Lourds nodded. “He was simply the ruler of the underworld.”
“Exactly.”
“But, according to the legend we translated, Aristotle took Alexander to the Oracle at Delphi, and it was prophesied that he would be a great leader. In order to accomplish that feat more easily, Aristotle made a deal with Hades.” Lourds tapped the section he had copied from the text. “‘And so to secure my master’s place as a champion upon whom the world would find vengeance or succor, his teacher took him and a bargain was struck to get him the sword, the shield, and the armor that he carried into battle.’ And Callisthenes doesn’t mention Hades by name, just as the beloved master of the three-headed dog.”
“Of course. Even the Greeks didn’t often use the name of Hades. They were fearful of meeting the god of the underworld too soon. Death wasn’t a thing to be feared, but the underworld was a place filled with gloom and despair. But how many three-headed dogs can you think of in mythology?”
“Just the one. Cerberus.”
“Then it has to be.”
“But that means Aristotle worshipped Hades? I’m having trouble wrapping my head around that.”
“No, Thomas. You’re a master linguist, but you don’t know all there is to know about Greek culture and mythology.”
“Which is exactly why I came to you, as I recall.”
“You did the right thing.” Marias grinned. “Aristotle didn’t have to worship Hades. He only had to offer some form of tribute in order to ask a boon of him.”
“But there is no temple to Hades that I know of.”
“There was one. In Elis. And the temple there was open just one day out of the year. Only the priest was allowed inside.”
Corporal Rahimi leaned back in his chair. “Creepy.”
Marias smiled. “Yes, it was.”
“Is it still there?”
“The temple?” Marias shook his head. “Look around this country. There has been devastation everywhere over the years. The temple of Hades at Elis was one of those losses. The temple of Zeus lies in ruins there too. Elis is also the birthplace of the Olympic Games, and a cook named Koroibos of Elis won the very first stadion race to become the first Olympic champion. All of that is gone.” For a moment, sadness lingered in the professor’s eyes. “But getting back to the point. The cult of Hades was not well thought of, even in those times. People knew that you had to offer tribute to all the gods, but you chose the one or ones you wanted to watch over you. No one wanted to choose Hades to look over them because they felt they would see him far too soon as it was.”
Lourds thought about that. “Would Hades have access to enchanted weapons?”
“He had his helm of invisibility, called the Helm of Darkness, which he loaned to various gods and goddesses and heroes in Greek mythology. But you have to remember, Thomas, everything eventually ended up in Hades. So, if you want to be fanciful and believe that Hades once gave Aristotle weapons and armor to give to Alexander, Hades could have done it. They could have belonged to other heroes and tales that have been lost. Or we could simply know them by other names.”
Lourds nodded and looked at his notes. “‘And he that shall hold the weapons and armor that once belonged to my lord, to him shall go the power to rule the world.’” He leaned back and sighed. “That’s pretty heady stuff.”
“Yes, and I’ve been thinking. You and I have exhausted our knowledge of the cult of Hades, but there is one man who might be able to help us.”
“Professor Ian Westmoore. I had thought of him. Is he still in Berlin?”
Marias smiled. “Does Germany still have beer?”
46
Dressed in jeans, a soccer shirt, and tennis shoes, Sergay Linko sat at a bar inside the terminal and watched as new arrivals filed through customs. He had been there for two hours, watching the early morning passengers leaving and arriving, but looking only for Anna Cherkshan.
At a quarter after eleven, she walked from the security area and headed to the front of the terminal.
Linko picked up the disposable phone he was using to keep in contact with the FSB agents backstopping his operation. Plugging the earphone into his ear, he used speed dial to call his driver. “She is here. Bring the car around front.”
“Yes. I am on my way.”
Everything was coming to a head now. Lourds and Anna Cherkshan were both here. He knew where the young woman was, but he had yet to find Lourds. As it turned out, the American linguist had many friends in Athens. With his limited manpower, finding all of them was difficult, and even FSB computer intelligence was drawing a blank.
He followed Anna easily. She talked rapidly on the phone and even looked a little relieved. Something was going well for her. That was too bad. Because things were about to be the worst they would ever be for her.
Linko dropped a hand into his pocket and took out a ballpoint pen. The pen was one of the most lethal things he’d ever carried. Lead lined its inner workings, protecting the carrier from the low but deadly dose of radiation contained in the rice-grain sized pellet of Polonium 210. Irradiated as it was, the pellet — once implanted — would cause sickness and major organ failure within twenty-four to thirty-six hours. There was no cure.
The crowd of arrivals bunched up at the front of the terminal.
Timing his move judiciously, practiced from past experiences with the delivery system, Linko closed on Anna, keeping only an elderly woman between himself and the young woman. A moment later, he kicked the woman’s left foot behind her right as she took her next step. As expected, the woman squealed, knowing she was falling, and reached instinctively for Anna.
When the woman grabbed her shoulder for support, Anna turned to help her. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She spoke in Russian, and Linko was fairly certain that the elderly woman didn’t understand. While Anna supported the woman, Linko stepped in from behind, unseen, and poked her with the ballpoint pen just hard enough to inject the pellet into her shoulder near the woman’s hand.
Anna didn’t notice. Her attention was solely on the woman who was clasping her shoulder.
A uniformed airport worker trotted over to help as the elderly woman started apologizing profusely.
Linko kept walking, staying ahead of Anna and offering her only the back of his head for identification. He felt confident she wouldn’t recognize him. He had let his beard grow and dyed his hair peroxide blond. He didn’t look much like the man she had seen at the dig outside Herat anymore.
He kept track of her in the windows of the shops they passed, then in the windows lining the front of the building. He passed through the door and walked by the stand, where a taxi manager stood assigning drivers and passengers.
Yamadayev sat in their car nine spaces back from the taxi stand. Linko slid into the passenger seat and glanced back at the front of the terminal.
“There she is.” Yamadayev spoke quietly, and he did not point. He was Spetsnatz, Russian military special forces, and currently assigned to the FSB. He was not yet thirty, a lean killing machine with soft eyes and a distant manner.
“I see her.” Linko waited impatiently, knowing that the ticking bomb inside the young woman was already counting down.
The taxi driver spoke to Anna as he looked into the rearview mirror.