by Thomas Ryan
Leka stood. Leaning his shoulder against the wall he gazed out of the window. His office was directly above the court entrance. Beyond the steps, he spied two gypsies pushing a cart down the street to collect discarded aluminium cans. He knew Gashi hated gypsies. Obsessed with his own dark complexion, Gashi feared that somewhere in his past lay Romany ancestry. The big man’s view was that gypsies had crawled from the same gene pool as the sewer rat. Neither Leka nor anybody who knew Gashi well would ever dare joke about his suspected gypsy heritage. Gashi had been known to strangle men with his own hands for such disrespect. It was because of these savage tendencies that Leka had orchestrated the killer’s release from prison. Kosovons had come to regard Osman Gashi as the incarnation of evil, and to a person they feared him. The situation couldn’t have suited Avni Leka any better.
But from time to time he found it necessary to remind Gashi that he could have his parole revoked at a moment’s notice. Handling a reptile as poisonous as Gashi had its risks, as Leka was aware, and he needed that kind of constraining influence over him.
‘The Shala business worries me, Osman,’ Leka said, returning to his seat. ‘I’ve kept him in prison as you asked. But can you be certain he won’t cause us trouble?’
Gashi shook his head and mopped his brow with a large yellow handkerchief. It intrigued Leka how Gashi managed to perspire continuously regardless of the weather.
‘If the man’s become a problem, then maybe it’s better he never leaves,’ Leka suggested.
‘But he hasn’t signed over the property yet . . .’ Gashi caught the sudden frown on Leka’s face. ‘It’s not important. I’ll have it taken care of.’
‘Let me know when it is done. And no mistakes this time.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘Yes?’
The sharpness in Leka’s tone indicated his impatience.
Gashi didn’t appear to notice. ‘The man from New Zealand is interested in buying the vineyard. He said that is why he came to Kosovo.’
‘Tomi told you this?’
Gashi nodded.
Leka lifted a pen and tapped the paper pile for a second. ‘This I don’t like. First he comes to Kosovo from New Zealand looking for Shala. Now he’s interested in buying the Shala vineyard. I think it best you don’t let him anywhere near it.’
Gashi grimaced. ‘Too late for that.’
Leka’s eyes narrowed.
‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘Tomi arranged it. He thought he was doing the right thing.’
A frown of anger now turned on Gashi.
‘It’s not up to Tomi to make such decisions. Get a grip, Osman. Control your people.’ A barely concealed smirk on Gashi’s face angered Leka even more. ‘Now get this straight, Osman. Make sure that man from New Zealand doesn’t get anywhere near Shala. You understand?’
Gashi nodded.
Leka picked up another pile of documents and began flipping through them. The message didn’t escape Gashi. He pulled himself out of the protesting chair and ambled from the office like a bear in search of a cave to hibernate in. Leka glared at the door left open in his wake. He knew it was a deliberate gesture. No matter what, Gashi would always let him know he was still his own man.
19.
Lee Caldwell grinned at the tall Greek.
‘I’m honoured the head of airport security can find time to take me by the hand through Customs and Passport Control. Many thanks.’
‘No problem, sir. Maybe twenty million tourists fly into Greece every year. We can’t have you being held up under the processing overload.’
This level of cooperation impressed Caldwell. No doubt his Greek counterpart Dimitris Tsakiris had organised it. He decided he owed him one. The US embassy car sent to meet him was waiting in a no-parking zone. A uniformed airport official stood next to it, shooing away parking wardens. Noticing his boss arrive with the American, he pulled open the rear door. Caldwell tipped a salute to his escort through customs and climbed into the back seat. He directed a perfunctory smile at the two staffers in the front as the door closed and then he retreated to his own thoughts.
It was a forty-minute drive from the airport to the ports. Caldwell pulled out his mobile phone and checked for messages. The Admiral had sent a text: I wish you a happy birthday. He chuckled at the code for I hope all is well. Like all professionals he didn’t particularly like such cryptic spy-speak; the non sequiturs and double entendres more often than not seemed quite pointless. But the Admiral had a military mind, as well as being the man who paid the bills. So Caldwell played by his rules.
