The Secret Heiress (2 page)

“You were a gift from God,” she said in a sorrowful voice. “You know that, and you know that we have loved you more than anything in the world, don’t you, Ariadne?”

“Yes, Mama,” the child said, nodding her head. Ariadne knew that Mama and Papa weren’t her real parents. They had told her many times that she had been given to them, but they never failed to tell her that they loved her all the more for that reason. They were unable to have children, Maria had confided, but God had given them Ariadne. About her birth parents they had always been vague.

Suddenly Maria drew back with a look of panic. She quickly unraveled Ariadne’s scarf from around her neck and felt for the gold chain that was supposed to be there. She sighed with relief when her hand grasped it, and she pulled it out from beneath Ariadne’s sweater.

Holding it in her palm, she gazed down at it reverently. It was a Byzantine gold cross, encrusted with small rubies and blue sapphires. Looking up into her daughter’s eyes, she said, “You must never lose this, Ariadne. Promise me that.”

Ariadne shook her head. “I won’t, Mama.”

Maria quickly tucked it back beneath the child’s sweater, then arranged the scarf about her neck again. “Put your coat on.”

Ariadne shrugged into the puffy parka that lay on the bed, and zipped it up.

“Let’s go,” Maria said, taking the child’s hand in hers and picking up the suitcase with the other.

“Where?” Ariadne asked, hurrying to keep up with her mother’s pace.

“Papa will tell you about it,” Maria replied.

In the small front room of the cottage, Thrassos sat at the well-scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the room. At this table they ate all of their meals, Ariadne did her schoolwork, and her mother sewed. The hanging lamp over the table was lit, and in the pool of light it cast on the tabletop, Ariadne saw a bottle of ouzo—the pretty one with the ballerina on it—and a small glass of the clear liquid. Her papa hadn’t put ice in it, so it hadn’t become a milky cloud. As she watched, he hoisted the glass and downed its contents in one swallow. He set the glass back down on the table with a resounding bang, then rose to his feet.

“Are you ready?” he asked, glancing at her, then quickly averting his gaze.

“She’s ready,” Maria said.

“Let’s go, then,” he said. Taking the suitcase from his wife, he went to the front door and pulled it open.

Maria grabbed Ariadne and hugged her tightly. “I love you,” she said, tears beginning to flow from her eyes. “Remember that, Ariadne. I love you. I love you more than anything in the world.”

Ariadne found her mother’s tears disturbing, but before she could ask her why she was crying or offer her mama consolation, Thrassos said, “Come on, Ariadne. We must hurry. Someone is waiting for us.”

Her mother released her and pushed Ariadne toward the doorway, but Maria remained standing where she was, unwilling to take another step in that direction.

Thrassos took his daughter’s hand and, without a backward glance toward his wife, led Ariadne out the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him.

The small walled-in yard in front of the cottage was lit by an old-fashioned lantern next to the door, and Ariadne saw that the ancient, gnarled fig tree cast eerie shadows on the wall. They quickly crossed the yard toward the gap in the wall that led out to a stony dirt path. The track, carved out over the years by donkeys, served as the only way to and from their remote cottage.

“Where are we going, Papa?” Ariadne asked again. But before Thrassos could answer, she heard a weird, frightening sound like nothing she’d ever heard before. It was coming from the top of the nearby hill. As her father hurriedly pulled her along beside him, steadily going uphill, the sound became louder and louder. Rounding a bend in the path, Ariadne saw that all the scrub and the wild sage and thyme were being blown nearly flat against the rocky ground by a powerful downwind.

She stopped short, pulling on her father’s hand. “What is it, Papa?” she asked, her eyes wide with fright.

“A helicopter, Ariadne,” he said. “We’re going for a ride on it. It’ll be fun. Now, come on.”

She had little idea what a helicopter was, but she trusted her father. Ariadne let herself be guided on up the hill toward the awful sound and wind. Near the top, she saw the scary machine, illuminated by the powerful lights mounted on its exterior. It looked like a giant insect to Ariadne, and she clasped her father’s hand in fear. The blades that turned above it were terrifying. She didn’t want to go any farther. When she stopped, though, he ignored her protest, jerking her after him.

“There’s no time to waste, Ariadne,” he said in a no-nonsense voice.

When they drew near the helicopter, the dust thrown up by the rotors made a cloud around them. Thrassos bent down and hugged Ariadne close. “Cover your face with your hands,” he yelled over the sound, “and stay next to me. We’re going aboard now.”

“I’m scared, Papa,” she cried.

“There’s nothing to be scared of if you stay next to me, Ariadne,” he said. “We will hurry.” He put an arm over her shoulders and propelled her alongside him, ducking his head. When they reached the steps, he rushed her up them and into the chopper. The two men sitting at the controls turned to look at them.

“Stash the suitcase in the net,” the captain yelled, pointing aft, behind the two passenger seats. “Then buckle yourselves in.” The copilot got out of his seat and pressed a button next to the cabin door opening. The steps automatically retracted into an upright position, bringing the cabin door with them.

“Sit,” Thrassos said to Ariadne, and she slid into one of the small, upholstered seats. He quickly secured the suitcase in the net that was attached to the cabin’s fuselage, then sat next to her. “Here,” he said, grasping both ends of her seat belt, “be still while I tighten this.” After he had secured her seat belt, he put on his own.

“Ready?” asked the captain.

Thrassos nodded.

The captain gave a thumbs-up signal and turned back to the controls. “We’re taking off,” he called.

Thrassos took Ariadne’s hand and held it tightly. “This will be fun, Ariadne,” he said, trying to reassure her.

“Where are we going, Papa?” she asked again.

“You’ll see,” he responded, smiling. “It’s a surprise.”

