She sagged against the door. Seldom had a deus ex machina come with such heart-stopping sound effects. She gave silent thanks to the Turks and waited for her heart to quit thumping like a rabbit's. Wiping the sweat off her face, she stood on one foot, removed her left shoe, and massaged away the cramp. When the pain and the noise subsided, she laced up her shoe and tried the door. The knob didn't turn, but the primitive keyhole lock was ridiculously inconsistent with the security cameras.

She fished out a paper clip, untwisted it, and threaded it into the keyhole. She wiggled it around and presto, the tumbler snicked and the knob turned. Even as she congratulated herself on the simplicity of the lock, she allowed for the possibility that it was irrelevant and the real protection lay on the other side-a nest of the snake's relatives, perhaps, or the mustachioed Iraqi holding an assault rifle.

She ran her tongue around her lips, wishing it were as sensitive to danger as a snake's. Summoning all her courage, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The gloom was Stygian. She slid her sunglasses onto her head and tried to adjust to the murkiness. Somewhere in the shadows, an air-conditioner hummed, lowering the temperature by at least thirty degrees. She took out her keyring mini-lite and tiptoed across the concrete floor, deeply alert to the threat of snakes of all species. A musty, cellar-like smell permeated the place, which felt far larger than it appeared from the outside. A bank of wooden casks had been stacked against the back wall. She eyeballed a few of them up close. They exuded the smell of fermenting wine, but short of tapping into each barrel, she couldn't be sure of the contents.

Two canvas cots occupied one corner. She lifted a blanket off one of them, held the light between her teeth and ran the blanket through her hands inch by inch looking for blood, but to the naked eye it was clean. Near the cots, a camera like the ones used in drivers' license bureaus stood mounted on a tripod and there was a large, business-sized laminating machine. It seemed that she had discovered the facility where Papas and his accomplices manufactured their German identity cards. What Papas was doing was undoubtedly criminal. Was he also into arms trafficking, or did his identity cards merely ease downtrodden refugees across borders into a better life?

In front of one of the metal doors that faced the street was a folding card table. Piled on top of the table was a clutter of newspapers and coffee cups. She rifled through the papers and found a Michelin atlas of Europe. She opened it to the map of Greece and shone her mini-lite from Samos to Athens and north to the border with Albania, Maedonia, and Bulgaria. There were no added markings or notes.

She traversed the space again, shining her light into corners, eyes peeled for any sign of weapons or any sign that Thor had been here. But there was nothing. She doused her light and returned to the back door. Her hand was reaching for the knob when the door flew open and a flash of sunlight blinded her. She caught her breath and when the world came into focus, she was staring into the disconcerting blue eyes of Yannis Thoma.

Chapter Twenty-six.

Yannis looked simultaneously astounded and angry. "What are you doing?"

"Searching."

"You must go. Get away from here now."

"Are you a part of what goes on in there? The forged cards?"

His eyes moved side to side and up toward the security cameras. "You must leave. Follow me."

He turned and bushwhacked through the weeds in his big boots. Dinah followed, not without fear, but relieved to have someone else blazing a trail through snake habitat.

"Are the snakes on Samos poisonous?" she called out to his back. "I saw a large one with black diamonds on its back."

He ignored her, slogging ahead of her with his old-man stoop just as he'd slogged ahead of Fathi. She wasn't unmindful of how following Yannis had worked out for Fathi, but Stavros had raised doubts about Yannis' guilt.

"Yannis, wait." They were back on the beaten path through the woods now, almost to the trailhead sign.

He turned and faced her. "I don't know what happened to Ramberg, where he is, who to ask. I can't help you."

"Have you been pressured to keep quiet? Has someone threatened you and Alcina?"

"No. I don't know anything about your man. Do you understand me?"

"I understand that you're afraid. Why does Alcina think the Iraqis want to kill you? Is she believable?"

"Alcina is not weak-minded. She was a beautiful girl, shy and mystical. She has seen too much cruelty. She has learned to expect it."

His English became fluent once he decided to talk. "You don't believe that Alcina dreamed the masked men who murdered Zenia's husband. Why?"

He hooked his arm around the sign and rested his weight against the post. "You ask me what I believe? I will tell you. The masked men were not bandits. They were soldiers. The junta killed their own man."

"Why would they do that?"

"The junta pandered to farmers and herders, but they were hypocrites who lined their pockets the same as the thieves in power are doing today. Phaedon Hero was a fool. He did not hide his wealth or his wealthy friends. He embarrassed the hypocrites. They killed him and laid the blame on a sinema actress."

