Late afternoon sunlight slanted over the Agoura as Klaus van dam Eberbach picked his way across broken paving stones older than Rome. He had every sympathy with conservation and tradition, but was that supposed to excuse sloppiness?

He looked across a weathered temple courtyard to the cluster of Corinthian columns still upright at one end. Somewhere among them, Sophie would be measuring light levels and floor space, in anticipation of receiving permission from various Greek government offices to use the area for filming. Most officials, Sophie said, required little persuasion, given the glamour of the American film industry and the lure of American dollars.

Klaus picked out Sophie’s tall, slim figure from a stand of half-shadowed columns, the sunset light gilding her pale hair. As Klaus watched, she reached into her shoulder-slung purse and held something out toward a shadow which, he saw, contained a dark-headed, shorter man. He guessed that the "Pandora Studios" business card was working its usual magic on another gatekeeper or some potential supplier of the myriad services needed at a filming site.

While film production was, of course, a frivolous and trivial occupation, Klaus had been curious about it—who wasn’t?—and had spent several days accompanying Sophie to protect her in the wilds of the Athens business district. He had quickly discovered that she needed no help with Greek businessmen. Most took one look at the six-foot blonde and agreed to whatever she asked.

Klaus considered that his liaison with Sophie had grown out of an assessment of her character as suitable to his needs, but he could recall their first meeting, at the Bonn airport: A cascade of blond curls at his own eye level had caught his attention, and he’d made his way over to the agitated little group that surrounded it, half-expecting … not expecting to find a flustered woman in a severe suit, trying bravely to look businesslike as she sorted through three kinds of currency that did not include Marks. None of the surrounding onlookers seemed able to cope, so Klaus caught her eye over their heads. "Allow me to assist you. Do you need some help with the language?" Her agitation had been in English, which he was now speaking. "At the currency-exchange window, perhaps?"

"Oh, thank you!" He English was American. "My translator’s in Munich already, and I can’t understand any of these people …"

When Klaus, quite naturally, took her elbow and attempted to pick up her bag, however, she made her first American face at him.

"That’s my job, please, Mister …?" She sounded determined, not angry.

"Major. Major Klaus van dem Eberbach."

Her eyebrows went up, and then she nodded. "Sophie Wolf. I’ll carry the cameras, Major." Her eyes wandered over his clothes, which were this year’s tailoring and not a uniform. "Major?"

"In the NATO forces. I’m on leave. This heavy a bag is not for a lady.

"I’m a production manager for Pandora, and I’m not a lady," she said, and smiled across at him, "while I’m working. That’s my job, in that bag."

"You are not working now. You are a distressed traveler, and if you have time when we have settled your problems, perhaps you would have a drink with me?"

She gave him a hard look—he saw that her eyes were sky blue—and then smiled again. She was shorter than he by a very few centimeters. "All right, Major Eberbach. If you want to be a gentleman, I’ll be a lady."

She had two hours before her flight to Munich, and the drink became an acquaintance with a woman who fit none of Klaus’ ideas of womanhood. Nevertheless, when she telephoned him two days later, he took the call.

"This is Sophie Wolf."

"Wolf. Ah." He had given her the card with his home number in Bonn. "Yes, I recall you, Miss Wolf. It is delightful to hear from you again."

"It’s delightful to find you at home," she returned. "If you’re free later today, would you like to have a drink with me?" Her voice was breezy, confident, very American, but he detected a nervous undertone. The so-very-forward career woman was not actually in the habit of asking near-strangers out to meet her. It was intriguing. There was no reason to refuse. She was an odd woman, but not a danger. It would be like meeting any associate for a drink, to discuss something other than work, for relaxation. Yes, of course he would go and give her company in a strange city. Why not?

Not that evening, but a very few days later, the question became why not to accompany her to her lonely hotel room for the night, since she had—most discreetly—made it clear she would like him to, and since she was also clearly asking for nothing more. It was understandable, that even a woman whose career took up all her workday attention, should want a man’s company at times. It was almost understandable that she considered herself neither spinster nor wife, and acted accordingly. It was flattering, in a way. She was attractive, in spite of the oddities. Indeed, her view of the film industry was a novel entertainment to Klaus. Two weeks later, it seemed no very hard decision to spend the last week of his leave with her in Athens, pre-production for "Epic Gold" having reached the stage of what she called site selection.

In the magnificently sunset-lit remains of a Greek temple, Sophie Wolf stood with the massive bag of camera fitting at her feet. Both of them would have to be moved from the Agoura to the hotel before dinnertime. Klaus lengthened his stride, wondering again how anyone so slender could carry the 10-odd kilos of equipment for hours, as Sophie insisted on doing.

The man she’d given a Pandora card to looked up warily as Klaus approached, but did not speak. "Good afternoon, Sophie. Has your day’s business gone well?" He reached to pick up the camera bag.

"I’ll be done in a moment, Klaus." She returned to the Greek man and said something about location catering, which caused his dazzled expression to become more pronounced. Sophie—or Pandora—had made another conquest.

"Thank you," she said at last. "Goodbye. We’ll call you for an estimate." The man, dismissed, departed reluctantly across the ancient courtyard, and Sophie turned eagerly to Klaus. "Oh, yes. This place is beautiful for closeups." She bopped the reserve, the deliberate, careful charm, of the business day, and took his arm. "What was it you said about an orchestra concert this evening? What have you been doing with yourself all afternoon?"

* * * * *

Klaus settled Sophie into her cafe chair, ordered a couple of cognacs and sat back to await the beginning of the open-air concert. It was the sort of cultural display he felt was appropriate to his position as an Eberbach, and Sophie seemed happy enough at the prospect. She leaned back precariously in the chair -not built for her tall frame—and fished some fanciful American cigarettes out of her purse. "I hate concert halls, you know? You can never do anything you like in them. This is much nicer." She glanced at the sylvan park beyond the cafe tables, where an arranged field of folding chairs hat begun to attract black-clad musicians with instrument cases.

"I’m sure the Berlin Philharmonic is worth hearing at any sacrifice," said Klaus, extracting his own cigarettes from a pocket. He lit Sophie’s and then his own and took an appreciative drag. "Look there." An attendant came through the tables, distributing sheets of paper. Programs. He secured two with an imperious wave. "Here, Wolfling."

Sophie snickered down her very American nose at him.

"You’re so old-fashioned, Klaus. I’m not about to heel."

"That," said Klaus, scanning the program in the attenuated light of the table’s single-candle lantern, "is not your function. You make a very suitable Wolfling."

"I bite, too."

"I know," said Klaus, carefully without expression. He bent his attention ostentatiously to the program to change the subject, and spotted the second item. "I think … Eroica!"

"What?" asked Sophie vaguely. She fished again, put on her ungainly glasses, and hunched over the tiny lantern herself. "Oh, yes. Beethoven."

"I beg your pardon?" What has Beethoven to do with …" He re-read the program notation. "Third symphony?"

Sophie smiled into her cognac. "Yes, of course. My mistake.’’

"Nothing of the kind," said Klaus gallantly, and truthfully. "I was thinking of something else. A problem with my work. Please disregard it."

"I will. Though I can’t imagine what NATO cares about Beethoven."

"Nothing at all, I assure you. What was the first program piece again? I missed seeing it in this light."

"I like the light. It’s romantic." Twilight was dying rapidly over the Athenian sky, and the faint tootle of warm-up scales sounded through the chattering, clinking crowd. "Never mind, we’ll find out when they play it."

Klaus doubted his powers of symphonic recognition, but supposed it didn’t matter. "Of course, Wolfling," He cast around for something to say before she could find another comeback for "Wolfling." "I’m surprised you haven’t been out to measure the Acropolis yet. Isn’t your film going to use it?"

"Probably. But I’m leaving it until last. I already know the most important thing about it."

Klaus raised interrogative eyebrows, and added, since it was nearly full dark, "What does Pandora find ‘important’ about the Acropolis?"

"Parking is impossible and heavy equipment is banned," she said. "I mean, really banned, no matter who you bribe." Klaus’ eyebrows flew upwards again, but he did not comment.

"I see," he said after a moment. "So you needn’t take measurements there?"

"I can get a microscopically accurate map at the bookstore. Dickie might want to use it anyway. High recognition factor."

The orchestra was making a determined attempt at cacophony by this time, so Klaus refrained from asking in the necessary near-shout if "recognition" was the essential element in Richard E. Erwin’s Pandora films. Sophie had probably meant something of the kind—her career was serious to her, but movies were not. It would be one of those cynical American comments a career woman considered part of her image. Very well. A cynical American career woman was quite a good choice to accompany his vacation in Athens.

The conductor strode out, consulted with the concertmaster and bowed to a spatter of applause. There was a murmur of dying talk, then silence, then the downbeat.

Klaus listened to the good German music, prepared to approve. Of the music. He sat upright, arms crossed, attentively staring into the dark beyond their table, or at the orchestra, letting his cigarette burn itself out unheeded.

He caught Sophie’s eyes on him once or twice, and when the first piece of music drew to a close she asked him, under cover of the audience’s applause and chatter, "Well? Does it fulfill your standards?"

"Admirably." He frowned at her. Had there been some question?

