The Schliemann Legacy Read online

  The soldiers began firing as their feet touched the ground and they headed for the closest cover. The pilots delivered another hail of machine gun fire above the heads of the running men as the transports took off. Lifting to two hundred feet, the craft hovered like huge dragonflies.

  As the sun obliterated the shadows, the commandos formed a jagged line along the border of the town. At a signal, they moved into the village, splitting into groups of three soldiers. The teams broke into the remaining buildings and searched for survivors or snipers, using the pickax to check for trap doors. When they heard the dull thud of the wooden cover, the men surrounded the entryway, pried open the door, and lobbed a flash grenade down the hole. A team member risked a cave in and checked the tunnel. After completing each search, the team marked the hut with green paint and moved on.

  The men reached the far end of the village within ten minutes and a blue smoke flare exploded in the air. Seconds later, the signal repeated. A loud air horn sounded as the helicopters settled to the ground. The commandos relaxed and broke formation, trying to escape the scorching sun by sitting against the partial wall at the rear edge of the village. Drinking from their canteens, they laughed and talked, oblivious to the destruction behind them.

  * * * * *

  As the rotors of the helicopters slowed and stopped, the silence of the desert settled back over the village. Only the crackle of fires and the low murmur of the men broke the eerie calm.

  Behind the soldiers, the village lay in ruin. No building had escaped the onslaught of bombs, artillery and commandos. Huts were missing roofs and walls or totally reduced to heaps of rubble. Deep craters pitted the roads. Fires continued to burn, fuelled by wood and straw. All the visions of war were complete, save one.

  No bodies littered the battlefield.

  The village was deserted.

  David Morritt stood on the low wall and scanned the destroyed buildings. The barrel of the rifle he held was still hot from the rapid firing only minutes before. The ammunition pouches of his jumpsuit were empty, as was the final clip he had discarded. His web belt held no grenades. As David surveyed the ruins, another commando, sporting the rank of a Rav Seren, came up behind him.

  David, sensing the other's presence, turned and gave a mock salute. "Major Sigura. How did we do on this most important mission? I trust we did not lose any men."

  Yaacov Sigura ignored the older man's sarcasm, but the obvious boredom in David's voice concerned the major. "The timing was a little off," he said. "We were almost twenty-five seconds behind."

  "I hope this old body didn't hold you back."

  Yaacov watched David remove his helmet and scrub his sweat drenched head. Gray was heavy at the temples and sprinkled throughout the short dark hair. At fifty, Morritt stood out among the young men of the elite squad. Even Yaacov, the commander of the unit, was over twenty years his junior. However, David possessed a commodity none of the younger men did - experience. Each commando considered it an honor to have David Morritt present. In many ways, David was a legend in their eyes, though most would never know reality from legend. And even the legends paled against the reality that would never be known by more than a few select individuals.

  "Hold us back? We needed someone to hold you back." Yaacov pointed at David's empty ammunition pouches. "Have you forgotten the most important rule?"

  "I know. Don't use all your ammunition unless absolutely necessary," David quoted.

  "It could save your life one day," Yaacov said.

  "Maybe, but I never get to feel the kick of a gun or smell the powder." Morritt's voice trailed off.

  Yaacov glanced back to check his men and then sat down on the wall. "Do you want to talk, David?"

  David turned back to the view of the village. "What's to say?" he asked.

  Yaacov laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. "David? I've never seen you this bad before."

  Morritt sighed and sat down on the wall. These exercises challenged the boredom, but he was becoming anaesthetized to the thrill. "I haven't felt this bad before. I suffer the curse of Bilbo Baggins."

  Yaacov avoided David's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with this Baggins fellow," he said. "Was he also in the Service?"