Galen had been right about Yannis' ideals. Only a disappointed idealist could sound so bitter. She rushed to take advantage of his unexpected outbreak of talkativeness. "Did you know Nasos or the Colonel?"

"Nasos chartered my fishing boat a few times and invited his friends. Phaedon Hero, Egan Vercuni, and Aries Brakus. Nasos was the only one who didn't serve in the army. He was born to wealth. His mother was the heiress of a shipping magnate. He became what you call a playboy, always pictured in the news with a pretty woman."

"What about Galen Stavros? Was he one of their friends?"

His eyes hooded. "They knew him."

She registered the ambiguity. "He seems to know you very well. He vouches for your good character."

No comeback. His willingness to talk was obviously winding down.

"Can you think of a reason why Aries Brakus would be singled out by the masked men and sent away unharmed with Alcina?"

"Maybe he paid them."

"Nasos and his mother could have paid, but they weren't given that option."

Again, no response.

"Where was Egan when the murders took place?"

"He had served his time in the army and gone abroad."

She said, "Egan told me that Zenia suspects that some of the villagers had a hand in her husband's murder. Do you know who or why?"

"You ask questions I can't answer."

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't."

"Did she suspect Aries Brakus?"

"If she did, it is past. Aries is dead." He unhooked his arm from the sign, rolled his shoulders, and seemed ready to go.

Dinah was still wrestling with why the junta would assassinate one of their own. The Colonel could hardly be faulted for associating with his sister-in-law and her fiance, even if they were rich. But suppose he had embarrassed them in a more significant way. Zenia believed that Nasos and his mother were part of the resistance. Suppose Phaedon had made common cause with them. "Were there ever any rumors that Colonel Hero had double-crossed the junta? Sold guns to the leftists, maybe?"

"You make fables."

"Do I? You were an enemy of the junta, you and Galen Stavros. Did the Colonel funnel weapons to your side? Do you still have them?"

"Like your gkomenos, you ask too many questions and I have answered too many."

The heat from the sun was sweltering. Rivulets of sweat coursed down her neck. She had hit on a plausible source of the guns, but she wasn't a millimeter closer to finding Thor and the clock was running. "I don't care who's selling guns or forging identity cards. All I care about is finding Inspector Ramberg. Won't you please help me?"

"Guns are not my apati and I have nothing to do with the identity cards."

"What's apati?"

"A way to beat the system. The politicians and the bankers have rigged the game against us. If the people are to endure, we must out-cheat the cheaters."

"Will you at least tell me who can answer my questions? Who should I talk to?"

"A crow does not peck out the eye of another crow and a Greek does not put the knife in another Greek. I leave the Papas brothers to their business and they leave me to mine."

"Sergeant Papas has a brother?"

"Hector. The man with the mustache who guards the door. You are lucky he didn't find you. He has a bad temper."

So much for racial stereotyping. The man she'd pegged for Saddam Hussein's twin was Greek, not Iraqi. "Do you know who threw garbage on Marilita's house? Was it really Iraqis?"

"I don't know."

"Yannis, I understand that you don't want to make waves, that you and Alcina have to live here and you may be vulnerable to retaliation. But kidnapping a policeman is no penny ante apati. It's...kidnapping. If you have any idea where Thor might be or who has him, you had better come clean if you don't want to be regarded as an accomplice."

His face closed like a coffin lid. "You should go home. Your gkomenos is dead."

She felt the blood drain out of her face. "Why do you say that?"

"The cthonioi. Snakes are messengers from the realm of the dead. Your boyfriend has sent you a sign from hell."

Anger boiled out of her. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from slugging him. "If he's dead, you have no idea the messengers from hell that I will unleash."

Chapter Twenty-seven.

The canopy of pine branches offered a respite from the heat of the sun, but with the internal heat generated by her anger, Dinah scarcely noticed. She was too angry to worry about snakes, at least not those of the creeping, crawling variety. An accumulation of two-legged, scam-running snakes had infested this island and her cynicism deepened by the day. How could a society function if no one trusted anyone and each individual believed that his survival depended on his ability to out-cheat every other individual?

She powered along the same trail she and K.D. had hiked two days ago and this time, she was itching for a head-on with Brother Constantine. Even if he hadn't seen the Peugeot take a nosedive off Pegasus Point, he would have smelled the smoke and heard the commotion and, if her instinct about him was right, he wasn't the kind of monk to mind his own business.

Her thoughts swirled around those missing American guns. The government obviously hadn't recovered them. Somebody had squirreled them away for forty years. She had read that Greek islanders tended to live for a long time, but by now the original thieves surely had croaked or passed their arsenal on to the next generation.

