***DISCLAIMER***
This is only a sample of the full novel. If you would like to read the complete story, you can find it on Amazon in paperback and ebook.
Thanks,
Joe
Athens, 1957
Rex didn't know how he was going to get out of this one. All he wanted to do was have a drink after a long day and then slowly work his way back to the rooms he was renting. Not likely now.
Just my luck, he thought as he backed up and raised the chair he was holding a little higher. Unfortunately, he was backing away from the door and into a corner.
"Look, fellas, let's all calm down and talk this out," he said warily. "How about a round of drinks on me?" He doubted if his charm could help him out this time. These didn't look like the type of people that a smile and a kind word would sway.
The three enormous men kept advancing on him, eyes blazing, and hands bunched into fists. They were all armed, angry, and now very wet. Also, apparently none of them spoke English, so Rex's words had little effect on them. He had tried Greek, but he was more versed in ancient Greek than modern. And these gentlemen didn't look like the type that read Plato. Luckily, none of them had drawn the daggers that hung at their waists. Not yet, at least.
Rex was debating his next move when the door to the dank bar burst open and a large, jovial man entered with a laugh. In his hands were several chickens, hanging by their feet and clucking softly.
"Ha ha! I told you I would find them! Even at this time of night! You owe me a drink," Zidan bellowed. He stopped dead in his tracks and looked from his friend in the corner to the three men now staring in his direction, confused by his sudden entrance.
Rex didn't hesitate, though. In their moment of distraction, he threw the chair he was holding at them, grabbed his lucky cane off the table, and sprinted for the door and salvation.
As Rex ran through the doorway, he shouted back, "Come on, Zidan!"
Zidan batted one of the men back with the handful of chickens, overturned the nearest table into their path, and turned to follow Rex, slamming the door in the face of their pursuers. He and Rex ran across the street to Zidan's jeep, jumped in, and sped away from the bar. The wet, angry men shouted Albanian curses and shook their fists at the departing vehicle.
When they were several blocks away, Zidan turned to Rex. "What was that all about?" he asked as he unceremoniously deposited the chickens in Rex's lap. The streets of Athens were narrow and Zidan needed both hands to navigate the jeep through them in the dark.
"Just a misunderstanding. One minute I'm drinking, minding my own business, and then I hear someone mention Schliemann." He saw Zidan's brow furrow at the name. "I suppose I might have been startled and knocked the server, and her tray full of drinks, onto those guys. Still a bit jumpy, I guess," Rex explained. He breathed in the cool night air to calm his nerves.
"Do you still have it?" Zidan asked, slowing the jeep to a manageable speed.
"Of course." Rex pushed the chickens onto the floorboard and lifted the flap of his satchel so Zidan could see the glint of gold and delicate designs of the artifact securely held inside. "After what we went through, I'm not letting those goons have it."
Two months ago, Rex had learned through his back-channel connections that Andromache Schliemann, daughter of the famed archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, had intended to sell the Mask of Agamemnon on the black market. The mask was a funeral covering made of pure gold, dating to around 1500 B.C., and was found in one of the grave circles of Mycenae. While there was nothing directly tying it to the legendary Greek king mentioned in the Iliad, it was obviously adorning the grave of a person of nobility and wealth. Besides, the "Mask of Agamemnon" had a better ring to it than "the Mask of a King from the Late-Helladic period." Once christened as the Mask of Agamemnon by Heinrich Schliemann, the name stuck. It was considered a national treasure in Greece and nearly priceless.
After Heinrich had found the mask in 1876, he donated it to the National Archaeological Museum in Athens but had included the stipulation that he or any member of his family could visit and examine the mask at any time. Andromache must have switched it for a fake at her last visit and intended to auction off the real mask. The thought of Andromache profiting from the sale of a historical artifact her father had found made his blood boil. So, of course, that left only one option. Steal it before the auction and replace it with another fake. What could go wrong?
"You aren't joking," Zidan agreed. "Why do I let you pull me into your schemes and plans?" He shook his head while keeping an eye on the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed.
"We couldn't just let Andromache sell it off to the highest bidder," Rex countered. "And we couldn't afford to buy it ourselves. So we had to steal it. It was the only logical thing to do. Besides, I've been pulled into plenty of your schemes. You owe me."
Zidan grumbled something under his breath but couldn't argue. Rex and Zidan had known each other for years, first meeting when Rex was on a study abroad trip in Egypt, Zidan's home country. As a young student, Rex had been working at Giza, sketching the pyramids when a shadow fell on his paper. He had looked up to see Zidan smiling down at him and asking if he wanted a special tour of the inner chambers. After they had become lost and nearly killed in a booby-trapped tomb, they became fast friends and continued to work together on and off on projects around the world. Until the war broke out.
