by Gunn, Autumn
“He’s in the area,” Frost said.
“Then why don’t we just go catch him?” I said amusingly.
“Very funny.”
“My point is unless you just saw him, let’s say within the last thirty seconds, then you have no idea where he is. This guy has the fastest speedboats. Boats that can outrun the Hellenic Coast Guard. Helicopters with the best pilots, even in the winds of these beautiful islands. Come on, he can even dive down in the sea. The guy probably still has his submarines. That’s where he got his big break and really expanded his already burgeoning empire.
“You make it sound hopeless.”
“Nothing is hopeless. You just need a rock solid plan, that will almost certainly need to be adapted as things develop, and a team that can execute and think on their feet.”
“And where are we going to find those guys and how are we going to come up with that plan.”
“I thought that’s part of the reason you came to me.”
I could see Abbey’s eyes light up. Frost put his hands on his chair and sat up straight.
“Are you interested in helping us?”
“Not really.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m interested in helping myself. I think our interests might have some overlap.”
Frost and Abbey looked at each other.
“How much overlap do you see?” Abbey said.
“Just the part about Devlin. The other stuff I’m not interested in.”
They seemed confused.
“You have a chance to have a mission again. We can work together. This can be your chance to get back to doing what you enjoy.”
“Getting back to doing what I enjoy involves a lot more nights like what that housekeeper overheard and a lot less chasing bad guys.”
“Don’t you want to make a difference?” Abbey said.
“I made a difference already. And after making that difference the Navy thought I was too different to make future differences so they were indifferent towards me and eventually we went our different ways.”
“But you’re not bitter?”
“I’m realistic.”
“Some would say the same thing.”
“And some wouldn’t.”
“Which one are you?”
“I’m the one who takes things as they come these days. Sees things in black and white. Is enjoying life. I don’t harbor any grudges. Don’t have a reason or the time.”
“So how do we make this work? Together.” Frost said.
“We don’t actually. If your plans for catching these guys overlap with what I’m already planning to do in order to catch Devlin then we can do things together and I’ll cooperate. No problem. But just remember that I’m in this for myself. We help each other but most of what you’re going to get is just the overlap of what I’m after. Once I get that I’m done.”
“And what about the agent?” Abbey said.
She was right. I forgot about the female agent they sent in.
“That concerns me. A lot. I’ll help you guys out with that. One hundred percent.”
“So we have a deal?” Frost extended his hand.
My mind said to tell Frost to slow down. I don’t want to get pregnant on the first date. My eyes could see they were desperate. They needed some help. Badly. They were trained DEA agents, but they had no idea what they were going up against. It wasn’t who, it was what. It was a tight elite force. Much beyond anything they’d trained for. Including FARC in their heyday or anything like that.
“On the overlap. And the agent.” I shook Frost’s hand. Abbey didn’t extend hers. She didn’t need to. I think she saw how Frost’s enthusiasm was turning me off so she played it cool. Smart girl. It was probably why she was becoming more appealing to me the more time we spent together.
“We should come up with a plan,” Frost said.
I could see the waiter over Frost’s shoulder.
“We should eat our octopus first,” I said. And the waiter served our meal.
Kiki’s has a canopy of thin white sticks. It blocks all the sunrays but still allows in plenty of ambient light. The chef cooks all the meals on an open fire grill right in the restaurant. You can see all the food being prepared. No secrets. If that wasn’t enough you can smell it. And the smell is mixed with the cool breeze from the ocean. Just a hint of salt. Not enough to turn even the most sensitive of stomachs. Just enough to let you know you’re not in the city. Not in the urban jungle. By the time your food arrives you’re about ready to gnaw on the tablecloth. Before the meal you can enter the small area inside where you pay when you finish. That’s also where they keep the salads. The conversation had started so quickly I hadn’t even had time to grab my Greek salad. I went inside to pick it up. Octopus, Greek salad, and a glass of rosé. All this in a beautiful beach restaurant with a pleasantly calm and friendly staff. It felt like your favorite neighbor’s grandson was bringing you lunch outdoors underneath that big oak tree in your uncle’s backyard. Why couldn’t every restaurant be like this?
We finished up our meals. Not much small talk. Seemed like more just piling one bite after the next into our mouths.
“You going to be around for a few days?” Abbey asked.
“I can stick around awhile longer.”
“Same spot?”
“Same spot. You really should come up and see the view one evening.”
“Would be lovely, but I have an agent to rescue.”
“Right.”
We took a cab back towards Mykonos town. I got out at the top of the hill and cut through a wall of sheep on the way back to my place. They continued back down the hill towards the town. I didn’t know if they were staying there. The town was about ten more minutes by car. The port was on the same road. And only five.