The helicopter slowly lifted into the air, and Ariadne gasped as it abruptly pitched forward. Her father put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

When they were cruising at a steady speed, Ariadne ventured a look out the porthole next to her. At first she saw nothing but blackness, but in the distance she soon noticed small clumps of lights twinkling on various islands. Occasionally, larger areas of light indicated populous villages or towns.

They had been airborne for less than thirty minutes when she felt her eyes growing weary. The excitement of being wakened in the middle of the night and the ride in the helicopter proved exhausting. Ariadne fell into a deep sleep, her head against her father’s chest.

When the ride was over, her father shook her awake. The helicopter was descending onto a concrete runway. She hadn’t seen the enormous expanse of lights that illuminated Athens, a city of four million people. A big fuel truck and another aircraft were parked nearby, and in the distance she could see huge metal buildings of some kind.

After the pilot cut the engines, he turned in his seat to face them. “You can unbuckle now.”

Thrassos removed Ariadne’s seat belt as the copilot unlocked the cabin door. He stood back while Thrassos retrieved Ariadne’s suitcase, then led her down the lowered steps.

“We’ll be waiting,” the captain called to him.

Thrassos led Ariadne toward the small jet a hundred feet away. She gazed at him in alarm, suddenly fully awake. “What now, Papa?”

“Another short ride,” he replied. “A really nice one.”

They reached the sleek Gulfstream V, and he guided her up the steps. His pace slowed as they neared the top. Once inside the jet, he set her suitcase down.

Ariadne gazed about the interior and was surprised to see that, in contrast with the helicopter, it was luxuriously appointed, with leather seats and thick carpeting. A man rose to his feet from one of the large seats and shook her father’s hand. The stranger was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and a silk tie. His shoes shone with polish, and his hair was carefully cut. He smiled down at her, exhibiting perfect white teeth.

“You must be Ariadne?” he said in a mellifluous voice.

Ariadne looked up at him but didn’t speak. His dark eyes gleamed frighteningly.

“I am Nikos,” the man said. He extended a hand, but the child didn’t take it. She suddenly clutched her father’s arm with both hands.

“This is Ariadne,” her father said. He bent down and kissed her. “I’m going to leave now,” he said, “but you will have a very good time on this trip, Ariadne.”

“Where are you going, Papa?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m going back to your mama,” he said, “but you are going on an exciting trip. You must be a very good girl.”

“But why?” she asked, panicked. “Aren’t you coming, Papa?”

“Not on this one,” he replied. “But it will be wonderful.” Her father hugged her tightly and kissed her.

“I—I must g-go now.” He relinquished his hold on her and gazed at the man with a pleading look that Ariadne had never seen before. “Please take good care of her.”

“No need to worry,” the man replied.

Ariadne lunged for her father, but he stepped out of reach. The other man grabbed her shoulder. “Papa?” she cried. “No, no! Papa!”

Her father hurried out the cabin door and then descended the steps quickly.

“Papa!” she cried after him.
“Papa!”
But he never turned around. In a few moments he had retreated to the helicopter that had brought them.

“Here, here, Ariadne,” Nikos said. “Come and sit down.”

Ariadne didn’t move but stared up at him suspiciously. “No,” she cried, her voice trembling with fear.

The man’s dark eyes flashed with madness, and he clutched her arm in a viselike grip. He shoved her into a seat, slamming her against its back.

“Papa!”
she wailed, tears running down her cheeks.
“Papa!”

 

T
he landscape was Dantean in this part of Be larus. Smokestacks belched poisonous black clouds into the sky night and day, coating everything as far as the eye could see with a filthy residue. Animals had long since fled the area, having learned not to venture anywhere near the perimeter of the steel mill. What little vegetation that remained was blackened and dead, resembling nothing so much as Gorey’s darkest wintry scenes. Over twenty thousand employees of the plant kept its outdated blast furnaces operating, and although they hated the conditions, they had to put food on the table. People joined in long lines to get work at the Belarus division of PPHL, Papadaki Private Holdings Limited.

The management complained to European headquarters in London, but their complaints fell on deaf ears. Thus, the fatal explosion that occurred came as no surprise. Sixty-two workers were killed in the blast, many of them incinerated to ash. Several hundred others were injured. Emergency crews swarmed to the plant to fight the fire caused by the explosion and cart off the dead and wounded.

“Let us in!” the crowd gathered outside screamed. Word had spread fast throughout the nearby town, and terrified relatives began to assemble at the high chain-link fencing that enclosed the steel mill. They shouted and begged with the armed gatekeepers to let them in. They wanted to know if husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons had been injured. But they were not allowed in, nor were they given any information concerning the explosion, the fatalities, or the wounded.

They began to protest, led by Anna Portnova, whose husband and son both worked at the steel mill. In desperation she attacked one of the guards with her fists, pounding his chest with all her might. In another moment the butt of his rifle slammed against her head. She was knocked to the ground unconscious, and blood began to stream from the wound at her temple.

The angry crowd was cowed by the guard’s brutality, but they didn’t disperse. A few carried Anna Portnova away in search of medical assistance, while the others kept up their chants, determined to get satisfaction of some sort from the company that ruled their lives. When the gates were opened and ambulances were waved inside, many of those waiting on the perimeter tried to sneak in, but they were caught and manhandled as if they were thieves rather than distraught relatives trying only to learn the truth.

Their pleas turned to a thunderous roar when they discovered that all of the plant’s remaining furnaces were operating as usual. Just as no one was allowed in, no one was permitted to leave.

In the executive offices, Aleksandr Sokolov, the plant manager, paced the threadbare industrial carpeting in his office, waiting for someone in the London headquarters to pick up the telephone. When a secretary finally answered, Sokolov spoke to her in a rush. His heavily accented English rendered his frantic request virtually incomprehensible.