Nicholas was doing mechanical repairs on Barnes’s boat, so Niki and I had to catch a ride to Perivolos with Feodor. From there, we took a taxi to Santorini’s port at Fira. The driver let me off at the top of the road that zigzagged down the thousand-foot face of the crater to the docks. My job was to find and hire Captain Blake Threader while Niki arranged for supplies.
I stepped from the cab and then reached back into the seat for my backpack.
“It is a long hike to the dock,” Niki said. “I hope you have plenty of water.”
“One bottle in the holster, one more inside.”
“You may consider renting a donkey for the trip back up the caldera. There are 587 steps in the road. It is much more difficult coming up.”
I knew from hiking into the Grand Canyon that coming up would be a lot more difficult than going down. Then I saw a guy about my height sitting on one of those stubby little beasts, whacking it lightly on the rump with a short stick, and barking orders in French, his feet an inch off the ground. Maybe it was an American guy thing, but I couldn’t see myself doing that. “If it gets to be too much, I think I’ll take the cable car.”
“Suit yourself. But I tell you, the donkey trip is an experience every visitor should have at least once in their lifetime.”
“Yeah? Is there anything that says it has to be this lifetime?”
She was a little puzzled by my reluctance, but she shrugged it off. “You be careful. Watch for Gustavo Giacopetti.”
“Yes, mother. Anything else?”
“I am serious,” she said. The sternness in her face melted into a smile. “You know how difficult it is to find good help.”
I paused at the edge of the caldera to survey the scene. From this height, cruise ships were the size of yachts. The islands of Thirasia and tiny Aspronisi defined the western rim of the caldera. With the exception of Nea Kameni and the smaller Palia Kameni—both had risen from the crater’s center in relatively recent times—a five-mile expanse of glimmering sea filled the volcano’s interior. The enormity of a blast that could displace that much of the mountain gave me second thoughts about taking a sailboat to Kyropos. If we were anywhere near that thing when it blew, we wouldn’t stand a chance.
The descent to the dock was a long, hot trek. Before I knew it I’d emptied my first bottle of water. Forty minutes later, I stood at the dock scanning boats for the thirty-five-foot Dancing Daphne, which, according to Niki, Threader had named after a former lover. A fifty-foot dreamboat—Penelope—was tied in the last slip. With the hope that Threader had found himself a new girlfriend, I called out for anyone on board. There was no answer. I was about to head for the dock office when I stopped. A quarter mile down the empty beach was another group of boats, a salvage yard from the look of it. Threader’s place of business, no doubt.
Every boat was in some stage of disrepair, none appearing seaworthy. With no one around, I started to go, but I stopped when I spotted one boat, battered and loaded with trash, bobbing in the iridescent scum of an oil leak. Most of the paint had flaked off, but there was enough left to make out the name: Dancing Daphne.
I stepped in for a closer look. There was a ratty hammock strung between the mast and the bow railing. The hammock’s lines, obviously stretched to their limit, hadn’t snapped only because the butt of its bulky occupant sank to the deck and relieved the pressure. The buzz of a fly filtered through the fat man’s hacking snore. A glint of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth, oozed through a frazzle of white stubble, and dripped to the front of a yellowed T-shirt ready to split under the strain of an oversized belly. The smell of sweat and liquor fouled the air.
I stepped to the deck and picked my way through the maze of rubble toward the sleeping man. A fly crawled over his grizzled face, down a right eye and cheekbone that was black with a fist-sized bruise—a slob, a drunk, and a brawler.
The fly crawled over twitching lips. When it reached his nostril, the man exploded, smacking the side of his own face with enough force to knock him out of the hammock. He went down thrashing on the deck like an overturned tortoise.
“You want more, you son of a bitch?” he yelled in no direction in particular. “I’ll give you more.”
He scrambled to his feet and launched a softball-sized fist directly at my face. I dodged, and the force of the man’s swing sent him tumbling through a tangle of rope and assorted rubbish.
“I’m not here to fight,” I said, hoping to dissuade him.
He stood and put a seething, red-eyed glare as squarely on me as he could. He struck a boxer’s pose, fists undulating like a pair of pistons. “Slug a man when he’s sleeping, will you? Come on, you damn coward. I ain’t sleeping now. Try to take a piece of the old captain while he’s locked and loaded.”
