Crossing the street, he managed a peripheral view of the station; the man was also making his way back to the stores and cafes, and always at a constant distance. The more Pearse thought about it, the more he realized that the precautions he had taken in Brindisi, and again in Igoumenitsa, had retained a kind of fanciful quality. Watching a few tourists. Finding a group to walk with. Easy responses to an unseen threat.
He couldn’t help but wonder if that threat had just made itself known.
And yet, it didn’t make any sense. If either of the men were with Vatican security, why would they have waited until now to approach him?
Unless, of course, they had never intended to make contact at all. It suddenly dawned on him that the Vatican needed only to track him. They had no idea where the “Perfect Light” was sending him; all they needed to do was put someone on the bus, then let the priest lead them to the parchment. The possibility that he might be switching to the train had simply forced their hand.
He felt his face flush as his mind continued to race. He stopped and gazed into the window of a shop; from the corner of his eye, he saw the man pausing to tie his shoe. It was all the confirmation he needed. With no alleyways or tunnels in the offing, he realized he had no chance of losing the man before getting back on the bus. He had to find another way.
With that in mind, he headed into the square. A large group from the bus was sitting at what was clearly the best cafe Kalambaka had to offer. Too many people, he thought. Instead, he walked past the fountain to a far less prepossessing establishment on the opposite end of the square. Even the waiter seemed surprised by his arrival. Undaunted, Pearse sat and began to glance through the menu. As he did, he noticed that the man had stationed himself directly across the square, his view unimpeded. Pearse signaled for the waiter, pointed to something on the page, then asked for a coffee. The waiter nodded and disappeared.
Two minutes later, he returned with the cup and placed it on the table. Pearse took a sip, then asked for the men’s room. The waiter pointed toward the inside of the restaurant, whereupon Pearse stood and headed back. Once inside, he kept himself far enough in so as not to be seen from the outside, but with a perfect view of the man across the square. Five minutes passed before the waiter drew up to his side with a plate of something brown. Pearse handed him several bills and told him to place it on the table outside. The waiter did as he was told, then returned to the kitchen.
And Pearse waited.
It was nearly ten minutes before the man began to make his way toward the cafe. The look on his face showed concern. Pearse pulled himself farther into the shadows. For several minutes, he watched as the man seemed unwilling to break the plane of tables and chairs, doing his best at casual surveillance. Finally, he had no choice but to step through. He was almost at the table, when Pearse suddenly emerged. Before the man could respond, Pearse drew up to him.
“Hello,” he said with sufficient surprise. “Weren’t you on the bus from Igoumenitsa?”
With no other choice, the man returned the smile. “Yes. Yes, I was.”
“The talkative Italian. He sat next to you.”
A second nod. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Well, you must join me for lunch.”
Only a moment’s hesitation. “That’s very kind of you.”
For fifteen minutes, they chatted about absolutely nothing, Pearse careful to keep track of the time. Without any prodding, he explained he was on his way to Athens. The train in twenty-five minutes. Amazingly, so, too, was the man. What a coincidence. Perhaps they could travel together? Pearse thought it a splendid idea. They finished their meals, headed back to the station, and, after buying two one-way tickets, made their way to the track.
Much to his relief, Pearse discovered that the Greek trains were all of the old European style: side doors to the platform from each compartment. He made sure that he and his companion picked one toward the back of the train. With five minutes to spare, they were seated next to each other, the conversation more and more insipid with each passing second.
Waiting another two minutes, Pearse suddenly winced.
“Is something the matter?” asked the man.
Pearse took several breaths, then said, “Stomach.” He smiled. “It acted up back at the restaurant. Not sure Greek cooking agrees with me.”
The man nodded, a look of concern in his eyes.
“But I think I can wait until we’re moving,” he added.
The man’s smile returned.
With a shrill whistle, the train began to move. Waiting as long as he dared, Pearse stood and, with his apologies, slid open the door to the corridor and headed for the back of the car, having made sure to pick one without a rest room. As he moved, he could sense the man staring after him; still he continued slowly. With a sufficient show of frustration at not having found a men’s room, Pearse pushed through the connecting doors and into the next car. He shot a glance back, the tint of the glass obscuring the view. Even so, he could tell that the man had gotten to his feet. Not waiting to see what he might do, and feeling the growing tremor of acceleration, Pearse broke into a sprint along the corridor. Darting into the last of the compartments, he bent over, opened the door-the tail end of the platform now sailing by at an ever-increasing speed-tossed the backpack out, and jumped.
The impact was instantaneous, his body rolling along the cement four or five times before he came to a stop. The pain in his shoulder and side was intense. His face, however, came through unscathed, locked within the protection of his arms. Lying flat, he glanced back at the train. The final car was just now slipping past the platform, the door he had used for his escape open and empty. Seconds passed before a figure appeared, too distant to make out with any accuracy. Its body language, however, was more than enough: frantic disbelief as the train banked away, its speed having become too great a deterrent for a second leap.
Pearse had lost his would-be tracker. Somehow, the pain in his shoulder seemed far less severe.
An official came running up, spewing Greek too fast for Pearse to keep up. Something about the company not being responsible for injuries. Pearse got himself to his feet, nodded, and, with a little shrug, answered, “No toilet paper.”
Five minutes later, he emerged from the station rest room, having taken care of whatever scrapes and tears he had inflicted on himself. Five minutes after that, he was safely back on board the bus.
The audacity of the last half hour hit him only as the bus began to pull out. Rather than a sense of elation, or even relief, he felt overwhelmingly light-headed.
He pulled down his window and let the wind slap at his face.
Beroea came and went, quick good-byes for his three friends. Half an hour later, the bus was driving through the outskirts of Salonika, city streets growing all around them.
Though bolstered by the misdirection in Kalambaka, Pearse remained cautious. It had been several hours since then, more than enough time for his lunch companion to get in touch with someone else. Sending them to Salonika was just too obvious a choice.
With that in mind, Pearse attached himself to the first clump of passengers off of the bus, he at its rear, head tucked low into the shoulders of those around him. Even so, he had no idea what he would do should someone appear. He’d used up his one flash of brilliance in Kalambaka. Clutching at the strap of his pack, he stepped through the platform gate and into the central hall.
Far grander than he’d expected, the station opened up under a vaulted dome of steel and glass, a series of tobacco shops, shoe-repair stalls, and newspaper kiosks all littered about, the tinny sound of overamplification echoing with each muffled announcement.
Head still bent, Pearse noticed a man-no more than twenty-five-making his way toward the recent arrivals. A man who seemed to be staring directly at him.
For the second time in the last few hours, Pearse felt the blood drain from his face. He edged his way deeper into the group.
Still the man came, heading straight for him. Pearse knew it was pointless to run. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a guard by one of the exits. He was on the verge of breaking toward him, when the young man did something Pearse never expected.
He waved, a hesitant smile on his face.
