The patmos deception, p.17
The Patmos Deception, page 17
Dimitri stood in the stern, waving them forward, one hand outstretched to help them over the gangplank. Nick bounded across, then Carey. She realized the engines were running because she smelled the diesel and felt the vibration rise up through her boots. She couldn’t hear anything else except the crowd’s fury.
Dimitri shouted words she couldn’t understand. She and Nick helped untie the boat and stow the gangplank while Dimitri rushed up the stairs and powered them away. A fish flew past Carey’s face, then a stone. The sailors responded by using their rifles like batons against the rabble.
Finally they were away, the din subsiding behind them. The day was clear and bright, the view an idyllic myth.
Nick offered her a shaky grin. “I sure hope you didn’t forget your toothbrush.”
“What just happened?”
“Not a clue. Let’s go ask.”
Now that the danger had passed, her legs felt so weak she could scarcely stand, much less climb the steep stairs. She watched Nick as he ascended to the wheelhouse, dropped her pack to the deck, and waited for her strength to return. A few minutes later, they slipped past the peninsula and the fortress on their way to open waters. Behind her, the harbor was as lovely as a painting. Of the mob, there was no sign now.
When she finally entered the wheelhouse, Dimitri greeted her with his sincerest apologies. “Are you all right?”
Carey nodded. Nick turned to her and said, “I was waiting for you to come up before I asked about the crowd.”
“For generations, sailors of the Dodecanese have worked by a set of unwritten rules,” Dimitri explained. “You know this word Dodecanese? It means the twelve islands. The largest of these are Samos, Ikaria, Patmos, Kalymnos, Kos, Rhodes, and Karpathos. We share the waters and we share the ports and we share the tourists. But with the crisis, this has broken down. The big man shouting, you saw him?”
“They all looked big to me,” Carey replied. “They were all shouting.”
“The biggest, his name is Stavros. He has tried to do the same as me, switch from fishing to tourism. But Stavros is a bully. He loves to fight. He scares the ladies.” Dimitri opened the throttles another notch. “Stavros has money. How he has this cash is a matter of much discussion. He wanted to buy my berth in Patmos, take over my business. I agreed. Then I changed my mind. Stavros was very angry. This morning he discovered I was here.”
Nick said, “Someone from our hotel probably told him you were carrying tourists.”
“Stealing his tourists from his island,” Dimitri corrected.
“What changed your mind about selling your business?” Carey asked.
Dimitri nodded slowly. “Yes. That is the question, is it not?”
“Will you tell us?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps I will answer all your questions. But first I must speak with my family.” His voice was grave, his features hollow. “They too must meet you. They must help me decide. Because the questions you wish to ask will endanger us all.”
31
Dimitri settled the two Americans into the nicest of the Patmos harbor-front hotels, then climbed the steep road to his home. As he walked, he phoned Duncan McAllister.
The man answered on the first ring. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you long before now.”
“I’m being watched.”
“You’re sure about this, are you? It’s not just idle fancy brought upon by an overdose of newfound wealth?”
“I told you about the naval officer who boarded my vessel when we were outbound for Cyprus. He was there on Kos. And I saw him talking to the two Americans.”
The casual jollity vanished, revealing the steel beneath the man’s polished veneer. “The officer spoke to the man and woman? You’re sure?”
“He sat with them at their table.”
“And then what?”
“They came down to the dock and asked me to ferry them to Bodrum.”
“Nice place, Bodrum.”
“They went to a gallery.”
“Did they mention which one?”
“Selim’s. It was closed.”
“Yes, it would be. Seeing as how the man has a nose for trouble and no gut for danger. None whatsoever.” Duncan pondered for a moment. “Then what?”
“They returned to my boat and asked me to take them to Ephesus.”
“What on earth did they expect to find in Ephesus?”
“It was the girl. Carey Mathers. She serves as the journalist’s researcher. She wanted to see the ruins.”
“So they claimed they wanted to play tourist. Then what?”
When Dimitri’s home came into view, he stopped and turned back toward the harbor. “They toured the site until sunset. Then I took them back to Kos.”
“Where I understand you had a touch of bother.”
“Stavros.”
“Lovely name, that. So where are they now, your Americans?”
“Here on Patmos. Booked into the largest hotel on the harbor.”
“Why on earth did you bring them to Patmos, lad?”
“I was doing as you said. Watch them. I can’t watch them on Kos. I can’t go back to Kos.”
“No. There is that.” Duncan went silent once more. “All right then. The journalist’s young researcher . . . is she as fetching as they say?”
“What does that—?”
“I’m hoping you can lay your significant charms on her, is all. Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle. Wait a sec.” He cupped the phone, then returned and said, “You know the café where we first met with your friend Stavros.”
“Of course.”
“Drop by there this evening. There’ll be a packet waiting for you at the bar. In it will be a new phone and a number where you’ll be able to reach me. Don’t use your old phone again, and don’t call this number.”
Duncan McAllister cut the connection. Only then did Dimitri unlock the tension in his chest. He used a shaky hand to swipe at the perspiration on his face. He started back up the hill—toward home.
