Seal Team Seven 02 - Spector

by Keith Douglass

  The White Tower had two observation levels, with a smaller, central tower that rose another twenty feet above the main parapets like the top layer of a wedding cake. They emerged on this higher platform to a breathtaking view of city and harbor. The wind had a cold bite to it, whipping across the top of the tower out of the north.

  Murdock paused, looking around to get his bearings. North lay the city proper, an improbable mix of the old Middle East and the modern West, church towers and minarets mingled with apartments and office buildings. Northeast, beyond a broad, tree-lined plaza, was a brilliantly lit fairground, tents and temporary buildings spread out beneath a tall communications tower.

  Opposite, across a broad sweep from the northwest to the south, were the sparkling waters of the Thermaic Gulf. The waters close to the city were crowded with boats, pleasure craft for the most part, though several freighters and Greek naval vessels were moored by the inner harbor pier.

  Two more of Beasley's men--Murdock was certain now that they were Delta--were crouched behind the crenelated parapet of the tower, overlooking the bay. One was aiming a rifle through one of the window-sized gaps in the wall, a long-barreled Haskins M500 balanced on a bipod mounted just ahead of the trigger. The weapon was slow--its precision-milled bolt had to be removed to load each round--but those rounds were .50-caliber monsters that could take down a target at a range of better than two kilometers. The Haskins mounted a bulky, low-light telescopic scope, a Varo AN/PVS-4, giving it the look of something out of science fiction. The spotter, kneeling at the next opening to the right, was peering through a heavy, tripod-mounted infrared surveillance scope.

  "Hey, Captain," the spotter said as they emerged onto the tower roof. "Who're these guys?"

  "Navy," Beasley said. "But I think they're on our side this time."

  "No shit?" The trooper shifted his face back to his scope.

  "What's your target?" Murdock asked as they moved up to the wall. From the angle of the sniper's rifle and the spotter's scope, they were both watching one of the boats tied up in the outer harbor.

  "Okay," Beasley said. "Here's the way it is. Our pal Solomos and his people got a pretty good lead, Seems two guys in their Special Missions Platoon have more money in their bank accounts than their government salaries could explain."

  "Uh-oh."

  "Yeah, uh-oh. First suspect's name is Eleni Trahanatzis. Young guy, twenty-three. No known political connections. He's still officially on the DEA roster, but apparently he took an extended leave of absence a couple of months ago. See that yacht tied up to the orange buoy, about seven hundred meters out?" He pointed, handing Murdock his binoculars. "That's his. He's been living there ever since."

  Murdock took the binoculars and picked up the indicated boat. It wasn't quite what he thought of as a yacht, but it was bigger and fancier than a policeman's salary could afford, perhaps thirty feet long, with a flying bridge atop a large cabin, a well deck aft, a sun deck forward. Probably twin screws ... and probably fast if it came to a chase. Murdock estimated that she'd be able to top forty or forty-five knots in calm seas.

  "The guy's doing pretty well for himself," Murdock said, carefully studying the craft. Cabin lights were on, though he couldn't see through the closed curtains. A lone man sat in the well deck aft, smoking a cigarette. A cable passed over the bow and was secured to a mooring buoy. A Zodiac raft was tied to the craft's stern.

  "Second guy is Stathis Vlachos," Beasley went on. "He's harder to pin down. Solomos says he retired from the DEA about two months ago, but he won't tell us where he worked or who he worked for. He's older, maybe thirty-five, and there's a hint that he got his job through some sort of pretty powerful political connections. Nephew of the Prime Minister, that sort of thing."

  "Is he?"

  "Not so far as we know. Washington is looking into it. No lurid details yet."

  Through the binoculars, Murdock could make out the boat's name, written in Cyrillic letters. He could sound them out but didn't know what the word meant. "Papagos," he said quietly. "What's 'Glaros'?"

  "Sea gull, Lieutenant."

  Beasley chuckled. "If you really want an eyeful," he said, "have a look through here. Move over, Hodge. Give our guests a peek."

  The spotter grunted and moved aside. Murdock handed the binoculars to Roselli, then got down on his knees and put his eye to the glowing objective.

