Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  Mitchell turned to walk down the sidewalk when the passenger doors on the cars across from the bank flew open and four broad-shouldered men with short hair climbed out and walked straight towards them. Mitchell swore under his breath, instantly knowing the men meant trouble. At Jackson’s forceful exhalation of air, Ryan knew that his teammate had also spotted the threat.

  “Gentlemen, please do not move,” said a tall man with short, black, curly hair and a square jaw. He stopped a few meters from Mitchell. His accent was unmistakably Greek.

  “Why should we listen to you?” snarled Jackson.

  “Because there is a man in a car across the street with his sights on you, that is why,” replied the Greek. The man’s three accomplices moved closer and glared menacingly at Mitchell and Jackson, with their hands resting on pistols hidden inside their jacket pockets.

  “What do you want?” asked Mitchell. He noticed the tattoo of a small cross inside a circle on the speaker’s neck. A quick glance confirmed that all four men bore the same ink.

  “Mister Mitchell, I know that you have in your possession a diary that does not belong to you. Give it to me and you and your friend will be allowed to go on your way unharmed.”

  “I can’t do that,” replied Mitchell. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but I need it more than you do.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” said the Greek thug as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a Glock 9mm pistol. He stepped close and pointed his handgun at Mitchell’s heart. “Give it to me, or I will shoot you and your friend.”

  The man’s accomplices drew their weapons.

  The air instantly grew electric.

  “Ryan, don’t do anything foolish,” said Jackson, trying to defuse the tense situation. “Just give the nice man with the gun the diary so we can be on our way.”

  Mitchell was going to reach into his pocket, when suddenly an SUV flew around a corner and sped down the street toward them. With a loud squeal from its protesting tires, the vehicle came to a sliding halt. The side door flew open and four armed men jumped out of the back. With military precision, they swiftly took up positions covering the Greek and his accomplices in front of the bank.

  “Lower your pistols, and drop them onto the pavement,” said a young, blonde-haired man with a thick neck and a strong German accent. Like the Greeks, the new arrivals all looked like professionals who weren’t afraid to use violence to get what they were after.

  In the blink of an eye, the Greek and his men turned their guns on the Germans.

  Mitchell couldn’t believe his eyes. He and Nate were stuck in the middle of some sort of Mexican standoff between these two groups of men. He prayed that someone in the bank had seen what was going on and had already called the police.

  “Do you have Kapitanleutnant Schur’s diary on you?” the German asked Mitchell, without taking his eyes off the Greek mercenary.

  Adrenaline began to race through Mitchell’s veins. He was keenly aware that all it would take was a small spark to set off both groups of armed men.

  “Do you?” snapped the German.

  “Yes, but I need it,” replied Mitchell.

  The German thrust out his hand, “I don’t care what you need. Give it to me!”

  “Jesus, we’re in the middle of some Eurotrash confrontation,” muttered Jackson, “Greeks on one side and Germans on the other.”

  Reluctantly, Mitchell reached into his pocket and pulled out the diary. He placed it in the hand of the German just as the door to the bank flew open, and two guards ran out with automatic weapons in their hands.

  The fuse had just been lit.

  11

  Banco de Suiza

  Madrid, Spain

  To Mitchell, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. One of the German hired guns reacted first and fired his pistol into the chest of the closest guard, whose dead body tumbled to the ground.

  The German, who had the diary clutched in his hand, spun about and bolted away from the fight. He was followed closely by one of his men. The two other Germans and all of the Greeks scattered for cover behind the line of parked cars on the street as the next guard out of the bank opened fire with his submachine gun, spraying bullets everywhere. Mitchell felt Jackson grab him by the arm and pull him flat against the brick wall of the building, just as a burst of automatic gunfire whipped past them.

  In the distance, the sound of wailing sirens racing toward the bank told both men that help was on its way. Only it would come too late for the second guard who died under a hail of bullets.

  Mitchell turned his head and saw the two fleeing Germans running for a parked car. “Come on, we need that diary,” he said to Jackson before sprinting after the men.

  Behind them, the two groups of criminals turned their guns on one another. Bullets flew thick through the air.

  Mitchell saw the two Germans dive into the back of a waiting white Toyota FJ Cruiser. The vehicle’s driver floored the gas. The SUV’s tires squealed as the car pulled away from the sidewalk.

  Cursing the escaping Germans, Mitchell wished he had a pistol on him. He sprinted after the SUV even though he knew there was no way he could ever catch the fleeing vehicle. A curious onlooker stepped out from one of the shops lining the street to see what was going on. Mitchell was not going to stop. Instead, he lowered his shoulder and hit the man square in the chest, bowling him over.

  Mitchell turned a sharp corner and nearly ran straight into a woman pushing a baby stroller. Like a hurdler, he leaped over the carriage and kept on going. He was quickly reminded that running in dress shoes was much harder than with his sneakers. His lungs soon began to ache and his leg muscles burnt as they pleaded for oxygen.

  The SUV sped towards the bridge over the Manzanares River; it would soon be out of sight.

