Carolyn Keene - Greek Odyssey

“Sounds like we missed a pretty dramatic scene,” Kevin commented.

“It really got out of hand.” Mick shook his head, looking miserable. “I can’t believe we blew our cover and let those guys slip away.”

“It’s not your fault,” Nancy said, touching Mick’s hand. Then she turned to George. “How did it go with Dimitri?” She still needed evidence to connect him to the people with the explosives.

“Did you see him talk to a woman with red hair—”

“Or two guys—one bearded, one scar-faced?” Mick added hopefully.

Unfortunately, George and Kevin had nothing to report. From what they’d seen, it looked as if Dimitri had come to Naxos to make some money photographing tourists—nothing more.

Later that afternoon, when Nancy spotted Dimitri on the hydrofoil headed back to Mykonos, she decided to confront him. She doubted that he would actually confess to forgery, but with a little pressure he might let some useful information slip out.

She found him waiting in line at the hydrofoil’s snack bar. “I have a confession to make,” she told him. “Remember how I wanted to see your studio?”

Dimitri’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yes . . .?”

“Well, I just couldn’t resist.” Nancy hesitated as color rose in Dimitri’s face. “One day when you were out, I sneaked in and checked out the equipment.”

The photographer slammed his hand on the snack bar counter. “That was a stupid thing to do! You could have been hurt.”

“Of course, I didn’t touch anything,” Nancy lied, surprised that Dimitri was so upset.

“That’s not the point,” he said. He motioned Nancy to a corner by the snack bar so that no one could overhear their conversation. “You must stay away from the studio,” he said emphatically. “The truth is, it doesn’t really belong to me. My friend lets me use it.”

Nancy shot him a dubious look. “And all the fancy equipment,” she persisted. “Does that belong to your friend , too?”

Dimitri nodded. “My friend—Spiros. He owns the stationery shop right below the studio.”

All at once, Nancy felt her investigation shifting. Spiros? Was Dimitri lying to her? She couldn’t be sure. He was obviously upset, but that would be natural if he had just learned that she was closing in on his forging operation.

“And what does Spiros use the equipment for?” Nancy asked.

Dimitri shrugged. “Please don’t tell your friend, the one with the blond hair and the pretty smile,” he asked.

“Bess?” Nancy said. “Does this have something to do with her passport?”

“Passport?” Dimitri raked his fingers through the dark curls over his brow and looked confused. “No, no. Please don’t tell her that the studio isn’t mine. I lied about it to impress her,” he said. “Does she ever mention me?” he asked hopefully.

Nancy didn’t know if he was serious or if he was just trying to throw her off the track. Dimitri was attentive to Bess whenever they met. Not knowing what to think, Nancy made an excuse to Dimitri and went back to her seat.

When she told everyone what she’d just learned, Mick had an inspiration. “Spiros makes miniatures, doesn’t he? I mean, didn’t you buy a tiny windmill from him?” When Bess nodded, he added, “He probably uses the equipment to help with his sculptures.”

“But you saw those machines, Mick,” Nancy said. “They were pretty sophisticated—not just arts and crafts stuff. I’m not sure I trust Dimitri, but if Spiros really owns the equipment, he could be our forger.”

“Not Spiros,” Zoe objected. “I’ve known him since I was a child. He and my father are good friends. He has been like an uncle to me.” She shook her head. “This has gone too far! First you suspect our maid, then my friend Theo, and now Spiros,” she said, her voice cracking with strain.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy said. She didn’t want to hurt Zoe’s feelings, but she had to follow the trail of clues if she wanted to get to the bottom of the passport theft.

“This is the perfect way to end the day,” Bess said later that evening. She swayed to the strains of bouzouki music that was piped into the hotel’s taverna. “What do the words mean?” she asked Zoe.

“The lyrics to most Greek songs are about love,” Zoe explained.

Bess sighed. “It figures. That’s probably why I’m crazy about Greek music.”

A ballad began, and Nancy and Mick got up to dance. He swept her across the dance floor and twirled her under a trellis covered with fragrant hibiscus. Nancy felt as if she were floating on a cloud. Then a stern-looking young man appeared at the terrace door. He stopped a waiter, who pointed toward Nancy and Mick.

“Looks like we have a visitor,” Nancy whispered into Mick’s ear.

Mick turned his head and stared at the man in the doorway. “Looks serious,” he said. He took Nancy’s hand, and they went over to the edge of the terrace, where the young man was standing.

As it turned out, the man was a diplomatic courier. “I have a package for you from Thomas McCurdy,” the courier said, handing Mick a thin manila envelope. After Mick thanked him, the courier disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

“What is it?” Nancy was dying of curiosity as she followed Mick back to the table.

“McCurdy is my father’s friend—the ambassador in Athens that I mentioned before. This must be some information on Bess’s stolen passport,” Mick said as he broke the wax seal on the envelope.

Everyone leaned forward as Mick pulled out a letter and began to read in silence. A moment later he stopped and shook the envelope. Three glossy photographs spilled out—headshots of two men and a woman.

The air was heavy as the group stared at the photos. “That looks like the two guys you chased on Naxos today,” Bess said, pointing to two of the pictures.

“And that’s the redheaded woman who was in the cave on Dragonisi,” Nancy said.

“What does the letter say?” Kevin wanted to know.

Mick looked soberly around the table. “That these people are terrorists,” he replied, “and we should avoid them at all costs!”

Chapter Twelve

An audible gasp rose from the table. Nancy’s heart plummeted as she realized just how deadly the situation she and Mick had stumbled into was.

“Terrorists!” George echoed, looking scared. “Nancy, you’ve been tangling with killers!”

“What else does the letter say about the terrorists?” Kevin asked.

Mick smoothed the sheet of crisp bond paper, summarizing as he read on. “They’re three fugitives from the Middle East—explosives experts who were sent to prison for planting a bomb at a train station. The men are named Mashti and Rashid, and the woman is Shara—”

“That’s it—Shara!” Nancy interrupted. “The guy in the cave kept saying it over and over. I guess he was just calling her.”

“That’s right,” Mick said. Then he returned to reading the letter. “All three of them received life sentences, but two weeks ago they escaped from prison, killing two guards in the process.”

With a shiver, Bess said, “Escaped prisoners? I can’t believe Zoe and I let you go after them.”

“Escaped . . .” Zoe said, thinking aloud. “Maybe that’s why you heard the police saying diafevgo over and over—it’s the Greek word for ‘escape.’ They probably realized that you had come face-to-face with these escaped prisoners but didn’t want to scare you with the truth.”

“Why would the police keep it a secret?” asked Bess.

Zoe frowned. “This kind of news could scare off visitors and harm the tourist trade. The police are probably trying to keep it quiet.”