Sophia, working at the stern end of the massive salon table, silently sent drones up the companionway. Out in the morning air, the tiny quadracopters buzzed away to search Spetsai for Al-Gazi and The Crescent Moon—and for any and all terrorists in the Interpol database.
After a while, she said, “The members have to be reeling, staggering. They just lost their nerve center and a lot of key people. And that’s on top of all the bombs, boats, and people we took down before that.”
Cleaning her M82 at the opposite end of the table, Tripnee said through clenched teeth, “They’ve still got two bombs. We’ve absolutely got to find ’em.”
Sophia spat out, “That’s bleeding obvious.” Then, softening, she said, “I’ve been investigating this terrorist group for years. These people—especially Roxanna—are devious.”
“Talk about obvious,” Tripnee said, rolling her eyes. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“They’re also deep, clever, strategic. Roxanna, for instance, is one hell of a chess player. She doesn’t just think one or two moves ahead, she thinks five or six moves ahead.”
“So, what’s she thinking now?” Adam asked.
“A seat-of-the pants person—a less far-sighted leader—would rush to launch their big attack. They’d sail their two remaining bombs straight for the United States.”
“And you think she’ll do something different?” Adam asked.
“From her perspective, something unknown has devastated her operation,” Sophia said. “She still doesn’t completely know who or what she’s up against.”
“And that’ll make her cautious?”
“Based on what I know of her, she’ll do something you’d never expect. Maybe sail in the opposite direction—or go nowhere—maybe hide in plain sight.”
“So much for all your investigating,” Tripnee sneered. “That tells us nothing useful.”
Sophia bared her perfect teeth. “The thing about Roxanna that we can count on is her ambition. Her determination to advance, build a name for herself, gain followers.”
“She’s one tough woman all right,” Adam said.
“The way you become a great terrorist leader,” Sophia continued, “is to strike a mighty blow against the Great Satan. Say, by simultaneously exploding nuclear bombs in New York and San Francisco.”
“Duh, talk about the bleeding obvious,” Tripnee muttered.
Ignoring this, Sophia continued, “Another thing we can count on: Roxanna will do everything she can to find out who’s tracking her and what she’s up against.”
“Another bleedingly obvious ‘insight,’” Tripnee said. “So where does that leave us?”
“One thing,” Adam said, “we saw Al-Gazi’s captain go into the cave. That means Al-Gazi itself is probably around here somewhere.” Then, looking at Sophia, he continued, “Drones are good, but there’s nothing like being there in person. Especially if they disguise their boats.”
The trio rowed their bikes and backpacks ashore a second time. For some strange reason the hairs on the back of Adam’s neck stood up. Why? Looking around carefully, he saw no threats. Not wanting to spook his already on-edge team, he said nothing. But he couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling, and remained on high alert.
This time they cycled along the northern coast of Spetsai, checking each cove and anchorage for any sign of the terrorists’ boats. It was midmorning when they reached the town of Spetsai at the northeastern end of the island. Here, moving among multitudes of tourists, they looked over Dapia Harbor, which was crowded with ferries, water taxis, and party boats. Adam half expected the place to be buzzing with talk of the explosions of the night before on the other side of the small island. Perhaps because the detonations had occurred underground, or maybe because such events were the new normal, life here seemed to be humming along as usual.
Farther on, they passed through neighborhoods of grand old houses, and then arrived at the heart of the Spetsai boating scene: Baltiza Creek, which consisted of a large outer and a smaller inner harbor.
The whole place was a madhouse. Throughout the outer harbor a vast flotilla of exquisite yachts and humbler craft had been jockeyed into every nook and cranny, filling every possible mooring spot. In the inner harbor, a similar dizzying menagerie of boats was crammed even more tightly together. Lining the shore, boat yards overflowed with yachts up on the hard. So many were being repaired and repainted, you couldn’t make out individual craft. It was the perfect place to hide in plain sight—while getting the disguise of a new paint job in the process.
Throngs of people climbed among the boats, packed waterfront tavernas, and filled the streets walking, sitting astride motor scooters, pedaling bikes, and lounging in horse-drawn carriages. This press of human souls overwhelmed Adam’s intuitive radar. All the while, deep down, was the feeling he and his team were centered in someone’s crosshairs.
