“Hooo.” Pearse coughed several times, his eyes filling with tears. He’d had ouzo before. This was definitely not ouzo.

“Yamass,” said the young Greek. “You won’t get this quality booze for a couple of days.”

“That might be a blessing in disguise.”

Andrakos smiled and tilted back his glass, refilling both before Pearse could say no. “They water down everything on the mountain.”

“I can understand why.” If he’d had any concerns about Andrakos’s driving before, he couldn’t wait to see him on the road after two of these.

Surprisingly, the alcohol changed very little. In fact, it seemed to heighten his skills. While Pearse replanted his hand firmly on the dashboard, Andrakos took the car in and out of alleys, crisscrossing and circumventing the afternoon traffic with extraordinary ease. Amid the whirlwind, he even managed to throw in a few more sights-a fleeting view of the Arch of Galerius, sixty feet of weathered stone and marble, its side piers lopped off, leaving only a gated torso, several bands of reliefs chiseled below, a glimpse into the city’s Roman past.

“A little reminder of home for you,” said Andrakos.

“Doesn’t look like Boston,” said Pearse.

“Ah,” said Andrakos. “I meant your current home.”

“You’d love Boston. Just remember to take the car.”

Pearse was permitted only a few seconds to take it all in before they were zipping past mosques and minarets, a quick glance at Ataturk’s birthplace, confirmation of Salonika’s role as meeting place between East and West. An equal-opportunity guide, Andrakos enjoyed recalling his city’s tug-of-war history, secure in the fact that whatever her conquerors had tried to impose, they had never escaped her singular imprint. Salonika was forever Greek, its relics-Roman, Turkish, Armenian-infused with the image of that Hellenic past.

It was only when he realized they were making their way deeper into town, rather than out to the mountain, that Pearse spoke up.

“Travel visas,” Andrakos explained. “No documents, no monks.”

Less than five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the Ministry of Macedonia and Thrace, which, as far as Pearse could see, was Agiou Dimitriou Street’s answer to Rome’s Palazzo Borghese, though on a far less opulent scale. The ash gray building stood back from the street, a pebble garden leading to the entrance steps, with arched columns beyond. Inside, the fantasy quickly faded, stark walls amid a bureaucrat’s maze of offices, along with two bizarre modern sculptures standing sentry at the door. A far cry from the Berninis he had hoped for.

Andrakos hurried them through the main hall, hellos and nods to just about everyone they passed. The same held true on the second floor, first names for most, smiles and waves following him down the corridor. Clearly, Angeli had chosen her contact well.

He headed for the office at the far end, not bothering to knock before venturing in.

“Yasu, Stanto,” he said, moving straight for the desk.

The man in the chair looked up, a slightly older version of Dominic, a brother’s glare in his eye. “Don’t you even bother to knock, Nikki? I could have had someone-”

“I told you I was coming. We need the papers.”

It was then that the older Andrakos noticed Pearse at the door. “Oh, yes. Hello,” he said in English. “Please come in.”

Pearse stepped inside, at once taken by the view through the window-picturesque church, several bubble domes atop a ceramic roof, clear indication of Stanto’s favored position at the ministry. A view like that took years to acquire.

Dominic was already busy with various piles on the desk.

“They’re not in there.” Trying his best to curb his annoyance, Stanto smiled at his guest, then pulled the pages from his brother’s hands, continuing in a hushed Greek. “Look, Nikki, I can’t keep making last-minute arrangements for you. This is a serious office, not your private travel agency. The boys on the mountain can get very upset.”

“They love me out there,” replied Dominic, a wink to Pearse as his brother pulled a second set of pages from his hands.

“They love God, Nikki. They tolerate you.”

“Barely tolerate.” Dominic laughed. “By the way, the professor speaks Greek.”

The older Andrakos hesitated before turning to Pearse. “Oh. Of course,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m sorry. Constantine Andrakos. I’m not usually this-”

“No need to apologize,” said Pearse, shaking his hand. “Peter Seldon. I’m the one you should be taking to task. It’s my fault that this has all been so last minute.”

“You’re nice to say so, Professor, but you don’t know Dominic. It isn’t the first time.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out two rather impressive-looking envelopes. Pearse noticed they were both addressed to the Holy Community of Mount Athos, the great imperial crest-the double-headed eagle of Byzantium-at the top. “They delivered the diamonitirio fifteen minutes ago. The ink is probably still wet.”

Dominic took the passports and, trying his best at a pose of servility, asked, “And the boat? Did you get the boat, Stanto?”

“Yes, I got the boat,” he replied, as if to a child. “It’ll be waiting for you at Ouranopolis. Brother Gennadios will meet you at Daphne. He said he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I told you they loved me.”

“I think he meant the professor.” He turned to Pearse. “Gennadios mentioned he once did some work on Ambrose.”

“Really.” Pearse smiled. “I … can’t wait to talk with him.”

Dominic was already at the door. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to do. Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“No, you wouldn’t want to do that,” said the older Andrakos. “Just try and get there in one piece.”

The eighty miles to Ouranopolis-the Gate of Heaven, little more than a village at the base of the Athos Peninsula-took just over two hours, remarkable, given the condition of the roads.

“I once did it in an hour and forty-five.” Andrakos beamed as they parked on a street barely wide enough for the car doors to open. “A friend of mine claims an hour and a half, but he did it alone. Mine still stands.” He pulled out a piece of paper, scribbled something on it, then placed it under the wiper. “It’s for the fellow who lives here,” he explained. “Just telling him when we’ll be back, and to move the car if he needs to.” Pearse noticed the keys still in the ignition. A different way of life in Ouranopolis.

They emerged onto another street, this one slightly wider, a few patches of cobblestone in need of repair. It wended its way down through the village, the small houses on either side like giant sandstone steps leading to the shore.

“The place seems empty,” said Pearse.

“Most of the boats are still out on the water. But it’ll be loud enough in about an hour. Once they get back and start drinking.”

“More of the stuff we had at your place?”

Andrakos laughed. “That’s rice water compared to this. I won’t tell you how many times I’ve come out here and not quite made it out to the mountain.”

“Different kind of research.” Pearse smiled.

They neared an ancient tower hovering by the water. One or two windows pockmarked its upper reaches, stucco unevenly slathered along its face, scars of brick peeking through. It peered down, superior only in its height, the one sign of real civilization against the timeless backdrop.

“From what I’ve heard,” said Pearse, “you’d probably need something a little stronger than ouzo if you had to take care of these monks. They tell me they’re a pretty austere bunch.”

“Austere? These boys take it so seriously, they don’t allow anything female on the mountain at all. Anything. No sow, no cow, no hen. And all because a couple of them got a little friendly with some of the shepherds’ daughters about a thousand years ago…. Probably why they call it the Garden of the Virgin.”