by Brad Taylor
Guy followed, glad to drive away from the voice inside the room. Glad to distance himself from his sin.
He strained to keep up with the cab, his mind not on his task but on the ghost in the hotel room. Wondering if it would remain or follow him.
They went back into Heraklion, the target stopping at the ferry terminal. Guy watched him from a distance, then let the cab leave, going to the terminal himself.
With two hundred euros, he learned the man was leaving tonight, and purchased a ticket himself. He’d then jumped back on his scooter and headed to the Palace of Knossos, the destination in the email. The meeting was set for four thirty in the afternoon, but so far, the man hadn’t shown.
He watched a school group getting berated for not behaving properly, then the entrance of a family, two kids whining and the parents dragging them along, demanding that the trip to Crete become a learning experience instead of the vacation it should have been.
He took a swig from a bottle of water, and saw a cab pull up. He lowered the bottle, and saw his target exit. He patiently waited.
The target entered, and Guy let him get deep inside, where he stared at a map under a glass shield.
Planning for his contact.
Guy snapped a couple of shots with his little digital camera, and waited. The target moved up the path toward the ruins, and Guy followed.
For the average tourist, Guy figured it took about an hour to see everything in the ruins. More if you had a tour guide blathering on. Guy started the chronograph on his Timex, both to keep track of his potential heat state, and to determine a pattern of life for these types of meetings with the target. He needn’t have bothered. Guy’s target did a quick lap, moving among the trees and paths that surrounded the ruins, then stopped at a display of giant urns, just standing and waiting. Above him and to the right, behind an ancient mural, Guy held his breath and readied his camera.
Nothing happened.
Guy saw him check his own watch, then continue on, nonchalantly circling back to the parking lot.
Guy saw the signs and realized the meeting was busted. He had no idea why, but knew, with the man headed back to the entrance, there would be no linkup.
So intent was he on the target that he failed to see the female tourist shadowing them the entire way. Guy couldn’t be faulted for this. He’d kept a wary eye out for a threat, and had found none. After all, there were plenty of tourists in the park, each taking pictures, so the woman didn’t spike.
But he failed to notice that the woman included him in every frame.
40
Khalid heard Nikos’s phone ding and looked up. Nikos manipulated an application, then smiled. Khalid said, “He’s there? We have contact?”
Nikos held up his phone, saying, “Yes. He’s on your man. You were right.”
Khalid crowded forward, saying, “What’s he look like?”
Nikos pointed him out, and Khalid said, “Good. Good. My man will be back in the city as his next stop. Are your men ready?”
“Yes. But there’s still the matter of payment.”
Khalid waved his arm, showcasing the opulence of the yacht stateroom and saying, “Does it look like we’re lacking in money?”
Nikos said, “No, this boat is definitely a benefit. I appreciate not having to pay for a hotel room, but it’s not a question of you being able to pay. There is the matter of how much. This man came to me from a contact in the United States government. I have to assume he has some connection with them, which raises the price considerably.”
“You were going to capture him for free in Athens.”
“Yes. Yes, I was, but that was to protect our interests. That transaction is complete, and apparently my interdiction prevented whatever he had planned.”
Khalid focused on the Heraklion harbor for a moment, then said, “It did not.”
“Why do you want him so bad?”
“He has information we need, and he’s harmed two friends of mine. We will pay whatever you ask.”
Nikos said, “The price will be high, I promise. I’ll have to disappear for some time, and I don’t like living in caves.”
Irritably, Khalid said, “I just told you we would pay. I’m more worried that you can accomplish the task. You failed before.”
Nikos smiled and said, “There is a major difference reacting to a surprise and laying a trap. We won’t fail.”
“He comes to us alive. He’s no good dead.”
“So you keep saying. Don’t worry. If your man leads him to the café, my men will do the rest.”
“How?”
“You pay, I deliver. My operational methods are none of your concern.”
“Maybe in the past, but not here. My money brings me information. The café concerns me. Too many people. I won’t tolerate another failure, and I won’t pay unless I’m sure this has a chance of succeeding. Nonnegotiable.”
Nikos considered, then said, “Okay. But the price just went higher. Maybe I’ll retire permanently.”
“Fine. How are you getting him from the heart of the tourist area to here? Do you own the police?”
“No, but I do own the manager of the café. When your target arrives, he will be served by one of my men. The drink—water, Coke, beer, whatever—will be spiked.”
“I don’t want him unconscious. We only have the sail back to the mainland to talk, and I intend to leave his body in the middle of the Mediterranean. Anyway, how are you going to carry him from there to here?”
“The drug only makes him lose motor control. He can walk, but he can’t fight. We usually use it for . . . other reasons. The bathroom for the café is down a set of stairs right next to the delivery entrance. It’s boxed in.”
Nikos put a cigarette in his lips, lighting it. “When he goes to the bathroom for a piss—and he will, a side effect of the drug—we’ll simply roll him up and bundle him out the service entrance. He’ll be here in minutes.”
Nikos blew out the smoke and said, “All you have to do is have your man stay long enough for the drug to take effect.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen minutes. Twenty on the outside.”
