"Whatever it is, the answer's still no. The next three weeks are going to be spent working on a tan."
Why tell Alex the facts? Today he was in Athens for only a few hours, a stopover on the way to Crete. He glanced at his watch—an old Eterna Chronomatic, the 1946 classic he loved—and calculated that the flight for Iraklion left in less than four hours. This time tomorrow morning he would be looking in on the crew from the University of Stuttgart's dig for the German Historical Society, part of the restoration of a Minoan palace near Crete's southern shore. Novosty and all he stood for were the last thing he needed right now.
"Then at least let's have coffee," the Russian said finally, pointing. "I brought some. There in the bag."
Vance needed it, to cut his hangover. Without a word he turned to the marble steps, pried open the white paper, and reached in.
"Plastic." Dismay filled his voice as he lifted out one of the smooth Styrofoam cups and examined it, like an insect. "This nails it. Game over. Our side won all the chips. Now even Greek coffee comes American style." He frowned as he pried the white lid from the cup. "What's left?"
"It's everywhere. Perhaps they'll wrap these statues in cellophane next, who knows."
"I fear the worst." He took a sip, relishing the first hit of the dawn. It was dark and sweet, the real thing despite the container.
"Michael, please . . . at least hear me out." He reached for a cigarette, extracting it filter-first from his trench coat.
"I have a serious personal problem, and I don't know where else to turn."
Could it be true? Vance examined him more closely. The beard wasn't the only change. The left side of his gray coat bulged as he searched for his lighter. Alex had never bothered to carry his own protection. At least never before.