"Of course." She nodded, sipped her cognac and sat back to wait out the rest of the interval. "Eroica?" she inquired, cocking her head.

Klaus had been waiting for that and carefully did not react. "Next, isn’t it?" He was glad the Earl of Gloria—Eroica to the unfortunate few who shared his clandestine occupations—was elsewhere. The combination of Eroica’s vainglory and Pandora’s implicit promise of same would be an excruciating complication to what was, so far, a restfully straightforward leave. He had enough excitement on the job, often with Eroica’s help.

Beethoven’s third symphony started with a musical crack of thunder and played itself out. As it was also good German music, Klaus gave it his mental approval, ignoring the title’s various adventures since Beethoven had used it.

The music stopped. They all clapped. The orchestra began packing up, the audience rose and shuffled. Klaus slanted a glance at his companion, appreciating the blonde curls and the lean, tall figure. "Back to the hotel?"

She caught his nuance without apparent surprise. "Directly."

That was the American "direct," meaning "right now." Klaus smiled. An Englishman would have meant, "in a moment," not the answer he had in mind tonight.

"Do not pass go," said Sophie, taking his arm for the brief stroll around Sintagma square, "do not collect two hundred drachmas."

They didn’t waste any time getting back to their shared bedroom. Sophie did not attempt to bite, and had learned to let him undress himself before dragging him enthusiastically to the bed. Klaus found that, for once, he more than matched of hair, light blue eyes, body slim, delicate and When they were joined, she moved with him in a rhythm perhaps too slow, perhaps the better for it, until he had no further control and, soon, no thought at all.

The temporary peace that followed sex could be, in his job, a danger or blessing. Here and now it was a gift from this unaccountable woman, an indulgence that was not quite proper. He reminded himself that propriety, under the circumstances, was nonsense, and gave in to relaxation.

"Sophie," he murmured, some time later. "Wrong," she murmured, as always when he gave her name its natural—German - intonation. The murmur beside him was sleepy and content. "Schoene Sophia."

"Reizende Sophia," he repeated.

"Ummh?"

"You’re beautiful."

"Okay."

* * * * *

Two ancient theaters indented the hill below the Acropolis, the site of Sophie’s next engagement with light meters, tape measure and notebook to assess them for Pandora’s needs. Klaus, not unwilling to absorb a modicum of ancient Greek culture when he understood its purpose, accompanied her for the morning’s expedition. He walked from one bowl of stone seats to the other, finding the second even more dilapidated, decorated with even more broken sculpture of the sort that ran rampant in Athens. Rampant, Klaus observed with distaste, might be the appropriate term.

Sophie must have paralleled his course on the higher path, for her tall blond headed figure appeared at the top row of broken stone tiers above him and began a leisurely descent, striding with athletic grace, empty-handed. He wondered where her ever-present camera equipment had been left—perhaps with the production assistant who had arrived, finally, yesterday morning, whose briefcases full of paperwork Sophie had been ignoring ever since?

Klaus simply stood on the floor of the stage of Dionysos and waited for her in pleasant anticipation. Sophie was definitely a woman, even if she would never fit the place of an Eberbach’s woman.

Her slim, blue-blazered figure resolved oddly in the Greek sunlight as she advanced. Two stair-strides later, Klaus was sure it wasn’t Sophie. It still looked like her, but the blond cascade flowed a little more carefree, the stride was a little looser, and the wave of greeting was not preoccupied, but frivolous and eager.

It was Eroica.

Klaus growled and stood his ground. He would not run from the Earl. It was his vacation. He had as much right to be in Athens as any crazy Englishman, who probably wanted no better than to steal something irreplaceable.

"Why, Major, good morning!" caroled the Earl, upon reaching the broken-paved stage level. "Were you waiting for me?"

"Of course not," snapped Klaus. "I hoped not to see you at all. I’m on leave." Just because he occasionally found Eroica useful on the job—and more trouble than he was worth, in the Major’s opinion—did not mean he liked him. At all.

"No need to snub me just for that. I’m on holiday too." He smiled, imperturbable as ever. "What a delightful coincidence!"

"Delightful for whom?" asked Klaus. "Please do not intrude on my time here."

"You’re so inhospitable. I’m delighted. And it’s a public monument, Major. I enjoy the beauty of it." He gazed ostentatiously at a headless naked bas-relief of a distinctly male figure.

"I suppose," said Klaus reluctantly, "you can’t just cart it off, even if you may want to."

"Major, you wound me. My intentions are entirely honorable."

"That’s the first time, then. I’m sure it’s only out of necessity."

"Ah, no." The Earl strolled around Klaus to approach the bas-relief panels. "Or, yes. These are beautiful just as they are. I can only visit them. Removed from this hillside, this light," he turned, and Greek sunlight sparkled off his hair, his eyelashes, the gold bangles at wrist and throat, "they would be less … esthetic."

"I’ll hope that’s a relief to the Greek government."

Eroica’s smile gleamed at him. "Can I count on you as a character reference?"

"Not while I’m on leave." Klaus had to admit, however, that removing a ton or more of marble was an unlikely feat even for the Earl, whatever his esthetic views. But there were plenty of smaller treasures in Athens. He began the tedious climb up the theater’s stone tiers. "Goodbye, Eroica."

"Until later, Major."

Klaus ground his teeth together and went on climbing. There was nothing to keep him from warning the museums of Athens against an obvious danger.

There were several museums in Athens, all filled with priceless historical objects. The contents, viewed days earlier with Sophie, looked ugly to Klaus, but they were indubitably priceless. He began with the nearest, the Museum of the Acropolis. The director, a Mr. Nikoros, examined his NATO credentials with care and nodded warily. "And you believe there is some danger to our collection here?"

"A matter of international security," said the Major with unstated significance. "It is possible some … activity … would be carried out under cover of an art theft. I warn you as a matter of courtesy and prudence. If you stifle the theft, you may catch someone with more to hide than a taste for Greek history. I should like to speak to such a person at the first opportunity."

The head of graying curls nodded. "Ah, I see. So you wish …"

"Please notify me immediately if any attempts are made. I’m at this number." He scrawled the Hotel Athena’s telephone on a slip of paper from the director’s desk pad.

"Of course, Major Eberbach. Have you any suspicions about when we might expect …?"

"Soon, within a few days, perhaps even tonight. Be ready immediately."

"We have extensive security precautions as it is, Major."

"Double them!" Klaus recalled that his visit was unofficial and the Museum Director not one of his subordinates. "That is, please supplement them with anything you can. We appreciate your cooperation, sir."

"Thank you for the warning."

Klaus muttered something worded graciously and left as quickly as he could.

There were other museums in Athens. Benaki Museum. Byzantine Museum, which

boasted some over decorative necklaces Eroica would, Klaus thought sourly, love to

add to his wardrobe. Their directors reacted with all the appropriate horror and

alarm, and rushed to reinforce their anti-theft security.

Working his way from the Acropolis to the sea, the Major came at last to the National Museum of Athens, where the booty glittered brighter and, for the most part, more portable than ever. Its senior curator was cooperative in proportion. Would the Major care to examine the treasure’s protective cases and display arrangements? The Major, calculating that he had an hour still before he could hope to find Sophie free, agreed.

It appeared that the Greeks had had a thriving funerary industry. Statues of the dead, cups and bowls picturing the dead, filled up one display after another, and in the midst of them rested three golden objects. Two were broken and irregular but the third showed a complete, life-sized face: a death-mask, the curator explained, protected here by unobtrusive locks, discreet guards, and invisible beams.

The museum, at this hour, contained a number of visitors as well, including the inevitable Japanese and American tourists, and a gaggle of English schoolmasters, plus a slight, dark young man who was, unfortunately, familiar to Klaus. One of the schoolmasters was in the midst of delivering an impromptu lecture about Agamemnon and a domestic drama, in magnificent irrelevance to Klaus’ interests. "… so you see, its historical value is incalculable," he finished, with emphasis.

Klaus saw the dark-haired man who was not a schoolmaster start to speak, and winced. Sure enough: "Its value in gold would be … how many ounces did you say?" he asked the first speaker, as he pulled out a pocket calculator.

The teacher glared at him. "It cannot be valued in ounces, nor even in yeras. It is priceless."

"Yes, of course …" muttered the other, and busied himself with the calculator

Klaus examined the visitors’ tableau briefly and gave a hard laugh. "So we meet again, James?"

Mr. James spun to face the Major, computation forgotten. "What are you doing here?" It came out somewhere between a squeak and a screech.

"That’s not your business."

The young man swallowed and took a step backwards. "The Earl isn’t here. Leave me alone. And leave him alone."

"He’s in Athens, Mr. Accountant. Are you checking out his booty in advance?"

"Of course not!" Mr. James’s indignation sounded real. Then he seemed to recall the hand-calculator and hefted it thoughtfully. "But it would be a good idea." He took another backwards step and bumped into a fascinated Japanese man. He glanced at the little crowd of spectators, the museum curator, and the unmoving Major. "What do you want here? Go away!"

"You’re an idiot."

"That’s all you ever say." He raised resentful brown eyes to the Major’s. then dropped them. "I’ll tell the Earl you salt that."

