The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER FIVE

Baltasar stayed low and unobtrusive as the bus rumbled its way out of Greece.

The preferred mode of transport for his masters, Baltasar would actually have preferred to walk; to hitch lifts; to hop off and on when possible, but it was a long twenty-six-hour journey to get where he wanted to go. Not willing to risk an air crash, unwilling to rely on the train, a bus journey usually passed as discreetly as a heart skipping a beat.

Until someone destroyed the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

Still, Baltasar had gotten out early; the bus leaving as the dust still plumed skyward and emergency services raced to the site. The timing was snug, but nothing tauter than what he was used to. How fast could the Greek authorities turn shock and horror into enquiry and examination? It might be an issue, but his masters were an intrinsic part of the world’s infrastructure. It would be a rare occurrence indeed that they couldn’t control.

Cap pulled down, T-shirt bagged out, face turned toward the window, he rode the bus in disinterested silence, but his ears picked up everything. One of his many scars, long and narrow, ran into view under the sleeve of his T-shirt, distracting him for a while as he fingered its ragged, white length. Comforting, it took him back to the old days.

But not now. He pinched the skin hard, knowing every faculty he possessed should be focused on his environment. Instantly he knew someone had seen him hurt himself and looked over; stared the other youth down until he looked away. The bus rumbled on through a falling darkness, bound for its one and only Greek stop before crossing the border.

Larissa was coming up. Baltasar knew the bus station would offer up a few newcomers, spit out a few travelers, hopefully the woman with the strong body odor right behind him. The streets were gray, dark, barely lit. Those that walked the sidewalks this night might be doing so with a little more trepidation than usual.

Larissa Bus Station resembled a thousand others the world over. Baltasar wasn’t unduly worried as the vehicle slowed, brakes loud and grating, until he saw half a dozen police cars, a cluster of uniformed cops, several suits and then a surprisingly large assemblage of military waiting on the platform. Immediately, he saw the guns, the stances, the expressions. They weren’t prepared to storm the bus, they were here to search it.

Relax. They can’t possibly know it was you. You are dressed in different clothes so even if someone did report a man leaving the scene they couldn’t connect it.

This was a search then; no doubt because it was the very last bus to leave Athens. Understandable, really. Procedural. And if it was more… then he had his skillset.

Heads rose and necks craned. People swiped at the windows, cleaning them with wet, dirty fingers. Baltasar cast a glance upward to where his rucksack lay jammed into the luggage rack. The robes were long gone, and would be replaced when he reached home.

The single worry was the map.

A police officer came on board, flashed a badge, shouted that they would be detained until further notice and until a thorough check of the passengers and bus was undertaken. He cited the Athens Museum destruction as the cause, and thanked everyone for their understanding. People moaned as people do, their lives derailed by someone else’s suffering.

One man complained the loudest and was the first to be escorted off the bus and to some small, dingy, makeshift interview room. Baltasar saw the hours stretching ahead and settled himself to learn a new character — one he’d already prepared — the seasoned European traveler, dropped out of college several years ago and drifted along ever since. Content. Harmless. Not even worth searching.

He wondered if a search was mandatory. The idea was confirmed when a woman was marched off in a different direction. He then wondered if they might be picking out single passengers. A worry, and something he couldn’t affect. The legend they’d created for him would hold up.

Every passenger was checked, no sense to their sequence; it was all random. Baltasar slowed his breath, made quiet meditation. The bus became noisy, kids screaming, passengers complaining. Somebody started playing music until a loud woman’s voice told them to shut it off or else risk being force fed the device. Babies needed changing. Some were hungry.

The police worked methodically and carefully, but rarely offered any help. Baltasar wondered how many other buses were being stopped. Medicine was asked for, as was water. In the end, Baltasar’s turn came and he walked off the bus with his luggage and no protest.

Six hours lost already, and they weren’t even halfway through the passengers.

“Sit.”

A skinny woman in uniform directed him to a battered plastic chair, its black seat scarred with age. Baltasar nodded and sat facing two men across a stained table. Two mugs of steaming coffee sat atop it, one for each man, but they didn’t offer him anything.

“ID?” one asked, a buck-toothed older man with salt and pepper hair. “Where are you going?”

Baltasar handed over a country ID and met their eyes. “All the way.”

“Germany? What is your business there?”

Salt And Pepper talked whilst the other man ran his ID through a portable scanner. His eyes reflected flashing images on a computer screen. Baltasar made sure he didn’t look at him.

“No business. I am just sightseeing.” Baltasar spoke perfect Greek, English and German, but made it barely passable.

Standard questions came at him steadily, questions he was well prepared to answer. He endured it all to remain unnoticed.

Finally came the search.

Two more men with wands and wandering hands. He removed his shoes and socks. They patted him all over; and of course had no idea they were looking for a map. This was the real reason the museum had been demolished. The map was concealed inside the rucksack, inside a plastic pouch, inside a sheaf of tourist guides and other similar maps of ancient European sites. Some had been aged to look similar, as collectible tourist maps often were these days. Only an expert could tell the difference.

The cops leafed through the bag, worn out and fazed from all they had done and all they had yet to do that day. They found the pack of leaflets, flicked through them and found nothing untoward. They weren’t looking for leaflets. With a shrug Baltasar was sent back to the bus and another interminable wait.

Time wasted. He ought to inform the master. The ten hour mark passed. Baltasar became irritated for the first time since they stopped. The master shouldn’t be made to wait like this. Was there a way to hurry it along? Not without drawing attention to himself.

Baltasar would endure the wait because his masters told him this was the only way; just as he’d helped rob and ruin the museum, just as he’d committed a thousand treacherous acts before… and would again.