Barracuda

by Richard Turner

  Muller looked around the room. “You don’t think that we have a traitor in our midst, do you?”

  “I don’t know. It is always a possibility. Once we have them, we can interrogate them until they tell us what we want to know.”

  “Herr August, the police have been informed,” reported Beck. “They will have the Russian in custody within the hour.”

  “Thank you,” replied August. “Now, please see to your men. I want these troublemakers captured alive.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Beck, coming sharply to attention. He turned and left the room.

  Unlike the debacle in Punta Arenas, August intended to make sure that no one escaped this time. The instant he had the information he was looking for, Beck was free to kill the three pests.

  40

  The Mountain

  “Pull over there,” Mitchell said to Yuri, pointing to a spot on the side of the icy road.

  As soon as the Rover stopped, Mitchell opened his door and got out. He turned his head and looked up at the snow-covered mountain. He judged that the distance from their location to the summit was approximately a kilometer.

  “See anything?” asked Jackson as he zipped up his winter jacket.

  “Yeah, it looks like we can hike our way up to the lodge if we keep to the right of that rocky outcropping,” replied Mitchell, indicating the route he wanted to climb.

  Jackson studied the path. “What do you think? Three hours?”

  “Sounds about right. Come on; let’s get our gear out of the back.”

  A couple of minutes later, with their packs on their backs, Mitchell and Jackson walked over to the driver’s side of the car. “We’ll hopefully be back before nightfall,” Mitchell said to Yuri. “While we’re gone, see what you can learn about the chalet, in case our little expedition doesn’t pan out.”

  “Da,” answered Yuri. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  “Bring snacks,” said Jackson.

  “All right, let’s get going,” said Mitchell. He stepped off the road and onto the snow. With the sun beaming down from overhead, it wasn’t long before he began to overheat. Mitchell unzipped his jacket and removed his gloves. He knew from his training in the military that a person can easily dehydrate in the winter. After an hour, he stopped, removed his pack and dug out a bottle of water. He took a long swig of cold water that refreshed his parched throat.

  Jackson sat down beside him and took a drink of water as well. His forehead was covered in sweat.

  “Open your jacket,” said Mitchell. “We’re only a third of the way up. If you don’t regulate your body heat, you’ll overheat. Heat stroke can do nasty things to a man.”

  Jackson pulled off his toque and gloves. Unlike Mitchell, Jackson thoroughly detested the cold. He glanced up toward the top of the mountain. “Do you think that they’ll have motion sensors and cameras covering this approach?”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. I suspect all of their surveillance gear is facing the front door. That is where the cable car comes and goes from.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’d hate to think that we’ve come all this way only to be nabbed the instant we step foot on the summit.”

  “Nate, we’ve still got another couple of hours before we get to the top. You can bitch then.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Jackson as he placed his water bottle back into his pack.

  “And I look forward to hearing it,” replied Mitchell, sarcastically. He threw his pack on his back, picked the best path on the ice- and rock-covered slope and continued.

  Frustration started to build deep inside Yuri. His lack of Spanish combined with the local workers’ lack of English was getting him nowhere. He decided to see if there was anyone at the cable car entrance at the base of the mountain who could help him. After parking his vehicle, Yuri walked over to a red wooden building where people could board the tram. A sign in Spanish and English said that the hotel was closed for the next two months. He spotted a couple of men in blue coveralls working on the steel cable that led all the way up to the chalet.

  “Buenos dia, halba usted Inglish?” asked Yuri.

  “Si, señor,” replied a black-haired man.

  “That’s good, because my Spanish is terrible,” said Yuri good-naturedly, as he offered his hand in greeting.

  The man grabbed a rag and wiped the grease from his hands before shaking hands. “How can I help you?” he asked Yuri.

  “I was wondering if I could get a ride up to the chalet.”

  “Sir, the hotel is closed for the season,” replied the worker, pointing at the sign.

  Yuri ignored the man’s remarks and glanced up at the chalet. “Surely they still allow people to take a look around? I couldn’t find any pictures of the inside of the hotel on the Web. Before I spend a couple of grand for a week’s skiing with my girlfriend, I’d like to know if the chalet lives up to its reputation.”

  The black-haired man’s gaze traveled up and down Yuri, and his expression became skeptical. “Sir, you must be mistaken. This is a private hotel. You have to be invited to stay here by the owner, Señor Muller. You cannot book a reservation.”

  Unnoticed by Yuri, the other worker wore an earpiece. He pretended to work while he paid strict attention to what Yuri was doing and saying.

  Yuri let out a deep sigh. “Perhaps you’re right. I have my hotels mixed up.” He knew his time was up. He turned to leave.

  “Not another step, Ivan,” warned the other man as he drew a pistol from his coveralls and aimed it straight at Yuri’s head.

  Yuri froze in place, grinding his teeth. The man’s accent wasn’t Spanish, it was German.

  “Raise your hands,” said the gunman.

  Yuri slowly lifted his hands over his head. “I take it you two gentlemen aren’t from Chile?”

  “Not even close,” said the black-haired man, dropping his fake Spanish accent. He stepped back, reached into his toolbox and pulled out a police Taser.

