The Maybach's engine quietly came to life and the driver shifted through the whisper silent gears, moving the immense car over the road in the direction of Liminas.

Pitt rolled down a door window and studied the fir and chestnut trees dotting the mountain slopes, and the age-old olive trees lining the narrow beaches. Every so often, small fields of tobacco and wheat broke the uneven landscape and reminded him of the small farms he had often seen when flying over the southern United States.

Soon the car cruised through the picturesque village of Panaghia, splashing an occasional puddle that marred the elderly cobbled streets. Most of the houses were painted white to reflect the summer heat. The roofs rose into the fading sky and nearly touched as their eaves leaned toward each other over the narrow streets. In a few minutes Panaghia was left behind; the Liminas soon came into view. Then the car abruptly turned, skirting the main section of the little city, and pointed its dinosaurian hood up a dusty cliff road. The incline was gradual at first, but quickly wormed into a series of steep hairpin curves.

Pitt could sense the driver struggling at the wheel of the Maybach; the lumbering town car was designed more for casual rides on the Unter den Linden than spring-breaking tours up mule trails. He looked over sheer precipices at the sea and wondered what would happen if another car came from the opposite direction. Then he could see it ahead; a huge white square against the darkening gray cliffs. At last the curves ceased and the big diamond-treaded tires slid smoothly onto the hard surface of a drive.

Pitt was adequately impressed. In size, the villa nearly matched the splendor of a Roman Forum. The grounds were well kept and there was an atmosphere of wealth and good taste. The entire estate nestled in a valley between two high mountain peaks and overlooked a sweeping panorama of the Aegean Sea. The main gate of a high wall opened mysteriously, apparently pulled by someone unseen, and the chauffeur drove up a neat fir-lined drive without ceremony and braked at a flight of marble steps. In the center of the stairway a large archaic staute of a woman carrying a child stared down mutely, greeting Pitt as he stepped from the Maybach.

He started to climb the steps when he stopped suddenly and returned to the car.

"I'm sorry, driver," said Pitt. "But I didn't catch your name."

The driver looked up, puzzled. "My name is Willie. Why do you ask?"

"Willie, my friend," Pitt said seriously, "I must tell you something. Will you step out of the car for a moment?"

Willie's brows wrinkled but he shrugged and stepped from the car, facing Pitt. "Now Herr Pitt, what do you wish to tell me?"

"I see you wear jackboots, Willie."

"Ja, I wear jackboots."

Pitt flashed his best used car salesman's smile. "And jackboots have hobnails, don't they?"