The Mediterranean Caper by Clive Cussler

and ran his right hand over a gargantuan spare tire that sat solidly mounted in the front fender well. He grinned a grin of satisfaction and relief as he noted the tire’s tread was deeply grooved in a diamond-shaped pattern. He patted the big donut-like tire a couple of times and then turned and looked into the front seat.
    The driver sat slouched behind the wheel, idly drumming his fingers on the door frame. He not only looked bored, but he yawned to prove it. He was dressed in a gray-green tunic that strangely resembled the uniform of a World War II Nazi officer but the sleeves and shoulders bore no insignia. A high brimmed cap covered his head, and the blond color of his hair was betrayed by the brief hint of his sideburns. Old-fashioned silver-rimmed spectacles covered his eyes and glinted in the setting sun. A long thin cigarette dangled conceitedly from one corner of a curled lip, giving the driver an aura of smugness and arrogance; an image he made little effort to conceal.
    Pitt instantly disliked the driver. Putting a foot on the running board, he stared penetratingly at the uniformed figure behind the steering wheel. “I think you’re waiting for me. My name is Pitt.”
    The yellow-haired driver did not bother to return Pitt’s stare. He merely flipped his cigarette over Pitt’s shoulder onto the road, sat up straight and turned the ignition switch. “If you are the American garbage receiver,” he said in a heavy German accent, “you may get in.”
    Pitt grinned and his eyes hardened. “Up front with the foul-smelling rabble or in back with the gentry?”
    â€œWherever you choose,” the driver said. His face turned crimson but he still did not turn or look up.
    â€œThank you,” said Pitt smoothly. “I’ll take the back.” He pushed down on a huge chrome handle, swung the vault-like door open and climbed into the town car. An old roll style curtain perched over the partition window and Pitt pulled it down, closing off all sight of the driver in front. Then he settled back comfortably into the soft and luxurious morocco leather upholstery, lit a cigarette and prepared to enjoy the early evening ride across Thasos.
    The Maybach’s engine quietly came to life and the driver shifted through the whisper silent gears, moving the immense car over the road in the direction of Liminas.
    Pitt rolled down a door window and studied the fir and chestnut trees dotting the mountain slopes, and the age-old olive trees lining the narrow beaches. Every so often, small fields of tobacco and wheat broke the uneven landscape and reminded him of the small farms he had often seen when flying over the southern United States.
    Soon the car cruised through the picturesque village of Panaghia, splashing an occasional puddle that marred the elderly cobbled streets. Most of the houses were painted white to reflect the summer heat. The roofs rose into the fading sky and nearly touched as their eaves leaned toward each other over the narrow streets. In a few minutes Panaghia was left behind; the Liminas soon came into view. Then the car abruptly turned, skirting the main section of the little city, and pointed its dinosaurian hood up a dusty cliff road. The incline was gradual at first, but quickly wormed into a series of steep hairpin curves.
    Pitt could sense the driver struggling at the wheel of the Maybach; the lumbering town car was designed more for casual rides on the Unter den Linden than spring-breaking tours up mule trails. He looked over sheer precipices at the sea and wondered what would happen if another car came from the opposite direction. Then he could see it ahead; a huge white square against the darkening gray cliffs. At last the curves ceased and the big diamond-treaded tires slid smoothly onto the hard surface of a drive.
    Pitt was adequately impressed. In size, the villa nearly matched the splendor of a Roman Forum. The grounds were well kept and there