Andreas stood by the western entrance to the church, in the stone courtyard running between the church and the monastery’s main entrance. A surprisingly patient crowd stood lined up three-to-four across outside the church’s arched massive wood and glass doors.
Andreas had decided to keep the public waiting outside the church until Dana arrived and been seated inside, away from a potential sharpshooter’s line of sight. Only clergy vouched for by the Bishop’s aide were allowed inside before Dana’s arrival.
Andreas looked at the crowd, wondering how much longer its patience would last. The line snaked across the courtyard, back out through the entrance to the monastery. It continued on along the terraced brick walkway, past a taverna on the right, and out toward the air force jet emblazoned with an image of Archangel Michael on its tail.
He shook his head. No way this crowd would fit inside the church. The courtyard would be packed. He’d stationed three of his six cops at different spots along the line, with instructions to scrutinize every face and pull out and interrogate anyone who piqued their police instincts. He gave similar instructions to the other three, two of whom he’d assigned to patrol other means of access into the church, and one he’d sent up into the bell tower on the monastery’s west wall with binoculars and a sniper rifle. He delivered his instructions at ear-shattering volume, knowing full well he was directing his anger at himself.
Neither Yianni nor anyone else had found a thing in searching the grounds and buildings, and though Andreas doubted Aryan stood waiting in line to get inside, perhaps his screaming might fire someone up enough to think outside the box and come up with an idea on how to find the bastard or his hostages.
For sure, Aryan thought that way. Always be prepared to improvise. Andreas doubted he’d anticipated a crowd this large, and he certainly didn’t know where the press conference would be held. He couldn’t know, because Andreas hadn’t decided on a location for it yet. Aryan probably assumed Dana would attend the service, and might even have guessed they’d bring her into the church through the entrance on its south wall, but that’s about all he could count on.
Everything else depended on improvisation. On both sides. Andreas would take his best shot and hope Aryan’s wasn’t better.
Andreas looked up. A lot of places around here for a shooter. He better remind the cop in the bell tower to keep his eyes on the crowd. Once the service started, he’d pull two cops off crowd control and get them patrolling the balconies looking down into the courtyard.
He still had to make the big decision: where to hold the press conference? Keeping it inside the church would work for the television crews, who would love the setting, but the crush of the crowd made it almost impossible to protect Dana. The devout packed themselves into important church services like this one tighter than so many sardines in a tin, and once they saw the TV cameras, forget about trying to clear Greeks out of their church. It would be bedlam.
Crowds were a big threat. All Aryan needed to do was get close enough to Dana for a quick jab with the right poison, and he’d be long gone before she died.
As Andreas saw it, the only way to go was to hold the press conference outside. Though still risky, it at least gave them a better angle on crowd control.
Angle.
Andreas’ mobile rang. “What’s up?”
“Dana’s here,” said Yianni.
“Did you tell her about Ali and Aleka?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Just what we thought. She’s all in.”
“The woman has guts. Bring her in the side door and let’s get this show underway. No one sits within an aisle of her. No physical contact with anyone.”
“Got it.”
Andreas hung up, and returned to his thought. Angle. He had to take away whatever advantage Aryan saw in the crowd, be it inside or out. He looked up at a lattice-covered balcony running along the north wall of the monastery. If he put her up there for the conference, she’d be away from the media and the crowd. And trees partially screened her from the courtyard. That would likely push Aryan into using a gun, giving them a better chance at spotting him making his move than if he came at Dana through a jostling crowd.
What Andreas didn’t know was how forcing Aryan to change his plans for Dana would impact what the killer had in mind for Ali and Aleka. Could it cause the twisted bastard to kill them sooner? He drew in a deep breath. Too many questions, and too few answers. He exhaled.
Seems like a good time to go to church.
l l l l l
Aleka knew her father would be angry. He’d told her never to go willingly with a kidnapper, because kidnappings inevitably turned into murder investigations. If you tried to get away up front, you had far better odds on not becoming a murder statistic, and even if the kidnapper had a gun and shot you, you probably wouldn’t die from it.
But this was different. She’d seen the results of this killer’s work on Volandes, and had no doubt he’d have used that same sword on them in the church. At least now they had a chance of being rescued.
It all happened so quickly. He’d walked them straight out of church, off into the parking lot, and into the back of a van. That’s all she remembered, other than a pinprick at the back of her neck, until waking up bound and gagged inside an abandoned goat herder’s hut in the middle of nowhere. Ali still looked unconscious. The killer must have drugged them both.
But where is he now?
Aleka began to tremble. He must have gone back to the monastery for Dana. If he came back, that meant he would kill them. If he didn’t return, they’d likely die because no one would find them.
Tears welled up in her eyes. I should have listened to my father.
l l l l l
The new disguise worked better than his last. A pious old farmer arriving on horseback added local authenticity to its rider. It even brought him a nod from the cop who watched him carefully tie up his horse in the shade.
