Everything's going to be fine, Aysel," he said gently, his voice
sounding true. "You'll see. You have my word."
   The young woman lifted her head an inch and looked him
through misty eyes. The smudges of make-up in her cheeks made
her pretty in a childish way, restoring a portion of her prematurely
lost innocence.
   "You say this now, but you're going to kill me afterwards," she
complained haltingly between her sobs.
   Sabri looked shocked at this unheard-of accusation. "My sweet
child, I gave you my word, remember?" he said indulgently. She
nodded, and he decided it was time for the phone call. His eyes
wandered to the handset resting at the coffee table. Other than him
and little Aysel the living room was empty. His trusted operatives
were in the kitchen, ready to burst in if he needed them.
   Since Sabri had left the military hospital in a frantic haste he had
given absolute priority to the task of unmasking the traitor, his
would-be assassin. He had good reason: his life depended on that.
Ruling out the possibility of a large-scale conspiracy against him, he  
had decided that he was dealing with one or two conspirators at the
most.
   Isolated in his office and under continuous protection, Sabri
methodically checked the dossiers and logs of activity of the MIT
personnel. Soon, he was convinced that his subordinates were all
clean. Having checked out and cross-referenced their every move for
the last six months, he had reached the unavoidable conclusion that
Kadir's killer and his own aspiring executioner was not among them.
   The next stage in his search involved his peers and his superiors.
This proved easier, because they were significantly less in number,
and also because right from the beginning he had partitioned DGA-
2 into several airtight organizational structures, to facilitate the
manipulation of the personnel files on his part. Besides, buried
under five levels of access passwords and lengthy code-phrases, he
was maintaining a very revealing digital archive on his superiors'
activities.
   After many hours of hard and disciplined work his search was
completed successfully. Since early this morning he possessed the
name of the person involved in his assassination attempt: he was
Colonel Osman Ebiler, a high-ranking adjutant between DGA-2 and
the General Supplies Department, who had aided him several times
in the past in padding the budget of his department.
   Sabri picked up the receiver and offered it to Aysel, Ebiler's mistress for
the last three years. The colonel had the advantage of knowing that
Osman Ebiler was truly in love with her and that he was willing to sacri-
fice quite a lot for her sake. Still, Sabri's working knowledge of human
nature's darker side, coupled with his repugnance at taking risks, was
cautioning him to play it safe. Therefore, he intended to bolster his
demands with a series of photographs he had brought with him, depicting
the dignified Colonel Ebiler in very imaginative posturing with his lover.
   Aysel sighed deeply in a very feminine way and took the phone
from Sabri's hand. She dialed delicately Osman's private number, and
when he answered she asked him to come immediately to her apart-
ment because she was urgently needing him. Then, without any
further explanation, she hung up.
   Sabri noticed her inquiring look and smiled at her in approval.
There had been no need of threatening her in the least-the sight of
his uniform and his security team had proven a powerful incentive
for her cooperation. He liked it when things were running so
smoothly.
   Colonel Osman Ebiler arrived sooner than Sabri's most conserva-
tive estimate, a fact that offered a further insight into his character
and his emotional needs. Ebiler looked startled when he saw his
colleague in Aysel's company, but, to his credit, it didn't take him
more than a few moments to fathom the nature of Sabri's personal
call.
   From that point on it was purely a matter of shrewd negotiating
between the two colonels.


Chapter 61
           CAIRO, EGYPT
            August 12


Nikitas got off at the Ahmet Helmi intercity bus terminal in
Cairo, painfully aware that he had very little time to complete
his preparations. Anastasia should have realized that he was not
coming back and her bosses would be about to launch a ruthless
manhunt for him. Considering her connection with Farid Hilal, a
general mobilization of the Egyptian police force seemed extremely
likely. His name and description would be dispatched to every police
station, and the policeman who saw him in the bus would undoubt-
edly report him.
   How was he to reach the Sinai without getting stopped at a police
roadblock? During his ride to Cairo he had devised a plan to
minimize that risk, but its effectiveness was still unproved.
According to that, he should try to attach himself to a group of
foreign tourists, preferably Europeans or Americans, in the hope
that the Egyptian authorities would be loath to upset the tourist
industry by inconveniencing the foreign visitors with massive
searches.
   With his portable computer as his only baggage Nikitas started
through the streets of Cairo, which he was viewing now from a
completely different perspective. He remembered very clearly his
previous visit there, which for all intends and purposes had all the
characteristics of a business trip-arrival by plane, accommodation
at the Intercontinental hotel, brief stay, conclusion of business, and
departure.
   All according to schedule.
   At that time Cairo had given him the impression of a contained
city, whereas now he felt completely alone, a lost child in the urban
maze of the eighteen-million-people capital.
   But there was something distinctly different this time, Nikitas
thought, as he crossed a street. All the major thoroughfares of the
Egyptian metropolis were unusually empty of cars and without
pedestrians, unnaturally quiet.
   What did it mean? Was it only his imagination? Had he reached
the point of grossly misinterpreting reality, or was it that Cairo
operated in mysteriously different rhythms than those of its western
counterparts?
   He consulted the map he'd bought at the bus terminal and hailed
one of the rare taxis cruising the streets. He needed go to Sharia Al
Ahram, the Pyramids' Avenue, where the comings and goings of
thousands of foreign tourists were offering a measure of safety. Also,
at that part of the city there were many hotels and other establish-
ments catering to the tourists, and he believed travel agencies as
well.
   As the cab speeded on, Nikitas's suspicions hardened into
certainty. There was something peculiar that was happening, he
could feel it in the air. The deserted streets, the few cars driving by
at great speeds, reminded him of another time several years ago,
when he had gone touring the American South with a few friends.
   One morning they had entered a small town seemingly
completely abandoned, a modern ghost town with no evidence of
human presence. They could not check the local news, as their car
radio was broken, and for several minutes they had wandered
through the haunted streets gripped by feelings of awe, until a squad
car had suddenly materialized behind them.
   The police officers had signaled them to pull over and after a
routine check they had explained that a tornado alert had forced the
citizens to abandon their homes and rush to the community shelters
until the danger was over.
   A similar feeling was clutching his heart now, only magnified by
his tiredness, his sense of loneliness, his anguish over his future
prospects. For several minutes he fought hard to ignore it and to
convince himself that everything would turn out for the best, but the
effort drained him. He sat back and simply gazed ahead.
How he wished for the comforting presence of his uncle, for his
indomitable spirit and his incomparable sobriety...
   Nikitas got off the cab when they had crossed the Nile. The driver
stashed the money under his seat, turned around, and drove off the
way they had come leaving him alone in the midst of the street.
Nikitas peered dejectedly at the eight kilometers of the empty street
vanishing away into the reddish horizon.
   He shrugged and started toward the pyramids. It took him a
while to realize that the eerie silence had given way to a deep
rumbling sound, similar to the ocean's booming surf. Before he had
a chance to wonder, though, he discerned at Sharia's far end a roiling
blackness, an angry crowd of protesters pressed together into a
shapeless human mass. They were still too far away for him to make
out any details, but he could sense the massive power and electri-
fying vibrancy that emanated from the great gathering.
   Nikitas thought that he could use the crowd as a smoke screen to
hide from his pursuers and hastened his pace. As he reached the
demonstration his conviction grew stronger that he was witnessing
a landmark event, bound to have a dramatic impact on Egypt's polit-
ical situation.
   His lack of understanding Arabic prevented him from gaining a
clearer picture of the event, he assumed, however, that the protest
had a predominantly religious aspect because when he came closer
he recognized written on many placards the only word he knew in
Arabic script, Allah. In addition, the participating women were all
wearing chadors.
   The crowd was heading for the center of Cairo. Nikitas had
reached the first line of the protesters when he spied a CNN unit
broadcasting live the demonstration. He stopped in his tracks and
beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the sidewalk.
   The last thing he needed right now was global television
coverage, he thought wryly. He hesitated for a few moments, curious
to see the outcome of an argument that had erupted between several
protesters and the CNN unit crew. A few hot-headed youths had
pushed back the cameraman, who stumbled and almost fell down,
but other more dispassionate demonstrators pulled the youths back,
allowing the unit to resume its work. Relieved, Nikitas turned
around and walked off.
   Assuming it would take an hour or two for the human flood to
subside, Nikitas chose the nearest hotel's lobby to pass the evening
until the demonstration was over.

                                ***

Darkness found him out in the streets. When the area had regained
a measure of calm, Nikitas had left his temporary shelter and gone
in search of a travel agency which would allow him to set in motion
his plan. It proved a harder task than he had thought, because most
of them were closed on account of the demonstration. Eventually, he
had located one with its shutters pulled halfway down.
   The Egyptian employee, who had stayed late to take care of some
unfinished business, quickly opened the door for him and politely
offered his help. When he heard what Nikitas wanted, he proposed
an organized six-day trip to a luxury resort of the Red Sea.
   Early tomorrow a twenty-member tourist group was arriving in
the International Airport of Cairo, the young man had explained,
where it would be picked up by a minibus belonging to the agency.
If Nikitas could return at nine o'clock next morning he would be
able to join them when they stopped by for the Egyptian group
leader.
   Nikitas readily agreed and promptly paid in cash a membership
fee, which entitled him for a six-night stay at a well-known hotel of
Sharm El Sheikh. He tipped liberally the youth and left the agency,
intending to pass the night in the streets.
   Buoyed by his success he walked at a leisurely pace, but after a
couple of hours his aimless wandering had exhausted him and he
decided that spending the night out in the streets sounded a lot
easier than it actually was. The time was trickling agonizingly slowly
and with each passing minute he was feeling more vulnerable, one
step closer to being located and apprehended.
   Nikitas dared not speculate on the number of policemen running
after him, searching for him in the crannies and nooks of the
Egyptian metropolis. Eventually he got so nervous, he started to fear
that the end had come every time he saw a pedestrian approaching
him from the opposite direction, and each time he offered thanks to
his good fortune when the solitary man passed him by without a
glance.
   At last he understood that he urgently needed a rudimentary
shelter for the remainder of the night. Unfortunately, the numerous
hotels populating the area were no viable option, since they were the
first places the authorities would check out.
   That thought led to another, and Nikitas suddenly remembered
the Kardak. Could it be that this was how the Turkish authorities
were alerted? It was a plausible theory with only one shortcoming:
the fact that the Turkish authorities should have been already
searching for them, to locate them at the Kardak.
   But what had alerted them in the first place? Was Anastasia also
involved in this?
   At any rate, if they were found in Constantinople how much
more dangerous was his present situation?
   At some point Nikitas realized that he had reached a nightclub
district. Without noticing it he had entered a merry forest of colorful
neon lights, blinking their offerings in English and Arabic. There
were complex arabesques in bright magenta and electric blue,
presenting to the passerby rich menus of erotic shows and assorted
nude stage events, or of authentic belly dancing. And each estab-
lishment was fiercely competing with the rest on the number of "X's"
lining its marquee, as visible proof of the high-grade sensuality of its
program.
   A Cairene nightclub was the last thing that would have interested
Nikitas, but as he reviewed the parade of narrow dark doors contin-
ually accosted by eager hawkers clamoring for his attention, he
thought it might not be such a bad idea if he passed the night in a
nightclub instead of walking himself down to exhaustion.
He chose one that advertised its wares in a fractionally less vulgar
way than the rest, nodded to the ingratiating hawker, and climbed
down the spiraling iron stairway.
   The hall was enveloped in semi-darkness and Nikitas noted
surprised that it looked better than he had expected. The air was
relatively clean, the plaintive oriental music loud but not deafening.
With an inward smile he wondered how many of the so-called 'in'
clubs of Athens fulfilled those two simple conditions.
   Naturally, all comparison ended there. The nightclub's small
round tables were covered with formica, the floor tiled with cheap
linoleum, and the overall look of the establishment surely ranked it
much lower than the "C" category advertised in its signs.
   Nikitas chose a table near the wall and tried to make himself
invisible. He put his briefcase on the floor between his feet, and
ordered a bottle of cola to the emaciated waiter who had hurried to
his table as if in fear that the newly arrived customer might change
his mind and leave. Nikitas did not think his order might seem
ridiculous, since even in liberal Cairo the consumption of alcohol in
public was generally frowned upon.
   There were few patrons around. A party of five or six had the
dark looks of Egyptians, the rest were clearly tourists. After a while
a small group of Americans clambered down the stairs and the
atmosphere became more lively, but they soon departed to continue
their own version of Cairo by night somewhere else.
   The room suddenly seemed emptier than before, and Nikitas
thought that this night's business was probably adversely affected by
the great demonstration.
   Time passed. Nikitas was going through his third glass of coke,
fighting his drowsiness by observing the elderly members of the
small orchestra as they tuned their instruments during a break,
when someone pulled the chair next to him and sat down lightly. He
turned reflexively and saw a man he had marked earlier as the night-
club's proprietor grinning at him, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
   "Night passes slowly, eh?" the man said in English and his grin
stretched wider.
   Something in his tone or tin he way he had chosen to approach
him told Nikitas that this was not an innocent remark. Despite his
premonition, however, he thought it wiser to respond as if his visitor
was making an attempt at small talk.
   "Oh, no, it's very nice here," he replied, glancing conspicuously
at his watch. He grimaced in surprise. "To say the truth, I hadn't
realized it was so late," he exclaimed.
   The proprietor shook his head in understanding. "Do you know
how many years I'm in this line of work? How many people I've seen
come and go?" he asked rhetorically, embracing the empty air with
his arms. He leaned closer to Nikitas. "I can weigh out a customer
five minutes after he passes through my door," he confided.
   He remained silent for several moments peering intently at
Nikitas. He let it pass, waiting to see what the Egyptian was driving
at.
   "Do you know what I thought when I saw you?" the man asked
without expecting an answer. "I said to myself, 'here's a man who
isn't here to have a good time, but to put a roof over his head.'"
   Nikitas felt a knot of fear tighten in his stomach. He glanced
around him discreetly, worried that the worse was still in coming.
He decided to leave while there was still time. He caught the waiter's
eye and waved him for the check.
   "Hey, hey, hey-wait a minute!" his uninvited guest protested
when he saw Nikitas preparing to leave. "If I bother, I go. I go only
by one rule here, and that's customer satisfaction," he said with a
wink. "However, if you give me a minute, I'll show you that you only
have to gain and nothing to lose... By the way, I'm Galal Khamis."
   "George," Nikitas replied and shook hands with Khamis.
   "All right, listen to me George," Khamis said in a conspiratorial
tone. "I understand that something's worrying you, and you picked
up my place for a shelter. That's fine with me," he said, raising his
hand to forestall any protests from Nikitas.
   "By the way, you chose the right place when you came here. Had
it been instead Hamad's or Saleh's down the street, sooner or later
they would have taken you on a nightly excursion to the pyramids...
and the morning sun would have found you lying on your back,
minus your wallet and the valuable briefcase at your feet."
   "I wasn't aware that the tourists in Cairo are risking so much simply by
visiting a nightclub," Nikitas retorted, struggling to keep his composure.
   "No, George, no tourist is risking anything in a bar. This is one
of the unwritten laws of the night. What I meant was that they
would have classified you in another category, subject to the very
unpleasant consequences I mentioned."
   Galal lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip. Nikitas pretended  
he was giving him his undivided attention, while with his peripheral
vision he was continually monitoring the room, afraid that the
Egyptian was setting him up.
   Not that he had much of a chance of getting away if they all fell
upon him.
   "Tonight you came here to hide and I can't imagine from whom
else, if not from the police," Galal pressed on. "If you were hiding
from someone else, you would have gone to one of the nearby hotels
and none the wiser. Therefore, you must be running away from the
police that can search the hotels," he insisted.
   "I'm hiding from nobody," Nikitas repeated firmly. "To say the
truth, I came here because I had an appointment with an acquain-
tance of mine," he said and winked meaningfully at Galal, "but it
seems she's not coming after all."
   "No, George," Galal disagreed, "You never looked at your watch
since you came here. No," he repeated, "it is as I told you. You're
running away from the Cairo police and you're an amateur; that's
why it didn't occur to you that the bars and the nightclubs are the
first places the police visits when looking for someone."
   Galal looked at him straight in the eye as if challenging him to
give him the lie, and Nikitas wondered what was coming next. "You
got to get out of here," Galal said, "and I've got the right place for
you to go."
   Nikitas vacillated for several moments, as he weighed the pros
and the cons of a frank approach. Eventually, he decided to lay open
his cards, as he did not have so much to lose. Galal had measured
him accurately down to the last detail. Besides, who could ever tell?
Something good might come out of it.
   "How much?" he asked him.
   "Aha!" Galal exclaimed and rubbed his hands enthusiastically,
   "now we're talking business!" He leaned toward Nikitas and began
whispering to his ear.
Ten minutes later Nikitas was climbing up the spiraling stairway
accompanied by young Adel, one of the establishment's dancers,
who would accommodate him in her room for the rest of the night.
For that service Nikitas had paid five hundred dollars in cash to
Galal but if he also wished to share her bed, it would cost him an
extra fifty dollars, the Egyptian had told him.
   Nikitas had politely declined his offer. Galal had only laughed,
and said that there was still time for him to change his mind. He had
wished him good fortune in the name of Allah and saw him out to
the stairs.
   "I hope this first lesson in the way of the night will prove useful
to you," he commented in a loud voice as Nikitas went up the iron
stairway.
   Once out on the street he took a deep breath. The night air was
clean and fresh, and he felt happy just at being alive and free to
breathe it. Adel came beside him, a faint smile in her face. She
waited for a few moments, then took his hand and started for home.

                                ***

The rest of the night passed without incident. Adel's room was at the
first floor of a shabby two-story building, several streets down from
Galal's nightclub. The building's layout suggested that it was initially
designed as a single house, probably a turn-of-the-century mansion.
Some time later, probably after the war, the whole neighborhood had
fallen into disrepute and the owner had partitioned it into several
apartments which he rented separately.
   As soon as she had locked and barred the door, Adel prepared for
Nikitas the big iron bed which occupied the greater part of the room.
She insisted that he should sleep there, while for her she spread a
blanket on the floor.
   Watching her youthful face under the dim electric bulb, Nikitas
realized that she was hardly older than sixteen, albeit with a mature
and well-formed body. As she unselfconsciously undressed in front
of him, he could not help but notice the taut muscles of her belly.
He also saw the silver cross hanging by a thin chain through her
neck.
   "Are you a Christian, Adel?" he asked her in English. She nodded.
   "But Galal's a Muslim, isn't he?"
Another nod. She was rummaging in a drawer with her back
turned toward him. Abruptly, she turned around and looked him
with a steady gaze.
   "He's much better than many Christians I know," she spoke in
fluent English, as she pulled over her head the flimsy nightgown she
had taken out from the drawer.
   "I owe him my life," she added simply.
She switched off the light and lay down on her makeshift bed.
   "If I had agreed with Galal to make love with you, Adel, what
would you have done?" Nikitas asked her in the dark.
   "Love," she replied. Nikitas remained silent for several moments,
expecting to hear something more from her, but then he became
aware of the changed rhythm in her breathing. She was already
asleep.
   Or, she just did not wish to talk.
   Nikitas also closed his eyes and a few seconds later delivered
his exhausted body to a deeply needed, dreamless sleep.


Chapter 62
            MOUNT ATHOS, GREECE: Monastery of Stavronikita
            August 13


Fifteen hundred kilometers to the north Father Gregorios heard
the toll of the wooden-bell signaling the last watch of the night.
He rose from his bed and prepared to attend the service at the
monastery's church. He put on his priestly cap and leaned out of the
half-open window. A thin lip of flame from the kerosene lantern
caught his figure and projected it several times larger onto the white-
washed wall, the outline of a giant filling the room with his shadowy
presence.
   Yiannis was sleeping quietly on the other bed. Father Gregorios
peered at his dark shape, monitored his easy breathing for several
seconds, then looked again outside. The abbot of the Stavronikita
monastery in Athos had graciously placed at their disposal a
spacious guest-room at the second floor with a northeasterly orien-
tation.
   Whenever Father Gregorios stood by the window gazing at the
horizon, he always had the sensation that the monastery was precar-
iously balancing upon a tall, thin column, ready to take a plunge
down the steep cliff into the deep waters and the waiting hungry
reefs. And yet, the Stavronikita monastery had remained firmly
rooted on its rock for more than a thousand years.
   The dim light in the room allowed Father Gregorios to discern a
thin veil of mist surrounding the monastery. It did not bother him.
He knew from past experience that during the summertime the early
morning haze could not withstand for long the first rays of the sun,
vanishing quickly away as if it had never existed.
   For the time being, however, the mist was spreading slowly over
the calm sea, casting myriads of tentacles to every direction. It was
weaving an intricate trap for the gullible and the naive, for all those
who would be fooled by its siren-call.
Father Gregorios sighed deeply, gripped by an indefinable
yearning, and stepped back into the room.
Light begets light, and darkness begets...
Well, nothing. Absolutely nothing! he thought. For, what is
darkness but the absence of light? And likewise, Evil, its allegorical
counterpart throughout the eons, has no separate existence.
   So much then, for the supposedly eternal struggle between Good
and Evil! His own view was that this overly advertised struggle was
nothing more than an ideological construct of the devious. Because
if Father Gregorios had learned a lesson this past half-century, it was
that Light and Life were the masters of the Universe, while all else
were simply confused ghosts lurking in the imagination of the
ignorant or the depraved.
   Enough of that for now, he told himself. He should be going. The
other monks would be assembled at the church. With a last glance
at Yiannis, Father Gregorios put out the lamp and noiselessly
slipped out through the door.


Chapter 63
           CAIRO, EGYPT: Adel's Room
           August 13


Early the next morning Nikitas woke up by the buzzing alarm of
his wristwatch. He left his bed reluctantly and went to wash his
face at the cracked washbowl, set into the opposite wall.
   Despite his protests Adel rose, too. She showed him where the
communal bathroom was at the corridor's end, then prepared hot
coffee for both of them. When he returned she came to sit at the
bedside, and offered him a cup of coffee and biscuits from an old-
fashioned tin box. Nikitas thanked her for her care, and tried not to
think what would become of her after ten years of sexual service.
   Sipping his coffee, he unfolded the map of Cairo and asked Adel
to point him the way to Sharia Al Ahram. She smiled and with a
pencil traced the route on the map, assuring him that he would  
easily find a taxi only a block away. If he preferred to walk, though,
it would take him almost an hour to get to Sharia.
   Fifteen minutes later Nikitas took his leave of Adel and wished
her good luck with her life. She searched his eyes for a few moments,
then stood up on her toes and gave him a big kiss on the cheek.


                         -----------
                         P A R T  IV
                         -----------


Chapter 64
           ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT: Hilton Hotel
           August 13


Al Zamil Sadoun flung open the door and entered Room 638 at
the Alexandria Hilton, his "shadow" Abdullah following on his
heels. Anastasia looked belligerently at them from the deep seat,
where she had spent the last several hours chain-smoking. It had
been a long, frustrated wait for Nikitas, and the delay of her
colleagues had done nothing to alleviate her irritation.
   Sadoun was a senior member of the interrogation team
Anastasia's superior had mentioned, but when the need arose he did
not shy away from personally handling a field case. His colleagues
considered him an expert, although not all of them agreed with his
preferred questioning methods. He was lean with curly hair and very
dark skin, his physical characteristics betraying his origin from
southern Egypt. He and his partner Abdullah worked together
through the day and shared the same bed at night.
   He approached Anastasia and stood in front of her, both hands buried
In his trousers' pockets.
   "I heard the top brass is very displeased with you," he said
sardonically. "They wanted this Paleologou real bad, I guess."
   Anastasia shrugged and took a long draft from her cigarette. She
needed badly something stronger than that, but it would have to
wait.
   "You don't say!" she retorted in the same tone. "Only yesterday
their tongues had dripped honey, and now they want to unleash
their dogs at me?"
   "Well, if they do, let them bark for a couple of days and they'll
forget the whole thing," Sadoun tried to soothe her. "The important
thing right now is to find Paleologou. If we succeed all will be
forgotten, all will be forgiven-the usual stuff."
   Abdoullah approached her timidly and asked in a low voice for
Nikitas's baggage. She pointed at a suitcase on the bedside. He
opened it and began taking out Nikitas's clothes and other personal
things.
   "We'll find him, sooner or later. Besides, where can he turn to?
He's got no friends, no relatives, no acquaintances in Egypt-he
doesn't even speak the language, for God's sake!" Anastasia
exclaimed. "Yeah. His arrest is a matter of time, and they know it."
Sadoun sat down at the bedside, gazing thoughtfully at her. The
smoke was an irritant, especially when coming from a woman.
   "What I know is that if we don't flush him out, he won't come to
us of his own accord." He glanced at his friend. Abdullah was taking
out Nikitas's underwear piece by piece, caressed them lightly with
his fingertips, and smelled them with short, sharp intakes of breath.
He kept his eyes closed and his face had taken an ecstatic expres-
sion.
   "To root out somebody Abdullah's got to love him first," Sadoun
explained, answering Anastasia's unasked question. "But his love
lasts only until the moment he lays his hands on him. Rest assured,
my friend, Paleologou won't slip Abdullah's embrace wherever he
may have holed up right now."
   Anastasia had her doubts about several matters concerning
Sadoun and Abdullah, and especially about their optimism in this
particular case. However, she was too tired to argue right now. She
lit another cigarette and kept her thoughts to herself.
   The time would come when she would speak up.


Chapter 65
           RED SEA, EGYPT: Fayrouz Hilton Village
           August 13


The chartered bus left them at N'aama Bay, a few miles north of
Sharm El Sheikh. They were received at the Fayrouz Hilton's
main entrance by an obliging manager and his staff, and ushered in
to the apartment complex extending alongside the shore.
   Having replenished his energy by sleeping throughout the trip,
Nikitas first visited the restaurant for a hearty lunch and passed the
rest of his day stretching out on the beach, relishing the distant
murmur of the sea as the sun traced on his bare chest his progress
toward the west.
   He was aware that someone, somewhere, had flipped a switch
with his name written upon it. He also knew that by idling away the
precious time he was left, he risked missing the cusp of events that
might change everything, but-what the heck!-didn't everybody
do the same all the time and got away with it?
   Right now it did not matter at all. Actually, nothing else mattered,
but the light touch of the breeze and the soft crunch of the sand
under the soles of a passing vacationer. His body was seized by a
sense of exquisite peace, to the point of wondering whether Galal
had slipped a sedative into his drink... but no, the waiter had
opened the bottles in front of his eyes.
   Eventually the day thinned and the dusk surrendered to an
equally peaceful night. Nikitas decided to seal his new beginning
with a pleasant outing, promising to himself that tomorrow he was
getting started.

                                ***

The little bar suggested by the Hilton's concierge proved exactly
what he needed. It was built by the beach in a Hawaiian style, with
bamboo walls and a thatched roof of palm leaves. The side
overlooking the east was left without a wall, to allow the patrons a
free view of the Gulf of Aqaba and unhindered access to the sea
breezes.
   When Nikitas arrived there the tables were all taken out. He
stood by the counter, spotting faces belonging to his own group.
When a table emptied the waiter led him there. He leaned back in
his seat and relaxed, letting his senses get soaked in the soothing
atmosphere.
   The waiter returned with his order and left it on the table without
disturbing his peace. As Nikitas started to loosen up, the sounds
flooding him began to disentangle. It was an inflow of separate
threads which were weaving an intricate aural web, from the fleeting
movements of the waiters and the delicate sounds of clinking
glasses, to the all-enveloping susurration-a chair was being
dragged next to him, people were talking or whispering farther
away... how he had missed this ordinary setting during the past
several weeks, as forces beyond his control had dictated his thoughts
and his actions, his very life.
   Nikitas was dancing in the no-man's land between wakefulness
and sleep when he was suddenly alerted by the sounds of music
played live. Intrigued, he sat up and looked around. On a high stool
near the opposite wall ,a young musician with long hair and faded
jeans was singing a medley of pop songs from the sixties and the
seventies, accompanying himself with a Fender Telecaster guitar. A
digital drum-machine kept the rhythm.
   The singer was popular among the regular patrons, who kept
clapping their hands as he sang, sending ripples of excitement to the
rest of the customers.
   Soon, the whole atmosphere had taken on a festive aspect.
Nikitas felt his pulse quickening and started to sing along with
everyone else, while exchanging pleasantries with the young couple
the waiter had accommodated at his table.
   A half-hour later the unknown, but highly popular singer, came
to his last song. He rose and smiled at the audience as it burst into
applause.
   "Thank you very much," he said in English, picking up the
microphone in his hands. "Thank you for making up for the missing
members of my band." When the laughter had subsided, he
continued. "Now, ladies and gentlemen! My last song is one of my
country's which I dedicate to all of you here tonight, and to the
cosmopolitan Greeks as well-wherever they may be!" he
announced brightly, strumming the first chord in his guitar.
   Nikitas recognized it as one of the best songs of Nikos Xilouris,
the famous Greek folk singer. When Nikitas was a teenager he had
gone with his parents to a concert of Xilouris in New York. At that
time the Greek singer had hardly made an impression to his adoles-
cent mind, but now, as he listened to one of his most evocative songs
so far from home, he felt a lump rise to his throat. He tried, but
could not hold back tears of exhilaration.
   He felt as if the singer had personally addressed him.
   "Tonight, Greece is here!" someone shouted from the crowd,
rising to his feet. He made his way to the platform cheered by
everyone, and started to dance on the small stage set at the front of
the singer. Encouraged by his example, more people hurried to join
him, imitating his dancing figures amidst the general laughter and
teasing.
   The audience burst into another round of enthusiastic applause
when the singer finished his song and thanked them. He placed the
guitar in its case and went to sit at the table of his compatriot.
Obeying to a sudden impulse, Nikitas walked over their table,
taking his glass with him.
   "Good evening," he said in Greek.
   "What, another one of our own here?" asked him with a laugh
the same one, who only a short while ago had turned the bar to a
dancing floor. He was in his mid-forties, handsome in a rugged way
and deeply tanned.
   "Come on, sit with us my friend," he invited Nikitas, pointing to
a spare seat.
   Nikitas sat down. "I'm Christos Daltas and this is my sister
Eleni," he said, inclining his head toward the young woman sitting
beside him. She was a pretty brunette in her twenties. Nikitas gave
her a smile.
   "And of course," Daltas said turning to the musician, "here's our
talented singer, Vassilis Galanos."
   "Nikitas Dimakis," Nikitas introduced himself, not wishing to
divulge his real identity.
   In the casual discussion that followed, Nikitas learned that Daltas
was the owner and chief instructor at the local scuba diving school,
which went by the name Christos's Scuba Diving. It was located in
Shark Bay, six and a half miles from N'aama. His sister also taught at
the school. Daltas explained that a complete course lasted from a
week to twenty days, depending on the instruction package, and all
of his graduates were accorded the PADI international certificate.
   Due to the great number of tourists, Daltas said, they had a heavy
workload, but in the evenings they relaxed at one of the numerous
bars along the beach. The last few days they were frequenting the
Lazy Ways Caf�, listening to Vassilis.
   "Next week he'll move to a bar closer to our beach, so we won't
have to come down over here," Daltas said.
   Speaking of himself, Nikitas mentioned that he was spending his
vacation at the Fayrouz Hilton, but was also planning a safari to the
Sinai desert.
   "Ah, the Sinai desert!" Daltas exclaimed. "One of my greatest
loves! Of course, it comes next to my love for the sea and a few
others, too-don't ask me which," he added with a wink, "but I truly
love it. If you got the time, Nikitas, come by my school and we'll
have a talk." He told him how he could find Christos's Scuba Diving.
   After some time they decided it was time to leave, because Christos
and Eleni had to rise early next morning. Nikitas realized in surprise that
he, too, was looking forward to his bed. He bid his new friends a warm
good-night, promising them they'd be seeing each other soon.
   The next morning Nikitas woke up by a persistent noise. He padded,
still half-asleep, to the balcony door and through a slit in the
shutters saw the lengthening frothy trail of a speeding motorboat. A
few seconds later a microscopic figure popped up from the sea and
rose quickly into the air, pulled up by a ballooning parachute.
   The scene encapsulated the summertime spirit in such a perfect
way, Nikitas would have thought he was vacationing somewhere in
the Aegean, if only for the fact that he was being hunted down by
ruthless enemies... How he wished for his carefree days!
   He put on the bathing suit he had bought the day before from a
boutique at the hotel, and went out for a quick dive in the cool
waters. Fifteen minutes later he was back. He dressed and walked
the short distance to the main building. After a satisfying American
breakfast he asked the concierge to call a cab and explain to the
Bedouin driver his destination: Daltas's diving school.
   He arrived there after a ten-minute ride. There was no one in
sight, but the door was open and he went in. The waiting room was
spartan furnished; just a few chairs arranged in a U pattern, with a
coffee table in their midst and some unused equipment stacked at
the back. In a billboard on the wall there was a pinned note from
Eleni with the schedule for the day. According to that she was out
with her class.
   There was another door in the opposite wall leading to the court-
yard. Nikitas tried it and found it unlocked. He discovered Christos
near the beach, busily applying a layer of paint to a sailing boat,
raised on a wooden scaffold.
   He was wearing a loose-fitting white shirt over a pair of faded
jeans, and the wrinkles in his freshly shaved face outlined the map
of his love for the sea. He heard Nikitas's footsteps and turned
toward him with a smile in his face.
   "You're late, Nikitas, and you missed Eleni," he remarked after
saying hello.
   "That's okay," Nikitas replied hastily. He was blushing for some
reason and felt doubly embarrassed. "I found you."
Christos cast him a sidelong look and returned to his task. He
dipped his brush to the can, strained the excess paint, and resumed
from where he had stopped. Under the morning sun the white hull
was blinding.
   "I mentioned it because I think she took a liking of you," he said
casually, flicking the brush back and forth. After a while he started
to whistle. Nikitas put on his sunglasses and chose a spot in the
shade to sit. The day was hot and quiet. 
   "I'm thinking of renting a jeep for a ride into the desert, east of
St. Catherine's," he said.
   "No one goes out to the desert just for a ride, Nikitas," Christos
reproached him with a meaningful glance. "Even if you're planning
to be away only for a few hours, you should prepare for a couple of
days..." He paused for emphasis. "...to make sure that you'll be
coming back".
   "I see. Can you introduce me, then, to a competent guide who'll
undertake the necessary preparations and drive me there?"
   "I might. How many days of travel do you have in mind?"
   "From three to six at the most. It depends."
   "On what?"
   "On how much I'll enjoy the safari; this is my first time into the
desert," Nikitas said matter-of-factly, his eyes wandering over the
nearly finished boat. There was only a small piece at the bow to be
done, a matter of two or three hours.
   "It's been a long time since I've last been in the Sinai," Daltas said.
He laid the brush on top of the can and squatted in front of Nikitas.
   "What would you say if I was to be your driver?"
   Nikitas could hardly believe his ears; having a fellow countryman
as his guide was too good a prospect to be true. "It would be
perfect," he replied truthfully. "Just let me know what we'll need and
how much is your fee."
   "A fee? Nonsense, Nikitas!" Christos laughed. "If I had the
money-making virus, I would have stayed in Greece... You know
what I mean. Plenty of opportunities for easy money there. Instead,  
I'm here teaching people how to access nature's treasures."
   "You know I meant no offense."
   "And none was taken. Now, here is what I propose: you pay for
the supplies, while I undertake the necessary preparations and do
the driving." He stood up and picked up his paintbrush. "Now, tell
me: what do you think of that?"
   "I repeat: perfect!" Nikitas answered excitedly. He rose and
brushed away the sand from his trousers. He glanced at the
beckoning sea and suddenly making up his mind, he quickly
stripped down to his bathing suit.
   "No. What I meant was, what did you think of my paintwork?"
Christos teased him.
   "Well, man, that's exactly what I had also meant," Nikitas shot
back as he walked down the beach.

                                ***

It took Christos two days to reschedule his current business at the
school and complete his arrangements for the desert tour. He rented
a Land Rover Discovery from a personal acquaintance of his, a
Bedouin who maintained the vehicle with religious fervor. He also
obtained provisions for a one-week trip. When the supplies were
brought to his bungalow he checked and re-checked each item
separately before carrying them to the 4WD.
   "As I told you, no one can afford to enter the desert with a who-
cares attitude. Sooner or later he's bound to the bill," he said to
Nikitas, who was watching with interest the whole procedure.
Christos had insisted in loading the jeep by himself. "Remember the
Israelites of the Bible, who had wandered for forty years in the Sinai
desert before they were delivered to the Promised Land? Even if the
story exaggerates a bit, its moral is quite clear."
   Eventually their preparations were finished. Nikitas checked out
of the hotel and informed his travel agent that he was leaving the
group. He took his computer with him but left his personal things
in Daltas's house.
   He also slept there the night before their departure. He went early
to bed, taking a sandwich with him, and set his wristwatch alarm for
four o'clock in the morning. They were leaving just before dawn.


Chapter 66
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 17


Although it was still dark when they left the bungalow, Christos
told Nikitas that the rising sun would give them brief warning.
   "Here the pre-dawn twilight lasts less than in Greece, and it grows
shorter as we approach the equator," he said.
   Half an hour later he was proved true. Shortly after the first crack
of light in the east, the sun's tip broke up from behind a low hill to
their right.
   Christos was an excellent driver and they had a smooth ride
along the hard-packed dirt road. Nikitas made himself comfortable
in the passenger seat, deciding to relax and enjoy the first leg of the
trip. When they passed the borderline, which Konstantinou had
drawn on his relief map, he would start to pay attention to their
surroundings. For the time being, though, he would travel like a
common tourist.
   The temperature quickly rose beyond the thirty degrees Celsius.
Nikitas knew that all vehicles manufactured for export to tropical or
semi-tropical climates were equipped with extra insulation, but
could not help wondering how long their jeep would hold its own
against the scalding desert sun. He was surprised when Christos
turned on the air-condition.
   "I hadn't known we'd be riding in luxury," he observed.
   "My Bedouin friend, who rented the jeep to me, outfitted it for
comfort even though he doesn't drive it himself," Christos replied.
   "He told me that he started with the basic accessories, like the extra
Sunroof for better protection against the sun, and progressed to the
more exotic ones, like the stereo unit with a six-CD juke-box," he
laughed. "Of course, he'd nothing to lose anyway since everything
was bought with a one-hundred percent subsidy of the Egyptian
State. We can enjoy the air-conditioning so long as we're on flat
ground. A wadi or a rough road will slow us down, however, and
we'll have to turn it off."
   The previous day Nikitas had outlined to Christos the route he
had in mind, and he had allotted their available time according to
terrain difficulty.
   On their first day they were heading due north, following the
coastline road all the way to Nuweiba, before taking the #85
highway for the Zeleka wadi. At the end of their wide circle they
would finally reach the region Nikitas wished to explore.
   They had decided on a preliminary stage to their safari at the
insistence of Christos, who wanted Nikitas to have the option of
changing his mind after getting a taste of desert travel. If at the end
of the first day he still wanted to continue, their exploration proper
would begin the second day, when they would penetrate the inner
wadis of the Sinai.
   The hours passed and Nikitas was able to verify by personal
experience Konstantinou's words, that the Sinai desert was not as he
had pictured it. The vegetation might not be rich, but the scenery
certainly was and it kept changing constantly. There was an
unending series of oddly shaped hills, while the distant mountains
altered their perspective in subtle ways. After several hours of travel
they left the military road, and the ancient Bedouin trail they were
now following demanded Christos's complete concentration.
   At noon, they took a break for a light snack. "In the desert lunch
is usually being had in the late afternoon, just before sundown,"
Christos explained. "During the daytime nothing moves in the
desert and if we didn't have this modern car, we wouldn't have even
dreamt of traveling in the midst of the day."
   A few hours later they reached a small Bedouin settlement
hugging the root of a hill. The huge dust cloud the jeep rose as the
trail became sandy betrayed early on their arrival. Christos parked
the car in the shadow of a prefabricated shed, and they got out to
stretch their stiff limbs.
   Almost instantly they were surrounded by a bustling host of
little, barefoot children, making Nikitas wonder how the soles of
their feet were able to resist the scorching ground.
   Soon, he realized that his driver was highly popular among the
settlers. Christos embraced each man in turn with a wide grin pasted
on his face, while the women and the children watched at a small
distance.
   They had arrived in time for dinner. The Bedouins sat down in a
circle and fell upon their usual fare: bread, various hard and soft
cheeses and smoked meat cut in thin slices. They drank no alcohol
but washed it all down with goat milk. At the center of the circle was
burning a low fire, assiduously tended by a teenage nomad.
   Before joining them Christos had brought from the jeep several
cans with cooked meat and offered them to the children, who
showed their appreciation by running and jumping around the
adults. Their fathers were gratified by Christos's friendly gesture,
which stood up to excellent reputation, and exchanged flattering
comments in their own language. Christos accepted the praise
smiling.
   Afterwards they were all served hot, aromatic tea in metallic
cups. They sipped it slowly, clacking their tongues in contentment.
When Nikitas realized that his own cup contained at least four
spoonfuls of sugar he poured it discreetly on the ground, pretending
to have relished it.
   After the tea ritual they chatted in broken English and Arabic,
exchanging snippets of gossip, mainly about the neighboring
Bedouin tribes. Eventually, the Greeks bid them good-night and
walked away. They unfolded their sleeping bags under a tent their
hosts had graciously provided, closed the flaps and sat outside, to
enjoy the stillness under the open sky.
   Christos lit a cigarette, his gaze wandering to the bright stars.
Whenever he was out in the desert and was looking at the sky, he
always had the impression that an extra third dimension was added
to the celestial dome. 
   "Don't you think it's time you came clean with what we're really
after?" he asked Nikitas casually.
   His question startled Nikitas, as it was the last thing he was
expecting to hear at this hour and especially in this setting. He
almost blurted out that he had no idea what Christos was talking
about, but restrained himself. It was wrong to purposely deceive
him, he thought.
   Christos's behavior toward him had been faultless right from the
start, and deserved better than a cheap lie. Moreover, since they were
both sharing the same dangers and were taking the same risks, it was
only fair for Christos to learn the truth, at least as much of it as he
could handle.
   "You're right, Christos. I haven't come here for a photo-safari but
for something else... there's something very important that I need to
discover," Nikitas confessed.
   Christos looked him straight in the eye. "Is it legal?"
   Nikitas hesitated for several moments. By the viewpoint of ethics,
his mission was right-mandatory even. However, under the laws of
Egypt some of his actions could be construed as illegal. How was he
to answer?
   "All I can assure you of, is that I can honestly invoke God's help
for the success of my quest," he finally said."
   Christos did not immediately comment. He stubbed out his
cigarette and lit a second one. Nikitas was watching him closely, but
could not fathom what his frozen expression meant. After a while he
started to have pangs of doubt about the wisdom of his decision to
confide in him. Had he reacted too fast, and too impulsively?
   But no. Although the man sitting next to him was almost a total
stranger-yes, it was less than a week since they had met-his
intuition advised that he could trust him. Now, how did this fit with
the advice of his uncle to take extra care in his dealings with people?
Nikitas wondered.
   If his intuition wasn't right, at least it was practical. Because, did
he really have a choice in the matter? If he succeeded in locating
Eusebios's cave, would not Daltas learn his secret automatically?
   All hard choices at some point come down to this, Nikitas
thought: what will be will be, and one can only go so far in worrying
about it. This wasn't fatalism--just reasonable realism.
   So, taking a plunge into uncertainty, Nikitas started to speak,
relating to Daltas his adventures right from the beginning. He began
by revealing his real name, and continued with the details of the
series of events which had led him at this insignificant Bedouin
settlement in the midst of the Sinai desert.