“What if he fights?”
Nikos laughed. “He can try. It won’t help him. Trust me, I’ve seen women try to fight. At most, they mumble a little bit, then do what they’re told.”
Khalid said, “You sold him a weapon. He won’t have to strike you with a fist.”
“Won’t matter. The weapon will be hidden. He’s not going to go to the bathroom waving it about. When we get on him, it’ll be too late.”
Khalid nodded, saying, “All repercussions are yours if it goes bad. Until he’s on this boat, we have no association or responsibility. That’s part of the agreement.”
Nikos smirked and said, “You have no faith.”
Khalid glared at him and said, “I have an abundance of faith. So does this man. He is not a teenage girl. He’s a killer, and you would do well to remember that.”
41
Guy stayed behind the cab, wondering what the entire trip to Knossos had been about. Thinking through the implications, once again wondering if his interdiction had something to do with the missed meeting. Clearly, the target was supposed to do some coordination at the ruins with someone other than Nassir, but that meeting had not occurred. Why? Was it because Nassir hadn’t responded? But the email had stated no response was necessary.
Greater still, why meet in a beach town, then plan another meeting later at a tourist location inland? Nassir had passed the bank bag, full of money and identification documents, and given instructions. He was the man on the ground. So why the second meeting?
It was poor operational security, and poor planning. It made no sense. Then again, not a whole lot made sense when dissecting terrorist actions. Guy knew he was seeing only a piece of the pie. It was like
reading a text message with a bad autocorrect. You stared at it, wondering what the hell it meant, but only because you were missing a letter that would make it clear.
The cab stopped next to a short stone tunnel known as Arsenali Nuovi. It sat adjacent to the Heraklion harbor, a wonder from Venetian times falling into disrepair. The target exited the cab, walking into the arch, and Guy whipped his little scooter around, parking on the sidewalk next to two others.
He made a show of locking up the bike, even though he had no chain, fussing around and letting the target exit the tunnel, getting on to his destination. The man eventually did, walking up 25 Avgoustou Street just as Nassir had before, the pedestrian thoroughfare as clogged with visitors as it had been on that first day. Guy was convinced he was heading to the Alpha Bank.
Guy fell in behind, keeping a few tourists between them, thinking of how he could penetrate the bank with the target. He’d declined to risk it before, but then the mission had been simply to kill Nassir. Now he wanted to decipher whatever plot was occurring. Begging for it to be something evil. Something that would prove he was on the side of the righteous.
To his surprise, the target passed right by the bank, not even giving it a glance, continuing up the street. Eventually, he stopped at a café called Central Park, staring at the menu for a moment, then wandered inside. Guy followed.
The café was split half in and half out, with the outside area sprawling haphazardly next to a park, the patio covered by large individual umbrellas forming a makeshift roof and scattered propane heaters warding off the chill.
The target took a seat inside. Guy continued outside, taking a table with his back to the park and a view of the target’s location through the window.
The day was rapidly fading, and Guy reflected on what could be happening. Another meeting, or just dinner? Either way, he knew the target had about an hour before boarding the ferry, so whatever it would be, it wouldn’t take all night.
A waiter approached, wearing a green apron and a cheap earpiece attached to a radio on his hip. Guy ordered a Coke, then surreptitiously scanned the other waiters and waitresses, seeing they all had the same radio setup. He forced himself to relax. It was just a marketing ploy. They probably didn’t even function.
The waiter brought his drink and he took a sip, surveying the crowd. Most were locals, but there were a few who stood out as tourists. French, English, maybe German, a tiny fraction still willing to test the waters of the Greek economy even with the troubles.
His eyes were tracking back to the window with his target when he saw an attractive dirty-blonde. The hair caught his eye—simply because he was a man—but the face registered in a different way. He had seen her before. Somewhere. Or she looked like someone he had seen before. He was unsure.
He stared intently, trying to place the woman, but failing. Something about her had ticked in his subconscious, and he’d learned to trust his instincts. He went to her partner, seeing a youngish male with close-cropped hair, sipping water. The man wasn’t a fat tourist. He was fit, and he looked like he could handle trouble. Like he had handled trouble in the past.
It brought a spark of alarm. Had they come in after him? Or where they already here? Was he being tracked? Or being foolish?
The woman leaned over and kissed the man on the cheek. Guy saw him blush, and relaxed. Paranoid.
—
Jennifer came through my earpiece loud and clear. “Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot. I’ve got Runaway.”
We usually gave every target we chased a nickname, and we’d taken to calling Guy Runaway for obvious reasons. I glanced at Knuckles, making sure he’d heard, and saw he had. I clicked on. “Should we brace him right there?”
She said, “I’m not sure. He’s wary, like a stray cat that’s looking at everything as dangerous. He just gave me and Veep a hard stare. I mean hard. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he recognized us.”
I looked at Knuckles and he gave me a quick shake of his head. Impossible.
He broke in, saying, “Koko, no way does he know you or Veep. Are you giving off a vibe? Something he can sense?”
Surveillance was an art as much as a science, and like ancient tribes who believed in witchcraft, we all believed you could project an aura that could burn you. Unspoken, unseen, but something there nonetheless. An aura a target could read.