He could picture his boss well right then. The Admiral expected regular updates. So after no contact for more than a week, the square jaw would be jutting out like a bulldog’s. And he’d be pacing, steely grey eyes constantly snapping towards the phone. Caldwell allowed himself a lopsided smile. His text in reply said: I had chocolate cake, which meant Everything is okay. The phone slipped back into his jacket.
As always his mission brief had lacked detail: ‘Find whoever is setting off bombs in Europe and make them stop.’ Caldwell’s business card claimed he worked as a Technical and Management Advisor for Devon Securities. What it didn’t show was that Devon Securities was a very minor subsidiary branch of Incubus, the world’s second largest private-security company. The office headquarters, buried deep in the bowels of a Washington building, demanded the highest of security clearances for entry. Caldwell knew that not even the President of the United States was exempt.
The official role of Incubus was to ensure American citizens outside the United States came to no harm. Especially high-level government personnel. Incubus reported directly to the State Department. Devon Securities’ role was to clean up. Seek out those who carried out the attacks on Americans with extreme prejudice. Take out the garbage, change the sheets, scrub the blood off the floors. Caldwell thought of himself as a janitor to the spook world: unseen, unappreciated, but very necessary.
The Admiral’s department worked with a mix of government and private funding. Whenever an unpalatable circumstance arose that might embarrass the government, the money trail stopped at private funding bases. The simplicity of this had always appealed to Caldwell. He recruited from the ranks of disgruntled CIA operatives who relished the opportunity to continue doing the same kind of work without the irksome legal restrictions inhibiting government employees. The Admiral protected him from crusading politicians and, within reason, Caldwell had a free hand and access to any government agency he needed. Technically, the modus operandi was simple. It wasn’t Caldwell’s job to hunt down those masterminding the bombings – just get the guys who lit the fuses: the triggermen. There were better-funded and better-equipped agencies to deal with the top dogs. It was Caldwell’s call to either terminate the bombers or call for a pick up.
Recently, however, a variation had arisen.
The US Ambassador to Belgium, along with his wife and two young sons, had died in a Brussels department-store bombing. The Admiral had taken the death of Jim Scott very personally. He and the Ambassador had served in the Navy together.
‘His boys called me Uncle, for Christ’s sake,’ he had fumed. ‘Find the bastards who did this. Then kill the sons of bitches. Screw intelligence interrogations. Forget about any goddamned fucking trials.’
Caldwell had seen close-up the misery that such killers could inflict. He had no qualms about sending any one of them to join their victims. But he was no arbitrary executioner, and certainly no murderer. He would allow perpetrators of such atrocities as befell the Ambassador to determine their own future. If they surrendered, he would hand them over. If not? Well, the consequences would have been no secret to them.
Idle eyes watched the traffic on the road. Caldwell’s thoughts now focused on the way the Brussels bombers had slipped through his grasp and resurfaced in Slovenia. With horrendous results. He kne
w it was the same men. Interpol forensics had positively identified residue from the explosives in Brussels and Ljubljana as the same. It had been matched to a consignment passed into the UN arms-for-money programme in Kosovo by a former Kosovon Liberation Army operative. It was as clear to Caldwell as anyone that not all the explosives under the deal had been turned in. Someone was still using them to make bombs.
It had lifted Caldwell’s spirits that, after months of sleuth work by his colleagues, they’d managed to identify a lead. A Kosovon national had been detained at the Albanian–Greek border trying to smuggle a million euros into Greece. Caldwell had little doubt Dimitris and his people used some creative interrogation techniques on the hapless courier. The man claimed to be unable to provide information of any value. He said he had no idea the suitcase held such a large amount of money. And he did not know the intended recipient.