Chapter 67
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 18


As the afternoon sun caressed the thin line of rosy clouds
hanging low at the horizon, Nikitas popped out his head
through the lowered window for some relief from the heat. He found
none. Even the blowing wind was too hot to enjoy.
   He leaned back in his seat and was lost again to his thoughts, as
he reviewed their second day in the desert. A few minutes ago
Christos had announced that they were approaching their campsite
for the night.
   They'd started early at dawn after Christos's second round of
embracing his Bedouin friends, and traveled continuously
throughout the day. The scenery had become a continuous loop of
craggy mountains and dry ravines, but the magnificence of the
landscape had paled for Nikitas after the first couple of hours. He
became drowsy and then slept soundly-a passenger's privilege, he
had joked-till an especially rough stretch of the trail woke him up.
   Christos, on the other hand, had remained alert. He could not
afford any less, because in this part of the desert the faint trail was
erratic, forking or changing direction unpredictably. In addition, the
presence of pebbles and small rocks on the roadbed forced him to
constant maneuvering.
   So, unlike Nikitas, Christos had no time for thinking as he drove.
   He also had no need for it, since all of his questions were fully
answered. The previous night he had listened intently to Nikitas
spinning his tale without once interrupting him, so much so that
Nikitas had misinterpreted his silence as an indication of his
doubting his honesty. 
   "Of course I believe you!" Christos had replied when Nikitas had
challenged him. "As a matter of fact, I can't think of a better reason
that would explain your presence here, other than your prepos-
terous tale," he had grinned, burying his umpteenth cigarette in the
dirt. At last, deciding that he had had enough of nicotine for one
night, he lay down on his back, gazing up at the sky.
   "I suppose," he said after a while, "that most of us, I mean the
majority of the people, are just what the word implies: a solid, fairly
equalized mass of people. Nevertheless, I've always thought that
there existed a small number of people-like you, for example-
who are the lonely travelers, sitting on top of a submerged iceberg
floating in the midst of the ocean. Why this happens is a total
mystery to me, but it does, and contrary to popular belief none of
those special people is marked with a distinguishing sign. Tell me,
Nikitas, who would have imagined the complex web of events
surrounding you just by looking at you in the street?"
   After that he had remained silent, but Nikitas wanted Christos's
reaction to his story.
   "What are you going to do now?" he asked.
   "Well, let's see. Hmm, I think it's time for my usual trip to the
bushes before hitting the sack!" Christos had replied humorously.
   Just before noon they had caught sight of a formation of military
helicopters flying low to the horizon. Christos had explained to
Nikitas that parts of the Sinai desert were still supervised by the UN,
and straying from the main roads without proper authorization
issued by the Egyptian authorities was prohibited. However, the
adoption of motorized means of transportation by the local Bedouins
had made the prohibition to a large extent unenforceable. It was
practically impossible to check on every car crossing the wasteland.
   Still, being cautious never hurt. Christos had stopped the car and
waited until the helicopters were lost in the distance, before
resuming his driving.
   In the afternoon they had come across two or three sandy ravines
which conformed to Konstantinou's requirements. One of those was
too narrow for the jeep, so they had parked it next to a cliff rising
nearly vertically for fifty feet, and entered it on foot.
   It had been a first for Nikitas. Hot sand filled his sneakers before
he took five steps, and soon he was able to appreciate the difficulties
a sandy wadi presented to the traveler.
   At the end of their walk he had gained a deeper understanding of
Nilus's accomplishment, but that was all. There was no sign of a
hidden cave, and in a fit of pessimism Nikitas told himself that he
was only following a chain of conjectures, whose each individual link
had to be true for the whole sequence to be valid.
   Unfortunately, the possibilities for broken links were too many to
contemplate: Eusebios's cave could have been already discovered, or
the key to the riddle might lie elsewhere. Then again, the hermit was
perhaps a simple anchorite, one of the many who had chosen the
desert as their private retreat.
   His great fear, however, was that the cave might be just a few
hundred yards away, brimming with answers for his desperate
questions, while he passed it by without even suspecting its
presence.
   There were endless possibilities for things to go wrong. So many,
in fact, that a reasonable person would probably turn tail and take
the next flight to Athens. Or, even better, he would probably not
have come here at all, Nikitas thought bitterly.
   But if that were so, then why did he use this word? Probably!
Why this qualification and why not absolute certainty? Nikitas
knew that he was a very practical person. What was happening to
him lately? Was he caught unawares in a quicksand of ambivalence?
   The easy silence, both inside and outside the jeep, was a bonus
for clear thinking, but Nikitas could not concentrate and wondered
whether he somehow had lost the faculty of valid reasoning. At last,
frustrated by his lack of answers, he decided to forget the whole
thing.
   Just then, a single word surfaced to his mind.
   Hope!
   This was the reason behind his apparent irrationality: hope! He
did not know whether hope belonged to the physical or the
metaphysical, but he knew without a shred of a doubt that his
attitude might be thought of as irrational because hope was guiding
his steps.
   Beyond the bounds of rationalism, far removed from common sense
judgements and logical conditions, hope was a bright blinking sign, hinting
at mystical byways and undiscovered solutions.
   Thinking back, Nikitas realized that right from the beginning it
was hope that had been his only faithful companion, the one who took hold
of his hand and guided him onward, even during the times when everyone else
whispered to his ear that the next step was absolutely impossible.
   Exhilarated, Nikitas took a deep breath of relief and opened his
eyes in time to catch Christos closely observing him. He looked
around and realized that the jeep had stopped. They were parked
next to a dome-like ledge protruding from a rocky slope, offering
shelter to the passing travelers.
   He shrugged, smiling sheepishly at Christos, then reached for the
door handle.


Chapter 68
           BOSTON, USA
           August 18


The sun had already gained several degrees on the horizon when
the Air Shuttle DC-9, flight US 395 from Washington, landed at
Boston's international airport. Shortly afterwards Colonel Osman
Ebiler, feeling awkward in a civilian suit, followed briskly the rest of
the travelers to the passenger terminal.
   A GCS employee was waiting there to drive him to the agency's
headquarters. The colonel was carrying no other baggage than his
briefcase, so when he spotted his escort holding a sign with his
agreed-upon alias, he approached him quickly and they both headed
toward the exit.
   Forty-five minutes later Ebiler was climbing up hastily the
stairway leading to the building of GCS in Newbury Street as the
driver sped off in his Volvo toward the nearest parking lot.
   Pearsson was waiting for him in his office, puzzling over Ebiler's
unscheduled visit to Boston. What had happened in Ankara for the
colonel to fly here?
   In the course of their two-year association, Pearsson had formed
the impression that Ebiler was exceedingly careful, always taking
extra security precautions to keep his involvement with GCS
absolutely secret. Now he had traveled to Washington, D.C.,
supposedly to attend a military seminar at the Pentagon, confident
that his brief absence to Boston would go unnoticed.
   Well, yes, it probably would, but even the unnoticed events had
the bad habit of leaving traces, Pearsson thought. He knew from
bitter experience that in similar situations one could only hope to
minimize the risks-never to completely eliminate them.
   A knock at the door jolted him out from his rumination. He
pressed a button and the armored door opened with a soft click.
Ebiler walked in with a broad smile. He casually dropped his brief-
case upon a seat, and equally casually, as he shook Pearsson's hand,
slipped his left hand into his jacket's pocket. With a fluid motion he
brought out a small plastic can and sprayed a generous amount of
fast-action anesthetic over the face of Pearsson.
   The director collapsed on his desktop as he struggled to cry for
help. No sound escaped his mouth.
   Five minutes later he regained consciousness, and to his great
surprise discovered that he was still sitting behind his desk. Ebiler
was standing at the opposite side, aiming him with the Glock he was
keeping for his personal protection in his upper drawer.
   "Mister Pearsson," the colonel spoke gently in Turkish, which
Pearsson understood perfectly. "Please, follow my directions to the
letter, or you'll be a witness to your own suicide though I'm sure it
isn't part of your schedule today. Of course, the excellent insulation
of this room will allow me to return to my embassy long before
someone starts to wonder about your whereabouts."
   Before he had accepted the directorship of GCS, Pearsson was
one of the innumerable cogs and wheels of CIA's vast intelligence
gathering mechanism, and his rich fieldwork experience from that
period of his life helped him now to evaluate correctly both the
seriousness and the sincerity of Ebiler's threat.
   Besides, why should he risk his life in this particular case?
Certain decisions were taken despite his repeated warnings, which
in turn had spat out unpleasant results. He thought it only fair to try
to fend off any personal attacks by any means possible.
   "I'm listening," he replied curtly.
   "Good. Now, please enter the proper codes to the computer, to
retrieve all files relevant to the operation Byzantine Memory."
   Pearsson was startled by Ebiler's request, but kept his composure.
He spun his swivel chair toward the computer monitor but before he
had the chance to touch a single key in his keyboard, the Turkish
colonel raised his hand in warning .
   "Watch out, Mister Pearsson! I really hope you're not yearning
for a posthumous medal, because that's what you'll receive if you
make use of a hidden alarm. Now, turn the monitor toward me, so
that I can see the screen."
   Pearsson, however, had already decided not to risk his life for a  
false cause. He entered the right passwords in the proper sequence
and watched as the screen filled up with a listing of files. He turned
and looked Ebiler inquiringly but the colonel ignored him, as he
scrutinized the filenames scrolling down. 
   "All right," the Turk finally said. "Now, connect this drive to the
computer's USB port and copy the whole directory to the disk," he
ordered, handing him a zip drive and a one-gigabyte disk.
   Pearsson complied and a few minutes later returned to Ebiler the
zip drive and the disk with the copied archives. Ebiler used his
portable computer to check a sample of its contents against the
listing in Pearsson's screen. Satisfied there were no exclusions, he
slipped the disk into a special compartment of his briefcase.
   "You should understand, Mister Pearsson, that the rules of our
association are henceforth amended," he said, smiling for the second
time since he had entered the office. "You are an intelligent man, so
there's no need for me to elaborate on that, although I do have a last
request which must be explicitly stated: from now on, Global
Clipping Services, Inc. will be keep me posted on any future devel-
opments concerning this particular case."
   Ebiler did not miss the sudden flash in Pearsson's eyes. He nodded
his head in understanding and continued in the same amicable tone.
   "Right now you must be thinking who is going to enforce my
demand... Well, Mister Pearsson, you shall do that because if you don't,
certain government officials both in my country and yours will be
apprised of GCS's criminal activities, which sadly include an assassina-
tion attempt against a high-ranking officer of the Turkish military."
   He paused, letting Pearsson absorb the message.
   "I should imagine the consequences for your organization will be
severe, if not outright tragic..."
He headed for the door as Pearsson watched him silently through
his half-closed eyelids.
   "So you see, Bill, my visit to Boston was quite redundant. My
arguments are so compelling, I could have asked you for those files
without moving an inch from my office in Ankara. However, as I
strongly believe in the human factor, I thought it only proper to
personally inform you of the new terms of our association." He laid
the pistol on a chair and opened the door.
   "Oh, I nearly forgot--please, give my warmest regards to my
good friend Said Al Sawaf," he said, and smiling for the third time
he confidently walked out.


Chapter 69
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 19


After they were through with their morning hygiene, Christos
made coffee and they both sat down to enjoy it. They savored it
a sip at a time, letting its warmth suffuse their innards, accompa-
nying it with biscuits and several thick slices of Bedouin hard
cheese. They ate quietly, wrapped up in their still sluggish thoughts,
weighed down by a deep silence somehow fitting the craggy terrain.
   The vastness of the desert seemed to have penetrated their inner
space, compressing it into a single point. Nikitas started to feel that
he was on the verge of a deeper understanding, of intuitively
grasping the thousands of years of human history hanging over the
Sinai desert.
   It was a mystical moment and he tried to hold on to it for as long
as he could, to etch indelibly to his memory those brief flashes of a
clearer reality. It proved impossible and he was left with a peculiar
nostalgic feeling, reminding him of the aura that surrounds old
engravings.
   Something so distant, so ancient, and yet so near as to be almost
palpable...
   He snapped back to the present when Christos spoke up.
   "We're right here, Nikitas," he said, marking with a red circle a
point on his map. "And over there is the wadi Es-Saddad. It's covered
by a thick layer of sand along its whole length. It gave me a hard
time a couple of years ago."
   He moved his finger to another location near the first.
   "And here's a small settlement where my Bedouin friend, the one
who rented us his Land Rover, grew up. A few years ago he gave up
the nomadic life and relocated to the state-sponsored settlement of
Mazar, twenty kilometers to the south."
   Nikitas nodded in understanding, realizing that the meme of
material progress was quickly spreading to the Bedouin tribes. The
betterment of one's living conditions-who would deny a person its
fundamental right to that? And yet, twenty years from now, would
there be anyone left in the Sinai to preserve the old ways?
Only the monks at St. Catherine's... only the monks, Nikitas
decided.
   "If you also agree," Christos's words again intruded to his aware-
ness, "we can avoid this lengthy detour by driving through this
narrow ravine which leads straight to Es-Saddad. This way we can
shave off a couple of hours."
   "Okay," Nikitas replied. Christos had gained his trust right from
the beginning. He was a responsible, methodical person, intimately
acquainted with the ways of the desert.
   "We'll just have to be a bit more careful because the wadi Es-
Seikh, our shortcut, is steep and narrow, so we'll be driving in night
conditions when we reach it half an hour later," Christos added.
   They loaded their things to the jeep and took their seats. The
engine proved its worth when it started at the first try. Christos
eased the Land Rover onto the trail as the sun cast its first rays over
the wasteland.
   Soon he was totally absorbed by his driving. Nikitas relaxed,
letting his gaze wander aimlessly. At first he watched with interest
the distant ridges and their graph-like gray outlines, but then he was
bored by what he thought of as a copy-and-paste landscape and
closed his eyes.
   Shortly afterwards Christos started to whistle a Beatles' tune.
Nikitas recognized the song With a Little Help from my Friends, and
wondered whether his friend was teasing him, or was simply trying
to keep awake. He thought it was the former.
   When the Land Rover entered the wadi Es-Sheikh Nikitas discov-
ered that Christos had not been exaggerating. They had suddenly
regressed in time to more than a couple of hours. The ravine was still
veiled in darkness, with no hint of the dawn. And the driving condi-
tions Christos had mentioned were not only a matter of lack of light;
the air blowing through his window felt cold and he pressed the
button to raise it. It was as if they had entered a railway tunnel with
no visible end. Christos cut down speed and turned on the
headlights.
   They had been bumping along for some time, when Nikitas
glimpsed through his half-closed eyelids a flash on the rearview
mirror. Already half-asleep, he thought it was another car overtaking
them.
   "Let him pass," he murmured to Christos.
   "Come again?" Christos asked in a loud voice to be heard over
the engine, which was strangely amplified by the proximity of the
sheer slopes.
   His voice woke up Nikitas, who sat up in his seat looking around
him perplexed.
   "Hey, Christos, stop here!" he suddenly shouted.
Thinking that something was wrong, Christos floored the brake
and the jeep skidded to a stop.
   He turned to Nikitas. "What's the matter?" A hint of worry was
darkening his voice.
   "Did you see it?"
   "What?"
   "That flash, a few moments ago."
Christos shrugged. Everything around them was painted the
deepest gray possible short of black. The blue ribbon outlining the  
ceiling of the ravine was too narrow to bring out the true colors of
the rocky slopes. They had entered one of the most depressing
places he had ever been, and made a mental note to avoid it in the
future at all costs.
   There was no way a flash of sunlight could have shone down
at this depth, at least not so early in the day.
   Undeterred, Nikitas got out. The silence all around was heavy,
but its texture quite different from that of the open desert.
   It's a limp, a lifeless silence, he thought. He looked around, but
nothing seemed out of the ordinary and he returned to the car.
   "Can you back up the jeep?" he asked Christos. He suddenly felt
compelled to solve the mystery. How could he have seen the
headlights of another car? Was there someone back there following
them? If that was the case, it meant what he was dreading all along:
they had been traced.
   This he needed to know for sure.
   Christos backed the Land Rover slowly up, with Nikitas leaning
out the window. The walls of the narrow ravine seemed to have
come alive as the jeep crawled backward, roaring like a wild beast
about to jump at its prey.
   They covered several dozen yards this way. With the developed
sense of perspective of an experienced architect, Nikitas was able to
know that they had reached the place he had noticed the flash, but
decided on a safety margin of another twenty yards before asking
Christos to stop and start toward their destination.
   He was searching for a plausible explanation of the strange occur-
rence, when his eyes caught a reflection of direct sunlight upon the
vertical rocks at the opposite wall of the wadi. He blinked, momen-
tarily blinded by the brilliant flash.
   "Here we are, Christos," he shouted and jumped out of the jeep.
Christos had missed it, as he was concentrating on his driving. He
left the engine running and hurried out to Nikitas.
   He was standing close to a narrow cleft between the steep rocks
at the eastern side of the ravine. The funnel-shaped cleft was
widening higher up, so that its two opposing walls reached a
distance of ten to twenty feet at the top. However, down at the
bottom there was barely enough space for a person to walk through.
It formed a tortuous, narrow trail, forking off the main wadi to an
easterly direction.
   It was through this cleft in the rocky wall that the sunlight had
found an outlet, though not wide enough to flood with the main
ravine. The flash that had accidentally captured Nikitas's attention
had been the reflection of the sun rays on the almost perpendicular
wall of the cleft.
   "Unbelievable!" Christos whispered beside him.
Nikitas approached the camouflaged opening and knelt on the
ground. As he rose again, he let a trickle of fine sand run through his
fingers . Christos came to him and saw that the narrow trail was
completely covered with soft sand.
   "How much time is it since sunup?" Nikitas asked Christos.
   "An hour, more or less. Why?"
   "So, the sun has risen about fifteen degrees," Nikitas thought out
loud. He took a few steps into the cleft and then turned back to face
the main wadi, peering at the rocks forming its western wall. He
stretched out his right arm and traced an imaginary line through the
air, mentally extending the secondary trail toward the wadi's western
slope.
   "Are you thinking that Nilus could have entered the wadi
through this trail?" Christos asked.
   "Exactly. Assuming, of course, that it doesn't come to a dead end,
but continues all the way through to the other side."
   Christos went to the jeep and returned with the map. "One thing
is certain," he told Nikitas. "I can't find this trail on the map but it
hardly surprises me, because all this area is poorly mapped."
   "I like that," Nikitas said grinning, wondering whether
Konstantinou's relief map had also missed it. Probably, but it scarcely
made any difference now.
   "You told me last night that Nilus was impressed by the brilliancy
of the morning sunlight," Christos remarked. "This doesn't fit with
the wadi's layout. I mean, I can't see how this place here could
receive direct sunlight at any other time of the day besides noon."
   "That's true," Nikitas agreed. "There's a chance, however, that the
orientation of the cleft toward the east could provide a temporary
conduit to the sun rays, even of only for a few minutes early in the
morning. In that case they would fall over there, against the wadi's
western slope."
   He raised his hand and retraced in the air the same imaginary line
he had fixed in his mind. "Think what an extraordinary phenom-
enon this brief flood of light would have been in this setting, and the
feelings of awe it would have inspired to those hermits-that is, to
people having dedicated their whole lives to the achievement of
complete union with the Divine, of theosis."
   Christos nodded. He gazed thoughtfully for a moment at the
spilled sand at the junction of the cleft with the wall of the wadi. It
provided a clue to Nikitas's earlier question.
   "This layer of sand at the beginning of the trail precludes the
possibility of it coming to a dead end," he observed.
   Nikitas, however, had already reached the opposite wall of the
main wadi and started up on the steep slope, determined to test his
theory.
   His climbing got hard at several places, but the rocks offered many
footholds. And, higher up, the slope eased off.
   Finally, he came upon what he was looking for-traces of sand on
the bare rock. He followed them toward their focal point of accrual
and reached a deep layer of soft sand, which fanned out down the
slope like a frozen stream. Feeling his heart beat faster, he turned
and looked toward his friend who was waiting at the jeep.
   "Come up and have a look, Christos!" he yelled.
Daltas retraced his steps and came beside him.
   "Yes, it all fits together now," he said when he saw the deposit of
sand. He glanced up at the blue ribbon capping the wadi. "Still, the
sand covers a wide area and it'll take us several hours to search it
thoroughly. Let's go back to the jeep and get what we need."

                                ***

Half an hour later they were ready for the task, loaded with various
digging tools: a pair of crowbars, a pick and a spade, several yards of
rope, and a pair of powerful worklights. Before starting up Nikitas
approached the other side of the wadi and scrutinized the rocky wall
on either side of the cleft. There were numerous shallow depressions
and sharp protuberances on it.
   "Look, Christos, this side is rougher than the other one, which
was polished smooth by the combined action of wind and sand
blowing through the trail."
   "Right. Well, enough of the circumstantial evidence," Christos
said. "Let's go up and test your theory against the facts."
   He started first, with a seasoned climber's practiced ease. Nikitas
followed him at a slower pace. They begun their ascent at the foot of
the sand deposit, across and slightly to the right of the cleft. After
the first ten yards the slope steepened sharply and the climbing
became harder.
   "I still can't understand why someone would choose this godfor-
saken place for his personal retreat," Christos wondered out loud.
   Nikitas shrugged but immediately realized that Christos could
not see him. "Probably someone, whose inner state reflected this
desolation," he said.
   "Oh yeah, if you throw in psychological analysis anything can
made to make sense."
   Higher up the sand got increasingly deeper and a couple of times
they slid down for several feet. Thankfully, halfway to the top they
came to a broad ledge, which provided them with a place to take a
brief rest.
   After a while they examined the granite wall, wondering how to
negotiate the sheer cliff beyond the ledge without proper climbing
equipment. They searched for a more accessible way leading up, but
there was none. Nikitas sat down, while Christos absent-mindedly
paced the ledge. When he turned his back to the cliff a darker spot
on the ground caught his attention and he knelt down to examine it.
   He brushed away the sand and suddenly turned around, looking
excited. Intrigued, Nikitas joined him and saw a rectangular protu-
berance rising through the accumulated sand. What had caught
Christos's attention was an oblong piece of rock carved in the slope,
with a perfectly familiar shape.
   "A step!" Nikitas said, voicing their common thought.

                                ***

During the next hour they worked in shifts as they followed up the
stairway, shoveling away the sand that had collected through the
eons. As the ancient granite steps were revealed one after the other,
they provided them with an increasingly widening platform which
greatly facilitated their work.
   Their exhaustion had long since stopped being a relevant factor,
as all of their thoughts were swirling around their single concern:
what lay at the end of this unequivocal token of human presence in
the wadi?
   When Nikitas realized that the stair he was bringing to light was
broader than the rest, he assumed that the stairway had reached its
end. He let down the spade and told Christos, who was smoking a
cigarette nearby. He nodded tiredly, the weariness showing in his
face mirroring Nikitas's exhaustion.
   They sat next to each other and briefly discussed their progress.
The stairway they had unearthed was veering to their left, almost
reaching the root of the cliff, at which point it merged with the
slope.
   Nikitas and Christos admired for a moment the results of their
backbreaking efforts, and then decided to have something to eat
before proceeding with the final stage of their task.
   Noon had arrived and passed, blessing the wadi Es-Sheikh with
a few precious minutes of light as the sun's vertical rays brought the
new day to its depths with a delay of several hours. It was an
ephemeral gift. Darkness once again spread into the ravine like a
syrupy potion slowly filling up its container. From that point on
they had worked amidst the colorless twilight.
   Nikitas and Christos stacked their tools and began climbing
down. The granite stairway provided them with a gentle start, so
that their return trip seemed a lot easier that they had expected.
When they reached the the wadi's bottom they paused. Along with
the darkness it seemed as if the prevailing silence had got heavier,
too. Nikitas was momentarily touched by a sense of claustrophobia,
as the confined surroundings of the ravine brought to his mind
images of Aghia Sophia's underground tunnels.
   Frankly, he had had his fill of them during the last month, he
thought wryly.
   He glanced at Christos. He was chewing a sandwich as he studied
a map spread out on the jeep's hood. He gave no indication of being
affected by the somber atmosphere.
   "I'm trying to work out the point where the trail emerges at the
other side of the hill," he said, when he sensed Nikitas watching him.
   "At a rough estimate it should lead southeast, to the wadi Nagaat." He
drew a line on the map, marking the trail's probable path.
Nikitas shrugged and opened the box with their food supplies, to
get something to eat. In the desert Christos was the expert.
   After their snack, they were eager to continue. The night had
fallen but neither of them wished to spend it in the wadi's depressing
environment. They agreed to finish off their work and depart, no
matter what the time was.
   Christos carried out a small generator and a pair of electric
worklights from the trunk. Sharing the generator's weight made for
harder climbing but they finally reached the stone stairway and set
it on its first step.
   When Christos started the motor they discovered that its
grinding noise was transformed to a muted murmur by the peculiar
acoustics of the place. Thankful they would not have to endure its
irritating noise, they picked up their lamps and climbed the rest of
the way.
   Nikitas took the first shift and used his spade to remove the rest
of the sand, wondering how many years of backbreaking toil had
gone into carving the unyielding granite to a stairway. What had
actually motivated the hermit? Was the construction of the stairs a
gesture of repentance, or simply an effort on his part to improve his
living conditions?
   If the latter was true, it presented both a riddle and a contradic-
tion; Nikitas could not help but smile at the irony of Eusebios's
situation-he had broken his back to improve the skete he had
chosen for the hardship it offered him...
   A sharp clang, as Nikitas's spade hit hard rock beneath the deep
layer of sand, interrupted his train of thoughts. The landing ended
there. Christos heard the sound and was instantly alert. He strode to
Nikitas with his lamp and a steel crowbar and began dipping it into
the sand in a search pattern, trying to locate the skete's entrance.
Nikitas overturned his own spade and followed his example.
   Several minutes later Christos heard, or rather felt, something
give under the pressure of the crowbar's tip. He motioned Nikitas to
try the same spot. He probed carefully the ground with his spade
and agreed that they were dealing with a softer surface than granite.
   Without another word they began shoveling away the layer of
sand, piling it into two heaps at either side of them. As the hole grew,
the outline of a wooden door or a hatch started to form, made up of
several narrow planks nailed together. It seemed to be solidly
preserved.
   When they had unearthed the entire construction Nikitas
searched for a handle, but could not find one.
   "Looks like it's shut from the inside," Christos observed.
   "That's what I thought," Nikitas agreed.
   They both realized what that meant. They stood staring at it for
several moments, until Nikitas broke the spell. Taking the crowbar
from Christos, he slid it under the door and pushed downward. The
ancient wood creaked, but the planks held fast. The cover rose a
couple of inches, enough for Christos to grab the edge with his
fingers.
   Nikitas grasped the other side, and to the count of three they
pulled it up.


Chapter 70
           BOSTON, USA: GCS HQ.
           August 19


Despite his absorption by the science-fiction paperback resting at
his lap, Ted Sterns registered instantly the soft, melodious
sound that came through the computer speakers. He snapped his
eyes curiously toward the giant screen set into the opposite wall.
   Looking at the image which had formed on the screen, he felt
smug at how he had convinced the programmers to replace the
standard military alarm with a less stressful sound of his own
recording, during the last system upgrade. Since then, his choice
was vindicated several times over.
   Sterns's duty during his four-hour shift at GCS's Reconnaissance
Section was to keep his eyes fixed on the big color screen,
monitoring continuously the high-resolution pictures being
downlinked by satellite to GCS's headquarters, and to report
immediately all deviations from the normal.
   In practice, however, this translated to his being there to receive
any alarm raised by GCS's mainframe computer, which received and
analyzed the same digital satellite photographs bit-by-bit with the
help of a sophisticated expert program.
   Moreover, since by-and-large his employer implemented a non-
interference policy, restricting the organization to intelligence-
harvesting activities, Sterns rarely had anything to report. Besides,
the Reconnaissance Section was a recent addition to GCS. Until only
a few years ago its operation would have been impossible, except if
Pearsson could have convinced the brass at the Pentagon to give
them a portion of their precious satellite resources.
   The situation was radically changed after the deregulation of the
commercial exploitation of high-resolution satellite images. GCS
had contracted two of the biggest firms at the American market for
its Reconnaissance Section, which operated around the clock.
   Sterns keyed in a command, asking for more data. A new window
popped up on his screen, informing him that the alert was triggered
by the latest batch of images from the Polyphemus-II satellite. Sterns
nodded to himself. During the last forty-eight hours the satellite's
thermal sensors had been continuously monitoring the Sinai desert.
He glanced at the series of clocks below the giant screen: night-
time there.
   Chewing vigorously his gum Sterns tapped another command,
and was told by the system that in two hours he could establish
visual contact with the location specified by the alert coordinates, as
the nearest available satellite would fly over the region. He
dispatched a query to reserve the necessary satellite time, and asked
for aural confirmation five minutes ahead of visual contact.
Next he picked up the intercom handset.
   "We got a thermal alert at 28� 52' N, 34� 16' E," he said to the
officer that answered his call. He glanced up at his screen. "Hit
probability: 34.28%. A query for visual contact has been dispatched,
callback scheduled for 16:08 GMT."
Frugal with his words, Sterns cut off the connection and put
down the receiver.
   From now on all further action was out of his hands. A special
team on permanent standby at a military base in El-Tor, Egypt,
would be receiving an order during the next ten minutes to fly out
to the site in question and check the validity of the alert.
GCS's newest generation mainframe computer had access to a
huge general-knowledge database, which provided the data used by
the expert system to calculate the probability of a valid alarm. Take,
for example, this case with the Greek fugitive: the vast amounts of
available information included innumerable details referring to the
nomadic life patterns, the social customs, cultural idiosyncrasies,
and other everyday activities of the Sinai's Bedouins. According to
the reddish thermal activity areas superimposed on the detailed map
of the region, the alarm had its origin at a narrow wadi near a
Bedouin settlement. Sterns thought it likely that the thermal activity
was due to a small band of nomads passing the night at the wadi.
Right now they'd be preparing their dinner by the campfire,
which activity had startled Polyphemus-II out of his reverie-whatever
that might be.
   The young technician sat deeper in his comfortable chair, chuck-
ling at the image of a startled satellite firing off a series of frantic
messages to its masters that things in the Sinai weren't as they
should be...
   A true watchdog, that satellite, Sterns thought, even if its flesh
was an assemblage of state-of-the-art metal alloys and its blood a
soup of digital data. He shook his head, picked up his paperback,
and was soon immersed in the story, preferring the plot created by
his favorite writer's ripe imagination to the prosaic complexities of
real life.


Chapter 71
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 19


As they raised the trapdoor, a thick cloud of fine dust
mushroomed through the hole, forcing Nikitas and Christos to
retreat several steps. They pulled their shirts over their faces and
waited almost ten minutes for the turbulence to settle down before
they approached again the opening leading into the cave.
   Nikitas stepped in first, gripped by a slowly deepening expecta-
tion rather than by raw excitement. He resented this peculiar apathy,
thinking that the bleak surroundings had probably affected his
mood. Everything felt toned down, lifeless, and the oppressive
silence was broken only by the soft humming of the generator.
   He shrugged mentally and concentrated on the business at hand.
Right in front of him gaped a three-feet-wide, oval-shaped opening
into the rock, like the black mouth of a drainage pipe. He knelt on
the ground and felt its lips. It was definitely a man-made opening,
he decided. In the past, there would have existed a natural orifice at
this spot, which was subsequently widened and smoothed over by a
man's hand.
   He thought he knew who that man was.
   Nikitas switched on his flashlight but its beam was sucked up by
the total blackness within the cave.
   "Here. Take the worklight," Christos suggested. He was standing
beside him, with a coil of cord wrapped around his shoulder. Nikitas
nodded. He dropped down to his hands and knees and began
crawling into the cave. Christos followed several feet behind.
   They crept laboriously for several yards, silent but for their
rasping breaths. The cave's rough granite floor was covered with a
thin layer of sand, which had entered through the minute cracks and
microscopic pores of the door's planks. It was an irritation, because
it kept sticking to their perspiring limbs and their sweat-soaked
clothing.
   "I'll bet he was a hell of a hermit, that one," Christos panted.
   "How so?"
   "Don't you see? What we're doing now was his daily torture, as
he came out of or entered the cave. He surely absolved a lot of sins
this way," Christos replied. He was using one hand to move forward
and with the other he held up the lamp.
   Nikitas paused for a few moments to catch his breath. "In the
context of the monastic practices of his age this would have been a
natural assumption," he agreed. "Still, it was a mild torture,
compared with the sufferings of another famous group of anchorites
who passed whole decades living on the tops of pillars."
   "You mean the stylites?" Christos said.
   "Exactly."
   They resumed their slow progress, and when they finally reached
the end of the worming tunnel they saw a secondary shaft forking to
the left. To their right the space opened up.
   "Could you bring the light a bit closer, Christos?" Nikitas said.
Christos came next to him and they both stood up. The ceiling of
the cave had receded to a height of seven feet and the walls had
widened, too, creating a spacious chamber. At its center stood a low
table made of stone. Several wooden and clay utensils were scattered
upon it, undisturbed for thirteen hundred years. There was a jug
beside a dish with dehydrated food remains in it, and a short stub of
wax in a clay candlestick.
   Finding himself in Eusebios's perfectly preserved abode, Nikitas
felt for the second time in his life the same tingling, the same
peculiar shiver traverse his spine. After his adventure in the
catacombs of Aghia Sophia, he had thought that the primeval thrill
of discovery could never be experienced with the same intensity.
   Now he knew he had been absolutely wrong. As the remote past
suddenly sprang into life, the feelings of awe that engulfed him
proved that there was no room left for nonchalance when
confronted with a deep mystery about to be revealed.
   Christos's thoughtful posture seemed to affirm that he shared the
same feelings. Nikitas glanced at him, and saw that he was staring
somewhere low at the opposite wall. As Nikitas followed his gaze he
noticed a bed carved into the rock along the wall, with a dark form
lying upon it.
   Almost against their will, as if hypnotized, they took a few
hesitating steps toward it, powerfully attracted by the suggestive
shape. Christos raised the lamp higher and the bright light dispelled
their lingering doubts: there was a human body stretched on the
bed, wrapped up in a threadbare blanket.
   The silence was so deep, it brought tears to Nikitas's eyes.
Recovering from their initial shock they leaned over the still figure,
and Nikitas lifted carefully, almost reverently, the thin blanket.
   Beneath it lay the hermit, sheathed in a sand-colored garment which
conjured to mind pictures of Pharaoh mummies. His entombment in
a tightly-sealed environment had left his dark skin untouched; the
flesh had dried away, but the skin still clung to the bones. It was as
if the old man had died only yesterday, and the effect was heightened
by his perfectly preserved long white hair.
   The hermit looked like a sleeping man frozen in the midst of a
nightmare. His mouth was twisted in his struggle to breathe and his
fingers were clasped together, as if in supplication.
   Nikitas shook his head and let the blanket fall back over the dead
body. Although intellectually he knew that the ascetic had been dead
for over thirteen centuries, the context of their discovery gave such
immediacy to his death that he could not regard him as another
archaeological find. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was deeply
touched, as if he were witnessing an event that had occurred the day
before.
   In the meantime, Christos had started to explore the room. At the
far corner he saw several baskets stacked one upon the other, woven
with thin branches of desert bush. Next to the pile there was a crock,
which once would have carried water. Christos picked it up and
sniffed its interior, only to discover that it was empty.
   Nikitas saw him leave down the crock and wondered how the
hermit had obtained water for his most basic needs. Was it delivered
to him periodically, together with the rest of his provisions? There
was also the possibility that Eusebios from time to time visited the
nearest Bedouin settlement, to barter his handicraft for other goods,
food and utensils.
Christos came back shaking his head. He had found nothing of
significance in the whole chamber.
   There were the artifacts, of course, scattered around the cave,
which would be a priceless boon to archaeologists, but Nikitas had
not come here out of a scholarly interest. He needed to find the
missing link in his personal chain of critical events, and from his
first step into the cave he had been gripped by a powerful presenti-
ment that there were answers awaiting him here.
   "I'll take a look at the other tunnel," he announced. He walked
back to the junction point, and entered the left-side shaft in a
crouch. It was dark here-he should have brought the lamp with
him. He continued for a few feet with outstretched arms, to protect
himself from rock outcroppings. As the tunnel gradually widened,
Nikitas pushed himself to his feet.
   Finally deciding he had had enough of blindly groping through
the darkness, he reached for his flashlight. There was no point to
conserving his batteries, since they had a working generator. He
shone the beam straight ahead, and saw that the tunnel ended ten
yards farther. With a nod to himself, he turned around and played
the beam along the stretch of tunnel he had covered, to make sure
he had not missed any other forks along the way.
   He was about to turn back when he casually lowered the flash-
light, pointing it to his feet.
   The dark gap two feet away froze him on the spot. His heart
fluttered wildly and he remained motionless for several minutes,
experiencing a delayed shock as he pictured his plunge into the
abyss, if he would have taken a couple of steps forward.
Cold sweat broke on his forehead.
   Finally, a prolonged shiver rippling through his spine broke his
Fixation and Nikitas became once again aware of his surroundings.
He gingerly walked back a few feet. When he was safely away from the
hole, he knelt down and whispered his grateful thanks to God.
   He was still in this position when Christos found him.
   "What's the matter?" he asked.
   Nikitas turned about to face him, pointing silently at the dark
hole before him. Christos brought close the lamp and gave a low
whistle when he spotted the opening. He approached it, picked a
pebble, and dropped it into the hole.
   He had counted to four when they heard a soft plop. So, the hole
was actually the mouth of a very deep well.
   "Hmm, that's how the hermit got his water," Christos mused. "A
well in a cave, in the middle of the Sinai desert! Sounds like a
biblical miracle... I don't know if there's another like it in the whole
region."
   He hadn't realized Nikitas's brush-in with death.
   "Yes," Nikitas said. Slowly but steadily he was coming to his
senses, and he was blaming himself for not using his flashlight
earlier. "And I'm sure that when Eusebios discovered the well he
told no one, to protect his privacy."
   "Probably... And someday he passed away, with the cave's cover
shut. It was buried in the first big sandstorm, and soon the cave was
forgotten," Christos added.
   When Nikitas felt he could trust his legs, he stood up and walked
back to the main chamber. The exploration of the cave had offered
some clues, but hardly an explanation. As it was, his foremost
question concerning Eusebios's relation with the parchments of
Heraclius still remained unanswered.
   Christos noticed Nikitas's brooding, and hurried after him.
   "I got news, Nikitas," he said in a calm voice when they had
reached the main chamber. "I think, I found what you're looking
for!"


