Specter (15 page)

It might be a good idea to make sure that Stepano stayed in Greece, should the team need to cross over into Serbian-controlled areas. Of course, the whole reason Stepano was along was to provide translation if they did end up across the border. Murdock shook his head. He sure as hell wouldn't want to be in Stepano's place right now.

God, why had the big Serb volunteered for this anyway?

The nuclear aircraft carrier
Thomas Jefferson
, CVN 74, had been on patrol in the eastern Med, but as soon as word had been received that Congresswoman Kingston's flight had been hijacked, the
Jeff
had put about and headed north, entering the sparkling blue waters of the Saronic Gulf early on the morning of March 7 and anchoring in the roads off Pireas, the port facility for the city of Athens.

The supercarrier, nucleus of Carrier Battle Group 14, was the visible, physical manifestation of America's military might, a symbol of both reassurance and warning to the Greek government that the United States was
extremely
concerned about the incident.
Jefferson
also provided a way station for the SEALs en route from the Adriatic. The COD touched down in a barely controlled crash on the
Jeff's
flight deck, tail hook snagging the number-three arrestor wire and dragging the big aircraft to a halt. SEAL Seven's Third Platoon did not linger aboard the carrier for long, however. After a short briefing with a military attaché officer from the American Embassy, during which they received the necessary papers and travel permits and made arrangements for the secret shipment of weapons and other gear to Salonika, the SEALs had gone ashore in one of
Jefferson's
liberty boats, a Mike boat lowered alongside the temporary dock floated off the carrier's stern.

All fifteen men wore civilian clothes. Looking at them, for the first time Murdock wished he'd allowed more latitude for his men in their grooming standards. MGS, or “Modified Grooming Standards,” had been a sore point in the SEAL community for some time. Some units, like the notorious SEAL Six, encouraged their men to wear beards, mustaches, and long hair—long enough to warrant ponytails—precisely so that the Team members didn't look like military personnel. Some Team commanders stressed MGS as a means of letting their men operate undercover; others, and Murdock was among them, had always stressed traditional Navy grooming standards, both to avoid making waves with other naval personnel, and because long hair or face fuzz could be a hazard for SEALs. Murdock had ordered more than one man in his platoon to shave his facial hair because of the danger that a mustache might prevent a watertight seal between skin and face mask.

Aboard the Mike boat, however, Murdock was painfully aware that his people all
looked
like sailors, clean-cut, clean-shaven, their hair closely trimmed. With their short hair and their powerful, athletic frames—Bearcat Holt, especially, had the physique of a bodybuilder—they could only be military personnel or members of some traveling international sports team. That could well turn out to be a handicap on this op.

To reduce the chances of being spotted for what they were, Murdock had the platoon split up as soon as they were ashore. Fifteen muscular young men traveling together looked like a military unit on a secret mission; two or three such men together were not at all unusual in a country where, despite tensions with Washington, American marines and sailors often went ashore on liberty in their civvies. Murdock did veto Doc's grinning suggestion that they round up some girls to make their disguises more complete.

Travel arrangements had already been made through the embassy, but only six of them—Murdock, DeWitt, Papagos, Sterling, Brown, and Roselli—would take the chartered flight north. The rest would make their own ways north to Salonika, never traveling more than three at a time, some aboard various commercial aircraft flights from Hellenica International, the others taking buses, rented cars, or the Greek OSE railway. The embassy officer had told them that rooms had been booked for them at a hotel called the Vergina, on Monastiriou Street northwest of central Salonika, not far from the railway station.

They were met at the Salonika airport by two men, who stepped forward as soon as Murdock and the SEALs with him stepped through the door into the airport arrivals area. One, clearly, was a local, with dark eyes, hair, and skin and a brushy black mustache. He wore a conservative suit beneath an open trench coat, garb that somehow communicated the idea of “police” or “secret service” without actually displaying a badge. The other man, Murdock was willing to bet, was American. . . and almost certainly military, despite his sports shirt, slacks, and the tourist's 35mm camera around his neck. He was as tall and as muscular as Stepano, and he had the same clean-shaven, square-jawed, brush-cut look that described most of Murdock's SEALs.

