That night I slept in the Helio, curled up not too comfortably on the front seats. Mueller slept in the car of one of the Germans. I bet either one of us could have slept easily that night lying naked in the sure

Awakening the next morning I lay for a long time with my eyes closed trying to guess where I was. In France? No, I seemed to remember leaving France at some point. Italy? No, it was too quiet. Greece? Yes, I was on Io Sirena. When I opened my eyes the drapes across the wall would be full of sunlight. I'd press the button by my bed and in the next room hot water would swirl into the tub. Maybe I'd find Orena lying in bed next to me.

I opened my eyes. Shit. Surrounded by Helio Courier. I ached in every muscle and bruise. Sitting up I looked out. The sea was calm, the wind had died during the night. It was the dawn of what would probably be a beautiful day.

About time. The sea was a luminous, shimmering gray-pink. As the sun rose it would turn to Ionian blue. I climbed out of the Helio and took a deep breath of sea, beach, and forest. The world smelled good, unlike one Brian Tschetter who smelled of sweat, oil, and gasoline by a modest count. Grabbing what most resembled a towel, I headed for the sea, found it carpeted solidly with sea urchins and paused. Turning, I slunk like an uninvited bear to the campsite, stripped down, and had a cold dunk under a water tap I'd spotted the evening before.

Washed and shaved I felt like a new pilot. Hopefully Mueller would sleep a while longer. I don't like people hanging around looking over my shoulder when I'm loading and pre-flighting the plane. It's a job that takes at least a minimum of concentration. Every interruption puts that little train in the head momentarily off the rails and you're apt to overlook something.

This morning I had one or two other things on my mind as well. Like was the aircraft really going to fly? When I started the engine, if start it did, what would those oil gauge needles be saying? If the inverted flight had loused up my battery I could still get the plane started off the battery in one of the Germans' cars. Their presence had been a real stroke of luck.

As for the damage to tail and fuselage, I'd have that attended to upon reaching Athens. For the rest of the trip Mueller would ride shotgun in the jump seat behind me, which was next to a window that opened. Being able to shoot and kill might not be two of the more ordinary talents, but talents they were. At this point I wasn't going to argue about moral considerations.

It wasn't clear whether Ali and Mrs. K thought they'd gotten rid of us or not. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see them appear above us at any moment, checking on whether we'd made it to land. But I didn't think they’d try to get at us here with Araxos Airport only a few miles away and so much chance of being spotted from the ground.

In fact, with no protective clouds in the sky today, the ground was our only security. Although in Greek skies aircraft are supposed to follow the airways, for the rest of the way to Athens I planned to follow the coast. Just the thought of flying over land made me feel optimistic about the future.

By the time the plane and I were ready to go there was still no sign of Mueller. Probably snoring like a buzz saw in that car. I figured that at the first crack of the engine I'd see him come running.

Feeling good, I climbed up into my tight little universe. The windscreen was clean of oil and a patch over the fan marker indicator gave a tidy look to the instrument panel. I wondered whether my insurance covered that bullet hole. I vaguely recalled that damage sustained in wars wasn't reimbursed, or loss of the aircraft through confiscation by some government. Obviously, policy writers aren't dummies born yesterday. And now that I was thinking about insurance, it was pretty certain my policy didn't extend to the Middle East. I'd have to call Richards and ask him to attend to that. At the same time I'd ask my partner to get me information on the explosion at Othe.

Flicking on the master switch I was happy to see the instrument panel spring to life. The fuel gauges showed plenty of fuel for the short hop. Switching on the fuel pump, I primed the throttle. All clear? No krauts running into the prop? No. One plus two magnetos. The prop turned slowly, once, twice, three times. Then with a great shudder and roar the engine caught.

My eyes were on the oil pressure needle. Slowly it rose out of the red, through the yellow, and into the green. Fuel pressure? I switched off the pump. The needle quivered but stayed resolutely in the green. Everything looked good except that the battery seemed to be charging more than usual. Possibly that would settle down later.

Just then I caught sight of Mueller running toward the plane. He obviously feared I was leaving without him. I made "calm yourself" motions with my hands and he signaled—bang bang—that he'd go get the guns from where he'd hidden them. His only trouble was getting rid of his new acquaintances who had followed him in their pajamas. Now they were waving at me, rubbing their stomachs and raising invisible coffee cups to their lips.

It was a pretty wild pantomime for that hour in the morning, albeit their hospitality was genuinely touching. But nothing under the sun would have persuaded me to stop that purring engine outside of an untimely visit from the Greek Shore Patrol or other such body of functionaries.

At last Mueller convinced them to return to their campsite, probably hinting that the reason he wanted to be alone in the woods was for the purpose of a morning crap. About thirty seconds after the last visitor had disappeared, he reemerged from the trees, his rifle case in one hand and bulges under his shirt indicating hand guns. It made me wonder how many weapons we were actually carrying.

I reduced the throttle to lessen the prop blast as he climbed in, motioning for him to sit behind me. He nodded and climbed into the back. I showed him how to open and shut the window and he looked pleased. Even before buckling himself into his seat he'd already reassembled his rifle.