Chapter 72
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 20


Christos pointed to the small box he had placed on the table.
Made of closely woven twigs, its craftsmanship reminded
Nikitas of the pile of bigger baskets. The hermit had either got them
from the same source, or made them himself. Christos explained
that he had found the box together with a few items of clothing
within the hollow stone bed.
   Nikitas went over the table, trying to think of a way to open the
box without damaging it or endangering its contents. He took it
carefully in his hands, to gauge the state of its preservation. The
wickerwork felt strong to his touch and he decided to risk opening
it. He threw an inquiring glance to Christos, who shrugged his
shoulders-this was out of his turf. Right. Then it was up to him.
Nikitas set the box on the table and concentrated on his delicate
task. Its cover was latched to the main body by a thin loop run
around a small woven projection. Nikitas started from that, gently
pulling the coiled string outward.
   It took him ten minutes to free it. He took a deep breath and
wiped the sweat off his brow.
   "There goes the first," he murmured to himself. "Now for the
next."
   He held lightly the loop with his thumb and forefinger and tried
to lift it. Thankfully, the cover of the box slightly protruded from its
body. Nikitas kept the pressure for several seconds, until he felt it
give. With repeated small tugs he managed to raise the lid, first by a
few millimeters, then halfway through.
   For some time he simply stared at the box, hesitating to look
inside. What he feared the most, was a second disappointment.
Then his curiosity prevailed and with a small sigh he took a peek
under the half-raised cover. He was aware that Christos was
observing him, with the hint of a smile hovering on his face.
   The first thing that caught Nikitas's attention was the yellow
glimmer of a golden ring. He took it out of the box and scrutinized
it under the lamp. It was fashioned of a golden band with a flat,
black stone attached to its top. In its midst there were engraved
several characters in a strangely familiar script. Nikitas puzzled over
it for several moments and suddenly realized that he was looking a
two words written in reverse latin script:

                          Imperator Romanorum

   And right below:

                               Heraclius

   His rapidly growing experience in archaeology told him this was
not a plain ring, but the emperor's official seal. It was a duplicate of
the ring his uncle had shown him at St. Catherine's.
   "This is Heraclius's personal seal," he whispered to his friend.
Christos looked at him perplexed. "But how?" he asked. "Wasn't
his seal destroyed when the emperor died?"
   "I guess so, but in rare cases he also entrusted special envoys with
a duplicate of his seal, thus investing them with imperial authority,"
Nikitas replied.
   "I hadn't known that," Christos said.
   "Now, let's see what else we got here," Nikitas continued, leaving
the ring on the table. He rummaged in the box, but found only a thin
sheaf of parchments tied together with a string. It snapped when he
brought them out of the basket, and the first sheet slid down on the
table. He picked it up and glanced at its topmost line. It read:

               Save, Lord, your repenting servant Maurikios


Chapter 73
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 20


For quite some time now, Christos was in the grips of a peculiar
despondency, an uncomfortable but familiar feeling for him.
There had been other times in the past when he had felt this inner
weight, this unfocused and oppressive disappointment, descending
upon him for no apparent reason at all.
   Experience had taught him that those occasions all shared a
common characteristic: they encapsulated a warning of impending
danger either to himself, or to one very close to him. Christos, who
had no leaning toward the metaphysical, had kept his ability to
sense danger a secret. He had preferred to ignore it, rather than
make an effort to develop it further or at least to search for a rational
explanation.
   True to his practical nature, however, he had unfailingly heeded
those warnings every time they had manifested themselves.
   He had felt the same emotional pressure the moment they had
entered the cave. At first he had dismissed it, ascribing it to the
outworldly, oppressive surroundings, and then to the spooky
discovery of the hermit's dead body. However, an hour had passed
and he was still under its constricting grip. Seeing that Nikitas was
immersed in the study of the parchments, he decided to go out for
some fresh air. Without disturbing him, he quietly left the cave.
   Outside, the ravine was pitch black. This was strange, because
they had left the second lamp turned on beside the entrance of the
cave. He switched on his flashlight, picked the lamp, and shook it.
Something rattled inside the frosted glass.
   It was burnt out.
   Was this the source of his anxiety? Hardly. He couldn't see any
threat in a broken lamp. What else, then? He cocked an ear, but all
he could hear was the generator's muted whir. Its red pilot light was
shining brightly several yards farther down, at the beginning of the
stairway.
   He took a few steps, idly playing with his flashlight's beam. He
turned it downward as he searched for the jeep, and caught a reflec-
tion when the light fell on the driver's window pane. The Land Rover
was right where they had left it.
   He switched off the flashlight and stood still, trying to relax,
gazing with unfocused eyes at the deep darkness. A ribbon of night
sky bursting with myriad stars outlined the lips of the cliffs forming
the ravine, providing the only light that could reach the steep slopes
in a moonless night, like this one.
   Feeling better, Christos sat down on one of the sand mounds
they'd piled when they had cleared the cave's opening, thinking that
even this minimal illumination was a blessing to the forlorn wadi
Es-Sheikh. The total silence told him that if it had ever hosted life,
it had long ago disposed of it. It would be next to impossible for a
living creature to claim a niche in the dead environment of the dry
ravine.
   A luminous point slowly moving across the sky reminded
Christos of his childhood years, back in the sixties, when during the
summers he used to gaze at the stars before going to bed, following
inch by inch with his eyes the orbits of the sparkling dots which
actually were satellites, as they slowly traversed the night sky.
   This luminous point, however, kept growing in size as it flew
toward the wadi. Alarmed, Christos snapped out of his reverie. He
observed it closely for a few moments until a rhythmical sound
reached him, a steadily rising familiar whir.
   It was the sound of a helicopter!
   Normally, Christos would have thought nothing of a helicopter
flying over; this time, however, as he stood in front of the cave with
his eyes locked at the approaching aircraft, he became certain that it
embodied the danger he had been sensing all along.
   He did not try to explain its presence here, but reacted reflexively.
He ran down the stairs and flicked off the generator's switch.
Immediately, the red light blinked out and the engine slowly ground  
to a halt. Thankfully, his eyes were fully adjusted to the dark, so he
was able to climb back the stairs without using his flashlight. He
reached the cave and quickly crawled in.
   "Hey Nikitas! Stay where you are. I'm coming in," he shouted,
surprising himself with the unfamiliar rasp in his voice. He reached
panting the main chamber and saw his friend calmly getting on with
his examination of the parchments with the help of his flashlight.
When Nikitas heard him, he looked up at him questioningly.
   "We're in trouble, my friend," Christos said urgently. "There's a
helicopter flying toward the wadi."
   "Probably just flying over," Nikitas retorted, still unperturbed.
   "No! It's coming straight here," Christos insisted. The thought
crossed his mind to try to explain his presentiment but then there
was no need for it, because suddenly the muffled sound of the
helicopter's rotors filtered into the cave.
   The ominous buzz jolted Nikitas out of his false sense of security.
Christos was right, he thought bitterly. Once again the unthinkable
had happened, and now his pursuers were a hairbreadth away. There
was a sense of d�j� vu to his predicament, but his present situation
differed from the past in this regard, that he firmly believed he was
holding all the answers in his fist. This was the game's final round,
and Nikitas would play it to win. They needed to act fast and keep
their fingers crossed for a streak of good luck.
   "Okay. I'm finished here. Let's go back to the jeep," Nikitas said and
followed Christos into the tunnel. He had the box with the parch-
ments in one hand, the flashlight in the other. Christos cautioned him
that once out of the cave, they would have to find their way in the
dark, hoping they would get their chance even for that.


Chapter 74
           SINAI DESERT, EGYPT
           August 20


Sixty feet over the ridge, the man sitting next to the helicopter's
pilot leaned out of the window and scrutinized the ravine's bed
with a pair of powerful night-goggles strapped to his head. His safety
belt, this hi-tech umbilical cord connecting him with the hull,
strained under his weight.
   "Okay, let's give it another try," he shouted to the pilot when the
helicopter had completed its second pass.
   The pilot was wearing fatigues bearing the Egyptian Air Force's
insignia. He acknowledged the order with a wave of his hand, and
pulled the collective to raise the aircraft. As the helicopter banked,
the man clad in black went on describing in detail what he saw for
the benefit of the cabin's third occupant.
   "Our man's down there, Abdullah," he said in an uninflected voice.
   "There's a jeep parked in the wadi, but from this angle I can't make out
if it's empty or not. Now, let's see, nothing else in sight, only a trail
going up the western slope across the jeep... Yes, it's a sandy trail. It
goes halfway up and stops there, but-wait a minute. Oh yeah, there
it is. There's a stairway down there, going straight up into a cave."
   For a second, the man lost his self-control and raised his voice as
he finally felt the adrenaline powerfully kick into his blood like a
potent aphrodisiac. He lived for such moments. At long last, he was
close to laying hands on his prey.
   "Let's go down and catch the bastard inside his hole," he
exclaimed. "Notify Fauzi I'm assuming responsibility for the opera-
tion. We're going in through the wadi's northwest entry. Tell him to
dispatch a chopper and seal Es-Sheikh's southeast exit."
   As Abdullah relayed the orders through his personal communi-
cations unit, Al Zamil Santoun turned to the pilot and gave him
fresh directions. When he was through, he picked up the Uzi that lay
beside him and nestled it lovingly onto his lap.

                                ***

Once out of the cave Nikitas took the lead, using sparingly his flash-
light to see the way down the stairs and the rest of the slope.
Christos followed on his steps. They reached the Land Rover in a
matter of minutes and leaned against the hood to catch their breaths.
Both of them knew, however, that every minute counted tenfold.
Nikitas checked the package with the parchments while Christos
searched the sky for the helicopter, catching a glimpse of it as it
retreated toward the north.
   He was not fooled; he knew it would be coming back.
   Nikitas got into the jeep and brought out the computer case. He
opened it quickly, threw away the writing materials from one of its
compartments, and replaced them with the parchments. He zipped
the case shut, got out, and hid the empty basket under some rocks.
He had already slipped Heraclius's signet in his pocket.
   He was ready. And it was high time. Up ahead a luminous point
suddenly blinked into existence, hovering near the ground. It rose
slowly, but then shot toward them, following a course parallel to the
ravine's. As it flew, it scanned the terrain with a powerful searchlight
attached to its hull.
   "They're coming back all right," Nikitas told Christos, who was
still rummaging inside the jeep's trunk. "The best place where we
can hide is over there, in that rocky slope, but we got to go now!"
   "Okay!" Christos yelled. "You go ahead, and I'm coming as soon
as I'm finished here." He took out their spare canteens and slammed
down the hood. Nikitas was waiting for him a few yards away with
his flashlight turned off, his eyes glued to the approaching
helicopter. Now it was only two hundred yards away, and the sound
of its rotors was reverberating ominously all over the wadi.
   "Before it started for here, I saw the helicopter land behind the
cliffs up north," Nikitas said. "They must have established a base
there, which means the northern exit is sealed and probably the
southern, too."
   "No matter. The wadi's too narrow to turn the jeep around," said
Christos, glancing over his shoulder. "And the helicopter would
overtake us in a flash. It's better we leave it here."
   "In that case we got to cross the wadi before they reach us,"
Nikitas shouted to be heard over the din.
   They ran blindly to the eastern slope and tried to find a suitable
shelter among the boulders and the rock outcroppings. The
helicopter had already reached the Land Rover and was hovering at
a height of a hundred feet. The pilot focused the searchlight over the
abandoned car creating a bright luminous circle around it, sharply
defining the impenetrable blackness beyond.
   The frozen tableau brought to mind pictures of a bleak
moonscape rendered in black and white. The Greeks had completely
disappeared in the protective black mantle engulfing them.
   "Nikitas Paleologou, you come out now!" a voice ordered
through a loudspeaker. "We need some information from you, and
you'll be free to go your way."
Nikitas was shocked by their use of his name. For a few moments
he remained silent, uncomprehending.
   "What was this?" Christos whispered to his ear. "Did he actually
say they came here just for a chat? Man, they must be crazy to think
we'd ever fall for this!"
   Nikitas shrugged. "It's just tactics. A friend of mine, he's with the
FBI, once told me that this trick sometimes works. He told me that
most people who unexpectedly find themselves in life-threatening
situations usually panic and become vulnerable to any reasonable-
sounding suggestion offering them a way out."
   The amplified voice repeated the message two more times. Then
a machine gun rattled off several rounds without warning,
shattering the windows of the jeep into a thousand pieces. As if this
was a signal, the helicopter retreated about thirty yards. Several
minutes passed uneventfully, and then two bright points appeared at
the western slope, near the cave.
   A team of two was climbing up the rocky stairs.
   "The punks, what an arrogance!" Christos whispered furiously.
   "Look at them how they go, like a pair of lovers out for a stroll. Well,
they're in for a nasty surprise."
   He signaled Nikitas to stay put and left their hiding place. He
moved stealthily between the rocks and stopped well beyond the
area illuminated by the helicopter's searchlight. From a pocket of his
slacks he brought out the pistol he had taken from the jeep, took
careful aim, and fired four rounds at the bobbing lights.
There was a cry of pain and the flashlights on the slope blinked out.
   He turned back, and joined his friend at their temporary hideout.
   "You hadn't told me you carried a gun," Nikitas said.
   "I kept it for a surprise," Christos grinned in the dark. "I think I
got one of them, but there must be others converging here."
   The helicopter suddenly rose to the top of the wadi and headed
north. Deep silence replaced its deafening noise.
   "Why do you think it left?" Nikitas asked.
   "Our friends must have realized they'd been overly self-confi-
dent. They will regroup and try to locate us with the aid of hi-tech
instruments."
   "Like what?"
   "For example, if viewed through night-vision glasses or infrared
goggles we would stand out like flies in milk."
   It was a sobering remark, and for a while neither of them spoke.
Nikitas kept staring straight ahead as if he could pierce the black-
ness by sheer will, his face a mask of intense concentration.
   "Then, there's only one route of escape left for us," he suddenly
said.
   Christos nodded in agreement."That's right. The narrow trail
through the cleft," he whispered, realizing Nikitas could not see him.

                                ***

It took them more than ten minutes to cover the distance from their
hiding place to the cleft, all the while expecting a sudden burst of
gunfire aimed at their backs. They moved as quietly as they could,
hardly noticing the deepening cold. Already they were perspiring
heavily. Going in single file, they moved forward an inch at a time,
seeking cover behind the sharp rocks, straining to keep down their
hoarse breathing.
   When Nikitas reached the cleft he stopped, signaling Christos
with a light squeeze in his shoulder that they had arrived. Then he
leaned back, so that they could speak in whispers.
   "We can't continue at this pace," he complained. "We got to stand
up and walk-even run, if we can safely manage it in the dark. Any
moment now they'll return with backup, and then we'll be really
trapped here with no means of escaping."
   "I think we got a real chance to get out of here unharmed,
Nikitas," Christos said in a calm voice. "I know this region like my
palm, and yet I hadn't the slightest idea this trail existed. I'm sure it's
not on any map, military or otherwise. So, if we go right in and
manage to put twenty or thirty yards between us and the wadi, we'll
be safe. This is the difficult part, because if they hear us, they'll know
where to look."
   "With our present speed it'll take us forever..."
   "Shush... I hear something," Christos interrupted him.
They heard a distant thin sound, like a mosquito's buzz, but there
were no mosquitoes in the desert.
   "The helicopter!" whispered Nikitas. "It's coming back!"
Christos listened closely to the growing sound. "Not one," he
said shaking his head, "but several of them."
   "Hey, this is our chance, Christos!" Nikitas whispered fiercely.
   "Can't you see? If we run into the trail now, the helicopters' noise
will cover the sound of our footsteps. Come on!" he yelled and
slipped through the cleft.
   Christos quickly followed him and they began running along the
trail, carefully at first, then with growing confidence as they realized
that the way was free. Any small obstructions that might have been
on the ground were covered by the deep layer of accumulated sand.
When half a minute later the searchlights of four Apache helicopters
bathed the wadi Es-Sheikh in brilliant light, Nikitas and Christos
were already twenty yards deep into the trail, jogging at a steady
pace with their flashlights partially covered in their cupped palms.
   Twenty yards was enough. Although they were still at the begin-
ning of the road to safety, they knew that they could disregard the
possibility of the hidden trail being discovered before the break of
dawn.
   They kept trotting under the cover of darkness, grateful for their
timely deliverance.


Chapter 75
           GULF OF AQABA, EGYPT: 8 Miles North of N'aama
           August 20


Just a few moments before the bloated sun surrendered its spirit to
the serene vastness of the Gulf of Aqaba, a thick sheaf of golden
sun rays shot through the half-closed window shade, flooding with
light Nikitas's eyelids as he lay sleeping on the bed. Annoyed, he let
out a low moan and changed side, but half a minute later he sat up
in his bed and opened his eyes. For a brief moment he wondered
where he was, but then a chorus of jumbled pictures from the recent
events flooded his memory, and he rose quickly to his feet.
   He threw wide open the balcony shutters and walked out to the
broad veranda. The sky was darkening fast. Leaning on the wooden
railing he gazed at the horizon, idly seeking the line where the blue
sky transmuted itself into the darker sea.
   The colors graduated so smoothly, it proved an impossible task.
At last, he traced with his finger an imaginary line through the air,
where he estimated the horizon should be.
   That's it, he thought. The horizon, according to Nikitas
Paleologou. With a simple gesture he had defined it, adding it to his
subjective world.
   Subjectivity, this was his keyword. It had come to dominate his
life, which during the last couple of months had gone several
notches beyond the limits of objective reality, sometimes flirting
dangerously with the philosophic solipsism.
   Good. An exercise in practical philosophy just before dinner, Nikitas
thought wryly and shifted his weight to his other leg.
   The cement floor, still warm from the sun, felt good to his bare
soles but the breeze from the sea was unpleasantly cool. He shivered
at a sudden gust of wind and beat a hasty retreat to his room.
   He closed the shutters, switched on the bare bulb hanging from
the plastered ceiling, and began dressing absent-mindedly, letting
the memories of the last twenty-four hours claim his attention.
   From their nightly passage along the hidden trail Nikitas had
managed to salvage only a few self-replicating images in a contin-
uous loop-the abysmal blackness of the winding path and the
disparaging impotence of their flashlights-the starry ribbon above
their heads, which they anxiously checked and re-checked to make
sure their pursuers had not caught up with them-their gasping,
and puffing, and sweating-and the unending sequence of trotting,
walking, and jogging to no visible end, while everything else
remained the same, as if they were running on a roller bolted to the
ground.
   The menacing drone of the helicopters had stayed with them for
several hours, sometimes becoming a soft pattering as it faded into
the distance, at other times approaching them suffocatingly close,
crescendoing like a choir of submachine guns spilling out death and
destruction. During the latter times that Nikitas and Christos froze
in their tracks, flattening themselves against the trail's rocky walls.
   Eventually, all their worries proved groundless. Walking or
running through the depths of the uncharted trail was as safe as if
they were traversing an underground tunnel, since they were almost
continuously covered by its myriad ledges and rock outcroppings.
Dawn had found them near the ridge's eastern side, but their
pursuers had given off their chase much earlier.
   Three hours later they had reached the nearest Bedouin settle-
ment. Once there, Christos recited to the village's sheikh the names
of a few of his better-known Bedouin friends, let him glimpse a few
bills, and had no trouble convincing one of the nomads to take them
to N'aama on camel.
   Their passage through the remaining part of desert lasted four-
and-a-half hours. They reached safely their destination,
dismounting a hundred yards up from Christos's bungalow as an
added precaution. After a shower and a quick meal they had appro-
priated a bedroom each and lain down to sleep, without spending a
single minute to fend off the torrent of Eleni's questions.
   Nikitas remembered with longing the feeling of ecstasy he had  
experienced those few moments, before his awareness had yielded to
the mighty pull of sleep. The intensity of pleasure had been nothing
less than taking the first step through the gates of paradise...
A soft knock at the door cut through his reverie. He looked up
reflexively and quickly clasped his belt.
   "Come in."
Eleni opened the door and walked into the room.
   "I saw the light," she said. She glanced around, finally focusing
on his eyes. "You seem fine, Nikitas, just like Christos. Are you as
hungry, too?"
   Nikitas smiled at her, responding playfully to her gaze. "Hmm,
such a simple question from you must hint at a hidden meaning...
Am I right, Eleni?"
   "Well, actually yes," Eleni smiled back. "It hints at the dinner I've
prepared for all of us, Nikitas." She glanced at her watch. "In ten
minutes, then, out in the garden." She pirouetted gracefully and left
the room.
   Nikitas stayed still for several moments, enjoying the lingering
traces of Eleni's all-too-feminine perfume. He passed his hand
absent-mindedly over his cheek, and suddenly became aware of the
message his fingertips were communicating. He took his shaving kit
from his bag and rushed to the adjoining bathroom.
   Perhaps not exactly in ten minutes, he thought, but in a quarter he'd
surely be ready for dinner.

                                ***

To his surprise, Eleni's "garden" was much humbler than the name
implied: it was only that part of the courtyard facing the sea. It was
fenced off from the beach by a low adobe wall, which twenty yards
farther eased off into the shallow waters.
   The bungalow's courtyard was rectangular in shape. Its narrower
side bordered the beach, while a pair of packed-dirt corridors ran its
length at either side of it, separating it from the neighboring bunga-
lows.
   The dining table was made up of five or six planks joined
together, and was supported by four low posts made of cement
bricks. There were three wicker chairs at its one end, the two of
them already occupied by Christos and Eleni. Dinner had just been
served.
   From a portable stereo unit set at the table's far end came the airy
tune Across the Universe. Three fat white candles, propped by
makeshift aluminum-foil candlesticks, were creating softly glowing
spheres. Seen from a distance they looked like three luminous
bubbles hovering over the table.
   The late afternoon breeze had let up and the Gulf of Aqaba was
immersed in a deep, lethargic sleep. The sandy beach was empty, and
the distant sounds escaping the discotheques that lined the shore
were no match for the stereo's speakers.
Nikitas pulled out his chair and sat.
   "You're late, my friend, but lucky, because Eleni insisted that we
wait for you," Christos said with a wink. He was sitting at the the
table's head.
   Eleni threw him a sharp glance but said nothing.
   Nikitas ignored his teasing, concentrating instead on the dishes
spread out on the table. He had smelled his dinner as he was
coming, and was already salivating. There was fried squid and
mussels served with thick slices of lemon and carrot shavings,
generous portions of octopus grilled on coals, a deep porcelaine
bowl filled to the brim with Greek rustic salad, and a huge plate with
fried potatoes. There was also brown bread in a wicker basket and
glasses with white wine for all.
   How had Eleni managed to prepare this feast here, at the end of
the desert? Nikitas wondered admiringly. Or, was he making again
the mistake Konstantinou had warned him about, thinking of the
Sinai in an one-dimensional way?
   "A long life for us and woe to our enemies!" Christos toasted
them cheerfully, and promptly emptied his glass.
Nikitas took a couple of sips himself not wishing to dampen
Christos's enthusiasm, though he never touched alcohol.
   "Everything's perfect!" he said truthfully to Eleni. "I feel like
we're eating out at a Greek taverna by the sea."
   "Thanks, Nikitas," she replied, forking a potato, "but would you
taste it first, before telling us of your impressions."
   Nikitas dutifully complied and ate quietly for several minutes,
picking from all the dishes in turn. Finally, he assumed a serious
expression and turned toward Eleni.
   "Madam, my initial assessment still holds. But, we should also
consult Christos on this matter."
   "Oh sure. You, guys, keep on talking," Christos retorted with his
mouth full, "but don't complain if you end up starving, okay?"
   "Well, I can fight back," Nikitas replied with a grin. "I only have
to start a discussion to make you forget all about eating."
   "You can never do this!"
   "You think so? What I have in mind is boats, and sailing, and the
deep sea."
   "God, no!" Christos laughed, raising his hands in mock protest.
   "This is unlawful competition!"
   He looked around searchingly, as if something was amiss.
Realizing that the music had stopped, he used it a pretext to change
the subject. Sailing was one of his great passions, and Christos knew
that if he began talking about it, the fabulous dinner his sister had
prepared would simply go cold.
   "Why don't you turn over the cassette?" he suggested to Nikitas.
An hour later they were finished. Eleni picked up the dishes, after
having assured Nikitas that tonight dinner service included the
washing of the dishes. Replete and relaxed, Christos and Nikitas
agreed that the time had come for an assessment of the events at the
wadi.
   "You know, Christos, I'm worried they might locate us here,"
Nikitas said, gazing wistfully at the dark stretch of water beyond the
beach. A tremulous red light was moving slowly across the gulf,
heading for the Arabian shore. "They got the jeep and everything in it."
Christos nodded with a smile. He took a knapsack from the
wooden bench next to the table, unzipped it, and brought out a pair
of Egyptian automobile license plates. He dropped them on the table
and winked at his friend.
   "These are ours?" Nikitas asked, delighted. Christos nodded, and
he clapped his hands in admiration.
   "But how?"
   "From the moment you mentioned a safari in the desert, I
suspected trouble was awaiting us there," Christos explained. "So, I
took a few extra precautions, like getting the automatic with me and
leaving here our license plates. You never noticed they were
missing."
   "And if the police stopped us?"
   "No sweat. In the improbable case we'd come across a desert
patrol, I'd say they were stolen from us. So, even if those guys with
the helicopters manage to discover the jeep's owner, we've gained
some time to sit down and decide how we're going to deal with the
situation."
   "Not we, Christos! Just me," Nikitas said firmly. "Your involve-
ment in this case is over. I'm leaving as soon as I can, and you're
returning to your SCUBA lessons."
   Christos lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "You want some coffee,
Nikitas? I'll ask Eleni to make us some," he said without waiting for
an answer. When Eleni was gone he pushed back his chair and
stretched out his legs.
   "Now, then, my friend," he continued after a while, "why can't
you see the whole thing as an exciting, summertime adventure?"
   "Those men were thugs, Christos. Besides, summertime adven-
tures are romance adventures, not life-and-death situations," Nikitas
retorted a bit gruffly.
   "Yes, that too, that too..." Christos said smiling.
For a while they were silent, enjoying the sweetness of the night.
Eleni returned with three steaming cups of coffee and took her seat
at the table.
   "We got quite a workload, tonight," Christos suddenly said,
lighting another cigarette.
   "What do you mean, Christos?" Nikitas was startled.
   "I'm talking about the package we brought back from the hermit's
cave. It was you who told me that everything revolved around its
contents. Don't you think it's time we took a good look at it?"
   Nikitas, however, needed no prodding. Since he had woken up,
his thoughts had never strayed for long from those parchments. He
hoped the manuscript of the cave contained the information he
needed, or his questions would remain unanswered forever.
The moment of truth was at an arm's length but Nikitas was
afraid to confront it, fearing it might stay silent...
   "You're quite right, the time has come," Nikitas said with a sigh,
as he instinctively glanced around. But for the three of them, there
was not a soul to be seen. Their neighbors were either away, or
already fast asleep.
   "I'm bringing the parchments," Nikitas said and rose, sounding
more determined than he really felt.


Chapter 76
            GULF OF AQABA, EGYPT: 8 Miles North of N'aama 
            August 20


Nikitas returned shortly and took the seat at the head of the
table, with Christos and Eleni sitting at either side of him. He
pulled closer the half-burned candles and laid in front of him the
legacy of Eusebios: the imperial signet and the package with the
parchments. Nikitas also brought out his portable computer and
booted it.
   During his brief stay in the cave he had leafed through the parch-
ment sheets, reaching the tentative conclusion that they constituted
a sort of a personal diary. Although not written in a strictly chrono-
logical order, Nikitas was convinced that the text contained the
hermit's confession. He kept wondering, however, who its target
audience could be. If those parchments were a testament of sorts,
what did Eusebios have to bequeath? And to whom?
   "As you already know, during the last months I had to brush up
my knowledge of the Byzantine idiom of the Greek language,"
Nikitas spoke up, looking at Christos and Eleni in turn.
   "At a first glance this manuscript seems to be very readable, so I'll
attempt to translate it as I'm reading," he continued, " but you'll
have to forgive any mistakes on my part. Thankfully, Eusebios-or
should I say Maurikios?-wrote in the vernacular of his day, so I'll
not have to untangle any obscure atticisms in his writing style."
   He looked at his listeners intently, gauging their interest, and was
satisfied by their impatience to get on with the manuscript that
showed on their faces.
   "However, if an unknown linguistic term or expression pops up,
I got the authoritative Lexicon of the Ancient Greek Language, by
Liddell & Scott, in a DVD-ROM."
   With a silent wish to receive the answers he needed, Nikitas
picked up the first page.

          Save, Lord, your repenting servant Maurikios

          In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

          O Holy Father, offer Thy guiding hand to Thy servant Maurikios.
          Indicate to the sinner the way to repentance and guide him
          to the safe harbor of Thy forgiveness.
          O Merciful Father, accept this confession of my sins and
          bless me with Thy just punishment.
          My Lord, in truth and bitterness I repent and I beseech
          Thee to accept this humble prayer of mine for the salvation
          of the souls of my victims.

          Maurikios, Drougarios of the Imperial Navy

   "Here ends the first sheet of parchment," Nikitas said, laying it
gently on the table. He picked up the next one and prepared to
continue. Christos and Eleni were listening raptly, transported in
their imagination thirteen hundred years back in the past.
   Although no one was consciously aware of it, the atmosphere had
become heavier. Eleni suddenly shivered and wrapped herself
tightly with the shawl she had brought from the bungalow.
   "What does Drougarios of the Imperial Navy mean?" she asked
Nikitas.
   "Drougarios was a ship's commander in the Byzantine imperial
navy," Nikitas replied. He glanced at the parchment in his hands.
   "All right, then, let's proceed with Maurikios's chronicle."

          Emmanuel, the general of the Caravessianoi, called me to
          his mansion along with seven more Drougarioi and after he
          had us all sworn for secrecy, he spoke in length.
          He reminded us that we had been the closest of friends
          since our childhood years in Carthage, and were among
          the privileged few to accompany our glorious Emperor
          when he led the fleet from Africa to Vassilevoussa. Since
          then we had repeatedly proved ourselves as His Majesty's
          most loyal and devoted officers, both by word and deed.
          Thus spoke Emmanuel and asked us whether we were
          willing to perform one more service of the utmost impor-
          tance for our Emperor, and if we were ready to lay down
          our lives for Him and our Faith.
          We all cried out in a single voice. Yes, we were prepared to
          die for our beloved emperor and the glory of Christ.
          Whereupon Emmanuel dismissed us, after he invited us to
          meet him the next day at the Big Church.
          The following morning we gathered at the Church of our
          Lord's Holy Wisdom and after attending Mass we were
          presented to Emperor Heraclius. He greeted us warmly and
          led us to his secret underground chamber, which was full of
          papyri, books, and numerous exotic instruments. 
          When we were all assembled, the emperor asked his
          personal guard to step out and told us to take our seats. As
          yet, none of us had the slightest idea why we were
          summoned.
          As we waited for our emperor to speak, from another door
          entered the All-Holy Sergius, the Patriarch of all
          Christians. We immediately fell to our knees and kissed his
          hand, humbly asking for his blessing.
          Finally, when the venerable Patriarch was also seated,
          Heraclius rose to his feet. He spoke first of our empire
          that stretches out to the four points of the horizon,
          from the land of the Scythians to the North all the way
          to the kingdom of the Persians in the East, and from the
          country of the idolatrous nomads in Arabia to the Illyrians
          in the West. He described grave dangers and great hopes,
          spoke of his grand vision for the future, and talked of many
          other things none of us understood well.
          However, the most important thing Heraclius said was that
          at some point in the future Vassilevoussa would be no more.
          And after some indeterminable time our great city would
          be reborn from its ashes.
          Having foreseen the eventual fall of our proud empire,
          Heraclius was determined to take all the necessary
          measures to guarantee that in due time it would rise again,
          stronger than before.
          But what was to be the nourishment of the little eaglet,
          Till it would become strong enough to spread out
          its glorious wings? Heraclius posed this question to us
          but no one had an answer. As we waited in solemn silence,
          I noticed that the Patriarch bore a faint smile in his lips
          and I believe he shared the great secret with our emperor.
          Finally, Heraclius looked at us with sparkling eyes
          and began to answer his own question.
          The two-headed eaglet would draw its sustenance from two
          sources, he told us. From a terrible weapon never seen
          before on the earth, and from an immense treasure that
          would be used to pave the way to freedom.
          Right then, Heraclius, unable to contain any longer his
          intense excitement, started to pace the imperial chamber as
          he explained the details of his master plan.
          He revealed to us that for many years men of knowledge
          had labored tirelessly to bring about this great invention
          under his own leadership. He called it liquid fire, a mirac-
          ulous fire feeding on water. With this weapon, he assured
          us, the empire would rise again literally out of our
          enemies' ashes.
          At that moment Heraclius must have seen the clouds of
          doubt in our eyes. He turned briskly around, placed a
          golden bowl upon a marble table, and filled it with pure
          water. Then, he took out a jug from a sealed box and let a
          few drops of the yellow liquid it contained fall into the
          water.
          I can hardly describe what happened next, as a marvelous
          miracle took place in front of our astonished eyes. When
          the drops touched the water it flared up, and the chamber
          was choked with a cloud of thick black smoke. As I glanced
          toward the emperor, I saw him smiling at Sergius who in
          turn gave him back a conspiratorial look.
          With this simple demonstration Heraclius had instantly
          made converts of us for his cause.
          The doors were opened and we talked amongst ourselves as
          we waited. When the air had finally cleared the chamber
          was sealed again, and the emperor told us of the Great
          Treasure he had amassed in Vassilevoussa with the
          Patriarch's help. Its extraordinary volume demanded many
          freighter ships for its transportation and an adequate
          military escort.
          The treasure would be carried to a secret place, where it
          would remain hidden until that time of grave need.
          His treasure, Heraclius clarified, was not only of gold, of
          silver, and of precious stones. It also contained the
          formula for the manufacture of liquid fire and included
          a bundle of maps with the secret locations on both sides
          of the Greek Sea, where the necessary ingredients for
          its production could be found in abundance.
          Then, it was Sergius's turn to offer words of encouragement
          and advice. He told us that the Great Treasure was the
          legacy of both State and Church to a future generation of
          Hellenes, who would abide by their sacred duties toward
          the Faith and the Empire.
          Shortly before concluding his speech the Patriarch
          explained the reason behind our selection. Human beings
          have weaknesses, he said, and the temptations stalking
          them through life are not trivial. This was the reason why
          the Emperor had chosen us, his eight loyal-unto-death
          subjects, to escort the Great Treasure to its cache.
          Once there, the secret of its location would pass from each
          emperor to the next in an unbroken chain up to the last one,
          who would undertake the task of resurrecting the lost
          empire.
          And then the All-Holy Ecumenical Patriarch Sergius
          blessed us all, and swore us to loyalty and obedience.
          Before leaving the chamber, Heraclius granted Emmanuel
          the authority of acting in his name for the duration of the
          mission, and presented him with the imperial signet. And
          that was the end of the conference. The doors opened and
          the imperial guard escorted us back to the palace.
          Six months passed. Of the chosen eight, others remained in
          Vassilevoussa to oversee the preparations and others went
          on patrol duty to the open sea, to scare the pirates away.
          Emmanuel honored me with the rank of his second in
          command.
          At last, the day of our departure arrived. Myriads of
          Vassilevoussa's good people thronged the piers of the
          Keratios Bay wishing Godspeed to the imperial fleet,
          which was composed of eight dromons, six freighters, and
          four chelandia.
          We were obligated, however, to perpetrate a necessary
          deception; while everyone thought we were sailing for
          Carthage, our Emperor's home city, we had orders to hide
          the treasure in Malta, in that well-known island between
          Sicily and the African coast.
          Alas, we were fated never to reach it. When the straits of
          Propontis were left behind us, Admiral Emmanuel called a
          meeting of all the Drougarioi and announced that our true
          destination was not Malta, but a little island in the Greek
          Sea.
          Two Drougarioi voiced their protests, saying that
          they had sworn fealty to the emperor, who had instructed
          them otherwise.
          However, Emmanuel produced a parchment bearing the imperial
          seal, which confirmed the change of our destination. After
          this everyone complied fully with Emmanuel's instructions.
          We sailed in a southerly direction for two days and we
          reached the specific island early at night. We anchored at a
          secluded cove, but instead of waiting for dawn Emmanuel
          ordered that the treasure be unloaded at once. Hundreds of
          bondsmen, convicts serving time in the metallic mines,
          began carrying from the holds of the freighters the
          innumerable plates of molten gold and silver, together with
          countless sacks and boxes containing all kinds of precious
          stones, valuable jewelry and priceless artifacts. From the
          decks of the ships the boxes were transferred to boats
          especially built for the purpose.
          The crews worked hard through the night, oaring the
          heavily laden boats back and forth from the ships to the
          coast, and vice versa. Other bondsmen carted the loads
          from the beach to their final destination, stealthily moving
          through the dark eternal shapes populating the island.
          Emmanuel had expressly forbidden the use of any light that
          might betray our secret undertaking. No candle, no
          burning lamp pointed the way, but the silvery, abundant
          moonlight. What a marvelous coincidence, I had thought,
          to be graced with the full presence of earth's celestial
          sister.
          We were finished even before the break of dawn and the
          sunrise found us out in the open sea, our bows challenging
          the south as we sailed toward Egypt. According to the
          revised imperial order, we were to return to Vassilevoussa
          after filling the holds of the freighters with Egyptian
          wheat.
          Two days away from Alexandria, the admiral sent for me.
          I met him in his private quarters, in the presence of two
          other Drougarioi and two centurions of the flagship. When
          I entered his cabin Emmanuel greeted me solemnly, and
          asked me to hear him out carefully. Then, with a few well-
          crafted phrases he deftly trapped me into the web of
          treason he had woven with great skill and patience.
          He told me that Emperor Heraclius had mistakenly
          disclosed the secret of the Great Treasure to three
          treasonous palace officials, who were conspiring to assas-
          sinate him as soon as word reached them that the treasure
          had safely arrived in Malta. Therefore, in order to protect
          the emperor's life and the treasure's secret, Emmanuel had
          decided to change its hiding place. If the conspirators were
          ignorant of its whereabouts, Heraclius would be safe until
          we returned to Vassilevoussa.
          His scheme, however, came with a price. Henceforth, we
          could not trust the rest of the Drougarioi because some of
          them were in cohorts with the conspirators. We had to act
          now, according to the dictates of our rank, our loyalty, and
          God's will, to ensure that the imperial secret would remain
          inviolable. Thus spoke Emmanuel and asked for my help,
          explaining in detail all that he wanted from me.
          A great many years have passed since that terrible day,
          more than enough for me to understand that there was no
          justification for my acts, no attenuating circumstances
          whatsoever. I should have immediately seen through
          Emmanuel's lie, which I did not. Since then, whether awake
          or in my confused dreams, I have never ceased thinking
          about that momentous day, every time bitterly repenting
          for my folly.
          Why did I believe that Emmanuel was driven by selfless
          love for the emperor? Why did I fail to expose his devious
          scheme?
          Although I am certain that at the slightest hesitation on my
          part for his proposal I would not have left his cabin alive,
          my death would have been a thousand times more prefer-
          able than the black despair bleeding my heart.
          Instead, I said to the admiral that I agreed and I would do
          whatever he commanded.
          Emmanuel lost no time. The same night he invited all the
          Drougarioi to dinner, and we, the six guilty conspirators,
          murdered in cold blood the innocent and loyal ones.
          Now the fleet was only one day and a half away from
          Egypt's coastline, but the sea was empty because local
          fishermen rarely venture far from the shore. Emmanuel
          ordered the dromons in a circular formation, totally
          enclosing the freighters in their midst.
          Two hours before dawn the admiral gave the order for our
          abominable deed. The oarsmen of our ship started to row
          quietly, without the benefit of the drum-beater, and as our
          flagship circumnavigated the formation she began
          spraying lavishly her sister ships with liquid fire,
          Heraclius's secret weapon.
          The ships were immediately enveloped in billowing fire and
          burned down to cinders under my horror-filled eyes.
          That day even the senseless sea was shamed by the magni-
          tude of our atrocity, hastening to swallow the remains of
          the fleet, forever hiding our terrible secret.
          Emmanuel, however, was not finished with his abominable
          plan. When the disaster had reached its highest point, he
          secretly ordered us onto a boat prepared for this purpose,
          amply provisioned and well-supplied. Once there, he set
          the flagship in fire with his own hand.
          During the best part of the next day we kept rowing, and
          by sunset we disembarked at a deserted beach in northern
          Africa.
          We had reached Egypt.
          During the weeks that followed we tried hard not to draw
          any unwonted attention to ourselves. However, my
          memories of those days are muddy and confused. I followed
          quietly those criminals, whom I once had thought of as
          fellow-soldiers, in an endless march through the hinter-
          land. Disguised as pilgrims, we headed slowly for the Sinai
          desert where we planned to stay for a year, far removed
          from the civilization. At the end of the year Emmanuel
          would lead us back to the treasure, to mete out our unjust
          shares.
          For my part, I had lost complete interest not only for the
          bloodied fruits of our betrayal, but for life itself, as
          well. I
          kept following the rest of my party at a distance, and slept
          apart from them during the night. I even stopped sharing
          meals with them and they also did their best to ignore me.
          I believe they were putting up with my continuing presence
          only because we were so few and they needed my sword.
          Nevertheless, I am certain that when they gathered around
          the fire to drink themselves unconscious, to laugh and
          rejoice at the mythical wealth awaiting their return, they
          also secretly planned my demise.
          During those nights I used to gaze at their fleeting shadows
          from afar, but saw only demons dancing through the flames
          of the burning ships and heard the desperate cries of our
          innocent victims. Sleep always came late for me.
          And it came to be that God's unfathomable Will decreed
          that I be saved, while the rest of the conspirators fell one
          night under the Saracen sword, in a savage attack just an
          hour before dawn.
          None of them was left alive.
          The next day, the sun had risen high when I finally took
          heart and approached the site of the massacre, long after
          the Saracens had departed amidst wild yelling and
          laughter. The traitors lay naked on the ground, soaked in
          their blood.
          The robbers had left nothing upon their persons. Only the
          box with the imperial signet remained hidden under the
          rock, where Emmanuel had put it the previous night,
          according to his habit.
          I retrieved it and immediately headed for the monastery in
          the Sinai, leaving the bodies of the human monsters to the
          fate they deserved, to be devoured by the beasts of the
          desert. As for myself, I had decided to spend the rest of my
          days as a hermit, in atonement for my hideous sins.
          Only one more thing remains to be said, reader, before I
          humbly ask for your forgiveness, even as I pass each
          waking moment of my life praying for God's mercy.
          You, reader, whoever you may be, who have found this
          parchment and followed faithfully these lines, if
          Vassilevoussa still stands free, do deliver this manuscript
          To the emperor and you will be royally rewarded.
          If, however, in your time the Greatest City of All is no
          longer free and the prophecy of Heraclius has come true,
          then in you lies the burden of seeking out the Great
          Treasure, which the latter pirates hid in the cave of the
          first, a hundred and fifty paces from ours toward the blond
          God.
          But, please, do not rush to rejoice at the wealth awaiting
          you.
          When you will be holding in your hands the sparkling
          gold, when you will be reading the terrible secret of liquid
          fire, you must remember the innocents who gave up their
          lives for it. Do not let their sacrifice be in vain.
          Think of the glory of our emperors, think of proud
          Vassilevoussa, the City Eternal, and if you are a Christian,
          act accordingly.
          I only pray to God that you prove a better man than I ever was.


