The pythia heard urgent voices nearby. Someone was shouting for her to wake up. It was Olga. The scout was kneeling in front of her and shaking her gently. It took several seconds to bring her eyes into focus. She realized Griffin had wrapped his arm around her shoulders to keep her from tumbling backwards off the bench. Daniel had bolted into the shadows. He was praying at the top of his lungs now, entreating his god to deliver him from the power of Satan. The shaman stood on the opposite side of the fire. Her face was still obscured by the streamers, but she seemed to be watching the scene intently.
“What happened?” Cassie asked in confusion.
Olga rose to her feet and translated the question to the shaman.
Matushka Ayana laughed softly. She spoke a few sentences to Olga. Then she walked back inside her yurt and shut the door, thereby signaling that the ritual was over.
“What did she say?” Griffin asked Olga as he assisted Cassie to sit upright.
“I don’t know what she meant.” The scout sounded mystified, taking a seat on the bench to Cassie’s left. “She said the past danced with the future but why ask her? Our shaman was there too.”
“Oh, that.” Cassie frowned in concentration, endeavoring to put the pieces together.
“Oh, that what?” the scrivener demanded. Turning with irritation toward Daniel who was still muttering to himself, Griffin commanded, “Belt up, will you? I’m quite sure your Beelzebub and all his minions have more urgent priorities than conspiring to steal your soul tonight!”
Daniel’s prayers stopped abruptly though he kept a wary distance from the others, apparently still shaken by the heathen spectacle.
Turning his attention back to the pythia, the scrivener asked, “What did Matushka Ayana mean?”
“I was there,” she said in wonder. “Part of me was sitting on the bench with the rest of you, but part of me...” She trailed off, trying to sort out the sequence of events. “I was circling around the fire too. And then another figure was there. It was the Minoan priestess.”
“What?” yelped Daniel. His fears forgotten, he scampered forward. “What did she tell you?”
“It wasn’t what she said,” Cassie countered. “It was what she did.” The pythia, now fully recovered, rubbed her eyes. “She wore a string of beads around her neck and then she put it around my neck. The beads were made of amber.”
“Amber!” Griffin cried. He grew silent, lost in thought for a moment. Then, with rising excitement in his voice, he asked, “Are you quite sure?”
Cassie studied his face in the flickering light. There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye. She smiled. “I know that look. You’ve got a theory, don’t you?”
Ignoring the comment, the scrivener persisted. “You’re positive the beads were made of amber and not topaz?”
“Listen, pal,” the pythia joked. “After validating artifacts for a couple of years, I can tell the difference between semi-precious stones and resins. It was amber and no mistake.”
“Well, if that’s the case, we need to catch the next plane for St. Petersburg.” The scrivener leaped to his feet.
The others rose uncertainly.
“I thought we were planning to fly to Moscow,” Daniel objected.
“That will be quite unnecessary,” Griffin replied. “Of course, I’ll need a little time to prove my assumptions. If I’m correct, the Minoan priestess has just pointed us to the golden road of Boreas.”
Chapter 33—Water, Water, Everywhere
Doctor Rafi Aboud emerged from the dark interior of the parking garage and blinked in the summer sunshine as he tried to get his bearings. He was standing on the southwest side of Navy Pier, a thirty-three-hundred-foot dock that jutted out into Chicago Harbor. Originally called Municipal Pier, it had first been opened in 1916. Envisioned as a dock for commercial shipping and passenger boats, it had also been designed with indoor and outdoor recreational areas for public use. Later renamed Navy Pier to honor sailors who served during World War I, the pier underwent a number of changes before falling into decline during the latter part of the twentieth century. An ambitious redevelopment plan in the 1990s transformed the derelict structure into what was now Chicago’s number one tourist attraction. A century after its construction, the pier was enjoying a resurgence of interest because of its new amusement park rides, concert stages, pavilions, and amphitheater.
Aboud scanned the crowds milling around him before turning eastward to traverse the length of the pier. Midway down the promenade, he spied the grand staircase which led to the upper level.
Stationed at the foot of the stairs was a tall, squarely-built blond man who grinned at his approach. “Hello, Rafi.” The man’s thick Slavic accent emphasized the “H” in the greeting.
The doctor smiled in return. “Hello, Vlad. I’m glad you were able to meet me on such short notice.”
The Russian regarded him with a wry expression. “I assume you have good news to report—finally.” He pointedly emphasized the last word.
“Oh, my news is very good, I assure you.” Aboud’s eyes followed the staircase upward where it terminated at the base of the pier’s most famous attraction—a giant Ferris wheel which could be seen for miles. “Should we take a spin on the Ferris wheel?” he asked flippantly.
“Ha!” Vlad barked. “That puny thing is unworthy of the name. The Moscow-850. Now that was a Ferris wheel! The tallest in all of Europe when it was built to celebrate the city’s eight hundred and fiftieth anniversary. Sadly, it’s been taken down now.” He shook his head gloomily. “Don’t remind me of past glories.”
“Perhaps we should walk this