What did appear beyond dispute was that the money he carried was not drug money. This man’s particular gang did not deal drugs – it was too risky in Kosovo with so many UN police and NATO checkpoints. But a million euros was a considerable sum to be coming out of Kosovo. It piqued Caldwell’s interest even though he knew it was a huge leap to connect that money to explosives passed to the UN. But like most experienced law enforcement officers, Caldwell didn’t believe in coincidences. The lead might be tenuous. But it was something. And it was all he had.
At the gates of the Port of Piraeus, Caldwell ordered the driver to enter and pull into one of the bus parking spaces. Dimitris would be in one of the cafes a few hundred metres away on the wharf. He told the two staffers to wait with the car then climbed out.
Caldwell walked along the jetty’s edge. In the calm waters beneath his feet he spotted the flash of small schools of fish near the surface. They would disappear, only to reappear a few metres further along. The salt air reminded him of childhood holidays in Santa Barbara. He made a mental note to phone his sister.
Dimitris Tsakiris waved when he saw Caldwell approach. The grin that lit up the Greek’s face was genuine. The men had long since struck up a friendship outside their respective callings. Dimitris called to the waiter for more drinks.
‘My friend. How has your life been since we last met? What? A year ago?’
‘Give or take a month.’ Caldwell’s gaze dropped to Dimitris’s belt line. ‘Pleasant anyway. But nowhere near as pleasant as yours appears to have been, Dimitris.’
Dimitris laughed and patted his paunch. ‘You’re right, too much of the good life and not nearly enough running after criminals to keep me fit. My wife, she likes to cook. And I like to eat. A good marriage, but it will kill me in the end.’
Caldwell chuckled. ‘I’m sure it won’t.’ A waiter placed two cold beers on the table. ‘Now, what’ve you got for me?’
‘My man masquerading as the courier is over there in the corner.’ Dimitris indicated with a surreptitious flick of the eyes. ‘He is wearing a yellow baseball cap and a light brown jacket. We are following the instructions left by the people he is to rendezvous with. First was to go to a post box in Athens. The courier had brought the key to open it with him from Prishtina. Inside the postbox were new instructions: to catch today’s ferry to the island of Syros. That boat behind you. The big red one?’
Caldwell turned to see where Dimitris was indicating.
‘A tracking device is in the suitcase. I have men everywhere. It won’t be lost. The ship leaves at five thirty. The cruise to Syros will take four hours. So, you and I have time to kill.’ Dimitris gulped down half his beer and smacked his lips. Caldwell hadn’t touched his. ‘This is good beer. Drink, my friend.’
Caldwell sighed inwardly. Dimitris was a good man but a lousy spy.
They had first met in France when Caldwell had been little more than a rookie in his first job for the Admiral. Caldwell and his team had netted two Greek citizens in a raid on a villa in suburban Paris. Fingerprint checks revealed the pair topped Greece’s most-wanted list. Caldwell had suggested to the Admiral that the CIA collect them, but the Admiral had other ideas. He believed in building bridges. He told Caldwell it was a matter of banking favours: ‘Payback time will come. Mark my words.’
So instead, the Greek Intelligence Service had been prevailed upon to take the pair into custody. And the Greeks never forgot how the Admiral had made sure they received credit for the capture.
An elated Dimitris and his men had flown to Paris. As a thank-you from the grateful Greeks, Caldwell had spent the evening drinking ouzo at the Athenais in the rue de la Victoire. The next day, Dimitris left with his prisoners and Caldwell was left with a hangover. He never again tried to match the Greek drink for drink.
Now payback time had arrived. The Greeks were coming through just as the Admiral had predicted. Caldwell glanced at his watch. Close to four thirty.
‘I have a car waiting. I need to send it on its way. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
He left his beer untouched and walked back to the car. The two staffers were stretching their legs.
