The Road Least Traveled Read online

  He popped an olive into his mouth, relishing its buttery flavor. The olives were pitted, so there was no need for him to spit out the stone. He plugged the charger into a socket by his ankles, and the battery began to work back up to full capacity. He checked his emails and considered calling Henry, but Greg was not sure he wanted to hear anything more about work at that moment. He was relaxed, calm and enjoying a drink while the soft strains of Beethoven plinked from a self-playing piano in the corner. Zurich had style and class, that was for sure. He wondered whether all that would disappear by the time he got to Greece, where, despite the promise of there being beautiful women, if the hot flight attendant was anything to go by, he was so far unimpressed.

  He finished his champagne and went to the bathroom. On his way back he asked for a newspaper and Kristian was only too happy to bring him one. Greg flicked through the headlines, now more than twelve hours old, and then glanced over the financial section before flicking the paper over to sports. Soccer was his sport, especially the British league. He mused over the tables, where the two teams vying for the championship were locked on equal points, where the result would be decided on the last game of the season.

  When he looked at his watch again after reading the newspaper, he saw it was eight-thirty, and the plane would be leaving in a half hour. He barely had to glance up before Kristian came over and presented the bill, which Greg cleared with his credit card. As Kristian handed him his receipt, Greg felt a finger stroke his hand for just a second.

  “Lovely to meet you,” Kristian said. “I do hope you come again soon.”

  Greg held out his hand, and Kristian took it, beaming. They shook. Greg thanked the young waiter and left the restaurant again as Kristian beamed at his back.

  The final leg of the journey was the most difficult. Once again tired, and his neck now beginning to ache, Greg was disappointed to see there was no first-class section on the flight, and instead he was forced to suffer being in coach with the other two hundred passengers. After taking his seat he found himself unfortunately sandwiched between two large women. They garbled to each other across him in Greek, though neither of them had met before the flight, until Greg offered to stand and swap places with the woman on his right, by the aisle. She seemed surprised and delighted by the gesture, and Greg was somewhat relieved to be able to stretch his long legs into the aisle and get up for a stroll when his muscles began to ache. Once more he thought about his bed, large and inviting, and now empty for the near future. God, please let the hotel bed be comfortable, he prayed silently. I’m not sure I can cope with a lumpy bed in this state.

  With nothing to read, no television to watch and certainly no first-class seat to recline in, Greg played solitaire on his cell phone until his eyelids became heavy enough for them to close. He was cruelly awoken by a clumsy flight attendant who smashed her trolley of snacks into his foot, and apologized profusely when Greg could only hold up his hand and pretend that it didn’t hurt, while all the time his eyes watered and his toes throbbed.

  Finally, three hours later, the plane descended into Thessaloniki airport. Strangely, its code was SKG, and Greg couldn’t for the life of him fathom how those letters were even remotely connected to the name of the city. He made a mental note to ask someone when he got the chance.

  Chapter Six

  Despite it being past midnight, Greek time, the air was hot and oppressive as Greg descended the steps onto the runway, where he boarded a bus for a trip of just a half mile. The shuttles ferried passengers to and from the planes when it seemed to make much more sense simply to allow them all to walk to the door. However, this was strictly forbidden and Greg wearily waited for his turn. There was excited chatter and noise as vacationers made sure their children were close, and families returning home talked quickly, no doubt excited about seeing whoever was there to greet them when they walked through the doors.

  Greg’s main concern was getting his checked bag, getting out of the airport, getting a cab to the hotel and getting his head on a cool pillow, preferably in a room with excellent air conditioning. He passed through passport control once more, and this time there was another man, large, grumpy, and mustached, in a little booth, deciding on his suitability to be allowed into the country. However, he barely gave his passport a glance and waved Greg through with a bored shrug.

  The airport was tiny, and had only two conveyor belts for luggage. Greg did not even have to check a screen to tell him where to find his suitcase. He simply stood between the two belts and waited to see which one began to move first. There were no other passengers in the terminal, save for the ones who had joined him on his flight. Weary-looking cleaners plodded around, gripping imaginary pieces of paper in their plastic claws, and a couple of serious-looking men at a security desk scanned their eyes over the crowds. One of them yawned.

  Greg was sticky and hot, and it appeared the air conditioning in the airport had broken, as men and women alike fanned themselves with whatever they could find. Greg felt the sweat run down between his shoulder blades and pool at the bottom of his back. His hands in his pockets, he stared sternly at the belts, willing them to move.

  As if to grant his wish, suddenly the long black snake shuddered and the flaps moved forward lazily. First, a generic stroller poked its way around a corner, and a relieved woman stepped forward to grab it, before opening it with a jerk and placing inside it a whimpering child, who promptly fell asleep, sucking his thumb. One by one, suitcases of all shapes and sizes began to appear, until Greg was eventually reunited with his sturdy metallic one, which had successfully made it all the way from California to Thessaloniki in one piece, just like its owner. Greg checked the locks had not been tampered with and a mild anxiety that he did not even know he had been carrying was lifted from his shoulders.

