A Deadly Twist, Jeffrey Siger [top business books of all time TXT] 📗

to Naxos for a few days to do a piece on the simmering conflict between the island’s traditional agrarian population and its growing cadre of tourism advocates.

She’d been surprised by the assignment and wondered what she’d done to draw the ire of her editor. After all, it wasn’t the kind of hard-hitting reporting on which she’d built her byline. Breaking new ground on the crime and corruption beat was her forte, not rehashing the age-old debate about the pros and cons of tourism.

“Give it to a business or features writer,” she’d argued to her editor.

“Don’t be so negative. After all, it is an island steeped in myth, poised on the cusp of modernity.”

“Get a travel writer, then. You know it’s not my thing.”

“Try it, you might learn something. Besides, you could use a break from chasing cops and robbers.”

Nikoletta crossed her arms and scowled. “I couldn’t care less that Naxos is where Zeus was raised, Ares took refuge, or Dionysius called home.”

He feigned a smile. “Okay, point made; you know your mythology.”

“Oh, that’s just the start. Theseus, Ariadne, blah blah blah.” She raised a hand to stop him from interrupting. “I also know that Cycladic life began on Naxos before Minoan Crete and Mycenaean Greece. Oh, and let’s not forget that Naxos flourished as a society through most of antiquity up until the Persians ended its long independent run. Then came the Athenians, the Spartans, and a string of other Greeks, followed by the Romans, Venetians, Turks, and a touch of Russians, though the most lasting influence is clearly Venetian.”

The editor chewed at his lip.

She waggled a finger at him. “I don’t do historical pieces because I prefer running around with cops and robbers.”

He held up his hands. “Fine, so write about modern-day conquerors—tourists and real estate developers. Do the piece however you like, but I want you over there and writing it now.”

Nikoletta shut her eyes and silently counted to ten. She needed this job. Greece was still deep in financial crisis and, besides, she liked what she did. At least most of the time. She opened her eyes, smiled, curtsied dramatically, and headed for the door.

“Send me a story,” he yelled after her.

She didn’t stop but shot a hand above her head and flashed him the middle finger.

* * *

Nikoletta’s assignment was getting lousier by the minute. The newspaper refused to pay for a plane ticket that would have had her on the island in less than forty minutes. Instead, it paid for a boat that took four hours. That she wasn’t forced to take a ferry, which would have made it a six-hour trip at best, did nothing to improve her mood.

Her boat sailed into Naxos harbor past the massive marble Portara, the 2,500-year-old gateway to a never-completed grand temple to Apollo and the modern-day symbol of Naxos. Beyond the harbor the old town spread out and rose along a hillside covered in low whitewashed buildings. Flagstone lanes beneath soaring stone archways led up to a thirteenth-century Venetian castle that still dominated the town. The Castle, or Kastro area, constituted the upper part of the old town, distinguishing it in topography and social standing from the old town’s lower Bourgos section.

Nikoletta barely glanced at any of that, choosing instead to maneuver to where she could grab her bag from the luggage storage area and disembark as quickly as possible.

She’d packed lightly, hoping to spend no more than a couple of days, and had arranged to stay in the island’s main town of Naxos, also known as Chora, as every island’s namesake town is called. She’d picked Chora because it sat on the island’s west coast, virtually equidistant from its northern, southern, and eastern edges. She also assumed that, because it was the island’s capital and largest town by far, it would give her the best chance of ferreting out interviews with island officials and tourism advocates. Locating the island’s agrarian defenders in the rural parts of the island would prove more logistically challenging, but she’d worry about that later.

She walked along the pier past a phalanx of waiting empty taxis and through a gauntlet of locals hawking places to stay and stopped by a driver holding a small placard with her name written in bold letters. He took her bag and led her to a van bearing the name of the hotel. After five minutes of winding through a maze of one-way streets, they arrived at a bright-white stucco-and-glass hotel just north of the harbor and perched atop a steep bluff overlooking the Portara.

Now free from her four-hour internment on the boat, caressed by gentle winds rolling in off the sea and catching the scent of wildflowers, she thought that a few days away from the madness of Athens might not be so bad after all. She shut her eyes, drew in a deep breath of sea air, and stood quietly for a moment. She opened her eyes, exhaled, and stared out to sea.

Yes, not bad at all.

Nikoletta checked into the hotel, put away her few things, and decided to stroll into town to catch the sunset at a harborside café. Unfamiliar with Chora, she asked the receptionist for the best walking route into town. The receptionist pointed toward the sea, and said the most direct way was to follow a rock-and-dirt path running down along the edge of the bluff through a field of gorse, maquis, stonecrop, and smother weed.

Nikoletta hesitated at first, but the route did offer spectacular views of the Portara set against its islet of Palatia, plus a shimmering orange sun and a deep-blue sea. Besides, it was still daytime, and despite a sign at the top of the path marked BEWARE DANGER, many were walking along the same path. Returning in the dark would be a different story, especially since she was intent on finding a bar in which to drown her sorrows at her lousy assignment.

She easily made it down from the bluff, across a not so busy road, and