  Mitchell glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see a parked car he could ‘borrow’ to keep up the chase, when up ahead the SUV’s driver decided to speed through a red light. It was a foolish move. A split-second later, the vehicle was struck in the side by a delivery truck doing well over sixty kilometers an hour. The sound of glass shattering and metal crumpling filled the air. Mitchell saw the collision and forced a burst of speed to keep him running towards the intersection. He saw the SUV flip over on its side and slide along the road. Sparks flew out from underneath of the wreck until it hit a light pole. In the blink of an eye, the doomed car exploded. A bright, red-and-orange fireball engulfed the SUV, roasting alive the men trapped inside. By the time Mitchell arrived, a thick, black plume of smoke was wafting skyward from the fiery wreckage. He came to a sliding halt beside the SUV and bent down, trying to see inside. The searing heat from the burning debris forced him to step back. He swore loudly when he realized that the diary was lost, burnt to a cinder in the horrible blaze.

  “Did anyone make it out of there alive?” asked Jackson as he ran up, struggling to catch his breath.

  A crowd soon began to form around the wreckage. In a truly macabre fashion, people were digging out their phones and taking pictures of themselves with the fire in the background.

  Mitchell angrily shook his head. “They’re all gone and the book with them.”

  Jackson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Not your fault, Ryan. You did everything you could. If you had said no to either group, we’d both be dead right now, and you know it.”

  “At least the information in the book is lost forever,” said Mitchell. “There’s no reason to threaten anyone anymore. Perhaps the terrorists will back off.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Come on, let’s get back to the hotel before the cops and the fire department arrive and start asking questions we can’t answer.”

  On the street behind them, the man with the salt-and-pepper hair watched as the police pulled up outside of the bank. All of the Germans were down. Only a couple of the Greek mercenaries had managed to escape before the authorities arrived. He was not sure what had just happened. He had known goi
ng in that there was the possibility of running into Germans, but he never once thought about a rival gang of Greek criminals being involved as well. In the blink of an eye, his assignment had just changed. With a world-weary sigh, he turned the key in the ignition, made a quick u-turn, and headed away from the bloodstained street.

  Back in their hotel room, Mitchell removed his jacket and sat down on his bed. He looked at the rain pelting the window. Exhaustion flooded him, as the adrenaline in his veins began to fade.

  Jackson pulled off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. “That’s better,” he said rubbing his sore neck. “I really need some new shirts.”

  “Yeah, you do,” replied Mitchell. “Something from this decade would be nice.”

  Ryan watched Nate open his mouth in order to retort, but then he appeared to change his mind. “Ryan, please tell me you still have the Iron Cross on you.”

  “It’s in a pocket on my jacket. Why?”

  Jackson picked up the jacket and rummaged through the pockets until he found the medal. He sat down at the table in the room, switched on the light and held up the Iron Cross so he could examine it better.

  “What’s up?” asked Mitchell, as he stood and moved over to Jackson.

  “I didn’t really pay much attention to it back at the bank, but there are numbers and a couple of letters written on the arms of the cross. Normally, only the name of the recipient and the date it was presented would be inscribed on the back. This other writing is really unusual.”

  Mitchell instantly grew curious. He grabbed a pen and piece of paper. “Nate, read what you found out loud to me.”

  Jackson slowly turned the medal in his hand, reading the numbers and letters aloud. When he was done, he placed the cross down on the desk and looked over at what Ryan had written on the paper. “What do you think it means?”

  “I don’t know,” Mitchell replied, twirling the pen between his fingers.

  “Another bank account?”

  Mitchell frowned. “No, I don’t think so. The one I had to memorize to access the account here had far more numbers. This is something different.”

  For a couple of minutes, they tried to figure out the significance of the two sequences of numbers and letters when, on impulse, Mitchell tried something new and put a dot after the first two numbers. Right away, a light clicked on in his head. “Voilà, I give to you a set of coordinates in latitude and longitude.”

  “Damn, you could be right,” said Jackson as he reached for his tablet. He switched it on, brought up a map of the world, then inputted the coordinates.

  “What did you find?” asked Mitchell impatiently.

  Jackson turned the tablet. “It looks like these coordinates are for an island off the coast of Argentina.”

  Mitchell looked at the picture Jackson showed him on his tablet. “Are you sure about that? Perhaps I wrote the information down wrong.”

  Jackson shook his head. “No, this is right.”

  Mitchell studied the image on the tablet. It showed a small island off the coast of the southernmost tip of Argentina. Although it didn’t make much sense to him, it had to be right. “Now why would Herr Schur want to inscribe the location of an island on his Iron Cross?”

  “Who knows?” said Jackson. “It could have been placed on the cross by the Odessa organization when they opened the account back in 1948.”

  “Anything is possible.”

  “You know, the island could have been used by the Nazis to smuggle their people into Argentina,” offered Jackson.

  “It seems a little remote. Besides, according to General Alexander, they were coming over on the transatlantic ships, hidden amongst the rest of the passengers.”

  Jackson tapped his fingers on the table. “It’s a mystery, all right.”

  Mitchell said, “As much as I’d rather not go there, I’m guessing our next stop is Argentina.”