"He’s an idiot, too. I’ll tell him myself."

"D-don’t!" He tried to edge between two of the schoolmasters, who were far too interested in the conversation to let him succeed. "He wouldn’t like it."

The Major smiled, showing teeth. "I don’t want him to like me." He turned back to the curator. "This one is harmless by himself. Might we discuss it elsewhere, however?"

He ignored Mr. James’s muttered, "Good. I don’t like you, either," as Mr. Ditropoulos led him away.

"This way," salt Ditropoulos, opening a "No admittance" door. Klaus’ last view of the display rooms included Mr. James’s back and a dozen interested faces.

The National Museum’s safeguards as detailed by Ditropoulos seemed more than adequate. Klaus suggested some additions, left his hotel number and exited, thinking furiously.

That little idiot of an accountant was a fool, but he was Eroica’s fool through and through. There was no justification for some tastes … Where James was, the Earl would be, or had been. Or both. And that mask he’d liked, that was a political, patriotic Greek treasure. So much, the schoolmaster had made clear. The National Museum would pay high to get it back without a public scandal, if it were stolen. Eroica could hardly choose a more convenient target.

And why should Klaus care? He was on leave. He was not, in any case, in the business of stopping petty, well-connected thieves whose crimes were laughably childish, if expensive. He’d find Sophie, who liked to spend some of her off-work hours shopping in the Plaka, and look for a suitable dinner.

He drifted through the haphazard tourist district, hearing Greek, English, Greek, American English, a snatch of Italian, broken Greek … The afternoon sun slanted half into open stalls, left half the street in pleasantly cool shade. He paused at a stone bench to light a cigarette. It tasted delicious after the dusty, warm air.

Shoppers wandered past him: Americans, Japanese, Scandinavians—even some who looked Greek. A dark man approached a red-haired woman tourist, and within minutes was sitting with her at a one-table cafe, glasses of malodorous thick wine in hand. Klaus shrugged and moved on, checking for a six-foot blonde carrying a massive leather bag, probably trailing disappointed Greek suitors enamored of her film connections.

The back of a white-and-blue pant-suit of the correct dimensions, under disheveled gold curls, bag duly bulking at its feet, came into view as Klaus rounded a curve in the pathway (or street) where it widened into yet another tiny cafe. A man half a head shorter than Sophie, eyes flashing under his handsome dark curls, had maneuvered her into a distinctly too-close posture beside a many branched tree. Her back looked tense.

Klaus bristled, but before he could cross the courtyard, the man tried to slip an arm through hers and she pulled back, further into the shadow of the tree. Their voices were inaudible through three tables’ chatter and a screaming bird on the cafe roof, but her reluctance was clear and so was Klaus’ course of action. The Greek man flashed a white smile as Klaus neared them, pleading prettily for a softer heart in the lovely yellow-haired beauty.

Klaus came up to the tree and stood very tall. "The lady is with me," he said, tone leaving no room for argument, as he glared down at the interloper.

Sophie didn’t look round at him, but shifted to meet his advance as if seeking protection. Charmed by this properly feminine attitude, Klaus put an arm around her jacket-padded shoulders. American fashions for women were so … masculine. "Shall we eat now, Liebchen?" he inquired, eyes still on the stranger, who still stood scowling at Klaus. Klaus scowled back.

It had the desired effect: The stranger backed up the lane and escaped around an oblique stone corner, while Sophie melted further into his arm. She didn’t say a word, and Klaus began to wonder at her uncharacteristic reticence. He tightened the half-embrace and sensed his mistake a split second later—a split second too late. He found himself looking directly into the delighted face of Eroica, and then being expertly kissed, as Eroica completed the movement Klaus had started.

"Right away, Liebchen," said the Earl of Gloria, as Klaus struggled to free himself without losing every scrap of dignity.

"Are you mad?" he hissed in a virulent whisper. "This is …"

"No one’s seen a thing," said the Earl, "except you rescuing a beleaguered damsel." He hadn’t let Klaus go. "Mm, do it again."

Klaus threw him off. "Certainly not!"

"Come now, I’m sure you enjoyed that."

Klaus turned to stalk away, ignoring the ridiculous comment.

"If you leave me now, after rescuing me," hissed the English voice, "those people"—the diners’ eyes were indeed on them—"will wonder why. Take me away from all this." He picked up a carryall the size of a suitcase.

"Haven’t you any better lines?" But Klaus saw the advantage of removing both of them from the site of his embarrassment.

"I wouldn’t touch the wine here anyway."

They were past the tree and its—unfortunately—concealing shade, out of earshot of the cafe. The earlier assailant was nowhere to be seen. "What about the men?" asked the Major, with acid.

That got him a roguish glance, which he could only endure with stoicism. "Oh, I have better taste than that, you know."

"Enough nonsense," growled Klaus. "Goodbye, Eroica. Get out of my sight." He withdrew his arm. "And keep your accountant out of trouble. If you have any plans in Athens, I suggest you drop them."

Eroica’s eyes glittered in the evening shadows. "I go after what I want. What else is there to do in life?"

"Nothing I expect you to understand." Concepts like duty and honor. "I don’t have to let your tricks go for the sake of a mission now. I’ve warned your targets in Athens. Do you expect to pull off a theft working directly against me?"

They were standing in the open, in the cooling street, closer than Klaus liked for conversation with Eroica. "My dear Major," said the Earl through his very white teeth, "I wouldn’t dream of it. I hadn’t dreamed of it until now." He smiled, half mocking, half a dawning of genuine pleasure. "Thank you for the timely warning."

Klaus felt his teeth grate together and tried to unclench his jaw.

Eroica continued, "You’re so attentive, that I’m tempted to turn my holiday into a working trip." He smiled, definitely mocking. "If it means you’ll stay here with me."

"I’ll leave!"

"Oh, do chat. All those beautiful statues are very intriguing … Even Mr. James would love them. One must contemplate the esthetics of ancient marble in suitable serenity …"

Klaus turned his back and strode away in search of Sophie and a corner of Athens untainted by the Earl’s presence.

* * * * *

Dinner, though amicable, was a little silent. At last Klaus noticed that no one had spoken since the soup. "Did you choose one of those theaters for your scenes, Wolfling? I’m sorry, I’ve been thinking."

"About work?"

"I’m afraid so. Nothing serious, however. A whim of imagination."

"Imagination? You, Klaus?"

He played with his wineglass. "Now and then. As you have said, there’s so much tangible"—valuable—"history here."

"Well there is, but I didn’t think you cared so much about it."

"Film production managers aren’t the only people to appreciate ancient glory." English thieves adore it. English thieves with curly blond hair … like Sophie’s, and blue eyes. A thief who can stand up and look me in the eyes …

They reached the stage of rising, collecting Sophie’s purse and parcels in order to leave. Sophie’s face, as Klaus had noted more than once before, was nearly at a level with his own. Without plan or effort, he looked directly into her eyes.

Sophie smiles. "Early evening, maybe?"

* * * * *

It was no longer early evening, and Klaus and Sophie were dressing for a late supper when a well-bred tap sounded at their balcony window. Sophie, nominally dressed but her yellow curls still wild and makeup haphazard, turned in surprise. "Whatever?"

Klaus felt a momentary premonition, less unease than pure, professional calculation. There was nothing going on here at the moment … he was on leave

…except his own actions about…

He parted the curtains for a look. Eroica. He was not surprised. Blue eyes under another mane of tumbled blond curls, and an upraised hand, entreated entry. Well, thought Klaus, not unpleased with the situation, let Eroica see Sophie for himself. That should give him something to think about. Klaus unhurriedly buttoned his collar and swung open the window, wondering idly how the Englishman had crossed the six meters between it and the nearest adjacent balcony. Accustomed to Eroica’s resource, he did not let it trouble him.

The flamboyant thief made his entry as only Eroica could, white open-necked ~ shirt cascading lace ruffles, dark cloak billowing in the breeze. "Major," he said dramatically, "this is an emergency!"

"Balls." Klaus was torn between fury and laughter. Sophie, transfixed at the dressing table mirror, turned slowly.

"That’s what I thought I saw," she said, taking in the full-length sight of a male figure scarcely stockier than her own, the rippling golden curls and artful, billowing cloak, the fanciful high-Romantic clothes. Her own hair was fashionably disarrayed for the 1980’s, face suitable for the public now, white linen dress immaculate. "Aren’t you," she said to Klaus, "going to introduce me?"

"No," said the Major. "I have enough problems." He turned to Eroica. "Get out."

"An emergency at the National Museum," repeated their guest.

"What, has Mr. James gone amok with his calculator? You’re here," said Klaus, "so I think your emergency is still … incipient."

Eroica ignored most of the last half of this speech. "I’ll introduce myself." He focused on Sophie, who had risen to her feet. "I am Earl Dorian Red Gloria. And you?"

"Sophie Wolf." The Earl, who apparently wished to maintain his social persona, crossed to her, lifted a hand and kissed it.

"I like your friend," she said, "Major."

"He’s no friend of mine!" Neither of the two took any notice. He watched them size each other up: pale yellow curls to golden, sky blue eyes at a level with sapphire, Sophie in heels and the Earl in … yes, heeled boots. Klaus laughed aloud.