Chapter 77
            GULF OF AQABA, EGYPT: 8 Miles North of N'aama 
            August 20


Nikitas let the last sheet of parchment drop on top of the rest and
sat up in his chair, looking at the others with a thoughtful
expression in his face. Eleni was reviewing the notes she had kept
but Christos returned his stare with a slow shake of his head; he was
still shocked by the hermit's dramatic tale.
   How many secrets-horrible secrets-were still buried in long-
forgotten places? And how many eyewitnesses of glorious, or
hideous acts, had taken to their graves memories which could have
changed radically our conception of history?
   Those were sobering thoughts, Nikitas decided. And, once again,
his goal was proving elusive. The hermit's confession had upset
everything, rearranging the board of the game, as it barred the way
toward the Protocol of Catechesis.
   At any rate, he had to admit that the unfolding events seemed to
conform to a peculiar kind of logic whose inner workings were still
a mystery to him, but very real nonetheless. He was wandering again
inside a strange labyrinth and could only hope he was still heading
toward the exit.
   What now? Nikitas suddenly felt as if he was passed the baton in
a continuing relay race; did he have the right to quit, or should he
hearken the call of Maurikios?
   Either way, would he ever come across the coveted Protocol of
Catechesis?
   Christos broke the silence first. He rose to his feet and began
pacing the courtyard.
   "Incredible!" he whispered to himself. "Unbelievable!"
Eleni had stopped reading and was looking dreamily at the starlit
sky.
   "You know," she began, "we read breathtaking adventures in
novels all the time, we take pleasure in fascinating movies about lost
treasures or forgotten lands, we watch well-researched documen-
taries about civilizations long since gone..." She turned to face
Nikitas. "And by doing so, we naively believe that we widen our
perspectives, expand our imaginations, enrich our thoughts. How
wrong can we be!"
   "Why Eleni?" Nikitas asked, intrigued.
   "Because we consistently forget whatever we've read, or heard, or
seen the very next moment. Those things didn't really happen, we
say, so they don't matter. Sure, we've had an entertaining weekend,
but that's all-nothing has changed in our lives. It's only when hard
reality comes knocking at our door, like it did tonight with this
bunch of old parchments, that our neatly arranged world tumbles
over, usually landing on its top."
   Nikitas eyed her thoughtfully. "I think there's a reason why this
is happening," he said. "When reality intrudes to our lives we're
forced to take sides, to choose. We're no longer passive spectators.
We may still refuse, of course, to tackle the dilemmas thrown at us,
and still sustain the illusion of free choice in the matter, but it's only
just that-an illusion at best; because, however we may decide to
act, we're branded, forever changed by the unexpected event that has
startled our daily routine."
   "In other words," Christos mused, "even if we dip our heads into
the sand and try to ignore all that we've learned tonight, we'll never
be the same persons we were a couple of hours ago." He took
another cigarette and struck a match. "So, let's see what our options
are," he said, blowing a small cloud of smoke toward the beach.
   "You mean my options, since this is solely my burden," Nikitas
corrected him. "Bad people are after me, and I can't stop now. They
won't allow me that. For you, though, it would be idiotic to get
involved in all of this."
   "If you're referring to Eleni, you're right," Christos agreed. "But
for me, things are different. I didn't take lightly the decision to get
involved in your quest and I don't intend to let a bunch of half-
witted opportunists get the better of me. Besides, that wretched
hermit made us all responsible for the outcome of this matter-isn't
that what he says at the end of his story?"
   "You know something, Christos?" Eleni snapped at him. "As I
happen to be over eighteen, I think I can decide for myself, thank
you. I'm in this as much as the next guy."
Christos raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. He tried to say
something, but Eleni interrupted him.
   "Listen, I got some good advice for both of you. You keep talking
about your options and responsibilities... Have you realized,
gentlemen, that you still haven't mentioned a single, practical
choice? What is it exactly that you propose-to go to the Aegean
and start searching a few thousand islands in hopes of discovering
your treasure?"
   The two friends looked at each other but said nothing.
   "Well, it goes without saying that we must locate the island
first..." Christos shrugged.
   "In my opinion, even if we have to search the islands one by one,
it will still be worth our while," Nikitas retorted. "Because
Maurikios's manuscript implies that the treasure is greater than one
might have thought!"
   "How so, Nikitas?" Christos asked.
   "Maurikios makes it very clear that he considers the secret formula
for liquid fire on a par with the rest of the treasure. Of course, liquid
fire would be of little value in our highly advanced technological age.
Not so, however, the maps 'with the secret locations on both sides of the
Greek Sea'-that's the Aegean-where the basic ingredients for the
manufacture of liquid fire were to be found in abundance... Do you
know which is the basic ingredient of liquid fire?"
   "Tell us," Christos said.
   "Oil!"
   There was a long silence, as they assimilated the practical impli-
cations of the sensational discoveries Maurikios's manuscript
promised. Presently, Eleni stood up and collected the empty cups.
   "I'm bringing us some fresh coffee," she announced. "In the
meantime, why don't you start breaking some new ground?"
She smiled at Nikitas, picked up the full tray, and headed toward
the bungalow.
   "She's right, you know," Christos said.
   "All right then, let's start from the beginning," Nikitas replied as
he took Eleni's notebook. "There's always the chance that we've
missed something vital in our first read."

                                ***

When Eleni returned Nikitas and Christos were still at point zero.
   "Maurikios, aka Eusebios, offers a few simple pointers as to the
whereabouts of the treasure at the island, but he fails to specify
which is that. From the overall context we get the impression it's
somewhere in the Aegean Sea, but that is all," Nikitas told her as
soon as she was seated.
   "Perhaps there was another map hidden somewhere else in the
cave," Eleni suggested. "And I say this, because Maurikios in his
manuscript clearly shows his intention to reveal not only the
treasure's existence, but its location, as well."
   "No, I don't think so. I mean about the map," Nikitas said,
shaking his head. "If he had something else to offer he would have
placed in the basket, together with the rest of the parchments.
Therefore, we must assume that..."
   "...that the solution to the riddle is right here, in this
manuscript," Christos finished off his sentence, tapping his finger
on the topmost sheet. "Did you check them for any hidden marks?"
   "Yes. Nothing there."
Nikitas wished he had his uncle by his side for the next couple of
hours. He was certain that he would have solved the mystery in a
snap.
   "Let's read Maurikios's story once again," he suggested.
   "Let's focus on the island, instead. Where does he mention it for
the first time?" asked Eleni.
   Nikitas spread out the parchments on the table and scanned
them quickly, as Eleni flipped through her notebook's pages.
   "It should be somewhere there..." she murmured. "Okay, I found
it. It's where Emmanuel announces to the Drougarii that their desti-
nation is no longer Malta, but an island of the Greek Sea."
   "He meant the Aegean," Nikitas said.
   "Right. This doesn't tell us much, though. Now, the next time
Maurikios mentions this treasure island is when they arrived there.
He tells us that they immediately proceeded to unload the ships
under the moonlight. I was impressed by the romantic setting.
Nikitas, can you locate the original excerpt?"
   He found it easily. By now he had become used to the lack of
punctuation marks, and Maurikios was a calligrapher.
   "Here it is," he said. "Listen to his exact words:

          ... ekomen eis ten delon nesson en arhe tes nyktos ...

                                ***

   "Which you translated thus: 'we reached the specific island early at
night,'" Eleni said.
   "That is correct."
   "In the original, what's the corresponding word or phrase for the
expression specific island?"
   "We have the adjective d�loj, meaning apparent, evident, manifest,
and by implication specific, qualifying the noun n�soj, which means
island. Maurikios talks about this particular island the sailors saw
early at night."
   Eleni smiled to herself. It was so easy, after all. All this time the
solution was staring them in the face, and the only reason Nikitas
had not seen it was because of his fluency with the Ancient Greek.
The Byzantine text contained no riddle; on the contrary, Maurikios
had written down his story to help the reader locate the treasure of
Heraclius.
   She sipped her coffee slowly keeping her peace, as Nikitas initi-
ated a search with his computer for the questionable word.
   "Okay, here it is," he finally announced. "I'm going to read you
the definition of the word d�loj from the Liddell & Scott Lexicon, so
that you can form your own opinion:

          [*i.] to make visible or manifest, to show,
          exhibit, *soph.:u *pass. to be or become
          manifest, id=*soph.
          [2.] to make known, disclose, reveal, *aesch.,
          *soph.
          [3.] to prove, id=*soph., *thuc.
          [4.] to declare, explain, set forth, indicate,
          signify, id=*thuc.; c. part., deloso se kakon
          [onta] *soph.; the partic., if it refers to
          the nom. of the *verb, is itself in nom.,
          delosei gegenemenos *thuc.
          [*i*i.] intr. to be clear or plain, *hdt.,
          *plat.
          [2.] impers., deloi = delon esti, *hdt.; fut.
          delosei *plat.; aor. edelose *xen.

                                ***

   "I never doubted you, Nikitas," Eleni said. "Getting a list of the
various senses of the adjective d�los is okay, but what if in this partic-
ular context d�los isn't used as an adjective? What if it's a noun, and
a proper noun at that?"
   With a flash of understanding, Nikitas gave Eleni a disconcerted
look. With the phrasing of her question she had ripped the riddle
apart, and left him wondering how he could have overlooked such
an obvious interpretation.
   "That's right!" he said softly. "Instead of 'we reached the specific
island early at night,' the passage should read: 'we reached Delos early
at night.' The word in question is Delos, with a capital 'D', and I can't
understand how I ever thought otherwise."
   "You said that Maurikios wrote in capital letters. Perhaps you
were confused by that," Christos suggested.
   Nikitas studied the original text for a few moments, then shook
his head. "No. I was misled by the syntax, because instead of the
correct:

          ... ekomen eis ten nesson delon ...,

   Maurikios wrote the syntactically erroneous:

          ... ekomen eis ten delon nesson ...,

   where the position of the word delos makes it an adjective quali-
fying the noun island. I guess he was simply showing off his grasp of
Ancient Greek but was confused by the syntax of proper nouns."
   "Aha, here pops up one more instance of the ages-old war
between the vernacular Greek, the 'dimotiki', and the formal Greek,
the 'katharevoussa,'" Christos said with a grin. He had a passion
with the Hellenic State's political and cultural history and was refer-
ring to the bitter confrontation between supporters of either side,
which had lasted more than a century. Dimotiki, the vernacular
Greek, had finally won the War of the Languages, as it was aptly
named.
   "Of course, taking into account the fact that since the Hellenistic
times every scholar worth his salt has tried to show off his fluency
in the attic dialect, Maurikios's mistake is understandable," Christos
continued. "Naturally, some of them were less skillful at it than
others..."
   "Only too true," Nikitas said smiling.
   "What about going back to the text, to check out how this inter-
pretation fits into the wider context of Maurikios's story?" Eleni
suggested.
   Nikitas nodded and motioned them to come closer. They leaned
over Eleni's notebook, skimming over the translated fragments she
had jotted down.
   "You see this?" Nikitas said. "Here Maurikios says: 'Other
bondsmen carted the loads from the beach to their final destination,
stealthily moving through the dark eternal shapes populating the
island.' Isn't this a fitting description of the treasure's transfer
through the ancient remains of Delos?"
   "Right on the mark!" Christos exclaimed.
   "And the phrase 'a hundred and fifty paces from ours toward the
blond God' now makes sense," Nikitas continued with growing
enthusiasm. "Everyone knew at that time that the sacred island of
Delos was dedicated to Apollo and Artemis. Apollo, the god of light,
was depicted with waving blond hair as he rode the chariot of the
sun. So, all we got to do is go there and we'll find the treasure at a
radius of a hundred and fifty paces from Apollo's major temple,"
Nikitas concluded triumphantly.
   "I agree on that one too, but what does the phrase 'from ours'
mean?" Christos asked.
   "Well, I suppose it refers to a Christian chapel built near Apollo's
temple," Nikitas replied cautiously. It was a factor that added to the
complexity of the problem.
   "So, what now about your options?" Eleni asked. "It seems to me
you already made up your minds without so much as mentioning
them."
   "Well, you too had your part in this development-and not a
small one at that," Christos laughed.
   "Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut," Eleni retorted in a
serious tone. "I hope this thing turns out for the good, because from
the little things you told me I understand you're not the only ones
interested in the confession of Maurikios."
She stood up and stretched. "Time for bed," she said, glancing at
her watch. "I stayed up way too late, as it is."
   "You go get some sleep, Eleni. We'll stay here for a while,"
Christos said with a sidelong glance at Nikitas, who was busily
tapping at his computer.
   "Good night, then, to both of you. And just in case you've
forgotten it, tomorrow we're expecting a new group, Christos. You
should get at least five hours of sleep."
   "Good night, Eleni," Nikitas mumbled absent-mindedly, as she
walked away.
   Christos pulled his chair closer to the table. His eyes were
burning with excitement, in anticipation of an intoxicating adven-
ture.
   "I got a plan, Nikitas," he whispered conspiratorially to his
friend.


Chapter 78
            SINAI DESERT, EGYPT:  Skete of Maurikios
            August 21


The technician with the professional TV camera strapped on his
shoulder was taping every cranny and crevice in the cave, aided
by a lighting crew of four. The brightness of the artificial light,
however, was robbing the interior spaces of their magic, as it
brutally exposed to the world their most intimate secrets.
   When the videotaped record of the cave was complete, the
cameraman concentrated to the artifacts scattered in the main
chamber. No one had touched anything yet, with the exception of
the hermit's mummified body, which was stored in a special
container and was already on its way toward GCS's headquarters in
Newbury Street.
   Anastasia left the technicians alone to finish their work and went
out. Besides, confined dark spaces always made her nervous. It was
a psychological handicap she had struggled for many years to
overcome, without any significant success thus far.
   She walked down the slope to the end of the granite stairway, and
stepped on the narrow aluminum platform erected the day before to
serve as a communications center. At this hour the sun was at its
zenith, its blinding light reflected back by the shiny surfaces of the
military vehicles crowding the ravine.
   After the gloomy environment of the cave, Anastasia's eyes did
not take kindly to the bright light. She snatched out her sunglasses
from a pocket of her coveralls and put them on. Down at the wadi's
bed a team of experts was busily examining the abandoned jeep.
   Although the license plates were missing, the engine's serial number
was there. With that and a description of the jeep, extensive searches
were taking place right now in the villages and settlements of the
surrounding area.
   Unfortunately, the National Vehicle Register of Egypt was not
computerized, so there would be no fast answers forthcoming.
   Fifteen yards away from the Land Rover was the entrance to the
unmapped trail, which the fugitives had used as their escape route.
The fugitives... how impersonal it sounded, Anastasia thought. It
was Nikitas Paleologou, of course, with someone else helping him,
the latter's identity as yet unknown.
   Well, never mind that. Sometime during the next twenty-four
hours she'd have that information. It was just a matter of time. The
game was played out, and was fast approaching its natural conclu-
sion.
   She knelt down, opened the slim case of the Comsat Planet 1 (r)
satellite phone, and took out the manual. She used the color coded
process to set up the antenna at the correct angle, and picked up
the handset. Forty seconds later a low-pitched chime informed her
that an Inmarsat 3 geostationary satellite had been found and
locked.
   Next, Anastasia dialed a number which did not pass through a
telecom exchange. As a male voice answered her call, a flashing
green light on her customized handset indicated that the communi-
cation was secure.
   "It's Mara, from the Sinai." Anastasia spoke curtly, using one of
her many aliases.
   "Please, hold," the male voice instructed her at a neutral tone,
and the line momentarily went dead. Anastasia cursed him quietly.
GCS strongly discouraged the employment of women, and most of
its female employees had been recruited on the basis of their good
looks and advanced sexual skills.
   This discriminatory policy was established by the founding
Arabian members and was contributing very little toward creating a
fulfilling work environment, according to Anastasia's American
colleagues.
Pearsson's voice suddenly broke through her thoughts.
   "What's news, Mara?" he asked jovially.
   "All three areas have been thoroughly investigated and video-
taped, sir. This includes the interior of the cave, the abandoned
vehicle, and the fugitives' route of escape. In one hour at the most
we'll be ready to depart. Later this evening I'll get a preliminary
report from the Cairo labs, in regard with the archaeological finds."
   "What 's Dr. Fozan's first impression?"
   "As usually, he's reserved, but in one matter he was adamant: that
the small basket we found at the ravine had been taken from the
cave. Although its contents were missing, Dr. Fozan told me that he
discovered traces of parchment in it..."
   Her last words were drowned by Pearsson's harsh voice. "This is
very important, Mara! I absolutely got to have those parchments
within the next twenty-four hours. You'll be personally accountable
to me, if I don't. Make use of all our available resources in Egypt,
split the Red Sea if necessary, but do find them!"
   Pearsson's outburst was understandable. As the weeks passed
without any concrete results, his anger at the incompetence of the
executive partner had mutated into fear. Every time he came to
think that this accursed operation was nearing its end, an unfore-
seen development would pull the rug from under his feet.
   Thus far he had manager to juggle all the challenges tossed into
his hands, but for how long could he keep up the act? The American
authorities were sniffing their way toward GCS's illegal activities,
and he sensed that his own employers were losing their patience.
   At her own end of the satellite link, Anastasia took several deep
breaths to keep herself from uttering something she might regret. She
turned her attention toward the ravine, using it as a distraction. At this
hour it resembled an ordinary construction site during the lunch break.
   "Mara, is there anything else you want from me?" Pearsson
asked, suddenly impatient to finish the call. He urgently needed
some time with himself, to regain a measure of his emotional
balance.
   "Actually, two things, sir," Anastasia replied. "First, how do we
dispose of the Land Rover, and second, how do we treat the cave."
   "Seal and camouflage the entry to the cave; let the jeep remain
where it is, but place it under constant surveillance."
   "Sir, we're in the Sinai desert!" Anastasia blurted out. "Setting up  
an observation post will require at least a platoon of Egyptian
troops."
   "So what? You got a problem with this, Mara?" Pearsson retorted
angrily. "Didn't I tell you that we're facing a major crisis? Do I have
to come over to the Sinai in person, for such a simple job to be
carried out properly?"
   He paused for a few seconds to catch his breath and continued in
a milder tone. "What I've told you, Mara, still holds: you got all of
our resources at your disposal. Use them."
   Without another word Pearsson hung up. The green blinking
light went out and Anastasia slammed down the receiver,
wondering-not for the first time-whether the time had come to
upgrade her relationship with Farid Hilal to a more permanent level.
   She rose and walked over to the edge of the narrow platform.
Down at the ravine the technicians had formed a line, and one by
one they were getting on a military truck.
   Prodded by a sudden impulse, Anastasia took a portable
loudspeaker from the folding table beside her and raised it to her
lips.
   "Hey, you down there, come on, move it now!" she shouted in
Arabic, well aware that for the military engineers down in the wadi
an order issued by female lips was enough to ruin their day.
Having vented the burning edge of her frustration, Anastasia
nodded to herself, unable to hold back her slowly widening grin.


Chapter 79
            RED SEA, EGYPT: Off the Ras Mohammed Peninsula
            August 23


The small sailing boat kept a steady course to the southwest, the
billowing mainsail taking full advantage of the tail wind. Her
freshly painted white hull cut lightly the Red Sea's azure waters,
averaging a speed of ten knots.
   It was an hour before noon and the remorseless sun was putting
to the blaze everything exposed to its glare, its once benevolent
radiation now harmful to the living creatures, due to the irrespon-
sible behavior of earth's dominant species.
   Nikitas, however, was not in the least deterred. Encapsulated in
a thick layer of sunscreen cream, he was stretched out along the
narrow deck, gleefully enjoying the African sun. Clad in his bathing
suit, he was listening raptly to the mini-CD he had borrowed from
Eleni. The elegant rhythm of a minuet from Haydn's Symphony 92
was blending harmoniously with the boat's slow sway, giving rise to
a pleasant synesthetic experience.
   He was well rested and felt perfectly relaxed, ready to attack the
future. Isn't this what happiness is all about? he wondered, turning his
other side toward the sun.
Christos spoke up from the wheel and Nikitas plucked off his
earphones to hear.
   "We're approaching the Ras Mohammed promontory, and it gets
rough in its vicinity. I'll be needing your help, Nikitas."
   "I'm coming right away."
   Nikitas had heard quite a few stories from his friend about Ras
Mohammed, which forms the southwestern tip of the Sinai
Peninsula at the mouth of the Gulf of Aqaba. It overlooks a part of
the Red Sea that is globally acclaimed for its majestic coral reefs,
which constitute a major attraction for the scuba diving enthusiasts
throughout the year.
   Scuba diving aside, the promontory was also well-known for its
dangerous shoals and strong currents. Christos had navigated Ras
Mohammed several times in the past and was familiar of its traps,
but deemed it safer not to attempt the passage alone when he could
easily muster an extra pair of hands.
   He passed the wheel to Nikitas and gave his full attention to the
sails. They applied themselves energetically to their tasks, and an
hour later ""Pretty Eleni"" was leaving behind her the dangerous waters,
setting course due north toward the Suez Canal.
   Tired and sweat-soaked from their exertions, the two friends
treated themselves to cold refreshments from the mini-fridge and sat
down to enjoy the rich shadow cast by the mainsail. Although
Christos had locked the wheel, his eyes kept darting back and forth,
monitoring a dozen little navigational details.
   They had left N'aama early in the morning, two days after their
all-night session over Maurikios's manuscript. Later that night
Christos had told Nikitas that each year he arrived to the Red Sea by
sailboat, and suggested that they make the trip to Delos the same
way. The last coat of paint had dried in a matter of hours after it was
applied, and "Pretty Eleni" was ready to sail.
   Christos had also proposed the island of Mykonos as their initial
destination. Once there, they could plan their strategy in leisure, he
had argued. By using this means of travel they would accomplish to
both shake off their pursuers and have at their disposal the best tool
for their mission in Delos: a private sailing boat.
   They had also agreed that, as an added precaution, Eleni
should fly back to Athens as soon as she was through with the
school's last group.
   Reluctantly at first and then with growing enthusiasm, Nikitas
had accepted Christos's involvement, consoling himself with the
thought that even if he refused his friend would find a way to
accompany him to Delos. There was simply no holding back of Christos
from joining him in his treasure hunt.
   The day after their night-session Nikitas researched the facts they
had learned. He made full use of the telephone line Christos placed
at his disposal, which Haim Ayalon, occupant of the neighboring
bungalow, had "borrowed" from the settlement's telephone booth.
   Ayalon was an interesting figure. He had arrived in N'aama when
the Sinai Peninsula was still occupied by the Israelis. Initially a
member of the military occupation force, he chose to settle perma-
nently in the Sinai when he was released from the army. Currently
he was the owner an import-export firm trading mainly with Israel,
and lived with his wife Dahlia in the bungalow next to Christos's.
   A week after Christos had moved in, Ayalon had paid him a visit
and asked if he needed a phone at home. At first Christos
had taken it as a joke, but shortly afterwards Ayalon had returned
with an extension line from his own bungalow, connected with the
telephone booth's line.
   If the Egyptian administration was incapable of providing him
with a regular telephone connection, Ayalon had told Christos, he
felt free to use the existing resources.
   Since then Christos had used his free telephone line only in
emergencies, because as a practice phreaking was completely out of
character for him. Nevertheless, he gratefully accepted the side
benefit that he and his sister were able to receive calls from their
relatives and friends in Greece.
   Nikitas, on the other hand, perfectly aware that he was in the
midst of a raging war with life and death proportions, had no
inhibitions whatsoever in making use of the line. He had connected
to the Internet through a long-distance dial-up to his server in Athens,
and after a three-hour exhaustive search on the lemma 'Delos' he had
collected copious amounts of information about the famous island of the
Aegean Sea. Those he had absorbed during the rest of the day.
   "You see how beautifully the mainsail catches the wind?"
Christos proudly commented when his boat had attained a speed of
fourteen knots.
   "Is there a chance it will keep up all the way to Greece?" Nikitas
asked.
   "Oh no, not at all!" Christos replied with a laugh. "It doesn't
matter though; when we reach the canal I'll start the outboard
motor. As for the rest of the way, in the open sea the seasonal north
winds will be our constant companions."
   "North winds..." Nikitas repeated thoughtfully. "But how can we
travel up north with a contrary wind, Christos?"
   "Aha, that's clever from someone who's never set foot on a sailing
boat before, Nikitas! Well, the answer is we'll sail on the wind. It's a
simple concept, but needs a lot of practice to master it," Christos
said. "Before I explain it to you, however, I should tell you that, in
principle, you're right. If the wind blows from the direction you're
heading to, the boat should come to a standstill."
   "So, how do you avoid that?"
   "You meet the wind halfway, so to speak. If you're sailing on a
north wind, you set course forty-five degrees to the east, the sails
catch the wind, and your boat speeds up to a northeasterly direction.
After a while you change tack, but now you set your course forty-
five degrees to the west, to compensate for the shift from your
intended direction. And so on. Zigzagging back and forth-the
nautical term is tacking-you manage to reach your destination
upwind from the starting point.
   "Cool," Nikitas said.
   "Sure. This technique became possible with the invention of the
triangular sail. It's called the lateen sail. In the Mediterranean this
took place around the second century AD, but those who exploited
it to its fullest were the Arabs, during the Middle Ages. It was one of
the reasons for their naval supremacy in the Mediterranean at that
time."
   "And yet, you've installed an outboard motor, too," Nikitas
observed.
   "Yes, but I keep it only for emergencies. So, for a fast trip you'd better
place your hopes right here," Christos said, patting affectionately the mast.


Chapter 80
            SINAI DESERT, EGYPT:  Marraki Bedouin Settlement
            August 23


Tarek Abdel Salam mistrusted technological innovation. He was
hardly a religious fundamentalist or adverse to the western idea
of progress, if it meant working for the betterment of one's living
conditions; he was simply utterly convinced that the concepts
nomad and modern technology were incompatible.
   Time and again he had tried to explain his ideological position to
the government's representative, who periodically visited the settle-
ment to advise his fellow villagers on aspects of animal husbandry.
It was all to no avail: the official listened to him politely, and then
resumed his work as if he had heard nothing.
   However, Salam knew that from time immemorial the Bedouins
had followed their own hard way of life not out of foolishness, but
in obedience to their need for survival in the midst of an extremely
inimical environment. If current or future technology succeeded in
abolishing that need, the Bedouin way of life would also cease to
exist.
   This might be desirable for some, but not for him.
   As a reasonable and moderate man, Tarek Abdel Salam had
opted for the middle between the two extremes. It was for this
reason that he had consented to the heavily subsidized purchase of
a Land Rover, in the context of a running governmental project for
the development of his settlement, and then refused to incorporate
it in his everyday life.
   He had remained faithful to his camels and left the jeep to his
sons, or-when the opportunity presented itself-rented it for a fair
price.
   As he had done several days ago with his Greek friend.
   Tarek's settlement was relatively isolated. It lay outside the
highway network interconnecting the main villages of the Sinai, and
his jeep was the only automobile at a radius of several kilometers. As
a result, when he was told that a stranger from Cairo was asking
questions about a rented Land Rover, he immediately knew they
concerned his own jeep.
   The stranger was tall and blond but spoke the Arabic like a native
Egyptian. He stood in the midst of the small square surrounded by
men and little boys, inviting them to report any recent leases of the
settlement's vehicles.
   There had been no response from his audience, as yet. His
queries would not have met with more success, had he asked them
how many of them owned a car. Besides, no one would ever mention
Tarek's jeep, because that was solely Tarek's business.
   Tarek Abdel Salam approached unhurriedly the small gathering,
pretending the uninvolved bystander. It was early afternoon and the
villagers had to endure the scorching sun. They were all waiting for
the stranger to depart, before they sought shelter and a modicum of
relief in the coolness of their tents and wooden sheds. For the time
being, however, they were too curious to leave the square.
   "And if you find the man who rented that jeep, what then,
stranger?" Tarek shouted at the blond visitor.
   The tall man heard the voice and searched through the villagers'
upturned faces to pinpoint the adventurous one, the first to address
him since his arrival. He was aware that the settlement was subsi-
dized by the Egyptian government but there had been no time to
check the official records, to find out in what form this particular
village had received its share of financial aid.
Maybe he was close to getting an answer now.
   "There was a serious car accident," he replied somberly. "A Land
Rover was found upside-down in the wadi Es-Sheikh, its unfortu-
nate driver dead." 
   He made with his hand a traditional gesture to ward off bad luck
and continued. "From his appearance we gathered he was a
foreigner, and we're trying to find out who he was, to notify his
relatives."
   At any other time Tarek would have probably have the wit to ask
the stranger to explain how he could tell apart the deeply tanned
Greek from any other Egyptian. However, his sudden grief for the
supposed death of his friend blunted his mental reflexes. He walked
over to the stranger and spoke in a low voice.
   "The Greek was a good man. He had rented my jeep."
   The blond man shivered as a violent feeling of triumph ran
through his body but kept his composure. Without allowing his
mounting impatience to take the upper hand, he gravely took Tarek
aside.
   Five minutes later he had sucked dry the nomad of all the infor-
mation he possessed in regard with his Greek friend, and was
heading to his jeep--and to his satellite phone.


Chapter 81
           SOUTHEASTERN MEDITERRANEAN: Aboard the ""Pretty Eleni""
           August 24


"Pretty Eleni" passed the canal during the night and before dawn she
had docked at Port Said. Early in the morning Christos left
Nikitas in the boat, disembarking with a list of the necessary
supplies for their trip. An hour later he had returned with the provi-
sions, and noon found them sailing in a northeasterly course.
   The previous night they had discussed at length their route,
finally agreeing that it would be sound strategy to leave as fast as
possible Egypt's national waters. At the same time it was prudent not
to stray deep into the open sea, where their boat would be a sitting
duck at the mercy of anyone coming after them.
   Balancing the tight rope of the two risks, they had decided to sail
along the northern coastline of the Sinai Peninsula and then of Israel
until they reached Haifa. From there their next hop would be to
Cyprus and then to Mykonos, in hopes of passing unnoticed
amongst the hundreds of sailing boats cruising the Aegean.
   As Christos had predicted, once out of the harbor they ran into
a meltemi, which is the Greek word for a strong seasonal wind
from the northeast. Christos welcomed it with a wide grin, aware
that it would add a couple of knots to their speed.
   Nikitas, on the other hand, still green to sailing in a small boat,
was of a different mind. The sea had turned too rough for comfort.
The waves were rising several feet high, hungrily licking the deck,
and he soon realized that any attempt at relaxing or sunbathing was
futile.
   However, the weather was fair and the sun was shining brightly.
Nikitas made coffee for two and offered Christos a lidded cup with
a straw. He thanked him and sucked deeply. Drinking coffee through
a straw had a drawback, though; it prevented its aroma from
enriching its taste.
   "I haven't seen you smoking lately," Nikitas observed. "What's the
matter, my friend? You trying to quit?"
   "Hardly! Where did you get this idea?" Christos replied in mock
indignation and then broke a disarming smile. "It's just one of my
quirks, Nikitas-I've always thought smoking and sailing make a
poor match. It feels like smoking in a church."
   "Yeah, I see what you mean," Nikitas said. He raised his chin
toward the frothing waves, busily keeping on splashing against the
hull. "What about those, Christos? Aren't you worried about the
swell?"
   "Not in the least. People have sailed around the world in smaller
boats than mine. Take heart, Nikitas, you're not in a canoe! And
remember: it's the skipper that makes the difference," he smiled,
patting his chest. "You need any further assurances? The African
coastline is right next to us, and this little beauty is equipped with
the best telecommunications and navigational equipment in the
market."
   "What's the range of our radio?"
   "You can call any phone number in any country of the world."  
   Nikitas sat back, and after a while began to enjoy the rhythmic
slapping of the waves and the occasional sprinkle. The fine spray
was actually soothing and the strong sun quickly dried up his
clothes.
   "It's a funny feeling, this silence all around," he said. "It somehow
reminds me of the Sinai desert. This boat surely beats the ferries or
the large cruise ships."
   Christos nodded absent-mindedly. For him the peace of the open
sea was his main reason for sailing.
   "Hey, this means we can also send a telegram?" Nikitas suddenly
asked.
   "Huh?"
   "I said that if we can make a phone call, then we can also send a
telegram," Nikitas explained.
   "Sure. Actually, it's even easier than a phone call. We only have to
dictate it to the operator and she takes care of the rest."
Nikitas stood up and entered the cabin. He scribbled a short
message on a notepad and the recipient's address.
   "Can you send it now?" he asked, approaching Christos.
   "Of course. Give it to me."
   Christos took the slip of paper, gave detailed instructions to
Nikitas how to keep the boat on course, and strode into the cabin.

                                ***

When Christos returned forty-five minutes later, he took the wheel
without a word.
   "Well, about time you showed up," Nikitas teased him. "A little
longer and I'd have graduated from the navy school."
   Christos gave no indication he'd heard Nikitas's joke. He stood
stiffly behind the wheel, his gaze fixed at some distant point at the
horizon. As the silence continued to stretch, Nikitas felt increasingly
certain that something bad had happened.
   "What's the matter, Christos?" he finally asked him.
   "Nothing, Nikitas."
   "Was there something over the radio?"
   "No... Your telegram went through fine."
   "Then, what?" Nikitas gently insisted.
Christos looked up at him, searching intently his face for several
moments, as if trying to reassure himself that his friend really cared.
   "It's got to do with the way I feel. I don't know if you'd under-
stand."
   "Well, give it a try. If I fail you, I promise I'll delete it from
memory."
   Christos said nothing. Several minutes later, though, he turned to
his friend.
   "All right. But whatever I tell you, you must accept it as a fact-
not as a figment of my imagination."
   Nikitas nodded.
   "The second thing one notices in my sister--the first being her natural
beauty--is how young she is," Christos started. "I mean, in compar-
ison to me. Fourteen whole years. When she was born I was entering
puberty, which means we were destined never to share common
family experiences. And to make things worse, when she was five I
left my home to travel around the world."
   "Really? Where did you go, Christos?" Nikitas was intrigued.
   "To India, South America, Europe. I traveled to the five conti-
nents and I carry them all here," he said tapping his forehead.
   "Watch out!" he shouted at Nikitas, two or three seconds before a
huge wave soaked him wet. Nikitas gallantly ignored the salty water
dripping from his hair, thinking that in the midst of the
Mediterranean it should be at least crystal clear.
   "Now, the strangest thing was that despite our age difference, I
was somehow bonded to her-a fact that was dramatically revealed
to me the first time I sensed a grave danger threatening her,"
Christos went on.
   He glanced at Nikitas, to make sure he was taking him seriously
before continuing with his story. "This doesn't mean that I'm able to
foresee any kind of accident or unpleasant event concerning Eleni,
say like an ankle sprain or the flunking of an exam. Nothing like
that. I can only sense a real danger to her life..."
   "You were away from home when that happened?"
   "Very far away."
   "And you could feel the danger even though you were at the
other side of the globe?" Nikitas asked.
   Christos nodded. "I don't think distance means anything in such
cases. And something else: I don't have an intuition about it--I don't
even know what an intuition feels like. For me the warning comes
in a cruder way. It's a physical thing, a feeling of sickness, a kind
of an internal vacuum that comes together with the absolute
certainty that it concerns my sister's well-being.
   "The first time this sort of thing happened to me I was staying at
a remote village in northeastern India, near the Pakistani border. I
was twenty and Eleni only six years old. Man, I'll never forget the
intensity of my anguish. I immediately left the village and traveled a
distance of thirty kilometers to find a telephone. I was finally able to
call my mother, and warn her not to let Eleni out of her eyes for the
next twenty-four hours."
   "And then?" Nikitas asked, fascinated by the drama in Christos's
story.
   "I called her back the next day, but no one answered the phone.
I called her again and again throughout the day, and when I'd begun
to despair my mother picked up the phone and told me she had just
returned from the hospital. Thank God, my little sister was all right,
she told me, and explained to me between her sobs that Eleni had
been saved because of my timely warning.
   "This is what had happened: a few hours after my first call, Eleni
complained she wasn't feeling well. My mother put her to bed and
noticed several red splotches on her skin. They were due to a severe
allergic reaction with no obvious symptoms, other than a fever and
skin inflammation, but my mother didn't know that at the time. If I
hadn't called, she would have given her an aspirin and simply let her
to sleep it off. As it was, she immediately called an ambulance and
took her to a hospital. Thankfully, the physicians diagnosed
correctly the cause of her symptoms, and administered her a dose of
epinephrine, as part of the emergency treatment. One of them told
my mother afterwards that if she had not brought the child to the
hospital, little Eleni would have died from anaphylactic shock
within the next several hours.
   "That's horrible!" Nikitas whispered.
   "I agree. And something similar took place a few years later. On
both times my timely warnings saved my sister's life."
   It suddenly dawned at Nikitas why Christos was behaving
strangely since he had come out of the cabin, and a deep shiver ran
through his spine.
   "What's really happening, Christos?" he asked with a sense of
foreboding.
   Christos lifted his eyes and looked at him like a lost child in a
busy street.
   "My sister's in mortal danger, Nikitas. I know it!"
   Nikitas watched him carefully for a few moments. Besides his
anxiety for the well-being of his sister, Christos was also showing
signs of physical suffering. He had turned pale, and his forehead felt
cold and clammy.
   Theoretically, it was possible that this was just another case of
seasickness, but Nikitas thought he could safely disregard the
notion. His friend was an old hand in all kinds of outdoor activities,
from hiking in the desert to sailing in the Mediterranean Sea.
   Therefore, by eliminating the possible he would have to accept
the impossible, Nikitas thought wryly, paraphrasing the familiar
quote.
   He walked over to the wheel and took it himself, gently pushing
Christos aside, telling him to sit down and take a few deep breaths.
   "Do this exercise, and then go back to the cabin and call Eleni.
I'll be at the wheel," he reassured him, speaking with greater confi-
dence than he really felt.
Christos raised his head and looked at him dejectedly.
   "Why do you think it took me so long to come out, Nikitas? All
this time I was trying to get in touch with her. The operator told me
that the Sinai telephone network was having problems and I
wouldn't be able to connect for a while."
   He lowered his head and remained motionless, seemingly obliv-
ious to his surroundings.
   Nikitas felt his own heart grow heavy at his friend's plight. There
was only one way he could think of, to resolve the situation.
   "Hey, Christos, come out of it!" he scolded him. "We won't let
anything bad happen to Eleni, you know that!" He glanced at his
watch: about two hours had passed since they had left Port Said, but
the day was still young.
   "Come on, skipper, take the con!" he invited Christos to the
wheel. "It's time we turned back to make sure everything's fine!"


