“After the wife was abducted, it was time for their wedding night. The man would drag his bride into a private section of the barracks, where he would take out his knife. Then, in a ritual that some locals still perform today, the man would shave her head like he was shearing a sheep. I mean, he’d get right down to her skin and just carve away until she was completely bald.”
“He cut off all her hair? What for?”
“Be patient,” Pappas ordered. “You’ll find out shortly.”
Manos kept fighting his laughter. He had heard this story, which was completely true, several times before. But there was something about the way that Pappas told it that kept it funny-especially when his audience was a wide-eyed rookie who wasn’t familiar with the Spartans.
“Anyway, here was the problem. Spartan men lived with nothing but males for the majority of their lives. They were told to love one another and protect one another because someday on the battlefield they would have to count on one another. Unfortunately, that ideology was so deeply embedded into their brains that they weren’t able to get physically aroused unless the person they were screwing actually looked like a man. Hence, the shaving of the wife’s head.”
“Are you serious?” Constantinou asked.
“Completely serious. When we get back to town, look it up if you don’t believe me.”
Manos nodded in agreement. “He’s serious. These guys are scary.”
“But it didn’t end there,” Pappas assured the rookie. “For the Spartans, the goal of sex wasn’t enjoyment; it was procreation. That meant no foreplay or romance of any kind. Late at night, a Spartan male would wait until all the other men were sleeping-because he didn’t want to disturb their rest-and sneak out of his barracks. His wife, realizing that her husband had little time to get aroused before he had to return, made sure her head was shaven at all times. In addition, to help set the mood she slept in men’s clothes, which we like to call Spartan lingerie. The combination of the darkness, the shaved head, and the men’s clothing made her husband feel like he was back with the boys, cuddling for warmth along the Eurotas River.”
“That’s disgusting,” Constantinou complained. “Why would you tell me that?”
Pappas glanced at him in the mirror. “How old are you, Thomas?”
“I’m twenty-two. Why?”
Manos shook his head with concern. “You’re twenty-two
Pappas nodded in agreement. “Like I said, make sure you stay close to us in the village. Otherwise, you might get dragged into the woods for your honeymoon.”
The first village they visited had no name. That was uncommon in Greece, where most people took pride in their community and bragged about it every chance they got. But these villagers were different. Like their Spartan ancestors, who refused to mint coins because it would only encourage interaction with outsiders, the citizens of this town wanted to be left alone.
Which, of course, was the reason that Pappas stopped here first. He was familiar with these people and their violent ways. In fact, from the moment he fielded the call from Interpol, Pappas had this place in mind. He figured, if there were killers lurking in the Taygetos Mountains, the odds were pretty good that they were going to be in the village that he called Little Sparta.
“I’ve been here before, so let me do all the talking,” said Pappas as he climbed out of the truck. “Stay close and keep your eyes open. These people do not like strangers.”
Manos and Constantinou nodded in silence.
The village was relatively small, no more than sixty homes spread against the rocky face of the mountain. But what it lacked in numbers, it more than made up in intensity.
The first time Pappas had visited the village, more than fifteen years earlier, he had stopped by the school and had caught a quick glimpse of their training methods. He had been amazed by the children’s level of discipline. The boys, even the youngest ones, didn’t fidget or goof around. They stood board-straight, like they were in the military, and did whatever they were told. Pappas figured that type of control was only achieved through severe physical punishment, but since he was there on a different matter and no complaints had been filed, he wasn’t allowed to investigate the school further.
Still, the sight of those preteen warriors disturbed him to the core.
He always wondered what type of men they would grow up to be.
Unfortunately, he and his partners were about to find out.
42
Allison’s book bag hung from Jones’s left shoulder. Her computer dangled from his right. And he carried a large gym bag stuffed with Byrd’s most important belongings. Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to haul them very far. He was scheduled to meet Payne and Allison in St. Isaac’s Square.
Jones eyed the hallway in both directions before he stepped outside the suite. One of the advantages of staying on the top floor of a luxury hotel was a scarcity of neighbors. Wealthy people loved their peace and quiet. Then again, so did burglars. Obviously, Jones didn’t view himself as a thief-he was simply collecting things for Byrd’s assistant-yet he knew the authorities wouldn’t see his actions in the same light. So when Jones heard the elevator doors open at the opposite end of the corridor, he wasn’t the least bit happy about it.
Keeping his cool, he turned toward the stairs and refused to look back even though he could hear footsteps. His goal was to reach the street while being noticed by the fewest number of people possible, and turning around would only increase his chances of being identified.
With his free hand, he opened the door to the stairwell and started his journey down.
For the first few floors, things were going well. He was alone on the stairs and making good time. He assumed his next trouble spot would be the lobby. Desk clerks tended to be nosy. A team of doormen and bellhops would be posted by the entrance, offering to help him with his bags. And hotel guests would be milling around, waiting for friends and family.
Once he survived that gauntlet, he figured he’d be home free.
But it wasn’t to be.
Jones realized there was trouble when he heard the door above him open. It was the exact same door he had passed through a moment before on a floor that had few visitors. Either someone had exited a suite a split second after Jones had left the hallway
In his gut, Jones knew it was the latter.
Payne detected a problem the instant he saw Jones leave the hotel. Instead of turning toward the plaza as he was supposed to, Jones headed toward Nevsky Prospekt in the opposite direction.
“Shit,” Payne mumbled to himself, never taking his eyes off the exit.
“What’s wrong?” Allison asked.
“Time to go.”
Fifteen minutes earlier, Payne would have sent her to safety in the Hermitage Museum or one of the nearby buildings, but considering Grizzly’s warning about unfriendly soldiers in the area and the fact that Jones had altered their plans based on something he had seen inside the hotel, Payne couldn’t abandon her. He couldn’t take the chance that she would be accosted, arrested, or spotted by a hidden foe. That forced him to take her along while he figured out what to do.
Meanwhile, Jones kept moving forward, never running or doing anything that would call attention to himself. That told Payne a lot about the situation. Jones’s life wasn’t in immediate danger. If it had been, he would have signaled Payne to enter the fray or dropped the bags he was carrying and started shooting. But Jones’s methodical pace and calm demeanor meant he was being followed. Or at least he thought he was.
It was up to Payne to figure out if that was true.
And if so, by whom?
Allison walked beside him as Payne crossed the street toward the hotel. The entire time he studied the exit, watching everyone who left the building. An elderly couple appeared first, then a woman in a dress, then a bellhop. None of them turned toward Jones, so they weren’t the shadow that Payne was searching for.