I'll admit I was getting to feel respect for Mueller, at times even a kind of fondness. There was a certain naivete about the guy, running around with his guns as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Furthermore, he hadn't complained when the going got rough. To get back into that plane after what had happened yesterday required nerves of steel. He was a real professional, even though his profession was the devil's own.

"Everything looks okay to me," I shouted over my shoulder.

"Let's go."

Swinging the Helio around I taxied up the short beach to get as much takeoff roll as possible. I was glad I was the pilot and not the passenger. Mueller, poor bastard, was having to take everything on trust. He didn't know whether the oil pressure was really looking good or only so-so. Still, I knew from long experience that most passengers decide that if the pilot isn't afraid to go, then they won't be afraid. The idea that pilots are always unafraid, always know what they're doing, and make the correct decisions at all times, is one that kills a lot more passengers than pilots.

I pushed in the throttle. We were airborne before using a third of the beach.

So far so good. Everything was in the green and the controls felt normal. Wanting to avoid Araxos Airport a few miles eastward along the coast, I followed the road and railway tracks we'd crossed on foot the evening before. Useful things, roads and railways, even for airplane pilots.

In a few minutes, Araxos behind us, the road reached the coast again and I started my climb. Had I been more relaxed about the condition of the Helio I'd have headed due east toward Corinth, but I didn't want to overfly those desolate, unpeopled mountains lying along the way. In case of emergencies a coast offers more possibilities. Not only are beaches and fields often available, but so are ground transportation, communications, and towns.

I glanced over my shoulder to see how Mueller was doing. He was staring out of his window as if expecting to see an entire Luftwaffe squadron appear over the horizon.

"They could come from the other side, too," I reminded him. "Or from above or below or behind."

My words had the immediate effect of turning the German into a kind of whirling dervish. For the next several minutes the plane was jolted by the bouncing around of two hundred pounds of Fleisch.

We passed south of Patras, between the coastal city and the 6,319-foot mountain towering above it. Anna and Libby were probably still asleep down there. Perhaps later in the day they'd board a train like the one I saw moving along the track now, 4000 feet below, looking about as large as a caterpillar on a twig.

Having rounded the mountain, there was nothing more to do than follow the almost straight coast down to Corinth. There would begin the long, exacting approach to Athens Airport. No need to climb any higher now; we'd have to be at or below 1500 feet over Corinth. Reaching into my flight case I pulled out the approach plate and set the radio on the real Athens frequency, not to be confused with bogus frequencies used by certain Jet Ranger helicopters.

Since Athenai Control would have no way of knowing the truth—I hoped—I'd simply tell them I'd taken off from Io Sirena that morning instead of from a beach near Patras. They could sort it out any way they wished. In a country where no flight is allowed without a previously filed flight plan, I might find myself with some explaining to do. On the other hand, guests of a VIP like Koundiotes probably suffered little inconvenience in this regard.

All this while my battery was still charging heavily and I had the suspicion it was probably boiling for its own mysterious reasons. If I hadn't wanted to monitor the gauges I'd have turned off the master switch and let the instrument panel take a nap. But I contented myself with just keeping off the navcoms, transponder, etc. It would be a sad day when I couldn't find my way down a coastline without electronic aids.

Five minutes before reaching Corinth I switched on one radio and raised Athens. They told me to report over Corinth at 1500 feet. I was happy to note no ticking in the background while the controller spoke. But at the same time I was aware that if any other interested party was listening they would know where, in exactly five minutes, I was to be found, and at what altitude.

"Mueller," I yelled back, "keep a sharp lookout. Tell me if you see anything resembling a helicopter."

"Jawohl, Kapitan," shouted my passenger. The Helio lurched as he raised his feet and clicked his heels.

In any case, I said to myself, ol' Athens will never know if I'm really where I say I am. At which I hooked a neat left, heading due east. I'd make a wide circle around Corinth, in the meantime giving Athens false position reports knowing I was too far away for them to see me on radar. This isn't really the way one is supposed to do things, but it seemed the most logical and least lethal under the circumstances.

Besides the terrible guilt pangs I naturally felt at feeding false information to Air Traffic Control, the thing I liked even less about this maneuver was that we'd miss overflying the canal. I'd wanted to show the goddamn thing to Mueller. I'm not sure whether this incredibly deep ditch is one of the manmade wonders of the world, but viewed from above it's one of the most fascinating sights available to folks in light aircraft.

"Helicopter am Steuerbord," I heard Mueller shout. A high scream left my throat. "Where, where?"

"There. Over there."

I had to duck my head and raise my right wing to see in the direction he was pointing, but couldn't sight the chopper. "How far is it?" But I knew he wouldn't be able to judge. "How near?" I asked stupidly.

"Not near."

Wanting to believe him I relaxed a little, even though I knew my passenger, inexperienced in these things, had no way of judging the distance. "Near" and "far" were relative concepts. What might not seem near at all to Mueller might seem like no distance at all to a Jet Ranger.

Try as I might I wasn't able to catch sight of the chopper myself, but trusted Mueller, and Ali, that it was there. The best thing would be to fly around the mountain up ahead and come out on the coast as near to Athens as possible without penetrating any of the military and other restricted zones shown on the chart.

"Are they any closer?"

"I don't think so."

Maybe they hadn't seen us. Contacting Athenai Control I reported my position as Corinth. Hopefully Ali would hear the transmission and buzz off in that direction.