“I don’t want a piece of the old captain,” I said, raising my hands in a gesture of peace. “And I didn’t—”
“Slinking away, are you? Well, son, it ain’t that easy. When a man starts something with Blake Threader, he damn well better be ready to dance, ’cause I’m gonna start dancing all over that ugly face of yours.”
I didn’t consider myself much of a fighter, but there had been a couple of occasions where I’d had to physically defend myself. I was as surprised as anyone that I could hold my own. Threader punched the air with a fake left and launched a slow, predictable right. I pulled back and sank a right-handed package of knuckles in that flour bag gut of his. Threader dropped to his knees; his face went sour. He lunged for the railing, hurling the contents of his stomach into the water.
I took it as my cue for introductions. “Niki Mikos sent me,” I said, wincing at the sound of his strangling contractions.
Threader staggered to his feet and wiped his mouth with a hairy arm. Suspicion melted into curiosity. “Niki?” With fingers, he tried to bring order to his sprawling mess of white hair.
“She sent me to hire the services of a Captain Blake Threader. There must be two of you by that name.”
“Two of us?” His eyes narrowed with contempt. “I’m Blake Threader, and by god there’s only one of me.”
I made a head-to-toe pass. “Then she made a mistake.”
Threader sniffed and spat a hunk of something over the rail. “There’s no mistake,” he said in a growl. “If Niki Mikos is asking something of Captain Blake Threader, then by god you’ve come to the right place.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Don’t think so. I wouldn’t sail in this tub if I could walk on water—which I can’t.” I turned to leave.
“Well, damn you to hell. You could have fooled me,” Threader yelled to my back. “You waltz on my boat like you’re the next best thing to Jesus Christ. Daphne is a fine running boat. Little cleanup, that’s all she needs.”
“Yeah,” I shouted back, “nothing a can of kerosene, a match, and a good shove couldn’t fix.”
I stepped off the dock and headed for the office, hoping to get some recommendations for a respectable chartering service. Niki was going to have to deal with the fact that people change, and not always for the better. I reached for my water bottle to get a drink, forgetting that I’d already emptied it. Still walking, I took off my backpack to get the fresh one. I only half noticed the rumble of a boat that had pulled into the harbor and burbled along behind me. I took a swallow of water. Sensing the driver was pacing me, I turned and almost choked when I saw the black Cigarette.
Giacopetti goosed the motor and made a tight arc that beached the boat parallel to the shore a few yards ahead of me.
“Mr. Adams,” he called out. “What a surprise to see you are still in our part of the world.”
Apollo and Vito hopped out of the boat, drew their guns, and made sure I saw them screwing silencers into the barrels. Was this intimidation, or did they mean business? Either way, it worked. My heart raced. I swallowed at the dryness in my throat, glanced back at the junkyard, and wished like hell that I hadn’t insulted Threader. A drunken brawler would have made a pretty welcome companion just then.
Silencers in place, Apollo and Vito holstered their weapons and gathered like storm clouds in front of me. Their grins were dark, ominous, evil in stereo. Everything in me wanted to run, but where? The main dock was too far away, and I couldn’t outrun a bullet. I cursed myself for being so lax. I should have seen the Cigarette in the harbor. This was bad … real bad.
“Mr. Adams,” Giacopetti said as he approached. “Am I to assume that you changed your mind about leaving?”
“Yeah, I changed my mind,” I said, doing my best to keep out of my voice.
“You have learned something more of the scroll?”
“I’m not looking for the scroll.”
“Oh, but you are, Mr. Adams. You said so in your journal. One year, if my memory serves me. In exchange for a rather handsome fee, you agreed to search for the scroll for one year. I commend you on your rather lucrative arrangement.”
“Yeah, well, that’s all changed. You say it’s authentic. De Santis says it’s a fake. Personally, I don’t care if it’s real or not. I’m not wasting my time with it. I’m over here to write a book, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
The three men just stood there staring at me, unconvinced. Against the hope that they’d let me go, I glanced at my watch. “Look, I’m supposed to meet someone at the top of the caldera. If you gentlemen will excuse me, it’s a long hike and I …” I started to leave.