Zidan had been stuck in Egypt and eventually joined up with the British army as they defeated first the Italians, then the Germans. A large, burly man, he was known throughout Egypt and the Mediterranean as a first-class excavator. His effusive charm and love of history permeated his being and encouraged everyone around him at the excavation sites. After the war, he continued his archaeological work without interruption. Unless he was called to help his old friend.
"Fine," Zidan acquiesced. "But next time Monty gives you an assignment, how about one in France? Something in wine country or near the beach?" He narrowly avoided a farmer herding his goats across the street.
Rex chuckled at Zidan's request. They both knew that the "assignments" from Montgomery Pendleton, Monty to anyone who knew him, were as random as they were sporadic. Rex had spent his time during the last World War as a Monuments Man. Fresh-faced with his Art History degree under his arm he had spent the better part of the war traipsing across northern Europe for the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program cataloging damage to churches, inventorying museums that had been looted, and tracking down what the Nazis had plundered.
"I've spent enough time in France already," he said, absently rubbing his right knee. "I don't intend to go back just yet unless I have to." While on his last mission during the war, Rex had gotten a little too reckless trying to save a Van Gogh from the Nazis and had taken a bullet in the knee for his troubles. Three months later, he could finally walk out of the French hospital on his own. He didn't really need the cane he still carried, but had become used to holding it and considered it a good luck charm. The three-foot blade hidden inside had also helped him out of some tricky situations.
After the war, he had stayed behind, relinquishing his post at the Smithsonian to take up a new one at the British Museum. He was now their Loans Curator, tracking all the comings and goings of the collection and ensuring that everything was accounted for and in its place. He also found time to teach the occasional archaeology or art history class at King's College in London. His odd American accent, prematurely salt and pepper hair, and charming good nature made him a favorite of the students.
But those positions provided cover for what he considered his genuine job, hunting down stolen artifacts on the black market and returning them to their rightful owners. It was a thankless job since they operated out of the shadows, part of a department that technically didn't exist. Even so, with the Cold War in full swing, some countries weren't too keen on an ex-pat American gallivanting through their countries, so everything had to be clandestine. He assumed there were similar teams working in Asia, South America, and other parts of the world, but his superiors kept him in the dark about them. It was for his own safety and to give them plausible deniability.
"That mask," Zidan grumbled. "Nothing but trouble. Why couldn't we just ask Monty to buy it? Or call the authorities?" Montgomery Pendleton was Rex's contact within the British government. Coming from a wealthy aristocratic family that had influenced British politics in one way or another for the past two hundred years, he had worked his way up the bureaucracy quickly. Ever eager to expand his reach, he had jumped at the chance to lead a group of secret teams hunting down precious artifacts around the world. He called them the Artifact Recovery and Repatriation Organization Worldwide, or ARROW for short.
ARROW was his own personal crusade to right wrongs that had been perpetrated against those that couldn't defend themselves while also preserving history. Besides, the exposure of returning the artifacts to the various foreign leaders would raise his esteem in their eyes and be useful when he had to call in favors in the future. Therefore, he would pass information to Rex, send him on assignments, and occasionally requisition supplies and funds to assist on his missions. Rex didn't hear from Monty very often, but when he did, he knew things were about to get hairy.
"Pendleton? He needed more proof. He didn't trust the message I received from my old co-worker Barnes about Andromache selling the mask. I suppose it was a bit cryptic. And Barnes did get fired for trying to sneak a few silver coins out of the Spanish shipwreck exhibit and into his pocket. And calling the authorities was never an actual option. The local police here won't touch the Schliemanns. They're like royalty."
As far as they knew, the plan to recover the mask had gone off without a hitch. But hearing the name in the bar back there worried Rex. Had Andromache already discovered the fake? Did she suspect him? He had come to Greece under other pretenses, but knew that it was a matter of time before the theft was discovered. It was time to leave.
"Step on it, Zidan," Rex said, picking up his cane and running his fingers over the polished silver head. Just holding it made him feel better. "I want to get to the hotel and out of Athens tonight. Something's up. I have a bad feeling about this."
"Don't be so down," Zidan said, regaining his good nature easily. "My brother is waiting for us at the hotel. He can handle anything."
Rex thought of Zidan's brother and how might handle things in his own way and grimaced.
"That's what I'm afraid of."