white blocks glistened in the harsh midday glare, while tourists milled around speaking German, French, English, or Dutch. Even in the simmering heat of noon, Delphi still attracted visitors who revered the ancient Greeks as devoutly as those Greeks had once worshipped their own adulterous gods and goddesses.
So where the hell was Novosty? Noon at the Temple of Apollo, his note had said.
He searched the hillside looking for telltale signs of an¬other ambush—movement, color, anything. But there was nothing. Although tourists wandered about, the temple ruins seemed abandoned for thousands of years, their si¬lence almost palpable. Even the sky was empty save for a few swooping hawks.
If Alex is here waiting, he asked himself, where would he be?
Then he looked again at the treasure house. Of course. Probably in there, taking a little respite from the blistering sun. It figured. The front, its columns, and porch were open, and the interior would be protected. Conveniently, the wide steps of the stone pathway led directly past. A natural rendezvous.
In his belt, under his suede jacket, was Zeno's 9mm Llama. It was fully loaded, with fifteen rounds in the maga¬zine plus one up the tube. He reached into his belt and eased off the safety.
Holding it beneath his coat, he continued on up the cobbled pathway toward the front of the treasure house. As he moved into the shade of the portico, he thought for a moment he heard sounds from inside. He stopped, grip¬ping the Llama, and listened.
No, nothing.
Slowly, carefully, he walked up the steps. When he reached the top, he paused, then gingerly stepped in