"Q.E.D." Part 20
Stefan tugged at the cheap wool fabric of his jacket, which hadproved as effective as a sieve against the cold winter wind, vowingnever again to let his pilot select his own uniforms. He leaned onthe splintered railing of the old ferry, listening to the wooden hullgroan with each new onslaught of waves, and wondered absently if thisvessel had ever been scrutinized by a safety inspector's eye. Helooked over at the ropes which had once held a lifeboat, danglingunfettered, partially consumed by rot, and decided... probablynot.
Damn.
Damn it to hell.
The chessmaster now stood directly on the chessboard, with all of theother pawns. And he was not happy about it.
All his planning came to naught somewhere over Cape Suinion . He hadbeen drifting on the edge of sleep when he heard the announcement,almost lost in the chatter of the air traffic controllers andpilots.
"All passengers deplaning in Athens must pass through a checkpointbefore leaving the airport," came the voice, intended only for thepilot's ear.
Ordinarily, this announcement would not give him reason to pause. TheEuropean airports went to great lengths to protect passengers andplanes from terrorist activity. But this particular announcement, hethought, had his mother's signature on it. He sighed, wondering whatcharges were leveled against him. No doubt Alexis would have notrouble clearing him, but the process could take days.
Stefan had only fifteen minutes to completely rethink his plan.
Fortunately, his pilot always carried a spare uniform. Fortunately,his pilot was a loyal employee who readily surrendered hisidentification and passport to his employer. And fortunately, hispilot never saw the blow coming that would render him unconsciousafter the plane stopped on the tarmac.
"Forgive me," apologized Stefan to the pilot's sprawled form, knowingthat things would go considerably smoother for the man if he appearedto have no part in the deception. "and remind me to give you araise..."
His swift walk through the airport was accompanied by the groans andcomplaints of several hundred tourists, trapped in stationary lines,staring down at their open passports as if reading a novel. There wasno line for pilots and other airline employees, and the woman gavehis identification only a cursory glance before pronouncing herverdict: "You look much better now, with a beard."
"Why, thank you," he replied, in a soothing baritone. And he saw hissmile magnified on her face.
He reached the queue of taxis just as a large, black car pulled updisgorging three men in dark suits. WSB, he thought, and he realizedthat his supposed "crime" went well beyond the local policejurisdiction.
He donned his sunglasses and ducked into the nearest cab, waving awad of drachmas at the driver.
"Piraeus. The docks. Hurry," he said, slipping effortlessly into hisnative Greek language.
The filthy cushions exhaled a gust of old cigarette smoke as he sankinto the back seat. He glanced back longingly at the airport, wherehis immaculate helicopter stood waiting for its fugitive passenger,no doubt surrounded by more men in dark suits.
He sighed. This little detour would add hours to his ETA. And he rodealong in silence, while his memory entertained him with the Scottishbrogue of Robert Burns:
"The best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley..."
"Oh, shut up." he muttered, silencing the long dead poet.
Fortunately, the taxi driver did not speak English.
And now, he stood gazing down at the Aegean Sea, thinking that a swimin the cold, gray water would be a marked improvement over his lasttwo methods of transportation. He squinted into the distance,counting the islands as the ferry made its daily "milk run",delivering supplies and passengers to the archipelago. He was certainit would not be stopping at his family's island, but it was commonpractice for the boats to hug the shorelines as closely as possible,avoiding the larger waves of the open sea. He figured it would passwithin twenty-five meters of the buoy by his favorite, secludedbeach. Once he reached the buoy, the waters were shallow enough towade through, and he would have no trouble reaching the shore fromthere.
The ferry chugged along at a snail's pace, while Stefan allowed hismind to drift with the current. Luke Spencer would love this, hethought. He would be reveling in his element, donning ridiculousdisguises, adopting phony accents, mingling with the unwashed masses,waving his gun around like some white trash D'Artagnan. Yes, LukeSpencer loved playing an active part in the game, while StefanCassadine preferred hovering, god-like, over the playing board.
The deck was deserted now, as the ferry approached the Cassadines'island, one of the last in the chain. The few remaining passengershuddled below the deck, seeking shelter from the cold wind. Stefansaw the buoy bobbing excitedly in the waves, like a small childtrying to draw his attention. He lowered himself over the side, andhung from the railing, taking a few deep breaths before he plungedinto the water.
The twenty-five meters seemed like twenty-five miles as he battledthe heavy undertow, and his wool suit felt like lead as the watersaturated the fabric. But he was a strong swimmer, and for the firsttime, he was grateful that his father had thrown him into the sea atan early age.
"Sink or swim," Mikkos had said. And Stefan disappointed him bychoosing the latter option.
When he reached the buoy, he hugged it like an old friend, gaspingfor air and resting his tired muscles for a moment before wading into the shore. He veered over to one of the island's many caves andwrung out his jacket, laying it on one of the rocks by the entranceto dry in the sun.
He leaned against the cave wall, and slipped into the black,dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
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".... Look man! No speeka de Greek! Comprendo?"
"Fine. I speak English then. What are you doing here?"
The duet of angry voices jerked Stefan awake, and he crept to thecave's opening to retrieve his jacket and assess the situation.
"Well, the Missus and I were sailin' on by. Second honeymoon, y'know,no more romantic place than Greece, she says. Anyway, we musta gottahold of some bad baklava, y'know what I mean? 'Cause suddenly she'ssick as a dog, tellin' me to pull the boat in. Anyway, she's off inthe woods somewhere, puking her guts out, I suppose she didn't wantto gross me out. She's real considerate that way..."
That voice. Although masked by that ridiculous accent, it wasunmistakable.
Luke Spencer, he thought. What the hell are you doing here?