  David threw his head back and laughed. "Yaacov, you must vary your reading. Put down your manuals and histories. You can learn much from fiction. This 'Baggins fellow' is a character in Tolkien's The Hobbit. After many great adventures, Bilbo couldn't settle into his old life so he wanders from home at every opportunity. His life bores him and he prays for adventure. That's me. I can't settle into the routine. All my life, any type of routine could be fatal. Now, they expect me to sit back with my feet up. I can't do it."

  Yaacov knew much of David's past, although he did not know even a third of the truth. His security clearance was too low to allow for such knowledge. "You have served your country in the field for many years," he said. "The time has come for you to sit back and give others the benefit of your experience. You deserve a rest."

  "I don't want to rest. I don't want to teach."

  David had been semi-retired from the field. Politics had interfered yet again in the Mossad and many of the longer-term agents were considered a liability - or more likely a possible embarrassment. Supposedly, times were changing and the Mossad had to change with them. David hoped his was a temporary problem that his friend and head of the Mossad, Assi Levy, would solve. But until that time, David was forced to leave the field and instruct the new soldiers with their new technology.

  "Look at me. I'm in excellent shape. As good as I was ten years ago. Maybe better, since I stopped smoking. My reflexes are still good. If I was a soldier, I'd still be able to fight in a war. I just want to be useful. I'm only fifty. I'm not dead, yet. You should understand how I feel."

  Yaacov smiled at the man sitting beside him. He did feel for David. In less than a year, regulations would prevent the major himself from leading commando missions. The elite squad was a young man's unit. Strategy meetings and lectures would soon occupy Yaacov's time.

  "Yes, I will soon be a Bilbo Baggins," Yaacov agreed. "But what can you do? Regulations are regulations. You can only make the best of your life."

  "Sounds good," David said. "We'll talk again in a few years. Then you can tell me all about the wisdom of the regulations."

  David shaded his eyes to watch a white and red Ecureuil II helicopter land near the two heavily armored craft. He raised his eyebrows at Yaacov. Both men rose and headed toward the sleek craft as the pilot jumped out and ran to the nearest commando. The soldier pointed at David and the pilot trotted to meet them.

  The pilot saluted sharply. "Colonel Morritt?"

  David returned the salute. "Yes."

  "If you would come with me please, Colonel. I have orders to bring you to Tel Aviv."

  David looked at Yaacov. The major shook his head and shrugged.

  "Assi Levy told me to bring you immediately, Colonel," the pilot said.

  At the mention of Levy's name, David's face brightened. "Then, by all means, we shall leave immediately," he said, handing Yaacov his ARM rifle and helmet.

  Once in the air, David could see bulldozers heading for the destroyed village. The machines would plow the remains of the buildings under and redo the roadwork, then the construction crews would move in. By this time next week, another mockup of the Arab village would stand on the same spot, ready for the next training mission.

  Turning away from the window, David wondered why Assi Levy, the Memuneh of the Mossad, had called him back to Tel Aviv.

  Chapter 4 - PROFESSOR MILNER

  George Stamatakes expertly guided the open convertible around the many curves of the coastal road. Katrina Kontoravdis sat beside him, watching the scenery through the wisps of her windswept hair. She knew even the short style would be a mess by the time they arrived at their destination, but it was worth the irritation. The sea air and warm sun were relaxing and she desperately needed relaxation. She could feel the excitem
ent and tension knotting the back of her neck. The acid content of her stomach would melt lead.

  Following George's appearance at the gym, he had suggested they take a short drive down the coast. Katrina had hurried off to make herself presentable. After a quick shower, she rushed into the midday sun. Instead of the leotard and sport shoes, she now wore a simple shift of white cotton and open sandals. Her tan was dark against the bright cloth. With George in his open necked shirt, they looked like tourists heading out of Athens for an afternoon at the sea.

  George evaded any mention of her reactivation and said little about their destination or the actual mission. Katrina hated to press him for information. He was the only friend she had in the higher echelon of the service. Because of Stefandis' obvious hatred, most treated her as a pariah. All the same, she was becoming impatient with the silence.