"I’m sorry, Liebchen. The Earl can be charming, but he is part of my working life and so I do not welcome his return. He also has an … unusual … sense of humor. Now," he turned back to Eroica, "if you have more than a dramatic little joke to play, tell me now or get out."

The telephone rang.

Klaus snatched it up. "Three-oh-two." He listened, and felt the tension of work envelop him like a familiar blast of cold air: invigorating but painful. "Yes," he said to Mr. Ditropoulos’s voice. "I’ll be there immediately. You were right to call. Yes. Goodbye."

"My apologies," he said to the room in general. "Sophie, I must leave, I hope only for a short time. Please do not wait for me, to eat supper."

Eroica stared at him as he set the receiver down, recovered a brilliant smile, suggested, "The Museum?"

"As you said. Their alarms went off." He gave Eroica a very hard look. "Just moments ago."

The Earl shrugged gracefully. "And I’m here, not there, as you have noted already." His mischief faltered at the Major’s scowl. "How could I have done it?" His appealing glance toward Sophie was met only with another scowl.

"I’ll find out," said Klaus. He led the way out into the hotel’s hallway, preferring it to whatever legerdemain Eroica had used on the window balcony.

"Was it all the alarms?"

"Don’t you know?" The Hotel Athena’s main staircase was close at hand; they took it two-at-a-time.

"I wasn’t there, remember?"

"But you had warning."

"So I did …" The Earl broke off to hail a taxi out from under the doorman’s surprised nose. "Don’t say I never did you a favor, Major." They clambered into the discommodious vehicle and it struck Klaus that he had seldom shared so small an enclosure with the Earl voluntarily.

He glared at his companion. "Which alarms did you expect to go off?"

"None by my efforts. Was that you said about Mr. James?"

"Nothing important. He was at the National Museum this afternoon. I assumed you knew. Could he have decided to give you some ‘help’?"

Eroica’s sidelong glance was reproachful. "You know Mr. James isn’t a member of my active team. That’s not his talent."

"I didn’t think that little watering pot had any talents. Am I supposed to believe you?"

The glance this time carried genuine hurt. "Yes."

Klaus damned all English eccentrics, and the NATO official who had ordained that he had to work with this one, as they glared their way, knee to knee in the tiny cabseat, toward the National Museum of Athens.

A convoluted two corners later, the Earl dropped the glare for an enchanting smile. "I like your Miss Wolf."

Klaus accepted the change of subject. "She’s hardly your business."

"Ah, but she looks so like me."

"No wonder you like her."

"No wonder you—" The taxi screeched to a halt in a courtyard filled with Greek police cars and floodlights turned up full. Klaus dragged himself away from the conversation without difficulty or regret and vaulted up the entrance stairs. The security cordon parted, none too willingly, at his NATO ID and his implacable face. The Earl, detained for a moment with the cabdriver, rushed after him in time to be admitted in his wake.

Mr. Ditropoulos and about a dozen assorted police and security uniforms occupier the front lobby. "Thank you for coming here," he greeted the Major, "though I am afraid we’ve wasted your time. It’s a false alarm. We’re keeping the alert up until we’re quite sure how …" his air of embarrassment deepened, "how false it is.’

"May I …?" Major Eberbach gestured at the inner rooms, where another dozen uniformed figures could be seen, bustling about or standing in dispirited clumps.

"Of course." They followed Ditropoulos into the display hall.

"What do you think happened?" asked Eroica.

Klaus glared back at him, which had no effect on the Earl, and returned to Ditropoulos. "Could you give me an account of the events?"

"After your warning this afternoon,"—Klaus felt Eroica stir behind him, and ignored it—"we reset the detection sensors, and also put the backup system on-line."-

"In parallel?" asked the unwelcome English voice at his shoulder.

Mr. Ditropoulos glanced back. "I don’t know if … Mr. Datos might have put it that way …"

Eroica gave a soft hiss, but when the spoke his voice sounded unconcerned. "That, of course," he said brightly, "would trip the alarms for a flea. I’d like to talk with your electronics man."

Ditropoulos glanced back again, and then at Klaus.

"The Earl of Gloria," said Klaus shortly, "is an … unofficial colleague of mine. He has worked with NATO in the past."

The curator all but genuflected. "Your lordship. Whatever you wish, of course." He began craning around at the crowd of uniforms. "Mr. Datos should be …"

Mr. Datos was produced and Eroica began an involved conversation with him. Another civilian-suited Greek rushed into view from behind a cluster of idle policemen. He zeroed in on Ditropoulos, ignoring everyone else, and spoke to him in a quick, low gabble of Greek.

A flash of fear crossed the curator’s face, or distaste; Klaus could not be sure. Then he showed only grave alarm as he turned to the Major. "A second alert, at the Museum of the Acropolis. They say … Mylos?"

The policemen were already being hustled out of the National Museum in search of more solid game. Mylos burst into heavily accented English: Museum director Nikoros needed immediately assistance. The Athenian police must hasten there at once. If the National Museum would send half its security force to them, please. Mr. Nikoros has specifically mentioned the so-percipient NATO Major …

Klaus heard Eroica snicker softly. "Thorough, weren’t you?" said the low English voice. "Whatever do you think of me?"

"Nothing good," said the Major. He had been doing some adding-up of his own. "You didn’t know there was going to be an alarm when you burst no dramatically into my hotel room." He stated it as fact.

"Didn’t I?" asked the Earl with superb indifference, half-turning toward the perfectly intact display of gold cups, fragments, and Agamemnon’s funeral mask. "I should truly hate to see that snatched away."

"Unless it went into your collection." Klaus kept his voice low as well, but directed it, harsh and sharp, at Eroica.

Eroica shrugged. "I have not set my heart on it. You know I prefer to acquire only objects that attract me. But the mask is … quite striking, wouldn’t you say?"

"I wouldn’t say anything of the kind, if I had your reputation."

Eroica spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "Nor would I, if I had any intentions toward it."

"I don’t have to believe you," said Klaus.

That got him a glare. "What do you believe, Ever-suspicious?"

"You faked the alarm to me, to bring you in here, where the mask is and the security, at the moment, is all down. And I brought you! I am a fool."

Eroica regarded him thoughtfully. "Ah, but you have been watching me from the moment we arrived, to prevent any chance of my stealing the mask. Haven’t you?"

"Yes."

The Earl smiled, delighted. "How flattering. What shall we do next?" He fidgeted with a golden streamer of curl from the extravagant mane that marked him out in any surroundings. His eyes were very blue, very wide, and fixed very steadily on the Major’s.

He looked like Sophie, and yet nothing like … The Earl had no right to remind him so—vividly—of Sophie.

They were distracted, to the Major’s relief, by Mr. Ditropoulos. "The police have gone and our security cars are ready to depart, if you wish to accompany them," he said, fussily. Klaus realized that the display hall had nearly emptied of guards while he dealt with Eroica.

"We’ll follow them," he said. "Don’t delay them for me. I hope Mr. Nikoros and the Athenian police are enough to hold a thief for a few minutes."

"Don’t bet on it," breathed the nearby English voice.

Klaus ignored that and strode out to where he hoped the taxi—or any taxi—might wait.

Eroica strode behind him, cloak in full dramatic swing, curls fluttering. "Am I coming with you?"

Klaus glared at him, wishing he could scream denials at Eroica. The Earl’s face took on, momentarily, an unbecoming expression of dismay before he smiled in understanding. "You have to keep me away from all that priceless, beautiful, antique gold, don’t you? Don’t you think you’d better keep an eye on me?" .

He was right, however much Klaus disliked the fact, or the man. He snapped his head around to the front and spoke through gritted teeth. "Come with me, Eroica. And behave yourself."

Their taxi was waiting, for a miracle, though Klaus could not miss that the blond curls, rather than his own face and scowl, were what the driver recognized. He jerked open the door, anticipating without pleasure another swerving, jouncing ride with Eroica in close proximity. He felt a sour certainty that the Earl was enjoying himself immensely. "To the Acropolis," he barked at the driver. "Follow the police caravan."

"Yes, sir!" The driver’s accent was somewhere between Cockney and Chicago, but the muttered observation that followed was in Greek.

The Earl passed him an English banknote. "Do as the Major commands. Quickly."

The cab took off through the uneven streets of Athens, the Major and Eroica again knee to knee in dark, unwilling companionship.

"I don’t trust Ditropoulos," remarked Eroica presently.

The taxi careened around a corner and the Major braced himself to avoid falling on the other man. "Why not?"

"You’d talked to him earlier, hadn’t you? About the museum’s security. He should have known better than to overstrain the sensors. Datos did."

"He’s the Mycenae curator. Has been for years."

"He may feel it’s time to move into a more profitable field. That was a clumsy mistake."

"It certainly was, if it puts suspicion on him." The taxi careened around an opposite corner and, perhaps surprisingly, Eroica did not pitch onto his seat mate.

"He’s new at it." Eroica freed a hand for an airy gesture in the dimly-lit car. They went round another corner then, and he landed, heavily, on Klaus. "Sorry." He pulled himself back without by-play. "He might be honest, but if someone just wanted him to overset some sensors, for a good price …"

"… when someone else had given him a chance to do just that," said the Major. "It argues a close knowledge of my actions. Who had that opportunity?"