Chapter 82
           GULF OF AQABA, EGYPT: 8 Miles North of N'aama
           August 24


The moment she slipped her key into the keyhole, Eleni knew
that something was amiss. It was early in the afternoon and she
was tired and hungry, but at the same time fulfilled. She had spent
several hours exploring the enchanting coral reefs with her students,
all veteran scuba divers, so that their underwater excursion had not
been confined to the more accessible sites. They had faced a number
of challenges, and at some point she had felt as if she was being
baptized all over again into the mysteries of the Gulf of Aqaba.
   She opened the door and stepped inside the small hall, when
suddenly a pair of male hands grabbed her in a viselike grip,
violently dragging her into the living room. Eleni opened her mouth
to scream but a hard punch in her stomach cut her breath away.
   For several moments she was coughing uncontrollably, as she
desperately struggled to catch her breath, tightly held in the arms of
the gaunt, dark-skinned man with the curly hair and coarse features.
   His face was the last thing Eleni registered before she was lifted
up like a toy, thrown a noose around her neck, and kept suspended
there as her captor's partner climbed on a chair to loop the end of
the rope through the ceiling fan. The heavy-duty fan held her weight
as she was left to hang loose, her groans the only sound in the room
while she was being strangled. Then, before she lost consciousness,
one of the men put a coffee table under her swinging legs, so that
she could ease the tightening noose if she stood on her tiptoes.
   As Eleni struggled to breathe, the same man tore away her skirt
and ripped apart her T-shirt leaving her with her underwear, then
bowed deeply before her with a flourish.
   "It's time we introduced ourselves, miss," he said. His left arm
was bandaged, but this did not seem to affect his performance. "Al
Zamil Sadoun at your service, and here is my respected colleague,
Sir Abdullah," he waggled his thumb toward his partner, grinning
savagely.
   He took a step forward and let his calloused fingers slide over her
exposed thighs. Eleni bit her lips in a desperate attempt to keep
herself from crying out loud. She shut tightly her eyes, but could not
hold back a rush of bitter tears.
   Abdullah sized her up with his hungry stare before speaking up
in broken English. "Our sweet miss will talk, sure, but first some
fun. You, our payment!" he chuckled, casting a sly wink to Sadoun.
   They were about to begin in earnest their torturing game, when
a spattering of footsteps came from the veranda. They turned reflex-
ively toward the balcony door, their hands darting to their weapons.
Then Anastasia came in with a small box in her hands. She took in
the scene in one glance, stopped in her tracks, and swore at them angrily.
   "You two are no field agents, you are the disaster-twins," she
scolded the two operatives in colloquial Arabic. "You know perfectly
well that at this point every single moment counts, and still you
exercise in foolishness. Get her down at once!" she ordered.
   "We only wanted to soften her up a bit..." Sadoun blurted out.
   "She's primed and ready now, to spill everything out."
   "And don't forget your promise that we'll have her as soon as
you're finished," Abdullah added.
   "Exactly. When I'm through, you do whatever you wish." She
threw a glance at Eleni, as she was lowered down. "That's her own
problem." She opened the plastic box and took out a syringe and a
glass vial full with a bright yellow liquid labeled Sodium
Amybarbital.
   "This is what will make her talk, not you, morons," she
murmured, as she shook the bottle. "No, put her down on the bed."
   She filled the syringe with the yellow liquid and leaned over
Eleni, who was weeping quietly. When she touched her, Eleni
thrashed about wildly until Sadoun came over and forced her to be
still. Anastasia then searched for a vein in her arm. She found one
and pierced the skin with the needle, slowly pushing the plunger
until Eleni lost consciousness. Satisfied all was going well, she sat up
and discarded the used syringe into a special compartment of the
plastic box.
   She was about to speak when the phone rang.
   The two Egyptian thugs looked up surprised at each other, and
then turned to Anastasia for instructions. She raised a warning hand,
then closed her eyes and thought furiously as the machine rang for
the second time.
   There was a third ring. And a fourth.
   She jumped up and picked the receiver.
   "Hello," she said in Greek.
   "Eleni!" a distant voice exclaimed. "Are you all right?"
Anastasia counted silently to four before answering. "Mister
Daltas, your sister's slightly inconvenienced at the moment; would
you mind calling back in exactly a quarter of an hour?"
   "Hey, what's happening over there?" Christos howled like a
wounded wolf. "Where's Eleni? Who the hell are you?"
   "Ah, Mister Daltas, this is not the proper response! And, please,
don't get upset," Anastasia continued mildly. "If you wish for every-
thing to go well, call me back in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, a
friend of mine has a message for you, regarding our so dear Eleni..."
She signaled Sadoun to approach and whispered something to his
ear. He grinned widely and took the receiver from her.
   "Mister Daltas," he said in English, "listen to me! Your sweet
little sister is right here, next to me. She's raring to have some fun
with me. I will oblige, of course, but if you play your part well I
promise she'll still be alive when I'm through with her. Think of that,
during the next fifteen minutes." He slammed down the receiver.
   "I hate it when I lie," he said to Anastasia, "but what can I do
when my patriotic duty calls?"
   He shrugged, looking at Abdullah meaningfully. "Who knows,
maybe this time our duty will prove great fun, too."


Chapter 83
           PORT SAID, EGYPT
           August 24


Christos roared in anger and desperation, clutching tightly the
dead receiver in his fist.
   They had arrived in Port Said ten minutes ago and hurried to the
harbor's Passenger Terminal to place the call. This time they had no
trouble connecting with the Sinai.
   "It's my fault for leaving her alone! It's my fault, Nikitas!" he
shouted like a man possessed. Several of the passengers looked at
him and shook their heads. Christos seemed to have lost control of
himself. Nikitas tried to soothe him, even as he furiously thought
how to resolve the situation.
   As Christos wept in anguish, sitting on a bench with his head
clasped in his hands, Nikitas slowly formulated a strategy. In the
next phone call he would speak after Christos and offer the kidnap-
pers whatever they asked. He was certain it all concerned him and
the newly discovered parchments. Perhaps he would be able to
negotiate the exchange of Eleni with himself.
   "If they harm even a single hair of her," Christos whispered
beside him, "I swear to God, I'll torture them to death! Don't
touch her, you bastards!" he screamed at the direction of the
phone booth.
   The pain of his friend broke his heart, but there was nothing
Nikitas could do just now. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes and
counting, for his own move.


Chapter 84
           GULF OF AQABA, EGYPT: 8 Miles North of N'aama
           August 24


Anastasia sat down by Eleni's bedside and waited patiently for her
to regain consciousness. When her eyelids started to tremble,
Anastasia began rhythmically caressing her right hand, as she spoke
to her softly in Greek.
   "Do you hear me, Eleni?"
   Anastasia had already studied her subject's file, which had been
faxed to her by one of their own men in the Greek Intelligence
Agency, half an hour after the establishment of Daltas's identity.
Eleni nodded weakly.
   "You had a bad nightmare, Eleni, but it's all over now. We all love
you, here. Are you feeling better already?"
She nodded again.
   "And Christos loves you so much, isn't it so?"
   "Yes," she whispered.
   "Should I ask him to come here, Eleni? Do you want Christos
here?"
   "Yes."
   "All right, I'll call him. But, tell me, where is Christos now?"
Eleni moved her lips and Anastasia leaned closer to listen.
   "To Delos," she breathed. "He's going to Delos."
   "Good! That's fine, Eleni," Anastasia praised her. "I'll call him up
shortly. Tell me now, why's Christos going to Delos?"
Eleni feebly shook her head. "For the treasure," she whispered.
   "Oh yes, I remember. Is Christos with the sailboat?"
She nodded.
   "Now, one last question, Eleni. Tell me about the treasure. What's
in it?"
   Eleni could only formulate two or three words before she closed
her eyes, completely exhausted. "Maps, oil, gold..."
Anastasia's eyes were sparkling as she jumped up, elated. She had
mined out from Daltas's sister pure gold.
   "Okay guys, she's yours," she said briskly to the two men. "I'm
going outside to use the satellite phone. Be right back for the Greek's
call."
   She hurried out through the balcony door and went to the table,
which a few days ago had hosted the Greeks' marathon session.
Upon it rested the satellite phone.
   In the bungalow Sadoun threw a demented look at Abdullah and
started toward the bed. His predatory hand was touching Eleni when
a firm voice, coming from the corridor that connected the living
room and the hall, froze him on the spot.
   "One more inch and you'll say hello to your Maker," the voice
said in fluent Arabic. "The same's true also for you, over there."
Abdullah glanced at Sadoun, but did not move.
   Presently, a man wearing a ski mask entered the living room. He
was holding an Uzi machine gun in his hands.
   Once more Abdullah's eyes darted back and forth. He noticed
that he was partially covered by Sadoun's body. Reacting reflexively,
he shot his right hand into his light jacket, for his Beretta. Sadoun
caught his movement and lashed out with his leg against the Uzi's
protruding silencer, at the same time dropping to his left, to shield
Abdullah.
   The coordinated reaction of the two agents would have probably
worked in any other case; it didn't now, not with their opponent trained in
the techniques of hand-to-hand combat used by the Egyptian armed forces.
   The masked man fell down to his knees and pressed the trigger,
releasing a continuous stream of bullets as Abdullah's fingers
touched the grip of his pistol. He was hurled back against the wall,
followed by Sadoun a split second later. Each one of the two
Egyptian agents was pierced by half a dozen bullets, and both were
already dead as their bodies thumped down on the floor.
   Despite the Uzi's silencer, the harsh popping sounds of the shots
resounded clearly in the quiet of the place. Well aware of that, the
masked man jumped to his feet and ran to the wall. With his back
pressed against it, he began moving slowly toward the balcony door.
Once there, he dropped down on his belly and took a quick peek
outside.
   The courtyard was empty. Beyond at the beach a young woman was
running away with a silvery case dangling from her hand.
   Double-checking to make sure the veranda and the courtyard
were deserted, the man returned to the bungalow, inspected
thoroughly each one of its rooms, and closed the balcony door and
the window shutters. When he was satisfied that the house was
secure, he turned his attention to Eleni, who was lying unconscious
on the bed. He lifted her gently in his arms and took her to her
bedroom.
   He sat down by the bedside, pulled out his mask, and began
massaging expertly her wrists.


Chapter 85
           PORT SAID, EGYPT
           August 24


When it was time for his call, Christos was sufficiently calm to
cover the short distance to the booth and pick up the phone.
Nikitas was standing beside him, waiting for his turn to have a
word with the kidnappers. He dropped the coins into the slot and
after three clumsy tries Christos managed to dial the number in the
ancient rotary dialer. After an interval which must have felt an
eternity to him, the phone started to ring at the other end of the line.
   One, two, three rings.
   In the fourth someone picked up the receiver and Christos heard
a familiar voice answering his call.
   "Christos, it's me-Haim. Listen, my friend, everything's fine
here. Eleni is okay. I've put her to bed, but she's perfectly safe. She
wasn't hurt." In a few short phrases Haim had managed to compress
the most important information, as he had been taught in the Israeli
army.
   Christos's mind blanked out, suddenly empty of all thought. For
several seconds he just stood there, staring at the amorphous crowd
beyond the smudged glass of the phone booth. Later he would
describe to Nikitas this moment as a parenthesis in the existential
flow, a weightless, immaterial moment, in which he lay suspended
in the great Void. He would also confess that for a short period of
time he had lost all sense of identity, like a man who suddenly wakes
up and for several seconds cannot remember who he is, or what he's
doing in his bed.
   Then, a million neurons fired up in his brain and he was free.
   "Haim, is that you, my brother? For God's sake, what's happening
there?" Christos exclaimed, immensely relieved at hearing the calm
voice of his Israeli friend.
   With a few clipped sentences Haim explained that he was
relaxing in his bungalow, when Christos called Eleni for the first
time. As always, his own phone had rung in tandem, since both
telephones were connected to the same line. As he was not
expecting a call, he let it ring, but when it went on unanswered he
picked up the receiver.
   Then he heard voices speaking in Greek, one of them belonging
to Christos. He was about to hang up when Christos's awful scream
had alarmed him and he had raised the handset again, just in time
to hear a string of foul threats spoken in English.
   He had not lost a second. Taking with him his trusted Uzi, he had
slipped into Christos's bungalow through the unlocked main door.
His primary concern was Eleni's safety and for that reason he had
put on a ski mask he had kept from the army. He never intended to
kill the intruders. Unfortunately, the Egyptians had behaved
recklessly and paid for it with their lives.
   Christos gradually relaxed, as Ayalon continued to spin off his
calm narrative, although Nikitas beside him was trying in vain to
understand what had happened in N'aama. From Christos's
responses, however, he was able to catch the general drift of the
exchange, that somehow everything had turned out fine.
   "How's Eleni now?" Christos asked Haim.
   "She regained consciousness just before you called. They had
injected her with a serum, to make her talk. I guess she'll be drowsy
for the rest of the day, but that's nothing a good night's sleep won't
cure."
   "What are you going to do with them?"
   "You mean the dead bodies? I'll feed them to the sharks. By
tomorrow they will be recycled, and this will probably be the first
and only contribution of those bastards to the world."
   He paused for a few moments, remembering Sadoun hungrily
leaning over Eleni. "Take my word for it, Christos, they got far less
than they deserved."
   "Please, Haim, take my sister to your bungalow tonight, and tell
her tomorrow to pack her things and get the first flight for Greece."
   "Okay. Dahlia will keep her company. She knows of such things."
   "What about you, though?" Christos asked him anxiously. "Don't
you think they may come after you?"
   "Don't even think of it," Ayalon said confidently. "When I hang
up, I'll call a number that was given to me for similar emergencies.
Then, I'll be as safe here, as in Tel Aviv. And they know it."
   "Thank you from my heart, Haim! God bless you," Christos said
gratefully, deeply touched by Ayalon's kindness and courage. "I'll call
you tomorrow from my boat."
   "All right, my friend. Have a nice trip, and take care of yourself
and your Greek guest. There was a woman with the thugs, and I
think she managed to get from Eleni the information she was after."
   The line went dead. Christos walked out from the telephone
cabin and dropped heavily into the first empty chair he found. He
was feeling utterly exhausted, as if he had been without sleep for
two days. Nikitas came to sit next to him, waiting patiently for his
friend to fill him in with the details of Eleni's rescue.
He waited for ten minutes before Christos opened again his eyes
and started to speak.


Chapter 86
           MYKONOS, GREECE: Pierro's Bar
           September 1


The real fun in Pierro's bar begins after midnight. At this hour the
boisterous groups of its enduring, fanatic devotees, sated from
Mykonos's rich variety of earthly delights, start pouring toward their
beloved haunt, fiercely loyal to the traditional rendezvous of the
initiated.
   The narrow whitewashed alleyway, which forms a miniature
plaza in front of the bar, rapidly fills up with excited people of every
race and sex, freely intermingling in the cosmopolitan environment.
Good-natured teasing rules the place, and the deck of one-night
stands is dealt again and again, and those fortunate enough to sit at an
outdoor table bear proudly the burden of their privilege, as if they've just
been invited for coffee at the White House.
   To the casual eye Nikitas and Christos presented no exception to
the rule, as they sipped their drinks at a front-row table; soda with a
slice of lemon for Nikitas, vodka for Christos. Deeply tanned by the
Aegean sun and in excellent physical condition, they projected a strong
masculine aura, which might account for the fact that they were at the
receiving end of numerous glances cast by the bar's female population.
   A number of males had not been ignoring them, too, as it was to be
expected in the island of Mykonos.
   "Give me the summer and the Greek islands, and I shall move the
Earth-was it an ancient Greek philosopher who said that, Nikitas?"
Christos said smiling. He tapped his cigarette in the inexpensive but
elegant ashtray, and emptied his glass.
   Nikitas shook his head and grinned, observing his friend with his
peripheral vision. He was glad Christos had healed. In the aftermath
of Eleni's terrible ordeal they had immediately returned to the sailing
boat. Christos was still shaken, but after a few hours he had bounced
back to his usual, lively self. Although the night had fallen, he had
insisted that they sail immediately, declaring that for him the open
sea was the best therapy session.
   As things turned out, he was proved right. Twenty-four hours
later and after a full eight-hour period of sleep with Nikitas
pretending the skipper, Christos was transformed from an emotional
wreck to a dashing navigator.
   Of course, his second communication with Haim Ayalon had
contributed greatly to this effect. Once again, Haim had reassured
him that everything was under control, while Eleni had already
departed for Athens.
   A couple of days later Christos was able to talk with his sister,
who wanted to come and meet him in Mykonos. Christos was angry
and had her promise that she would leave immediately for their
cottage in Lagonisi, and would not return to Athens until he said so.
Eleni had reluctantly agreed.
   They reached Mykonos early in the morning. As a regular visitor
of the island, Christos knew well his way around, so they had no
trouble reserving two single rooms at a luxury hotel in the heart of
the cosmopolitan island.
   For the first time after their hasty departure from the Gulf of
Aqaba they had a bathroom with a shower, plenty of soap and a pile
of fresh towels at their disposal, and they both had rushed to take
advantage of those tangible benefits of civilization.
   They had passed the rest of the day as plain tourists,
wandering through Mykonos's narrow streets and alleyways,
swimming in the warm sea, eating all that their stomachs could
hold. They had decided to attempt their first reconnaissance of
Delos later the same night.
   Nikitas shook himself out of his reverie and glanced discreetly at
his watch. When he looked up again, his attention was caught by a
heavily made up young man saddling the neck of his fifty year-old
male companion, who was sporting a flaming-red face from his
careless exposure to the sun. They were making slow headway
through the throng of revelers and the youth was laughing hysteri-
cally, as he repeatedly failed to fill his glass from his bottle of
champagne.
   That's Mykonos, all right, Nikitas thought; a high-grade intoxicant,
subtly dangerous to the unwary.
   "Time to go, no?" Christos interrupted his thoughts. He had
noticed Nikitas looking at his watch.
   "We can stay a little longer, if you want to," Nikitas countered for
his friend's benefit.
   "Uh-uh... the night's too short for as it is," Christos said. He rose
and said good-bye to a young woman at the next table, with whom
he had exchanged a few words and phone numbers.
   "Come on, Nikitas, let's go and earn our vacation in Mykonos!"
he prodded jovially his friend and walked off, opening way through
the dense crowd.
   Nikitas tagged along. Behind him a veritable fight broke up
among the standing patrons for the prize of their evacuated table.

                                ***

Vitalized by the late-night breeze, "Pretty Eleni" swayed gently in the
calm waters of Mykonos's harbor. During the day Christos had set
aside a couple of hours to clean her up and take care of the routine
chores, such as the catering and refueling. Thankfully, the strong
north wind had dropped to a light westerly breeze that was
brimming with relaxing upcountry fragrances and eager to fill their
sails.
   They navigated through the harbor on their outboard motor and
headed straight for Delos. A sprinkling of luminous specks at the
horizon betrayed the fleet of fishing boats widely dispersed in the
open sea, like a handful of stars lazily strewn over the Aegean.
   When Mykonos had disappeared behind them, Christos shut
down the engine and unfurled the sails. He had gauged the wind
well. The soft breeze was more than enough to catapult the small
boat through the calm waters.
   All the familiar noises of a regular Mykonian night had ceased
and once again they found themselves alone, accompanied by the
comforting quiet of the sea. A solitary seagull cawed three times as
it flew over the boat and vanished toward the east.
   "What are you feeling?" Christos asked Nikitas.
   "Anticipation mostly, as if I'm about to witness something of
great importance..."
   "Yeah, I feel this way, too. Strange, isn't it?" He focused his gaze
at the oblong shape stretching out far ahead, the outline of the island
they were heading to.
   "What's our plan for tonight?" he asked.
   Nikitas followed Christos's line of sight and saw Delos's dark
form. He tried to raise it from the past, to bring it to life with the
power of his imagination. "Just a first visit, I think. We can start by
going around the island," he added.
   "Right."
   "You know," Nikitas mused, "I've studied Delos dozens of times
on the map, but I still need a real, a three-dimensional representa-
tion of it. Afterwards we can approach any promising area, where
the boat could put in without being seen. Of course, the western
coastline is off limits because that's where the pier is, where the
tourist boats dock."
   "Yes, I know that. And if I'm not mistaken, there are several
security guards staying overnight at the island," Christos pointed
out. "I hope they're sleeping off their shifts at their beds. Other than
that, Delos is completely uninhabited."
   "That's because the island is considered a unified archaeological
site, protected by law in its entirety."
   "It's a good law, this one," Christos remarked.
   "Sure, but it's hardly modern," Nikitas said. "Delos was consid-
ered an inviolable island for two and a half millennia-even the
invading Persians respected it. Can you believe it?"
Delos's dark form was growing slowly in front of their eyes.
Christos estimated they would reach it in ten minutes.
   "I wonder how this insignificant island came to be the religious
navel of the ancient Hellenic world," Christos thought out loud.
   "Actually, it was a lot more than that," Nikitas said. "From what
I've read, it was a major political and economic hub as well. In its
heyday, Delos was a well-frequented free port, in which commodi-
ties of a great variety were traded-sadly, including slaves. Extant
sources mention sales of ten thousand slaves per day!"
   "Unbelievable and tragic, too," Christos observed. "Slavery is an
anathema and a stigma for all of the societies that practiced it."
   "A totally dehumanizing regime," Nikitas agreed. "All the same, though,
I'm certain that there must have been enlightened people censoring
it severely through the ages, whose voices and their writings were
suppressed by those in power. Thus, this abominable institution replicated 
itself throughout the eons."
   "Censorship of the lords, eh?"
   Nikitas shrugged. He was painfully aware that in certain parts of modern
world slavery was eradicated only in name. Sudan's case readily came to
mind. One had only to browse the official publications of the United
Nations, of Amnesty International, and of the other international
organizations, to realize that some countries had a long way to go in this
regard.
   Christos gave a sudden turn to the wheel and Nikitas was jolted
out of his thoughts. They had arrived. Obediently, "Pretty Eleni"
changed course and started to sail around Delos.


Chapter 87
           DELOS, GREECE: Western Coastline
           September 1


Nicholas Stavrakakis or Uncle-Nicholas, as everybody liked to
call him, sat down heavily on the bedside and put on his sturdy
fifteen year-old pair of shoes, before carefully replacing the old
bronze shoehorn in its exact position upon the nightstand next to
the ancient alarm clock. He slipped his pair of glasses into the breast
pocket of his khaki shirt, rose to his feet, and smoothed over the
wrinkled bedsheet. He finished his ritual inspection of the small
room with a nod to himself, opened the door, and walked out lightly
into the cool night air.
   He stayed still for several moments, breathing with relish the
fragrant breeze, and then started leisurely on his usual walk with his
flashlight off. He had a pair of military binoculars hanging from his
neck, which he had stolen from a soldier during the German
occupation of Greece back in the forties, when he was a kid.
   A Mykonian by birth, until five years ago Uncle-Nicholas was a
member of the security force in Delos, a position he had held for
more than thirty years. Deeply in love with his job, he was incon-
solable when the time had come for his retirement.
   Neither his family, not the kaffeneion-the traditional Greek
coffeehouse mostly frequented by men-had proved enough to
replace his lost love and Uncle-Nicholas had withdrawn to himself,
rarely leaving his house in Mykonos.
   It had taken him one year to find a solution to his problem.
Uncle-Nicholas's remedy was brilliant in its simplicity: hence-
forth, he would be pass the winters in Mykonos with his wife and
numerous grandchildren, and the summers all by himself, lodging at
a small room in Delos, which his former colleagues placed at his
disposal.
   But his pride did not allow him to take something for free.
Despite his sixty-seven years, Uncle-Nicholas took it upon himself
to patrol the island every night, accepting as payment only the
modest meals he shared with the rest of the security force who
regarded him with great affection.
   The tourists who came visiting Delos considered Uncle-Nicholas
as part of the scenery and often asked him to pose with them for a
picture. He cheerfully obliged, at the same time never letting down
his guard. His eyes kept darting from face to face, as he closely
observed the visitors strolling through his beloved ruins; despite the
fact that he could not read a word without his glasses, he had an
eagle's eye for distant objects.
   And Uncle-Nicholas was always eager to dispense advice to the
new recruits.
   "Keep an eye on everybody," he used to tell them time and again.
   "There are those among the tourists, who'd remove not only the
stones, but the whole island of Delos if given half a chance."
   Everybody laughed good-naturedly with his aphorisms, and yet
they all acknowledged the fact that during his long service Uncle-
Nicholas had actively contributed to the breaking-up of various
rings of smugglers, earning himself in the process several citations
for merit.
   The most-visited ancient monuments were concentrated on the
island's western side, conveniently near the pier, where the boats
that sailed back and forth between Mykonos and Delos let out their
passengers.
   Most of those ruins were scattered in a straight line stretching
from the north to the south across Delos and a standard tour of the
archaeological highlights included a visit to the Museum, not far
from Uncle-Nicholas's room.
   The eastern side of the island did not receive half that much
attention, due to the fact that its sights were widely dispersed, and
hiking under the summertime sun did not appeal to many. The most
fanatic of the philhellenes went as far as the ancient stadium but
rarely ventured to the south. Over there, the Mediterranean country-
side still remained untouched by the passing centuries.
   Uncle-Nicholas divided his time equally between all parts of
Delos, and each night chose his route accordingly. This particular
night it was the eastern side's turn, along the route leading all the
way to the stadium.
   The old man first passed by the Museum to check its locks, and
when he made sure that everything was all right he took the trail to
the eastern coast, ambling along at a steady pace. The calmness of
the night and his comfortable solitude created the ideal background
for thinking and philosophizing over the simpler aspects of life, and
he often wondered why people squandered away such glorious
moments in sleep.
   When Uncle-Nicholas reached the ancient stadium he did not
stop, but took a turn to the southwest. Upon a hillock by the beach
was his favorite rock, where he used to take a rest and smoke a
cigarette before turning back. Although for thirty whole years he
had never smoked on duty, now he thought it a retiree's privilege to
savor this small luxury.
   He took a cigarette out of his pocket and was about to strike a
match, when a small sailing boat passed across his visual field. He
followed her with his gaze, thinking that her owner must have sailed
from Mykonos to enjoy the night. Or, he could be leaving for good,
transferring the rest of his vacation chips to some other island of the
Aegean.
   He reached for a match but again left his motion unfinished. The
sailboat had reefed in her mainsail and was changing tack toward
the shore. Her deck was dark. Uncle-Nicholas was unable to make
out anything else, but she continued toward the beach at a very low
speed, as if she was sounding the waters.
   Uncle-Nicholas put the cigarette back in his pocket and rose
quietly from the rock's flat surface. For a second, he felt the urge to
shout at the boat and ask her invisible skipper who he was, and what
he was doing near the island at this hour. Then his professionalism
and his long experience took over, and he remained silent.
   He walked stealthily toward the shore, taking care to break his
outline behind the bushes and the few boulders. Ten yards from the
beach stopped and crouched on the sparse grass.
   The boat had also stopped. The sea was perfectly calm, its surface
viscous as oil, and the small boat did not need an anchor to stay put.
Uncle-Nicholas thought he heard some low whispering from her
direction and cocked his ear, but could not make out any intelligible
sound.
   He raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched intently. How he
wished he had brought with him the night-vision glasses from the
Museum's guardhouse! Still, he was able to discern two moving
silhouettes-obviously belonging to men-sitting low on the deck,
hunching close together as if they were involved in something
sneaky.
   That was enough for Uncle-Nicholas to feel a nib of worry. A boat
sailing from Mykonos to Delos and back again, this he could under-
stand; what about, though, of the peculiar if not outright suspicious
behavior of the two men?
   Under these circumstances, there was only one thing he could
do. He rubbed his eyes to clear them, raised again the glasses to his
eyes, and tried to read the boat's name and registration number. He
was out of luck: the sailboat had drifted slowly, so that it was
presenting its starboard side to the shore.
   Another five minutes passed and his back was starting to protest,
when Uncle-Nicholas noticed that the boat was again turning
around. Her skipper was maneuvering to sail off. One of the two
men stood up and with a few economical motions unfurled the sails,
and the boat started to move. Uncle-Nicholas realized he'd have a
small window of opportunity to read her name when it turned its
stern toward the beach.
   He rose shakily to his feet, spread apart his legs for better
purchase, and steadied his hands. The moon had dipped toward
the west, casting its pale light obliquely onto the waters.
   Abruptly, it was all over. During the brief time Uncle-Nicholas
had managed to keep the receding boat within his visual field, he
had only succeeded in reading her registration number. Then the
small vessel had completed its northward maneuver, setting off
toward Mykonos. Uncle-Nicholas did not lower his glasses,
however, until the sailboat had become a dark speck, indistinguish-
able from the blue-black horizon.
   He walked back to his rock, mentally repeating the boat's
number. He was strangely unnerved by her mysterious visit.
   Uncle-Nicholas finally had his cigarette, but did not relish it.
Come tomorrow, he would be looking into this matter and he
wondered briefly which approach would be the best.
   The straightforward--it had always worked best for him, he
decided after a while. Next morning he'd place a call to an old
friend of his at the Port Authority of Mykonos, and ask him to look
up the boat's registration number. Yes, he would do that tomorrow.
For the time being, however, he would be content not to forget it.


Chapter 88
           MYKONOS, GREECE
           September 1


Nikitas and Christos returned to Mykonos an hour before dawn.
They secured the boat at the pier and headed for their hotel on
foot, along the seaside road. Besides them, there were sporadic
groups of revelers returning to their homebase for a few hours of
sleep. It would be much later, in the next day's early afternoon, when
those same revelers would come awake to pick up the previous
night's thread of fun.
   As a result, Nikitas and Christos had no reason to pay any atten-
tion to a group of four men approaching them from the opposite
direction. They were joking and laughing loudly as they walked
toward the two friends, and out of politeness they casually split up
into two pairs when they were a few yards away, to allow them
passage between them.
   Both groups were about two hundred yards from the hotel of the
Greeks and the road was completely deserted. Even the early risers
had still a couple of hours of sleep.
   The four men acted in a perfectly natural way until the very last
moment. As the groups came together, two of the strangers, one
from each pair, stepped aside and blocked their way. Before Nikitas
or Christos had a chance to react, the barrels of two pistols with
silencers were pressed against their necks.
   "Quiet," a man ordered in English, "and no one will get hurt."
   "Hey, what's happening here?" Nikitas exclaimed indignantly,
although his legs had suddenly turned heavy as lead.
The man who had spoken took a step forward and covered with
his hand Nikitas's mouth.
   "I said, quiet," he repeated mildly. He seemed to be the one in
charge of the group. "It would be a shame to create a disturbance
here, so early..." He grinned, but when he spoke again his voice
sounded completely different, as if he had put on a muffler.
   "Follow me," he commanded peremptorily and led them a few
yards farther to an expensive Mercedes waiting with running engine.
   The men with the guns forced the Greeks into the back seat and
sat at either side of them. Their leader took the driver's seat and the
fourth man sat beside him.
   They car drove away toward Aghios Stefanos. Christos made a
half-hearted attempt at learning their destination, but no one volun-
teered any information.
   "Don't worry. We'll get to the chief in no time at all," the driver
said after a while and no one else spoke for the duration of the ride.

                                ***

The car braked to a stop in front of a secluded cottage built a short
distance from the beach, a carbon copy of many other similar cubist
constructions scattered all over the island. At the courtyard they
were met by a stocky man in his late forties, with a shaved head and
a large golden ring dangling from his left earlobe. Nikitas and
Christos recognized him instantly. He was a well-known English
homosexual socialite, a permanent resident of Mykonos, who spoke
perfectly Greek. He and his partner were nicknamed Jack and Jill,
because they were always seen together and had the longest gay
relationship in Mykonos.
   "Welcome to our humble shack, boys," the man said in Greek
with his characteristic lilting voice, and Nikitas wondered who of
the pair he was. He mentally shrugged and decided to call him Jack,
allowing him the benefit of doubt.

                                ***

Christos glanced at Nikitas and smiled. Perhaps, things weren't as
bad as they had thought. For all that he knew, this might turn out to
be some kind of an elaborate practical joke.
   They climbed the few granite stairs to the main door and entered
a spacious living room, furnished with wooden sofas and low round
tables. Despite the exquisite traditional tapestries hanging from the
walls, depicting rustic scenes from the Aegean islands, the room had
an overall oriental feel to it.
   The two friends were ushered in and forced to share the same
sofa, while the pair of the armed men went to stand behind them.
   Jack brought a chair opposite them and sat down after turning it
around. For a minute he observed them quietly, with obvious
delight. "It's a pity we don't have any time for a bit of small talk
tonight," he said resting his chin on his fist. "Some other time,
perhaps. Still, I'll have you treated you to something sweet before we
proceed with our subject."
   He clapped languidly his hands and the car driver reappeared
with a silver tray, overflowing with bunches of reddish-black grapes.
He approached the two friends and stood before them. Jack took out
a glass vial from a pocket, filled with a white powder-like substance.
   He saw the expression of revulsion in Nikitas's face and misinter-
preted it for fear.
   "Don't worry, you silly boy!" he scolded him playfully. "It won't
hurt you!" He uncapped the bottle, picked a single grape from the
tray, and tapped a few grains of white powder on its shining surface.
   "Pure, unadulterated LSD from the only Swiss pharmaceutical
company producing it, cut with a perfectly safe sedative," he
announced proudly. "An excellent recipe for a little nice trip, I
assure you. Too bad, only, that you won't remember it afterwards,"
he added pulling a sad face.
   He flicked a finger to the man standing behind Nikitas and he
leaned over, gripped Nikitas's head with one hand and pinched his
nostrils together with the other. Nikitas desperately tried to hold his
breath, but after a minute he choked and opened his mouth to
breathe. Jack slipped the grape inside. It took only a few seconds for
the hallucinogenic substance to be absorbed.
Satisfied, he turned to Christos and repeated the same procedure.
   The hallucinogenic concoction acted fast. Their pupils rolled up
under their eyelids, and the two friends lost contact with the objec-
tive reality, taking a deep dive into the alternate, virtual universe
created by the psychotropic dust. The two friends were already
flying with a faster than light speed, as their kidnappers got hold of
their senseless bodies to carry them into the house's cement
dungeon twenty feet below.

                                ***

"Where am I?" Nikitas croaked when he opened his eyes. His body
felt cold but his head was burning. He could hardly speak. His
mouth was dry, his lips puffed up.
   There was no answer. He tried to raise himself but failed miser-
ably, and fell back upon the hard mattress. The world was wobbling,
like a board moving on rolls, and Nikitas grabbed the iron frame of
his narrow bed to stop it from turning.
   Several seconds later he opened again his eyes and took stock of
his surroundings. Cement walls in the three sides of his room, and
in the fourth-iron bars!
   What was the meaning of this? He tried to make out what lay
beyond the bars, but the walls started to vibrate in a peculiar way,
not exactly expanding or contracting, but somehow altering the
room's perspective. Everything felt contained and at the same time
remote... it was as if he was looking at the world through both ends
of a telescope at the same time.
   He remained unmoving on his back, luxuriating in his surround-
ings' inconceivable architectural peculiarities. After a while it
dawned to him that perhaps he was not thinking especially clearly.
Not good. He had to put some order to his thoughts, beginning from
his last coherent memory.
   What had happened before... this?
   Without warning the door burst open and a man in a military
uniform entered the room. He spoke in a language Nikitas recog-
nized as Turkish and offered him a glass of water. Nikitas clutched it
gratefully with both hands and raised it carefully to his lips.

                                ***

The second time he regained consciousness, he had no time to
think. When the guard heard his soft moaning, he shouted
something in Turkish. A few moments later an officer walked in and
stood near the door.
   An army captain, Nikitas thought when he saw the three silver
stars on his epaulettes. He sat up in his bed with his back resting on
the wall. He glanced up toward the ceiling, but could not see it-it
was either too dark, or the ceiling too high up.
   Suddenly, an astounding revelation coalesced in his mind, and
everything became crystal clear: of course he could not see the
ceiling; he was gazing at a cathedral's dome! Nikitas had hardly
formed the thought when the totality of the enclosed space realigned
itself, assuming the correct proportions as it adjusted to his
newfound enlightment.
   The officer entered his chamber and walked slowly toward him.
He was still more than thirty yards away, but Nikitas could clearly
see that the man was smiling benignly.
   "Good morning," the captain said mirthfully in English.
Although he kept on walking, he was making no visible progress.
   "Who are you?" Nikitas asked, and his voice reverberated eerily.
   "Where are we?" He realized that something was wrong. Everything
was glowing by an inner light.
   "I'm a friend. Where do you think we are?" the captain retorted.
Nikitas was suddenly plunged into a colloidal space, which he  
perceived as a morass made up of stray thoughts. He struggled to
pick a real memory from his past, discarding the false alternatives
flashing by. Now, really, when was the last time he had seen this
magnificent dome towering over his head?
   "But of course! It's the Notre Dame, in Paris!" he exclaimed,
elated he had seen through the riddle. How could he have forgotten?
He had passed a whole month there several years ago, virtually
living at the place, while he performed a detailed study of the great
cathedral's interior architecture.
   "Wrong!" echoed a sharp voice. Was it the captain's? "Make
another guess. You were unconscious during the last couple of days,
and I think you're still hallucinating. Are you hungry?"
   The short, staccato phrases trickled through Nikitas's mind like
drops of distilled water, leaving behind no trace of their passage.
However, the captain's last question stayed with him, clamoring for
an answer.
   He nodded. Five thick fingers pushed a soft paste into his mouth.
And then he thought no more.

                                ***

A sweet chime sounding like a crystal bell woke him up. He opened
his eyes and was momentarily blinded by the bright light of an
electric lamp. He shut them back, but in that split second he had
caught the motionless form of an army officer, sitting on a chair a
few feet away.
   Nikitas blinked several times, finally managing to adjust to the
glare. He sat up in his bed and carefully observed his visitor. He was
staring back at him with his unfaltering gaze.
   "What's happening?" Nikitas asked.
   The man raised his hands in frustration. "Here we go again," he
muttered in English.
   "What's going on here? And who the hell are you?" Nikitas
repeated louder. He felt a growing rage within him and an urgent
desire to leave this miserable place.
   Miserable place? He remembered faintly a cathedral. Was it a
dream?
   For God's sake, this was a prison's cell!
   "What I mean, Mister Paleologou, is that every time you wake up
it's the same story all over again. We've spoken a lot of times before,
can't you recognize me? I'm Captain Arif Edak."
   "I can't remember seeing you before," Nikitas said.
   "Your inability to recollect is probably the side-effect of a mild
concussion. I should inform you, Mister Paleologou, that since three
days ago you're under custody in the Transfer Ward of Ankara's
Military Prison."
   Three whole days... incredible! Nikitas's mind was a confused
jumble of obscure images. There were also memories of a long
passage through the sea, and of the dark hump of a small island.
Delos!
   God, how could he have forgotten! And Mykonos, too...
   Suddenly he was flooded by a torrent of memories of all the recent
events.
   He remembered clearly now their way toward the hotel, their
kidnappers, the secluded villa, the- white powder on the grape!
   He had been forcefully administered a narcotic substance, so that
they could secretly take him to Ankara, and now he was in solitary
confinement at one of the notoriously ugly and hopeless Turkish
prisons.
Cold sweat broke out through his pores.
   "I'm leaving you now," the Turkish officer announced, smiling
faintly. Was there a hint of smugness in his tone?
   "Tomorrow the supervising colonel will visit you for your first
interrogation. Au-revoir, my friend," he added and approached the
door.
   "Wait a minute!" Nikitas cried out, shakily rising to his feet. "On
what charges am I kept here? No, forget that- you have abducted me!
I want to speak with the Greek and American ambassadors, at
once!"
   Captain Edak paused by the opened gate. "Abducted, Mister
Paleologou?" he asked with a slight frown. "I don't think so." He
took out from his pocket a Greek passport and tapped with it his
palm.
   "This happens to be your passport, Mister Paleologou, officially
stamped by the customs officer when you entered the Republic of
Turkey. However, there's no corresponding stamp of your exit."
   He flipped through its pages, pursing his lips. "As far as I'm
concerned-correction: so far as anyone's concerned, you've stayed
in our country continuously since the 28th of last June. Three days
ago you were arrested for a number of serious crimes you committed
against the Turkish State."
   He walked out of the cell and the guard locked the door behind
him.
   "By the way, Mister Paleologou, you certainly realize that your
future treatment will be in direct proportion to your willingness for
a sincere cooperation with the Turkish authorities," Edak added.
   "Please, think about it. This is all the help you will get. After all,
you're nothing more than a common criminal," he said and vanished
down the aisle.

