“Why?”
“Because now we know we’re up against something we don’t understand. Unfortunately, we can’t do anything about that right now—not until Parthenon is over.”
“So, how long do we suspend our other operations?”
“Let’s decide that after tomorrow morning’s preliminary meeting.”
“Excuse me: what meeting is that?”
“Just before you returned, the Indonesians called. They are in Athens and they want an early morning confab out here.”
“Wonderful way to start the day. One final question: the planning for Riordan’s Trojan Horse invasion defense tactic—do we keep working on it?”
Nolan nodded. “We’ve got to—even if only to continue gathering personnel and prepositioning hidden caches of munitions and other supplies.”
“Very well. And what case code do we assign to the operation?”
Nolan stared then smiled. “Case Timber Pony.”
“How droll. Goes with the theme, I suppose. Do we need codes for anyone other than Odysseus and Calypso?”
“Yes.” He aimed a finger at Downing. “‘M’ for Mentor.”
“‘M?’ You’re giving that label to me, a British overseer of spies? That’s either a very bad joke or you have a very poor knowledge of tawdry spy fiction.”
“Neither: it’s just a code from The Odyssey—and it fits.”
“Very well. Any others?”
“Yes. Whoever—or whatever—is responsible for our closed-room mysteries will be—”
“‘Circe’?”
“See? You’re getting the hang of this.” Corcoran tossed back the last of his Metaxa. “And now I will walk off my daily indulgence. Could you get a security detail to cover my sunset stroll to the temple with Riordan?”
Downing reached for the handset of the secure land line. “I’ll get you two.”
CIRCE
He leaned his brow against the binoculars: two dim figures moved slowly up the drive toward the fading silhouette of the Temple of Poseidon. He leaned back, checked his watch, jotted down the time on the notepad.
He turned to face the plate that was perched on the edge of the laundry table. Dominating the center of the unadorned white porcelain dish was a barely diminished cube of feta, surrounded by a litter of olive pits and a dusting of crumbs. He reached over the spoor of his dinner, closed his fingers gently around the orange resting at the center of the table. He lifted it slowly, studying it. He bobbed his hand once, as if feeling the heft of it, then brought it closer, up to his nose. He sniffed, tentatively at first, then sniffed again. He exhaled, then breathed in deeply through his nose: as he did, he smiled. He turned the orange round in his hand, rubbing his finger over its surface, inspecting both its stem and base briefly before cradling it upright in his left hand. With the precise and focused intent of a surgeon, using the two-centimeter-long fingernail of his right middle finger, he made three quick, successive sweeps around the stem. He studied the incisions carefully: then, using a neatly trimmed right index finger, he pried away the top of the orange, which—already having been mostly sheared from the rest of the skin—came off easily. He held the fruit to his nose once more, breathed in deeply, smiled again, put it down next to his dinner plate.
He turned and leaned toward the binoculars, rotated them to the right. The two figures were already at the end of the headland, walking across the ruin’s flat central expanse. One silhouette—lean, long-legged—seemed to be wandering a bit. The other silhouette—perhaps two centimeters taller and more thickly built—moved with unswerving surety to the center of the ocean-facing row of columns. That silhouette stepped down the stairs leading toward the overlook and came to a halt, staring out to sea; the other silhouette hopped down to join him.
He smiled, counted the number of pillars to the right of the two silhouettes, counted the number to the left, checked his watch, wrote it down on his pad. He leaned back toward the binoculars while reaching for the orange. Both silhouettes remained motionless.
Still watching, still smiling, he inserted his right index finger under the lacerated skin of the orange and pushed it down toward the base, as far as it would go. Then he pulled his finger slowly outward, away from the heart of the fruit.
The skin bulged and ripped and released its life in a dense, fragrant spray.
Chapter Twenty
ODYSSEUS
Sounion National Park’s meeting facility was hardly what Caine pictured as the setting for a rendezvous with global destiny. Collages of photographs sent by appreciative visitors took the place of the somber busts of statesmen. Simple prefab construction did not deliver the sense of dignity that would have been imparted by well-varnished wood paneling and brass fixtures. No, to judge from the surroundings, the fate of the world was going to be determined in a trailer-park meeting hall.