Act of Treason

He powered up his cell phone and then punched in a local number. After a few rings a woman answered and Gazich said, “Andreas.” He waited for the woman to get his landlord and joined the line of people waiting for a taxi. Gazich had talked to the landlord two days ago and had asked him if anyone had been looking for him. It was not an unusual question. Gazich often left on short notice and was sometimes gone for a month at a time. This trip was longer than usual, though, and Andreas had expressed some concern when he’d first checked in almost a month ago. Gazich answered by telling him he’d been detained in Darfur by some overzealous government soldiers. The main thing where Andreas was concerned was that he paid his rent on time and stay away from his daughters. Five of them worked in his café and they were all drop-dead gorgeous. Gazich’s office was on the third floor above the café. When he was on the island he took his meals in the café almost every day.

“Hello,” the voice said in Greek.

“My friend, how are you?”

“Ah…Gavrilo, are you finally home?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Will I see you for di

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Around nine. I have a few things to take care of first.”

“I will save a table for you, and put aside your favorite bottle of retsina.”

Before Gazich could respond, the old man hung up. He stared blankly at the phone for a second and then climbed in the waiting cab.

6

Ross was holding court in the corner of the vaulted living room, his back to the giant picture window. He looked like he was standing on the altar of one of those New Age churches that focused more on entertainment than theology. A six-foot-one, wafer-thin model hung on his every word as Ross spoke about environmentalism being the key to bringing the Middle East and the rest of the world together. A common ground that everyone could agree upon. The others all nodded in earnest and threw in an occasional comment of their own, but this was Ross’s show. He was the new man of the hour.

“How is your president?” asked the model. She had a Dutch accent.

“The current one or the new one?”

“The new one.”

Ross consciously hesitated before answering. “He’s…he’s hanging in there. He’s a pretty tough guy.”

“I can’t imagine the pain,” a slender older woman added. She tried to convey a sense of sadness, but her new face-lift prevented her from showing anything other than a look of permanent alertness.

“They seemed like they really loved each other,” the model added.

“Yes, they did. Very much so.”

“Enough melancholy,” Speyer a

The group relaxed a bit and cracked a few smiles. Several of the men laughed and begged Speyer for his forgiveness.

“I will consider it, but I will not tolerate boring or depressing conversation at my parties. Start having fun or I will not invite you next year.” He said this with great theatrical flair and the group dispersed with the exception of Ross and the model.

“I have something I would like to show you, Mr. Vice President.”

“And what would that be, Joseph?”

“My new wine cellar.”

“May I join you, as well?” the model asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not, my darling. Boys only.” Speyer grabbed Ross by the arm and led him through the living room. A few people tried to stop them, but Speyer simply smiled and kept moving. They reached the entrance hall where Special Agent Brown and two other agents were standing watch by the front door. The agents watched their protectee and his host walk across the stone floor. Speyer opened a wooden door to what looked like a closet, but was actually an elevator.

Agent Brown turned to the man on his left. “You didn’t tell me there was an elevator.”

“I didn’tknow there was an elevator,” the agent responded in an embarrassed tone. “I was told it was a closet.”

Brown moved quickly, crossing the entrance hall in six long strides. “Mr. Speyer, where does this elevator go?”

“To my wine cellar.”

“I’m fine, Michael.”

Brown ignored the vice president-elect. “Is there another way to get to the wine cellar?”

“There is also a back staircase from the carport.”

The wood paneled elevator door slid open. Before the two men could get in, Agent Brown stuck out his arm to block their path. “I’ll need to clear the room first.” Brown turned to the other two agents, but before he could motion them over, Ross stopped him.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ross said firmly. “I have known Joseph for years. This place has a better security system than the White House. Go wait by the door and I’ll call for you if I need you.”

“But, sir, you know I can’t allow you to enter a room without protection unless it has been checked.”

“You can and you will. Now go stand by the door.”

Brown hesitated briefly and then relented. He stepped out of the way and watched as the person he was charged with guarding stepped into a steel cage with a man Brown barely knew. The door slid shut, and somewhere behind the thick walls Brown could hear the electric motor of the elevator kick in. This entire trip was quickly becoming a textbook example of how not to run a security detail. Brown returned to the other two agents and began venting.

“I want you both to write this up before your heads hit the pillow tonight. Make it very clear that he has prevented us from doing our jobs.” Brown looked back at the elevator and added, “Now go find that staircase and secure it.”

THIRTY FEET BENEATHthe house the elevator came to a stop. The door retracted to reveal a huge underground cavern. They stepped onto a hewn stone slab that had been polished to a reflective sheen. In front of them was a vault with row upon row of wine racks. The dimension of the room, and the lack of any support columns shocked Ross more than the size of the wine collection.

“Joseph,” was all he managed to say.

“I know. It took me three years, and it had to be done with the utmost secrecy.”

“But why?”

“This is Zermatt, the heart of the environmentalist movement. This wine cellar is carved right into the mountain. The town would have never granted me permission for such a project. It was difficult enough to get my house built. I had to bribe and cajole every official and inspector in the valley.”

Ross stepped forward and looked into the cavernous room. Expensive crystal chandeliers hung from the barrel vaulted ceiling every fifteen feet or so. Racks of wine jutted out from the wall on both sides like pews in a grand church. To his immediate left was a door, to his right, a wine tasting table and four leather chairs.

“How big is it?”

“One hundred feet deep by thirty feet wide.”

“Amazing. How did you do it?”

“I brought in a family of Albanian miners. A father and four sons.”

“How many bottles?”

From the shadows a voice answered, “Thirty thousand, give or take a few.”

Midway down the cavern a man stepped from between the racks. He was wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons and an open-collar white shirt. His hair was brown and slicked back, which made it appear darker than it actually was. He was of average height, tan, and overweight in a way that could be attributed more to indulgence than neglect. His nose was by far the most prominent feature on an otherwise forgettable face.

“What are you holding there?” Speyer asked with uncharacteristic concern creeping into his voice.

“Oh…this?” The man flipped the bottle up in the air. It turned end over end twice and he caught it.