Jennifer said, “No. No way. We’re okay now. I kissed ol’ Veep here on the cheek and got him to blush. Runaway lost interest after that. It just seemed like he could see through us somehow, but he didn’t spike on Blood at all, so it’s not our posture.”
Blood was Brett Thorpe’s callsign, and, as an African American, one he absolutely despised. He cut in, saying, “Maybe it’s because I know what I’m doing.”
He tended to believe his callsign should be Jason Bourne.
Okay, that’s not true. He didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body, but he did have a sense of humor about poking anyone else on the team. Truthfully, after hearing some of his stories, maybe his callsign should be Jason Bourne.
He continued, saying, “Pike, I think he’s following someone. We ran a recce of the site, and nobody here remotely resembles the target deck, but he’s definitely focused on a guy inside. An unknown.”
Knuckles raised an eyebrow at the words. I said, “So don’t brace him there?”
Brett said, “No. Let this play out. We know he’s got a ferry ticket in an hour. My recommendation is not to do anything here. He’s hyperalert, and he’s looking for trouble. Let him get somewhere and relax.”
Jennifer cut in, “Break, break. Runaway’s up and moving.”
42
Guy ignored the couple, focusing on the target in the window, disgusted at his paranoia. He ordered a beer, pushing the Coke away. When it arrived, he downed it in three large gulps, thinking about the future. He still had two men to kill, and he was fairly certain he could find them, given the electronic tether he had with Nassir’s phone. He also had the key to the safe-deposit box in Athens, a box that was apparently a clearinghouse of false documents and bank accounts.
And a man in a café . . . decisions, decisions, decisions.
He ordered another beer, then felt his bladder, realizing he hadn’t urinated the entire night, unwilling to use the bathroom the body was in. He stood up, moving toward the entrance, and found himself unconsciously leaning to the right, vertigo making him feel as if he were falling. He grabbed a table and steadied himself, shaking his head to clear it.
The sensation subsided, and he entered the café, following the signs to the restrooms. He reached the narrow stairwell, feeling his brain growing fuzzy. A peculiar half-drunk without the euphoria. He was close to the bottom of the stairwell when he slipped, sliding the rest of the way on his butt.
The room began to shift violently, and he realized he’d been drugged. The woman outside. Should have listened to my instinct.
He fought through the dizziness, swinging his hand about, trying to find purchase on the rail. He glanced up and saw his waiter standing at the top of the stairs, looking down in concern. He felt a cool breeze and realized a door had opened. Another waiter, pushing a keg of beer, came through. He could see the twilight outside, the setting sun bouncing off of a delivery van, the engine running.
Incongruously, he wondered if the van would get a ticket for parking illegally, his brain refusing purchase on his situation.
The waiter with the keg bent over, and Guy held out his hand, mumbling for help. The man pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Guy’s head, saying, “Drop your weapon. I know you have one.”
Guy stared into the maw of the barrel, the darkness sucking him in, and a small piece of his mind clicked. A sliver of his true self broke free.
He reached behind his back and withdrew the worn 6P9, laying it on the ground. The man said, “Get up. No fighting, or you’ll die right here.”
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Guy pulled himself with the rail, forcing his brain to engage. Forcing out the fog by sheer will alone. He wobbled and realized he would have one chance, and would most likely die right here.
The man waved the pistol to the door, and Guy took a step, then stuttered as if he were falling forward. He was not.
The man grabbed his shirt right at the collarbone, chuckling and saying, “Okay, okay. You’re okay. You can walk.”
Guy reached up and trapped the man’s hands with both of his, then fell sideways for real, using his weight to torque the man’s wrist in a direction it shouldn’t go. The man screamed and Guy felt the bones snap.
He ended up on top of the man, uselessly scrambling to control his weapon. The man yelled again, bringing his gun hand forward, and fired, Guy knocking the gun high, the bullet slapping into the roof. With his left hand, he grabbed the long silencer of the 6P9 and swung the pistol like a tomahawk, smashing the man in the temple.
He heard another crack, and realized someone else was shooting. In slow motion, his body refusing to move with any speed, he turned and saw the waiter at the top of the stairs, holding another pistol.
Team. It’s a team. I’m done.
The man fired again, and Guy flopped backward, reversing the 6P9 and aiming with a two-handed grip. The barrel wobbled all over the place like the hand of a conductor working a symphony. He couldn’t get a sight picture. He squeezed off a round, the bullet traveling harmlessly into space. The man took aim again, and Guy knew he was dead. He waited on the strike, then saw the waiter’s knees buckle, his head snapping backward as if it were attached to a string. Guy blinked and pulled himself upright.
It was the blond woman taking the man down from behind. She brought him to the ground and he watched her hammer the waiter in the throat. She looked down at him, her face hidden by her hair, illuminated in the harsh light of the overhead lamps, and the recognition came like a thunderbolt. It was something he’d seen before, duplicating this very scene. It was the woman from the Taskforce surveillance tape in Istanbul. The one who’d been with Decoy when he died. The one he’d watched over and over, not for her, but for him.
