to attack. How to defend. How to conquer. The lifestyle had been beaten into him when he was a boy, and now that he was in charge, he returned the favor to the next generation—just as his mentor had done for him.
That was how his village had survived. They followed the code of their ancestors.
When the police officers arrived, Apollo was waiting for them. He had watched their slow approach up the treacherous mountain road. It gave him more than enough time to tell the village to be on full alert. In this part of Greece, the local authorities rarely stopped by, and when they did, it was usually for a very specific reason. The last time was a month ago. The cops had been looking for two missing tourists who had gone camping in the Taygetos Mountains and hadn’t returned when they were supposed to. A couple of questions were asked, a flyer with their pictures was shown around, and the police departed soon after.
The whole process had taken less than fifteen minutes.
Apollo hoped for the same efficiency on their current visit.
“Hello,” George Pappas said in Greek. He knew the villagers preferred Laconian, their native tongue, but he wasn’t able to speak it. Neither could Manos or Constantinou.
Apollo wore sandals on his feet and a simple white tunic that hung to mid-thigh. He nodded at them but said nothing. He let his muscular physique and the coldness of his glare do his talking. One look from him stopped most men in their tracks.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Pappas said as he flashed his badge. “We were hoping you could help us with one of our cases.”
Apollo shrugged, refusing to say a word. Instead, he stared with unblinking eyes.
Somehow Pappas found the courage to return his stare. Not only did he have the backing of two armed officers, he was here on official Interpol business. That gave him the confidence he needed to stand up to this guy—even though he scared the hell out of Pappas.
“Stefan,” he said to Manos, “hand me the picture.”
Manos took a step forward, gave Pappas the surveillance photo from Metéora, and then took a quick step back. Meanwhile, Constantinou kept his hand on his gun and his head on a swivel.
Pappas studied the helmeted man in the photo and compared him with Apollo. No way were they the same person. Apollo was at least fifty pounds heavier with a much larger physique. Hell, his arms were nearly as thick as Pappas’s legs.
Side by side, Pappas and Apollo looked as if they belonged to two different species.
“We’re looking for the man in this picture. I’d appreciate if you could take a look.”
Apollo grabbed the photo, expecting it to be another missing tourist. Instead, the suspect in the photo was one of the soldiers that had accompanied him to Metéora.
This was not good. And very unexpected.
Apollo didn’t show surprise—he was too disciplined for that—but his mind started racing. How did the police have a photo from the monastery? What other evidence did they possess? Normally, he didn’t give much thought to the outside world, but on the eve of such an important mission, he knew he couldn’t afford any type of police interference.
He had to stop their inquiry before the cops had a chance to return to Spárti.
“Yes,” he said in fluent Greek. “I know the man. He is a troublemaker in our village. What has he done now?”
The response surprised Pappas. He was expecting to be stonewalled at every turn.
“I’m afraid I can’t say. Our investigation is still pending.”
Apollo nodded in understanding. “How can I help you?”
“Can you show us where he lives?”
“I can do better than that. I can bring him to you.”
Before Pappas could argue, Apollo called out to a few of his men who were lingering in the background, watching the proceedings unfold. When he spoke, his orders were in rapid Laconian. The language sounded similar to Greek, but there were enough differences that Pappas and the other officers weren’t sure what was being said, which made them uneasy.
Pappas immediately asked, “What did you say to them?”
“I said go get the troublemaker and bring him here.”
Pappas frowned. He knew more had been said. “Does the troublemaker have a name?”
“Of course. But you will need to ask him yourself. The code of my village prevents me from revealing his name. We have a code of silence.”
“What about your name? Are you allowed to tell me that?”
He nodded. “My name is Apollo. And yours?”
“George.”
“George,” he said