"Roger, three eight niner," replied Athens. "Report point Zulu at 1000 feet."

.While flying around the mountain I lost altitude and a few minutes later arrived on the coast west of Athens at 500 feet. Without bothering to look at the approach chart I reported that I was at point Zulu at the assigned altitude. It was a moment later that I realized I really was at point Zulu. Shit. Now we were just below the normal approach to Athens and there was no way of getting off it without heading into military zones on one side or flying further out over the water on the other.

"Can you see the helicopter?" I shouted to Mueller.

"Nein."

I hoped he was telling me he didn't see the chopper, not that he saw nine of them coming after us. In any case, at the heading we were now flying Mueller would have needed X-ray eyes to look back in the direction the Bell would be if it were after us. Unlike cars, most airplanes don’t have rear windows.

Not wanting to waste precious seconds turning the plane around for a look, I flew flat out toward Athens. We were as ready for them as we could be. Mueller was moving from one side of the plane to the other, straining to see in all directions. My own head felt like it was on a swivel. Even Vietnam had never been like this.

But would they dare attack? For chrissake, we were on approach to Athens International. The airport itself might still be several miles away, but other planes could be around here following the same VFR procedures.

Only I was telling myself this purely to raise my hopes. No other planes were in the vicinity; I'd have seen them or heard them talking with Athens. And if I could know this by monitoring the Athens frequency, so could the Jet Ranger.

And then I heard it, the tic tic of the rotor. "They're coming," I shouted back to Mueller. I heard a sharp click as the German readied his weapon, felt and heard the rush of air in the cockpit as he slid open his window. "Mueller, try and tell me which side they're coming from."

I'd always known the Helio was a heavy old bulk to fly, but until now this had seemed an endearing Dumbo-esque quality rather than a fatal one.

"Under us!" shouted Mueller suddenly. "Backbord."

Port side. They probably planned to shoot upwards into the fuel tank. To do so they figured they'd be better off coming around to the pilot's side than the passenger side where they assumed Mueller would be waiting for them. Or maybe they planned to shoot the pilot. That was another way of bringing down an aircraft.

Fuck ‘em. I pressed the transmitter button. "Athens, this is three eight niner."

"Go ahead."

"Sir, position Salamis. We're being bothered by a helicopter making dangerous maneuvers around our aircraft."

"Can you give me the type and registration number."

"Standby."

If overhearing that transmission had given Ali and Mrs. K food for thought, it hadn't scared them off. The roar now was enormous. What was keeping Mueller? I could feel the aircraft rocking as he moved about. It had occurred to him, too, that they wouldn’t expect to find him on this side and he was doing his best to keep low until the moment came to get off his shot, yet still keep an eye out for the movements of the attacking chopper.

"Mueller," I shouted, "get them! Get them before they fire."

Just then I caught sight of the Bell rising up on our lower lefthand side like some sort of huge, deadly insect. One of the windows was open and a rifle barrel protruded.

Suddenly there was a terrific roar behind my head. The Helio jolted. In the same split second something slammed into my wing. I could see a thin trail of vapor like a pale feather where the fuel was draining out. Bastards.

"Got them," shouted the German.

I looked back. The chopper had disappeared. "Are they down?"

"No, but they won't come back. I hit one."

"Which one?"

"The one who was shooting."

This time I felt it would do my nerves endless good to have a look around. Turning the plane I caught sight of the Jet Ranger heading back in the direction of Corinth. Bravo, Mueller.

"Three eight niner, Athens." The sudden voice in my ears made me jump.

"Three eight niner."

"Are you able to get the type and registration number of the helicopter?"

"Negative, sir. They've moved off now."

"Do you want to declare a near miss?"

"Negative, sir."

There was a pause. Now was their turn to curse silently. I could picture three or four uniformed men gathered around the traffic controller. But they were there and I was here. For the moment there was nothing they could do. They’d look at each other and shrug.

"Nevertheless, three eight niner, you will be asked to make a report after landing. What is your present position?"

I looked at the chart, then to the view outside on the left. "Just passing point Kosmas, sir, at ... uh ... 1000 feet." Saying this, I began to climb.

"Do you have the airport in sight?"

Gaining altitude, I looked forward. There it was in the distance. Athens. A rolling sea of white buildings joining the flat, blue waters. I knew where the airport was located, south of the city on the sea. A silver, cigar-shaped airliner was just taking off.

"Affirmative," I replied.

"Three eight niner, orbit at 1000 feet until further clearance."

"Roger, sir, but I'm low on fuel." In fact, the fuel quantity gauge on the left was understandably getting lower, though the right-handed reservoir was okay for another half hour or so. The situation wasn't critical, but I longed to be over land.

"Are you declaring an emergency?"

"Negative." Not exactly. Not yet. An emergency could mean more paperwork, more questions. I didn’t want to get to land that badly.

"Standby, three eight niner."

I stood by making a slow 360 degree turn over the water and heard him warn the departing airliner that he had a small aircraft orbiting at 1000 feet five miles west of the airfield. The pilot replied that he was passing through 2500 feet.

"All right, three eight niner, you may proceed. Report left-hand downwind for runway one five."

"Roger."

