“My name is Liam Kenner. Dr. Pierce and I are colleagues.”
“Never heard of you.” It was true. Fiona had been attending classes at the University where Pierce taught. She knew everyone in the department, and most of the other archaeologists who came and went on a regular basis. The name Kenner did not ring any bells.
“We were acquainted several years ago.” Kenner paused a beat, then set the hook. “When he first began his search for Hercules.”
If she had not already been standing still, Fiona would have tripped over this revelation.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” Kenner went on, “but I really think we’d both be more comfortable if you joined me. I don’t bite.”
Fiona desperately wanted to beg off, citing the old wisdom about not taking rides from strangers. Something told her that Kenner might be more dangerous than a random sexual predator, but the mere fact that he knew about Pierce’s connection to Hercules convinced her that not knowing was even more of a risk.
“Well, I do,” she said, trying to keep the fear out of her voice. “If you try anything…” She let the threat hang. Kenner merely smiled.
As she circled around to the passenger side, Fiona stuffed her hands in her pockets, trying to make the gesture seem as casual as possible. The fingers of her right hand closed around the wallet containing the lock picks. They would be very effective stabbing weapons, if the need arose. She noted a rental sticker in the corner of the windshield. That was a good sign. It meant Kenner probably wouldn’t have been able to rig the electronic locks to hold her prisoner. At the first hint of trouble, she could stab him with a pick and then jump out.
She slid into the passenger seat but didn’t buckle the seat belt. “Okay. Talk.”
Kenner smiled again, then turned his eyes forward. He started to pull away from the curb, but at that moment, a pair of police cars screamed past, going the wrong way on the one-way street, heading for the museum. Fiona tried to hide her concern for Pierce behind a mask of indifference, but Kenner was not going to let her off that easy.
As he started forward again, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the receding lights. “You and Dr. Pierce separated. Why?”
“Long story.” She stared straight ahead. “What do you want?”
“Actually, I want the same thing George does. The truth.” He paused, perhaps hoping that she would voluntarily fill the silence. When she did not, he went on. “Has he told you the story? Seven years ago, he discovered proof that Hercules was a real, historic person, named on the manifest of a ship from the fifth century BC. The ship was the Argo.” When she did not respond to this, he glanced at her. “Does your American education include the classics? Argo? Jason and the quest for the Golden Fleece?”
Without meeting his gaze, Fiona replied, “Although the most complete account of Jason’s voyage, the Argonautica, was written by Apollonius of Rhodes in the third century BC, the works of Homer make reference to both the Argo and Jason, not to mention Herakles—” She broke from an otherwise flat monotone to emphasize the correct Greek pronunciation—“which date to at least the year 850 BC and may be as much as two centuries older than that. So, while my uncle might have discovered a ship named Argo, with a crew member named for the mythological hero, I doubt very much he would have made the mistake of believing that it was the inspiration for a legend that was at least five hundred years old when that ship was built. That’s what I learned in my American education.”
Kenner burst out laughing. “Touché, my dear. As a matter of fact, I think I made a similar observation at the time. I don’t recall what George’s reaction was. Regardless, shortly thereafter, the document was stolen. George believed the theft was the work of a secret society dedicated to preserving the legacy of Hercules.”
Fiona felt a chill of apprehension and dug her hand deeper into her pocket. Had Kenner spotted the tattoo on the back of her right hand?
The symbol, a circle crossed by two parallel lines, was the mark of the Herculean Society, a souvenir of her first encounter with Alexander Diotrephes. It had always reminded her of a livestock brand, not so much a declaration of ownership as a sign of protection. Despite all the grief accompanying his interference in her life, Fiona had for a time secretly liked the idea of having the legendary Hercules as her guardian. Throughout her high school years, she had done her best to keep the tattoo hidden from her classmates at Brewster Academy. With her olive-complexion, raven-black hair and distinctly Native-American features, not to mention the fact that she was a Type 1 insulin-dependent diabetic, she was already different enough.
The symbol of Hercules was not widely known outside the Society, though it had been adopted as a Druid sigil in the 1960s. But if Kenner had done his homework, he would probably have come across it.
“Secret society?” Fiona rolled her eyes and tried for her best dismissive teenager voice. “Cool story. Is that why you were following Uncle George and me? Are you in this Hercules Club?”
“I’ll tell you, if you tell me why you and Dr. Pierce broke into the museum tonight.”
Fiona weighed her options. She was not about to share the truth about the Society with this man, no matter who he claimed to be or how much he claimed to know. But what tack should she take? What lie should she tell?
Before she could make up her mind, Kenner chortled again and clapped her shoulder. Fiona jerked away as if his touch had been red hot, but he continued laughing, oblivious to her reaction. “Just having a spot of fun with you,” he said, though his humor sounded forced. “Of course I’m not part of that group, if it even exists at all. And your business at the museum is none of mine. Where can I drop you?”
The abrupt reversal stunned Fiona almost as much as the uninvited familiarity, and it took her a moment to gather her wits. Did he want her to take him to Pierce? Was that his game? If so, she wasn’t going to play.
“That old fort,” she said, choosing one of Heraklion’s most notable landmarks.
“The Koules fortress?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he sensed what she was trying to do.
“That’s the one.”
Kenner said nothing more, but at the next intersection he made a right turn, heading in the direction of the old harbor. They made the short journey in almost complete silence. Kenner merely looked ahead, focused on the road. A few minutes later, the marina appeared. Fiona could just make out the squat silhouette of the old Venetian fortress that had once guarded the port. It was situated on a causeway that was part of the long breakwater, which still sheltered the marina.
Kenner stopped the car near the entrance to the breakwater, which was barricaded to prevent vehicle traffic. He looked out at the fort. “Rather isolated here.”
“I’ll be fine.” Without another word, Fiona opened the door and got out.
“If you should see your uncle,” Kenner called out, “Ask him to contact me. I have some information that may be of interest to him. Provided he’s still looking for Hercules, of course.”
Fiona kept walking toward the old monument. The faint noise of an engine revving and tires crunching on pavement prompted her to glance over her shoulder. The car was moving away.
Kenner had not been wrong about how isolated the place was, but Fiona was a lot more worried about him coming back than running into some lurking stranger. She calculated the distance to the edge of the causeway. If Kenner came after her, she would leap into the harbor and swim for it.
She kept walking, but when the receding taillights disappeared, she ducked behind a barrier and waited. A minute. Five minutes. There was no sign of Kenner.