The idea came to him when he saw a string of horses tied up just beyond the eastern wall of the monastery, near where he’d parked the van. He borrowed one of the horses to make his entrance. His exit depended on how he eliminated the McLaughlin woman. He planned on using the van to cover the three kilometers back to the goat herder’s hut, eliminate the refugee and girl there, and disappear into the town of Mantamados while waiting for his midnight pickup back to Turkey. As for what he needed to complete his performance within the monastery walls, he’d long ago smuggled and hidden all that inside.
Aryan strolled into the monastery a few moments after the service had begun. He had a hard time finding a place to stand in the packed courtyard that offered a view inside the church. The view he did have gave him no idea where Dana sat, but he doubted he’d be able to get to her even if he knew.
He wanted to work his way around the church, peering in the windows to find her, but thought better of it when he noticed a cop with binoculars up in the bell tower scanning the crowd, and two more walking along balconies doing the same.
So much for window peeking. He couldn’t risk doing anything that might attract attention. This would be tough enough to pull off as it was.
He doubted he’d be able to get close enough to her to go with plan A. So much for his Romeo and Juliet scenario that had star-crossed lovers Dana and Ali dying of the same poison. He’d so liked the symmetry of that ending, though taking a blade to Dana would have been more in keeping with Shakespeare’s original.
Still, the paramount purpose of his storyline was for Ali-the-refugee to end up as the undisputed killer, and Aryan off the radar. How Ali now died depended on what end Aryan came up with for Dana. As for the other, she’d die as planned––the victim of a jealous, raging lunatic who hacked her to death with perverted sexual furor, using the same sword as he’d used on his first victim. Of course, the suicide note must again be changed. Bu
t even Shakespeare had to rewrite.
This had become a challenge.
And he loved it.
l l l l l
Andreas pushed his way through the crowd inside the church to where Dana sat alone, no one in front, behind, or beside her. Yianni was telling one angry worshipper after another that no one could sit in those empty seats. From what Andreas could tell, Yianni would likely need an evil eye mati the size of the holy icon itself to ward off all the evil thoughts cast at him by so many churchgoers denied a place to sit.
Andreas whispered his plans in Yianni’s ear, adding that at the conclusion of the service they’d announce the location of the press conference. No need to give Aryan more time to prepare than absolutely necessary.
“Do you actually think he’s in here?” whispered Yianni, his eyes darting around the church.
“I wouldn’t bet against it. Let’s wait until the place empties out before moving her. We’ll use the side door and head around the back way up to the balcony along the monastery’s north wall. That looks like our best shot at avoiding crowds.”
“I wish you hadn’t said, ‘best shot.’”
Andreas smiled and nodded toward the Bishop stepping forward. “The service is about to start. We better sit down if we don’t want to be conspicuous.” Andreas sat behind Dana, and turned his head to scan the room.
Yianni sat next to her, leaned back toward Andreas, and whispered, “I think you mean more conspicuous.”
l l l l l
Aryan needed to find a place within the monastery walls that offered him the flexibility to cover potential venues for the press conference. From what he’d seen, the police had taken great care to keep the McLaughlin woman isolated from crowds. He assumed they’d do the same thing for her press conference, but they also needed a location with sufficient space to accommodate the media and the curious.
They’d also want to eliminate as many sight lines at her as possible. That meant no view down on her from the bell tower, because even though a cop stood up there now, cautious cops wouldn’t discount the risk of Aryan taking their man out to get at his target.
He saw two likely venues, both on the west side of the monastery and looking out on the courtyard at the west entrance to the church.
The first stood just inside the monastery’s main entrance: a prayer vestibule shielded by an overhanging wooden second floor, and featuring a full-length, glass-enclosed icon of the Archangel. The icon, and burning candles offered by the faithful, presented a dramatic backdrop for the media. Plus, the vestibule had an exit to the outside, and bad sight lines on it from the tower. It also had a serious downside; his target would be standing at the same level as the crowds.
The second possibility sat just beneath the bell tower on a balcony running along the north monastery wall. Partially shielded from the courtyard below by trees and latticework, cameras could still catch her, but no one could reach out and touch her.
Aryan deliberated on where to set up to get off the best shot, regardless of which of the two venues ended up the chosen one. He toyed with finding something underground that offered him an angle on both, through a grate or basement window, but that took away his flexibility should the cops surprise him and settle on a third location. No, he needed to be above ground.
He found a perfect place for taking his shot should the choice be the balcony, and an acceptable place less than ten seconds away if the ground level vestibule ended up the venue. He hoped it would be the balcony, because he’d be less exposed for that shot. Either way, he’d be dressed to give would-be witnesses a fleeting glimpse of a crouched over assassin of unrecognizable height, caped and masked in the fashion expected of Muslim terrorists. Another touch he’d added for the benefit of Ali.
