Lost City (NUMA Files 5)

MacLean closed the shutters so his room was dark and cool. He slept through the worst of the afternoon heat, then got up and splashed cold water on his face. He stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and was surprised to see the Harrises standing near the old whitewashed chapel in the monastery courtyard.

Gus and his wife were taking pictures of the monastery. They waved and smiled when they saw him, and MacLean went out and offered to show them his room. They were impressed by the workmanship in the dark wood paneling. Back outside again, they gazed up at the sheer cliffs behind the building.

"There must be a wonderful view from up there," Emma said.

"It's a bit of a hike to the top."

"I do a lot of bird-watching back home, so I'm pretty fit. Gus is in better shape than he looks." She smiled. "He used to be a football player, although it's hard to believe now."

"I'm an Aggie," Mr. Harris said. "Texas A and M. There's more of me now than there was back then. Tell you what, though, I'll give it a try."

"Do you think you could show us the way?" Emma asked MacLean

"I'm sorry, I'm leaving on the hydrofoil first thing tomorrow." MacLean told them they might make the climb on their own if they got started early before the sun got too hot.

"You're a dear." She patted MacLean on the cheek in motherly fashion.

He was grinning, admiring their pluck as he watched them depart along the path that ran along the seawall in front of the monastery. They passed Angelo, who was coming back from town.

The monk greeted MacLean then turned to look at the couple. "You have met the Americans from Texas?"

MacLean grin turned to a puzzled frown. "How did you know who they were?"

"They came by yesterday morning. You were up there on your walk." He pointed to the old city.

"That's funny, they acted as if this was their first day here."

Angelo shrugged. "Maybe when we get old, we'll forget, too."

Suddenly, MacLean felt like the staked goat in his nightmare. A cold emptiness settled in his stomach. He excused himself and went back to his room, where he poured himself a stiff shot of ouzo.

How easy it would have been. They would have climbed to the top of the rock and asked him to pose for a photo near the edge. One shove and down he would go.

Another accident. Another dead scientist.

No heavy lifting. Not even for a sweet old history teacher.

He dug into the plastic bag he used for his dirty laundry. Buried at the bottom was the envelope full of yellowing news clips which he spread on the table.

The headlines were different, but the subject of each story was the same.

SCIENTIST DIES IN AUTO ACCIDENT. SCIENTIST KILLED IN HIT-AND-RUN.

SCIENTIST KILLS WIFE, SELF. SCIENTIST DIES IN SKIING ACCIDENT.

Every one of the victims had worked on the Project. He reread the note: "Flee or die!" Then he put the Herald Tribune clip in with the

others and went to the monastery's reception desk. Angelo was going through a pile of reservations.

"I must leave," MacLean said.

Angelo looked crestfallen. "I'm very sorry. How soon?"

"Tonight."

"Impossible. There is no hydrofoil or bus until tomorrow." , "Nevertheless, I must leave and I'm asking you to help me. I can make it worth your while."

A sad look came into the monk's eyes. "I would do this for friendship, not money."