To blend in while studying the tumultuous scene, they grabbed a waterfront table and ordered breakfast.
“Something tells me,” Sophia said, “it’s dangerous for us to be here.”
“You should go back to the boat,” Tripnee said. “Adam and I can handle this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Hey, cut that out,” Adam said. “How many times do I have to say it? We’re a team. Right now, the three of us—all three of us—have got to focus on working together. Let’s act like this is the most important job in the world.”
“Amen,” Sophia said. “Because it is.”
Continuing, Adam pointed out that it was going to take a combination of drones and leg work to search the harbor. They made a plan. Adam and Tripnee fanned out to walk through the boat yards, studying each hull. Meanwhile, Sophia moved to an out-of-the-way waterfront bench, where, with the aid of her wrist device and glasses, she sent drones to search Baltiza Creek for the enemy.
Adam was on the far side of the harbor when he heard a distant, suppressed “bang.”
“I’m hit,” Sophia cried over their comms. “I’m hit bad.”
Being closer, Tripnee was the first to get back to Sophia. Over his earpiece radio, Adam heard, “You poor dear. You’re shot through the shoulder. But you’re going to be okay.”
By the time Adam arrived, Tripnee, drawing on her medic training, had expertly staunched the flow of blood, applied temporary bandages to the entry and exit wounds, and administered a pain-numbing injection.
Studying Sophia, Adam asked, “How are you?”
Sophia winced, “Damn. I hate it when this happens.”
“All considered, this girl is incredibly lucky,” Tripnee said. “Had to be an extremely fast, small bullet. It went right through her Kevlar vest, then passed cleanly through, missing the heart, the bones, the major veins, and arteries.”
Adam asked, “Did you see the shooter? A muzzle flash?”
“No,” Sophia said. “The shot came out of nowhere.” Then, sitting up on the bench and looking out over the harbor, she blurted, “Hey. There goes Al-Gazi.”
Turning around, Adam and Tripnee saw it, too.
A second later, Adam said, “And there’s The Crescent Moon.”
The two boats now had deep blue hulls and white trim, but they were the terrorists’ boats, all right. Just then motoring together out of the Baltiza Creek outer harbor—getting clean away—headed out onto the wide Aegean.
“Oh, no, they don’t,” Sophia muttered through gritted teeth. Still wearing her wrist device and glasses—wincing with pain all the while—she moved her hands through the air, maneuvering her drones. After a few minutes, she leaned back and let out a deep convulsive shudder, saying, “Done. Snuck drones aboard both those cocksuckers.”
Tripnee, maybe for the first time, looked on admiringly, “This girl’s got grit.”
Chapter 28
Close-Hauled
S ophia stubbornly refused to be taken to the local hospital. Under normal circumstances, Adam and Tripnee would have nonetheless delivered her to professional medical c
are. But Tripnee’s medic skills were strong and Sophia was not only undaunted and apparently able to function—she was also, well, indispensable. And their mission right then was the most important job in the world. Right?
Adam raced back to Dream Voyager, motored around to Baltiza Creek and picked up Sophia and Tripnee. The terrorist’s boats were by then out of drone transmission range. But at least they had tracking drones aboard the boats, and if they could guess their direction and they sailed far enough, very likely they could pick them up on Sophia’s tracking screen.
Would Roxanna continue her stratagem of doing the unexpected? She had to be seething with anger, and dying to lash out. But most likely she’d reject heading straight for the United States as too obvious.
Instead, wily as she was, she’d probably go in the opposite direction. Not only would she do this to fool her enemies, it would allow her and her people to bide their time, regroup, and learn more about who or what was arrayed against them. Later, when all was ready and her target least expected it, she’d strike. Two nuclear bombs, after all, would suffice to cause enough death and mayhem to be remembered forever.
The shortest route to America was to go south around the Peloponnese Peninsula toward the mouth of the Mediterranean. The opposite direction, the most counterintuitive, was to go east. So, Dream Voyager headed east.