                                ***

Half a minute later a closet door opened at one of the cottage's back
rooms and Captain Edak emerged into the half-darkness. He closed
the door, reset the security alarm, and headed for the living-room.
   Jack was waiting for him together with a thin man in his forties,
dark complexioned, with a pencil mustache. He looked as if he had
stepped out of an early fifties' Greek movie.
   "Time to get rid of the uniform. It's damn suffocating down
there," Captain Edak complained, as he unbuttoned the jacket of his
military full dress he had put on to impress the prisoners.
   "How's it going?" asked Jack. His real name was Nathan Bridges
but among his colleagues he was known as the ferret, sansar in
Turkish. The Milli Stihbarat Teskilati (MIT), the Turkish Intelligence
Agency, had recruited him in 1972 in Marmaras, where was
vacationing as a student. His first major assignment had been in
Cyprus during the 1974 Attilas bloody invasion, when the Turkish
military had forcefully occupied the northern part of island, killing
thousands of innocent civilians in the process and cruelly evicting
the rest from their homes.
   After his early successes Bridges had risen fast to the top echelons
of the intelligence hierarchy, and had been granted the Turkish
citizenship by secret executive order. During the last decade he had
actively organized, expanded, and directed the Turkish intelligence
network in the Aegean islands.
   Bridges was one of the first to realize Mykonos's potential. He had
taken the local MIT office and promoted it to a regional center,
because the massive inflow of tourists and the island's cosmopolitan
atmosphere made his work all that much easier.
   His supposedly gay partner was simply an added precaution. The
man was aware of the nature of Bridges's dealings, but was content
to receive a generous monthly allowance to play his role and keep
his mouth shut.
   "Everything's going according to schedule," Edak replied and sat
back in a sofa. "You should see Paleologou's face. When I showed
him the passport, he nearly fainted."
   "Nothing to it. Just impeccable planning," Bridges shrugged.
   "According to Athens, the Greeks had been placed under surveil-
lance at Paleologou's house in Filothei since their return from
Constantinople. Unfortunately, the dreadful Ankara incident didn't
allow our unit there to take advantage of their brief stay in Greece.
Nevertheless, our men broke in after their departure and searched the
place. Paleologou's passport at first baffled us, but now we know
exactly how Paleologou entered Egypt."
   He glanced at his watch. "It's noon already," he said, and his tone
had nothing in common with his exaggerated speech mannerisms
when he pretended the English homosexual. "Six hours have passed
since we gave the prisoners their first dose. Right now they believe
they're in the third day since their arrest. There are four doses left.
When I last spoke with our physician, he advised me that we admin-
ister the remaining doses every four hours, until midnight. Colonel
Sabri is arriving here at seven, and he'll want to have a word with
them before they take their eight o'clock dose."
   "Paleologou seemed to be very lucid," Edak remarked thought-
fully. "I wonder how productive his interrogation will be."
   "Not to worry," Bridges retorted. "This procedure has proved its
worth many times over. In a few hours they'll be thinking that a
whole week has passed since they were arrested, and that they were
taken to Ankara. With no help on the way, what's a better setting for
a confession from the soul?"
   Bridges rose and poured himself a glass of whiskey. It was his
only weakness, and he rationalized his need for alcohol as a conse-
quence of the immense pressures he was facing.
   "Who do you think will be the first one to break down?" Edak
asked him.
Before his superior had a chance to answer, the cell phone on the
table trilled.
   Bridges shrugged. "Obviously, the one Sabri takes first." He
picked up the phone and pressed an outsized button on its bottom.
The device had a fat underside, as if equipped with an extra battery.
However, the cavity accommodated an encrypting microchip, which
rendered the calls unintelligible to anyone intercepting it with a
scanner.
   "Mykonos one," he said and listened attentively for a moment,
then hung up and put back the phone on the table. "Fresh orders,"
he announced curtly.
   Edak looked at him questioningly but the man with the thin
mustache did not react.
   "Colonel Sabri isn't coming, after all," Jack explained.
   "Something turned up in Ankara and he's flying back. We're to send
the complete package over there. The prisoners will travel in their
own boat, can you imagine that?" he grinned.
The captain nodded. "When do they leave?"
   "We'll wait for darkness to fall, give them their eight o'clock
medicine, and dispatch them to Ankara."
   "Good. I'll check out who's available for escort duty," Edak said.
He rose and took his jacket. "It seems that our friends will get their
chance at sight-seeing in Ankara!" he chuckled and left the room.


Chapter 89
           MYKONOS, GREECE
           September 1


He returned to the Headquarters of Mykonos's Port Authority
early in the afternoon. He was only a minor official, but his
thirty years of service had given him the privilege to walk into the
director's office with only a peremptory knock, skipping the wait for
the answer. He went in, took off his hat, and sat down on a chair
facing the desk of his chief.
   "Well, Yiorghis," the director said, looking up from the document
he was studying. "Did you find anything?"
   "Quite enough," Yiorghis replied and took out from his back
pocket a small frayed notebook. He spat on his fingers and flipped
through the pages. His assignment had been to search Mykonos's
harbor for a small sailboat with a specific registration number. 
   "The boat is called "Pretty Eleni"," he said, making a show of
consulting his notes. "I found her, but as there was no one inside I
can't report on her passengers. However, I took a few notes on her
characteristics."
   Yiorghis recited the vessel's dimensions, horsepower, and
suchlike, concluding his report with the location of her berth.
   "Good work, Yiorghis, thank you very much," Harbormaster
Antonis Lambrakopoulos said and returned to his work, signaling
the end of the interview. When his subordinate had left, he swiveled
his chair around and gazed thoughtfully through the large picture
window that presented him with a panoramic view of the harbor.
   He wondered how to handle this particular case. Yiorghis had
mentioned Uncle-Nicholas's phone call and although it was not
necessarily significant, he could not just ignore it. If he failed to take
action and the matter proved to be something more than an old
man's need for attention, there was no telling the consequences.
   Of course, the best tactics would be to throw the ball to someone
else's turf. Although the oversight of waterborne vessels belonged to
his own agency, the legality of their passengers' actions when on land
devolved to other authorities. A few minutes ago Yiorghis had
reported that the boat was empty; therefore, if her passengers were
involved in illegal antiquities trading, the whole case should be
referred to the Bureau for the Protection of Antiquities.
   Let them tackle this matter, if the would...
   Satisfied on both counts, that he had discharged his duty in full
and had proved smart enough to find such an elegant solution,
Lambrakopoulos leafed through the telephone directory to locate
the phone number he needed to dispose of the case.


Chapter 90
           MYKONOS, GREECE: Main Pier
           September 1


At nine o'clock in the evening Nikitas and Christos were judged
to be lucid enough for travel. As an added precaution, Bridges
skipped their eight o'clock dose and personally checked their
physical condition. Satisfied that all was well, he gave the green light
for their departure.
   Two DGA-2 operatives were flown in from Athens to escort the
captives to Turkey. They would sail through the Aegean to Smyrna
and from there they would take a military jet for Ankara. Captain
Edak would drive them to Mykonos, staying there until they sailed
away.
   It took them only fifteen minutes to reach the overcrowded
seaside road. To minimize the distance from the jeep to the boat,
Edak drove the car as near to the sailboat's berth as he could, making
slow headway through the dense throng of strolling pedestrians.
   Nikitas and Christos were squeezed in the backseat between their
escorts. As before, they were not allowed to speak, which suited
Nikitas just fine: as the jeep crawled forward, he struggled hard to
regain a measure of control over his confused, swirling thoughts.
   It was not a matter of mental concentration. His tremendous
effort was exhausting in a physical sense, as his body rebelled
against his bid for mental control. After a couple of minutes of this
internal fight he was already perspiring heavily.
   Nikitas threw a sidelong glance to his friend. At first he had
thought that he, also, was fighting the drugs, but after a while
realized that the chemicals had affected Christos a lot more than
himself. His head hung limp on his chest and there was no indica-
tion that he was aware of his surroundings.
   Once again Nikitas concentrated on his own fight; to help
Christos he needed to help himself first. At least, he was steadily
gaining ground in this strange battle and his thought processes were
clearing up. All the same, there were major gaps to his recent
memories and subtle variations in his time-perception. His world
had become a videotape running at variable speeds.
   Totally immersed in his own self, Nikitas failed to notice that the  
jeep had stopped. There was a hard tug at his armpits, and he
suddenly found himself standing beside the car.
   Around him Mykonos was enjoying another night of leisure and
cheerful sensuality. For a few moments Nikitas's attention was
hypnotically gripped by a procession of six middle-aged men
heading to a private party with palm tree leaves in their hands. They
passed him by laughing gaily and as he followed their progress his
gaze landed to "Pretty Eleni", docked a few yards farther.
   Nikitas was so shocked at her sight that he lost the tenuous
perceptual control he had achieved. He stood with his mouth half-
open, transfixed by the exquisite milky halo he saw surrounding her
smooth curves. As if acknowledging his excitement, the mainsail
ballooned and the rigging started to rattle against the mast. Nikitas
was flooded by an overpowering feeling of joy mixed with nostalgia,
and his tears flowed freely without him realizing it.
   The sight energized him and he marched off stiffly toward the
boat, like a marionette suddenly blessed with the breath of life.
Captain Edak guessed correctly his destination and motioned the
others to let him alone.
   At exactly this moment one of the two undercover Customs
Police officers keeping "Pretty Eleni" under surveillance, started across
the street toward the jeep and its occupants. He was a young man in
his thirties who had cultivated a teenager's persona. He and his
senior partner were instructed to wait for the boat's owners and
escort them to Mykonos's Police Station for identification and
questioning.
   "Police! Please wait," he shouted to the driver of the jeep.
Captain Edak performed a split-second evaluation of the crisis.
Although he had no idea what this meant, he knew by experience
that a "soft" approach would not deter the police officer from
performing his duty. Daltas was obviously incapacitated and that
was enough for a further investigation. Politely but firmly, they
would be asked to accompany the officer to the police station for an
ID check.
   Besides, the fact that they were dealing with an undercover
policeman spoke volumes by itself.
   Fast action was his only option, decided Edak. Without qualms
or hesitation, he brought out his pistol and shot three rounds in
quick succession at the approaching officer. As the young man
collapsed on the street, he floored the accelerator, spinning the
wheel all the way to the left. The 4WD screeched horribly as it took
half a turn almost on the spot, then shot forward.
   The unexpected violence took the second police officer by
surprise, but he recovered quickly. He was in his mid-forties and a
veteran of the Customs Police with a long succession of dangerous
arrests in his record. He flipped his pistol from its holster under his
light jacket and fired several rounds at the man trying to reach the
jeep. Without waiting for the outcome of his shots, he dropped
down and rolled over to his left.
   The fall saved his life, because Nikitas's bodyguard had managed
to climb into the jeep, and pull off five shots against the Greek police
officer through the open window. Fortunately, none of them found a
live target, but they succeeded in neutralizing him. In the midst of it
the jeep with the remaining three Turkish agents sped forward and
disappeared from view.
   During this brief but lethal engagement, Nikitas had existed
in a vastly different plane. As the younger police officer was shot
down, he boarded the boat. Oblivious to all else, he undid the
rope and serenely approached the wheel.
For him, time had come to a standstill. All that mattered, all that
existed, was that he was aboard the boat he had learned to love.
   Far behind him, wrapped under a thick veil of silence, Nikitas
heard distant cracks as if from fireworks. He smiled, as memories
from his childhood fleetingly flashed before his eyes. He sighed and
started the engine.
   Thirty seconds later, as the Greek police officer was leaning
concerned over his younger partner, "Pretty Eleni" was gliding
unnoticed toward the harbor's exit.


Chapter 91
           ANKARA, TURKEY: Armed Forces HQ.
           September 1


The conference room set aside for the Executive Committee of
the secret organization Heart of our Fatherland was situated in
the third underground level at the building complex of the Joint
Military Staff in Ankara, only a dozen yards away from the War
Operations' Theater.
   In the eyes of the Turkish constitution the paramilitary organiza-
tion Heart of our Fatherland was illegal and its members guilty of
high treason, as things stood, however, this all-powerful hard-core
elite of the Turkish military had the means to impose its will over the
legal authorities, whether parliamentary, judicial or administrative.
   Despite the white dictatorship bleeding the country, there was an
ever-growing number of law-abiding military officers who in private
expressed their concern that the Heart of our Fatherland, with its
warlike policies and goals, was leading the country to destruction.
Unfortunately, none of them was present tonight in the conference
room to put forth his objections in front of the Executive
Committee.
   Colonel Sabri, on the other hand, was there, ready to exploit his
charismatic presence to steer the overall discussion toward a specific
direction-the direction best serving his personal interests.
   A few hours ago Sabri had had a private talk with Pearsson over
the phone, arranged by Colonel Osman Ebiler at the request of
GCS's director. Pearsson had not found it hard to convince Sabri that
they had certain interests in common and that both parties stood to
profit from a closer association in the case of the Byzantine parch-
ments.
   "This memorandum seems rather farfetched," one of the generals
declared, tapping his finger on the memo distributed to the partici-
pants at the start of the session.
   "Yes, I agree with esteemed General Nesin," Brigadier General
Ibrahim Kemal hastened to add in his thin, reedy voice. It was well
known that Kemal was cultivating a special relationship with the
general. "The available evidence clearly does not support its conclu-
sions."
   Sabri observed each speaker with a hawkish expression, ready to
intervene if the need arose. It was still too early, however, to address
the committee.
   "I absolutely disagree, gentlemen. Our colleagues' objections are
an exercise in rhetoric at a moment when we're dealing with very
concrete facts," Lieutenant General Mahmut K�rchenli objected. He
was the third ranking officer among the nine members of the
committee. "Let me run over the memorandum's salient points, if
you will," he said, glancing toward the head of the table. The presi-
dent nodded.
   "This memo, gentlemen, reports a matter of the gravest impor-
tance for our country: the high probability of the existence of rich
oil deposits not only in the shelf of the Aegean Sea-where we
successfully counteracted all attempts on the part of the Greeks for
their commercial exploitation-but in the mainland of Greece, as
well.
   "Now, based on a detailed analysis of certain unsettling facts,
which I should stress were verified by our prestigious DGA-2, the
authors of the memorandum at hand reached the following catalytic
conclusions."
   He paused briefly to emphasize the point he was about to make.
   "Gentlemen," he went on, "what is really at stake here, that is the
very existence of our country!"
   Ignoring the muttering that started at his ominous words,
K�rchenli put on his glasses, consulted briefly the documents in
front of him, and began reading from a report:
   "Item first: it is estimated with a probability approaching
absolute certainty that in various areas of Greece's mainland there
exist as yet undiscovered oil deposits.
   "Item second: their exact location has been recorded in certain
official documents dating back to the Byzantine era, sometime
between 600 and 650.
   "Item third: a number of Greek citizens have come to vital infor-
mation giving them access to said documents and maps. The situa-
tion is critical, as they may gain possession of them within the next
few days, if not within the next few hours!"
Lieutenant General K�rchenli took off his glasses and looked
intently at the committee members.
   "Now, is there anyone among us that still doubts the magnitude
of the impending danger?" he asked rhetorically.
   However, Brigadier General Kemal was not one to easily
acknowledge defeat. He had been listening attentively to K�rchenli
and now launched his counterattack.
   "If, and I stress this meaningful little word, if the situation were
as bleak as Lieutenant General K�rchenli wants us to believe, we
would be obligated to take quick action. I concede that. For my part,
though, I was rather embarrassed coming in here tonight and
finding out that our agenda belonged to the realm of Byzantine
folklore and Greek mythology!
   "Now, gentlemen, do we really want to decide our foreign policy
on the grounds of Byzantine legends?
   "However, just for argument's sake, let us suppose that those
manuscripts really exist. Do you actually believe that in today's
world of hard economic facts there would be a single financial insti-
tution so utterly reckless, as to risk billions of dollars in monetary  
funds on the say-so of a couple of Byzantine fairy tales?"
   For several moments there was only absolute silence. Then, as if
responding to a secret signal, the committee members shifted
impatiently in their seats. Brigadier General Kemal's exposition
seemed to have sized the matter to its real dimensions, and a couple
of the participants began shuffling their papers, thinking the
meeting was over.
   Sabri had no other choice but to speak up.
   "Esteemed members of the Executive Committee," he suavely addressed
the participants, "if someone called you at home and warned
you there was a bomb in your office, would you risk a visit there
before a special explosives team had checked it thoroughly? I should
think not! It's self-evident that when in doubt we choose the safest
course of action.
   "So, my point is this: if the maps do exist and we just let them fall
into enemy hands, there will come a time when we'll be facing a
monstrous nuclear arsenal at the other side of the Aegean, cocked
and primed to blow our country out of existence.
   "And this is not a figure of speech! I mean it in a literal sense!"
he shouted out loud. "Such huge amounts of petro-dollars will buy
anything, including the most advanced nuclear weapons
technology."
   Sabri's incendiary speech caused a wild uproar to erupt in the
conference room. Nuclear weapons were a sensitive topic at this side
of the world and a strategist's nightmare, since they could short-
circuit conventional warfare.
   "So what?" Even if they do find oil, they'll have to pump it up
first," another general shouted back. "And this will take years. In the
meantime, by artfully escalating the existing political tensions
between Greece and our country, we shall be able to stage a brief
military engagement and claim our share of the oil deposits."
   "I beg permission to differ, my general," Sabri replied politely. "If
the existence of rich oil deposits in Greece becomes public knowl-
edge, most global financial institutions will form a line for the privi-
lege of providing economic assistance to the enemy. Soon enough,
mythical amounts of cash will become available to the Greek
government, ready to be used for the purchase of state-of-the-art
military systems. According to a conservative estimate of my
agency's experts, Greece would need eighteen months at the most to
gain superior firepower.
   "As you already know, this is the only reason why we have never
allowed prospecting for oil in the Aegean Sea shelf. The discovery of
an oil deposit would automatically raise significantly the geopolit-
ical importance of Greece, firing a chain-reaction of unpleasant
events for our country."
   Sabri studied carefully the faces of the committee members, as
he evaluated the impact of his speech. After a measured pause,
he continued.
   "And don't expect any assistance from our allies, either. In such
a scenario the superpowers would scramble to take our neighbors
under their protective umbrella. Let's keep in mind the historical
lessons of the Gulf War," he added.
   There was a low buzzing from his emergency cell phone and
Colonel Sabri sat back to his seat, apologizing for the interruption.
He covered his mouth with his hand and spoke for a few moments,
then hung up and rose again to his feet. The committee members
noticed his grave expression and all small talk stopped. Everyone in
the room looked up expectantly at the colonel.
   "Gentlemen, I have just received distressing news from our
Athens unit," Sabri announced dramatically. "The two Greek
captives, who are related to this affair and were about to be carried
to the DGA-2 headquarters for interrogation, have escaped.
Moreover, during the engagement with the Greek police, a high-
ranking operative of DGA-2's was killed. At this very moment
Mykonos is implementing an emergency evacuation plan.
   "I have also been informed that one of the escapees was last seen
heading toward Delos in a small sailing boat. He obviously intends
to gain possession of the Byzantine documents referred to in the
memorandum. In my opinion, it's a matter of a few hours before the
Greek government is apprised of the situation."
   "Your suggestions, colonel," the president of the Executive
Committee said curtly, speaking for the first time.
   "In my estimate, sir, we have a six-hour window for action. I
suggest that we undertake a special operation to retrieve, or at the
very least to destroy, the complete set of all the available maps,
drawings, descriptions and other reports of oil deposits in the Greek
mainland."
   "Can we accomplish this?"
   "Absolutely!" Sabri replied without the slightest hesitation,
projecting an aura of supreme self-confidence. "DGA-2 has prepared
long for such an eventuality. At your authorization, a Special
Operations team attached to DGA-2 will prepare for take-off in
exactly two hours with me as its commanding officer, due to the
importance of the mission."
   "Do you find it wise, Colonel Sabri, to participate personally in
such a dangerous operation?" the president asked.
   "Sir, you must be absolutely convinced by now that in the next
few hours will be decided the future of our country for the next fifty
years . If we shrink now from our sacred duty, our noble goal for the
resurrection of the Ottoman Empire under a secular regime will be
forever relegated to oblivion. Compared with that, my personal
safety is of no importance whatsoever," Sabri said modestly and sat
down to his seat.
   "Bravo!" shouted one of the participants and the room exploded
in enthusiastic applause.
   The president of the Executive Committee turned to the secre-
tary sitting to his right and asked for a transcript of the proceedings
thus far. The colonel pressed a key in his laptop and passed the sheaf
of papers to the president, as soon as they were printed by the laser
printer beside him. The latter studied the printout for a couple of
minutes before addressing the committee.
   "Colonel Sabri's official recommendation for an immediate covert
military operation in the island of Delos, Greece, is hereby put to the
vote. Those of you who agree with the motion, please raise your
hands."
   Nine hands were raised by nine men believing they had the right
to decide the fate of the whole Turkish nation, acting their
treasonous deed in the name of sixty million people completely
ignorant of them. It was a reckless decision, very likely to lead their
country to an armed conflict with neighboring Greece. The first act
of aggression would take place in a 0.9 by 3.5 miles little island at
the heart of the Aegean Sea.
   In a few hours the god of war and strife would descend from Mount
Olympus for the second time in three and a half millennia, to pay an
unwelcome visit to the sacred land of Apollo and Artemis, in Delos.


Chapter 92
           AEGEAN SEA, GREECE: Off Delos
           September 1


For the first time in several weeks Nikitas was not in a hurry.
Sailing at a moderate speed he was heading for Delos's eastern
coast, where only recently-when was it, really?-he and Christos
had almost touched shore.
   Despite his grogginess, he was holding the wheel with a steady
hand. Besides, an outboard motor presented none of the challenges
of sailing. He hunched unmoving, peering straight ahead at the
island's dark form, as Mount Kynthos's growing hump mopped the
stars off the night sky.
   With the amount of psychotropic substances circulating in his
system already significantly lowered, Nikitas had reached a precar-
ious balance between the truths which his perception was commu-
nicating to him and the often conflicting conclusions of his common
sense. Although the LSD within him was still active, he was lucid
enough to realize that his sensory input was distorted.
   As the sailboat approached the shore, Nikitas began to view his
trip as a pilgrimage at Delos's sacred island... he imagined/saw the
mainsail flap thunderously under Aeolus's friendly winds that had
delivered him safely to his destination, while the luminous
phosphorescence of the shallow waters was transformed into a
mythical, astral drizzle. Nikitas was dimly aware that he had appro-
priated the feelings of repatriating Odysseus-there was even a
primordial voice whispering to his ear verses from the Homeric
epics he had learned when he was a child.
   At another level, however, his rationality was continuously
reinterpreting this torrent of false data, creating a second-order
reality which claimed validity by inference. As a result, Nikitas had
to ignore his vision of the billowing sails, he had to turn a deaf ear
to the contrapuntal rhapsody, or he ran the risk of succumbing to
the hallucinatory imagery of his chemically induced virtual world.
   Fifty feet away from the shore Nikitas switched off the motor. For
several moments he watched intently the swelling sail, sighing in
relief when it finally took its real shape. Now he was absolutely
certain that the boat had stopped, balancing on the thin interface
between two widely different worlds.
   It was only then that he remembered his enemies since he had
left Mykonos. Spurred by his peculiar clarity he spun the wheel, and
when the boat had turned around with him facing the open sea, he
took off his shirt and tied it through the wheel-spokes. Next, he
opened the toolbox and scattered its contents on the deck. He
located Christos's pistol and slipped it in a pocket of his pants.
   When he was ready, Nikitas started again the motor, adjusted the
speed lever to its highest setting, and as the boat shot forward he
dived into the luminous waters.
   "Pretty Eleni" parted from him with a soft whir, speeding toward
the opposite direction.


Chapter 93
           DELOS, GREECE: Eastern Coastline
           September 1


When his contact in Mykonos informed him that a sailing boat
with his registration number had been located at the harbor,
Uncle-Nicholas decided to change his regular schedule. All of a
sudden his relaxing vacation had taken a thrilling aspect and his
normal routine was transformed into a developing adventure. As
was to be expected, he mentioned nothing of it to his colleagues,
determined to solve the mystery-if any-by himself, as he had
always done in the past.
   Thinking that an all-night vigil might be necessary, Uncle-
Nicholas prolonged his afternoon siesta by a couple of hours and
paid the inevitable price by stoically enduring the good-natured
teasing of his fellow watchmen. He passed the rest of the afternoon
planning his strategy and waiting for darkness to fall.
   The last boat for Mykonos had departed since more than an hour
when Uncle-Nicholas closed his room's door and started on the road
north. This time he was carrying with him a pair of expensive night-
vision binoculars and a small knapsack with provisions-some
bread and cheese and a canteen of water, in case he stayed out late.
He kept his flashlight turned off, but his footing was firm on the
familiar ground.
   When he reached the same location at the eastern coast, from
where he had spied the mysterious boat the night before, he settled
comfortably on the flat surface of his favorite rock that was still
pleasantly warm from the afternoon sun, and prepared for a long
wait.
   Not a thought this time for a cigarette.
   His patience was rewarded sooner than expected. A dot darker
than the horizon quickly resolved into the shape of a boat, fast
approaching the island. Shortly, the sea breeze was carrying to the
shore the pattering of an outboard motor.
   It was time to go. Uncle-Nicholas slipped off the rock, taking
with him the heavy pair of glasses. He knelt on the sand, propped
the binoculars on the surface of the rock, and focused on the
growing shape, clearly highlighted in the lenses' artificial dusk.

                                ***

Nikitas's plunge in the shallow waters was accompanied by one of
the strangest feelings he had ever experienced in his life, as the
seawater had the consistency of mercury. When he broke surface,
myriads of silvery threads trickled down in slow motion through his
fingers.
   Strangely, it gave him a feeling of omnipotence, as if with a few
strokes he could rocket himself toward the shore. Finding himself in
the warm bosom of that marvelous, viscous substance felt wonderful
and his power seemed boundless-he was certain he could even
walk upon its slowly undulating flatness.
   Disregarding for once the warnings of his reason in the face of his
false perceptions, Nikitas tried to rise to his feet... and firmly stood
on the sandy bottom.
   He slowly splashed his way toward the beach. Once there, he
took stock of his surroundings. His dunking had shoved his aware-
ness several steps up toward greater clarity, and was able to orientate
himself fairly easily. Of course, that came as a natural result of his
having studied Delos's modern geography dozens of times, while he
had memorized its detailed descriptions by both ancient and
contemporary authors. With his talent in patterns recognition and
his architect's experienced eye, Nikitas was able to correlate his two-
dimensional mental map with the three-dimensional topography of
his surroundings.
   Paradoxically, the toxins still circulating in his system were
augmenting his natural powers for visualization, and he suddenly
found himself laughing out loud for the irony of his situation.
His enemies' strategy had backfired!
   The net result reminded him of one of his earlier visits to the
VRL, MIT's virtual reality lab. Outfitted with the appropriate harness
he had wandered at that time for hours in the interior of a high-rise
building which only existed in the memory of the lab's supercom-
puter.
   Something similar was taking place right now, a strange phenom-
enon triggered by the residue of hallucinogenic in his blood. Nikitas
discovered he could recall at will various aspects of Delos's topog-
raphy in all of their 3-D splendor. Moreover, he had no sensation of
muscle contraction whenever he tried to move toward a specific
direction; it was as if the physical act of walking was being translated
into pure mental effort.
   Unfortunately, his perceptual peculiarity was not enough by itself
to resolve his main problem, namely to locate the object of his
search.
   Far ahead to his left rose Mount Kynthos, actually a low hill,
while to his right Nikitas saw with his mind's eye the ancient
stadium. From there also started the trail leading to the main archae-
ological area at the western coastline of Delos.
   So-where for, now?
   The night was still young. A half-moon topped the sky, casting its
pale light upon the ancient ruins. Too weak to illuminate them
clearly, the moonlight was smoothing out their hardness, giving an
atmosphere of romance to the landscape. Nikitas regretted he had
not had the foresight to get a flashlight from the boat when he had
the chance, but at least the pistol was still in his pocket.
   By now the incorporeal voices and weird sounds had faded, as
had his raw illusions and visions. It seemed that his body defences
were getting the upper hand, and Nikitas felt there were only a few
more steps between him and conventional reality.
   Still without a plan, he suddenly remembered the exhortation of
Maurikios: "...in you lies the burden of seeking out the Great Treasure,
which the latter pirates hid in the cave of the first, a hundred and fifty
paces from ours toward the blond God."
Maurikios's directions were as good a starting point as any other.
Nikitas sat down to think.

                                ***

From his vantage point a dozen yards farther up the beach, Uncle-
Nicholas observed closely all the movements of Nikitas. He had seen
him turn around the boat and tie the wheel, thus turning it into an
auto-pilot of sorts. Well aware that most modern vessels possessed
some means of automatic navigation, the old man concluded that a
man resorting to this trick knew next to nothing of boating.
   After that he had watched Nikitas move around the deck, before
picking up a small object which he slipped into his pocket . Then,
the stranger took a dive into the sea, after he had launched the boat
into a southeasterly course. 
   When the man finally reached the shore he began pacing the
beach, flicking his head nervously this way and that, as if a host of
private demons was stalking him. He had suddenly laughed in a
loud voice and Uncle-Nicholas had frozen at the outworldly sound.
At last, the young man-he seemed to be in his middle thirties-had
started toward Kynthos, forcing Uncle-Nicholas to reluctantly leave
his comfortable cover and follow him in the dark.
   Allowing a distance of twenty yards between them, Uncle-
Nicholas was hard-pressed to keep pace with him. He was greatly
impressed by the mysterious ease, with which the young man kept
avoiding all the obstacles in his path-the low bushes and the rocks,
even the sharp pebbles that were a distinctive feature of this remote
region. Until then Uncle-Nicholas had firmly believed that no one
else other than himself would have been able to walk these parts at
night without a bright light and a guide, and yet the young man was
striding along as if he were a native child of Delos.
   Which was impossible, of course, since Delos had no inhabitants.
The old man crossed himself, as several half-forgotten supersti-
tious notions came to mind, but he pressed on.
   After a while he thought he could guess the stranger's destina-
tion: he was taking the shortest path toward a small, natural cave of
Kynthos, well-known since the ancient times. Encouraged by his
insight the old man opened up his pace, shortening the distance
between them to ten yards.
   When the man reached the opening of the cave, he hesitated. He
stooped to feel its outline, but instead of walking in, he retreated a
few feet and lowered himself on the ground with a thump.
   With his binoculars set for low magnification, Uncle-Nicholas
examined curiously his youthful features. He had the groomed look
of an upper-class city man-well-educated, handsome, normal in all
respects.
   The old man realized that he might be staying there all night long
studying the stranger in detail, but without getting any results. This
prospect was hardly exciting; he would rather do something to
satisfy his burning curiosity, if not else. Besides, the young man did
not seem to be a dangerous person.
   Of course, he could be wrong...
   He vacillated for several minutes, weighing the pros and the cons
of a direct approach. Eventually, his curiosity won and he decided to
act. He turned on his flashlight and took a step forward.

                                ***

Nikitas immediately noticed the small luminous circle which
suddenly materialized a few yards away, but decided to ignore it. It
couldn't be anything else than another illusion, a delayed effect of
the hallucinogenic still in his body.
   Choosing this particular cave was a long shot on his part. He had
thought it could be the pirates' cave mentioned by Maurikios, but
when he reached it he was met with impenetrable darkness. There
was no way to deal with that, at least not before morning. Deadly
tired and bitterly disappointed, Nikitas had nearly collapsed there,
in front of its entrance.
   He looked at it again and saw that the bright spot was still there.
Intrigued by the persistence of his hallucination, he glanced around
and suddenly noticed the flashlight.
   This was no illusion!
   Nikitas sat up and nodded a greeting with his head.
   "Good evening," Uncle-Nicholas said in Greek when he realized
the young man had seen him. He had kept the flashlight's beam away
from his face, to avoid blinding him with its glare.
   "Good evening to you," Nikitas reflexively replied in the same
language. All of this was totally unreal; meeting another human
being under these circumstances was the last thing he would have
expected.
   "I'm one of Delos's watchmen," Uncle-Nicholas continued, as he
took a few steps toward Nikitas. "You shouldn't be here, young man;
all visits during the night are strictly forbidden."
   Nikitas bobbed his head. He felt strangely calm, and the quite
voice of his visitor was helping him to focus his thoughts. "I know,"
he said after a while, "but I needed to come here."
   Uncle-Nicholas was intrigued by his response but decided
against a direct approach. He was not after fast answers; in his age
he had plenty of time for a little mystery now and then.
   "I'm Nicholas Stavrakakis, though everybody calls me Uncle-
Nicholas. What's your name, son?" he asked kindly.
   "Nikitas Paleologou."
Uncle-Nicholas leaned toward Nikitas and studied his face. He
immediately noticed the signs of exhaustion and hardship, which he
had not been able to discern earlier.
   "All right, Nikitas," he said, sitting down beside him. "Why did
you have to come here in the dead of night, instead of during the day
with the rest of the tourists?"
   "It's a very long story, Uncle-Nicholas," Nikitas told him, feeling
a spontaneous bond with the old man. He was disappointed with
himself not only because he had failed in his quest, but also because
in his confusion he had left Mykonos without a second thought for
his friend's fate.
   Uncle-Nicholas could hardly miss noticing Nikitas's low spirits,
and felt his heart warming toward him. He had met his share of
people in his quiet life-good people and bad people. His friends
and relatives were probably considering him an uneducated person,
which he surely was since he had only finished the elementary
school, but life had taught him a big and simple truth: that all
human beings, irrespective of the little details filling up their
everyday lives, could be neatly classified into two categories. There
were the good people, and there were the bad people.
   Yes, Uncle-Nicholas thought, it was a simple as that, as breath-
takingly clear-cut as this. Each and every moment of our waking
lives the total of our deeds weighed us down toward the Bad or lifted
us up toward the Good. We never stayed in the middle. Perhaps all
accounts were somehow balanced after death, the old man mused...
In this world, however, everyone was carrying a plus or a minus
sign, and one had only to ask his or her heart to know where the
balance stood.
   In the soft eyes of the young man before him Uncle-Nicholas
perceived his inner glow, and that was enough for him. According to
his own philosophy, he had no need for the specifics of Nikitas's life.
He turned toward the south and took a few deep breaths. The air was
cool and fragrant.
   It was a great night.
   "Come with me," he said gently.

                                ***

Uncle-Nicholas led Nikitas to the beach, where he had left his
knapsack. He offered him the loaf of bread and a block of cheese,
and passed him the canteen. Nikitas drank deeply. Uncle-Nicholas
waited patiently until the food had vanished, and then asked him
what exactly was happening.
   "Listen, Uncle-Nicholas," Nikitas replied looking the old man in
the eye, "even though I can hardly believe it myself, the truth is that
I ended up here tonight as I searched for the forgotten legacy of the
Byzantines."
   The watchman said nothing and Nikitas paused briefly to arrange
his thoughts. "Here's, then, how the whole thing began," he said
after a while, and began relating to Uncle-Nicholas the facts which
explained and justified his presence in Delos at this particular night.


Chapter 94
           MYKONOS, GREECE: Main Pier
           September 1


The news of the bloody incident at the sea-front exploded like a
Molotov cocktail in Mykonos's police station. The officers on
duty, who were caught up in the midst of a passionate game of
backgammon, jumped to their feet and ran to the harbor, where, of
course, chaos reigned supreme. In the aftermath of the shootings
and the criminals' successful escape, the road was choked with
curious bystanders creating a human wall around the two men lying
on the asphalt.
   The Customs police officer had already carried his still breathing
partner to a private car, directing the driver to take him to the town's
Health Center. Then, he ran back to the two men and checked them
for a pulse. One of them was dead, the other only unconscious. He
asked two citizens not to let anyone go near the dead body and
turned his attention to the living man. He did not seem to have
sustained any injuries, but he still showed no signs of coming to.
   He was pondering the question, whether to dispatch him to the
Health Center or keep him there a little longer, when the local police
officers arrived en masse.
   "Hey, who are you? What's happening here?" Lieutenant
Athanassios Megaritis shouted at him. A second policeman leaned
over Christos.
   "Lieutenant Theophanis Anagnostou of the Customs Police," he
replied, presenting his badge.
   Megaritis shook hands with his colleague. "You have any idea
what happened here? We only heard there were shots and people
were hurt," he said.
   Anagnostou wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and
lowered his eyes. "My partner was badly hit. Two bullets in the
chest. He's only twenty-eight years old, married, one kid..." He
sighed deeply and looked up at Megaritis. "I had him taken to the
Health Center, five minutes ago."
   "I'll call Athens and ask for a helicopter," Megaritis said, lifting
his walkie-talkie to his lips. He talked with the officer on duty at the
police station, instructing him to make the necessary arrangements.
   He signed off and turned his attention to the two bodies.
   "This one's dead," Anagnostou said pointing at the corpse of the
Turk agent. "The other's unconscious. I'm not sure he's not in a
coma."
   "We should send him to the Health Center, then."
As if on cue Christos moaned, half-opened his eyes, and croaked
something to the policeman leaning over him.
   "Water," he repeated faintly.
   The officer relayed his request to the onlookers and waited.
   Shortly, someone returned with a glass of water from a taverna
across the street. The police officer used a little water to wet
Christos's hair, then touched the glass to his dry lips. Christos drank
thirstily and slowly sat up.
   "Okay, he seems to be doing fine-forget the Health Center. Let's
take him to the station," Megaritis suggested.
   Anagnostou agreed with a nod. He desperately hoped they would
get their answers from this man, as this matter had become personal.
An innocent victim had already been carried lethally wounded to the
clinic, while a guilty one was shot dead. He needed badly to know
why.
   At the police station they accommodated Christos on a cot and
brought him some brandy, unaware of the fact that his circulatory
system was still full of toxins. Even so, a couple of sips proved a
tonic. Five minutes later Christos was as eager as his hosts to find
out what had happened since he had lost consciousness in the jeep.
   Lieutenant Megaritis spoke up first. With a few clipped sentences
he referred to the episode at the harbor, then asked Christos to
identify himself and tell him all that he knew. His tone made it clear
that he had not decided as yet whether to include him in the list of
the perpetrators or of the victims.
   Christos suddenly realized that no one had mentioned Nikitas;
had his friend made his escape during the shootout? Or had the
Turkish spies taken him back with them? He put the question to
Megaritis but the police officer looked at Anagnostou perplexed.
   "But of course! I forgot the sailing boat!" he exclaimed, slapping
his forehead with his right hand. "It's why we were there, in the first
place. The boat was under surveillance because of a tip that it might
belong to a ring of antiquities smugglers. I and my partner were
assigned night duty. Normally we'd have kept our distance, but
when I saw that the jeep was about to leave I decided to intervene,
because I had no backup to follow them."
   "What happened to Nikitas?" Christos yelled. He would not put
up any longer with a pair of policemen calmly dissecting their case,
while his friend might be in mortal danger this very moment.
   "Quiet. Who the hell is this Nikitas?" Megaritis retorted harshly.
   "There were three other men out of the jeep; one of them is dead,
the other got away," Anagnostou interjected, "but I can't account for
the third. During the gunfight my attention was focused to the jeep
and its occupants, but I think I caught sight of someone climbing
aboard the boat. He might still be there," he suggested.
   "What's the name of the sailboat?" Megaritis asked, as he clicked
on his walkie-talkie.
   ""Pretty Eleni"," snapped Christos.
   "In three minutes we'll know if anybody's there," Lieutenant
Megaritis said and ordered one of his men at the crime scene to
check out the boat.
Shortly, the policeman called back to report that the boat was missing.
   "I know what must have happened," Christos said, sitting up in
his cot. His head still hurt, but at least the world had stopped
spinning.
   "Nikitas must have sailed to Delos."
   "What? Why should your friend go to Delos?" Megaritis asked
him suspiciously. "Come on, mister, I think it's time you told us the
whole truth, starting with your real name. You may be in deep
trouble, you know. Lieutenant Anagnostou already said something
about smuggling of antiquities."
   "Smuggling's got nothing to do with it, lieutenant," Christos
shook his head, spurring another fit of dizziness. Trying to make the
police officers understand was an almost hopeless task; how could
he ever begin to explain a tenth of last week's events? Their probable
reaction would be to discard his story as an elaborate attempt at
muddling up the case.
   Still, he had no other choice. Nikitas was subjected to the same
treatment as he, so sailing out of Mykonos alone was tantamount to
committing suicide. His friend was in mortal danger not from the
Turks, but from his own drugged self.
   They had to find him as soon as possible, if he was to see him
again alive.


