“I might arrange for a car,” Georgios said.

“I would appreciate it.”

“The Society has many friends. One could obtain a car and drive you north toward the border. But as for crossing the border-”

“I can manage that.”

“The frontier is fortified.”

“I know.”

“You have crossed before?”

I nodded. I had crossed from Yugoslavia into Greece a few months before my son was born and on that occasion I was escorting a Slovak Nazi in a cataleptic coma. Tonight’s trip figured to be comparatively simple.

“You will want warm clothes,” Georgios said.

“Perhaps you would be better off wearing the clothing of a peasant.”

“Yes.”

“And you will need food,” Zoe said. “I will pack food for you. Meat and cheese and bread.”

“That would be good.”

“And brandy,” Georgios said.

I was on my way well before midnight. I wore thick-soled shoes and heavy overalls and a worn leather jacket with several sweaters beneath it. Between two of these sweaters I had tucked my leather satchel. On my lap I had a small cloth sack that Zoe had packed with food and in my pocket I had a flat pint bottle that Georgios had filled with Metaxa brandy.

My driver was a silent, thick-bodied Greek whose main interest lay in testing the legendary durability of his little Volkswagen. The roads north of Athens were a far cry from turnpikes, but he bounced the car over ruts and spun it around curves with the resolution of one who is convinced of his own immortality. In Thessalia our road wound its way through some fairly impressive mountains, with tortuous curves and sheer drops on either side. I tried not to look out the window. When this proved difficult, I sat back in my seat and numbed myself with little nips from the bottle of brandy.

By the time dawn was breaking, the Volkswagen had gone as far as my driver intended it should go.