  "Can you tell me what's going on?" she asked, finally.

  "What?" George glanced at her and the car veered toward the shoulder of the road. Looking to her right, Katrina swallowed hard. There was no shoulder - only a fifty foot drop to the rocks and water below.

  "I said," she shouted, "can you tell me what's going on? Why are we going wherever it is we're going?"

  George looked over again and Katrina grabbed the steering wheel. George smiled and turned his attention back to the road. "Relax," he said. "You shouldn't be so tense."

  "Just watch the road. I can hear you without you looking at me."

  "All right," George laughed. "Our destination is a small, unimportant dig in the southwest. The dig itself is inconsequential, but the archaeologist working the site is important to us. Do you know anything about Heinrich Schliemann and his discovery of Troy?"

  "Naturally. Every school child knows about him."

  "Yes, well, be that as it may, I think you might need a little brushing up for this mission. Since I'd rather be outside today than in a library, we'll visit the professor." George reduced his speed and steered the car down a road that was little more that a wide cart track. The suspension protested at each rut and Katrina's voice vibrated as they bounced along.

  "Why do I need to brush up on some man who's been dead for, what, almost a hundred years?"

  "Let's just hear what this professor has to say first, shall we?" George suggested, pulling off to the side. "The dig is right up here."

  George shut off the engine and got out. He was several paces away before Katrina, exasperated, got out to follow him. She trotted up beside him and together they walked through the large gates marking the entrance of the excavation. Two huge dolphins, remarkably well preserved, adorned the top of the arch. Katrina recognized the stone carvings as dedications to Poseidon, the god of the sea.

  Just inside the gates, two local men wearing side arms ordered them to stop. The rusted pistols, dating back to the Italian invasions of World War Two, were useless. George flashed his identification, which did little to impress the illiterate guards. After several minutes of fruitless arguing, George handed each guard several folded bills. "Just tell the professor we would like to speak with him," he said. "I'm sure he'll see us."

  With the money in their hands, all sense of duty disappeared. The guards immediately dispatched a runner who returned moments later. After relaying a message to the guards, the boy motioned for Katrina and George to follow him and they wound their way through the ruins. Almost reverently, Katrina passed the partial walls and fallen buildings, lightly dragging her fingertips along the worn stonework crafted by artisans dead for thousands of years.

  The creations were exquisite examples of Greek capabilities, she thought as she walked along. At one time, Greece had led the civilized world in all aspects of life. Could the Greek people ever be that great again? Katrina doubted her countrymen were up to the challenge, but the solution was not to deny the past.

  Unlike Stefandis, Katrina considered the ancient past important. Instead of worshipping or completely forsaking the past, the country needed a balance, a delicate and difficult balance between past and present, she thought. The Greeks must surround themselves with the art and traditions of their ancestors without denying the advantages of progress. Progress without a past was unfulfilling and sad. An illustrious and celebrated past without a progressive drive leads to death and decay. In Katrina's opinion, the latter was the current direction of Greek society.

  "Welcome!" Katrina jumped. The accented voice seemed to come from nowhere.

  Switching effortlessly to English, George addressed the Englishman standing on the wall above him. "Professor Michael Milner?"

  The man climbed down a ladder, showing an agility that denied his advanced age. He wiped his dusty palms on his pants before shaking hands with George. "The very man," he said.

  "My name is George Stamatakes, Professor. This is Katrina Kontoravdis."

  Milner's hand lingered momentarily as he shook with Katrina. The professor did not receive many female visitors at the site. She could feel his eyes run over the thin white material of her dress, but she was neither embarrassed nor angered. Amused, she toyed with the old man, following his gaze and shaming him into keeping eye contact. Her dark brown eyes burrowed deep into his lecherous soul. Soon, he was blushing and turning back to George.

  "So, how can I help a member of the Greek government?" he asked. "I trust I am not in some violation."