The next morning my phone rang at 1000 sharp. I was still shaking off the effects of a late night, or should I say early morning. I learned from my time in the Middle East, Indonesia, and Malaysia that more than a few of the girls from some of the Muslim countries wrapped their heads and played sweetheart during the day, only to turn into wild party animals by night. Mykonos seemed to provide the perfect atmosphere for girls from Turkey on a quick holiday. They told me there names were Bethany and Ellen. I knew they really meant Belinay and Elif, but how was one to point a finger? I had played the cover role more time than I could count. More importantly, who was I to care? A little role-playing fantasy wasn’t going to hurt anyone, although I did see some pretty deep scratches in my back in the mirror on my way from the toilet to the face plant in my bed when I arrived home.
“You know the three wells?” Abbey asked.
“Aren’t we going to start off with a good morning?”
“No time.”
“Definitely not English. They always make time for manners. Yeah, I know the spot. In front of Astra Bar.”
“That’s the one. Can you be there in thirty minutes?”
“Thirty minutes?”
“That gives you time to get dressed, brush your teeth, and hail a cab. You’ll have five minutes to spare. Maybe more.”
“What makes you think I’m not dressed?”
“Zamora,” Abbey paused. “Do you think we just rolled up to your place without doing any recon first?”
I looked down. She was right. Naked again. I also noticed I was standing right in front of the window.
“Am I naked now?”
“The three wells, Zamora. As soon as you can.” She hung up.
I wake up from a phone call hung over and I’m in a better mood. Doesn’t seem right.
I made it to the wells in twenty-four minutes.
“A little more native beach attire today I see.”
“You like it?” Frost said. He seemed to have lightened up a little. Wonder what he got into since yesterday afternoon.
“Fancy a drink?” Abbey asked.
“Why not?”
We made our way inside. I ordered a Pils. They opted for sparkling
waters of course.
“Living dangerously.”
“We’re on the clock.”
“American or European?”
“Both. We’re all in this together. Europol has our back on this one.”
I didn’t say anything. I could see they were serious and it wasn’t the time for banter.
“Sultan al-Atrash.” Frost handed me a few surveillance photos and a mug shot. “Familiar?”
“Don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Big time player. Syrian. Had it all. ISIS came in and took it all away. He’s too old to run. He’s in hiding in Syria,” Frost paused.
I sensed some tension and apprehension in the end of his sentence. Usually not what you’re looking for when you know the plan is coming next. “OK,” I said.
“He’s got two kids.” Frost pulled out some more photos.
The photo on top looked kind of like a mash-up of a high school yearbook photo from the 1980s and Glamour Shots. A boy. Looked to be about nineteen or twenty. A nice looking kid. He was smiling. He looked easy-going and likeable. I bet he had a lot of buddies and enjoyed life. He wore a white button down shirt and had a strong head of hair. There was a birthmark on the right side of his face. Left as you look at it. It started just above the eye close to the hairline and continued down more than half way past the length of the side of his cheek. “That’s Adnan. His son.”
Frost slid the photo of Adnan to the bottom of the pile revealing a new photo. “That’s Amena.” She was younger than her brother, but from the same stock. You could tell by the facial structure and demeanor. A pretty girl. Probably about fifteen or sixteen. No identifying marks. “They’re arriving in Izmir tomorrow. They’re meeting with the Turk.”
“What’s the Turk’s name?”
“Just goes by the Turk in our databases. We tried. No records. No fingerprints. Nothing.”
“Do we even know he’s Turkish?”
Claire Abbey shuffled in her chair. I think she liked the sound of we. It signaled I was in, or at least very close. She caught the subtlety. It didn’t surprise me.
“Technically we don’t. But we’re pretty sure.”
“He could be Kurdish. Big difference.”
“The facial features don’t point in that direction,” Frost said. He was right, but there’s no telling.
“In this case we shouldn’t box him in. He could be a chameleon. That is how migrants are taking advantage of the refugee crisis after all.”
“Correct. Most of the people arriving in Kos are Syrians with passports. The Afghans and the Iraqis don’t have anything on them. So we don’t know if the Afghans are actually Iranians or the Iraqis are actually Lebanese,” Frost said.
“My point exactly. It’s like trying to identify a street in Tangiers,” I said.
“Come again?” Frost said.
“They all look and smell the same.”
Abbey rolled her eyes. “Your file mentioned political correctness wasn’t your strong point.”
“I call ‘em how I see ‘em.”
“Well then, I guess we appreciate your honesty and candor.” It could have been smug and sarcastic and warranted me walking out on the spot. For some reason it wasn’t. Not coming from Claire Abbey. She didn’t seem the passive aggressive type. Not at all. If she had a problem I think she would just come out with it.
