Read The Alpha Deception Online
Authors: Jon Land
Back then, and before, Pamosa Springs wasn’t exactly a boom town, but it certainly showed some of the signs. The natural hot springs running out of the Lake San Cristóbal area hadn’t yet dried up, and a fair number of visitors passed through after sampling a bath with purported rejuvenating qualities. Silver veins in the San Juans kept miners busy enough to need a place to sleep, eat, and buy equipment, and the railroad built a freight yard in the town with plans to lay track to connect up with the Durango and Silverton narrow gauge. But then the silver veins went dry, and the railroad went bankrupt even before reaching the nearest reservoir. The population of Pamosa Springs shrank from just over 2,000, and there were soon almost as many vacant houses as occupied ones.
The town’s present residents had stuck things out figuring there was still more good in Pamosa Springs than bad. Many had seasonal jobs at the neighboring ski resorts that kept them away for good parts of the season, which often stretched up to eight months. Others ran mail-order businesses or claimed to be artists. Still more commuted to work in cities up to 150 miles away. You could live like a king for practically nothing in Pamosa Springs as long as you didn’t expect too much. Nobody ever died poor in the town, but nobody ever got rich, either.
Until now maybe, some of the residents might say guardedly.
It had been an especially harsh winter in this part of Colorado, and the runoff that accompanied the spring thaw caused massive erosion and several minor landslides through the San Juans and the accompanying hillsides. A few hills bled their bellies open.
With silver running high in the town’s past, the first thought of the residents was that the shiny stones pulled from the dirt and rocks were more of the blessed mineral. Fact was, there were at least six different kinds of stones pulled from the mountainside and none of them was silver, which was not to say none of them was valuable. On the contrary, several held great promise, including some that looked like pink diamonds, and samples were sent off to the National Assayer’s Office in Washington for identification. The residents of Pamosa Springs sat back patiently to wait for the results.
Nothing had been heard in three weeks now, and life in Pamosa Springs mostly held to its menial normalcy. The local movie house held over a double feature of
Rambo
and
Red Dawn
for the ninth consecutive week. The town’s women composed their twentieth letter to Jerry Falwell, pleading with him to appear at their annual luncheon. Gearing up for the coming elections, a newsletter reminded residents that last time out, the Republican presidential candidate had carried Pamosa Springs with ninety-two percent of the vote.
And Hal Taggart continued losing customers. Since he operated the only sit-down restaurant in the Springs, this should have been impossible. But Taggart had detoured into misery and isolation since his son’s death in Beirut four years back, and some would say he’d gone clear around the bend. He’d been gone for three weeks after getting the news and disappeared for another two a few months later. Since then his bar and grill had become strictly a grill, open at sporadic, unreliable hours. And now when it was open, no one showed up. But Taggart washed the dishes regardless and talked up a storm to himself. Some said there were nights when he served up platefuls of the daily special to customers who weren’t there. And lately he had taken to shooting the rats in his storage room with an old .22 hunting rifle that hadn’t fired straight in a decade. The rats survived, and the town grew used to the quick blasts coming from inside the grill.
It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon when Hal Taggart caught a whole squadron of rats munching away at his cereal supplies. He was searching desperately for his rifle when the first of the army trucks pulled off the access road into the outskirts of town. The sight of what might have been an entire company rolling in with full battle dress and gear—jeeps, a dozen trucks, and squat-looking armored things with slats for machine gun barrels—grabbed the eyes and ears of just about everyone. Many ventured tentatively into the streets to watch the soldiers climb from the trucks and begin deployment, obeying the orders of a man dressed in fatigues but wearing a beret instead of a helmet.
Hal Taggart had located his rifle just as the company had pulled into town, but the damn rats had scurried before he could sight down on them. The smelly things were rushing out through a hole in the wall between the grain sacks. Taggart had just had enough. Gun ready, he rushed out the grill’s back door and gave chase down Main Street in the rats’ trail.
“You fucking bastards!”
Taggart’s cry carried down Main Street, followed rapidly by his charging frame with gun cradled in his arms.
The rest happened so fast that it seemed not to be happening at all.