It was a long last five miles. There was relief in my voice as I reported downwind.

"Cleared to land, the wind is calm."

I glanced at the wind sock. If a fifteen knot tail wind on landing was "calm," what might one expect on a day when the wind in Athens was "light to moderate?"

I taxied the plane to where I was directed. The question now was what to do with our armaments. Mueller was a living, breathing weapons cache. To have the Helio repaired I'd have to give the keys to the mechanics and, considering that conversation I'd had with Athens, was pretty sure the plane would be searched by the authorities the minute Mueller and I left the airport. So the best idea would be to take the guns with us, but later, after we'd cleared customs. Getting them back on board would be another problem in the event we had to undergo a metal detector test as at Nice Airport.

"We'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it," I told the German. "For the moment, we'll lock everything in the plane until I've been to Control and filed the report."

Mueller looked worried. "You don't intend to tell them the truth, I hope."

"Of course not. But I'll have to put down something. I'll just say some sort of unidentified helicopter was buzzing us for fun and games."

"Don't give the registration number. If they locate the helicopter they will know someone has been shot in it."

"What reg number?" I asked innocently. "Never even got a look at what type of chopper it was."

The fun-and-games report took nearly two hours. By the time all the written and oral questions had been answered you could have wiped me off the floor.

"You see, Mr. Tschetter," a military type with an unpronounceable name told me, "we know there are helicopters operating illegally here in Greece. They are flown by a group of international outlaws from the Middle East. It is very hard to find them and even harder to catch them when we do. Two of our own helicopters have been destroyed in battle with them." His words weren't reassuring. As long as it was just old Ali buzzing around trying to kill us, it wasn't so bad. But the idea that the Greek skies were full of killer choppers didn't bode well for my future longevity.

"Is it the Palestine Liberation Organization?" I asked.

"Either that or some extremist splinter group of the PLO," said the officer. "They seem to be well financed and must have refueling spots throughout Greece. So far we have located only one of these fuel depots."

"Would you call them terrorists?"

"We have had some terrorist activity here in Athens as you have probably read in the newspapers. But recently there has been a certain calm. I think that the PLO is becoming genuinely interested in peace, although some Palestinian groups are still quite militant. But you must understand that these nuances are not the question. It is not possible for Greece to allow her airspace and air traffic to be violated for any reason. Especially now with the Cyprus situation. You understand?"

"Yes, I do."

"So that is why this episode with the helicopter interests us. You have really no idea at all of their intentions?"

"None."

I knew he didn't believe me, but I also knew he knew he wasn't going to learn anything from me either.

"Well, then, Mr. Tschetter, that will be all for now. I hope you enjoy your stay in Athens. Is it a pleasure visit?"

"Pleasure?" The word had an ironic ring to it. "Er, yes. Pleasure. Tourism."

He held out his arm and we shook hands. Looking me straight in the eye he said, "Then please have a pleasant stay."

"Thank you."

I was glad to get out of there and back to the tarmac where Mueller was waiting near the Helio.

"Mueller," I said, "I want to get the plane fixed now, but God knows how I'll explain a bullet hole in the fuel tank."

"Give the mechanic a large tip and say nothing."

It sounded like a good idea. We'd changed some money in Kerkira, but not much. I handed Mueller 500 francs. "While I'm talking to the mechanic would you please go and change this into drachmas? Also let me know if there are any customs formalities."

"Jawohl, Kapitan."

"And stop saying ‘Jawohl, Kapitan.’"

"Yessir!" shouted Mueller with a snappy salute, turning on his heel and striding off toward the air terminal.

Well, I thought with a shrug. If it makes him happy....

Explaining the hook marks to the chief mechanic wasn't easy. I told him I'd run afoul of a wire fence while making a short field landing. Whether he believed me or not, I figured he'd never come up with anything more feasible. When he noticed the blood marks that Mueller had overlooked, I told him that one of the passengers had gotten hurt during the landing. "The Honda broke loose and fell on her."

He nodded sympathetically. "I'll have the interior cleaned up for you," he promised, conjuring in my mind the vision of a detail of mop-wielding scrubwomen advancing on the Helio.

That brought us to the question of the fuel leak. "I’m not sure how that happened," I told him. "Maybe it was pierced by one of the fence posts." As he looked up to inspect the wing, I put my hand around the drachmas in my pocket. Holding my breath I watched him put his finger in the hole and feel around.

He turned and looked me in the eye. Now was the moment I should transfer the bills from my pocket to his, but something stopped me. I had the feeling that this man was incorruptible. If he wasn’t, I still didn’t want to tempt him into the trouble it would cause him if he accepted my "tip" and later the truth were revealed. "I don’t think this was made by a fence post," he said. "This is a bullet hole."

"A bullet hole?" I repeated stupidly, withdrawing my hand empty from my pocket.

"Someone on the ground, a hunter probably, must have shot at your plane as you were taking off. Crazy people. This isn't the first time I've seen this sort of thing."

"No kidding!" I exclaimed. "My gosh, he could have killed us."

"It's been known to happen. In any case, I think it best that you don't mention this to anyone. The government is very nervous about guns and air traffic. You will spend a week answering questions and writing reports. I’ll just say on your bill it was a leaking fuel tank."