"You did," pointed out Eroica blandly.

"You did, through Mr. James."

"Would I have explained it Just now if I had?"

Klaus wished the rushing events and the jouncy Athenian style of driving left him time for a cigarette. In lieu of tobacco, he growled. "I usually have no idea what you would do, Eroica. And when I find out, I usually wish I hadn’t."

"At least bribery isn’t violent."

"I imagine you use it regularly, then." The growl, without effort, became a sneer.

"Only when I have to," said Eroica, and pulled fastidiously into his corner as the cab slammed to a halt in the Acropolis parking lot with police cars and security vans all around. "It’s not as artistic as the exercise of ingenuity," he continued into the sudden silence as the motor cut off.

A khaki uniform appeared from the clutch of police cars, and the Major did not wait to be challenged. He threw open his door to confront the guard, confident that his presence and ID would answer all questions, and equally confident that Eroica’s ingenuity—or bribery—would handle the taxi driver.

Whatever it was, it worked fast. By the time Klaus was free to begin climbing the well-traveled, rocky path up the Greek hillside that called itself fortress and temple, his faithful thief was right behind.

The path, and most of the Acropolis, was generously floodlit for the evening. He loped up a dirt path, up stairs through an ancient stone arch, past weathered marble columns to the right and left, weathered marble fallen in chunks here and there on the rocky ground, looming floodlights and shadows in once-sacred buildings … the Museum was a low building on the far side of the plateau. The Major appreciated the ruins’ defensibility, in the back of his mind, as he slowed, cursing, at the sight of a field of disordered blocks and shards of marble.

Eroica brushed past him, picking an obviously well-rehearsed path through the debris of centuries toward the buzzing activity, mostly uniformed, at the Museum building.

"You’ve been up here," observed the Major, doing his best to sound accusing.

"Frequently," said the Earl, no more out of breath from the climb than Klaus was. "This, too, cannot be moved from its site. I visit it for the beauty."

Klaus sighed and said, "You couldn’t get a truck up here. I wonder what the thieves planned to take away?"

Eroica glanced at him and nodded. "An excellent question."

"All right, how would you do it?" He stopped, out of earshot of the bustle at the Museum. There was no emergency there that would not wait one more moment. "Hypothetically, of course."

"I wouldn’t, as I have said. But hypothetically …" Eroica glanced around at the unpaved field, approachable by foot alone. "I’d cut off the electricity and phones, and bring up a cargo helicopter. There are a few items that might be Portable. You’d need a team of muscle to carry them outside."

"A helicopter couldn’t land."

"On the Museum roof."

The Major scanned the skyline, which remained clear of flying objects. The flat Museum roof was empty. "An interesting theory," he said, filing it under "Eroica, methods, speculative," just in case something of the sort occurred—or became necessary—in the future. "Now shall we see what another thief had in mind?" He turned away from Eroica’s idiotic costume and led the way to the besieged Museum of the Acropolis, exchanging a distracted nod with the Athenian police captain, who recognized him and scowled.

Klaus pointed Eroica, cloak and all, to a seat in the anteroom, without much hope that the Earl would stay there for long. A few minutes, perhaps. Mr. Nikoros, a dozen security guards, and a defiant-looking pair of young men waited for the Major inside. Mr. Nikoros started up to greet him, which Klaus dismissed with a curt wave. He directed his intentionally formidable gaze at the two captives instead; they quailed and shuffled, as expected. "This might be an easy question," he said finally, tone indicating that it would not be. "Tell me if you know anyone in the outer room." He moved aside from the door, and motioned the guards to bring the two men to where they could look out.

Neither gave a hint of recognition to the sight of the swinging cloak, the wild blond curls, the impatient tapping boots. Eroica, predictably, was already chatting brightly with the dozen Athenian policemen clustered there. At least he wasn’t into trouble yet. The shorter, light-eyed man said after a moment, "No. I see no one." His companion only nodded.

Disappointed but relieved, Klaus motioned them back to their guarded corner and addressed Mr. Nikoros. "What have they said? When was the break-in? Exactly?"

The information he gleaned from a confusion of lengthy stories was not entirely unexpected. The thieves had been spotted, precisely a quarter-hour after the alarms had been triggered at the National Museum, by a guard on an out-of-schedule round prompted by Klaus’ warning earlier in the day. Their apparent target, one of the smaller, more intact statues in the place, was nevertheless too heavy for the two of them to lift together.

"Didn’t your … buyer tell you what the difficulties would be?" asked the Major. "Didn’t you know what you were to carry away?"

The shorter of the pair stared silently back at him, primitive calculation in his eyes, but the taller one blurted out, "We didn’t have to take it now. He said—"

"Hsst," said the other one, but Klaus had what he needed.

"Who?" he demanded, of the evident leader of the two.

Defiant silence.

The Major sighed. "You have, luckily, done no harm here," he pointed out. "Mr. Nikoros might be convinced to regard this evening’s events as a prank, if you can cooperate now."

Silence. Had they been put up to the break-in by someone working on his own or working with Eroica? They probably didn’t know, but it had to be tried. Major Eberbach prepared to exude authoritative menace in pursuit of a name or description the Athenian police could investigate.

Before he could find a suitably ominous starting point, the telephone rang from Mr. Nikoros’s desk. Nikoros lifted the receiver, listened for a moment, and held it out. "It’s for you, Major Eberbach."

Klaus let the gust of cold apprehension wash over him yet again as he heard Mr. Ditropoulos’s voice. He realized that his last sight of Eroica had been too long ago, an Eroica already restless and on his feet. By now Eroica could be back at the National Museum. Doing what? If the two sneak thieves here had been sent by someone merely to distract attention from the National Museum … Who?

"Major, the mask of Agamemnon is gone!" Ditropoulos, not calm earlier in the evening, sounded in a panic now.

"Again?" he inquired with real irritation. "What’s happened?"

"After you left, Mr. Da—" There was a confused noise from the receiver, then a clunk. The line remained open. "Why, Lord Gloria," said a faint, distant and rather breathless rendition of Mr. Ditropoulos’s voice.

The Major pressed the receiver to his ear, anxious to gather every scrap of information. Whatever Eroica said was lost in further commotion too distant to be picked up. There were muffled cries and something that sounded like rapid Greek. Then Eroica’s voice, near the receiver but not into it: "… not letting you go anywhere, you lovely thing." Klaus clenched his eyes shut in distaste, tempered by surprise. Eroica and some Greek curator? It might be no more strange than Eroica and his love-lorn watering pot of an accountant, but it was a disconcerting thought. The next words over the neglected telephone line, however, were, "Sleep, Agamemnon. No one shall harm you …" Klaus could picture Eroica caressing the golden cheek of the death mask. A snicker escaped him. Then the sound of the receiver crashing into its cradle echoed down the line, and the connection was cut.

Ignoring Nikoros, the captured decoy thieves, and most of his professional good sense, Klaus went immediately to the anteroom to find the Athenian police captain. That official might have had enough of outsiders, NATO or not, even given the Major’s so-called help and his impressive glower; but this wasn’t something the Major could handle by himself. "Sir," said Klaus, "there is a strong possibility that the mask of Agamemnon is being stolen from the National Museum at this moment, now that we all have been lured here. If you will …"

A second officer, who carried a radio link and wore a more harassed expression than the captain, said, "Your English lord is already there."

"He’s not my …" Klaus stopped. "He’s … an irregular contractor with NATO." He knew what "irregular" probably meant to a Mediterranean policeman. Viciously, he used it anyway. Wasn’t it accurate, after all? He smiled, as viciously as possible, and was pleased to see the Athenian swallow.

"Maybe he’s the one stealing the mask?" asked the captain.

"That," said the Major, carefully neutral, "is a possibility. I regret the difficulties he may cause you." Eroica might be at the center of this mess. If he was, he had completely gulfed Klaus, who recalled bitterly that he’d acted on Eroica’s advice more than once in this affair.

The captain, frustrated by the night’s profitless chase, gave a vicious smile of his own. "You stay here. I don’t need any more interference with my job, and if he’s gone already …"

That wasn’t precisely what Klaus wanted, but it would serve. "I believe you are right, Captain," he said. "My sometime colleague is very valuable to NATO, you understand. If he is still at the Museum and the mask is safe, then NATO would regret—extremely—any harm that might come to him."

"I guess NATO would just ‘regret’ if the mask is gone, right?"

"If he takes the mask," Klaus promised levelly, "I will hunt him down for you and get it back. Until we know whether that will be necessary, I shall stay on the Acropolis. Will that be satisfactory?"

The police captain gave only a nod, before he pulled his second back to the anteroom for a low-voiced conference. Klaus presently found himself with two police guards, who remained politely at a distance as he strolled outside the Museum building, smoking and waiting. They might be able to stop him from leaving the plateau, but all he wanted at the moment was to avoid the noisy company of Nikoros and the captive thieves. He wanted to think.

There was still the chance that Eroica, far from being implicated in the theft, had discovered it and acted to stop it. Just what the result would be, for the precious mask of Agamemnon or anything else in the National Museum, Klaus could not be certain. There was no predicting Eroica, except that he would outrage everyone, most especially Klaus, before he had finished.