The trail split and she plowed ahead on the groomed trail, noting the spot where Brother Constantine had blocked her way before. He must have a set up camp somewhere in these woods. She wished she had a clearer mental map of Kanaris and environs. She pictured the gorge as an elongated, wavy triangle. The coast road formed the base. The road up the mountain to Kanaris formed one side, and the road up to Zenia's house and Pegasus Point formed the other side. At the apex of the triangle and the narrowest part of the gorge was the abandoned marble quarry where Zenia's road dead ended. Thor's car had been coming down from the quarry when it went over. I ought to search the quarry site, too, she thought. If there's a trail from this side, I'll go there after I've talked with Constantine.

After a half hour of walking, the landscape changed. The area had obviously been ravaged by fire in the not too distant past. A swath of charred and blackened poles stretched in all directions. Without the umbrella of branches, the sun penetrated to the forest floor and new undergrowth flourished. The dread of snakes reasserted itself and she began to second guess her decision to go one-on-one with the outlaw monk on his turf. She should have brought backup, although the only backup she could trust, sort of, was a sixteen-year-old delinquent.

An unburned copse appeared off to her right. The beaten path led straight ahead through the burn. A sandy pig path meandered off through the unburned trees and brush. The wider trail showed a mishmash of shoeprints, the pig path none. Constantine had no reason to hide his camp since everybody knew he was here, but he would probably want a degree of privacy and shelter from the eyes of curious passersby. She sniffed the air. Her Seminole ancestors were supposed to be great trackers. Maybe subliminally, she had picked up Constantine's scent. She took the path less traveled. If it petered out, she could always turn around and take the other trail.

Slapping low-hanging limbs out of her face, she walked on for another five minutes. The trail ended abruptly in a wide, sun-dappled clearing dominated by a white canvas yurt stamped all over with blue fleurs-de-lis. Brother Constantine filled the door, his wiry beard billowing from his chest like a thunderhead. His black eyes projected a strong distaste for drop-ins.

"Hello, Brother Constantine."

"Dinah Pelerin. Have you taken another wrong turn?"

"No. I've come to ask if you saw the car fall into the gorge."

"You had no interest in my prophecies when last we met."

"I have no interest in them now. I'm asking if you saw or heard anything that will help me find Inspector Ramberg. He's missing, as I'm sure you know since you reported the fact to Yannis Thoma."

He hulked into the clearing, arms folded over his chest. "You doubt the power of Hera to confer the gift of prophecy?"

She wavered. Do not mess with a crazy person. Do not dispute the premise of his craziness and do not challenge him, especially if you're not sure you can outrun him. Constantine was fat, he smelled of beer, and he was wearing an ankle-length frock. She suspended her do-not-mess-with rule. "How do you square your soothsaying for Hera with your monastic vows?"

"I am catholic with a small c, encompassing all. May I offer you a beer? I'll bring out some folding chairs and we can talk."

"All I want is information about the car. Did you see it go over? Can you tell me anything about what happened to the man who was driving?"

"I may have information."

"What? Tell me."

"Have you not learned the first law of the land? Greeks must always be social before they speak of serious matters." He turned and went into the yurt.

He was baiting her. Her anger escalated.

He emerged with two folding director's chairs and two bright green bottles of beer. "Hold these while I set up the chairs." He foisted the ice-cold bottles into her midriff and opened the chairs. "Sit down. I'll get the church key." He laughed until his belly shimmied and lumbered back inside.

"Here we are." He returned, popped off the bottle caps, took one beer out of her hand, and sprawled in the chair across from her. The wood-framed chair screaked under his girth and one fat, bald knee poked through the opening of his cassock. He had anointed himself with a potent cologne and, on top of the stale beer smell and his natural musk, it nearly made her eyes water. "Sit down."

She gave him a smoldering look and sat.

"Cheers." He took a long draft and belched. "It seems your friend's presence in Kanaris has unsettled everyone."

"It's his absence that unsettles me. If you know something, just spit it out. Please."

"Have a drink of cold beer. It will quiet your mind."

She wished she'd brought the Zigana pistol K.D. had found in the cupboard. Until Constantine chose to speak, she was at his mercy. She glanced at the beer. Mythos. A fitting brand for the mouthpiece of Hera. She took a sip to moisten her throat.

He took another drink and stroked his beard. "The police asked me for my prophecy about what may have befallen your friend. They weren't able to make me an offer worth my while."

"You want something in return?"