The Collectors Book Five (The Collectors Series 5) by Ron Sewell Page A

Kyriades.
                  Clear of customs and immigration, Bear and Petros strolled through the barrier.
                  “There’s our man,” said Petros as they strode across the concourse.
                    “Thank you, thank you for helping an old man and his dream. I have a car waiting to take you to my village.”
                  “Our pleasure,” said Petros. “Your English is good but I speak Greek.”
                  “Your friend doesn’t. To be polite we will speak English.”
                  “It’ll be a lot easier. Back to this train of yours, will we need climbing equipment?”
                  Zane paused. “If it is necessary there’s plenty in Florina the next village.”
                  “How come?” asked Bear.
                  “Tourists. In the winter they find it difficult in the mountains and we have a rescue team.”
                  “You wouldn’t have a helicopter handy?” said Petros.
                  Zane frowned. “Why would you need a helicopter?”
                  “It saves walking,” said Bear.
                  “I believe there are many private helicopters at the airport.”
                  Petros turned to Bear. “Call blonde Bob, the job’s on.”
                  “Do I agree the price?”
                  “Zane can a helicopter land in your village?”
                  “On the football field there’s plenty of room. Why?”
                  “One will be landing tomorrow morning.”
                  Zane rubbed his chin. “Not a good idea. I suggest the helipad in Florina. It’s not in use this time of year and you can refuel.”
                  “Makes sense,” said Bear.
                  “Make the call to Bob, Bear. Ask her to be in Florina as near to ten o’clock as is possible. I’ll arrange a fuel tanker.”
                  They arrived at a black Mercedes saloon. A tall man with an angular face and dark-brown hair waited.
                  “My brother-in-law’s son, Laith.”
                  Laith extended his right hand. Bear grasped it and noted the strong grip.
                  Petros chose to squeeze until the other’s grip loosened.
                  Laith grinned. “I like you. You’re not city wimps out to con an old man.”
                  Petros looked him square in the eye. “We’re not out to con anyone. We promised Andreas we would help. No charge was mentioned.”
                  The young man inclined his body towards Zane. “My uncle drives us mad talking about this damned train. In some ways, I hope you find it, if only to shut him up. Don’t get me wrong, in our village we love him but two unknowns from London. What were we to think?”
                  “And one is black,” said Bear.
                  “The colour of a man’s skin is not important. It’s what’s in his heart. Jump in, it’s a long drive and it’ll be dark when we get there.” Laith opened the driver’s door and sat behind the wheel.
                  Bear leant on the car. “I hate to mention this but we missed out on breakfast and an aircraft snack wouldn’t sustain a mouse. I suggest as it’s a long journey we eat.”
                  Zane turned to Laith. “Anywhere local?”
                  “Jump in, I know a place.”
                  Twenty minutes later Laith stopped on the gravel parking area outside a traditional roadside taverna. “Their speciality is chicken kebabs. I recommend them.”
                  The four men entered the stone building and a small bearded man wearing thick-framed glasses welcomed them. “I’m Stavros.