  Mitchell sat down on the edge of his bed and dug his cell phone from his jacket pocket. He dialed the number for Donaldson’s office and waited. When Mike answered, Mitchell took a few minutes and filled him in on what had transpired at the bank. “Mike, before we do anything else, I need to know more about that Argentine island, the cross on the Greek thugs’ necks and anything you can find out about the late Kapitanleutnant Schur.”

  Donaldson said, “I’ll get Fahimah and Jen researching your queries right away. And I’m glad to hear that you’re both all right. Keep your eyes open, because it looks an awful lot like someone knew you were going to show up at the bank today.”

  “Thanks, Mike, and will do. I’ll give you a call back in a few hours to see what you’ve been able to find out. In the meantime, unless you tell us not to, we’ll be making arrangements to fly to Argentina.” Mitchell ended the call and set his phone down.

  Jackson picked up the phone in the room. “Hey, Ryan, should we have room service for lunch?”

  “Sure, order me something, and then see when the next flight to Buenos Aires is,” he replied. As he studied the image of the desolate-looking island on Jackson’s tablet, a thought flashed through his mind. They were going to need help, and he knew just the person to call.

  12

  Military Fortress

  Corfu, Greece

  Stavros Alexander felt jetlagged and bloated—the effects of international travel combined with one too many bad airline meals. He vowed to hit the gym the instant he got home. A couple of hours burning off the frustration building up in his body would do him good. Seated in the back of a highly polished, black Mercedes that had picked him up at the airport, Alexander watched the scenery as the car wound its way up the hill of Saint Mark, towards the front gate of the Venetian-built, stone fortress that stood silent guard over Corfu. He was nervous. He was supposed to be in Athens later that night, as he had an important meeting to attend in the morning. The last thing Alexander had expected was to be called to an unscheduled meeting with General Davos, the head of the Greek Armed Forces.

  Inside the courtyard, the car was met by two men in loose-fitting suits. Both men carried Uzi submachine guns in their hands. Alexander instantly recognized the men as undercover operatives of the Greek Special Forces.

  Alexander climbed out of the back of the Mercedes. He straightened out his blue business suit and looked around. He had never been to the fort before and saw that there were two levels. The first was a three-story stone building. The second was a defensive bastion built in the shape of a pentagon.

  “This way, General,” said one of the guards.

  Alexander followed the man inside the three-story structure. They walked in silence down a set of stone stairs that led into the building’s basement. Alexander was thankful that it was much cooler there than it was outside. The coming summer is going to be a hot one, he mused. The guard led Alexander down an arched corridor. They passed an old ammunition storeroom that still held a couple of old cannons sitting inside—a visible reminder of a time when the island was sought after by the Ottoman Empire. Moments later, they walked into a large, well-lit room. Inside, Alexander, was surprised to see six other men standing around a long, wooden table. Three he recognized as fellow military officers, and two others were wealthy business leaders. The last, however, shocked him. Standing there, with a glass of sherry in his hand, was General Kaba, the head of the Turkish Army. Alexander instantly became suspicious.

  At the head of the mahogany table, was General Konstantinos Davos, a short man with snow-white hair. He smiled when he saw Alexander, left Kaba’s side, and walked over and embraced his friend. “Stavros. I hope you are well, and that your meetings with the Americans were successful. Will their military support us in the Aegean?”

  Alexander grew guarded. Davos surely should have heard by now that the U.S. President had pledged his support in defusing the tensions between Greece and Turkey. None of which made any sense now, because of General Kaba’s presence in the room. “General, I believe that they will help both NATO countries to find a peaceful way out
of this crisis,” replied Alexander, diplomatically.

  “Yes, of course,” replied Davos. “That is what I meant to say.”

  “General, I don’t wish to sound suspicious, but why did you ask me to come here? I have a meeting in the morning with army chief-of-staff, to go over our defense plans should war break out. And why is General Kaba here?”

  Davos smiled. “Don’t worry, it’ll all soon become clear. As for your meeting, I have a helicopter standing by to fly you on to Athens once we conclude our meeting.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied Alexander, knowing that he had no other recourse than to do as his superior officer wanted.

  Davos took Alexander by the arm and led him over to the other men in the room. “Stavros, please let me introduce to you the men who make up the leadership of the Phoenix Group. We are a secret society established to save our nation from the decisions made by our weak and corrupt government. Not just this one, but every incompetent civilian regime going back over four decades.”

  Alexander did not need to be told that Davos was referring to the reestablishment of democracy after a seven-year dictatorship by the military that ended in 1974. Stavros may have had strong views on many issues; however, he, like his sister, still believed in democracy. He picked his next few words carefully. “General, I’m sorry. It’s been a busy week and my body is still on Washington time. I’m not sure I understand what you are saying.”

  “My dear Stavros, the time has come for you to join us,” replied Davos.

  “To do what, General?”

  “I’m talking about a new order. We need to change the failed path our great country has taken and to lead it back to its once-proud status as a beacon for the other nations of Europe to follow.”

  “General, with all due respect, I am no more enamored with the current Prime Minister than you are. However, it is not up to us to decide if he should remain in power or not. That is a decision that must be made by the people of Greece.”