‘No, no, no. Don’t worry about any of that. Just show up tomorrow night. We can talk properly there.’
‘What about van man? He’s bound to follow me. And for all we know, Makis may have other people watching.’
‘Leave all that to me,’ said Nikkos. ‘And don’t leave here for at least ten minutes. Your Greek’s improving by the way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ella.
But Nikkos had already folded up his paper and lumbered off down the hill.
Stavros Helios’s estate was the second grandest mansion in Athens, right after the presidential palace. Designed by the same architect in the mid-nineteenth century, both were vast, white wedding cakes of buildings, complete with the usual ‘classical’ Greek touches of Doric columns, supported on enormous stucco plinths and crepidoma, and topped by an entablature depicting a variety of the ancient myths.
Of the two, however, Helios’s house had by far the larger and more beautiful grounds. Surrounded by towering poplar trees and at the end of a quarter-mile-long drive, the mansion fronted onto a series of tiered lawns, fountains and formal gardens, each with a different theme. The rose garden, occasionally opened to the public, was said to contain more rare varieties of rose than any other in Europe, including the world-famous specimens at the palace of Versailles. But it was only one of a series of different outdoor ‘spaces’, each exquisite in their own way, including a Japanese garden, a water garden, a desert garden, a sculpture garden, and a bonsai ‘forest’.
Climbing out of the chauffeur-driven limousine that Nikkos had arranged for her, Ella immediately felt underdressed in her simple white evening gown. Gazing at the other women emerging from their Bentleys and Lamborghinis in astonishing couture gowns, their bodices hand-stitched with dazzling beading, many of them sporting trains and even tiaras, she tried to remind herself that Persephone Hamlin took pride in being a rich woman of relatively simple sartorial tastes. Even so, arriving on her own and in a plain Calvin Klein sheath, Ella felt uncomfortably naked.
Removing the stiff invitation card from her silver clutch-bag, she handed it to the ‘greeter’ at the gate, an elegant woman in her fifties wearing a beautifully understated, pale pink Prada gown and with her dark hair pinned up in a bun like a ballerina.
‘Welcome, Mrs Hamlin,’ she smiled at Ella. ‘I hope you enjoy the evening.’
‘Hey. You!’
Constantin Pilavos froze
as a heavy male hand clamped down on his shoulders.
‘I’m from Kathimerini,’ he explained, turning around to face his assailant, a giant brute of a man in an ill-fitting black suit, and pulling an elegantly forged press pass for the well-known Greek newspaper from his inside jacket pocket. Ahead of him, he could see Persephone Hamlin take a flute of champagne from one of the waiting staff before disappearing into the growing throng.
‘I don’t think so,’ growled the giant menacingly. ‘You need to leave.’
‘I can assure you, my paper is on the approved media list.’ Constantin stammered nervously. He didn’t wish to anger this monster, who could crush him like a baby bird if he put his mind to it. On the other hand, if he didn’t come back with photographic evidence of Mrs Hamlin’s one and only social night out in Athens, he’d have Mr McKinley to answer to, an equally unappealing prospect.
‘Please,’ he urged the giant. ‘If you’d just check the list? Mr Helios specifically invited us to cover tonight’s event.’
‘Yeah? Well he’s changed his mind,’ grunted the giant, in a tone that made it crystal clear the conversation was over. ‘I’ll see you out.’
Lifting Constantin off the ground with no more effort than a child picking up a doll, he physically carried him back down the driveway and out of the gates. Worse, when he set him down, he proceeded to grab his camera, pull out the film, and thrust it into his pocket.
‘Don’t come back,’ he snarled. ‘We’ll be watching.’
‘Is he gone?’ Ella asked Nikkos.
‘He’s gone. But I need you to listen carefully. Cameron McKinley won’t let Persephone out of his sight for long. We don’t have much time.’
They were sitting alone on a terrace at the rear of the property. Below them, in the sculpture garden, Athens’s ruling political class were milling around, sipping Stavros Helios’s vintage champagne and generally behaving as if they’d never heard of the word ‘austerity’. Ella didn’t think she’d ever seen such a vast gulf between the lives of the rich and the poor as she had since she came to Greece. Which was saying something for a girl who lived in San Francisco. But now wasn’t the time for philosophizing.
Pulling an iPad out from the pocket of his capacious evening jacket – his entire suit was more tent than apparel – Nikkos pulled up a map of Sikinos.
‘So, this is the island. Very small, as you can see. Not much there except the convent, two farms and a fishing village. Boats can access here and here.’ He jabbed at the screen with a pudgy finger. ‘But you don’t need to worry about that; you will be going in as one of the staff at Maria’s bakery, They’re based on Folegandros, a neighboring island. Sikinos isn’t big enough to support a bakery of its own. The nuns generally bake their own bread, but they occasionally order in cakes or pastries for special occasions. Next Wednesday is the feast of St Spyridon, patron saint of the Cyclades islands. They’ve already put in an order for madeleines and portokalopita, the traditional orange cakes of the region, as well as fifty special loaves. Delivery will be Wednesday morning, early.’
‘Do I have a name? A cover story?’ Ella asked, surprised by the strength of her excitement. For the first time since she left Mykonos, this felt real. And once again, she couldn’t help but feel the tug of destiny – being a part of this mission felt strangely like coming home.
‘Your name is Marta and you’re from Patras.’
‘That’s it?’ Ella looked worried. After all Gabriel’s admonitions about the importance of a detailed cover story and sticking to it – all the endless complications of being Persephone Hamlin – this felt like something of a turnaround.
‘No one will question you,’ said Nikkos. ‘You’re delivering cakes. When you arrive, the sisters should still be at Matins. You need to make an excuse and slip out of the kitchens. Find Sister Elena. If you can, you are to take a “mental picture”. Apparently you know what that means?’
Ella nodded.