  The Glaros was transformed, the boat's hull still visible, but overlaid now by ragged, glowing patterns of colored light that gave the vessel's interior an eerie, three-dimensional aspect, as though the hull were made of some substance not quite so transparent as glass. Most of the thermograph colors were shades of green and blue, but some oranges and yellows showed up as well. The water, being coolest, was black. Most of the boat's hull was ultramarine or deep purple, especially at the edges and along the waterline. The man on the after deck glowed bright yellow-orange, with a bright white spot marking the hot tip of his cigarette. The thermal image was so detailed that Murdock could see a pistol-shaped patch of blue obscuring part of the yellow of the man's chest.

  The truly interesting part was forward, however, in the yacht's cabin. The thermographic imaging of this IR unit was sensitive enough to pick up minute variations of temperature, less than a tenth of a degree or so Celsius; with barriers as thin as curtains or the fiberglass hull of a boat, radiated heat from inside could be picked up from the outside. The image was fuzzy and not nearly so detailed as that of the man on deck, but Murdock could easily make out several shapes, seen through the hull in muted patterns of heat. That bright red glow was probably an alcohol or kerosene heater ... and that smaller one a motor of some sort, possibly the exhaust fan from a small refrigerator. Other shapes nearby were in writhing, shifting motion.

  "What in the world?" There appeared to be two brighter, horizontal patterns of warmth a few feet apart, and they ...

  "Hey, Navy," Hodge said in a flat, fake-Mexican accent. "You like feelthy peectures?"

  "Definitely X-rated," the sniper said, his cheek still resting against the stock of his high-tech rifle. "Now that's what I call a pleasure boat."

  With that as a clue, the thermal images resolved themselves in Murdock's mind, too fuzzy to be more than mildly titillating but obviously created by the body heat radiating from two couples lying side by side. One couple was engaged in some rather frenetic, rhythmic movement; the other seemed more relaxed ... watching the show, perhaps.

  "Okay," Murdock said. "We have five people on board, total ?"

  "That's right," Beasley said. "The guy on deck is paid help, a local thug named Katris. We think the other two hired him as muscle, or maybe he's just there to pilot the boat. Vlachos and Trahanatzis are in the cabin with a couple of girls from town."

  "Girlfriends?" Murdock asked, turning away from the eyepiece. "Or professionals?"

  "Nah, they're strictly amateurs," Hodge said. "Pickups at a bar."

  "You've been following these guys around town, I gather."

  "Ever since Solomos and his boys filled us in."

  "What are you going to do about them?"

  "Nothing, at the moment."

  "Nothing?"

  "The DEA has them under surveillance. We're under orders to stay clear until they complete their investigation."

  Murdock turned his eye back to the thermograph eyepiece. The hard-driving, rhythmic motion had ceased, though there was still movement going on. "Shit," he said. "If Solomos and his people think these two are tied in with the Kingston hijacking, why don't they go in and grab them? I'd be kind of interested in what they might have to say."

  "So would we. But the Greeks are moving extra slow on this one. All they have is a couple of their Special Missions guys who might have outside sources of income. And I gather there are some sticky political problems."

  "Vlachos and his patron?"

  "Worse. Friend Trahanatzis is the son of a rather wealthy Greek shipping magnate. Not an Onassis, but pretty well-to-do. And he's a steady c
ontributor to the Greek Christian Democrats."

  "Wait a minute. I thought you said they couldn't explain his bank balance. If Daddy's a millionaire ..."

  "Apparently Poppa T. wasn't pleased when Junior didn't follow in the family business. Trahanatzis is on a tight allowance. Why else would he take a job with the Athens City Police, eh? But he has made some pretty sizable deposits in the bank over the past couple of weeks."

  "Okay. I follow."

  "Yeah. Anyway, Solomos still doesn't want to have the guy arrested, not with Poppa holding purse strings that just might find their way into the police budget, see?"

  "I'm beginning to. Whose name is the boat in? Trahanatzis's?"

  "Negative. Vlachos."

  "Interesting."

  "Guess who made the deposits in Trahanatzis's account?"

  "Vlachos?"