Chapter 95
           DELOS, GREECE: Eastern Coastline
           September 1


   "So, they put the treasure into a cave that's one hundred and
fifty paces away from a blond god, eh?" Uncle-Nicholas
repeated out loud. He had listened enraptured to Nikitas's story and
was now mulling over Maurikios's directions.
   "That's why I thought I'd try that cave," Nikitas explained. "Even
if it proved to be the wrong one, it could be interconnected with
other caves by an underground passage. Anyway, it was too dark to
search it without a light."
   Uncle-Nicholas shook his head, confused. "Never mind that one;
it's a blind cave," he said. "There's nothing to be found there."
   "Okay, but there's an ancient myth that a band of Karian pirates
had their stronghold at Delos in prehistoric times," Nikitas said.
   "They stayed here until king Minos defeated them, threw them out
of the island, and during the following years succeeded in banishing
them from the entire Aegean Sea."
   "Yes, I've heard the story," Uncle-Nicholas concurred. "In
fact, I've heard a lot of stories by the archaeologists and the tour
guides, but I don't remember anyone mentioning any ruins left
by those pirates, nor hidden caves."
   Nikitas grinned, remembering a comment of Konstantinou's in
Alexandria. "Looking at the bright side of it, this means that they
still haven't been discovered. But I really have no idea where to start
from."
   Actually, he had. Maurikios's directions for finding the treasure
had all the characteristics of an oracle, and the oracles had their own
rules of interpretation. Nikitas had read somewhere that a part of the
oracular utterance was interpreted allegorically, the rest of it in a
literal way, and then both were combined together in a new
synthesis.
   Of course, this rule applied only to meaningful oracles, namely
those containing a message or advice to the inquirer, however veiled
it might be. Because many ancient oracles were simply clever
wordplays, which answered a question by covering all of its possible
outcomes.
   Nikitas remembered the divination of the Delphic Oracle's during
Xerxes's invasion of Greece, that the Athenians would be saved by
wooden walls. Subsequent events had proved the oracle's wisdom,
but only as it was interpreted by Themistocles that by 'wooden walls'
the god had really meant the Athenian navy.
   Unfortunately, a large number of the older Athenians had placed
their hopes to the literal interpretation of the divination. In the
belief that they would be saved by surrounding Acropolis with a
wooden wall they had stayed there, but their flimsy construction
could not resist Xerxes's barbarian host.
   In the antipodes of those 'wise oracles' were the divinations of the
type:

               Exeis aphixeis ouk en polemo thnexeis

   The actual meaning of this type of an oracle depended mainly on
the sentence's punctuation as it was read. In this particular example
a warrior had inquired the Oracle whether he would survive the war,
and had received the following answer:

               You go you return not you die in the war

   This phrase, however, was capable of 'foreseeing' both outcomes,
as it was open to two diametrically opposed interpretations:

                (1) You go, you return. Not-you-die in the war

                (2) You go, you return-not. You die in the war

   Nikitas had to assume that Maurikios's directions were meant to
guide the treasure's seeker and not to confuse him.
   "All right, let's see what we got here," he said. "First of all, do we
agree that the so-called latter pirates mentioned by Maurikios are the
Drougarioi conspirators?"
   "Undoubtedly," Uncle-Nicholas replied.
   "Fine. We assume, of course, that they hid Heraclius's treasure
somewhere on this island."
   "Right."
   "Now, let's go back to Maurikios's pair of gods: ours and the blond
one. I think we can also safely assume that our god is Christianity's
God, while the blond one can be none other than Apollo."
   "It makes sense," Uncle-Nicholas agreed.
   "Now, since the one hundred and fifty paces are a known factor,
we're left with the phrase from ours toward the blond god," Nikitas
said.
   Uncle-Nicholas shrugged. "We're in Delos. Ancient ruins-build-
ings, temples and the like, is all you'll ever come across . There are
no Byzantine monuments that I know of."
   "This is exactly what has been bothering me," Nikitas said.
   "Maurikios probably refers to a building dedicated to the worship of
the Christian God, and that translates to a church or a chapel. We
got to find it, and use it as our starting point for the hundred and
fifty paces taken in the direction of Apollo's temple."
   "Does the church need to be whole, Nikitas? I say this because
near the ancient harbor there are the foundations of the church of
Aghios Kyrekos," the old man said. "But that's in Delos's other side,
at the western coast. I can show it to you, if you wish. And
something else," he added hastily. "A short distance away from that
church there are the ruins of one of Apollo's larger temples; maybe
that's where you'll find what you're looking for."
   "No, Uncle-Nicholas, I don't think so," Nikitas said shaking his
head. "I've read that Aghios Kyrekos was built after Heraclius's reign.
No way Maurikios could be referring to it."
He stood up and began pacing. There had to be a proper way to
tackle this puzzle.
   "Let's leave aside for now Apollo and his temples," he said after a
while. "Already there are too many of those in Delos. We must first
locate an older church, or at least its ruins."
Something stirred within Uncle-Nicholas. Nikitas's words had
sparked a memory, but it might be of no importance.
   "If you hadn't phrased it this way, I wouldn't have thought it," he
finally said deciding to let Nikitas be the judge of it.
   "What, Uncle-Nicholas?"
   "Listen. Many years ago, during one of the excavations under-
taken by the French Archaeological Society I had a discussion with
four or five students-I can't exactly remember-that I had caught
digging at an area far removed from their main excavation site."
   Uncle-Nicholas smiled, as he vividly remembered the expressions of
embarrassment in their youthful faces. "They told me they were
conducting a dig of their own in their spare time. Strictly speaking,
this was forbidden but I didn't stop them; I only asked them to be
especially careful with their finds, if any."
   "So? What happened next?" Nikitas asked impatiently.
   "Well, I saw them at the canteen after a few days and asked them
if they'd found anything. They told me that, yes, indeed, they had
discovered something, but it was only the remains of a small
Byzantine chapel. They were very disappointed that their clues had
not led them to a sensational discovery, preferably of ruins dating to
the classical times. Like the rest of the archaeologists, their interest
was focused solely on ancient Greece."
   "Can you remember, Uncle-Nicholas, the place of those
Byzantine ruins?" Nikitas asked him. A familiar feeling was
fluttering in his stomach and his legs suddenly felt weak.
   "Are you kidding? Of course, I can! It's at the root of Mount
Kynthos, at its western slope." He rose to his feet, eager to guide him
there. "But I have to warn you: there's no monument of Apollo
anywhere near that site."
   "Let's take one thing at a time," Nikitas said and started first,
shouldering Uncle-Nicholas's knapsack.


Chapter 96
           BODRUM, TURKEY: Special Forces' Military Base
           September 2


Thirty kilometers south of Bodrum, in a Turkish military base not
recorded in the NATO register, Major Yusuf Jalik started his
fourth run of the heliport perimeter, as he paced nervously the
grounds. Two BELL 412EP helicopters were waiting with idling
engines, each one of them carrying in its belly an impeccably trained
Special Forces' squad of twelve.
   Major Jalik paused his pacing to peer toward the black sky,
searching for Colonel Sabri's approaching helicopter. A couple of
minutes ago he was informed that the military jet with his
commander had landed at Bodrum's Air Force base, and although he
was aware that the control tower would alert him of his arrival, he
took to walking up and down the landing pad mainly to provide an
outlet to his growing nervousness.
   An hour ago Jalik had been ordered by his commander to volun-
teer in a suicidal mission against Greece, on the grounds of a vaguely
defined national interest. He had readily complied, though he would
have preferred to stay at home with his wife and three children, like
any other citizen in his right mind.
   Jalik was no coward-quite the opposite-and if this were a real
war he would have approached it in a completely different attitude.
Then, the thirty-eight year old major would have begged for a place
in the first line of combat, eager to spill his blood for his fatherland.
Colonel Sabri, however, with his devious schemes, was not to be
trusted. Jalik had had his fill of rumors and gossip about Sabri's dark
conspiracies and, naturally, was not that much excited by the
thought that if he died tonight, his sacrifice would only serve to
shorten the distance between the colonel and the power he was
craving.
   How much better off his soldiers were, who still believed the lie
of Colonel Sabri's supposedly patriotic fervor... Jalik briefly
wondered how they would react, if they'd get a whiff of his own
bitter thoughts. They would probably call him a liar and a coward,
even a traitor-he only had to recall how he himself had felt as a
young officer in the first years of his military career.
   It was only after his second star that he started paying attention
to the language of the events instead of to the language of the words,
and the events had taught him a completely different set of lessons
than those he had studied at the military Academy.
Jalik sighed inwardly, shaking his head. There was nothing he
could do now, but carry on to the bitter end.
   He cut across the helipad and approached the nearest helicopter.
The pilot's figure in the dark cockpit could barely be discerned as he
was clad in dark gray fatigues, along with the rest of his men.
A pack of gray wolves they were, ready to tear their enemies
apart, Jalik thought with a sudden surge of pride.
   "How's it going, Ahmet?" he called out loud to be heard over the
noise of the running engine. Ahmet smiled and lifted a thumb. Pilots
wasted no energy at shouting.
   Jalik returned the gesture and walked on to the second
helicopter. Everything was fine. His men were primed for the strike
like a tightly coiled spring, and with a little luck they'd win their
badges of honor before dawn. Secret badges, of course, since no one
was bearing the Turkish insignia-not the men, nor the helicopters.
Their mission would remain forever a secret, except to a select few
at both countries.
Hopefully, myself included, thought Jalik. He was hoping to live to
an old age, to tell this tale to his grandchildren.
   Besides, chances were they would accomplish their objectives.
Their mission should succeed because no one was expecting their
sudden, reckless hit into the heart of the Aegean. Wasn't Delos called
the navel of the earth in ancient times? Another serious advantage
of theirs was that Delos had no strategic value in the NATOish
wargames, so the probability of coming against organized resistance
was negligible.
   His pilots had spent twenty minutes in the base's state-of-the-art
simulation chambers performing virtual landings in Delos. By now
they were able to fly there with their eyes closed, a skill they could
claim for many islands of the eastern Aegean.
The walkie-talkie in his belt suddenly hissed.
   "Control Tower calling Major Jalik. This is Control Tower calling
Major Jalik. Over."
Jalik raised it to his mouth and pressed a button.
   "Major Jalik, here. What's the news? Over."
   He heard the expected answer and nodded to himself. Clipping
the walkie-talkie back to his belt, Jalik realized in surprise that his
nervousness had vanished completely. Colonel Sabri was arriving
and with him the moment of action.


Chapter 97
           DELOS, GREECE
           September 2


It took Uncle-Nicholas thirty minutes to locate the foundations of
the small Byzantine basilica, still discernible in the shallow dig. He
pointed at the few scattered stones feeling increasingly embarrassed
at the thought that he had brought Nikitas there for nothing.
   He was wrong. What Uncle-Nicholas thought of as an almost
random assemblage of stones and pebbles, under Nikitas's scrutiny
instantly acquired organization and structure. He mentally projected
the remaining foundation components into entire lines, restored the
curves as complete arcs, recast the protruding marble stones as
upright columns. Nikitas quickly resurrected the Byzantine church
in his imagination, restoring it to an approximation of its original
state.
   "You did very well in bringing me here, Uncle-Nicholas," he
praised the old man when he noticed him standing quietly aside.
   Nikitas entered the small area that would have been the nave,
walked toward its eastern end, and stood over the place where
the chancel would have been. In its midst there would have been
the altar, the holiest place of a Christian church, upon which the
Eucharist is celebrated.
   This was a good place to start from-what better to choose as the
seat of our God?
   Right, Nikitas thought. Now, what about the direction he should
take?
   He had to think this through. Nikitas was convinced the solution
rested in his mind. He had a Byzantine oracle to solve, to decipher
its true meaning, though right now he had no idea which was its
literal and which the allegorical part.
   He knelt down and lightly caressed the dirt. He was certain that
here lay the oracle's literal part, so this had to be his starting point.
He only had to count a hundred and fifty paces toward the blond
god, towards Apollo.
   From the literal to the allegorical... to Apollo, the sun god...
Therefore, a hundred and fifty paces toward the sun.
   To the East!
   It was so simple, he wondered why he had not seen it before. He
jumped up, clapping excitedly his hands.
   "I got it, Uncle-Nicholas, I got it!" he shouted.
Under the old man's curious eye, Nikitas began walking in an
easterly direction, counting out loud his steps.
   "One, two, three... ninety, ninety-one... one hundred forty-nine,
one hundred and fifty."
   When he was finished he asked Uncle-Nicholas to come and
stand where he was, and then repeated the same procedure. At last,
satisfied that his count was correct he marked the spot on the
ground and began picking up stones, even digging with his fingers.
   "Stop it, Nikitas!" the old man exclaimed when he realized what
he was doing. "This is no way to go about it."
   "I got to see what lies underneath, Uncle-Nicholas," Nikitas said
without stopping.
   "Then, wait a moment. Ten minutes from here there's the shed of
the archaeological mission that was digging in Delos last spring.
When they departed, in June, they left their tools behind, since
they'll be returning next October to continue the excavation. I'll go
and bring you a pick and a shovel."
   "I'm coming with you."
   "No, I'm going alone," Uncle-Nicholas insisted. "You sit here and
take a rest. You need it, you know."
   He left in a haste and came back thirty minutes later, panting
from the exertion. Together with the tools he handed Nikitas a khaki
shirt.
   "Put it on," he said and spread it open on Nikitas's bare shoul-
ders. "You wouldn't want to catch a cold such a fine night."

                                ***

Twenty minutes later Nikitas knew there was nothing to be found
where he was digging. He sat down, breathing heavily. He was
soaked in perspiration and his heart was beating hard to compensate
for his unusual exertion.
   "Nothing. It can't be done," he gasped, shaking his head. "Must
have got the orientation wrong, except if this wasn't Maurikios's
church to begin with."
   Deep in his heart, however, Nikitas knew he had got the riddle
right. Besides, it was highly improbable that he would find a second
paleo-Christian church in Delos. According to the historical records,
the isle had been uninhabited for hundreds of years. Pausanias had
visited it in 42 BC and reported that he had not seen a single soul
living there. Also, a church that was built after 620 AD was irrele-
vant, since the conspirators had dealt with the treasure before that
date.
   He looked up at Uncle-Nicholas and caught him staring at the
shallow rectangular pit he had dug out, as if trying to picture what
was lurking beyond, deep into the subterranean depths.
   "You mean, Nikitas, there's no chance the treasure is buried down
there?" he asked.
   "We're talking about a well-hidden cave, Uncle-Nicholas. That's
what we're looking for. So, how deep below the surface could its
opening be?" Nikitas replied. "The geology of Delos was pretty
stable during the last two millennia, so-uh, what did you say?" he
said abruptly rising to his feet.
   "What did I say?" Uncle-Nicholas repeated, mystified.
   "Wait a minute," Nikitas thought out loud. "What is Maurikios
trying to tell us? Could it be that he's describing the location of the
treasure itself within the pirates' cave and not the location of its
entrance, as I initially supposed? With the passage of time openings
may shift or disappear, underground passages may collapse, but the
coordinates of the thing itself will remain a constant. Perhaps
Maurikios wanted to give us this constant. In this case, however, the
treasure is buried deep down there," he said and stomped on the
ground. Uncle-Nicholas nodded and grinned.
   "Incidentally," Nikitas continued, "there's another reason why
Maurikios might do that. For all we know, there's a labyrinth of
underground passages within the cave, so Maurikios would
naturally be concerned with the location of the treasure itself."
   "A reasonable assumption."
   "But also think of this, Uncle-Nicholas: what if Maurikios's direc-
tions were phrased in such a way, as to provide us with the location
of both the entrance and the cache? God knows, he had all the time
in the world to come up with a clever formulation," Nikitas said,
excited.
   "But how could it be?" the old man wondered.
   "It's not the how, it's the where that matters, Uncle-Nicholas!
Come with me-I have an idea."
   Nikitas turned about and hurried back to the scattered pieces of
the foundation, taking the pick and the shovel with him. Perplexed,
Uncle-Nicholas followed him dutifully.
   "Here's the 'where'!" Nikitas declared. He was standing at the
chancel area. "Perhaps for someone of our age it isn't so obvious but
any Byzantine would have instantly guessed that the entrance
should be hidden under the altar!"
   Without delay Nikitas hefted the pick and began digging as
Uncle-Nicholas watched him in amazement.

                                ***

When his pick clanged discordantly on unyielding stone, Nikitas's
heart bounced with the excitement. It was the first indication that
his theory might be right. He wiped the sweat off his hands with his
shirt and threw aside the pick. Shoveling came next.
   For the next half-hour he worked like a man possessed,
expending himself in total disregard of the stabs of pain he was
feeling in his back. He stopped only when he had brought to light
the whole surface of the rectangular granite slab with the chiseled
handle at its edge.
   At that point, however, he had to hold back his impatience and
take a short rest before attempting to move the massive stone. He sat
down heavily and took a few sips from Uncle-Nicholas's canteen,
then glanced up at the old man. He seemed to be dazed by the
unexpected discovery.
   Nikitas could understand his confusion: talking about Byzantine
parchments and intriguing finds was fine, but hard facts were on
another level altogether. Until this moment Uncle-Nicholas had not
really believed he would be the only witness of a great archaeolog-
ical discovery.
   Because Nikitas knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the
granite slab was the secret gate of Maurikios, silently beckoning him
to its unexplored domain.

                                ***

That the conspirators had not used an iron handle was a hopeful
sign. Iron corrodes too easily, especially when exposed to an
environment of high salinity. The stone-handle showed concern for
permanence, which in turn pointed to long-term planning. It was a
precaution they would have taken to facilitate the retrieval of the
buried treasure.
   When Nikitas had regained a measure of strength, he stood up
and leaned over the slab. The handle fit a single hand, so that a man
alone was able to lift it by himself. He pulled hard and after several
moments of high suspense the stone yielded. Uncle-Nicholas rushed
over to help, grasped the underside of the slab, and pushed upwards.
The heavy stone rose slowly, balanced precariously for several
moments on its side and then toppled over, revealing a black
orthogonal pit.
   Nikitas wiped away thick beads of sweat from his eyes and took
Uncle-Nicholas's heavy-duty flashlight. Pointing the beam at the
dark hole, he saw a straight flight of stairs disappearing into the
depths.
   "Listen, Uncle-Nicholas," he said to the old man squatting beside
him. "We can't go down together. You'd better stay here, in case
something goes wrong."
   Uncle-Nicholas nodded. It was the proper way to go and, besides,
his advanced age advised against such a heady adventure. He stood
up and gripped tightly Nikitas from the shoulders.
   "Take good care of yourself, my son!" he warned, looking him
straight in the eyes.
   "Don't worry, Uncle-Nicholas. I will be careful," Nikitas
promised. "Now, please check your watch. If I'm not back in an
hour, chances are I'll be needing help."
   The old watchman nodded gravely and wished him Godspeed.
   Nikitas started down the stairs, taking the flashlight with him.
The old man knew the island like his palm and wouldn't miss it;
moreover, he still had the night-vision glasses with him.
   The stairway went straight all the way down, encapsulated
between a pair of solid stone walls and a low ceiling. He counted a
total of sixty-two stairs. The arch-conspirators must have had
planned and executed meticulously every little detail of their
project, because it did not seem likely that this whole structure was
constructed by the mythical pirates of the Aegean. He just could not
visualize a band of pirates spending several years at cutting and
drilling rock for the sake of an underground shelter.
Pirates were notorious for seizing and destroying, not for building.
   The deviousness of the Byzantine conspirators was something
else. They'd chosen an uninhabited and notoriously idolatrous
island to hide their Christian treasure, then they had built a chapel
over the cave's entrance, thus effectively elevating it into an
untouchable site, and finally had placed the granite trapdoor into
the sacred grounds of the chancel.
   The stairway ended at the headway of a tunnel, also cut through
solid rock. It seemed to be a natural extension of the stairs, but
Nikitas sensed a subtle change in his surroundings. He pointed his
flashlight's beam straight ahead but the the prevailing darkness
sucked it off; the tunnel stretched on with no visible end.
   Turning his attention to the arcing walls, he noted that they
were roughly cut. A job done in a hurry, he decided. There was
no comparison with the finely finished stairway wall. Perhaps
he had entered an earlier part of the complex.
   Increasingly, the tunnel was resembling a mineshaft, which
reminded him of the labyrinthine tunnels in the ancient mines of
Lavrion. The ancient Greeks had possessed both the expertise and
the technological know-how for similar constructions, so he had to
consider the possibility that he had entered a prehistoric mine.
   A few minutes later Nikitas reached a fork. To his left the main
tunnel continued to a northwesterly direction, while a second one
branched to his right almost at right angles with the first.
   He paused and tried to mentally reconstruct his route up to this
point. From its initially easterly direction the tunnel had gradually
swerved toward the north. He was certain that he had covered a
greater distance than Maurikios's one hundred and fifty paces.
Therefore, if he took the right fork he would compensate for the
deviation.
   He started into the southeasterly tunnel at a trot, his heart
beating in tandem with his rising excitement, as his curiosity rose a
notch with every step he took. Comparing his present situation with
his experiences in Aghia Sophia's underground complex, Nikitas
decided that there was one major difference between them: Aghia
Sophia's catacombs had been charged by an indefinable, albeit
benevolent presence, whereas here he was moving through an
amorphous, vacant darkness. There was a flatness throughout the
place and the tunnel he was following was just that: an underground
passage, lacking Aghia Sophia's spirituality.
   Two or three times Nikitas ignored some secondary offshoots
branching out to other directions. He kept to his mental map,
certain he was getting nearer to the promised crypt.
   Eventually, he first heard, rather than saw, his destination. The
sound of his footsteps, instead of resonating thinly against the walls,
had suddenly vanished away. Nikitas instantly knew that the
constricted space of the tunnel had opened up. He lifted the beam of
his flashlight and it fell on the black surface of a pond, occupying
the largest part of the cavern.

                                ***

He soon realized that it was actually a deep cistern. He scanned with
his flashlight the walls across the water, but was met with solid
stone. There was no other exit.
   He lowered the beam to study the construction beyond. He had
never seen before a mass of water so absolutely still, without the
slightest wrinkle on its surface. It was as if the black liquid had
congealed into a gigantic ice-cube.
   Nikitas gazed at it raptly, wondering whether the huge container
was merely a cistern, or a structure built for some other purpose
completely forgotten by now, perhaps lying beyond the conceptual
limits of modern man's utilitarian imagination. 
   He shook wearily his head, as if trying to dispel the feelings of
awe threatening to overwhelm him, and walked over to its rim.
   Nikitas knelt down and pointed his flashlight toward the cistern's
bottom at an oblique angle. He was startled by the myriads of golden
streaks and silvery flashes that arrowed up from the depths, piercing
the darkness in astonishing patterns as if not one but a thousand
candles were casting upward their light.
   Intrigued by the sensational effect of a single light source, Nikitas
tilted his flashlight even more, so that its beam entered the water at
a sharper angle. The pyrotechnic display suddenly disappeared, as if
he had thrown down a master switch.
   He could see now through the water to the cistern's bottom
undisturbed by the brilliant scintillations, and was able to discern
the round shapes of thousands upon thousands of golden coins
intermingled with other pieces of gold, molten into various irregular
molds. And among the blend of golden forms there were dim gray-
green reflections of silver artifacts, tarnished by the passage of time.
   He scooped up a little water with a cupped hand and touched it
lightly with the tip of his tongue. Encouraged by its wholesome
taste, he drank freely. It was delicious potable water.
   The drops trickling through his fingers sparked a memory. Nikitas
remembered having read that thousands of years ago there was a tiny
lake in Delos, aptly named the Holy Lake. Eventually, the lake had
disappeared, although no one knew how or when. Nikitas thought it
likely that part of its water had been conveyed here through an under-
ground chute, perhaps as a result of a major earthquake.
   But then again, the cistern could have been built by the conspir-
ators themselves, or more accurately by their slave labor, to cache
the treasure in such a way that its removal would have to be a collec-
tive undertaking.
   Was it an added insurance against treachery?
   Nikitas walked around its perimeter to the opposite side. Once
again he examined its bottom thoroughly and then slowly raised the
beam along its sloping walls. He was halfway through to the rim,
when he noticed a series of small dark pigeonholes, spaced at one-
foot intervals in a horizontal line parallelling the bottom.
He had an idea what those holes were there for.
   Nikitas stood up, hastily took off his shirt and pants, and rolled
them into a bundle. On top of it he placed his pistol and using it as
a prop set upon it the flashlight at an angle, so that its beam was
pointing directly at the pigeonholes. Then he sat down and began
breathing deeply for three minutes, to oxygenate his lungs. Once
ready, he walked over to the edge and slipped gently into the water,
legs down first.
   He was surprised that the water was lukewarm and not freezing
cold. Keeping his eyes open he dived in and with a few powerful
strokes reached the submerged walls. He fought his buoyancy by
pushing up against the inner side of a pigeonhole.
   During the next thirty seconds Nikitas confirmed his initial
guess, that the holes were actually special storing spaces. He
retrieved the object cached within the leftmost hole, and let the
water propel him to the surface.
   He splashed over the bundle with his flashlight and had his first
glimpse of his trophy. It was a thin golden leaf, neatly folded into a
roll.
   Nikitas needed seven more dives to retrieve all of the eight rolls.
When he was sure there were no others left, he climbed out of the
water and set out to examine them, while waiting to dry up.
   He had guessed correctly. The golden rolls were engraved
manuscripts. The first two contained a detailed exposition of
Emperor Heraclius's rationale for setting up a treasure trove for
the benefit of a future generation. Nikitas by now felt quite
comfortable with the Byzantine idiom and the Greek uncial
script, and he quickly got the gist of its contents.
   The next couple of rolls contained long-winded passages inter-
spersed with strange symbols, resembling the alchemical symbols of
the late Middle Ages. At first Nikitas had no idea what they stood
for, but when he recognized scenes of naval warfare in several of the
diagrams he realized that he was holding a manuscript with the
complete instructions for the manufacture of Greek fire. Called
liquid fire by the Byzantines, that substance had proved one of their
most effective weapons, repeatedly enabling them to win many sea
battles they would have otherwise lost.
   Seeing the elegant engravings on the golden sheets, Nikitas had
the sudden insight that Emperor Heraclius must have drawn them
in his own hand. Obviously, in his attempt to communicate with the
future generations across an immense ocean of time, he had used
gold to preserve the integrity of the texts.
   It was in the last four rolls that Nikitas found what he was hoping
for. With trembling hands he unfolded the maps and the
topographic diagrams of numerous oil-field sites in mainland
Greece, in the Aegean islands, and within a hundred miles to the
east from the coastline of Asia Minor, which were known to the
imperial circles in the Byzantine times but were completely
forgotten afterwards.
   As Nikitas traced with his fingertips the lines of Greek script
revealing that invaluable knowledge, what he was really seeing was
not a string of letters engraved in gold but Hermes, the god of
commerce, heralding the renaissance of his country.
Maurikios the hermit, who had lived the latter part of his life
tormented by his inconceivable guilt, was finally redeemed.
   Gratified by his vision of the things to come Nikitas put on his
clothes and placed the rolls under his arm. With a last glance at the
tons of gold waiting for their rightful owner to claim them, he
started on his way back.
   He was already late. His flashlight had dimmed and he did not
relish the thought of having to grope his way back through the dark.


Chapter 98
           DELOS, GREECE
           September 2


According to Colonel Sabri's operation plan Major Jalik's squad
would undertake to neutralize Delos's guards, while his own
would have the mission of locating Nikitas Paleologou.
   His strategy was rigorously implemented. To avoid being
detected by the Aegean's Greek radar shield the two BELL 412EP
helicopters flew extremely low, practically hugging the waves. That
risky technique, supplemented by extremely accurate information
regarding the Greek fleet's deployment that was provided by the
Turkish MIT, enabled the two helicopters to reach their target
undetected.
   As they were flying over Delos's eastern shore, Jalik's helicopter
smoothly detached itself and headed for the guardhouse. His pilot
easily landed the aircraft at the pre-selected area, which had been
programmed in the simulator. The troops jumped out and dispersed
before it had actually touched the ground, and in the next two
minutes they had penetrated the guardhouse and immobilized the
watch on duty and the sleeping men.
Colonel Sabri had less spectacular results to show. He ordered his
pilot to fly over the island along the shoreline at a height of sixty
feet, in the hope of locating the sailboat and the Greeks.
   When his strategy failed to produce any results, he decided to
proceed with an aerial search of overlapping squares. He motioned
the pilot to commence the search from the northern tip of Delos and
expand it toward the south. He then put on a pair of infrared-vision
goggles and began scanning thoroughly each acre of land they
passed. If Nikitas Paleologou was in Delos, he'd find him.
   If, however, Paleologou failed to show up, the next stage of his
plan would need the expertise of GCS's pretty archaeologist, who
was quietly enjoying the flight at the helicopter's back seat.

                                ***

Uncle-Nicholas heard the roar of the passing helicopters but gave it
no second thought. His curiosity was piqued, though, by how low
they were flying. Soon their droning faded in the distance and he
stopped thinking about them altogether.
   He sat up and rubbed his back that was giving him trouble again.
He needed to stretch out his limbs in order to relieve his physical
discomfort. More important, however, was his growing nervousness.
Nikitas was late, and Uncle-Nicholas was beginning to feel the
first pangs of worry. He tried unsuccessfully to read the dial of his
watch, but the moon's pale light was too weak for his eyes.
Frustrated, he lit a match.
   Ten minutes to go for the hour they had agreed upon.
   Again, he heard the rising pitch of an approaching helicopter.
This time it was coming from the south. He stood up and listened
carefully, peering through the darkness toward the southern coast.
There was a fleeting black shape, which disappeared before he had a
chance to use the binoculars.
   Strangely, though, the pilot had failed to use the obligatory
navigation lights. If Uncle-Nicholas had been at the guardroom, he
would have reported the incident at once to Mykonos.
   Suddenly, he was assaulted by a wave of anxiety. Nikitas had
spoken about a bunch of ruthless Turkish kidnappers; what if they
they were returning to finish off their dirty work? Here he was
hardly in a position to help.
   For a brief moment the thought crossed his mind to run to the
guardhouse for reinforcements, but then he remembered that
Nikitas had not yet returned. God forbid, he might be needing assis-
tance any moment now.
   Uncle-Nicholas had almost made up his mind to go check what
was going on down there, when he realized that the helicopter's
noise was growing stronger. Its mesmerizing drone was originating
somewhere near the northern coast, but he had the feeling that it
continually was changing direction.
   Suddenly, its black, menacing silhouette was looming right
ahead, flying toward him. This was an opportunity not to be missed.
He hastily picked up the binoculars and brought them to his eyes,
making an effort to steady his shaking hands.
   As the powerful lenses zoomed in on the aircraft, he discovered that
its elongated fuselage had no insignia painted on it.
   This was no run-of-the-mill passenger helicopter, Uncle-Nicholas
thought, a cold shiver running through his spine. The nightmarish
aircraft was decidedly military-and it wasn't Greek! There was no
doubt, now, that this mechanical bird of prey had arrived at Delos to
hunt for Nikitas and the mythical Byzantine treasure.
   The moment of frozen inaction passed quickly, and Uncle-
Nicholas reacted swiftly and calmly. He turned about, approached
the dark opening in the ground, and leaned over it.
   "Nikitas, Nikitas!" he shouted with all the strength his lungs
commanded.
   There was no reply. Only the impenetrable, the dismal blackness.
   He glanced furtively behind him. The sound of the helicopter's
rotors was deafening and its artificial wind was ruffling his hair.
Although a knoll between him and the descending aircraft
obstructed his view of it, Uncle-Nicholas harbored no illusions that
he had escaped the notice of the intruders.
   He quickly let himself into the opening and climbed down a few
stairs.
   "Nikitas, you got to hide, my son!" he shouted repeatedly,
forming a funnel with his hands over his mouth. "A helicopter has
come. Hide!"
   For a moment, Uncle-Nicholas thought he had heard a voice
responding to his calls. However,he was not sure and continued his
shouting. Eventually, his voice became coarse, but he kept on
croaking his warnings to Nikitas until a pair of enemy hands lifted
him high into the air, depositing him none too gently on the dirt
beside the granite slab.

                                ***

Another Turkish soldier handcuffed Uncle-Nicholas and presented
him to Colonel Sabri.
   "Aha, what have we got here?" he asked in impeccable Greek.
Like the rest of his troops he was wearing dark gray fatigues and his
face was dabbed with black soot. Beside him stood Anastasia.
   Uncle-Nicholas searched Sabri's eyes, getting his measure of the
man. Nikitas had talked of inimical foreign powers, but this one was
speaking his language like a Greek. What was the meaning of this?
And then, in a flash of intuition, he had his answer: if this man
was not an enemy, he was certainly a traitor!
   He coughed to clear his sore throat. "I'm a watchman of Delos,"
he declared boldly. "Who are you, sir? Don't you know that private
aircraft are forbidden to land on the island?"
   Sabri laughed uproariously, as if at an exceptionally good joke.
   "Nice try, old man, but it won't get you anywhere," he told him with
a grin. "I've already found what I was looking for," he added,
pointing toward the opening in the ground. "But tell me, this: is my
old friend Nikitas Paleologou down there?"
   "No. He went to the guardhouse to call Mykonos's Port Authority
and left me here to wait for his return."
   "Aha! So you two know each other," Sabri laughed. "Well, that's
enough for me, old man." He waved at the soldiers to take him away.
They dragged him aside, forced him to lie down, and tied his feet
together. They left him alone and returned to their positions.
   "What are you going to do now?" Anastasia asked Sabri.
   "My duty," he replied laconically and turned to face his men
waiting for his orders-twelve commandos looking perfectly
relaxed, as if this was just another drill. No one was speaking and
their walkie-talkies were quiet, observing radio silence.
   Sabri turned to his lieutenant.
   "I want a couple of sentries on top of that hill," he pointed at Kynthos,
   "to cover the eastern coast. If a leaf stirs, I want to know about it.
   "Two men will stay by this opening and another two will come
with me. You'll coordinate the operation from here. The rest will
disperse and the helicopter will remain on standby for immediate
takeoff."
   The lieutenant relayed his orders and the troopers trotted to their
appointed positions. Sabri dispatched two men to fetch the portable
generator and an electric worklight from the helicopter, and when
all was ready he took the lead. He started swiftly down the stairs,
with the troopers keeping pace behind him. Anastasia brought up
the rear.

                                ***

Nikitas heard Uncle-Nicholas's faint shouting when he entered the
main tunnel, on his way to the exit. At first, he thought that the old
man was trying to make contact with him because the agreed-upon
hour had passed. He hastened on. Then, just a few yards short of the
stairway, Nikitas finally understood Uncle-Nicholas's frantic
warning. His felt a chill clawing at his heart and his step faltered. His
recurring nightmare of dark enemies chasing him relentlessly once
more had come alive.
   He switched off his flashlight and stood still, listening attentively
at the prevailing silence. Uncle-Nicholas's cries had given way to an
eerie quiet. Not even a whisper from above. There was only the low
rasp of his own breathing and the wild thump of his heart.
   Could it be that the Greek police had arrived in that helicopter?
Hardly. Even if the authorities had acted unusually swiftly to find
Him--an event highly improbable in itself-Uncle-Nicholas would
not have been alarmed. After all, he had served the Greek state for
thirty years in a similar capacity.
   There was only one answer: that the Turkish agents from
Mykonos had returned to finish off their botched job. This time,
however, Nikitas was determined to play the game by his own rules,
and he'd play it to win...
   He turned on his flashlight and began running deeper into the
tunnel. Thankfully, the way was still free and he had a good head
start. It could have been worse.
   He ran, and the new round was on.
   When Nikitas arrived at the first junction he turned left, jogged on
for several yards, and then stopped. He laid the rolls on the ground
and propped the flashlight against the wall, so that it cast a small
pool of yellowish light right in front of his feet. Next, he knelt down
and spread out the rolls.
   The golden sheets were thin and malleable, almost with a fabric's
softness. Nikitas first located the two manuscripts chronicling the
conception and implementation of the Byzantine treasure project,
and folded them back into a pair of tight rolls. Then he took the rest
of the sheets and placed them on top of each other, wrapped them
around his waist, and gently secured them with his belt. Finally, he
let the loose-fitting khaki shirt Uncle-Nicholas had given him drop
over his pants, and slipped his pistol in his back pocket.
   He checked himself again to make sure his shirt was covering
both the golden sheets and the pistol, picked up his flashlight and
the two rolls, and headed back toward the exit.