Thankfully his grandmother was there when Dimitri arrived. She took one look at him and ordered him into the bath. Five minutes later, he eased into the nearly scalding water and used his father’s pumice brush on his skin. Normally he hated the abrasive feel, but today it added to the sense of cleaning beneath the surface. As though it might truly be possible to scrub away the stain of everything that surrounded him.
When he emerged, Chara had a meal ready. The hour did not matter. She had married into a clan who lived from the sea, and the tides set their own calendar. Dimitri ate three helpings of her grilled lamb and salad enhanced with mint from her own garden, then settled back into the patio chair, drinking the sun like he did the glass of tea.
He caught them up on all that had happened. He knew his story was disjointed, but there was no helping that. He related the discussion with Duncan McAllister and the trip to Kos and the two Americans. His grandmother and father exchanged glances over his description of the journalist and the researcher, but they did not speak.
When he was done, Chara asked, “So the two Americans are where?”
“I left them in the harbor hotel. They were exhausted. I suppose they are still there.”
Chara said, “You must ask them up. We must meet them.”
His father nodded and spoke quietly, “Do this now.”
But when Dimitri started to rise, his grandmother said, “No, wait. There is this other matter.”
He sank back. “I know. What should I do about Duncan?”
“No, no, the smuggler can wait. We are talking about the money. How much do you have?”
“After Sofia receives her share, with the second payment, I’m up almost seventy thousand euros.”
“You have it in your room?”
“I can’t take it to the bank.”
“Give it to me.”
“But Yaiyai—”
“I am selling my cottage. I am moving in here.” Her eyes sparked. “That is, unless you object.”
“You know I’ve been urging you to do this. But why now?”
“Your father asked. How can I say no to my two dear men?” Her hands were curled by age and hard years. The fingers scarcely moved as she gestured. “Give me the money. I will declare the one price, you understand?”
“For the tax man. Of course.”
“Who knows how much the cottage really brought? I will deposit your money with the payment for my home. In your name.”
He gaped at her. “It is happening immediately?”
“Tomorrow. Why wait? You know the Castellanos family. Their daughter is marrying. My cottage will be the dowry for the wedding. They have discussed this with me for some time.”
“But the money—”
“Is for you. And your future.”
“Yaiyai, I don’t know what to say.”
“The way you care for your father, the way you honor us both with this trust you give so freely, what is the value of more words?”
His father reached forward and gripped his son’s hand. “I am content.”
Chara’s eyes sparked again. “Now go and bring us this pair of Americans. And we will see if they are worth the risk their presence brings.”
32
Carey followed the two men up the steep incline, glancing around in delight. She was captivated by Patmos and the town of Skala. Other than the fortress monastery atop the highest peak, Patmos contained no great edifices, no vast ruins, no museum, and very little tourist wealth. But Carey decided this was part of its timeless charm.
Two people waited for them on the flagstone patio. The man was seated in a chair covered in cushions and a quilt, as if every bone was so frail that even his forearms needed soft support. He was dressed in clean trousers and a pressed shirt. An oxygen tank was partly hidden beneath the chair. Clear plastic tubes ran up and into his nostrils. He smiled and made a welcoming gesture when they appeared. Carey approached the chair and accepted the proffered hand with both of hers. She stood there, willing to wait for as long as he wanted. Dimitri’s father took his time inspecting her before turning and rasping a few words to his son.
Dimitri said, “Carey Mathers, Papa.” When his father spoke again, Dimitri translated, “My father says that you are welcome in our home.”
Carey smiled. “Now I see where you got your amazing eyes.”
His father wheezed a chuckle at Dimitri’s translation of her words. The old woman spoke for some time, and Dimitri translated, “The islanders say we are descended from the mercenaries who fought with Alexander. The rest of the world sees him as a hero, but to us he was just another Macedonian conqueror. Soldiers of fortune flocked to his banner.” Dimitri shrugged. “Legends have a long life in Greece.”
Carey turned to the grandmother. She saw a tiny figure, less than five feet tall, yet the woman carried herself with remarkable poise. And her smile was a thing of beauty. “My grandmother says you honor us by coming,” Dimitri continued.
“Please tell her I am grateful for her invitation.”
Carey took a seat and watched as they welcomed Nick. It seemed to her that their attention on him was short-lived, as though Nick wasn’t really the reason for this gathering. Which surprised her greatly. She had to assume Dimitri had spoken about them. Carey watched Dimitri hurry about, helping the grandmother lay out a series of small dishes and serve tea. He explained this was the traditional Greek form of hospitality, dishes called mezze that could be dined upon for hours. The patio table was soon jammed with plates of seasoned lamb, stuffed grape leaves, hummus, cheese, a salad of tomatoes and wild onions, and another of some chopped leaf that smelled of mint. On and on the dishes came. The grandmother watched approvingly as Carey ate. Nick spoke several times, thanking them for the meal and complimenting them on the food. Each time they acknowledged him politely, but then their attention returned to Carey. She didn’t find their inspection the least bit uncomfortable, only curious.