  "Far from it, Professor," George assured him. "The Ministry informs me you are most welcome in our country. We need information about Heinrich Schliemann and, apparently, you are an authority on the man and his work."

  The professor's stooped shoulders straightened as he puffed with pride. "You flatter me, sir. I would not call myself an authority, but Schliemann's work has always been a passion of mine. Please, join me in my tent for a drink. We'll be more comfortable out of this heat. I'm sure you're thirsty after your long drive."

  Milner led the way to the tent where he poured them glasses of lemonade. He pointed at two uncomfortable chairs while he went through a complicated ritual of making a cup of tea. The tent was hot, almost as hot as the outdoors, and the odor of the canvas was overpowering. Katrina felt a trickle of perspiration run down the length of her spine. She took a long drink that temporarily choked off the urge to be sick. The professor immediately refilled her glass and then remembered to turn on the exhaust fan. The large blades stirred the air, creating a small breeze, and the smell and the heat lost some of their intensity.

  Sitting heavily in a small chair in the corner, the professor brought his fingertips together in what Katrina suspected was his standard lecture pose. "Schliemann's critics have written many unkind statements about him," Professor Milner began. "There are even those who consider him a thief. Imagine, a thief! I suppose he wasn't entirely honest, but neither were those he dealt with. A man has to protect himself, don't you think? Of course," he hastened to add, "I've never had any problems with your countrymen, Mr. Stamatakes. But then one can't compare the Greeks to the Turks, now can one! I only say this so you will understand my position on Schliemann. He was a great man. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?"

  "Just background information," George replied. Experience told Katrina her boss was trying to sound nonchalant. George had specifics in mind and was hiding something. "What the man was like, his major discoveries," he said. "His life in general. Of course, we would like to hear about Troy."

  The professor nodded. "Yes, Troy, naturally. Well, as I said, Heinrich Schliemann was a great man. He was born a German in 1822, but also became an American citizen. By the time of his death, he spoke eighteen languages. He made a considerable fortune in the import business before starting his hunt for Troy. You see, he believed Homer was recounting actual history when he wrote about the Trojan War in the Iliad.

  "Schliemann researched for years and became convinced Troy was in Turkey. After quite a bother with the Turks, he received permission to dig. He located the city and found several inconclusive pieces those first years. In 1873, he discovered a cach
e of treasures which proved his theories."

  Milner leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Quite the legend has developed around the discovery of those artifacts. Several different versions of the story have surfaced. Schliemann, always the businessman, promoted the legend to increase the value of the exhibits."

  "Can you give us the facts of the discovery?" George asked.

  "Facts? No. Nobody knows anything for certain. You see, Schliemann had to sign a firman stating that all artifacts would remain in Turkey, but he never intended to honor it."

  As the professor spoke, Katrina looked out the tent flap at the ancient dig. Schliemann's Troy excavation would have looked much like this. She could envision him working at the bottom of his trench.

  * * * * *

  Schliemann backed out of the hole holding the shield. He looked up and saw his wife, Sophia, gracefully descending the ladder. Gathering up her skirts, she kneeled at the mouth of the hole beside her husband. She did not cry out or gasp. Instead, she turned to the excited man beside her. She gently brushed the loose earth from his dirt streaked cheek and spoke. "Again, as my husband predicted. And now?"

  Sophia understood what the archeologist faced. Not a concern of conscience - he had always known, long before he signed the firman, that he would keep all the treasure to himself, if humanly possible. God knows what the Turks would do with them. His was a problem of logistics. He had to sneak the treasure past the government watchdog on the site and then smuggle the artifacts out of Turkey to his home in Athens.

  Sophia took the shield from him and he reluctantly let it slip from his grasp. Ever the pragmatist, she took the artifact and slipped it under her skirt. Smiling, she stood and presented herself. Only a slight bulge showed under the loose folds of cloth. Schliemann jumped to his feet and grasped her shoulders. He kissed her full on the mouth and then pulled back to look at her.