A pair of soldiers saw Taggart coming and leveled their guns at him. He slowed but didn’t stop; his sad eyes were on the rats, and he was aware of nothing else. He was still giving chase when both soldiers fired. A pair of staccato bursts, and Hal Taggart was tossed backward, midsection and apron drenched in blood, arms and legs twitching when he landed.
The rest of the soldiers turned their weapons on the townspeople who were standing in the street in shock. Fingers grasped for triggers, uncertain of what to do next as people began rushing about with no clear sense of purpose.
“Cease fire!” screamed the bereted leader. “Cease fire!”
The echoes of a few random shots sifted down Main Street. Somewhere glass shattered. Then came stunned silence as the people of Pamosa Springs became prisoners in their own town.
Athens: Wednesday, noon
IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON
Wednesday before McCracken was settled in Athens. The journey had taken twenty taxing hours, thanks to a trio of plane changes deemed necessary in case Sundowner tried to have him followed.
He checked into a small hotel located in the center of the city’s modern section. The clerk spoke good enough English to help him ascertain that Kapo Stadipopolis, the antique dealer from whom Earnst had received the Atragon crystals, maintained his shop in the
heart of the famed Monastiraki Square.
Blaine would head there as soon as he managed to get washed and changed.
Spring in the Mediterranean was traditionally warm, and once back in the streets he wore only a light jacket over his shirt to keep his shoulder holster concealed. He found the city of Athens to be a paradox, but a pleasant one. It blended the modern flavor, luxury, and sense of a national and commercial capital with the ancient traditions that provided the city its fame. From his hotel in Omonia Square, Blaine had intended to walk to Stadipopolis’s shop, but he had underestimated the distance and hailed a cab instead. The driver proceeded due south down Athena Street and deposited him in the heart of the Athens shopping district.
In effect, Monastiraki Square marked the beginning of Old Athens or the
Plaka.
The Square itself was formed by three intersecting streets lined with shops and open-air markets of every kind. As usual, it was bustling with activity. The hot sun beat down, but the shoppers seemed not to mind, some simply strolling, others negotiating with shopkeepers in search of the best possible bargain. Waiters in long white aprons struggled to keep up with the flow of the many patrons in and out of the various outdoor cafes. Merchants selling their wares out of boxes or platforms in the street called eagerly to tourists as they passed, changing languages as frequently as smiles.
According to the hotel clerk, Kapo Stadipopolis’s antique shop was located in the center of Pandrosos Street, and Blaine made his way toward it. He was feeling quite secure. No one could possibly know that he had gone to Greece, and he took considerable comfort in that.
Stadipopolis’s shop, called “Kapo’s,” was as simple as Earnst’s parlor had been lavish. It was wedged between two other buildings, one a fruit market and the other a bakery specializing in uniquely Greek creations. Blaine passed the shop twice from the outside and saw it was packed from floor to ceiling with artifacts at various prices, all labeled in both drachmas and dollars. There were voices coming from inside, a seller—Stadipopolis probably—arguing with a prospective buyer. Blaine entered and heard the slight tinkling of windchimes. There was little room to maneuver amid the clutter near the entrance, and he moved forward.
“Not a penny less, I tell you,” a curly-haired Greek with a thick mustache was insisting. “One hundred American dollars.”
“Fifty,” replied a well-dressed man with a woman tight by his side. McCracken felt he was trying to impress her with his negotiating ability.
The Greek held up a vase. “Mister, this is hundreds of years old. You want to go home and show off something authentic or go home and brag about how you talked a poor merchant into a bargain for something less? It’s a crime what you do to us. You think I won’t be able to sell this to the next person who walks through that door? You think I won’t?”
“All right,” the man relented, “seventy-five.”
“Hah! Seventy-five, he says. I pay eighty for this and he offers seventy-five like he’s doing me a favor. How are my children supposed to eat if I lose money on all my transactions? You have children perhaps?” he asked the woman.
“No,” she replied, slightly embarrassed.
“Well, I do. Seven of them. Each looks like their mother, thank God. I tell you this, I been married to her twenty wonderful years, since I was seventeen. You married that long?”