When she set her plate aside, Chara spoke and Dimitri translated, “I told my grandmother about what you said of Ephesus. She asks if you know the heritage of this island too.”
“Some. A little.”
“My grandmother says perhaps more than a little.”
There was something about the woman that reminded Carey of Nana Pat. On the surface, the two women couldn’t have been more different. This lady of the island, her face etched by hard winters and strong sun, dressed all in black, had little in keeping with the woman who had raised Carey. But somewhere in that gaze sparked the same timeless wisdom, the same rich vein of humor.
“I only know Patmos from books,” Carey said. “I do not really know the island at all.”
Chara liked that enough to smile. Dimitri translated, “She asks if you will repeat some of what you spoke of yesterday. She has never been to Ephesus.”
“But it’s so close. And you’re a boatman.”
“Many women of my grandmother’s generation did not leave their island home. I think this is one reason she feels so close to Sofia, my shipmate. Sofia was born restless. My grandmother likes how Sofia defies tradition and makes her own way.”
Carey glanced a question at Nick, but he had reverted to the same silent watchfulness as during their voyage. He showed no impatience, nor any interest in asking his questions. He merely watched.
So Carey repeated what she had said, pausing between sentences for Dimitri to translate, until the passion caught her up once more. Then the chair became constrictive, and the day too beautiful, and so she rose and paced and spun and weaved the story with her hands as well as her voice.
Carey explained how much of what she said was educated conjecture. She described how the academic world had become filled with so-called experts who liked to claim that the John of Patmos wasn’t the same as the apostle of Jesus Christ, how he might not have existed at all. And she countered these with arguments of her own. She described what the apostle would have heard from visitors to his island prison. How Rome was descending into decadence and chaos. How Nero soaked Christians in oil and burned them from stakes planted along the route leading to his palace. The Roman arenas held events pitting chained believers against lions and mercenaries skilled in the art of death. That a new name for Christians gradually became prevalent around the empire, the name Martyr. How despite the scorn and the opposition from so many different quarters, the numbers of Christians continued to swell.
And then John had his vision, she told them, and wrote down his Revelation. Within just a few years, copies of his letter had reached to every point in the Roman world and beyond. This was why Carey remained convinced that it was indeed the apostle of Jesus Christ who had been sent to Patmos.
She described how John wrote in an era when travel from Ephesus to the Roman province of Africa could take months, and such letters were often passed from hand to trusted hand. She mentioned several other revelations and prophetic announcements that arose during this same period. And yet within the space of a few short years, the entire world knew of John’s prophecy. Not one shred of evidence from that era suggested any of the recipients ever thought the Revelation might have been recorded by anyone other than the apostle. Of course the visions had been given to an apostle. And there she stopped.
She realized she had adopted her pose from the classroom, standing on her toes with her arms outstretched. Only now she had a steep descent and a lovely view stretching out behind her. She slipped back into her chair and said sheepishly, “Sorry. I get carried away.”
Dimitri watched Carey return to her seat and try to hide behind her cup of tea. There was a moment given to sunlight and birdsong and a gentle breeze off the harbor. Then Chara told her grandson, “This one’s passion is very beautiful.”
His father murmured, “Not just her passion.”
Dimitri translated, then watched Carey blush at the compliments. Chara rose from her chair and said, “Dimitri, come help me, please.”
Dimitri had become accustomed to doing everything around the house. It came with being an only son and loving an invalid father. Since childhood, his father had been his best friend. It was the reason he had put up with fishing for as long as he had. The hours he spent on the sea with his father had been the happiest of his life. Such things were hard to explain, to share with others, but as he drifted back and forth between the kitchen and the patio, he found himself describing his life for this American woman. Nick Hennessy, the investigative journalist, sat silent and watchful in the corner. He studied everything, but did so without intruding. It was possible to ignore him entirely.
Once fresh tea had been prepared and the glasses rinsed and refilled, once the meal had been taken away and a platter of desserts brought out, once the small plates had been washed and replaced, once he had checked on his father, Dimitri dropped into his chair and continued where he had left off.
“When my mother died, I started going out every day with my father on the boat.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven.”
“What about school?”
“Papa had a word with my teachers. They gave me the autumn off.” He glanced at his father, and confessed, “I hated fishing. No, not hate. That is the wrong word.”
“You were not born with fishing in your blood.”
He looked up, surprised at her words. “Yes, that is it exactly. My father assured me it would come with time, since I loved the sea. But it did not. I learned the lessons and I did everything that was required.”
“But you never had a feel for the craft,” Carey offered. “It was like wearing someone else’s clothes. Or living someone else’s life.”
He stopped. “How is it you know this?”
“This is about you telling your story, Dimitri. It’s like you told me on the boat. I’ll answer all your questions, just not now.” She tasted one of the multilayered sweets, a homemade concoction of pastry, honey, and crushed almonds, and hummed her pleasure to Chara. Then she asked, “Was your father right to take you from school?”