Apollo grabbed me by the arm. “Not so fast, freak.”
I jerked away and met Apollo’s icy glare with a little fire of my own. Nothing in his face melted.
“Let us not be the heroic American,” Giacopetti said, his eyes growing dead serious. “Honesty, this is all I ask. You are here to search for the scroll. Correct?” He plucked out a cigarette, lit it, and blew a long stream of smoke into the air, this time missing my face. “I am a very reasonable man, Mr. Adams. Tell me what you know about the scroll, and perhaps we can part as friends. Refuse … and, well … a quiet beach like this one offers other ways of extracting information.” He nodded to Apollo. Apollo took a step toward me and grabbed the front of my T-shirt.
Instinct kicked in. I surprised Apollo with a left jab straight to his teeth that snapped his head back. Still holding the backpack in my right hand, I flung it at the side of the big man’s head. With a dead thonk, the holstered bottle found its target.
Apollo scarcely flinched. He ripped the pack from my hand and planted a marble fist in my left jaw. I stumbled back with just enough focus to dodge his left. I countered with a wild right to his ear. I would have done more damage to a concrete block. He answered with a hard right to my gut. I doubled, met a knee to my face, and fell back into a glazed world. He lifted me like a rag doll and held me from behind, giving Vito a clear shot at my stomach. I braced, but that blow and the two that followed turned my legs to rubber. I was going down.
Then, a bloodcurdling scream shattered the air. In the next instant, I saw Blake Threader, armed with a wooden boat oar, hacking Greeks like a madman splitting logs. I heard the sickening thud of wood meeting skull. I saw Vito stagger and then collapse. Apollo tossed me aside and started for his gun. I watched Threader come down with enough force to send the big Greek to his knees. Vito drew and fired. Pffftt! A wild shot into the air. Threader spun, splintered the oar over Vito’s head, and kicked the pistol from his hand. I scrambled over to snatch it up, staggered to my feet, leveled an unsteady aim inches from Giacopetti’s blood-drained face, and hoped like hell he didn’t try anything.
I watched Threader tear Apollo’s pistol from beneath his jacket and shove the muzzle hard into his ear. I thought he was going to shoot. He didn’t.
“Mister,” Threader said, “if you want to keep the few brains you got left, you’d better think about your next move real careful like.”
Apollo lay still. I could see his eyes shift like those of a cornered hyena. Threader took a few steps back. Dazed, the bloodied Greek came to his feet, his killer eyes searching Threader’s, testing. He started to lunge, and Threader fired. Pffftt. Apollo shrieked and clutched the side of his head.
I was sure Threader had killed him. My knees went weak. I could hardly hold the pistol. I wanted to throw it away and run as far from that place as I could. I forced myself to stay.
“Next one’s going four inches to the left,” Threader barked. I could see then that he’d just put a knick in Apollo’s ear. Threader turned to Giacopetti. “Unless you wanna start running a help-wanted ad, I’d suggest you pick up your trash and get the hell out of here.”
A white-faced Giacopetti nodded. “Apollo! Vito! Do as he says.”
I felt huge relief when the battered pair shambled to the boat and climbed in, Apollo still clutching his bleeding ear.
I cleared my throat to make sure I still had a voice. “You might like to join your pals,” I said to Giacopetti, still looking at the end of his nose through the trembling pistol sight.
“This time I will have you arrested,” Giacopetti snarled back at me.
“You’re right about one thing, Giacopetti,” I said. “I know where that scroll is, and I’m going to get it. Arrest me and you and your black-market buddies can kiss goodbye any chance of laying your filthy hands on it.”
Giacopetti’s eyes grew wide and then softened. He wanted to take me then and there, but he just nodded slightly and said, “Perhaps you are worth more to me as a free man. Let me warn you, my American friend; you play a very dangerous game, one, I assure you, that I am quite proficient at winning.” He dropped the cigarette and, in a metaphoric gesture intended to send me a message, ground it into the sand with the toe of his shoe. “I will have the scroll, and you, Mr. Adams. Of that you can be certain. I … will … have you. You have won this day. Next time you will not be so lucky.” He lifted his chin. “Now, as you Americans are so fond of saying, have a nice day.” He turned and walked casually to the boat.
J Douglas Bottorff 