"Thanks a lot." I was thinking it was strange how the money in my pocket had turned from a bribe into a tip.

"When do you need the plane back?"

I looked at my watch. It was already after twelve. "Same time tomorrow at the latest. Possible?"

"No," he replied, "but I'll have it ready. Of course in such a short time we can only do a cosmetic job on the fuselage and tail. By the way, where did you make that landing on the fence?"

"Io Sirena."

He looked at me in surprise. "Then I don’t think you'll have any trouble with the authorities."

"No, I don't think I will."

"And tell Mr. Koundiotes next time to remove that fence." The chief mechanic's eyes were laughing in a serious face.

"I'll tell him you said so," I replied, trying not to grin.

As Mueller hadn't turned up yet I went into the terminal to find him. He’d cleared customs but as he had no boarding pass or pilot's license, he hadn't been allowed to return outside to the plane. Having already cleared customs myself, I went out, got our baggage, and carried it into the terminal via the Flight Briefing Office.

"Come on, Mueller," I said, rejoining my passenger. "Let's get thee to a hotel. You look like the plague has taken you."

Taking our bags and weaponry we headed toward the taxi stand.

The short stay on Io Sirena had turned both Mueller and myself on to the pleasures of Hellenic luxury. This didn't sort well with what I was beginning to suspect was our actual financial status in life. Mueller had metamorphosed from a rich German industrialist into a hired gun. I'd known this from the moment I saw him open that "sample case" and start fitting together his rifle. Most likely he was on an expense account which he'd not want to spend on fancy hotels now that his cover was blown.

As for me, I'd stopped earning my pay the moment I realized that what I'd been hired to do – find Louise – had become my own personal quest. I wasn't planning on finding her so that Mueller could bump her off like he had Heidi. I wanted to see her for one selfish reason: to find Jeanne. And I didn’t want Mueller even to suspect this was the case.

In the past twenty-four hours events had been happening too fast for me to sit down and think things through. But one idea was growing in my mind; while I might be using Mueller to lead me to Jeanne, Mueller was using me for the same reason. I had a feeling he'd been hired to find my wife but, not knowing what she looked like, he was counting on my recognizing her for him. Whomever he and Terry were working for knew that my wife could be found either with Louise or Heidi. She hadn't been with Heidi. That left Louise.

Under the circumstances, it didn't seem that either Mueller or I would want or even deserve the Athens Hilton. I asked the taxi driver to take us to any medium-priced hotel, and we ended up at a really neat place with a view of the Acropolis. But while I'd been hoping to keep an eye on Mueller during our stopover in Athens, he had plans of his own. Promising to telephone me that evening regarding our departure the next day, he kept the cab and disappeared down the street.

The first thing I wanted to do was call my partner in Paris. Because of the time difference I figured I could reach him at the office before he left for lunch. I was in luck.

"Athens!" he cried when he heard where I was. "I hope you're having better weather than we are."

"I've stopped noticing when I'm not flying," I told him. "It gets too depressing. Listen, I just wanted to mention that you shouldn't count on getting any more money from our client. The house in Othe was blown up and I don't know where she is. She might even have left France."

"The bank called today to say another grand had arrived. They wanted to know whether I wanted the dollars put into the francs account."

"Her sending the money surprises me, but I'm glad because it means she still trusts me and that’s important. I think our client Terry Rolland is working for some sort of Middle East group. This guy traveling with me seems to be their hired gun. He knocks them off when I find them."

"Wow. Maybe you'd better stop finding them."

"I’d like nothing better, except for one thing."

"What could that be?"

"Jeanne. She's alive." I heard a whistle at the other end of the line. "I think they hired me to lead them to her. They don't seem to know what she looks like. This would explain the burglaries of my apartment and the office. They were looking for a photograph but didn’t find one. They probably think that if Mueller sticks with me, when I see her I'll recognize her. And he'll be there to kill her."

There was another whistle. "You think Jeanne’s alive? But you told me you saw her body. And the doctor told you that…"

"It all could have been staged to make me believe she was dead. She's apparently involved up to her eyeballs in some PLO hanky-panky and had to drop out of sight."

"Wow. Listen, Chet, I don't know what to say. Do you think you can handle this without getting yourself shot up?"

"It hasn't been easy so far." I laughed. "Wait'll you read the report I write – if and when I ever get back to Paris alive."

"What are your plans now?"

"Had some problems with the Helio and have to stick around Athens until it’s fixed. The oil pressure's okay now, but that bullet hole in the fuel tank has got to go."

"Bullet hole. You do move in fast company. It’s a far cry from tracking down bill dodgers."

"I may never be the same. In any case, Mueller told me that Louise, the next gal on the list, is in Beirut. If he knows that much, he probably knows where to find her there, but he's being scarce on information probably to keep me from ditching him. I don't think he suspects I know Jeanne's alive, but he knows I'd dump him if I knew where to locate Louise for whom I've been promised a two-grand bonus."

"Thanks for having told your partner."

"Oh, damn. It just slipped out."

"Well, let’s try and keep it from the IRS."

"Don't worry. I'm sure they don't intend paying it. It's really an incentive they're offering me to take their shit while I lead them to Jeanne."

"Gotcha. And so what happens when you do finally lead them to their prey?"

