Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8), стр. 13

The market appeared up ahead amid a block of low-rise buildings. The city prevented any building in the downtown area from being higher than twelve stories so as not to block a view of the Parthenon. Even so, most buildings reached no higher than seven or eight stories. In every direction, a mountain formed the distant backdrop: Mount Egaleo to the west, Mount Parnes to the north, Mount Pentelikon to the northeast, and Mount Hymettus to the east.

I took the downward ramp into the underground parking garage, found an open space two levels down, and parked the SUV at the end of a row before taking the stairs back into the sunlight. I waited at the curb for five minutes before finding a gap in traffic worth braving. A taxi honked at me as I reached the other side, nearly clipping my heel. Ignoring it, I headed down a bricked sidewalk that bordered the south side of the market where a series of large panel windows allowed passersby a glimpse inside shops selling wicker baskets, hand-woven blankets, and original paintings of local landscapes.

I continued on, mentally contrasting what I had seen on the analyst’s video footage against the shops and structures on this end of the block. When I reached a window displaying local pottery, I stopped. This was the window Kathleen had looked through before she continued down the street and turned into the market. Across the street, a camera was mounted above a large wooden sign advertising a shoemaker's shop.

It was a strange sensation, standing in the exact spot where Kathleen had been yesterday afternoon. Had someone been watching her all that time? Did they follow her all the way from the port into downtown? Or had she caught their eye for the first time here at the market?

Either way, Brad wasn’t wrong. You don’t snatch up an American off a foreign street, especially the head of a federal agency, without serious consequences. Whoever had done this was going to pay in spades. I would make sure of that.

The door to the pottery shop swung open, and an older man with a grizzly gray beard stepped into the doorway. “You like what you see? We can make a deal. Which one do you like?”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not buying.”

His smile faltered. He nodded politely and went back inside. I started toward the main entrance and skirted around a man playing a violin for tips before stepping under one of three arched marble entrances. The market’s main artery was spacious, allowing shoppers to pass through without having to brush shoulders or push against the flow of consumers moving the opposite direction. Above, a high domed roof was supported by iron colonnades that stood beside the painted brick walls of the building's structure.

The market was sectioned based on the type of goods being sold. Refrigerated glass cases displayed fresh, wild-caught seafood—fish, eel, white shrimp, parrotfish, and rainbow wrasse. Tables were laden with fresh cuts of pork, beef, and lamb. Skinned goats and whole legs of lamb hung from wooden rods trestled above the displays.

Farther on, tables were piled high with colorful spreads of fruit, greens, and vegetables; barrels and boxes filled with beans, rice, and grains; and bowls filled with ground spices and seasonings. There was nothing you couldn’t buy to make an easy dinner or a culinary masterpiece.

I turned down a narrow aisle, duplicating the route Kathleen had taken. The displays of food gave way to shelves and stalls exhibiting household items and collectibles: baskets, rugs, ironworks, wood carvings, and handmade clocks. There were paperweight carvings of the Parthenon, paintings of the Athenian skyline, and porcelain busts of the ancient philosophers.

Kathleen’s GPS had stopped issuing a signal just ahead. Twenty feet beyond that was an open air entrance to the market that brought in foot traffic from Sofokleous Street. I went a little farther and stopped. Four vendors were set up in the immediate area, each specializing in a specific type of product: leather keychains and wallets, glass blown art, glazed pottery, and brass replicas of ancient artifacts. Closer to the street, two food merchants with portable grills sold kabobs, baklava, taramasalata, and dolmades, all of it filling the air with an enticing smell of well-seasoned meat and cooked spices. A slow glance around confirmed what the general had told me; there were no cameras in the immediate vicinity.

Camera footage, cell phone records, and GPS have their places. Strides in technological advances over the last three decades had superseded all the inventions in the entire history of mankind. It was mind blowing when you thought about it. Thirty years ago, publicly available internet, smartphones, Kindles, and streaming movies did not exist. All of that was still the stuff of sci-fi.

And yet, even with all the innovation in technology, sometimes doing a job right meant hitting the pavement, looking someone in the eye, and reading their body language as they answer your questions. Investigators in the past were called gumshoes for a reason. They weren’t parked behind a desk, but were on the streets, looking, watching, asking, and analyzing.

I took out my phone and approached the lady selling the blown glass.

“Hello,” she said. “Do you see anything you like?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone,” I navigated to the pictures app on my phone and pulled up a clear image of Kathleen. “She was in this area of the market yesterday afternoon. This was the last place she was seen.” I turned the phone around and held it out to her.

A pair of reading glasses dangled from a chain on her neck. She set them on the end of her nose, studied the image, then shook her head. “No. I do not remember her. Of course, many people come through here every day.”

“Is it busier in the afternoon?” I asked.

“Very much, yes. The mornings, they are the slower time. Tourists get off the cruise ships and start to make their way here