“Lieutenant Murdock?” the small, dark man asked. His English was clipped and precise.

“That's me.”

“I am Captain Solomos,” the man said. “DEA, the Special Mission Platoon. Welcome to Salonika.”

“It's good to be here, Captain,” Murdock replied, extending his hand. “I wish it could be under happier circumstances.”

“Indeed. May I present a compatriot of yours. Captain John Beasley, U.S. Army.”

“Captain.” Murdock shook hands with Beasley. His grip was strong, his eyes cold, pale, and hard.

“Lieutenant.”

Solomos eyed the five men standing with Murdock. “This is your entire team?”

“Not quite. The others will be along directly.”

“How many?”

“A few more.” Solomos's face darkened, and Murdock added, “Nine more, to be precise.”

“On a different flight?”

“Some of them. They'll all be here by noon tomorrow. Why?”

Solomos frowned. “I don't like so many of your men wandering around ... aimlessly.”

“I assure you, sir, that their wanderings won't be aimless.”

“Yes, well, I assure
you
that my government's investigation into this incident is proceeding with perfect efficiency. There was really no need of your government to send, ah, additional troops.”

“We're not really here as troops, Captain Solomos,” Murdock said smoothly. “My government agrees that this incident should be closed with the least possible fuss and publicity. To that end, they've sent us as observers. We're under orders to keep a low profile and not to get in your way, sir.”

“Hmpf. I have worked with your government before, Lieutenant. Most recently with
your
DEA, your Drug Enforcement Administration, on an operation against a heroin-smuggling pipeline supposedly passing through here from Turkey. Their idea of ‘keeping a low profile' was a pitched gun battle with narcoterrorists that left three people dead, one of them one of my best men.”

“Well, we're not hunting narcoterrorists, are we, Captain Solomos? Uh, shouldn't we find a more private place if we're going to talk?” He gestured at the crowded concourse. “This is kind of busy.”

“There is really nothing more to be said, Lieutenant. I give you a friendly warning, nothing more. This regrettable affair is a Greek internal matter. We need neither your observations nor your help. Come. I have a driver standing by to take you to your hotel.”

“That stuck-up little bastard,” Sterling said, ninety minutes later at their hotel.

“Take it easy, Jaybird,” Murdock said. “He's just doing his job, and he hasn't had that many good experiences with Americans.”

They'd checked in with the desk clerk at the Vergina, then gathered in the room Murdock and DeWitt would be sharing. Jaybird and Roselli were facing each other on one of the beds, sitting cross-legged on the mattress as they assembled two pistols. The weapons, 9mm Smith & Wes-sons, had been broken down into dozens of individual pieces, and the pieces carefully hidden in their carry-on luggage. The larger and easily recognizable sections, like the frames and the loaded magazines, had been carefully positioned inside the luggage so that if they were X-rayed at a security checkpoint, their narrow facings were turned toward the camera, and they were bundled with other odd, mechanical-looking gadgets like alarm clocks and radios.

The scary part was that the elaborate preparations might not have been necessary. Murdock had carried loaded weapons through airport checkpoints plenty of times. Some airports—and those in Greece were among them——were notorious for their lax security measures. More often than not, all that was necessary was a U.S. fifty-dollar bill slipped into the right open palm. More than one terrorist had smuggled weapons aboard a target passenger liner at Athens's Hellenica International, and the security personnel tended to be even more careless on domestic flights, which were not so likely to be the targets of a terrorist operation.

“I'm still trying to figure that big U.S. Army guy,” Roselli said, moving a slide into the guide grooves on the frame of the pistol he was working on. “Who the hell was he?”

“One guess,” Murdock said, “beginning with the Greek letter delta.”

“Aw, shit,” DeWitt said. “Delta Force? Here?”