He wandered to the edge, where the city of Athens spread below. Somewhere, an unheard commotion marked the night’s alarms at another museum. Eroica was down there. Had Klaus prevented a theft or given him the opportunity for one, by meddling? He threw a cigarette butt over the edge into darkness and lit another. What else, knowing Eroica, could he have done? The man had no conscience; it was up to the Major to minimize the damage he did, as long as he was useful to NATO.

It wasn’t supposed to be the Major’s responsibility to regulate the Earl of Gloria’s life. Was it? Then why was he doing so?

There was a minor disturbance behind him, at the Museum building; he turned and saw the two thieves being removed by their guards, marched off through flood-lights and shadows toward the stone stairway down to the city. Moments later, a heavy motor started up, then faded into the distance.

He’d been chasing Eroica all day, chasing the thief and finding an image of Sophie. Why did Klaus feel he was the one being sought out and pushed into flight? The Earl’s path crossed his with amazing regularity. How many times before had he found himself chasing the same goal as Eroica, feeling pursued himself? The Earl’s behavior stayed—loosely—within the bounds of social propriety, but his intent could hardly be mistaken.

How different was that from what Sophie offered, except that she gave Klaus something he could accept? Eroica did not.

Then why did he see Sophie’s image—and attractions—in the Earl? Twice today he’d seen her instead of Eroica. Once it had become acutely embarrassing; but earlier, for a few minutes as he watched a pantherishly graceful figure descend the amphitheater, he’d enjoyed the sight. Sophie had never looked better: except that it hadn’t been Sophie.

Eroica had never looked better.

He said a word in German that he didn’t believe in, and noticed that his cigarette had long since burned itself out. He tossed it away and lit a fresh one. Eroica was the reason Klaus was here, suspected of collusion in a serious theft, or possibly just of obstructing police work. The latter, he would find hard to deny. He’d been bluffing on the strength of his NATO credentials to an extent that would send his Chief into the ceiling, if he ever knew. All for Eroica’s sake. How had he dealt himself into this misplayed botch-up?

It had been Eroica. Looking like Sophie, more infuriating than Sophie

Eroica had appeared, and Klaus had assumed he planned to steal something. It was a reasonable assumption, given Eroica’s past behavior. It was a reasonable precaution to warn the holders of art treasures here. Klaus had done that. Was it therefore surprising that he’d run into Eroica—or that Eroica had come to him—in the course of the planned theft?

He’d followed the thief, knowing no better way to monitor his actions. Or had he merely allowed Eroica to monitor him? Eroica would have been delighted at such an opportunity. Eroica had been delighted, and Klaus had not attempted to remove him. Who, chasing whom, had caught whom?

Caught? Eroica either had or hadn’t taken the mask of Agamemnon, and Klaus was willing to bet that he would remain free, capricious, and utterly shameless in either case. Eroica raised hubris to a successful art; he belonged on pagan Olympus, while Klaus had trapped himself in his own game. Klaus threw down another cigarette-end and watched it take spark and flame on the journey to oblivion. It was hard not to follow Eroica; he was so visible, so obviously predictable. And he won what he wanted nearly every time.

He won everything except Klaus himself. If Eroica wanted … what anyone would assume he wanted, from Klaus, he’d never get it. Eroica had never gained more than contempt and the Major’s fleeting cooperation for common goals, which did not include intimacy of any kind. Incidents such as a kiss from "Sophie" in full view of a dozen people, and other scenes too close to that one for Klaus’ comfort, of course, were mistakes he endured in the line of duty, for the same reasons he’d saved Eroica’s life and made use of his talents a few times. All duty. It had nothing to do with Eroica’s peculiar grace and attractions.

He tossed his last cigarette butt over the edge and glanced around. His police guards were no longer at a discreet distance, over near the Museum; they’d disappeared altogether, replaced by a little knot of people at the Museum entrance, including a tall figure with blond curls …

It had to be Sophie, dragged into a mess that was none of her doing, his conscience insisted for a moment; then the figure turned and movement revealed that it was Eroica. Otherwise, the resemblance was startling.

The Earl scanned the area, seeking, before he came away from the dazzle of the floodlights, detouring to avoid obstacles on the rocky ground as he advanced to where the Major stood. He halted to face Klaus directly, barely an arm’s-length away. "It was Ditropoulos who tried to steal the mask, you know," he said, not concealing a hint of reproach. "Not me."

He’d lost his cloak and some of his bravura; still, it was definitely Eroica. "I don’t imagine you’d be here if the police weren’t very sure of that." Eroica was a very unusual thief, but always a thief.

"They heard Datos’ evidence and," the Earl seated himself elaborately on a bit of wall, "Ditropoulos’s confession."

The Major supposed that clinched things nicely. "How did you manage that?"

"Well, we had to wake him up first …"

"And bribery is so effective?"

Eroica looked up at him, wide-eyed. "I’m sure it would have been. Don’t you ever trust me?" -

"Why should I?" Eroica had tricked him into a shared chase and come off unscathed, again; Klaus felt trapped at a disadvantage.

Eroica merely gazed at him. "Why shouldn’t you?"

Honor, decency and even duty were agreed. "I can’t." He saw disappointment on the Earl’s face, or thought he did in the moment before the Museum’s lights died suddenly, leaving them in darkness that, for an instant, seemed total. Under starlight and the glow of the city, pale curls became visible, slowly, and then the floating outline of a long-boned, English face that really was not much like Sophie’s at all. He stared at it, fascinated and repelled. "I can’t." .

"You could try, now and then. We’d get along much better, you know."

The meaning had shifted, subtly. Klaus said, despairing and a bit confused, "I can’t."

The face tilted, and alert eyes among the dim reflections surveyed him. "Can’t?"

"I won’t!" What he wanted … what Eroica wanted, not him …

"Yes, you can."

"No!"

Dorian continued to look at him in the near-dark. Klaus imagined the look to be full of hunger—he’d caught one or two overly wistful moments from Eroica in the past, which left him disgusted and uncomprehending. Why? Why him?

It was late, and if the police had withdrawn, he no longer had any kind of duty or obligation. Klaus sat down on Eroica’s bit of wall, carefully at the opposite end. "No, Eroica. I will not."

"Klaus, you—"

"Don’t say it!"

The Earl shut up. Klaus could almost feel his hurt retreat; well, what could he expect, if he went around making his preferences plain?

Presently, the voice from the other end of the wall asked, "Would you like a cigarette?"

"Yes." That, at least, was not a compromising question.

Light flared in the darkness and left two tiny circles in its wake. One of them was extended toward Klaus. He reached for it, encountered a hand as he took it, and felt the shiver of contact thrill through him before he pulled the cigarette away.

One warm breath through it let him realize just where it had been a moment before, and he yanked it from his mouth and threw it down.

"What was that for?"

"You are despicable, perverted, sick. You qu—"

"You needn’t shout," said the Earl’s calm voice. Klaus’ insults had never seemed to affect him. ….

"You make me despicable and sick."

There was a quick breath from the other end of the wall. What do you mean?"

"It means nothing, you English queer!" said Klaus, deliberately. "You unnatural—"

"Don’t say that!

The Earl was on his feet, pacing carefully the few steps toward Klaus. "Not nothing," he said, drawling his words with exquisite control. "It means quite something, something you should know." He sat down close beside Klaus and reached smoothly to slip one arm around him, the other hand at his face, and brought his mouth down on Klaus’ in a kiss of paralyzing intensity.

Klaus, stunned, did not move or try to free himself immediately. It was nothing like kissing Sophie, nothing like the trifling salutes Eroica had favored him with in the past. The shock of contact rushed through him from the light touches on his back, at his jaw, and from Eroica’s lips that met his.

Eventually, he jerked himself away, gasping.

"You see," said the calm voice. "It is not nothing." Eroica allowed Klaus to draw back, but did not remove the arm around his body.

Klaus seized at his own scraps of self-control and did not scream or curse or leap up and run. He considered hitting Eroica, but that would be even more undignified. "I should never have agreed to work with you. Never." Had there been a time when he could have extricated himself from Eroica’s entanglements? There seemed to be no way of doing so now.

"We’re too alike for you to have missed me," said the voice beside him.

"We are not alike!" If Eroica was suggesting …

"We both love danger, the excitement of a chase. We pursue the same goals Eroica’s tone went from thoughtful to mischievous. "Beautiful things."

"That’s what you do. Don’t compare me to you."

"How different is it, for me to visit Greek art on holiday, and for you to?"

"I’m not here for the art!"

"You’re here," Eroica tightened his arm just enough to remind Klaus that it was there, "because you couldn’t let go a chance to follow me."

Klaus was silent.

"Don’t you think I’m good-looking?"

Klaus kept his eyes on dark distance. "Yes." It was not a compliment.

"Well?" The word sounded hopeful.

If Klaus could just free himself and get up … If he could just punch that hopeful, beautiful face, which was the traditional solution to this predicament … "I can’t."

"Of course you can. Look at me." Eroica turned Klaus’ head to face him, bent forward slowly, and kissed him again.