  "Bingo. We're pretty sure Vlachos is a link in the chain to somebody higher up. We don't know who, though, and the Greeks don't even want to guess. They're too afraid of what they might find." Beasley's words were dry and tight, only just hinting at the frustration he must be feeling.

  Murdock rose, stepping back from the eyepiece and motioning for Roselli and Papagos to take their turns.

  "Tell me something, Captain."

  "Yeah?"

  "Have you considered helping things along at all?"

  "of course. But we're operating under strict orders ... very strict orders. This show belongs to the Greeks."

  "Meanwhile, a member of the United States House of Representatives has been the prisoner of somebody, we don't even know who, for almost three days, now."

  "I hear you. Let me tell you something. I've leaned on our friend, Solomos, just about as hard as I can. I've been on the satellite horn every day to Washington, trying to get things moving from that end, so far with zero effect. I got from Athens, finally, permission to set up this op to keep the suspects under surveillance. The Sniper is my idea and Solomos doesn't know about it. He'd shit if he did, I think, but Hodge and Kraus over there are my insurance in case Vlachos and his pal decide to do a fast fade. Right now, that's our number one worry, that those two get spooked and decide to tear out of here in that high-performance motor yacht of theirs."

  "Where would they go?"

  "Shit, if they have friends in the police force, anywhere they want. That's the problem. If they wanted to just run for the border, well, Turkey is maybe fifteen hours by sea."

  "So you figure a 50-caliber bullet through the engine might slow them up, eh? Good thinking. I take it the DEA is keeping tabs on the suspects, too?"

  Beasley nodded toward the white facade of a hotel overlooking the Leofors Nikis. "For what it's worth, they've got a team up there. For all I know they're keeping a closer watch on my team than they are on Vlachos and company."

  "I dunno about that, boss," Hodge said. He had just resumed his place at the IR scope. "Looks like they're going at it again over there. If it was me, I'd rather watch thermoporn than watch us watching thermoporn any day."

  "You know, Captain Beasley," Murdock said, "if someone else went out there and made sure that our friends weren't going anywhere, you couldn't be accused of breaking the rules, could you?"

  Beasley stared into Murdock's eyes for a long moment. "If this is some damned Navy scam ..."

  "No scam. Look, I'm talking about it with you ... not just going out and doing it, right? You've been square with us, we'll reciprocate. I'm not even suggesting anything right now, just kind of wondering out loud. If somebody snatched those two before they could get away, before the Greeks let them get away-"

  "Too risky." He shook his head emphatically. "Solomos would have a fit. My people could lose everything they've built up in this damned country."

  "Not if it wasn't your fault."

  "Eh?"

  "Blame it all on us. You had no idea what those Navy sons of bitches were up to."

  "What'll your superiors say?"

  "Let us worry about that. What do you say?"

  "Let's say I'd like to hear a bit more."

  "Why don't we get off this roof, first? If Solomos is keeping an eye on you, we don't want him to get the idea we're plotting anything together, right?"

  "Murdock, God help me, but I think I'm starting to like you."

  "That shows your excellent taste. I'm really quite a likable fellow. Now, what we'll need is about twenty, thirty meters of lightweight nylon line."

  "We have that."

  "And a truck. Or any kind of covered vehicle. Actually, it might be better if we could rent a car someplace."

  With Roselli and Papagos following, Murdock and Beasley descended the stairs into the White Tower, deep in conversation. On the roof behind them, Kraus and Hodge gave one another wondering looks, then returned to their surveillance.

  2205 hours Harbor pier Salonika, Greece

  Razor Roselli, Jaybird Sterling, and Murdock walked slowly along the pier, pretending an interest in the ships and small craft docked to either side, but keeping most of their attention focused on the Glaros, just visible from here on the far side of a buoy-moored sailboat.

  "Anywhere along here'll be fine, Skipper," Roselli said. The black water lapped against the pier and the rust-streaked hulls of the ships. The stink of harbor water and diesel oil was thicker here than it had been back on the Leoforos Nikis promenade. Even this late in the evening, the streets of Salonika were busy. Roselli could hear the rumble and honk of traffic; somewhere in the direction of the city, the plucking lilt of bouzouki music was accompanying singing.