  He passed through the doors to the entrance lounge and strode by the people who craned their necks, looking through him, to see if they could spot a familiar face. Greg scanned the taxi drivers at the end of the line, who were standing patiently, holding cards with names written on them. There weren’t more than ten, and it was only a second before Greg caught sight of the one for him: a short man in glasses held up a card that read Marsh - TMD.

  “That’s me,” said Greg. The man nodded, and took Greg’s suitcase, pointing him toward the main doors. He clearly didn’t speak much English, but Greg didn’t mind. He’d heard so much talking between the two women beside him on the flight that he was more than happy to sit in silence. The driver directed him to a sleek black car outside and held the door open for him and Greg got in. The driver put his luggage in the back of the car. Greg was relieved to feel the coolness of the air-conditioning blowing over him as he sank back into the leather seats. As the driver got into the car he passed Greg a cool bottle of water, which Greg gratefully took from him.

  “Thank you,” he said and the driver nodded. Greg opened the bottle and gulped down the water. It trickled out of the sides of his mouth and onto his shirt, but he didn’t care. He panted as he screwed the cap on again, having drained two thirds of the bottle.

  “How do you say that?” Greg asked, and the driver shrugged, not understanding.

  “In Greek,” Greg pressed. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Greek?”

  “Ah,” the driver said. “Efcharisto.”

  “Efarsto?” Greg repeated, and the driver smiled.

  “Ef-cha-ris-to,” he said, and Greg tried again. This time he was much closer and the driver gave a deep nod.

  “Very good,” he said. “Very good.”

  “Ef-cha-ris-to,” Greg mumbled to himself a few times, hoping the word would stay in his mind at least until he got to the hotel.

  The roads were clear, and he was in the center of the city within twenty minutes. It was bright, busy and there were people eating, and drinking, and walking around as though it was early evening. There were kids eating ice cream and couples smoking in cafes on street corners. The cab driver did not seem to mind as people walked in
front of his car to cross the road, and he weaved his way through the narrow streets with practiced ease. Greg looked out of the windows at the cars parked in tight rows all over the place. Some were on the sidewalk itself, others were placed in front of more parked cars, and Greg wondered how people coped with returning to their vehicle to find they were blocked in with no chance of getting out again.

  “What this place needs is a metro,” Greg muttered to himself with more than a little irony. And he was right. It baffled him to think that people lived so tightly in a city that seemed to have one hundred cars to every available parking space.

  Suddenly Greg saw that they had turned onto a large main road, and to his right, there was nothing but darkness expanding as far as he could make out. He realized it was the sea. There was no wall, no railing, nothing stopping people from falling in, but they did not seem to mind. They strolled along the sidewalk, a ten-foot drop into black water only inches away. Ahead of the cars was a huge white tower and Greg had vague recollections of having seen it before. He recalled it was a sacred monument in the city, and was looking forward to getting closer for a better look, before the car stopped.

  “Here,” said the driver, pointing across a crowded city square to a large white building, built on a curve. “Electra. This is your hotel, my friend.”

  “Ah, right,” said Greg, and he got out of the car. The city was noisy, teeming with life and full of a smell of something spicy and exotic. He walked to the trunk, where the driver had placed his luggage on the ground. Greg reached for his wallet and pulled out a ten-euro note, which he gave to the driver as a tip, the journey itself already pre-booked by Patty and charged to the company account. The driver was grateful for the tip and reached out to take Greg’s hand in a firm handshake. Greg searched for the word again.

  “Efcharisto,” he said, and the man beamed.

  “Very good! Very good!” he said, pumping Greg’s hand. Then he pulled Greg in close to him and raised one finger in instruction.

  “Parakalo. You are welcome. Parakalo.”

  Greg repeated the word and the man clapped him on his back. Greg could not help but smile. The guy seemed so serious, but was thrilled when Greg wrapped his tongue around the strange words. He waved at Greg and wished him a good night, then got into his cab, and was soon lost in the city crowds.

  Stray dogs ran across the large city square but nobody batted an eye. Some tossed food to them and they fought over it with yaps and yelps. Greg walked through the square with slow steps, his luggage rumbling behind him. He was desperate to get to the hotel ten minutes earlier, but now he could not help but absorb the life and vigor of the night. He heard strange music played by a band of musicians with stringed instruments and what appeared to be a huge clarinet. The noise was hypnotic. Some people tossed in coins, and others walked around with cameras hanging from their necks, which they occasionally lifted to snap pictures of the scene.

  Greg wondered how far he was from the main dig site. He felt a nostalgic burst of warmth flood through him to know that somewhere, not too far away, Betty was under the city, waiting patiently for him. He hoped that the men Eddie had paid to guard the entrance had lived up to what was expected of them and were keeping Betty safe from the marauding gang who sought to destroy her.

  He was impressed with the hotel. The staff was cheerful and welcoming, despite it now being nearly one in the morning, and they took him up to his room immediately, carrying his suitcase for him. The suite Patty had booked was beautiful and the bed looked welcoming. Once he had unpacked, Greg took a long, cool shower that refreshed him after more than a whole day of traveling halfway across the world. He put on a robe hanging in the closet and stepped out onto his balcony.

