The Mediterranean Caper (Dirk Pitt 2)

The Maybach’s engine quietly came to life and the driver shifted through the whisper silent gears, moving the Immense car over the road in the direction of Liminas.

Pitt rolled down a door window and studied the fir and chestnut trees dotting the mountain slopes, and the age-old olive trees lining the narrow beaches. Every so often, small fields of tobacco and wheat broke the uneven landscape and reminded him of the small farms he had often seen when flying over the southern United States.

Soon the car cruised through the picturesque village of Panaghia, splashing an occasional puddle that marred the elderly cobbled streets. Most of the houses Were painted white to reflect the summer heat. The roofs rose into the fading sky and nearly touched as their eaves leaned toward each other over the narrow Streets. In a few minutes Panaghia was left behind the Liminas soon came into view. Then the car abruptly turned, skirting the main section of the little city, and pointed its dinosaurian hood up a dusty cliff road. The incline was gradual at first, but quickly wormed into a series of steep hairpin curves.

Pitt could sense the driver struggling at the wheel of the Maybach; the lumbering town car was designed more for casual rides on the Unter den Linden than spring-breaking tours up mule trails. He looked over sheer precipices at the sea and wondered what would happen if another car came from the opposite direction.

Then he could see it ahead; a huge white square against the darkening gray cliffs. At last the curves ceased and the big diamond treaded tires slid smoothly onto the hard surface of a drive.

Pitt was adequately impressed. In size, the villa nearly matched the splendor of a Roman Forum. The grounds were well kept and there was an atmosphere of wealth and good taste. The entire estate nestled in a valley between two high mountain peaks and overlooked a sweeping panorama of the Aegean Sea. The main gate of a high wall opened mysteriously, apparently pulled by someone unseen, and the

chauffeur drove up a neat fir-lined drive without ceremony and braked at a flight of marble steps. In the center of the stairway a large archaic statue of a woman carrying a child stared down mutely, greeting Pitt as he stepped from the Maybach.

He started to climb the steps when he stopped suddenly and returned to the car.

“I’m sorry driver,” said Pitt. “But I didn’t catch your name.”

The driver looked up, puzzled. “My name is Willie. Why do you ask?”

“Willie. my friend,” Pitt said seriously, “I must tell you something. Will you step out of the car for a moment?”

Willie’s brows wrinkled but he shrugged and stepped from the car, facing Pitt. “Now Herr Pitt, what do you wish to tell me?”

“I see you wear jackboots, Willie.”

“Ja, I wear jackboots”

Pitt flashed his best used car salesman’s smile “And jackboots have hobnails, don’t they?”

“Ja, jackboots have hobnails.” said Willie irritably. “Why do you waste my time with such nonsense? I have duties to perform. What is it you wish to say?”

Pitt’s eyes grew hard. “My friend, I felt that if you want to earn your peeping-Tom merit badge, it’s my duty to warn you that silver-rimmed spectacles reflect the sun’s rays and can easily give your hiding place away.”

Willie’s face went blank, and he started to say something, but Pitt’s fist slammed into his mouth, cutting off the words. The impact jerked Willie’s head up and back, throwing his cap in the air. His eyes turned dull and empty, and he slowly swayed like a falling leaf to his knees. He knelt there looking dazed and lost. A stream of bloody mucus dropped from his broken nose and splattered over the lapels of his uniform, creating, what Pitt thought, a rather artistic effect against the gray-green material. Then Willie pitched forward onto the marble steps and folded into an inert heap.

Pitt rubbed the knuckles of his bruised hand, grinning in cold satisfaction. Then he turned and jogged up the steps, taking three at a time. At the top he passed through a stone archway and found himself In a circular courtyard with a glass-like pool in its center. The entire courtyard was encircled by twenty or more majestic life-sized statues of helmeted Roman soldiers. Their sightless stone eyes somberly stared at their white reflections in the pool as if searching for long forgotten memories of victorious battles and wars of glory. The deepening shadows of evening covered each figure with a ghostly cloak, giving Pitt the weird sensation that at any second the stone warriors would come alive and lay siege to the villa.

He hurried around the pool and stopped at a massive double door at the far end of the courtyard. A large bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head hung grotesquely on the door. Pitt raised the grip, banging it down hard. He turned and glanced at the courtyard again. The entire setting reminded him of a mausoleum. All it lacked, he thought, were a few scattered wreaths and some organ music.

The door swung open silently. Pitt peered across the threshold. Seeing no one, he hesitated a moment. The moment turned into a minute and the minute into two. Finally, tiring of hide-and-seek, he braced his shoulders, clenched his fists and stepped through the portal into an ornately decorated anteroom.

Tapestries depicting ancient battle scenes hung from every wall, their needlework armies marching in unison toward battle. A high dome capped the room, and from its arched apex, came a soft yellowish light. Pitt glanced around and saw that he was alone so he sat down in one of two carved marble benches that adorned the middle of the room, and he lit a cigarette. Time passed, and soon he began a futile search for an ashtray.

Then silently, with no warning, a tapestry swung aside, and an old, heavy-set man entered the room, accompanied by an immense white dog.

6

Pitt, mildly stunned, looked warily at the gigantic German shepherd and then into the face of the dog’s elderly master. The evil unsmiling features, so familiar on the late, late movies on television, sat entrenched on a typical round German face, complete with the shaven head, shifty eyes and no neck. Thin lips pressed tightly together as though their owner suffered from constipation. The body fit the villainous image too; heavy set in a rotund frame of solid tissue with no flab. All that was missing was a riding quirt and the polished boots. For an instant Pitt thought, “the man you love to hate, Eric von Stroheim, had returned to life

and stood ready to direct a scene from Greed.”

“Good evening,” the old man said in a suspicious guttural tone. “You are, I believe, the gentleman my niece invited to dinner?”

Pitt rose, one eye on the huge panting dog. “Yes sir. Major Dirk Pitt at your service.”

An expression of surprise furrowed the brow below the tight skinned head. “My niece led me to believe You were under the rank of sergeant, and your military Occupation was garbage collecting.”

“You must forgive my American humor,” said Pitt, enjoying the other man’s