“Great,” Claire sighed. “You just made this much scarier than it should be, Professor.”
“Trust me, Claire,” Helen said.
“Look, they did not even lock our rooms,” she smiled at Helen, pointing to the open door. “We are not imprisoned.”
“Not in our rooms, sweetie pie,” Helen said indifferently. “I bet it would be a different matter if we tried to walk out the bloody front door. You see, we are not being kept captive in our rooms. We are held in this house. The house is our prison.”
Claire did not like the sound of that at all. Professor Barry only twisted the knitting needle she was shoving into Claire’s positivity. “Besides, they are giving us the illusion of freedom only because they have utmost control over our every move already. Look for surveillance cameras. Worry about what they put in your food. There are many ways to keep someone from leaving. I bet you this house is far away from civilization. They don’t need to gag you where no-one can hear you screaming, love.”
“Oh my God,” Claire moaned. “Oh my God, Professor, you are right!”
“Don’t panic,” Helen comforted her young assistant. “There is no use in losing your mind. Just accept your fate and keep an eye out for signs of a way out. Pretend that you are content with the conditions, otherwise, they might get rid of you.”
“We will do no such thing, Professor Barry,” a man said from the doorway, scaring both women into a yelp of fright.
In the door stood a tall, muscular old man, about 65 years of age, dressed in a loose white shirt and black pants. Around his waist he wore an expensive, elaborately woven belt of black leather with a silvery sheen to it. He had a well-groomed beard and black and grey hair in a ponytails. His voice was deep and his piercing eyes were dark, just like his eyebrows. Claire looked at her boss and whispered, “Sean Connery meets Dumbledore.”
The man laughed. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“She did not mean anything by that,” Helen defended her assistant.
“Oh rubbish,” he smiled. “She meant every word. And since one is the personification of wisdom and the other is a ladies’ man, I cannot find fault in her assessment at all.”
“Well, she does speak her mind,” Helen chuckled sheepishly.
“I have come to invite you ladies to have dinner with me. Just the three of us, if you do not mind? You must be famished,” he said.
Both women almost jumped up at the invitation. They were indeed, starving.
“And you are?” Helen asked cordially.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” he laughed. “I am Deon. Deon Fidikos.”
“You are Soula’s husband,” Helen gasped. She had never met him before, having only dealt with Soula as one of the biggest benefactors of the British Museum. “It is good to finally meet you.”
As Helen instructed her assistant, she kept her cool, playing along as if she were a guest. Nothing merited the mistreatment of a prisoner like someone behaving like one.
“Claire, this is Soula’s husband, would you believe?” Helen told Claire, who nodded profusely to play into her boss’ ruse.
“You look nothing like I imagined, Mr. Fidikos,” Claire smiled. “Oh, and that really is a compliment.”
He shook their hands and smiled. “Come ladies. If you do not mind walking on your stockings. I prefer it so. Don’t ask.”
“Of course. It is after all your house,” Helen agreed.
“One of many,” he noted unceremoniously as he led them down the hallway, down carpeted steps into a large dining room. Helen had a bad feeling about it all. There was just too much trust. There was just too much freedom. It was almost as if this man was so powerful that he needed no protection or guards to watch his prisoners. Such power was never good. People like that had to be feared.
Chapter 26
The place was modest, but lavish. It was a proper dining hall with paintings on the walls of magnificent mountainous landscapes and adorned with marble statues of gods and warriors. Some were covered, velvet and silk draped over them to prevent atmospheric damage. If this was but one of Fidikos’ houses, they could only imagine in their wildest dreams what his own home looked like.
Large chandeliers hung in gold and porcelain from the ceiling, three in number. Even the ceiling sported the Greek motif of the drapes in the bedrooms. It was peculiar that the room had no windows, but the art made up for it. The floor was covered with a large Persian rug, covering the pattern fashioned by mosaic tiling.
“I took the liberty of serving, how shall I say, normal food. A lot of people might not enjoy traditional Greek food, you see?”
“I have meant to ask, Mr. Fidikos,” Helen dared what she had been reluctant to find out. “Where are we?”
He smiled as he pulled out a chair for her, “A few kilometers outside Athens, Prof. Barry.”
Claire almost swallowed her tongue. “You mean we are in actual Greece right now?”
“Yes. You have been out for over a day. Why do you think you are so hungry, dear?” he chuckled, heartily, as if kidnapping the two women were a favor.
On the table, there was the usual fare of what Mr. Fidikos called normal food.
“We did not know if you were meat eaters or vegetarians or those silly people who live on oxygen and water alone,” he jested as he examined the dishes on the antique table. “Please sit.”
There was a combination of foods, eclectically selected for what Helen and Claire imagined was the indecision of an old man. Pork cutlets, onion rings, Caesar salad, roast beef and chicken with gravy, potato wedges, basmati rice and an assortment of roasted vegetables.
“There is also pudding if you want,” he bragged.
Both women protested instantly, vehemently declining politely.
“You Europeans,” he said and shook his head, “are not like Mediterranean women. Our food is a pleasure, an occasion. Here women are beautiful because they are sensual and healthy, not emaciated and sick looking creatures. Forget about your skeletal frames and enjoy life, ladies. Enjoy the good food, good wine, good sex. The latter lacks sorely in the British Isles.” He leaned forward with a naughty glint in his eye, “I speak from experience.”
“I bet you do,” Helen flirted back, to Claire’s astonishment. True, Soula’s husband was exceptionally charming, but she had never seen her boss react that way to an older man — not since David Purdue.
Deon Fidikos smiled warmly as they dished up for themselves, whatever they wished.
“I should not eat too fast after such a long fast, but boy, this all looks so good,” Helen remarked.
“May I pour you some wine, ladies?” he asked, lifting an unmarked bottle in a woven bamboo cover from his portable wine container.
“Thank you,” both women smiled as they started to wolf down their food.
“Will you not be eating, Deon?” Claire asked with a mouth full of at least three different meats.
“Me? Oh no, thank you, my dear. I have already dined at my own home,” he replied, filling their crystal glasses with delectable red liquid.
“You are not poisoning us, are you?” she asked without thinking. Helen’s mouth was full, but she slammed on the table, staring in disbelief at her assistant’s uttering.
Deon laughed and shook his head. He motioned for Helen not to be angry at Claire, maintaining an amused expression.
“I am, actually,” he revealed. His words were directly opposed to his calm and sweet demeanor, confusing his two captives even more. They stopped chewing while trying to figure out if he was joking or not. Deon slapped his knee in jovial response to their reaction.