  From a speaker on the wall, a voice boomed out in German, “Bring him up to the chalet.”

  Yuri hesitated for a second. The man with the gun was too far out of reach; however, his partner was not.Yuri took a step forward, making it look like he was going to do as he was told. In a flash, he spun about and grabbed hold of the black-haired thug’s outstretched hand and pulled the man towards him. He quickly wrapped his right arm around the man’s neck and held him tight. Unfortunately, he had forgotten about the Taser. A second later, the man jammed the electrical device onto Yuri’s arm and turned it on. Twelve hundred volts of electricity surged up Yuri’s arm. Both men felt the powerful jolt. Yuri’s legs buckled out from underneath him. Bright flashes of light filled his vision. He let go of his prisoner and fell to the ground, gasping and wheezing in pain. The other man, stunned, managed to stay on his feet and staggered back from Yuri.

  The gunman stepped forward. “Try something like that again and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  Yuri raised a hand in surrender. He did not have the strength to lift both. Before he could stand, the black-haired German snarled and thrust the Taser into Yuri’s side. A blinding, white light filled his eyes just before he blacked out.

  Mitchell stopped beside a tall, dark gray rock to rest. They had been climbing steadily for close to three hours. He could see the summit, now barely fifty meters away. From where he was, Mitchell could see for kilometers. Like a long white blanket, a wispy cloud hung near the top of a mountain on the other side of the valley. Overhead, a black Andean Condor flew in lazy circles on the updrafts coming off the mountain peaks. If they hadn’t had a mission to complete, Mitchell would have happily rested there and taken in the sights.

  “Kansas, the next assignment has to be in Kansas,” said Jackson as he fought to catch his breath. He took a seat and reached for his nearly empty water bottle.

  “Why Kansas?” asked Mitchell.

  “Because it’s flat, that’s why.”

  “I thought you wanted to go to
Hawaii.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Mitchell shook his head. He reached for his cell phone and looked to see if Yuri had called or sent a text. There was neither. It was still early in the day; if Yuri had found something, Mitchell knew that he would have contacted him.

  Jackson opened up his pack and took out his AK-14 carbine, one of the four Yuri had bought back in Punta Arenas, and slammed home a magazine. He pulled back on the charging lever, loading a round in the chamber.

  “I guess it’s about that time,” said Mitchell, going for his weapon as well.

  “I don’t think we could get in much more trouble with the police if we tried,” pointed out Jackson.

  “No, I guess not.”

  With Mitchell in the lead, they warily made their way to the summit. Mitchell got down on his stomach and crept forward until he could see the back of the lodge. It was larger than he had expected. The pictures on the Internet were deceiving. As he suspected, there wasn’t a soul in sight. He studied the ground between them and the hotel. There was a depression in the snow they could use most of the way there. It stopped about ten meters shy of the building. It would not take them long to run that distance.

  “See anyone?” asked Jackson.

  “No, it’s clear,” replied Mitchell.

  “It’s never clear,” retorted Jackson. “Are there any cameras looking our way?”

  Mitchell dug out a small set of binoculars, and examined the lodge for surveillance equipment. “I can’t see any cameras.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re not there. I suggest that we proceed as if they are.”

  Mitchell nodded his head. He knew Jackson was being cautious while, as usual, he was prepared to charge in. “Follow me,” said Mitchell.

  Slowly, they crept forward on their hands and knees until they were near the back door of the lodge.

  “On three,” whispered Mitchell over his shoulder.

  “One, two, three,” said Jackson. Like a pair of Olympic sprinters, they jumped up and ran as fast they could to the back of the chalet. Both men dropped to one knee and brought up their weapons, ready to fire on anyone who tried might suddenly appear and want to engage them.

  “I think we made it,” said Mitchell, as quietly as he could.

  “So far so good,” Jackson said. “Try the back door.”

  Mitchell reached over and turned the knob. “No good, it’s locked.”

  “Cover me,” said Jackson as he lowered his AK and moved over to the door. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a skeleton key Yuri had obtained for him. In less than five seconds, he had picked the lock. The door swung open.

  Mitchell moved past Jackson with his carbine held tight against his shoulder. He quietly made his way inside the chalet, with Jackson following right behind. They found that they were in a large storage room. Skis and poles were in neat racks against the far wall. Toboggans and several old wooden sleds were hung from hooks on the wall next to them.

  “Okay. If the treasure is here, it won’t be out on display,” said Mitchell. “I’d hide it deep in an underground cellar, if I were them.”

  “Makes sense,” said Jackson. “Now all we need to do is find an elevator with a button that says secret lair on it and we’re in business.”

  Mitchell crept to the door leading out of the room. He place his ear against the door and listened. It was quiet. He reached over and very slowly turned the door. Mitchell gently pulled the door open until he could peer out into the hallway. He was relieved to see that they were alone. The corridor carried on for about fifteen meters, and at the far end was another closed door. He moved into the hallway and carefully walked to the other door.

  On a computer screen on the floor above them, a warning message flashed brightly. A security guard looked at the image. One of the sensors ringing the chalet had been tripped. He studied the screen and saw that the door to one of the storerooms had been opened. He picked up his radio and keyed the mic. “Sir, the alarm system has activated.”

