5
They followed a tour group toward the western slope of the Acropolis, the traditional approach to the ruins since the other ridges were far too steep for convenient walkways. Past fir trees, they reached an ancient stone entrance, known as the Beule Gate.
“Have you been here before?”
“Several times,” Savage said.
“So have I. Still, I wonder if you come for the same reason I do.”
Savage waited for her to explain.
“Ruins teach us a lesson. Nothing-wealth, fame, power-nothing is permanent.”
“ ‘Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair.’ “
She turned to him, impressed. “That's from Shelley's ‘Ozymandias.’ “
“I went to a thorough prep school.”
“But you don't give the name of the school. Anonymous as usual. Do you remember the rest of the poem?”
Savage shrugged.
Shelley understood precision. If he'd been Japanese, he'd have written great haikus.”
“A bodyguard quoting poetry?”
“I'm not exactly a bodyguard, Miss Stone. I do more than run interference.”
“What are you then?”
“An executive protector. You know, except for the sand, the ruins Shelley describes remind me of…”
Savage gestured toward the steps they climbed. The marble had been eroded by time, by use, by various invaders, and worst of all, by automobile exhaust.
They passed through a monument called the Propylaea, its precious decaying walkway protected by a wooden floor. Five gateways of columns grew wider and taller, leading them to a path that split right and left.
After the cloying heat of summer, September's moderate temperature brought the start of the tourist season. Sightseers jostled past them, some out of breath from the climb, others taking photographs of monuments on either side, the Precinct of Brauronia and the less impressive House of Arrhephoroi.
“Tell your guards to walk behind us,” Savage said. “I'll watch ahead.”
Turning right, they proceeded to the vast rectangular Parthenon. In 1687, a conflict between invaders had resulted in a Venetian bomb's igniting a Turkish gunpowder magazine in the Parthenon, which in ancient times had been a temple devoted to the Greek goddess of purity, Athena. The explosion had destroyed a considerable part of the monument, toppling pillars and much of the roof. Restoration was still in progress. Scaffolding obscured the magnificence of surviving Doric columns. Guardrails kept visitors from further eroding the interior.
Savage turned from the tourists, approaching the precipitous southern ridge of the Acropolis. He leaned against a fallen pillar. Athens sprawled below him. The earlier breeze had died. Despite a brilliant clear sky, smog had begun to gather.
“We can talk here without being overheard,” Savage said. “Miss Stone, the reason I'm not sure I want to work for you-”
“But you haven't heard why I need you.”
“-is that an executive protector is both a servant and a master. You control your life-where you go and what you do-but your protector insists on how you get there and under what terms you do it. A delicate balance. But you've got a reputation for being willful. I'm not sure you're prepared to take orders from someone you employ.”
Sighing, she sat beside him. “If
“I don't understand.”
“The trouble isn't mine. It's my sister's.”
“Explain.”
“Do you know about her?”
“Rachel Stone. Ten years your junior. Thirty-five. Married a New England senator campaigning to be president. Widowed because of an unknown assassin's bullet. Her association with politics and a movie-legend sister made her glamorous. A Greek shipping magnate courted her. They married last year.”
“I give you credit. You do your homework.”
“No less than you.”
“Their marriage is like the Parthenon. A ruin.” Joyce Stone rummaged through her burlap purse. Finding a pack of cigarettes, she fumbled with a lighter.
“You're not a gentleman,” she snapped.
“Because I won't light your cigarette? I just explained, when it comes to protection,
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It does if you realize I have to keep my hands free in case someone threatens you. Why did you ask to see me?”
“My sister wants a divorce.”
“Then she doesn't need me. What she needs is a lawyer.”
“Her bastard husband won't allow it. She's his prisoner till she changes her mind.”
“Prisoner?”
“She's not in chains, if that's what you're thinking. But she's a prisoner all the same. And she's not being tortured.” She managed to light her cigarette. “Unless you count being raped morning, noon, and night. To remind her of what she'd miss, he says. She needs a true man, he says. What he needs is a bullet through his obscene brain. Do you carry a gun?” she asked, exhaling smoke.
“Seldom.”
“Then what good are you?”
Savage stood from the column. “You've made a mistake, Miss Stone. If you want an assassin-”
“No! I want my sister!”
He eased back onto the column. “You're talking about a retrieval.”
“Whatever you want to call it.”
“If I decide to take the assignment, my fee…”
“I'll pay you a million dollars.”
“You're a poor negotiator. I might have settled for less.”
“But that's what I'm offering.”
“Assuming I accept, I'll want half in an escrow account at the start, the other half when I deliver. Plus expenses.”
“Stay in the best hotels for all I care. Spend as much as you want on meals. A few extra thousand hardly matters.”
“You don't understand. When I say ‘expenses,’ I'm thinking of as much as several
“What?”
“You're asking me to antagonize one of the most powerful men in Greece. What's he worth? Fifty billion? His security will be extensive, costly to breach. Tell me where your sister is. I'll do a risk analysis. A week from now, I'll tell you if I can get her.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and slowly turned. “Why?”
“I'm not sure what you mean.”
“I get the feeling this job's more important to you than the money. Why would you consider accepting my offer?”
For a chilling instant, Savage had a mental image of steel glinting, of blood spraying. He repressed the