"I play it by ear."

"Well, mon ami, I hope you have good ears, otherwise that wifey of yours won’t be pretending under the next white sheet. Couldn't you just go home and wait, let her finish doing her thing and come home to hubby?"

His words silenced me a moment. If I'd thought this possible – just go back and wait until Jeanne returned to me – I'd have been in Paris sitting by the telephone that minute. But I knew she didn't plan to come back. I knew that if she’d done that to me, pretended to be dead and leave me like that, it was because she figured she was lost to me anyway. I wanted to find her before it came true, and bring her back.

"You could be right," I replied lightly. "In any case, I'm here now, so I might as well see it through. Soon as the Helio's ready, Sauerkraut and I leave for Beirut. By the way, will you call up our insurance guy and tell him I'll be in the Middle East for about – well, to be on the safe side, say a week. If a month is the same price, say a month."

"You think you might like it there?"

"Never can tell. Jeanne and I could have a second honeymoon."

"I wish you luck. In fact, Chet, I wish you lots of luck. Take care. Those PLO chaps are kind of crazy."

"Maybe, but they leave a trail of security police around the world. I've never run into so much official prop wash in my life. You spend half your time here lying to people wearing uniforms. Sad thing is, you know you ain't foolin’ 'em."

My room service lunch had arrived while I was talking with Richards and when I hung up I dug in. One thing I like about Greek food is that it always tastes like the cook had prepared it with the idea in his head that he might be asked to eat it himself. Fancy or not, you always feel there’s a flesh and blood human being back there in the kitchen instead of a computer standing over a microwave oven.

After lunch I had a short nap to finish what I'd started the night before in the Helio. At about five thirty I got up, dressed and took a taxi to the Acropolis. It's a good policy to check out the Parthenon whenever in Athens. Like many other ancient monuments, this one is being eaten away faster by the chemicals in the air than it took them to build it. One day you might come to town and find it gone.

It was late by the time I got there, but there was just time enough before they closed to watch a fantastic sunset through the ancient columns. The sublime mood engendered by this spectacle was slightly marred by the sight of Mueller running about taking photographs of the edifice with a microfilm camera. It was strange seeing him behaving like a tourist, but maybe he had a family back home to show the pictures to.

Just after the sun set, the marble summit of the Acropolis turned into a pink space platform, took off on a journey into time, returned, burned out. I looked around. The tourists were gone. The gates were being closed. One of the last to leave, I arrived at the taxi zone just in time to see Mueller getting into a cab. He wasn't alone. A woman was with him. I only got a glimpse of her, but it looked from the back like Terry Rolland.

Jumping into another cab I told the driver to follow them. He didn't understand English, but sensed the urgency and accelerated. The resulting confusion in the departing traffic created a bottleneck of cursing, screaming drivers, while Mueller drove off with never a backward glance.

My driver was looking at me reproachfully, so I told him the name of my hotel. Off we went at high speed through the city; apparently he thought the state of urgency was still with us.

The ride gave me time to reflect. Terry's presence in Athens, if it had indeed been Terry I'd seen, confirmed my theory that whatever was going on, she and Mueller were in it together. I was glad she and I hadn't bumped into each other at the Acropolis. She'd have had a hard time explaining her presence in Athens and I didn't want to make things awkward for her. If she and Mueller decided to go off to Beirut without me, I could be pretty sure I'd never see Jeanne again.

Before leaving Nice Airport I'd bought a bottle of tax-free Scotch. Back at the hotel I cracked the cap for the first time. I was about to call room service for a sandwich when the telephone rang. It was Mueller.

"I have spoken to Mrs. Rolland," he told me. "She wishes us to hurry to Beirut to find Louise. She says the woman must be located within three days if you are to get your bonus."

"Three days? That isn't much time considering the Helio won't be ready until tomorrow afternoon. Even if all goes smoothly we won't be in Beirut until tomorrow night."

"Then we must take an airliner."

That was fine with me except we'd have to leave our arsenal behind. Mueller would probably be able to get more guns and ammo in Beirut, but I'd be out of luck.

"I'll think it over," I replied. "Depending on what time the flights leave, it might be just as quick and a whole lot simpler taking the Helio, especially in view of what we're carrying."

"You told me it might be impossible to bring them aboard even your aircraft."

"I’ve got a plan. Tomorrow morning I'll go and look in on how the work is coming along. If I can get to the hangar without passing through security or customs, I'll make a second run through with the bags and put them right in the plane. In the meantime, I'll check what flights are going to Beirut tomorrow in case it doesn't work."

There was a moment of silence as Mueller thought it over. Or perhaps he was discussing it with Terry; I could tell he'd covered the telephone receiver with his hand. "All right," he said. "I will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning."

As I hung up I had to smile. Mueller must be wondering why I'd never asked him about the rifle in his "sample case." It was my guess that he didn't really care what I thought, that the only thing that concerned him was doing his job and getting paid. He must figure that my reasons for not rocking the boat were the same as his – profession-alism and greed.

I called the airlines office. The morning flight to Beirut was booked solid by some women's club. There was space on the afternoon flight, but if the Helio was ready early enough we'd arrive in Beirut at almost the same hour.