Again, the touch sheeted hot wind through him. He had become a frozen shell, feeling Eroica’s hand circle in a caress, the mouth move insistently on his—and, unplanned, his mouth moving with it—feeling the stone wall shudder beneath him. It went on until Eroica licked across his lips with a parting tongue and drew back, slowly. "I think," the thief said judiciously, "you do enjoy that."

Klaus sat, not believing himself or anything else. In the night’s darkness, this might not be happening. It was hard to speak: "I can’t do this … Sophie …"

"Sophie merely looks like me. Is that enough for you?"

"She’s more than that."

"I am glad you realize it. Whatever Miss Wolf is, she’s not me, and she’s not here now. Were you thinking of Sophie a moment ago?" Another caress from the arms still at his waist made the Earl’s meaning more than clear.

"No."

"Excellent." Eroica leaned in to kiss him again.

Klaus, more prepared if not more collected, held him off. "No. I can’t ignore Sophie."

Eroica let himself be stopped. "Are you serious? Is she, perhaps, a future lady van Eberbach?" The perfect control was back in his voice.

"Of course not!"

"Ah." The arm tightened around him again. "Is there anyone else who might be?"

Klaus thought fleetingly of his one long-ago engagement; Marie had broken it to marry someone else. Altogether not an encouraging experience. "No."

"Well, then?" asked the voice in his ear, voluptuous breath tickling. "Come with me. Now." A hand tilted his face and Eroica’s mouth caressed his, slowly.

Klaus allowed the unmentionable, unmanageable sweep of sensation to run its course through him. This was all some kind of horrific reaction to a day of following Eroica, an eventful night’s chase, and his recent liaison with Sophie. It couldn’t be real. He wasn’t sitting here, actually considering … He was only kissing Dorian Red Gloria because of … He was only shaken to his core with a direct and specific desire for something he could not think of, but with whose intent he was very familiar.

Eroica let him go at last and started to stand up, then subsided when Klaus did not follow him. Klaus looked at him, seeing little but the gray outline of a face, framed by the lighter curls. "Eroica, you are …" He couldn’t finish the sentence. "I am not …"

The face might have frowned, but hands came up to rest on his shoulders. "You are yourself. Nothing else."

"I am not … like you."

Eroica slid the arm back around his waist and urged him upright to guide him across the dark minefield of broken marble and ancient paving stones. "No one’s like me, Major. Klaus. Aren’t you glad?"

"But what do you want?"

Eroica picked a path that took them toward dark pillars and deep night-shadows. "You know well enough," he said, his close, warm presence sending ripples of odd heat through Klaus. "Here, this way."

They found a more definite path, a downslope between buildings haunted by statues-and old gods. A staircase: they were descending the side of the ancient ruins toward a very mundane parking lot that contained a single taxicab.

Eroica rapped on the driver’s window, startling someone awake, and arranged Klaus in the passenger seat before climbing in himself. They sat close, the Earl’s arm around him, not speaking during the short, easy ride to wherever Eroica was taking him.

Klaus did not protest, then or at any later time. He walked as if dreaming into an atrium, past a fountain under stars, through garden smells, past darkened doorways, toward the one lit room in the house. The Earl’s private room. In the dark and silence they might have been invisible—which was only appropriate, for this strange tryst which Klaus could neither defend nor avoid, that was between himself and Dorian alone.

They reached the light and were no longer invisible. The room held remarkably little in the way of luxury, as if Eroica had put his usual affectations on vacation as well. A lamp, chairs, a bed, all perfect but plain, seemed to be the only furnishings. Klaus could find no fault in it. He did not know what to expect from Eroica; he had never known.

Eroica pulled him into a full embrace the moment they were inside the room’s shut door, pressing firmly against him, hands stroking in undisguised caresses. It was an outrage, unthinkable. The hands swept down his back to urge him into a direct push of groin against groin. If Klaus had had any last doubts, of Dorian’s intentions or his own, an explicit jolt of desire erased them at that moment. He tightened the pressure between them, and saw Dorian’s pupils widen.

With dreamlike smoothness he smiled into the blue eyes before he eased back, breathing quickly, and began unfastening his clothes. "Where …?" he asked, glancing at chairs, a lamp, and a wooden-framed bed.

"Anywhere," said Dorian, who paused, shirtless, to watch him. At the first tentative offer of help, Klaus shook his head firmly and went on removing one garment after another. He had come here with Dorian of his own decision. He would not give away any scrap of initiative until forced to do so by ignorance.

Naked, he looked up to find Dorian in a similar state, advancing on him and grinning with glee. Klaus met him halfway to the bed and gasped as their previous embrace, repeated, became something sensuous and intimate, the body-against-body contact going beyond indication of desire to pleasure in itself. As touch became -caress became hard arousal, he waited for the sensations to become unfamiliar, trying to gauge the point at which he, as well as Dorian, would leave masculinity behind.

He could not find it. No single step of the road to passion seemed forced; nothing surprised him except the ease with which it was accomplished. Long-fingered hands and a ready mouth travailed over him, exciting fire and amazement at his own—most male—reaction.

Klaus would not be passive, in whatever this was; he pulled Dorian onto the bed and returned the touches, discovering that Dorian returned the arousal. If anything, the sight and smell and awareness of someone who without the foppish clothes he affected or the too-pretty mannerisms, was indisputably male also, added to his excitement. He had to remind himself that Eroica was an outrage, lawless; there could be no comparison between them, except that one was useful to the other on occasion.

Dorian chose that moment to smile sweetly at him as a hand cupped his testicles, exquisitely gentle, then slithered upward to squeeze and stroke, exquisitely hard. All thought of comparisons fled; it was the only thing in the world, the only thing he wanted. He fell back, breath hissing between his teeth, as the caress was repeated. Once more …

Dorian murmured something and kissed his shoulder. impatient at the tiny distraction where none was wanted.

"Not so fast," said the musical English voice.

He must have frowned, for the white smiled widened. "Oh, we’ll get there. And soon. But first …" The golden head descended to his chest, to tease at a nipple, trail down his ribs, and kiss his abdomen in an intimacy the more pronounced for its lack of purpose, and all the while the warm hand rested easily around his unsatisfied erection, holding him with promises that could not be enough for long.

The delay lasted only a few endless seconds; before he could protest or move for himself the mouth grazing him with kisses shifted and swooped to envelop the frustrated organ. Then overwhelming sensation took away any consideration but the moving, sucking intensity, and he arched and thrust, once, in motion both familiar and strange. With the second thrust he felt the racing shudder of orgasm pulse through him with its odd, exhilarating finality. Was it odder, or more exhilarating, this time? He could not care while it was happening, and then it was over.

He managed to open his eyes, and was faintly shocked to see Dorian licking at him with obvious relish. He supposed he was glad it was merely Dorian. He didn’t have to take Dorian seriously. Did he?

The long, pale body so similar to his own—he could not stop looking at it now—moved up to lie beside Klaus, refusing to leave him to his thoughts. "You see," whispered Dorian, "it’s not nothing." He pulled one of Klaus’ arms around his body, and Klaus let it lie there, stiffly, realizing that Dorian wanted release as much as he had. Was this when he would have to cede manhood to the other? Not in pleasure, but to repay it?

Klaus opened his eyes.

Dorian seemed untroubled by his awkwardness. The warm curls rubbed at his shoulder. "You’re more than I thought." Blue eyes opened, laughing at Klaus. "And I’ve thought so much about you!" A long wriggle brought curls to brush his chest, his neck, then his face, and Dorian kissed him with passionate urgency that echoed Klaus’ of a few minutes past. The reminder called up too much sympathy to be ignored, so he held the man’s body closer, gingerly, not daring to think how to ease its tension.

"Help me," sighed Dorian, moving against him, restless and warm in the cool Athenian night. "It’s easy, but help me a little." He turned in Klaus’ arms to arrange himself, his back to Klaus’ front, skin fitting snugly against sweaty skin. It was oddly comfortable, intimate without being intrusive, and it saved Klaus from Dorian’s eyes. Relieved, he buried his nose in the fragrant curls and almost allowed himself to relax.

Dorian seized his hand again and rubbed it down his body, over the nearly-familiar contours of a lean ribcage and muscled abdomen. It wasn’t difficult, under Dorian’s guidance, to give him the sort of sensuous caress Klaus would never have dreamed of using on himself. The tense body against him quivered in expressive reaction so that the pleasure of touching it seemed almost natural,

Dorian moaned softly. "Please …" and carried Klaus’ hand lower, to wrap it around an erection that, for all Klaus’ fingers could detect, might have been his own. Cautiously, he squeezed and stroked, exploring how to handle it without knowing its sensations directly. Dorian’s voice encouraged him: "Yes, yes … more … no, harder …," his hand loose now on Klaus’.

The action, and Dorian’s response, was exciting in some fashion only partly connected to physical arousal. The feel of Dorian in his arms, moving to his touch and in his control by choice, brought out some emotion in Klaus that he could not compare to known feelings. Dorian, in sharing the sensations and reactions of sex, was more nearly comprehensible at this moment than any person had ever been, and yet he remained separate, connected to Klaus only by touch and voice; the body next to him still housed the enigmatic, unpredictable and infuriating Eroica.

