Twenty years of martial arts kicked in. Master Kim had seen promise in his young student and taken her aside for special instruction. Over the years he'd taught her a more dangerous level of the art.
She'd landed on her back on the floor when the men burst in. Selena used the movement to somersault herself back and up. She stepped to the side of the man charging at her, grabbed his jacket with both hands and brushed him with her hip. His momentum sent him flying into the wall across the room. The second was on her, wrapping his arms around her. She knew better than to try and use her strength to escape. Instead, she spit in his face. He pulled back in reflex. She head butted him with everything she had. He wasn't expecting it and loosed his hold.
It was enough. She pivoted and used her left hand to grasp his right in a wrist lock and bore down. The hard lock sent an instant, overwhelming pain up his arm. It blocked thought for a critical instant, all she needed. She reached under his elbow with her other hand and levered the elbow up and in and away. It made an ugly sound like a wet branch breaking. He screamed in agony. She moved back and kicked him in the groin with her leg and heel extended, crushing his testicles. He screamed again and fell to the floor.
The other man had a gun, a big automatic. She spun with a high kick and knocked it from his hand. She followed with a strike to the solar plexus, a blow to the throat, a deadly fist up under the ribcage. He collapsed. His face went purple. He died.
The first attacker moaned in pain, clutching his groin. His right arm lay at an odd angle. Selena walked over to him. She felt cold, her mind clear and focused. He had touched her, grabbed her. He had wanted to hurt her, worse, she had no doubt. She considered the strike that would kill him. Just in time, she thought better of it. He would have answers.
She shivered. Where did this urge to kill come from? What had happened to her civilized education, her deep sense of compassion, her sense of common humanity? For an instant they'd vanished like a wisp of smoke in a harsh wind.
It was the Project. Since she'd joined the Project, things has changed. For years she'd hidden behind a comfortable veneer of academic and athletic achievement. She'd had control of her life, everything neatly organized. That was gone. Life in the Project had stripped it away.
She didn't know where this new life was taking her.
Selena bent over the sobbing man as he tried to crawl away from her. She placed her thumb on a nerve center and pressed until he was unconscious. An act of mercy, really, and now it was quiet in the room. Somewhere in the background she heard her name, a tinny voice far away.
The phone. It lay on the rug where it had fallen. She walked over, bent down and picked it up. She was breathing hard. Her forehead hurt. A trickle of blood ran from her nose. She wiped it away with her knuckle.
Nick was shouting. "Selena!"
"It's all right." She walked over to the dead man. "I guess the olive business isn't what it used to be."
CHAPTER TEN
Nick touched down in Thessaloniki sixteen hours after Selena's call. The flight was official, cleared with the Greeks. Nick wasn't pretending to be someone he wasn't. He'd brought a Glock .40 for Selena. His own H-K rested in the shoulder rig under his jacket.
It was Sunday morning when he arrived. The sky was cloudy with patches of sun through scudding clouds. He smelled rain coming.
A white police car with blue stripes waited outside the hotel entrance. A bored constable stood by the car smoking a cigarette. He watched Nick enter the hotel.
Selena opened her door. Her forehead was red and swollen, her violet eyes red-rimmed with fatigue. She smiled. He felt something jump inside him. Behind her, a small, dark man stood near the window.
"You okay?"
She nodded. "Nick, this is Chief Inspector Giorgos Demetrios from the police. We were just talking."
She made the introduction.
Demetrios was around five-seven, maybe 140 pounds. He wore civilian clothes, a brown suit of indifferent cut. His shoes were black and dull. His tie had stains on it. His hair was short and curly, showing gray. He had a paunch and needed a shave. Nick guessed him at around fifty-five years old. Dark eyes watched them with the calculating gaze universal to cops everywhere. He looked annoyed. Demetrios had a Smith and Wesson 910 holstered on his belt.
Chief Inspector. At his age, that wasn't much. He was stuck at the equivalent of a first lieutenant in the military, a working cop. Demetrios wasn't going any higher up the promotion ladder.
Selena had killed one of the attackers. It could complicate things.
"Carter." Demetrios spoke passable English. "I recognize you. From the films of Jerusalem, with your President."
Damn, Nick thought, the Jerusalem thing again. It had compromised him, blown his cover in a big way. Every agency in the world had his picture.
Demetrios didn't waste words. "I want to know why you are here and why Doctor Connor was attacked. And why you are armed." He gestured at the bulge under Nick's gray jacket. "Foreigners are not allowed to carry guns here. Not without official permission."
"I have permission, Chief Inspector. Selena and I work for our government as a kind of floating investigative team. We look into things that might be against the country's interests. In this case, international interests, including those of Greece."
They needed as much help as they could get. Nick decided to tell Demetrios most of it, except about the golden urn. This cop could make a lot of trouble for them if he wanted to. It would delay things.
"We think this incident is related to three murders in the US. It involves historical artifacts."
"Artifacts?"
"Treasure from the days of Alexander. He sent it back from Persia."
"And your investigation brought you here, to Macedonia."
"Yes."
He gave Selena a speculative look. "The man you killed had your picture in his pocket. I received bulletins from Interpol last night. The criminals who attacked you are members of a powerful gang based in Moscow. Why would these people have your photograph?"
Chief Inspector Demetrios walked over to the window and studied the view. "They must believe you have a way to find this missing treasure. If there is any. How much are we talking about?" His voice was casual.
"We don't know," Nick said. "Maybe a lot. One of Alexander's cousins may have brought part of it here, to Dion. I doubt it still exists. But someone must think it does."
"Any items related to Alexander would be of the highest historical importance to my country. I insist that you share any information you have with me." Demetrios' voice had taken on an authoritative edge.
Nick held up his hands. "We need your help, Chief Inspector. We're not treasure hunters, we're investigators. We want the people behind those murders, nothing else."
He could see Demetrios thinking. Uncovering relics of Alexander might salvage his career. Self-motivation made for good allies. Greed was also a good motivation. Nick suspected Demetrios was thinking as much about gold as his country's history.
Selena told him about the tomb. Demetrios agreed to arrange a look at the tomb on Monday. He opened the door and paused.
"Let me be clear about something, Carter. I am in charge, here. You will not act on your own. " His tone was hostile. "You are foreigners in my country. I will investigate why you have permission to carry weapons. You will not leave the hotel without escort. You will not take any action without my express permission. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly." So much for making allies. Maybe he needed to brush up on his diplomatic skills.
Demetrios went out. The door closed behind him.