The next morning Mueller picked me up at my hotel in a taxi. He had his suitcase and rifle case with him. "I will watch you," he told me. "If they let you go through, I will follow and put the bags right into the aircraft."

Reaching the air terminal, we started across the large hall, Mueller a few steps behind me. The Flight Briefing and Met offices were located in the basement. To get down there was a giant elevator capable of accommodating fifty or more persons as it was principally used for stops at intermediate floors for departing passengers going to their aircraft.

Entering the empty elevator, Mueller and I walked to the far end where the row of operating buttons was located. There was an exit door on that end, too. As I pressed the bottom button there was a loud noise behind us. Turning, I saw a crowd of about fifty or sixty women holding boarding passes and wearing name cards heading into the elevator. Pressed face to face against this mass of humanity, the door shut and we started to descend.

Suddenly I froze. I could feel the blood draining out of my face. Good God. Not three feet away from me was Jeanne. She saw me at the same moment and our eyes met. I'll never forget the look of utter despair and anguish on her face as she saw me.

Christ, how she’d changed. So thin and pale. What nightmare was she living? Though the women had all been talking and chattering as they'd entered the car, as we started down the only noise was the blood pounding in my head.

I dropped my gaze quickly to let her know I wouldn't give her away. At the same time I shot a glance at Mueller. Had he noticed anything? If so, his expression didn't show it.

The elevator came to a halt, the door opened, and the mass of humanity facing us began to surge forward. Even before I turned I knew what had happened. I'd pressed the bottom button for the officials' level, but no one had thought to press the button for the Departure level. As a result the whole crowd, all holding up their boarding cards, left the elevator on the wrong floor. Looking for the way to their aircraft they quickly dispersed in every direction down the labyrinth of corridors.

At any other time the situation would have seemed incredibly funny. Nearly pulling Mueller by the arm I herded him into the Flight Briefing room followed by three or four women. "What's your destination?" I asked one of them.

"Quelle est votre fucking destination?" I growled.

"Beirut."

More women were coming through the door, to the consternation of the controllers. I led them back out to the elevator, looking around in vain for Jeanne. I had to find her and keep her from taking that plane. Chance had brought us together this time. If I lost her now it would be Mueller who brought us together the next time. And by then it might be too late.

The elevator door closed behind the women. It would be impossible for me to go to their plane without a boarding pass. The only way to reach the tarmac was as per my original plan, through the crew exit.

Returning to Control I told the man behind the desk that I wanted to get to my aircraft, which was being repaired. He looked at me in an unhurried fashion with that now familiar suspicious expression and asked to see my pilot license, which I showed him. He said I could go and I looked around for Mueller, but he wasn't to be seen. A terrible fear seized me. Had he guessed that it was Jeanne?

Like a man in a nightmare I started toward the door, nearly bumping into Mueller who was returning from the men's room. I told him to follow me and a moment later we were out of the building on the tarmac.

"Mueller," I told him, "go put our stuff in the Helio and wait for me there. Don’t talk to anyone. Pretend you don't speak English. I'll be right back."

The aircraft being boarded by the group of women was standing not far off. I waited until Mueller was out of sight inside the hangar before heading in that direction. They were collecting boarding passes at the bottom of the ramp. I didn't know how I'd get to Jeanne if she was already inside.

Three or four men and women, two with walkie-talkies, stood at the foot of the stairs leading up to the plane. I knew it would be useless, but I had to try. Putting on what I hoped looked like a normal human expression of concern instead of the desperation I felt, I approached them. "Awfully sorry," I said, "my wife just got on board but she forgot something. Could I just hop aboard and hand it to her?"

"I'm sorry, sir," said a hostess, "but unless you have a boarding pass you can't go up. If you want, I'll give it to her for you."

"No, really, I have to…" I started to protest, but saw it was no use.

"If you'll give me your wife's name, I'll be happy to give her whatever it is."

"No, no, thank you."

I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn't leave. Already they were looking at me suspiciously. One of the men with a walkie-talkie came a few steps nearer. "How did you get out here?" he asked.

I could have taken him by the front of the shirt and smashed his nose into his face. Jeanne was on that plane and this miserable son-of-a-bitch, this dumb, stupid jerk, was asking me how I got out there on their precious goddamn tarmac.

Somehow I managed to control myself. Too much was at stake. We both knew it. We both knew what would happen if this look on my face translated itself into action, or even a threat of action. Men with rifles were everywhere. All that was needed was one movement, one shout.

"I'm a pilot," I told him. "My plane is being repaired in the hangar over there."

"Then I advise you to go back to your aircraft. You're not allowed out here." We stepped back to let the ramp move away from the airliner. I looked up and saw the door was shut. It was no use. "Jim, escort this gentleman back to his aircraft."

"Right. Come with me, sir." He led me away, as if I were a little child or a prize ass.

I was so angry, so desperately frustrated, I was afraid I'd lose control. Back at the Helio I glared at Mueller, this bastard who was gunning for my wife.

"It is okay," he said. "I have put the luggage on board."

So Mueller’s guns were aboard. Great. Just great. And now it was my job to fly him to Beirut to kill Jeanne. No fear. I'd kill him before he ever set eyes on my wife.

The chief mechanic came over. "How does it look?" he asked.