As Dorian’s body strained against him, uttering breathy moans, Klaus began speaking softly to it without conscious intent: "You stranger. You unknowable person. I don’t know you here, I don’t know you anywhere, I don’t know you ever. I don’t know why we exist. You’re a stranger and I don’t know myself …"

Dorian moaned again, thrusting urgently, just before warm liquid burst onto their still-joined hands. He stilled, panting, and Klaus felt suddenly like an interloper in this most private of moments, until Dorian’s hand tightened again on his, around the half-hard penis. "Stranger…" said Klaus. Unbekannte. He was speaking in German, and even so did not quite understand what he was saying.

Dorian still pressed back against him, moving a little, then sighed and turned to bury his face in Klaus’ neck, shaking. The strange, breathy noises continued, and Klaus finally understood that he was weeping.

"Curious, unknowable …" Klaus never understood Eroica, and couldn’t begin to understand Dorian. Surprising himself, he did not want to push the stranger away. A fit of tears was no stranger than Dorian at any time; no stranger than being—unimaginably—in bed with him; no stranger than being, at this moment, Klaus himself. He went on with his litany of confusion: "I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’ve never known you. Who are you, or I, or we? Nothing is here. Perhaps nothing matters. We aren’t here, we don’t know anything."

Dorian’s fit of crying didn’t last long, and his embrace soon became the now-recognizable clasp of Dorian’s enveloping affection. "What were you saying?" asked the English voice.

"Nothing. Words. I don’t remember." Almost, Klaus didn’t, but some shadow of the lost feelings lingered. Dorian had become a thing not only lawless, but a holder of mysteries untouched by any law; and somewhere in himself the same mysteries hid. Klaus could not grasp what they had been, and barely remembered—did not much want to remember—that they had been, not empty, but boundless. -

"Mmm," said Dorian, sleepily. He pulled up a sheet to cover them and nestled against Klaus in the sticky disorder of the bed. "It’s good, Klaus. See?" He then appeared to fall instantly asleep despite the lamplight, the barely-adequate bedcovers, and an irritable bedpartner whose mind had just awaken to the enormity of his transgression.

Klaus could not feel that the night’s events were anything less than world-shaking: either all his life must change, or the night must be denied completely. The choice was obvious, but at this moment while he was still surrounded by evidence of the unthinkable barriers he had crossed, and knew why and how he must recross them, he knew more about Dorian than had ever seemed possible. From Dorian’s view, Dorian who slept in peace after upsetting everything the Major had ever believed, Major Eberbach’s world was the outsider land, the foreign and therefore suspect realm. Dorian, of course, was wrong—the world at large accepted Major Eberbach and despised Eroica—but Klaus understood, here and now, that Dorian had this nighttime world to be wrong in. That superb, annoying confidence that the thief brandished like his silly dramatic cape had this bedrock that was solid in Eroica’s thinking. Klaus did not know if he would remember anything about how it was and what it meant to Dorian, after he left his lamplit room.

He had to go back to Sophie before morning. Nothing else was possible for him. Anything else was unthinkable. Klaus eased out of the bed, leaving Eroica to sleep his conscienceless sleep, and began the unpleasant task of dressing in his discarded clothes.

"Major?" said a too-familiar voice.

"I’m afraid I must decline any further hospitality. You have made your point.’

"I’ve what?"

Klaus continued pulling on his clothes.

"Klaus, what are you doing?"

"I have to leave. Surely you can see that."

"I don’t know. Why?"

"Why?" The voice revealed hurt as well as incomprehension. Klaus remembered enough to realize that, for Dorian, it was a genuine lack of understanding.

"You showed me what you desire. You showed me that I can be made to desire it also. That can change nothing." It could change everything, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

"You liked it …?"

"I can’t answer you."

"And that’s why you’re leaving."

"If you want to think so." Klaus finished tying his shoes. The contents of his pockets seemed to be intact, which surprised him for no good reason. He glanced at Dorian, who had half sat up and was watching him, barely covered by the bedsheet. "I can find my way out, I think."

Dorian nodded. "I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else. Come and kiss me goodbye."

The prospect was not repugnant in the way it would have been yesterday, but it was either meaningless or far too meaningful. "No."

"Please?"

He turned to meet Dorian’s eyes, and the line of sight between them blazed with forbidden knowledge. "No, Dorian."

"I’ve proven it to you once. I can do it again," said the drawling, controlled voice.

It was harder than Klaus had expected to keep his temper.

"I see." Eroica pulled his usual serenity around himself. "I’ll have to be happy with a moral victory, won’t I?" His fey smile gleamed. "Or would it be an immoral one? Klaus?"

"There is no need to prove it again."

Klaus took a step back into the room. "You queer."

Dorian remained unruffled. "I might say the same." He was still smiling.

Damn him. Which was no more than the truth, Klaus thought, and carefully

ignored any further implications. "Goodbye," he said in an even tone, and walked out

* * * * *

It was dawn as he let himself into the hotel room in the Athena, where Sophie slept prettily in the pale light. He was careful not to wake her as he undressed and showered and settled beside her, and he himself did not wake again until she was long gone to her morning’s work.

They met as usual for dinner, Sophie betraying no awareness that anything out of the ordinary had happened until she stopped in the middle of a discourse on the ruinous price of epic movies and said, "Klaus, I don’t want to know what you really do, do I?"

The question did not catch him off-guard; nothing caught him off-guard. She’d asked about his job. "No, Liebchen. It is not work for a lady."

She frowned at that, but did not reply.

"It is not work for an untrained person. You have your own work."

"What about Earl Dorian?"

"He," said Klaus shortly, "is no gentleman."

"I thought he was adorable. Perfectly charming."

"He has … unsavory hobbies."

Sophie, surprisingly, took on a definite sparkle at this suggestion. It was a side of her Klaus had not suspected. "Sounds like fun."

Were all American women this unpredictable? Klaus noted the information for future use if need be. "Not quite what you might care for, Wolfling."

"Oh, yeah? Try me."

Klaus shrugged. "It’s a bit more than eccentricity. He’s a petty klepto-maniac. He steals things."

She raised unbelieving eyebrows, but at least she looked disappointed.

"It is quite true." All the truth he could put into words.

"Oh. And do you have hobbies?" She leaned toward him in the candlelight.

He froze, then smiled at her, carefully polite. "Nothing I care to discuss in a public place."

"I can guess what."

She was, he reminded himself, an independent woman, and a flattering one, and if she wished to demonstrate that all resemblance to Eroica was purely coincidental, he very much wanted to be sure of it as well. "Yes, Wolfling."

* * * * *

Two days later a telegram for Major Eberbach arrived at the hotel. It was in plain English, and also in the Chief’s personal ellipsis of a code. "Request denied. Leave extension denied. 8:00 AM." That meant Bonn time, tomorrow, and the globe would not contain both of them if Major Eberbach wasn’t there.

"Well, that’s pretty blunt," said Sophie, when he showed it to her.

"Yes." Klaus pulled his suitcase out and opened it onto the stand. "But I won’t have it."

"Won’t have what?" she asked. "If you can talk about it."

"My next assignment. It would have been with the Earl. I cabled the Chief yesterday and turned it down."

Sophie might not have military background, but she was a businesswoman., "Klaus, that’s your career! You can’t …"

"I did. I won’t have it." The south of France was lovely. Eroica might be useful there in several ways. And Klaus had no intention of going near either of them. Let Eroica dig up Gallic basements for NATO on his own, if he would. The fool would probably seduce half the Surete and all of Toulon. The Major wished him joy of it.

"What will happen?"

"My Chief and I will discuss it."

"Oh." She was silent for a moment while he stacked hotel-laundered shirts into the suitcase. "So you have to leave today after all."

"Yes. Bonn tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll … discuss my assignment." The vacation here—excluding the day and night Eroica had appeared—had been restful, and everything it should have been in the company of an attractive woman. "You’ve been good to me, Liebchen. Very good." That had been more important than she knew, in the two days just past. He didn’t know if he liked it.

"I wish you could stay." It was a regret, not a request, though she sat on the bed to watch him as he packed. She had always seemed to like watching him move. So, it came to him, did Eroica. He ignored the thought.

"I also, Wolfling."

She grinned. "Grrr."

He chuckled once, and it was sincere. If one could absorb the concept of someone neither maiden nor wife nor unrespectable, Sophie had a great deal to recommend her. It was Eroica, who also broke with all conventions, who could not be tolerated. Sophie’s self-sufficiency allowed them a dry-eyed, easy parting, negotiated almost as she negotiated her working life, and almost as orderly. Klaus admired that.

"Will I see you again? Sometime?" There was a tinge of wistfulness in her voice. "It’s been lovely having you with me, Klaus."

He removed socks from a hotel drawer, counting them. He could valet for himself, of course, but it was comforting to know that Jurgen would see to replace-ments if need be. "Not soon, I’m afraid. I would welcome the opportunity."

"Where will you be next?"

"Working. I don’t know where." He and Eroica were to investigate wine cellars in France before the week was out, unless he could change the Chief’s mind.

Klaus was not looking forward to it.

Not at all.

END