  “Where?” asked Beck.

  “The old equipment storeroom,” replied the guard.

  “Stay where you are,” ordered Beck. “I’ll check it out myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man set his radio down and systematically brought up the camera feeds from the two dozen cameras installed in and outside of the hotel. He stopped when he saw the corridor leading to the room. It was deserted. Perhaps it was nothing. The guard shrugged and went back to cleaning his pistol.

  Mitchell and Jackson hugged the door leading out of the corridor. Both held their breath as a camera protruded out of a cuckoo clock on the wall above them and moved back and forth. Luckily, they were in its blind spot, or they would certainly have been spotted. A couple of seconds later, the camera slid back inside the clock.

  “We’ve got to go,” whispered Mitchell.

  Jackson energetically nodded his head in agreement.

  Mitchell opened the door and took a quick peek.The hallway went in two directions. One led to an open space, which Mitchell took to be the lobby. The other to a closed door. “Follow me,” mouthed Mitchell, as he quickly made his way towards the closed door. He never stopped.With his weapon in one hand, he reached for the doorknob and turned it. As soon as the entrance opened, he rushed inside, closely followed by Jackson. Both men swung their weapons around, looking for targets.

  They were in the maintenance room of the hotel. Inside was a powerful emergency generator that sat silent. Metal lockers and cabinets filled the room.

  “Cover the door,” Mitchell said to Jackson. “I’m going to look for another way out of here.”

  Beck stood inside the storeroom with his pistol in his hand. After capturing the Russian, Beck knew that the two other men would not be far away. He had hoped to catch them like rats in a trap; however, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find the room empty. He placed his weapon back into its holster and was about to leave when he noticed a couple of wet spots on the floor. Beck knelt down and touched the water, his heart instantly beginning to race. He glanced over at the back door. They must have had snow on their boots when they entered the building. Beck brought his radio to his mouth. “The two Americans, they’re here. I want all available men to comb the hotel until they are found.”

  “Do you want me to sound the alarm?” asked the security guard.

  “No, I don’t want them to know that we are on to them. Just call the men to your office and brief them personally. Remember, I want them alive.”

  Beck smiled. Revenge was going to be so deliciously sweet. He turned to leave the room, when his radio beeped. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Sir, the police just called and said that they have the other Russian in custody,” explained the guard. “They want to know what you want them to do with him.”

  “Tell them to bring him here, and make sure the men who meet the police have the usual bribe money on them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beck chuckled. Things could not be going any smoother.

  41

  The Aurora

  Lisbon, Portugal

  “Why the concerned look on your face?” Sam asked Makris.

  “I know this will sound odd, but I think I just saw a man who died a couple of years ago,” he replied. His steely gaze was fixed on General Davos’ table in the ship’s spacious dining room.

  Sam glanced over at the table. “Which one is the ghost?”

  “This isn’t a joke,” snapped Makris. “Hades Drakos was reported killed during a firefight in Afghanistan three years ago; however, I just saw him talking with General Davos. The man had a brutal reputation in the Special Forces community. If he had not died on duty, he surely would have been thrown out of the military.”

  Cardinal walked over and handed Sam a cup of tea. “You have to love these international conferences; if they were to cut out all the coffee breaks, they could be done in half the time.”

  “Uh huh,” replied Sam as she took the tea fro
m Cardinal.

  Cardinal saw that Sam and Makris were preoccupied. “What are you two looking at?”

  “Makris said he saw someone who should be dead,” replied Sam.

  “Really? Where is he?” asked Cardinal.

  “He’s gone,” said Makris. “I only caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye, but I am sure that it was him.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?” Sam asked.

  “I’m going to find the head of the Greek security detail and try to find out who General Davos brought on board as a bodyguard,” replied Makris. Without saying another word, he left.

  “What do you think?” Cardinal asked Sam.

  “He looked pretty spooked,” said Sam. “If he says he thought he saw a dead man, I’m inclined to believe him.”

  “Me too.”

  Sam looked over at Elena Milos. She was busy talking to Greece’s elderly Prime Minister. With them was Harold White, the U.S. Secretary of State, who was wearing one of his trademark bow ties. With short, snowy-white hair, White looked more like a schoolteacher from the 1950s than a highly respected diplomat. A chill ran down Sam’s back, warning her to be wary.

  From the far side of the room, a murmur began which grew louder as it spread like wildfire from one person to another. The cordial atmosphere in the room instantly cooled.

  Cardinal stepped forward and tapped one of Harold White’s aides on the shoulder and asked, “What’s going on?”

  The young woman looked up from her cell phone. “It looks like there has been another incident on Cyprus.”

  “What happened?”

  “It looks like someone entered the UN buffer zone and shot three Argentinian peacekeepers to death. Both sides are accusing the other,” explained the woman.

  “That’s not going to help,” said Cardinal.

  “No, not at all,” replied the aide, shaking her head.

  Cardinal saw the mistrust in the eyes of the various delegates spread throughout the dining room. He moved back to Sam’s side.