Holding my breath, I worked the latch of the ancient gate and swung it open. To my relief, it did not squeal or protest. I slipped inside and pushed the gate shut, only to have my heart skip a beat. The old iron gate let out a loud and mournful screech. I froze, straining my ears, listening to see if the guards had heard me.
A moment passed, and then another. Then, when I relaxed, thinking I had gotten lucky, I heard the voices of two men and the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Panicked, I slung the gate shut, which now barely made a noise, and dove under one of the stunted orange trees growing in the garden. It was near the stone wall and I rolled until my back was flat up against it, my eyes fixed on the iron gate that had betrayed me.
The voices grew louder and then stopped as they approached the gate. Once again, I found myself holding my breath as I flattened myself farther. I knew they couldn't see me unless they came into the garden, and with any luck they would quickly move on. I'm not a religious man, but I muttered a quick prayer, figuring it couldn't hurt.
The gate swung open and a soldier's head leaned in and did a quick sweep of the interior. I remained deathly still as the man's eyes passed right over my hiding spot. His eyes continued searching for another few seconds before he shrugged and stepped back outside. The gate shut behind him, and I heard the two voices move off, back the way they had come. That was too close, I thought, and for a moment I wondered if the money Pruitt was offering was worth it.
When my pulse returned to normal, I got up, dusted myself off and made my way to the back door. The soldiers had been an unexpected surprise, and I had been extremely lucky getting this far unseen. I just hoped the rest of this job wasn't so difficult.
I reached for the heavy brass knocker of the villa's rear door when it jerked open. A hand darted from inside the house, seized my wrist, and before I could react, yanked me inside.
CHAPTER FIVE
The heavy wooden door slammed shut as I stumbled inside the house, tripped, and fell to a sliding stop in the middle of a cavernous kitchen. I looked around me and saw cabinets held together by grime and peeling paint lining the room. Their doors were missing, displaying empty shelves of dust and rotting wood. On the countertop were a handful of pots and a few plates and bowls. An ancient refrigerator sat on one wall, open and unused, its wire racks leaning up against its side. The only modern appliance was a cheap-looking stainless steel stove that was completely out of place in the rustic and rundown kitchen.
I pulled myself to my feet and turned to face the man who had pulled me inside. He was a thin, almost emaciated looking fellow in his mid-thirties. A pair of delicate wire-rimmed glasses rested on his hawkish nose and magnified the disappointment in his pale blue eyes. He scowled, his full ginger beard twitching with annoyance.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed, mate?" The man's voice rasped out with admonishment. "What is wrong with you?"
I stared at him, confused. "Dr. Blatt?"
"Of course I'm Miles Blatt, ya bampot. How many other Scots do you think there are in this no-name village?"
His hostility was off-putting. I couldn't see why he was angry with me. "I apologize if I've caused any problems, I didn't want to have to explain myself to the troops crawling through the village," I replied, still confused.
Dr. Blatt softened at that. "Yes, I could see where that would be an uncomfortable situation to find yourself in. I forget Americans typically aren't allowed here. And since you're working for that jobby jabber Pruitt, you're probably not here legally, are you?"
"If Adrian Pruitt does anything legal, I'd be surprised."
"Ha! You're probably right. Come in," he said in a much more friendly manner and gestured to the interior of the house. "You must be Chase Hawkins. Well, I guess I better give you the information that you need so we can both get back to work."
I followed him out of the spartan kitchen and into the chaos that was Miles Blatt's work. Academic clutter covered every surface of what was probably a dining room. Or it had been once, before Blatt turned it into his office. He had used every square inch of space for his work.
Papers spilled over from the bookshelves lining the walls. More papers were spread across the small tables scattered throughout the room. Books teetered in towering stacks, ready to fall with the slightest disturbance. Some lay open, others seemingly forgotten. Maps and charts spread out on a large table took up nearly all the remaining free space of the room. In one corner, much to my surprise, was a child. He couldn't be more than twelve years old, but he sat at a desk, scribbling notes as he frantically searched through a dusty leather-bound tome. He was so absorbed with his search he didn't look up or even notice my presence.
My eyes ached as they adjusted to the dimness of the house. Even though it was midday and bright outside, a smoggy sort of brown haze was all that filtered through the windows. Dirt and grime clung to them, turning the once grand windows dingy and opaque. A couple of table lamps cast out their