  There was no doubt that Thessaloniki was a beautiful city, and Patty had done an excellent job of putting him in a hotel that offered magnificent views. The city was bright and alive, as though nobody was ready to go to bed that Saturday night, now Sunday morning, but there were no drunken fights or provocative cat calling from horny young men to skimpily-dressed young women, either. It seemed people were just as happy drinking coffee as they were beer, and as Greg leaned on the wall and drank in the night, he noticed that nobody was in a hurry to go anywhere, or do anything, other than relax and enjoy their evening. It made Greg stop, and breathe, and feel, for the first time in forever, that he too was on a vacation.

  He got into bed, the sheets cool, the pillow firm, and though the night was still young outside, the thick glass windows blocked any noise and he was asleep within minutes.

  Chapter Seven

  When he awoke, it was eight a.m. He checked his cell phone and counted backwards. It was only ten in the evening, California time. He thought about calling Henry and getting the lowdown on any developments in either the Greek or any of the other three current drilling projects, but decided not to bother his best friend on the weekend at home. He thought about calling Molly, but decided that she was either with her new boyfriend or drinking with her friends. He thought about spending the day dealing with the hundreds of emails that had no doubt flown into his inbox since his impromptu departure from work on Friday at lunchtime, but instead realized that he was enjoying the solitude far too much. It was Sunday, after all, and he decided to take the day off.

  He called for room service and a pretty, young maid, who could not have been older than Molly, brought him a trolley on which were an assortment of breakfast items. Most important was the coffee. It was hot and smooth, and had a hint of hazelnut in its aroma. Greg thanked the maid, took a pastry and opened the door out to the balcony while wearing only a white t-shirt and black boxer shorts. The maid took with her a pile of crumpled shirts that had been hastily packed the night before.

  The city had not slept while Greg had. It was just as busy as it had been the night before, though the faces in the cafes and bars had changed. In the morning light, Greg got his first glance of the sea. Living on the coast in California meant he was no stranger to water, but there was an air of mystery that seemed to beckon him from his hotel room at the Electra, right out to the Aegean. There were boats in the distance going to and from the port, some of them small, possibly coming back from a night of fishing, the others large and wooden and crowded with tourists. There wasn’t the slightest of breezes in the air and the indigo water was still and patient, only moving when a passing boat churned up waves.

  Greg called down to reception and requested a map of the city, which was presently brought up to him, along with the shirts, which had now been pressed and were placed in his closet. He sat at a table on the balcony, and opened the folded tourist map like a large tablecloth over the surface. He took a pen from his briefcase and marked his location with an X. Patty was right, he was only a short walk from Betty’s current location on Egnatia, a long road that ran horizontally at the very top of the square he was currently in. The square was called Aristotelous and was shaped like a bottle. His hotel was on one of the shoulders, and he looked out towards the sea, which acted as the bottle’s bottom. He needed to walk away from the sea, as if climbing the bottle’s neck, where he was sure to find the entrance to the site.

  Despite his earlier decision to have a day to himself, the need to see Betty was too strong. Greg dressed in jeans and a light white shirt, put his cell and wallet in his pocket and made sure to take his identification with him. The last thing he needed was an argument in broken English that meant he was denied access to his own worksite.

  He left the hotel and strolled up the wide, paved road, created only for pedestrians. There were red columns, a nod to ancient Greek architecture, on either side, under which were shops and coffee bars. He noticed that at least fifty percent of the stores were closed and realized that Sundays must have been taken seriously as days of rest for Greeks. He arrived at a busy main road that cut across the pedestrian area, where cars were lining up. Drivers beeped their horns and stuck their heads out of the window, yelling at nobody and at nothing in particular, but finding
no other way to vent their frustration at being stuck in yet another traffic jam. There were buses that moved no faster than the cars, in which pedestrians sat and fanned themselves in the heat. Though it was only eleven, it was already sweltering, and there was no cool California breeze to dispel the sticky warmth. Greg stepped in to the shaded side of the street and continued to walk out of the sun’s rays. His skin did not enjoy being too hot.

  He knew that once he got to Egnatia, he had to turn left and then right. There was another huge square ahead of him, but what he was looking for was on the other side.

  He knew he was in the right place from the large billboard on which TMD’s logo was emblazoned. The D represented the nose of one of the company’s four massive drills, the M giving way to a train the seemed to speed out through the logo. It was a relatively new design that Greg himself had overseen the implementation of, and it certainly looked impressive. Here we are, it seemed to say. We are going to make your lives easier. Trust us with your city and you’ll see what we can do.

  Around the billboard were large metal screens that prevented anyone who was walking past from seeing inside. Not that anybody was particularly interested; thousands walked past the site each day and barely batted an eye at the sounds of construction that came from behind the scenes. There was a small gap between two screens, in front of which stood a man in a navy-blue uniform and neat beret and sunglasses. He looked official enough, and Greg was relieved to think that perhaps Eddie had managed to sort out the security issue after all. Greg smiled at the man and showed him his badge, with his photograph, and of course, the TMD logo, matching the one on the large billboard. The man looked at the badge, his face giving nothing away, before speaking in Greek into a walkie talkie on his lapel.

  “Please wait,” he said. “My boss is coming to see you.”