Revenge or Death.

That was all that the note said. It was found protected in a cylinder chained to the steering wheel of a van set on fire sometime before dawn. In the rear of the van was another surprise wrapped in chains: the remains of two bodies charred beyond recognition amid bits and pieces of an incinerated Greek flag.

“Freedom or Death” was Greece’s national motto and by noon enraged network talking heads relentlessly decried the horror as a national sacrilege, with shouts of justice for the yet unidentified victims and merciless punishment for those “unwelcome foreign elements” tearing asunder the fabric of Greek culture with “their criminal ways.” It did not matter that no one knew the truth.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t make it,” Andreas yelled into his cell phone over the whipping helicopter rotors.

“We must have a bad connection. I could swear I just heard you say you ‘can’t make it’ to the only meeting I asked you to attend with our wedding planner.” Lila’s voice was in decidedly frosty counterpoint to the heavy, late morning air of July’s last days.

Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis, feared head of the Greek police’s Special Crimes Division, cleared his throat as he said, “I thought you’d understand.”

“Andreas-” Lila paused. “You can’t talk?”

“Yes.”

“You better be a hostage.”