‘Which one of you is in charge?’ A quick exchange of glances between the two. He turned to the woman. ‘Marion, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll do for the moment. I want you to go back to the embassy and arrange for a chopper to be waiting at Syros airport from nine tonight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
A check of Caldwell’s watch. An hour until the ferry left. Conscious that now was not the time to get into a drinking contest with Dimitris, he decided to take his time walking back to the cafe.
A fly crawled across the table towards a crumb that had fallen from his croissant. Zahar swatted it with his plastic ticket holder then flicked the twitching insect onto the floor. A glance at his watch told him boarding would start soon. Not before time. He disliked surveillance, and the man in the periphery of his vision wearing the yellow baseball cap hadn’t moved for the last hour. That made his job much easier but he was tired of sitting in the one spot and the coffee was awful. He stirred his espresso for lack of anything else to do. He had already decided it was undrinkable.
Praise to Allah for his brother, Halam, being forever cautious. Creating a paper trail for the courier to follow, and monitoring the postbox had been smart moves. Halam had considered the possibility of a tail on the courier and his intuition had paid off. Now, Zahar’s own knack for sniffing out undercover operatives had borne fruit. The pudgy Greek was too sloppy. Spotting the pursuers had been absurdly easy. And now a fourth had joined their team. It did not matter. They would be no match for him and his brother.
Zahar flipped open his mobile phone. He needed to update Halam already on Syros. By the end of the day the suitcase would be in their hands and they would be on their way to a new life in Iran. He needed to find a way to make Halam listen and accept that he did not want the life Halam chose for himself.
The lights of the ferry alerted those waiting on shore that the red boat had entered the mouth of the harbour. Halam Akbar sat in one of the many cafes lining the promenade, tapping a straw against the side of an aluminium drink can. Soon the cruise ship would slow and reverse into its docking position. He had ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Behind iron railings drivers sat in line in their vehicles with the engines turned off. When the ferry unloaded, they would drive aboard for the return trip to Athens. The fence that surrounded the berthing area also demarcated the car park. Security guards at the gates controlled the flow of vehicles, but pedestrian access remained unrestricted. Halam had twice walked through the gates – the first time without the bag, the second time with it. All was ready.
In summer Syros was a popular destination but Halam was thankful that the council of Ermouplis, the capital of the island, managed to maintain a festive atmosphere even though it was out of season. Despite the chill in the air, most of the tables outside the many cafes were full. With dusk now gone, the floodlit blue dome of Saint Nicolas on
the hill dominated mansions and whitewashed houses gleaming in the moonlight. The town’s waterfront drive buzzed with activity. Tourists strolled along the full length of the promenade from the Hermes Hotel to the airport turnoff. Locals sat on benches drinking coffees and ouzo.
Halam was just another nondescript tourist.
The distinctive Greek aromas of hot seafood, olive oil and herbs and spices reminded Halam he had not eaten all day. Those seated about him had spent the last few hours gorging themselves. Except for bottled water and two espressos, he had ordered nothing. At this stage of an operation a stomach full of food was a handicap, especially if something went wrong and he needed to run.
The four-hour cruise to Syros convinced Lee Caldwell that Dimitris had lost his edge. He needed to retire. His men looked sharp enough, but their boss’s carefree attitude was bound to influence their effectiveness. Dimitris’s preoccupation with wine, food and relaxation was understandable. After all, this was Greece. But Caldwell knew well the type of men they were dealing with. He worried that Dimitris did not fully appreciate the danger.
He saw no sign of anyone tailing the Greek agent masquerading as the courier, but that meant nothing. The merry-go-round of instructions must have had a reason. It seemed pretty obvious to Lee that whoever was about to receive the million euros would ensure he was not also walking into a trap.
Dimitris hadn’t entirely disagreed with Caldwell’s analysis, but he was certain any tailing would occur on the island and not the boat.
‘You are too paranoid, my friend. Rest assured: if we had a tail we would know. That’s our job, isn’t it?’
He roared with laughter and patted Caldwell on the shoulder. Caldwell waggled his head at Dimitris and kept scrutinising the passengers.
