Specter (17 page)

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 Leoforos 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.

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 breaststroked toward the moored power yacht.

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.

Just the same, he wished he could have taken care of those details first.

“Just a moment!” a sharp voice called out from the left. “You! Lieutenant Murdock! Stop, please!”

Captain Solomos hurried across the street, apparently having just left the hotel Beasley had identified as the location of the DEA's observation post. Three men were with him, in camouflage Greek Army uniforms, with M3 submachine guns—the World War II-era weapons sometimes known as “grease guns”—held at port arms.

“Captain Solomos,” Murdock said as the officer trotted up to him. Damn, something was wrong. Solomos looked mad enough to spit nails. “How nice to see you again.”

“Murdock! Where are the two men who were with you?”

“What men?”

“Don't give me that! You were seen.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “From up there. You and two of your SEALs were walking toward the customs house forty minutes ago. Now you are alone.”

“Oh, you must mean Sterling and Roselli. I don't know. Maybe they went on into the city for a drink. Or they could be back at the hotel. Did you check?”

“Don't give me any of your American arrogance.” He pointed at the gym bag in Murdock's left hand. “What's in there?”

“Nothing.”

Solomos reached for the handle. “Let me—”

Murdock's right hand flashed across and down, thumb and forefinger grasping Solomos's wrist and breaking it back in a lightning move that made the Greek officer gasp, then nearly go to his knees in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure.

“You know, I really thought a warrant was required for that sort of thing.”

Solomos gasped again. The three soldiers with him raised their weapons, and Murdock heard the nasty sound of bolts being drawn back.

“I ... advise. . . you... to let me ... go ...”

“Well, so much for the land of democracy.” He released Solomos, who barked something in Greek at one of the soldiers. The man stepped forward and took the gym bag, unzipped it, and emptied the contents on the ground.

“What is this?”

“Two shirts, two pairs of trousers.”

“I can see that. Whose are they?”

“Mine. I was looking for an all-night laundry.”

“They are the street clothes your two men were wearing.” Solomos, still rubbing his injured wrist, stepped past Murdock and stared for a long moment toward the boats at their harbor moorings. He snapped something unpleasant-sounding half under his breath, then reached under the tail of his jacket and hauled out a walkie-talkie. The soldiers continued to hold Murdock at gunpoint as Solomos spoke rapidly for a few moments, listened to a reply, then spoke again. Had he seen something in the water? Murdock couldn't tell, and he didn't dare turn and look to see if he could see anything himself. If he hadn't seen, though, he'd certainly guessed. The man was delivering a flurry of orders in rapid-fire Greek, and Murdock knew that none of it meant anything good.

That done, Solomos put the radio away and said something else to the soldiers. One of them prodded Murdock in the kidney with the grease gun. “Come,” Solomos said. “We had better round up your accomplices at the White Tower.”

“Accomplices?”

“Do not play games with me, Murdock. I can be a dangerous man.”

“I'm sure.”

“Your little game has accomplished nothing but to get you and your people expelled from this country. We wanted no part of your military ‘advice' or ‘observers' in the first place. Now, perhaps, we can do things without your meddling.”

“Uh, Captain, if you don't mind my asking, what's this all about?”

“The DEA is moving tonight, Lieutenant. I've just radioed to my people to move in and arrest the suspects. But where I might have been inclined to permit you to question these people before, now you will just have to wait until my government communicates through channels with your government. I'm sorry that it must end this way, but I will not tolerate further interference in our internal affairs!”

Murdock heard a growl and turned to look toward the harbor, toward the right. There was the source ... a big patrol boat, probably a military job, its engines booming in the otherwise quiet night, its searchlight glaring across the black water of the harbor like a great, white lighthouse beacon.