While Sophia slept in a pain-killer induced haze below deck, Adam and Tripnee stood watch, with Adam at the wheel and Tripnee studying the drone-tracking screen. Unfortunately, no drones showed up on the display.
Because they were nearing the sheltered Saronic Gulf, the meltemi was 18 knots—unlike the 50-knot gale at that moment blasting the Cyclades farther east. To take advantage of these more manageable winds, yachts had migrated in this direction from all over the Greek islands, making this one hell of a popular sailing area, with many very fast boats speeding around in the distance. Dream Voyager, for its part, was strutting its stuff and out-performing any boat in sight, doing what few sailboats could do, flying close-hauled and pointing fifteen-degrees to the wind.
“I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed,” Tripnee began. “I think I might owe her an apology.”
Adam nodded.
“The girl was shot, drugged up,” continued Tripnee.
“And had to be wracked with pain,” inserted Adam.
“But nonetheless had the presence of mind to not only see the terrorist boats—”
“Which we totally missed,” Adam said.
“But also fly drones aboard.”
“If it weren’t for her quick wits, we wouldn’t have a prayer of finding the last two nukes. In which case, very likely, goodbye San Francisco and New York.”
“Even so, it’s going to be dicey. This screen’s showing no sign of anything.”
“Well, let’s pray we pick up a signal somewhere ahead. We’re approaching Idra. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Sophia appeared from below just then. She moved slowly, clearly in pain, but also clearly determined to carry on. Judging from her sly smile, she’d been listening in for a while.
“The three of us together are for-mee-dahb-luh. Roxanna might be one hell of a chess player, but the three of us, we’re like an omnipotent ghost. We’re going to crush little Roxanna.”
“We’re picking up two signals,” Tripnee yelled. “Both in Idra Harbor.”
Chapter 29
Idra
R od Heikell’s Greek Waters Pilot showed Idra, also called Hydra, to be a long, high, skinny, arid ridge roughly 10-miles-long east to west, and one- to two-miles-wide north to south. As Dream Voyager approached from the west, Adam used powerful binoculars to study Limin Idra, the island’s main harbor, located dead center on its north coast. Judging from the dense thicket of masts showing above the harbor mole, or seawall, the place was jam-packed. Another perfect place to hide in plain sight.
“I’ve been running through the drones’ sound-activated recordings from the last few hours,” Sophia said. “Listen to this.” She played the drone audio feed over Dream Voyager’s sound system.
“So far, they’ve outsmarted us at every turn. We were ready to go, ready to strike. Then they sank Saadet on Rinia, torched your boat Deniz at Ermoupolis, and sank Dido, Humbaba, and Profit at Paros.”
“That’s Sahiba Mukadder,” Sophia said, “captain of The Crescent Moon.”
Roxanna said, “They made Bora and Canan disappear off Folegandros.”
Sahiba Mukadder went on, “And they ran Helios onto the causeway at Monemvasia, and sank Show Ya and Okay Beer right there, too.”
“Curse them a thousand times,” said an unidentified voice, “for blowing up our underground command base on Spetsai. We’ve been decimated.”
“Believe me, I know, I know,” Roxanna said. Then whispering, she continued, “But trust me, Allah has not forsaken us. We will destroy the Great Satan. These setbacks only harden our resolve.”
“Our faith is strong, sister,” Sahiba said, “but what are we going to do? We only have two—only two—bombs left.”
“Sssshh,” Roxanna whispered. “I think the problem is we either have a mole or we’ve been bugged. So, keep this between us. We have a trick or two up our sleeve. Tell no one. We have a submarine.”
“Praise Allah,” whispered the unidentified voice, “a submarine.”
“Allahu Akbar,” Sahiba whispered. “Where is this submarine?”
“It will meet us here tonight.”
Adam, Tripnee, and Sophia looked at one another and nodded. They had their night’s work cut out for them.
It wouldn’t be a good idea to take Dream Voyager into Idra harbor, so they sailed on a mile north and dropped anchor in picturesque, north-facing Mandraki Bay.
Sophia clutched at her shoulder, sweating and shivering.
Adam asked, “How are you doing? Are you up for this?”
