She mumbled something in Russian, then gave him a bronze coin and a handful of change.
His ticket to freedom cost him less than an American quarter.
Jones hustled toward the turnstile, put the token in the slot, and pushed through the revolving bar. An arched hallway funneled all the passengers toward a long bank of escalators. Jones thought nothing of it until he reached the top step and had a chance to look down. The escalator was so long he couldn’t see the bottom, as though it were going all the way to Hell.
The person behind him pushed him gently, urging him in Russian to keep moving.
Jones nodded, stepped forward, and started his descent to the tunnels below.
Suddenly, he found himself trapped for the next several hundred feet. He couldn’t run or hide or change directions. His options were blocked by a waterfall of people, all of them inching forward at the same pace. Frustrated, Jones looked at his watch, wondering how long this journey was going to take. When the woman in front of him pulled out a novel, he groaned.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said to himself.
But there was nothing he could do about it.
He was stuck until he reached the bottom.
Earlier in the week, Kozlov had purchased a Metro card worth several subway trips. So there were no lines or delays for him. He walked through the turnstiles, barely breaking his stride.
This helped him close the gap.
Up ahead, he spotted the black man carrying the three bags. At no point did his target turn around and look for someone behind him.
The guy was either crafty or clueless, Kozlov didn’t know which.
But he would find out when they reached the labyrinth below.
The trip took forever. At least it seemed that way to Jones.
Finally, the people in front of him gathered their things and stepped off the escalator. One by one, they scattered in both directions toward the different tracks.
The vaulted ceiling arched above him, lit by recessed lighting. The floor was made of polished stone. No trash or graffiti stained the terminal. The place was spotless. Jones stared at the sign on the wall in front of him. It was written in Russian. No translations of any kind.
“Damn,” he muttered.
This was going to be tougher than he thought.
Glancing to his left, he saw a neon sign with green Cyrillic text. To his right, one was written in blue. He couldn’t read any of the words, but he knew the blue trains went north and south. He remembered that fact by thinking of the map he had studied earlier in the day. In his mind, the north arrow pointed up toward the blue sky above.
And north was the direction that he was supposed to go.
Wasting no time, he hustled to his right and looked for another sign. The vaulted corridor stretched for a hundred feet before it branched again. This time both of his choices were written in blue. One was going north; the other was going south. He stood there in the intersection, calculating his options, as people streamed past him in both directions. The sound of screeching brakes echoed in his ears, followed by a whoosh of air and the heat of a surging train.
Or maybe that was Kozlov breathing down his neck.
44
The leader of the Spartans was named Apollo. His name was derived from the ancient Laconian word apollymi, which meant “to destroy.” And that was how he viewed himself, as a destroyer. His entire life had been dedicated to the art of war. How 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.