  "You both still want to go through with this?" Murdock asked them. "You can still back out if you want."

  "Nah," Razor said. "Things were getting kind of dull tonight, y'know?"

  "Yeah," Jaybird added. "I could use a little midnight swim just to wake me up."

  "With a water temperature of fifty-nine degrees, Jaybird, it ought to do just that. Okay. We're covered here." They stopped in the shadow of a Greek-registry freighter, its hull conveniently placed to block the three SEALs' activities from anyone who might be watching ashore. Murdock set down the gym bag he was carrying on a bollard, and Roselli and Jaybird began stripping off their street clothes.

  They were wearing swim trunks beneath their trousers, and black T-shirts that would cut down on their visibility a bit in the dark. Mac had jury-rigged belts for them out of doubled-up lengths of nylon line. From the bag, Murdock handed them each a tightly knotted hank of line and a small, cloth bag, both of which they fastened to their belts. Both of them already wore their SEAL diving knives in black plastic scabbards strapped to their lower legs. They wore neither masks nor flippers; they'd not brought any of their diving gear along, and trying to find any in the city at this time of night--and at this time of year--would be both futile and suspicious. Instead, they wore canvas deck shoes with thick rubber soles, chosen because they would offer a decent grip on a smooth, wet surface.

  "Okay, you too," Murdock said when they were ready. "Remember what I said. We don't want these guys dead, and we don't want an international incident. But I don't want them going anywhere before we have a chance to question them."

  "Right, L-T," Roselli said. "Just leave it to us."

  Jaybird entered the water first, lowering himself from the side of the dock feet-first and slipping beneath the inky surface with scarcely a ripple to mark his entry. Roselli went next. The water was cold ... not as frigid as it had been on some memorable BUD/S exercises, perhaps, but with bite enough to sap a man's strength and endurance in less than an hour. Under normal conditions, Jaybird and Roselli would have worn wet suits for this, but their total immersion time shouldn't be more than an hour or a little more.

  The water was so black and thick with suspended sediment that Roselli literally could not see his hands in front of his face. He swam just beneath the surface, arms extended, thrusting ahead with a powerful frog kick. When his lungs began to burn, he brought his head slowly up into the air and light. The Glaros was there
. He would have to angle to the right a bit to keep the sailboat between him and his target.

  Slipping beneath the surface once more, he kicked and drifted, kicked and drifted, concentrating on swimming a straight line ... or as straight as he could manage completely blind. Sound was of no use underwater. The depths were alive with sounds, clanks and creaks and hollow-sounding bumps, mingled with the far-off thud-thud-thud of a ship's screws turning, but the sounds seemed to come from everywhere, giving no hint of their direction. When Roselli surfaced again, he was much closer to the sailboat he was using for cover. There was some sort of party going on aboard; he could hear the chink of glasses, the guffaw of men's laughter, the softer voice of a woman speaking.

  But there was no one on deck to see Razor as he glided close beneath the sailboat's bow, then reached up to take hold of the mooring cable. Jaybird was by the buoy, hanging onto the cable, his head bobbing slowly up and down with the timing of his kicks. Roselli moved over to join him. They exchanged a glance, nodded, then began swimming again.

  Glaros was now less than fifty meters away, its bow turned to face the two combat swimmers. Beyond, rising above the city, the White Tower stood guard over the harbor. Roselli suppressed the urge to grin and wave at the IR scope he knew was trained on him.

  This final part of the swim would be made on the surface, lest one of them surface suddenly directly under the gaze of Katris, the guard. They moved carefully, raising scarcely a ripple as they breast-stroked toward the moored power yacht.

  2217 hours Harbor pier Salonika, Greece

  Murdock checked his watch as he stepped off the pier and turned right onto the street that would lead him back to the promenade. DeWitt and Mac ought to have another hotel lined up by now, assuming they weren't all booked up. He hated leaving details like that to the last moment, but there hadn't been any choice this time. Still, though there were lots of tourists in town, this early in the season it couldn't be anything like peak attendance. In another couple of weeks, a huge annual tourist trade fair would be under way at those fairgrounds he'd glimpsed earlier, and then finding rooms at the last moment might be damn near impossible.