Memories of Midnight

He looked at his watch. Time to move. Korontzis rose to his feet, his legs unsteady. He stood there, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. His hands were wet with perspiration. He wiped them on his shirt. He put the replica back in the paper bag, and moved toward the door. There was a guard stationed at the front door who left at six, after the museum closed, and another guard who made the rounds, but he had half a dozen rooms to cover. He should be at the far end of the museum now.

Korontzis walked out of his office, and bumped into the guard. He gave a guilty start.

"Excuse me, Mr. Korontzis. I didn’t know you were still here."

"Yes. I…I’m just getting ready to leave."

"You know," the guard said admiringly, "I envy you."

If he only knew. "Really? Why?"

"You know so much about all these beautiful things. I walk around here and I look at them and they’re all pieces of history, aren’t they? I don’t know much about them. Maybe someday you could explain them to me. I really…"

The damn fool would not stop talking. "Yes, of course. Someday. I would be happy to." At the other end of the room, Korontzis could see the cabinet containing the precious vase. He had to get rid of the guard.

"There…there seems to be a problem with the alarm circuit in the basement. Would you check it out?"

"Sure. I understand that some of the things here date back to…"

"Would you mind checking it out now? I don’t want to leave before I know that everything is all right."

"Certainly, Mr. Korontzis. I’ll be right back."

Victor Korontzis stood there, watching the guard move through the hall, heading toward the basement. The moment he was out of sight, Korontzis hurried over to the case containing the red amphora. He took out a key and thought, I’m really going to do it. I’m going to steal it. The key slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor. Is this a sign? Is God telling me something? Perspiration was pouring out of him. He bent down and picked up the key, and stared at the vase. It was so utterly exquisite. It had been made with such loving care by his ancestors thousands of years ago. The guard was right; it was a piece of history, something that could never be replaced.

Korontzis shut his eyes for an instant and shuddered. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then unlocked the case and carefully lifted out the vase. He removed the replica from the paper bag and placed it in the case where the genuine one had stood.

Korontzis stood there, studying it a moment. It was an expert reproduction, but to him it screamed, "Fake." It was so obvious. But only to me, Korontzis thought, and to a few other experts. No one else could ever tell the difference. And there would be no reason for anyone to examine it closely. Korontzis closed the case and locked it, and put the genuine vase in the paper bag with the receipt.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and hands. It was done. He looked at his watch – 6:10. He had to hurry. He moved toward the door and saw the guard coming toward him.

"I couldn’t find anything wrong with the alarm system, Mr. Korontzis, and…"

"Good," Korontzis said. "We can’t be too careful."

The guard smiled. "You’re right about that. Leaving now?"

"Yes. Good night."

"Good night."

The second guard was at the front door, getting ready to leave. He noticed the paper bag and grinned. "I’m going to have to check that out. Your rules."

"Of course," Korontzis said quickly. He handed the bag to the guard.

The guard looked inside, took out the vase, and saw the receipt.

"It’s a gift for a friend," Korontzis explained. "He’s an engineer." Why did I have to say that? What does he care! I must act natural.

"Nice." The guard tossed the vase back into the bag, and for one terrible instant Korontzis thought it was going to break.

Korontzis clutched the bag to his breast. "Kalispehra."

The guard opened the door for him. "Kalispehra."

Korontzis went out into the cool night air, breathing heavily and fighting nausea. He had something worth millions of dollars in his hands, but Korontzis did not think of it in those terms. What he was thinking was that he was betraying his country, stealing a piece of history from his beloved Greece and selling it to some faceless foreigner.

He started down the steps. As Rizzoli had promised, there was a taxi waiting in front of the museum. Korontzis moved toward it and got in. "Hotel Grande Bretagne," he said.

He slumped back in his seat. He felt beaten and exhausted, as though he had just been through some terrible battle. But had he won or lost?

When the taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Grande Bretagne, Korontzis said to the driver, "Wait here, please." He took a last look at the precious package on the backseat, then got out and quickly walked into the lobby of the hotel. Inside the door he turned and watched. A man was entering the taxi. A moment later it sped away.

So. It was done. I’ll never have to do anything like this again, Korontzis thought. Not as long as I live. The nightmare is over.

At three o’clock Sunday afternoon, Tony Rizzoli walked out of his hotel and strolled toward the Platia Omonia. He was wearing a bright red check jacket, green trousers, and a red beret. Two detectives were trailing him. One of them said, "He must have gone shopping for those clothes at a circus."

At Metaxa Street, Rizzoli hailed a taxi. The detective spoke into his walkie-talkie. "The subject is getting into a taxi heading west."

A voice replied, "We see him. We’re following. Return to the hotel."

"Right."