Face mashed against vinyl, Matthew could make no sense of the shouting that followed, nor of Risto’s sudden weight on top of him, driving the air from his lungs. A new voice gave sharp, clipped commands, the car lurched into motion. Then there was silence, except for some heavy breathing. As the weight shifted off him, Matthew squirmed up into a sitting position, flushed and disoriented, blood roaring in his ears. Risto was pushed up against him, leaning forward with his head on the back of the driver’s seat. Sotir Plastiris sat on the other side of him with a small pistol against Risto’s right temple. In front, a younger man in the passenger seat had a larger pistol up against the driver’s head, and the car raced and wove through the thin traffic on the avenue.

“Matthew, you are well?” Sotir asked with that odd mix of genuine concern and fierce insistence so peculiar to the native Greek.

“Yes.” His tight throat barely released the word, and he did not trust himself to say more without his voice cracking.

“Here,” Sotir said to the front seat, and his companion communicated a left turn to the driver, who obeyed. The car bottomed out on a narrow, cobbled lane and immediately reduced speed. They were in a rabbit’s warren of small streets and after several turns stopped dead in a short alley. The silence was even more intense with the engine off. Matthew’s senses, emerging from a thick gauze of fear, now seemed suddenly sharp, almost unbearable. He was aware of each man’s scent, every movement in the car, throats clearing, mouths exhaling short breaths. The driver was young and very frightened, sweat staining his collar. The passenger with the large pistol was young also, slightly bored-looking, with curly black hair and handsome features not unlike Sotir’s. One of the nephews, presumably, and they had been watching Matthew without his knowing it, probably the entire day. Andreas’ hand was in this, but Matthew could not bring himself to be offended.

Sotir reached inside Risto’s coat and after some fumbling around removed a small pistol, placing it inside his own jacket.

“Who?” he asked quietly. When there was no answer after several seconds, he struck Risto sharply on the head with his pistol, drawing blood, and Matthew reflexively looked away.

“Who?” Plastiris demanded a second time.

“Livanos,” Risto said.

“Taki Livanos?” Matthew asked, suddenly finding his voice.

“Yes.”

“Fotis’ nephew,” he explained to Sotir, who nodded.

“And what do you want with the boy here?”

“Just to bring him to the house,” Risto answered.

“You need a gun for that?”

“I always carry it.”

“You need to hit him and push him just to bring him to the house?”

“They said he would be suspicious, but I must get him there anyway.”

“Why?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Sotir struck him again, and Matthew bit down on his protest.

“Where is Livanos?”

“Gone. Into the mountains, I think, with the old man.”

“So what happens at the house?”

“We keep him there for a day or two. I don’t know why, they didn’t tell me.” Risto braced for another blow.

“That’s all?” Matthew asked. “And then you just let me go?”

“Yes,” Risto insisted, and Matthew believed him. Fotis merely wanted enough time to disappear. Evidently Sotir believed it too, because he did not strike the man again.

“The boy is protected. Don’t come near him. Tell Livanos.”

“I don’t intend to speak to that bastard again,” Risto sighed.

Matthew, Sotir, and his nephew got out of the car slowly and carefully, but the bewildered occupants clearly intended no more trouble. The nephew snapped open a ridiculously large knife and methodically punctured a tire, just to be on the safe side. Then the three of them made their way through the narrow lanes to Plastiris’ own vehicle. Matthew’s legs struggled to hold him up. Two knuckles were swollen on his right hand, and his lower back ached badly. The taste of fear would be in his mouth for days, yet he felt grateful to have escaped with so little harm, and stupid for not realizing how far above his abilities this game was being played. The nephew smiled at him with condescending sympathy.

“That was good, pretending to fall. But next time, hit him in the balls, not the chest.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“We’ll call your grandfather now,” Sotir said. “He will be worried.”

“Thank you. For looking after me like that.”

Plastiris waved the comment off.

“We were slow, but it is good we were there. Do you know where your godfather is?”

“No. Not at the moment, anyway. But I have a fair guess where he’s going.”

On the switchback road that climbed to Veria, Fotis was sure they were being followed. Taki laughed. This isn’t America, Uncle, there is only one road. Which was true, more or less; only one major road-narrow and winding-penetrated the mountainous heart of Macedonia. Yet something about the white Peugeot troubled the old man, the half-obscured license plate, the way it kept a perfect distance, even when Fotis made Taki slow down. Greeks did not drive so carefully.

He had Taki pull the black Mercury over at his favorite chapel, first making sure that two other cars were parked by the food stand across the long bend of road, beyond which the ground fell away to a landscape of beige hills spotted with dark vegetation. Hot and barren as Lebanon; not like the green hills of Epiros. From its little rise, creamy white in the dying sun, the chapel looked out over everything, a rocky cliff rising steeply behind it. The Peugeot stopped also. The driver bought a stick of souvlaki and a beer for himself, but nothing for the older man with him. The driver ate slowly, wandering back and forth from the cliff edge to the car, never once looking in Fotis’ direction, yet tarrying.

The Snake seemed not to be looking either, but saw all in his usual sidelong fashion. He spent a full ten minutes examining the small church, shut up at the moment, standing inside the tiny vestibule, out of the sun, while Taki paced like a panther and checked his watch. The road could be dangerous after dark, but Fotis had his mind on other dangers. At length, the young driver got back into the white car and sped quickly out of sight. Perhaps a coincidence after all, Fotis thought, but he made Taki wait another ten minutes before proceeding.

In the backseat, feet set widely to brace himself against the endless turns, Fotis reviewed his documents. Three passports, Greek, Turkish, American. He had not traveled under a false passport in many years and probably did not need to now. He could have been out of the country hours ago on a commercial flight from Athens or Salonika, instead of getting carsick in these wretched hills. Yet there was too great a chance of being picked up by impatient American investigators in New York, or by their counterparts here. The fake ID might get him through, but his face was on file with every security bureau on both sides of the water, and if he was caught with a bad passport, his troubles would increase immeasurably. The Greeks especially would welcome a reason to prosecute him. Fotis sighed, then shook his head at the image of such an unlikely security net waiting to catch this tired old thief. The Greeks were too sloppy, and the Americans far too preoccupied with larger threats. Nevertheless, his caution had saved him more than once, and he did not see abandoning it this late in life.

The sun was low, and he regretted the delay, which would force Taki to navigate the winding road into the Kozani valley in twilight. Fotis would take a small plane from the airstrip outside Kozani, to Montenegro, or direct to Brindisi in Italy, whichever Taki’s friend Captain Herakles thought best. Then a commercial flight from Rome, on some unlikely airline, under the guise of a Turkish businessman. That should do the trick. It was about getting to Rome. He would have to trust the brave Captain Herakles, who probably had never been more than a sergeant. Herakles, how sweet. These poor fellows, in their forties or fifties now, with their secret codes and brotherhoods and their heroic noms de guerre, they longed for the old days. The days when their brig-andage might have had a patriotic justification, fighting Turkish overlords or the German occupation or even the communists. Instead they had the black market, smuggling goods and people, bribing officials, stockpiling weapons-for what? The closest to war they had come was Cyprus, when the idiot colonels had utterly failed to act. How Fotis could have fallen in with that group he no longer understood, and it had cost him his home-land. Andreas had been wiser than he on that matter.