The helicopter came in from the west, passing over brown-green hills of wild oregano, rosemary, and sage, veined with narrow paths and ancient walls, and on into a valley on the northeastern coast peppered with cedars, olive, and fruit trees. Tinos was a largely undeveloped, narrow arrowhead-shape island pointing northwest. At three times the size of New York City’s Manhattan, it was the fourth largest island in the Cycladic chain and had a fulltime population of fewer than 9,000.

The helicopter eased in close-by the edge of a burned out field of wild summer grass. There wasn’t a building in sight. As soon as the rotors stopped spinning, Spiros jumped out and hurried off toward the TV cameras. He was wearing his serious face.

Andreas went in the opposite direction, toward a group of men gathered in the middle of a field around a flame-scorched van.

It was the smell that hit Andreas first. Gasoline mixed with charred flesh. The sort of thing he knew he’d never forget. He tried not to focus on the odor.

Revenge or Death. Okay, he could see revenge as the motive for something as brutal as this, but what’s the tie in to our national motto and battle cry? And why Tinos for a public execution? The minister was right about that part. Tinos was where desperate pilgrims from all over the world came bearing prayers and offerings to the miraculous curative powers of the Megalochari; many crawling the steep half-mile up from the harbor to the church, pushing before them candles they’d vowed to light to the holy icon.

A half-dozen police cars were parked unevenly across a deeply rutted, one-lane dirt road separating an olive grove from the field. Andreas walked toward a cop trying to keep the curious away. “Who’s in charge?”