The couple said nothing.
“We start young here. In Greece, you start young with everything. Even business. I can sell this to you for less than what I paid under no circumstances. Nothing personal. The next man through the door will jump at it for one hundred, even one-twenty-five.” He noticed McCracken. “Hey you, come over here. What you think of this? Come, be honest… .”
Blaine walked over to the counter and squinted his eyes as he ran his fingers lightly over the vase. “Most impressive,” he noted professionally. “I’d say from the Hadrian period. Yes, the Ionic propylon markings definitely date it back to the second century
A.D.
, give or take a hundred years. I’ll offer you five thousand American for it.”
The young couple were already moving for the door, shaking their heads and not offering good-byes. The door opened and closed. The windchimes tolled softly again.
The curly-haired Greek was shaking Blaine’s hand enthusiastically, eyes wide. “I tell you this, my friend. They say I know more history than anyone on the Square, but you know more even than me. I respect you, so I let you have this piece for only, well, I’m in a good mood, say two thousand American.”
“I made it up,” Blaine told him.
“Huh?”
“I doubt anything from the Hadrian period of Greece has ‘Made in Japan’ stamped on its bottom.”
Stadipopolis found himself foolishly turning the vase upside down as McCracken ambled toward an open case of “authentic” Greek artifacts demanding incredible prices.
“I tell you this, my friend,” the Greek said, following him out from behind the counter. “You cost me money a few minutes ago. You owe me for that. There is maybe something—”
“I’m not buying,” Blaine said as he rotated a small green dish in his hand. Then he turned to the Greek. “I’m selling.”
“As you can maybe see, my inventory is a bit overstocked.”
“What I have to sell won’t take up much room, Mr. Stadipopolis.”
The Greek’s expression turned apprehensive. McCracken moved back toward the counter, Kapo Stadipopolis right behind him.
“How you know me, American?”
“Only by reputation.”
“How come I don’t know you?”
“Because we haven’t been introduced, nor are we about to be.”
“I don’t buy from strangers, I tell you this.”
“Really?” said Blaine, placing the small piece of Atragon Sundowner had let him take on the counter top. “What a pity …”
Stadipopolis’ eyes bulged. His lips trembled, and his olive skin paled.
“Wh-wh-where? H-h-how?”
“America. Erich Earnst. That’s all you need to know. The rest of the questions are mine.”
The Greek didn’t seem to hear him. “Who you work for?” he demanded fearfully. “Who send you?”
“I told you no more questions. Tell me about the crystals.”
“Nothing to tell.”
“Earnst said you shipped them to him by accident, men requested their return after they had been stolen.”
“Earnst is still
alive
?”
“He wouldn’t have been, if not for me.”
Another couple, this one older than the last, came through the door. The sound of windchimes followed them.
“Go away!” Stadipopolis roared. “Closed!”
The couple exited as quickly as they had entered.
“I kept Earnst alive,” McCracken said, “and I’ll keep you alive too—if you cooperate.”
“What makes you think I am in danger?”
“Mostly that if you don’t cooperate, I’ll make it known on the streets that you sold these crystals to me this day. It’s not hard to figure that you’re scared of somebody. How long do you think it’ll be before word filters from Monastiraki Square to them about what you sold me?”
“No!” Stadipopolis pleaded, hands clutching for his face. “You can’t!”
“For reasons you can’t begin to understand, I can. And I will unless we talk.”
“Not here,” the Greek said, eyes darting. “I might be watched. Is possible.”
“Where? When?”
“Tonight. Ten o’clock at Kerameikos Cemetery. You know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
The Greek started to move away. Blaine grasped his arm in an iron grip. “Set me up, Kapo, and I’ll know it. The man you’re frightened of might be a match for me but then again he might not. I’m betting not. I’d hate to have to make Monastiraki Square poorer by losing you. Place just wouldn’t be the same again.” Then, in words spoken like ice, “Don’t call him, Kapo.”
“I wouldn’t! I
couldn’t
!”
Blaine nodded at him, satisfied, and started to turn for the door, pocketing his crystal again.