Aryan would patiently wait for the media to flock into position once they’d learned the press conference site. Yes, there were risks in going through with this, but so far he’d guessed right or been treated kindly by the Fates, and he felt confident things would continue breaking his way.
Soon, the McLaughlin woman would be dead, Ali blamed for it all, and––once Aryan had made an example of whoever might have given his name to the Turkish police––he’d be set to take over Malik’s operation in Turkey. The other smugglers would soon fall in line.
He could hardly wait.
l l l l l
Deema found what she was looking for hidden in a floor vent. Now, all she had to do was find the courage to use it to end her misery. She pulled herself up onto her feet and staggered back in the direction from which she’d crawled. She stopped at the foot of the bed and stared at her sleeping husband.
“You are the father of my children,” she whispered. “You are the provider for my family.”
She stepped around the side of the bed to be closer to his snoring, and raised her voice. “But you are not our protector. You are our tormentor.”
He stirred, and she moved closer to him.
“Don’t worry, soon you’ll no longer have me in your life. That is what you want, and so that is what you shall have.”
She lifted the gun. “Wake up,” she shouted. “Wake up, you cursed man, so that you may see how you’ve succeeded at driving me to end my life.”
Malik’s eyes opened.
Deema pulled the trigger.
Her husband’s blood streamed onto the pillow.
Her eyes did not move from his face. “Now, I must sit with you, waiting for my other tormentor to return, so that I may do the same to him.” She thought of the words Aryan had once said to her. You do what you must to protect yourself, your family.
She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “I may fail and die, or if not, I will surely go to prison. My life is over. But I have spared my children the fate of a merciless father who preys on the helpless, and takes pleasure in torturing the desperate.”
Deema sat on the edge of the bed, shut her eyes, and dropped her head. “I cannot even bring myself to ask God to take pity on your soul.”
l l l l l
Midway through the service, the commander walked in the side door of the church and sat next to Andreas. Grim-faced, he whispered, “Any news?”
Andreas bit at his lip and whispered back, “No.”
He nodded. “What’s your plan?”
Andreas told him.
“Sounds risky for Dana.”
“She’s all in on it.”
“I misjudged her.”
“Look,” said Andreas, “if anyone’s at fault––”
The commander held up his hand. “No need to go there.” He paused. “To help my daughter, Dana’s making herself target practice for a professional assassin.”
“And, being honest, I’m worried,” said Andreas. “We’ve picked a spot that cuts down on his potential shooting angles, and Dana will be wearing a ballistic vest, but he’ll most likely try a head shot, and if he gets one off….” Andreas shook his head.
“You’ve given me an idea. There’s something in this monastery that just might help with that. Let me see what I can do.” He stood and hurried out the door.
Yianni leaned back toward Andreas. “What was all that about?”
“Beats me,” said Andreas. “He said there’s something in this monastery that might help protect Dana from Aryan, and took off.”
“Archangel Michael?”
“We should only be so lucky.
“I think you mean blessed.”
“Amen.” Andreas crossed himself three times.
“Add my amen to that,” said Dana.
“I didn’t know you were listening,” said Andreas.
“To every word,” she said in English. “My understanding of Greek is better than my speaking it.”
“How do you feel?”
“Scared, anxious, excited.”
“Sounds about right,” said And
reas with a nod.
She stared down at the floor. “What are my honest chances of surviving the press conference?”
“Very good,” said Andreas.
“Does that mean better than fifty-fifty?”
“For sure,” said Yianni.
Dana cleared her throat and stared straight ahead. “I had a baby brother once. He adored me, trusted me. We lived in rural New Jersey. He was seven and I was eleven. One day we were playing in the front yard. I had him stand by the split rail fence running alongside the road, so I could roll the ball down to him to kick back up toward the house. That way, the ball wouldn’t go out onto the road.”
She looked down at her hands. “He never saw the driver who swerved through the fence up onto the grass and killed him. The driver never stopped. Just backed up and drove off.”
She looked at Yianni. “But I saw the driver, and the car. I told the police everything, even the license number, and they assured my parents and me that they would catch him.
“The driver turned out to be the son of a very powerful man in our county. But it was a big story in the media, so the police had to find someone to blame. They arrested a Pakistani refugee, claiming he’d stolen the car and killed my brother. The prosecutor went along with that lie even though I insisted he wasn’t the driver and the son was. The prosecutor characterized me as a traumatized child who obviously was confused.
“The Pakistani’s legal aid lawyer worked out a plea bargain giving his client a reduced sentence of five years in exchange for an admission of guilt. Five years for something he hadn’t done, so that the son of a powerful man could get away with murder.”
She looked Andreas squarely in the face. “That’s why I feel as I do about police and prosecutors, especially when political stakes are high.” She swallowed. “It might also help to explain why I do what I do. Somewhere out there in my head must linger some twisted sense of guilt that I hadn’t done enough to save my baby brother’s life, or rescue that innocent refugee from being chewed up in the system.”
An Aegean April Page 28