“You’re welcome,” I said. Abbey did a quick acknowledgement with a drop and raise of the chin. The way colleagues often acknowledge other when words aren’t necessary or don’t fit the bill.
“So do we know where they’re meeting?” I asked.
“We think they’re going to meet at the coffee shop around the block from his indescript office. We’re not sure, but that’s where he seems to meet with anybody who warrants a face-to-face. The regulars just meet with his handlers. He keeps a safe arms distance or two. The big timers or those with connections get a little more personal treatment.”
“Business 101 I guess.” I said.
Abbey removed a crude hand-drawn diagram from her pocket. She unfolded it neatly and set it on the table. It was at an angle facing back and away from where any of the bar cameras could pick it up. I’m sure she made a note of the surveillance the moment she first walked it, which was probably yesterday. I couldn’t imagine her just picking a place she hadn’t looked over first.
Although it was a crude diagram, the paper was neat. The folds were precise and exact. If I was going to get into this mess at least the team behind me would be dotting i’s and crossing t’s. Attention to detail is life or death in these kinds of circumstances.
“The Turk is dominating the drug smuggling market along the coast. All the new wannabe gangsters trying to make a land grab on some cash are too busy herding migrants onto rubber boats for €1000 - €1500 a pop while the Turk has a family of three strapped down with €10 million worth of heroine right on their back. It’s the perfect cover. The Hellenic Coast Guard and Turkish Coast Guard Command are overloaded. The refugees are realizing now all they have to do is get past the Turkish Coast Guard. Once they’re through their clear. If they make it half way, the Greeks will do the rest.”
“You’re trying to tell me the Orthodox Greeks are helping the Muslims from the Middle East?”
“With clenched teeth, but full pockets. They’re getting money from the smugglers on the Turkish side, money from the smugglers on the Greek side, money for working overtime hours, and of course they’re shaking down the refugees and migrants for a small cut. And the EU politicians play the fear game to win votes. Not just that, they play on human psychology. With most people, if your neighbor’s house is on fire you watch and hope somebody else takes care of your neighbors afterwards so you don’t have to feed them and give them a place to sleep. This migrant thing is getting pushed onto the Greeks and they’re thinking if they’re going to be painted as bad guys for not doing enough to help the refugees they might as well get paid for it.”
I hadn’t thought of it that deeply. Abbey had it all figured out.
“A lot of the refugees used to think they were caught when they saw the Greek Coast Guard approaching. Now they know they’re there to give them a safe lift for the last leg across the only body of water they’ll have to cross on their entire trek.”
“Safe relatively speaking?”
“Relatively speaking. They might demand €50 a head, but that nothing if you’ve already dropped €1500 for the first hour squeezed into a flimsy, packed, plastic raft like an overcrowded pack of sardines. And after the first hour you weren’t even sure you were going to make it. For €50 you get a nice lift right to the dock and once there you say you’re Syrian and you get fingerprinted and registered as such, no matter where you’re from.”
“And once you’re registered it’s real.”
“Exactly. And now you have a temporary residence permit allowing you to stay for one to six months. Then you decide if you want to live and work in Greece illegally, or move on. Most move on.”
“But either option is infinitely better than fighting for, or against, ISIS.”
“That’s it. But that’s if they get halfway,” Abbey said.
“What happens on the Turkish side?” I said.
“Different story. The Turkish Coast Guard can be confusing in their choices. Usually they make three quick, consecutive circles around your raft. This fills the raft with water and sends the passengers overboard. If everybody looks to be surviving at that point they just hang out for awhile. Rub a little salt in the wounds in hope they remember the next time the get the urge to try crossing. Then they round you up and take you back to Turkey, where you’re sent on a bus somewhere else. Often times, just up to Istanbul, but you’re out of sight and out of mind.”
“So you try to make a go when you know the Turkish side is likely to be understaffed. When shifts are changing over. When it’s dark. Anytime there’s an advantage to be had. Just to improve the odds by a fraction.”
“Or to improve the
m infinitely if your handlers are paying off the Turkish Coast Guard or someone with inside knowledge of patrol times and patterns.”
“Good system these guys have going.”
“Very good. And very good money for all the smugglers, no matter what they’re smuggling.”
“But the Turk is surely using better boats and has better connections if he’s moving drugs.” I said.
“He might, but if he does he’s not using them. First, it’s easier to hide amongst the other rafts. They’re often leaving in formations, believe it or not. Just a row rafts. And this whole time nobody’s checking their bags. All the way from Syria and never once been asked to open a bag. Not until they get to Athens to get documented, but at that point they can just leave the drugs in a storage locker at the Port of Piraeus and then retrieve them after their paperwork is processed. Second, there’s a new problem that’s developed. Something much bigger than anything the government might throw at them.”
