The Greek squadron duty officer averted his face from the woman standing in front of his desk. The small room was starting to fill up with pilots and NFOs wandering back after lengthy lunches, quick naps, and clandestine meetings with lovers — nooners, in military parlance — and he was hoping desperately that someone senior would walk in during the next several moments. Anyone, pilot or not, just someone who could answer the very difficult questions the woman was asking. Over the last five minutes, she’d becoming increasingly loud, and now her high- pitched voice was approaching a screech.
“You know where he is. Tell me
“I have not seen your husband for three days,” the duty officer said, trying for some semblance of official dignity. “He is not on the flight schedule.”
The woman snorted. “Excuses, excuses.” She turned as a particularly boisterous set of officers came into the room. The aviators recognized her immediately and fell as silent as the rest of the group. “You,” she said imperiously, pointing at one of them. “I know you. You fly with my Antipodes, yes?”
The RIO she’d pointed at turned pale. Dark circles around his eyes accented the haggard lines in his face. “No… no, I don’t know him.” He looked beseechingly at the rest of the officers. “I don’t know him.”
For just a moment, the woman looked uncertain. Then her expression hardened into determination. She abandoned the cowed duty officer and darted across the room and grabbed the RIO by his lapel. She shook him, then slapped him across his face. “You lie! You know where he is!”
The RIO seemed powerless to move, incapable of loosening the grip this madwoman had on his flight suit. The other aviators backed away from him.
“I… I…” the RIO stuttered, not knowing what he intended to say if he could ever regain control of his mouth. Then he had an inspiration. “Special duty — your husband is on special duty for General Arkady.”
“Ha!” she spat, but she turned loose of him. “And you said you did not know him.” She turned to fix a piercing glare on the rest of the men. “Cowards, every one of you. I shall go to General Arkady myself and demand an explanation.” She shouted a curse at the duty officer, then let herself out of the ready room, slamming the door behind her.
The assembled men let out a collective sigh. The deep gloom in the room deepened. Finally, the duty officer picked up the telephone. “I shall call Colonel Zentos,” he said to the room at large. “If he can reach her…” He let his voice trail off as he dialed the chief of staff’s telephone number. The rest of his sentence went unspoken, but every man knew what he’d intended to say.
FIVE
This time of year, the evenings in Greece were long and glorious. Sunshine hung in the air for an impossibly long time, keeping tourists out on a narrow cobblestone road. Traffic was light, since most people preferred to walk in this ancient city carved out of the hills. Roads ran at seemingly random angles up and down the hills, but all eventually returned to the main marketplace. The air was still warm, redolent with the sharp spice of cooking, the pungent smell of a city that spent its days drenched in sunshine. Whitewashed walls contrasted with the perfusion of flowers and foliage. Many of the walls had stood for centuries, refurbished on the outside with fresh coats of paint, but essentially structurally stable over the years.
For Brad and Clara Summit, it was the honeymoon of a lifetime. It was what they’d planned on, saved their pennies and scrimped for during the eighteen months they’d been engaged in order to afford their dream beginning to their life together. Married only three days earlier in Minneapolis, Minnesota, they had flown straight into Athens, rented a car, and driven north to Tavista.
“It’s all too perfect,” Clara exclaimed. She paused next to a streetside vendor, inhaling deeply and letting the spices suffuse her senses. “Everything I dreamed of — and you.” She turned to face her new husband, love gleaming in her eyes. “It could not be more perfect, Brad. And neither could you.”
Brad reached out and pulled her close, still marveling that this wonderful woman had agreed to spend her life with him. At thirty-three, he’d given up hope of ever finding the perfect mate. But then Clara had appeared in his life, a graduate student auditing his course in ancient English literature. He’d always insisted that it was her mind that attracted him first, but in his heart of hearts, he knew better. It had been her eyes, deep azure, a match for the unbelievable water they’d flown over in the descent to Greece. He’d never seen that particular color before, and spent hours musing over the fact that the very edge of her pupil was shot through with golden streaks. A lifetime would be too short to delve into all the mysteries those eyes held.
“Me, too,” he said, then silently berated himself for not coming up with more perfect words. Shouldn’t an English professor be able to do better than that? Maybe quote a sonnet, at least be able to put into words how very much he loved her. But he settled for saying it again. “Me, too.”
They lingered for a moment, standing close on the sidewalk with their arms wrapped around each other. Pedestrians simply veered around them, some pausing to chuckle or smile wistfully at the sight of a couple so much in love. Finally, Clara pulled back slightly. “I’m famished. How about some lunch, then we go back to our hotel room?”
Brad chuckled. “Then what?”
Suddenly, he could hardly wait. He pointed at a cafe just off the main road. “How about there?”
Clara didn’t even look at it. “Perfect. Come on, then.” Brad led the way to the cafe, hoping the food would be good. It had been at most of the local spots that they’d eaten in, and he was thankful that neither of them were prone to Montezuma’s Revenge.
They seated themselves, their eyes grateful for a break from the sunshine. Once their orders were placed, they went back to staring into each other’s eyes.
Without warning, a violent explosion rocked the cafe. Clara, who had had her back to the door, was thrown over the table and landed on top of him. The table followed, slamming into the back of her head and driving her face into his neck. He could feel her teeth graze his skin, the hard weight of her body on his underneath the old wooden table. For a moment, his world consisted of nothing more than Clara’s weight and a violent wash of sound.
There was a moment of silence. Then the screaming started, panicky wailing, as the patrons tried to make some sense of the world. Brad heard himself cry out, his voice harsh and anguished. He reached around Clara, and tried to shove the table off of her body. It resisted, then slipped partway off so the weight was resting on one edge to the side. He bucked, forcing it up for a second. As it moved, he slid to the side, dragging Clara with him. Cut glass slashed into his hand. He cried out again, for a split second oblivious to anything except the pain.
The noise, there was so much noise. It was overwhelming, a chorus of voices screaming out in pain and anguish.
Then it hit him. The only one not screaming was Clara. He bent over, his own pain forgotten, and cradled her face in his hands. “Clara? Oh my God, Clara!”
Her eyes were half shut, the perfect orbs that haunted his dreams rolled back under her eyelids. Her mouth was slack.
He bent over, moaning, trying frantically to escape the moment that he knew was careening toward him. It wouldn’t be long from now, not long at all. It bore down on him with an awful inevitability that frightened him beyond all reason.
Clara’s face was unmarked, the smooth clear skin still flushed by the blood that had moments before pounded in her veins. There was not a mark on the front of her, and he felt cold dread growing at what he must do.
Gently, no longer calling out her name, he rolled her slightly onto her side. Warm wetness flooded through his fingers. He moved his hand up her body to the base of her neck, then down her back. Mangled tissue slipped under his fingers, evidence of the deadly impact she had taken from behind. The noise in the room receded as his future