“Believe me,” she said, steeling herself, “this is right where I want to be.”
Glancing at both Tripnee and Sophia, he said, “Something tells me these last two nukes are going to be difficult to get, maybe more difficult than the first eleven. Let’s prepare accordingly.”
Tripnee, looking serious and grim, agreed, “Amen to that.”
Sophia just nodded, still clutching her shoulder.
“Whatever happens,” Adam said, “Don’t underestimate Roxanna. Expect the unexpected.”
“On that note, disguises would be a good precaution,” Tripnee said.
Going for a carefree-clueless-sailing-couple look, they drew on his black ops and her undercover FBI training to transform themselves. The result for both: bushy, unkempt, blond hair; loose, sloppy clothing; and garish sunglasses.
Next, they packed weapons and other gear with utmost care, trying to anticipate every possible eventuality. When loaded and ready, the skiff sat low in the water, heavy with extra gear. Adam got into the bow. Tripnee, in the stern, started the engine, motored out of Mandraki Bay and turned left, west. The 25-horsepower outboard, a 15-knot wind, and a pattern of two-foot white-capped rollers pushed them along the steep, rocky coastline toward Limin Idra.
The island’s main harbor turned out to be a compact 200-yard by 100-yard rectangular boat basin lined on three sides by shoulder-to-shoulder bars, stores, and tavernas. On the fourth, north, side, a seawall, or mole, protected the harbor, leaving a 40-yard-wide opening on the northeast corner.
A huge mass of luxury yachts filled over half the harbor. Jammed tightly together, bunched along the protected side of the mole, this vast clump of fancy vessels was seven and eight boats deep and fifty or so boats across. Threading her way around the sprawling flotilla, Tripnee guided the skiff to a small, inconspicuous dinghy dock in the harbor’s far northwest corner, where Adam hopped out and secured their bow line.
All over the quays and mole, and throughout the mass of boats, the scene buzzed and boomed, rocked and rolled with loud music and people yelling, eating, laughing, drinking, dancing, and partying.
T
aking with them only concealed, silenced hand guns, and leaving the rest of their gear in the skiff battened down under a tarp, Adam and Tripnee merged into the boisterous crowd and walked out along the mole. In their guise as the carefree couple, they took pictures, laughed and chatted people up—all while scanning the vast crush of boats for Al-Gazi and The Crescent Moon. Where the hell were they?
For a while, as they examined the boats in the surrounding area, Adam struck up a conversation with an American couple who were on the sixth year of an around-the-world cruise aboard their 65-foot ketch, Patriot. These garrulous souls—who’d been there for a week—were a fountain of information about life in the harbor.
No one in the crush of over three hundred boats was getting much sleep because of the all-night parties. The attitude, though, was relaxed; when someone pulled up a neighbor’s anchor because it was hooked to theirs, they just dropped it again and the neighbor merely tightened up a bit on their anchor chain, no problem.
The ethic in Idra was that the harbor wasn’t full until it was literally full, wall-to-wall with boats. Walking across other boats in Greece is assumed to be okay; there was no need to ask permission. The confusion of interlinked boats, fenders, mooring lines, anchor chains, and interconnecting planks just seemed to somehow work—with everyone relaxing, living and letting live.
Suddenly, Adam saw Al-Gazi, now with new dark blue paint, and a new name emblazoned across its stern, Tad. And right next to it was The Crescent Moon, now renamed Lila. With a tilt of his head, he pointed them out to Tripnee.
“Ah-ha,” she whispered. “Tad means ‘poet,’ and Lila in Arabic means ‘woman of the night.’”
Adam dropped a small waterproof tracking beacon the size of a poker chip into the water.
“Excellent,” Sophia whispered into their earpieces. “Good job finding them. I will fly more drones into and around them and keep you posted.”
For some reason, at that moment, Adam’s attention was drawn to a three-masted, 150-foot dream yacht outside the harbor, on the seaward side of the mole. Smaller boats 80-foot and under moored inside the mole, while mega yachts Med-moored outside it and were exposed to the northern meltemi. The wind had increased to maybe 20 knots, but this big boat was still coming in to Med-moor. Why now?
Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller Page 13