                                ***

Colonel Sabri was at the point with the electric worklight in his
hand, followed by his two men and Anastasia. No one talked.
Several minutes into the tunnel they heard the sound of footsteps
coming from the opposite direction. Sabri stopped in his tracks,
signaling the rest to stay put. He switched off the light and the
tunnel went dark.
   Thirty seconds later they made out the silhouette of the
approaching man, weakly highlighted by his dimming flashlight.
Sabri was patient. He let him come closer, and switched on the lamp
when he was six yards away. The man froze on the spot.
   It was Nikitas Paleologou! Yes, Sabri would have recognized him
among a crowd of ten thousand; he had pored for hours on end over his
picture, biding his time for the moment he would have him in his hands.
This moment had finally arrived!
   "Ah, Mister Paleologou," Sabri spoke first. "It's finally over! It's
time for you to lay down your onerous burden for some peace of
mind."
   The colonel noticed the pair of golden rolls in Nikitas's left hand
and his eyes sparkled. At last, all of his long-sought answers were
here for grabs. Here was the golden key that would prise open the
rest of the doors still blocking his way. From now on, everything was
possible.
   "Who are you, sir?" Nikitas asked calmly, as if talking to a
stranger at his door. Anastasia giggled but he ignored her.
   Sabri was startled by Nikitas's nonchalant manner. He had
expected a different reaction from his opponent: terror and shock at
first, followed by frantic entreaties for some sort of a settlement, and
finally unconditional surrender in the hope that he would be spared.
   Nothing in Paleologou's stance, though, even remotely came
close to Sabri's assessment of his character. The man just stood there
imperturbable as a rock, treating him as an equal. However, the colonel
was flexible, if anything. He decided to change his tactics.
   "We shall have the opportunity to get better acquainted later on.
Right now, we're hard-pressed for time," Sabri said tersely. "Please,
surrender these artifacts to the lady."
   Nikitas shrugged and handed the golden rolls to Anastasia. She
quickly unfolded them and skimmed their contents. When she was
finished, she folded them back and looked Sabri with glittering eyes.
   "These are the texts," she said in a voice trembling from the
excitement.
   Sabri said nothing. He stretched out his hand and received the
rolls. "Then we go up,' he ordered, motioning at Nikitas to go first.
   "We'll depart the island as soon as the explosives are set."
   "You're not thinking of blowing up the tunnels!" Anastasia
blurted out."
   "Isn't that manifestly obvious?" Sabri smiled back.
   "Well, if this is so, I'll need ten minutes with him," Anastasia said
regaining her composure. She nodded toward Nikitas. "I want him
to show me the exact place where he discovered these
manuscripts-I may discover some additional clues, vital for their
correct interpretation. When everything's ready, call me to come up."
   Sabri looked at her thoughtfully for a few moments.
   "Why not?" he finally said consulting his multipurpose watch.
   "You got exactly ten minutes counting from-now! When you're
through come up and bring the Greek with you. And, please, keep
an eye on him. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you down
here."
   "As to that, you've got nothing to worry about," she replied, her
features taking a harder cast. "I know quite well how to handle this
gentleman, here. Right, Nikitas?" she asked, taking out a small pistol
from her purse.
   The three Turks turned about and left. Anastasia did not speak
right away, but waited until the sound of their footsteps had faded
away. Her Turkish allies had left her the electric lamp that was
creating around them a brilliant halo.
   "I was told of your abduction in Mykonos, and I hope you're
sober enough to understand that I won't hesitate to use my pistol at
your first threatening move," she said waving her little gun. "It
would be so banal, having to reenact the familiar script, where the
man underestimates the woman with the gun and pays with his life
for his folly," she added pointing the barrel at his heart.
   "Spare me your histrionics and, please, speak up only if you've
got something of essence to say," Nikitas replied with an air of utter
boredom, although he was near to exploding by Anastasia's
duplicity. Despite the fact that he had guessed correctly her true role
back in Alexandria, this was their first confrontation since then, and
it hurt.
   After the exposure of her treachery, Nikitas had felt nothing but
anger and contempt for her. More than once he had wished to
himself that he never saw her again. However, now that he was face
to face with her, he was determined to make her reveal her true
colors. For that he would have to play convincingly a very specific
part.
   This time he had scored a hit. Anastasia was barely able to
contain her rage.
   "And who do you think you are, Mister Paleologou, talking to me
like that?" she shouted angrily. "I assure you, you'll be down on your
knees in no time, begging me for mercy! However, business goes
first. Speak up, you idiot, where's the rest of the manuscripts with
the maps?"
   She noticed Nikitas's grimace of surprise and grinned fiercely.
   "Hey, you didn't actually believe you'd get away with your little
scam, did you?"
   Nikitas said nothing.
   Anastasia suddenly realized the full extent of Nikitas's strategy,
and nodded in understanding. "Oh boy, I can see now what you
were trying to do... You know something? You might have pulled it
off, if the colonel had come alone. He couldn't see the difference in
the manuscripts you gave him! Very smart my friend, but you've run
out of luck. So, start talking!" she shouted impatiently, brandishing
her pistol.
   Nikitas looked her in the eyes, wondering how he could be so
blinded to the horrible game this woman was playing right from the
start. What archetypal, feminine art had she used to defeat his
reason?
   "I'll tell you, but first I want an answer to a question of my own,"
Nikitas said. "I've realized that everything on your part was just an
act, a play in which you had the leading role. One thing doesn't fit,
though: why did you try to get rid of the golden cylinder on our way
back from Constantinople before you had a chance to learn what it
contained?"
   "Your question, of course, reflects your naivete," Anastasia
replied. "Therefore, I'll answer it with a question of mine: what
would you have done, were you offered two million dollars for that
simple gesture?" she asked smugly.
   "Please, explain. Why would someone do that? I mean, did not
your bosses want to know the cylinder's contents?"
   Anastasia walked slowly around Nikitas, relishing her moment of
triumph. She had collected her promised pay, even though Nikitas
had salvaged the cylinder.
   "Let's say that even higher than my bosses, as you put it, there are
persons without any scholarly interests, intent only on making the
cylinder disappear regardless of its contents. That's all there is to it.
And now, back to business," she said brusquely. "Where are those
maps?"
   "Why don't you call your Turkish friend with the gray fatigues,
and I'll hand them over to him."
   "We don't have the time for that. Just tell me where the maps
are," Anastasia screamed hysterically, "or I'll shoot you down and go
find them by myself."
   "When are you going to do that, Anastasia? In the three minutes
you've got until the tunnels blow up?" Nikitas teased her.
   Sabri chose this moment to leave the shadows further back in the
tunnel. He walked toward them unhurriedly, his gun covering them
both.
   "The Greek will only talk to me, you filthy viper!" he shouted in
a voice he used when in the company of green recruits.
   Anastasia spun reflexively toward the booming voice, struggling
to make out the colonel's form beyond the blinding light. Sabri saw
her pointing her gun at him and squeezed the trigger four times.
   As Anastasia's bloodied body was hurled backwards, Nikitas took
out his pistol and fired repeatedly at the lamp. One of the bullet
smashed it and in the sudden darkness that filled the underground
passage Nikitas turned around and ran blindly, pressing his body
against the left wall.
   He had counted his paces from the first junction, and was able to
reach it quickly without switching on his flashlight. Nikitas was
certain that the colonel would not take a shot at him, so long as he
had a chance of laying his hands at the rest of the golden rolls.
Ignoring the threats and the shouting reaching him from behind, he
chose the left branch.
   His overall strategy was now reduced to following that tunnel to
its natural end.

                                ***

When the lamp had shattered, Sabri dropped to the ground and
stayed there, not daring to use his flashlight lest he offer a clear
target to Paleologou. He heard a receding pattering but thought it
might be a trick to make him reveal his position. The Greek had
already proved his cunning. Sabri could have fired a few shots but
he needed him alive, so he shouted at Paleologou to stop playing his
silly game.
   He had received no answer.
   As the Greek might still be under the influence of the drugs, he
could actually be running deeper into the tunnel. He decided to risk a
quick look. Besides, Paleologou or not, it was time to go up. He
switched on his flashlight and looked furtively around.
   He was alone with a corpse beside him, a woman's dead body,
who had made her living by betrayal and had died by betraying her
own self.

                                ***

Nikitas shuffled along through the darkness feeling with his
outstretched hand the surface of the wall. He never hesitated at an
intersection but chose the fork with the same orientation, in the
hope that he would avoid being irretrievably lost.
   He had entered a part of the underground complex crudely
drilled into the rock. He supposed that some of these tunnels would
have been used by the quasi-mythical Karian pirates for the storage
of their loot. Well, classifying the passages and prehistoric chambers
according to their function would be a simple matter of archaeolog-
ical fieldwork, but hardly his own concern! However, if he somehow
managed to survive he could well imagine specialist archaeologists
undertaking this task, with the proviso that something would
survive the upcoming explosion.
   This was all he cared about, now. Nikitas's thoughts kept
thrashing in his skull like a swarm of freshly caged birds desperately
searching for a way out, for a way to freedom.
   There was but one: he had to discover, and fast, one of the
entrances the Karian pirates would have used. In his imagination the
Turk was already pressing the detonation button.
Nikitas jogged for several minutes before stopping to listen. He
was alone.
   That was to be expected; even if the Turks had tried to follow
him, they would have lost him in the underground maze or he
would have noticed their flashlights.
   It was a victory of sorts, but what was in it for him?
   He clicked on his flashlight to study his surroundings. This
particular tunnel was excavated in loamy soil and was supported by
rectangular blocks of granite set into the walls. It would be one of
the first to collapse, burying him alive if he lingered here. His only
chance at escaping this dreadful fate was to be as far away as possible
from the explosion's focal point.
   He wiped off the perspiration freely flowing from his forehead,
and knelt down to gauge the gradient of the ground. Despite his
excitement Nikitas was very careful with his movements, taking care
not to crack the golden sheets coiled around his waist.
   They were his only companion, now.
   He followed the line where the ground joined the wall for several
yards, and decided that it was sloping slightly upward in the direc-
tion he was going. This meant nothing by itself, but by this time
Nikitas was prepared to grasp at any straws of hope. He stood up and
was off at a trot. His only option was to go on, or stop.
   Which was no choice at all, considering the circumstances.
   Experimenting with his flashlight he decided to keep it switched
on, estimating that by its faint light he could run three times faster.
Distance: this was all that counted now. He needed to be as far as
possible the moment the world would come crashing down.


Chapter 99
           DELOS, GREECE: Western Coast
           September 2


When Christos had finished his story Lieutenant Megaritis
called Mykonos's Port Authority and asked for a patrol boat
to be dispatched to Delos. He was bothered especially by the fact
that his repeated calls to its guardhouse had gone unanswered. A
technician from the local Telecom office had checked the lines at his
request and told him that there was nothing wrong with the
telephone network.
   In Delos, Major Jalik's troopers patrolling the western pier were
ordered to keep the island sealed for the duration of the mission.
Accordingly, when Corporal Tahmaz informed his commander that
a patrol boat of the Coast Guard was approaching the pier, he
received the expected instructions.
   Machine gunner Ishmael Baher never moved his eyes away from
the arriving vessel, patiently waiting for the proper time to open fire.
Lying prone behind a barricade of empty barrels at the end of the
pier with a finger touching lightly the trigger, he allowed the
Greeks to climb up on the dock, so that they would be completely
exposed to his sights.
   When they were where he wanted them to be, Baher pulled the
trigger and kept it down for ten seconds. The three unarmed Greek
officers were hurled away on the cement, their blood coming out in
spurts from their lethal wounds.
   At the same time the rest of the Turks let out against the patrol
boat, whose three-man crew began returning fire as they maneu-
vered toward the open sea.
   Three minutes later the officer on duty in Mykonos's Port
Authority was listening enraged at the patrol boat's second-in-
command describing the massacre, as he was urgently asking for
backup and fresh orders.


Chapter 100
            DELOS, GREECE: Eastern Coast
            September 2


The rattling of the machine gun resounded across the whole
island. For the first time since the ancient times Delos's sacred
asylum, which was formally recognized and protected by UNESCO
as part of the global cultural inheritance, was violated and its holy
ground profaned.
   Colonel Sabri listened to the distant cracks while dispensing his
final directions to his explosives experts that had worked hard to
undermine the underground tunnels. His mission had proceeded
according to schedule when he had decided he no longer needed
Paleologou.
   Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed hunting him down if there
was time. Preparing for the detonation, however, had a higher
priority, since it would effectively ensure his mission's success.
   The gunfire at the western coast put the lid on all of Sabri's alter-
native scenarios. He snapped at his crew to hurry up and asked his
lieutenant to break radio silence, to contact Major Jalik and find out
what had happened.
   His fingers stiffened unconsciously around the golden rolls. Even
if the dead archaeologist was right and these manuscripts were
worthless, there was no reason why the generals in Ankara should
know that... The important thing when he returned home was to
have a very impressive trophy to display and a successful mission to
boast of.


Chapter 101
            ATHENS, GREECE: The Pentagon Building
            September 2


Twenty-two minutes after the attack at the Coast Guard's patrol
boat and her subsequent retreat under heavy gunfire, an
especially equipped jet fighter of the Greek Air Force flew over
Delos with a speed of 1.6 Mach at an altitude of one hundred and
twenty feet. In 9.2 seconds it had covered the three-and-a-half mile
stretch of land between the island's north and south tips and disap-
peared into the night sky of the Aegean.
   During the brief interval of its passage a host of sophisticated
cameras and a full complement of electronic sensors had scanned
and recorded in a variety of modes the island's surface. Then the
collected data were digitized, encrypted, and transmitted to the
Telecommunications Department of the Greek Pentagon in Athens,
where they were in turn decrypted and analyzed by its Cray super-
computer.
   A team of high-ranking officers at the underground
Amphitheater of Operations were poring over a detailed map of
Delos projected on the giant wall-screen, when the computer system
beeped a high-pitched warning, signaling to the computer operators
the arrival of the expected data. Without delay, the senior operator
picked up the intercom and notified the Commander in Chief of the
Greek Armed Forces, Lieutenant General Aggelidis.
   "Please, overlay the photos over the map, captain," the latter
ordered the operator.
   Captain Patronis tapped on his keyboard the necessary
commands and superimposed a series of photos over the red outline
of Delos's map.
   Within a couple of minutes the three experienced military
analysts had located the intruders. With a succession of overlapping
close-ups of the area currently under attack and a series of superim-
posed layers of imagery collected by the reconnaissance aircraft's
infrared and thermal sensors, they created a complete profile of the
Turkish task force landed at Delos.
   Next, they began isolating individual members of the Turkish
force, starting with those who had looked up at the passing aircraft,
so that their facial features had been clearly photographed. Copies of
their portraits were immediately uploaded to the Pentagon's Second
Directorate (Intelligence) and to the Greek Intelligence Agency.
   Both responded quickly, confirming the initial assessment of the
military analysts: they had intercepted a small-scale Turkish military
operation.
   The Joint Chiefs of Staff spent a few more minutes evaluating
several scenarios for an effective counter-strike, then Lieutenant
General Aggelidis left his colleagues and headed for his private
booth to contact the Prime Minister.


Chapter 102
            ATHENS, GREECE: Prime Minister's Residence
            September 2


After three unsuccessful ballots for the election of the new
President of Greece when the incumbent's term had expired the
Parliament was dissolved, in accordance with the constitutional
provision, and a date for general elections was set.
   This was the culmination of a series of important political events,
not least among them the splitting of the two largest political parties
of Greece and the enactment of the proportional representation
electoral system after whole decades of clever tinkering with it by
the governing parties.
   In the general elections that followed no single political party
succeeded in winning a large enough parliamentary majority to form
a self-sufficient government. As a result, a broad coalition govern-
ment was formed, comprised by MP's drawn from all the political
parties that had secured more than 2% in the total electoral result.
   For the first time in modern Greek history the appointed Prime
Minister did not belong to any of the former all-powerful political
parties, but had been elected for merit, for his integrity of character
and his sound judgment.
   In the course of the following years the Greek political life under-
went an impressive change, as the endemic corruption in the public
sector was resolutely attacked and almost completely eradicated.
The newly elected Parliament acted fast and decisively, and during
its first session revoked the parliamentary immunity of five former
ministers who had served in key ministries during the previous
administration, indicting them to be tried on corruption charges.
All of them were subsequently found guilty as charged.
   As the corrupt ex-ministers with the fat accounts in Swiss banks
began serving prison time, the serious work for the reconstruction
of the country continued. Now that transparence in the administra-
tion of public resources was guaranteed by a conscientious govern-
ment, even the 2004 Olympics in Athens took a new meaning as the
available public funds were used for the benefit of the Greek people
and not for the administrators' personal aggrandizement.
   With the bitter lessons learned in the past always in the forefront
of his mind, the Prime Minister gave special emphasis to the effec-
tive defense of the national airspace. Together with other pioneering
defense initiatives he sponsored the formation of the G-FRU, an
acronym for the Greek Fast Response Unit. The G-FRU was staffed by
highly-trained troops recruited from all the armed services of
Greece, and was assigned the mission of sustaining full battle readi-
ness on a 24/7 basis, standing by for its immediate transportation
anywhere within the borders of Greece.
   Six months after its establishment the G-FRU had been several
times commended for its exceptionally high standards of perform-
ance.
   As a result, the very first thing the Prime Minister wanted to
know after his briefing by the Commander in Chief of the Greek
Armed Forces through encrypted video, was how long it would take
the G-FRU to reach Delos.
   "The average response time of the G-FRU anywhere in Greece
was recently reduced from twenty to eighteen minutes, Mr.
President," Lt. General Aggelidis replied. "Delos, however, belongs
to the fourteen-minutes zone."
   The Prime Minister regretted not being in person at the War
Operations Amphitheater of the Greek Pentagon, though his
minister of National Defense was already flying there by military
helicopter. For a moment he entertained the thought, whether he
should go there before reaching a firm decision, but immediately
rejected the notion; at this juncture such a move would be poor
tactics.
   The events were developing at such a frenetic pace, he only had
a few minutes at his disposal to make a decision.
   To make the right decision, he mentally corrected himself.
   "What do you suggest, General?" he asked, wishing to be
informed of the consensus reached among the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
   "We propose an immediate air-strike. It's the fastest and most
effective way of reacting against the intruders. The sensors have
detected large quantities of explosives deployed on the island, of a
type used for demolition purposes. If you authorize an air-strike, sir,
I can guarantee that three minutes after the G-FRU's arrival the
enemy force will be completely destroyed."
   The Prime Minister stared thoughtfully at his screen. "In your
report, you mentioned that the intruders have either kept the guards
of Delos alive, to be used as hostages, or else they have outright
killed them. Let us assume the former. How does your proposed
plan take this fact into account?" he asked.
   "The swiftness of the response, Mr. President, is the best possible
guarantee in such a case. The enemy will be neutralized three
minutes after our G-FRU unit lands," the general reiterated.
   However, the Prime Minister was not satisfied. What the general
proposed might be a sound strategy during wartime, he mused, but
now was a time of peace and the safety of the citizens took a higher
priority than any other consideration. Too many times in the past
those in power had abused the concept of public interest, with the
result that innocent lives were sacrificed to the altar of personal
interests. He was determined never to allow this to happen under his
prime ministry.
   Nevertheless, it would be expedient if he could win over the
general to his own viewpoint.
   "You mentioned three minutes, General Aggelidis?" he asked.
   "Exactly, sir."
   "Can you tell me, General, how long does it take for one of the
intruders to throw a grenade into the guardhouse?"
   Lt. General Aggelidis remained silent for several moments. He
understood that the Prime Minister was hinting at a different set of
priorities. He might disagree, but at the same time he was deter-
mined to do his best to honor his military oath.
   "You're right, sir. In a situation like this three minutes are too
long a response time," he agreed.
   "Thank you, General Aggelidis. Now, to sum it up, I hereby
authorize you to order the immediate dispatch of the Fast Reaction
Unit to Intrusions and Terrorism to Delos, with the condition that
the operational plan shall provide for a stealthy approach of our
troops.
   "Please, keep me posted on the developments and Godspeed to
you all."
   The Prime Minister switched off the connection and sat back in
his chair. He remained still for a minute with his eyes closed,
thinking of the political and diplomatic ramifications of the Delos
incident. Five minutes later he rose and walked back to his bedroom
to get dressed. The night promised to be long.


Chapter 103
            DELOS, GREECE: Ancient Underground Complex
            September 2


When Nikitas reached the end of the passage he found himself
in a roughly cylindrical chamber with stone walls, eight yards
in diameter. He did a quick survey of its perimeter and felt his heart
skip a beat. There was no doubt that he had arrived at a central node
of the underground complex, so he was faced with two possibilities:
this was either a common storage room used by the Karian pirates,
or he had reached an entry point to the tunnel system. And if that
was the case, there should be an exit right here, in this room! How
could he establish which was which?
   Nikitas pointed his flashlight upward, but its weakened light
showed him only more shadows. Darkness was the true master of
the subterranean depths, and this chamber was hardly free from its
rule.
   He switched it off to conserve the battery and sat upon the hard
floor to ponder his situation. Suddenly, the ground started to
tremble and the whole chamber reverberated with a muted roar,
which peaked fast and then as quickly faded away.
Shaken, Nikitas turned on the flashlight and looked around him
nervously. Was this the beginning of the end?
   The seconds kept ticking agonizingly, slowly metamorphosing
into minutes, but no further tremors followed. At last, he permitted
himself to breathe a deep sigh of relief. He was certain that the
chamber's solid granite walls-as opposed to those of some of the
passages-would be offering him a measure of protection. Still, if
the tunnels came crashing down he would be trapped here for ever.
   Nikitas mentally pinched himself, deciding not to waste any
more time in idle speculation. He stood up and began feeling
methodically the curving walls. The texture of their surface
reminded him of the tunnel immediately after the stairway, which
had been drilled through hard rock. There were rough edges and
sharp angles here, too, and he wondered whether the craftsmen had
been interested mainly in a purely functional result, or if they had
not possessed the expertise for an aesthetically pleasing creation.
   He realized he did not really care for an answer; his busy thinking
was simply a defense mechanism, keeping him from succumbing to
despair.
   Twenty minutes later Nikitas was nearly finished with his search
when his probing fingers hesitated over the lips of an unusual cavity.
Throughout his exploration he had been working in the dark, so he
turned on his flashlight and saw that this was no random irregu-
larity, but the first in a series of shallow holes vertically cut into the
rock. The two lowermost ones were each eight inches deep and
almost twelve inches wide.

                                ***

   Nikitas looked upward and whooped from joy. They were
reaching as far as he could see, eventually vanishing into the
shadows.
   He was standing in front of a primitive ladder.
   Without delay he switched off his flashlight and slipped it into
his pocket. First, he wiped off the sweat from his hands and then he
began climbing up. He smiled to himself; it seemed that luck had
finally glanced down at him.
   Thankfully, climbing this peculiar ladder required no special
effort. He began counting out loud the rungs he was leaving behind.
One, two, three...
   Nikitas had stepped at the tenth hole, when he was overwhelmed
by a deafening subterranean moan that brought tears to his eyes.
The ground trembled and shook, on and on, seemingly forever.


Chapter 104
            DELOS, GREECE: Eastern Coast
            September 2


Colonel Sabri received Major Jalik's report and gave him instruc-
tions for the withdrawal of his unit. Their mission was almost
complete. From his vantage point he could see the last of his men
emerging from the stairway. He took a few steps backwards, as he
unreeled the wire he would connect with the detonation device.
   One of Sabri's last orders concerned the fate of their captives.
Major Jalik had protested vigorously when ordered to execute the
civil servants at the guardhouse, but when Sabri threatened him
with a court-martial he had backed off. The colonel intended to take
care of the old man by himself just before he left.
   Satisfied that everything was going according to schedule, Sabri
ordered his lieutenant to recall the troops. The man used his walkie-
talkie and shortly the Turkish commandos started to leave their
assigned posts, retreating toward the aircraft in an orderly fashion.
   Five minutes later, while the soldiers were at the midst of their
maneuver and therefore at their most vulnerable position, Captain
Andreas Milonas ordered his men to open fire. The men belonging
to the G-FRU were still in their black diving suits. After their landing
they had paused only long enough to change their flippers with
special noiseless moccasins. They had proceeded to stealthily
surround the intruders and since then had been waiting for the
order to fire.
   When their pincer maneuver was complete, the captain
contacted the G-FRU command post and Major Jannis, who had
disembarked at a remote spot of the western coastline, gave him the
green light for the attack. The twin operations were launched at
exactly the same moment.
   Colonel Sabri watched in consternation as half of his men
perished before they had a chance to react. The survivors rolled
frantically on the ground looking for cover, well aware that the
darkness of the night was transparent to the enemy's infrared
goggles. It had dawned to them that they were not facing the police,
but a veteran military unit.
Shortly, the idyllic quiet of Delos's countryside was shattered by
protracted gunfire.
   Caught off his guard by the sudden storm of fire, the soldier with
the detonation box took a hit and fell down. The small plastic device
slipped through his fingers. Sabri panicked for a moment but recov-
ered quickly. In complete disregard for his own life he ran over to
the dead soldier, picked up the box, and pressed the red button.
   The result was immediate and literally earth-shattering. The
plastic explosives, which had been deployed strategically along the
length of the main tunnel, exploded one after the other in a two-
second sequence, creating a continuous subterranean roar. The
ground trembled as if in the throes of a major earthquake and Sabri
felt under his shaking feet great volumes of earth being shifted
around, massive rocks tumbling, tunnels imploding upon
themselves.
   His lips stretched into a smug wide grin; his mission was a big
success. Now, he only had to close shop and sign-off.
   The colonel looked around him. Without his infrared goggles,
which he had left at the helicopter, he saw nothing but intermittent  
flashes of firing weapons. Even so, the message they conveyed was
quite clear: it was only a matter of minutes before the remainder of
his force was obliterated.
   Sabri took a deep breath and ran recklessly the short distance
separating him from the helicopter firing continuously at the enemy.
When he reached the BELL 412EP he found the pilot talking fast
over the radio, relating the latest developments to Bodrum. He shot
him once at the base of his skull and climbed over him to the
passenger seat. Next, he unzipped a specially padded pocket of his
fatigues and took out a small electronic device, large as a cell phone.
He unfolded its antenna and kept pressed down a button for five
seconds.
   A short beep acknowledged his input and he waited for a few
more seconds, as the device tuned into the helicopter's telecommu-
nications system. The seconds trickled by slowly and he was
painfully aware that the gunfire was thinning out. He had little time
left.
   A protracted buzz from the machine reclaimed his attention. A
couple of one-line messages in English had materialized on its small
luminous screen.

                                ***

              #1->DESTRUCT STATUS OK->SELECT #1 <ENTER>
              #2->DESTRUCT STATUS OK->SELECT #2 <ENTER>

   The colonel selected #2 and confirmed his choice by pressing the
wide bar at the lower part of the device. The selection was accepted
with a continuous warning alarm, and a second prompt appeared on
the screen, asking for a second confirmation.

              DESTRUCT #2 SELECTED->ENTER VALID CODE <ENTER>

   Sabri reconfirmed by entering the correct password. Almost
simultaneously a brilliant flash kindled the western horizon and a
few seconds later the sea breeze carried with it the booming sound
of Major Jalik's exploding helicopter.
   The colonel took a deep breath, his last breath on this world, and
repeated the same procedure. This time he selected #1, the code for
his own helicopter.


Chapter 105
            DELOS, GREECE: Ancient Underground Complex
            September 2


The first shockwave that was caused by the detonation of the
explosives was transmitted through the rocky substratum with
a velocity of 8.5 miles per second. It shook forcefully the walls of the
cylindrical chamber in a horizontal direction and Nikitas lost his
balance as he was hurled into the void.
   He fell from a height of six feet landing on his side and rolled
over the still trembling ground, trying to ignore the pain he felt in
his ribs which had absorbed the greatest amount of his kinetic
energy.
   Half-dazed by the fall, Nikitas tried to stand up on his feet while
the subterranean roar was growing stronger by the second, as many
shafts and passages collapsed in a chain reaction carried through the
whole expanse of the underground tunnels. From the top of the
chamber thick clumps of soil and loose rocks of various sizes started
to fall, choking the chamber with a dense cloud of dust.
   In the confusion of those first moments Nikitas lost the flashlight
and his pistol, and finally realized that any attempt at getting his
bearings while the tremors still continued was futile.
   At last he tore away a piece of his shirt, wrapped it tightly around
his face to protect his eyes and his lungs from the suffocating dust,
and walked blindly through the pandemonium with outstretched
arms until his fingers brushed against a hard surface. He followed it
in desperation, and when he reached the chamber's entrance he
knelt under its arching top, in the hope that it would provide him
with some protection against the hail of rocks.
   As he knelt down on the ground with his head covered by his
folded arms, Nikitas lost all track of time. For all that he knew, he
stayed within his protective cocoon for an eternity. He was certain
that the largest part of the tunnels had collapsed, and only prayed
that the domino effect, activated by the series of explosions, would
not spread too far into the branching passages.
   This, and the relatively large distance he had covered in his blind
run through the tunnels, was his only hope that his prayers might
be heard.
   When the tremors had died away and the subterranean convul-
sions had subsided, Nikitas straightened up and rose unsteadily to
his feet. He did not remove his improvised bandanna, aware that it
would take long hours or even days for the swirling clouds of dust
to settle down.
   He realized that he had temporarily lost his sense of hearing,
while his body was a continuous source of pain and discomfort.
However, he did not regret losing his flashlight, because it would
have been totally useless to him under these circumstances.
   In the midst of it all there was a piece of good news: when Nikitas
felt his waist, he discovered that the golden sheets were undamaged
by his fall.
   He thought fast and decided to make his bid for climbing the
stone ladder right away, while his little strength still lasted. Again,
he repeated the cheerless procedure for locating it and when he
found it, Nikitas thanked God that the rungs drilled into the rock
had not been destroyed The recessed steps were still there, creating
with their comforting regularity what Nikitas prayed would prove
his personal stairway to freedom.
   Suddenly, a flood of tears moistened the rough cloth sheathing
his eyes. Nikitas shook his head, embarrassed by his sentimental
outburst, and was thankful he could not hear his sounds of weeping.
   However, those were tears of joy he was shedding-he had the
proof that all hope had not been lost right at his fingertips! Bracing
himself for the climb, Nikitas mentally cracked a joke about his not
needing a handkerchief, since he already had it wrapped around his
face.
   His upward climb lasted forty-five minutes, although the top was
only twenty feet high. Nikitas went up very slowly and very
carefully, fully aware of the fact that a second fall would prove lethal,
or simply invalidate him beyond recovery which in this case
amounted to the same thing.
   This was his last chance, and he dared not blow it away.
   He reached the surface without noticing it. Whatever had served
as a cover, disguising the chamber's opening at its top for thousands
of years, had been completely destroyed by the sustained tremors.
Nikitas realized it when his fingers kept groping for the next hole,
but were met with emptiness. For several seconds his heart fluttered
in panic, as the thought flashed in his mind that the prehistoric
ladder was swallowed up and he had reached its end and his own.
   But no. The sudden inrush of the sea breeze through the opening
was enough to shake him out of his fright. He remained absolutely
still, not daring to accept the message relayed by his senses.
   And then the spell was broken by the melancholic cry of a
solitary gull. With a last effort Nikitas took the last step and tumbled
over through the opening, praying that the irreplaceable
manuscripts would not be harmed. He crawled on a few feet for
safety's sake and then rose uncertainly to his feet. They supported
his weight, but for the moment this was all they were capable of.
   Nikitas, however, was ecstatic by doing just that: standing on his
feet under the dawning sky of the Aegean. There were still a few
glimmering stars up there and he was free again to hungrily feast his
eyes on them.



One Year Later



Chapter 106
            ATHENS, GREECE: Biomedics Ltd's Building Complex
            September 2, ONE YEAR LATER


The grand reception for the opening of the new building complex
of Biomedics Ltd had stirred up a great wave of excitement
several weeks before its occurrence, unanimously hailed by the
media as a significant political, cultural and social event.
   It was a major social event because the Greek celebrities had
fought tooth and nail for an invitation, and everyone knew that no
socialite worth his or her salt dared miss it.
   Then, its cultural significance lay in the fact that the newly-built
complex exemplified a novel architectural rhythm, dubbed by the
connoisseurs as Byzantine Renaissance Rhythm, and acclaimed as the
first convincing extrapolation on the probable development of
Byzantine secular architecture had the tragic Fall of Constantinople
not befallen the western world.
   The inspired rhythm proposed by Nikitas Paleologou under-
scored the creative results a Hellenistic architectural renaissance
would have turned out if the Byzantine Empire went on undisturbed
with its millennial existence, and if Hellenism was not subjected to
nearly five hundred years of brutal slavery after 1453 AD.
   The reception, however, had also the character of an important
political event, not only because the opening ceremony would be
attended by the Prime Minister himself, but mainly because he
would take the opportunity to deliver a momentous address to the
Greek people, in which he would expound on the new status quo of
Southeastern Europe and the Balkans with special emphasis on
Greece's qualitatively increased geopolitical significance.
   The first oil wells had gone into production six months after their
discovery with the aid of the Byzantine maps but the country's
geopolitical importance had changed dramatically long before that.
Thanks to her newfound wealth and the integrity of her administra-
tion, the country now possessed a heightened prestige in the inter-
national political arena, a fact that gave her a singular opportunity
for a constructive role toward maintaining the peace in the Balkans.
   However, all these facts were old news to Nikitas. Holding a
crystal glass in his hand with sparkling soda and a slice of lemon, he
had retreated to a relatively isolated corner to mentally review the
events that had miraculously culminated into this magnificent
reception. The immense hall was already crowded with excited
people, and the frantic cameramen of the numerous TV stations
covering the event were buzzing up and down the hall, taking state-
ments and soliciting comments from the guests.
   He looked around him absent-mindedly and smiled contentedly,
as his gaze unintentionally landed onto a party of deceptively
dissimilar guests. For his part, he was well aware that all of them
were joined together by an invisible bond, by an unbroken chain
made up of real events, whose one end reached into the Past and the
other was lightly coiled around the ever-changing Now.
   Sure enough, all of them were present, Nikitas thought with a
happy grin. Father Gregorios, his beloved uncle, the man who had
signaled the start of their adventurous race was standing by the side
of Christos Daltas, his proven friend, who had opened up new vistas
for him. He had come with his sister Eleni, so passionately in love
with life she found a novel way each day to prove it.
   Here was also Yiannis Makridis, the courageous young man who
had selflessly shared their adventure in Constantinople. He was
chatting with the Israeli Haim Ayalon and his wife Dahlia, who had
saved Eleni from certain death at the hands of a pair of sociopathic
perverts.
   And there was Uncle-Nicholas, too, who had been brought forth
by providence to play the part of his nocturnal guide that strange
night in Delos.
   Yes, they were all here!
   Standing by his side.
   Nikitas left his secluded corner and headed leisurely toward
them. As he slowly crossed the overcrowded hall, scattered
memories from the previous year surfaced in his mind.
   He remembered the miserably failed efforts of the Turkish diplo-
macy to minimize those momentous events by diverting the global
attention from them, to avoid being stigmatized for the invasion of
Delos. Massive purges in the military and political backstage had
followed the international humiliation of that country, with most of
the Turkish people now firmly believing that the relations between
the two countries had finally taken a turn for the better. At least, all
plans for Aghia Sophia's conversion to a mosque were abandoned,
and the Greek government had already initiated a diplomatic
campaign for the church's return to Orthodox Christianity.
   The Egyptian Ministry of Foreign Affairs had informed its Greek
counterpart that an internal investigation at several unnamed intel-
ligence agencies had established that certain Egyptian agents had
acted unlawfully against Greek citizens. Those still alive were appre-
hended, stripped of their rank, and indicted for their crimes. Their
cases were still pending at the Egyptian courts.
   A Greek citizen by the name of Andreas Dekakis, aka Philippos
Manos, had been extradited to Greece to face charges of drug
smuggling and drug dealing. At the other end of the spectrum,
Father Gregorios had been officially invited to return to St.
Catherine's monastery in the Sinai, his traveling expenses paid for
by the Egyptian State. He was welcomed to stay there for as long as
he wished, and to continue his spiritual and intellectual work free
from any external interference.
   Global Clipping Services, Inc. had virtually disappeared from the
stage. The American reporters who had rushed to its headquarters
had found the building at Newbury Street deserted. They had also
learned that all of its employees were laid off. William Pearsson was
in FBI's wanted list on various charges, including conspiracy to
commit espionage against the United States and its allies.
   At the other side of the globe, extensive excavations in Delos had
finally brought to light the now dried-up cistern containing the
inestimable Byzantine treasure. The two golden rolls with Emperor
Heraclius's chronicle were irretrievably lost when Sabri's helicopter
had self-destructed, but the rest of the material was so rich, it
required a decade of dedicated work from a large team of archaeolo-
gists to be studied thoroughly.
   There had been a discordant note, however, in the matter of the
Grand Byzantine Palace. Despite the protests of the Greek govern-
ment, the imperial crypt and Aghia Sophia's catacombs had
remained sealed. For the time being the Turkish authorities were
adamant in their refusal to allow access to Aghia Sophia's under-
ground complex. Comprehending the regenerative force of Aghia
Sophia's supreme symbol for the Hellenic people, they dared not risk
bringing to light the treasures lying hidden in the unexplored
catacombs.
   Nikitas approached the people who had shared that so important
part of his life, and stood before them grinning widely.
   "Well, here you are!" welcomed him Uncle-Nicholas. "Where
have you been hiding, young man?"
   "Don't ask, Uncle-Nicholas, or we'll lose him again," Father
Gregorios teased him.
   "We'll lose him anyway; tomorrow he leaves for a one-month
vacation," Christos remarked. "No one knows where to. By the way,
did you hear anything to that effect?" he asked Eleni.
   "I may have," she replied shooting a glance at Nikitas. They had
planned together their trip and the airplane tickets were tucked into
her purse.
   "Well, Nikitas?" Father Gregorios asked him. "Don't you have
anything to say?"
   Nikitas looked each one of them in turn and a long-forgotten
sweet feeling warmed his heart. He was again part of a family. These
good people had taken the place of the relatives he had never met.
   "I've been thinking of something and I'd appreciate your
feedback," Nikitas replied, deflecting his uncle's question.
   His companions smiled conspiratorially and tried to guess what
was coming. The other guests faded to the background and the
murmur of a thousand conversations was reduced to a soft white
noise.
   "During the past twelve months I had plenty of time to sit back
and reflect on what had happened. Several times I even attempted
imaginary journeys back to the events themselves. They weren't
always pleasant, but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about.
   "Since then I've gradually come to realize that some core events
were self-explanatory, while others were not. Of course, you helped
me with some of the riddles when you told me some details I
couldn't have known, because I wasn't where the action took place.
Still, quite a few of my questions remained unanswered. And they
tended to spawn even more of their kind."
   "In our earthly life there will always be things left unanswered
and unexplained," Father Gregorios observed philosophically.
   "That's true, uncle," Nikitas said. "However, life is also full of
puzzles that we do manage to solve. And since it's impossible to
know beforehand which is which, it's only fair that we try our hand
at all of them."
   "Touch�," Father Gregorios agreed with a smile.
   "Okay, then, here's my question number one: was Maurikios's
manuscript written by himself? Now, don't rush to reply before
thinking this all the way through. I ask you: did the dead body we
found in the cave really belong to the author of the parchments
under that name? The Egyptian archaeologists who visited the cave
reported there was no trace of his body, so they were unable to study
it. I suppose our erstwhile enemies whisked it away when they had
the chance."
   "But of course it was Maurikios's body, Nikitas!" Eleni protested.
   "Don't forget that the cave was found sealed, which means it was
undisturbed since the hermit's death."
   Nikitas shook thoughtfully his head. "Yes, I agree, but does this
actually prove anything? Let's suppose I enter your house with a
duplicate key, that I take a few things with me, and when I leave I
don't forget to lock the door. You'd probably notice the missing
things, since you know the contents of your household, but what
about a stranger who comes visiting you? He'd ask whether the lock
was forced, and if not he would assume that nothing was stolen,
which is a reasonable but false conclusion."
   "And why would someone do such a thing?" Christos asked.
   "What, you're looking for a motive?" Yiannis asked incredu-
lously. "In such a case, Christos, finding out the motive would be the
least of our concerns. I mean, such a fundamental assumption
would imply that a whole series of seemingly random events was
actually nothing but."
   "Meaning what?" Christos asked.
   "Well, the way I see it," Yiannis continued, "the hermit's cave
wouldn't have been found, if not for Nilus's account of his journey
through the Sinai desert. Of course, this presupposes the discovery
of Nilus's manuscript in the first place-another link in an
unbroken chain. Agreed?"
   "Sure."
   "All right, then. Now, if we assume that Maurikios's cave had
been deliberately set up to deceive us, we must conclude that we
were also deceived in the way his cave was found, namely in Nilus's
text."
   "Which leads us directly to the golden cylinder we found in the
catacombs of Aghia Sophia, in the stead of Mohammed's Protocol of
Catechesis," Nikitas mused. "Remember how that cylinder was
inexplicably sealed in an airtight fashion that suggested a much
more advanced technology than the one available in Heraclius's age?
There's a definite anachronism here."
   He looked at Father Gregorios. "If you remember, uncle, this fact
has bothered me right from the beginning."
   Father Gregorios nodded thoughtfully. "Is there anything else?"
he finally asked.
   "Yes, there is. If we take it still further back, I can't help but
wonder who were those invisible caretakers attending the chapel we
encountered at the exit of Aghia Sophia's catacombs. In all proba-
bility, they were also responsible for the design and maintenance of
the labyrinth with the triads of closed doors, and the succession of
the rooms within rooms."
   "I think you're right on this one, too," Father Gregorios admitted.
   "And another thing: how come the catacombs were so neat and
clean after many centuries of abandonment?"
   "I can no more answer this question, than I can the rest of them,"
Father Gregorios replied. "To do this, Aghia Sophia and its catacombs
should be thoroughly searched by a team of expert archaeologists but,
of course, this may take some time to be arranged."
   "And where does your reverse reasoning lead to, Nikitas?"
Makridis asked him, obviously intrigued.
   Nikitas cast a sidelong glance at his uncle. "Actually, it's very
simple. If you carry my reasoning to its logical extreme, it leads us
straight to St. Catherine's in the Sinai, to my uncle, and to a chance
discovery of a thirteen-hundred-year-old manuscript which
normally would have remained buried for the next thousand years."
   "You forget, Nikitas, that in the past fifty years ancient parch-
ments have repeatedly surfaced at St. Catherine's," Father Gregorios
reminded him. "Remember the great discovery of a major cache with
thousands of manuscripts back in 1975?"
   "Exactly!" Nikitas exclaimed. "What a better place, then, than
the monastery of St. Catherine for a certain manuscript to be set up
for its future discovery?"
   For a moment no one spoke, as they all tried to assimilate the
implications of Nikitas's statement.
   "A mystery within a mystery," Christos muttered. "Well, do you
know, my friend, where it all ends?" he asked Nikitas, dazed by the
quick succession of unsolved riddles and of his friend's radical
theories.
   "No, Christos, I don't--I really don't know," Nikitas replied
thoughtfully. He squeezed Eleni's hand, raised his glass, and gazed
through the crystal as if he were divining the future. "But I hope, in
my good time, to find out!" he added with a disarming grin.

                                ***