“I'm pretty sure of it. He could be Special Forces, like Solomos said, but there was something about his eyes, the way he was studying us. My guess is that Captain John Beasley is on a scouting trip, just like we are. Looking over the lay of the land for a Delta element.”

“SEALs and Delta Force,” Jaybird said, grinning. “Now this could get interesting.”

“Just so we all remember we're on the same team,” Murdock cautioned. “This isn't a goddamned competition.”

“Yeah, well, just so the Delta guys remember that too,” Brown said. “If they get stuffy about jurisdiction . . .”

“We'll worry about that when it happens,” Murdock said. “Weapons okay?”

Roselli snicked back the slide on his Smith & Wesson, chambering a round, then dropped the magazine and snicked the slide again, catching the round as it spun from the ejection port, clearing the weapon. “All set here.”

“And here,” Jaybird said, holding up the other pistol and snapping a loaded magazine into the grip. “I'd be a hell of a lot happier with an M-60 about now, but. . .”

“We should have our other weapons tomorrow, through the Consulate.”

Weapons had been a major concern. The Greek government had point-blank denied the Navy permission to arm its people ashore, a reasonable enough request, perhaps, in light of their contention that they didn't need American help. There were ways around such restrictions, however, and Murdock was not about to embark on a mission involving unknown terrorists with his men not armed. He imagined that this wouldn't be the first time that small arms had been smuggled into the country hidden within diplomatic pouches. There would be trouble only if any of the SEALs were actually caught and arrested by the local authorities while carrying a weapon.

“Well, gentlemen?” Murdock said, standing and going to the window. It was beginning to get dark outside, and the city lights were coming on. “Who feels like a little evening constitutional into town?”

Roselli and Murdock carried the two pistols, tucked into their waistbands at the smalls of their backs, hidden by the fall of their untucked shirttails and windbreakers. They strolled toward the center of Salonika along the Leoforos Nikis, the Avenue of Victory, a promenade that ran along the seafront from the long customs house above the harbor southeast to the White Tower. The tower, a massive, whitewashed structure thirty-five meters tall, was the city's best-known landmark. According to a tourist's guidebook Murdock had picked up in
Jefferson
's ship's store before going ashore, it had been built by the Turks in 1430. In 1826, a number of rebel janissaries had been imprisoned and killed there, and the place had become known as the Bloody Tower. In what was for them an unusual display of public relations sense, the Turks had then whitewashed the entire building, renaming it the Beyaz Kule, the White Tower.

To their right, the harbor was aglitter with the reflected lights from hundreds of ships and pleasure craft anchored out in the gulf, or behind the long breakwater pier that enclosed Salonika's inner harbor in front of the customs house.

“So what's your handle, Nick?” Roselli asked Papagos as they walked along the smooth, gray promenade.

“He told me ‘Nick the Greek,'” Murdock said, grinning. He continued to study the layout of the city, however, as they talked. Traffic was heavy in Salonika's city center, and even though the tourist season didn't get into full swing until later in the year, there were a number of tourists evident on the streets and seated at the numerous sidewalk restaurants and cafes along the way.

“Hey, Nick the Greek?” Roselli said, laughing. “That right?”

“Either that or ‘Nick the Geek,'” he said cheerfully. “But them that calls me that lives to regret it.
Usually
they live anyways. Once in a while they don't pull through, know what I'm sayin'?”

“Okay, okay,” Brown said, grinning. “We'll be careful. Wouldn't want to start no international incidents.”

“What's Stepano's handle?” DeWitt wanted to know.

“I heard some SEALs calling him ‘Steponit'back at Little Creek,” Papagos said. “He told me they called him that'cause he was big, dumb, and slow.”

“Dumb?”

“Don't you believe it. Steponit ain't dumb. In fact, the guy's a Grade-A genius when it comes to electronics. He just talks a little slow, is all. Not like me, y'know?”

“Speak of the devil,” DeWitt said. “Isn't that him up there?”

“Sure enough,” Roselli said. “And Mac and Scotty. They were flying in behind us, weren't they?”