I found myself examining the Helio. He showed me where they had painted over the hook marks. "Fine," I said automatically without seeing anything. "Great. Looks great."

"We worked late last night and got the fuel tank repaired. The plane is ready to go."

"It is?" I could hardly believe my ears. I couldn't help glancing over at the airliner. It would fly at three times my speed, but I'd be in Beirut by evening.

"I want to show you something." I followed the mechanic around to a workbench by the wall. "Recognize that?"

"My battery?"

He showed me what looked like indentations in the black plastic.

"Finger marks," he said. "When you arrived yesterday the battery was smoking. Soft as butter. We could have removed it with a spoon."

"It was overcharging," I admitted. "I forgot to tell you."

"We found that the regulator had been pushed to the limit."

It must have been Ali fiddling around. "The plane was last serviced at an airclub in Calabria," I told him. "I don't think the guy knew what he was doing."

"Well, I've installed a new battery to save you time, but of course you don’t have to take it if you don't want to."

"No, that's fine. Thanks. Everything else looking good?"

"I went over it thoroughly myself. It seems in good shape. You had a couple of drops of water in the petrol though."

"It was out in the rain with the fuel cap open," I mumbled. The mechanic was looking at me strangely. Nobody should arrive in the middle of a voyage with such a list of troubles. Afraid to hear any more, I asked for the bill.

"I'll get it."

All I wanted to do now was get the hell to Beirut. Waiting for the mechanic to return I looked around the hangar. Surprise. A familiar airplane parked next to mine. Drucker's Jodel. The cowling was off and a pan beneath the engine was half full of evil looking black oil. What the hell? I'd last seen him in Naples with that harpy-type lady. Is this as far as they'd gotten? When the mechanic returned I asked him about the plane..

."It came in late yesterday," he told me. "This fellow's a little worse off than you were. We're having to send for a new engine. In any case, this one was way overdue for an overhaul. I'd guess it has twice the number of hours on it that it should have. He probably doesn't keep a very accurate log of his flights."

Knowing Drucker that wouldn't surprise me. He probably didn't keep any log at all.

The bill he handed me was surprisingly reasonable, about a third of what it would have been in France. I paid it and gave the man a well-earned tip. Leaving the hangar with Mueller I saw the airliner taxiing away. In a couple of hours Jeanne would be in Beirut. I promised myself that nothing, but nothing, would stop me from being there myself later that afternoon.

"Listen, Mueller," I said, "you stay right here ready for takeoff in a half hour. Don't get lost. I'm going to get the met and file the flight plan right now."

"Yessir!"

The Flight Briefing room in Athens Airport is a roomy, comfortable place. After ascertaining that the en route weather would be good and checking the NOTAMs clipped to the board, I spread out my charts, and fell to studying the route. There would be one long hop over Rhodes to Cyprus. Nicosia Airport, captured by the Turks during the recent military action, was closed. International flights now used Larnaca Airport, which my out-of-date Operational Navigation Chart showed as abandoned. After refueling there, we'd take off for Beirut.

As I worked I was aware that someone had sat down in the chair next to mine. I turned. It was Drucker. How great seeing his familiar face. "Hey, Drucker, comment ça va?"

"Mal." He looked very grim. Having seen the state of his Jodel, I could understand why. "Ça va très mal," he repeated, shaking his head.

"A little engine trouble?"

"Ah, oui, you could call it that. And you? Where are you flying now?"

"Beirut."

His face lit up like a lightbulb. "Sans blague? Beirut? Are you leaving just now for le Liban?"

"In a half hour or so. Want a lift?"

"You have room for one more person?"

"For two. But I can't say much for my safety record so far this trip."

He gripped my arm. "Can you take just one person? It is not me. A lady. Yesterday I had an urgent message to fly this lady from Athens to Beirut. I arrived last night, but you saw my aircraft. It is finished. I will give you my advance. One thousand dollars."

Remembering the lady I'd seen him with in Naples, no offer would have been tempting. "Why don't you send her there on an airliner? There's one this afternoon."

"No question of that. I've been trying to rent a plane but no one will let me take a hired plane to Beirut."

"Tell them you're going to Crete."

"I told them this, but they didn't believe me." And Drucker actually blushed.

It was true that the credibility gap did seem to widen proportionally the farther east one got. I wondered what happened at the international date line.

"I'm desperate," said Drucker.

What could I say? A few minutes ago I'd been feeling desperate myself, so I knew what he was going through. Besides that, pilots are supposed to help fellow pilots.

"Where is she?"

"We are to meet upstairs in a half hour. I told her I would find a plane somehow. So you will take her?"

"All right." I could picture Drucker jumping up and down with pleasure. "Tell her to be ready for immediate takeoff. Bring her out to my plane. I have another passenger, a German. He’ll be waiting there, too. Are you sure her travel documents are in order? I don't want to have any trouble."

"Her passport will be the best that money can buy," Drucker assured me.

I had to laugh. It felt good having an honest exchange with another scoundrel.

I told myself I ought to have my head examined for agreeing to take on another passenger, especially a female one, after what had happened on our previous flights. But as I walked back to the terminal to get my bag from the locker I was feeling strangely optimistic. The anger and frustration I'd felt that morning were almost gone. I'd get to Beirut and somehow I'd find Jeanne.