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

Welcome. You are on holiday?”
                  “We’re from the mountains in the north,” said Zane. “I’m told your chicken kebabs are good.”
                  “My food is cooked fresh There is none better.” He directed them to a table set for four. “Something to drink?”
                  Zane ordered sketos. Laith, metrios, Bear, nescafe, and Petros, a fresh orange juice.
                  “And a dozen chicken kebabs with your chilli sauce,” said Laith.
                  In Greek Petros added, “Make that eighteen, my friend eats well.”
                  Stavros left them chatting and returned with their drinks, fresh bread rolls and a bowl of salad. “My wife is preparing your kebabs.”
                  Bear grabbed a roll and crammed it full with salad. “Rabbit food.”
                  Twenty minutes later Stavros deposited a large platter covered in kebabs and a bowl containing an overpowering red liquid on the table. “Enjoy.”
                  Bear dipped a piece of roll into the sauce and stuffed it into his mouth. “That is fantastic.”
                  Zane and Laith stared at him.
                  “If Bear says it’s good, it is,” said Petros.
                  With the platter empty and Bear’s hunger pangs satisfied, Petros paid Stavros and they continued their journey.
    ***
     
    The wide road wound through mountains and wooded areas. Bear slept and Petros studied his map.  “Zane, not many railway lines in this area.”
                  He turned his head towards him. “Not economical. In the early twentieth century, steam locomotives serviced one town in every area. During the war, the Italians utilised the rail network to its full potential and the Germans capitalised on their efforts. You could catch a train in Athens and alight in Berlin.
                  “Today the car is king. The upkeep of tracks in the mountains is not cost effective. Roads are cheaper.”
                  The others slept while Laith drove through the night until they reached the town of Florina close to the border with Macedonia. He stopped the car outside a house, which appeared freshly white-washed, and jumped out. “Zane will drive from here to his village. I’m going to bed.”
                  Zane, Petros and Bear alighted, stretched and walked back and forth along the road.
                  Bear glanced at his watch. “Anywhere a man can find something to eat?”
                  “When we reach my village you will have a feast for breakfast,” said Zane.
                  “If I survive,” said Bear.
                  “I’ll drive,” said Petros, “Just give me directions.”
                  Petros slid behind the wheel, adjusted the seat and started the engine.
                  “Straight ahead, turn right at the third crossroads.”
                  The road from Florina remained good and wide until the turn off for Zane’s village. At some time a concrete slab existed but combined with a lack of money and winter rain it now resembled a farm track.
                  “How far?” asked Petros.
                  “Twenty kilometres but the higher we go the better it gets.”
                  “I believe you.”
                  At seven kilometres, the road became asphalt single track with sections cut out of the rock for passing places.
                  “Before they cut the road the donkey remained our only form of transport,” said Zane.
                  Surprised at what he saw, Petros drove into a modern village complete with cobbled square and a taverna.
                  “Completely rebuilt,” said Zane. “During the war our latrines were