Why Me?

4

Georgios Skoukakis hummed a little tune as he drove his maroon Buick Riviera northeastward across Queens toward Belmont Race Track and Floral Park and his own tidy little home near Lake Success. He had to smile when he thought how excited those two men had been, so nervous and keyed up. Here were they, experienced guerrillas, soldiers, fighters in Cyprus, young men barely in their thirties, healthy, professional and well-armed. And on the other hand here was himself, Georgios Skoukakis, 52, naturalized American citizen, jeweler, small merchant, no history of violence or guerrilla activity, never even in the Army, and who was it stayed calm? Who was it had to say, "Easy, easy, gentlemen, haste makes waste"? Who was it behaved naturally, normally, calmly, holding the Byzantine Fire in the palm of his hand as though it were an everyday event, placing it in the safe in his shop as though it were nothing more than a fairly expensive watch brought in for repair? Who was it but Georgios Skoukakis himself, smiling a comfortable smile as he drove through quiet Queens streets, puffing his second-favorite pipe, humming a little self-congratulatory tune.

Unlike most countries, which are merely two nations—North and South Korea, East and West Germany, Christian and Moslem Lebanon, white and black South Africa, Israel and Palestine, the two Cypruses, the two Irelands—the United States is several hundred nations, all coexisting like parallel universes or multilayered plywood on the same messily drawn rectangle which is America. There's the Boston Ireland, the Miami Beach Israel, the northern California Italy, the southern Florida Cuba, the Minnesota Sweden, the Yorkville Germany, the Chinas in every large city, the East Los Angeles Mexico, the Brooklyn Puerto Rico, a whole lot of Africas, and the Pittsburgh Poland, to name a few.

The natives of these countries carry their dual allegiances very lightly for the most part, hardly ever worrying about potential conflict, and always equally prepared to serve whichever of their nations has need of them. Thus the IRA in the original Ireland is financed and armed by the Irish in the American Ireland. Thus the furtherance of Puerto Rican independence is abetted by the blowing up of New York bars. And thus, a Greek-born naturalized American jeweler is available for assistance in the Greco-Turkish squabble over Cyprus.

Georgios Skoukakis, in addition to the usual watch mending and engagement-ring peddling of the jeweler's trade, had a sideline which had now become useful to his other nation. From time to time he still visited the old country, and he always combined business with pleasure by transporting jewelry in both directions—all perfectly legal, since prior to the first such trip several years ago he had applied for and obtained all the necessary permissions and licenses. Over the years he had helped to finance many a pleasant vacation by transporting digital watches to Salonika and returning with old gold.

Tomorrow, another such trip would take place. The bags were packed, the reservations made, everything was ready. He and Irene would arise in the morning, drive to Kennedy Airport (with a pause at the shop, just a few blocks out of the way), then leave the car in the long-term parking lot, take the free bus to the terminals, and smoothly board the Olympic Airways morning flight for Athens. And on this trip, in among the charm bracelets and earrings yawned over by the bored Customs inspectors, would be a mixed assortment of somewhat garish costume jewelry, featuring large fake stones.

The boldness of this plan was its strongest asset. The least likely route for the Byzantine Fire, of course, would be a round trip directly back to the same airport from which it had been stolen. Even so, very few individuals would be able to clear a large red-stoned ring through the Customs officials of any airport in America tomorrow morning; Georgios Skoukakis was perhaps uniquely qualified for the task. How fortunate that he also happened to be such a calm and reliable and steady man.

Turning onto Marcum Lane, Georgios Skoukakis was a bit surprised to notice light in the living room windows of his house, but then he smiled to himself, realizing that Irene too was probably feeling tense tonight, unable to sleep, and was waiting up for his return. Which was fine; it would be pleasant to talk with her, tell her about the excitable young men.

He didn't bother to put the car in the garage, leaving it in the driveway for the morning. Crossing the lawn, he paused to light his pipe—puff, puff, puff. His hands were absolutely steady.

Irene must have seen him through the window, for as he crossed the porch she opened the front door. Her tense and strained expression told him he'd been right; she was quite upset, much more nervous about this adventure than she'd earlier let on.

"Everything's fine, Irene," he assured her, as he stepped into the house, turned, paused, blinked, and the bottom fell out of his throat. He stared through the archway into the living room at two tall slender men in topcoats and dark suits who were getting to their feet from the flower-pattern armchairs and walking this way. The younger one had a moustache. The older one was holding out his wallet, showing identification, saying, "FBI, Mr. Skoukakis. Agent Zachary."

"I confess," Georgios Skoukakis cried. "I did it!"