Black Acorns

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The stylish house in the foothills of the Taygetus Mountains of Greece belonged to an American in his nineties who guarded his privacy so effectively that most people did not even know his name. He had always intended to spend his final years in Greece, the country whose history and art he loved most in the world, and the area he loved the most was this mountainous part of the Peloponnese. Local builders had constructed the house to his own design in an isolated spot that he had chosen with care. The modern town of Sparta was some distance away, near enough to supply his needs, but all he could see from his house was the timeless grandeur of the landscape. The Taygetus Mountains lifted their bulk in beauty around him, and whatever the season their colours were a shifting palette of greys, blues and greens. In spring the slopes were full of wild flowers, the fields and trees alive with birds and butterflies, and in the distance he could see the sea. To the old man, a lover of Greek history, the land seemed little changed since the Ancient Spartans had lived and fought here.

The house was surrounded by an impregnable metal fence that was cleverly designed to impinge as little as possible on his view. There were two serious reasons for the perimeter security, one being the death threats that the old American had received in the past, having once stirred up the vicious envy of a group of disaffected types whose chances of making anything like his wealth were non-existent. He could never forget it, even though he had left that life behind in America.

The second reason for security was the old man’s collection of treasures, once described in the US as the most unique collection of Greek antiquities in private hands. None of his friends had ever seen it. Nobody had. He had acquired his beautiful artefacts over many decades, and they were all the company he wanted now. Having always been locked away before, the collection was now displayed around the house, and the old man regularly cradled an ancient object in his hands, revelling in its loveliness and its history.

For his practical needs, he could afford to pay for live-in help. This consisted of a fifty-year-old German called Manfred. Manfred was employed as companion, cook, housekeeper and head of security. The two got on well enough, and Manfred’s presence gave the old man peace of mind. They talked, they ate together, they shared life stories and lived quietly over a number of years. It was Manfred, however, who opened the gate to the thieves who stole the collection.

The American had not seriously expected ever to be robbed. He had believed his valuable collection to have been forgotten about in the busy world beyond the Taygetus, and the local people knew nothing about it. He was not hurt in the robbery, as the faithful Manfred gave him a powerful sedative. There was, however, a casualty: a local man who was taking supplies to an isolated sheep farm in the hills and who saw the robbery taking place was badly beaten by the gang and left for dead on the verge.

After the robbery, there was no sign of either Manfred or the collection. The gang had taken their time, and the German had shown them where all the treasures were to be found. The Hellas Police threw all their resources at what became known in the force as the Taygetus Raid, but although they soon guessed the identity of the thieves, they were unable to make even a single arrest. Even when a few of the stolen antiquities surfaced in Paris, New York and London, it became clear that the gang had acted cleverly so that no item led the police to their door.

Two frustrating years later the case remained unsolved, and the lack of new leads led the police to shelve the inquiry. Of his busy colleagues on the force, only Inspector Andreas Nomikos of the Athens Police, a man obsessed with international antiquity fraud relating to Greece, was never able to forget the case.