Specter (23 page)

That was of no concern to Mihajlovic, who saw Macedonia as key both to the future of Greater Serbia and to his own personal future.

His driver turned left onto a dirt road that wound sharply up a steep, thickly forested hill. Several hundred meters into the woods, the road turned right into a clearing, offering a splendid view of the castle.

Gorazamak—the name was Serbo-Croat for “Mountain Castle”—was perched on a rocky cliff some fifty meters above the lakeshore road. It wasn't actually much of a castle as European castles went, with little to the place save an irregular, outer wall enclosing a five-story inner tower or keep. The place had been renovated perhaps fifteen years before and operated for a time as a hotel. It had gone out of business with Macedonian independence, and eventually had been purchased by Mihajlovic's agents. As a student of military history, Mihajlovic found a fine irony in the fact that a medieval castle, a type of fortification long obsolete in an age of airmobile troops and nuclear weapons, could once again play a part in a modern military operation.

The road ran across a narrow steel and concrete bridge spanning a natural moat, a crevice plunging straight to the boulders rising above the coast road below. Beyond was the massive gate tower that led to the courtyard or bailey. Soldiers in the gray Soviet-style uniforms of the home defense militia stopped them at the gate, looked over the driver's ID and papers, and checked Mihajlovic's face against a photograph before saluting and ushering the car through. Inside, military vehicles and a few civilian cars were parked alongside a low building to the left that had once been a stable. To the right, similar buildings served now as barracks for the outpost's fifty soldiers. Beyond, the tower loomed high in gray stone blocks against the evergreen forest of the higher slopes beyond.

Leaving the car with his driver, Mihajlovic strode across the flagstone pavement, up five steps, past two more sentries who saluted with crisp present arms, and through the high, vault-arched doorway opening into an impressive entry hall. The walls had been stripped bare of the banners and tapestries and museum relics that once had hung there, and the carpets once covering the floor and the broad, stone steps winding up either side of the room to a railed gallery overlooking the chamber had been removed. An unpleasantly anachronistic counter backed by racks and shelves to the left of the entrance as he walked in had once been manned by ticket-takers and stocked with souvenirs; now the area served as a guard post, where two men in the brown and gray camouflage of Yugoslavian Army uniforms stood watch, snapping to crisp attention as Mihajlovic walked in.

An aide hurried from the communications office, in a room leading off to the left. “My General!” the man called, and the sharp, military click of his boot heels echoed through the stone-walled chamber. “Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Ivo. Are our guests comfortable?”

“As comfortable as the circumstances permit, my General. They have been complaining of the lack of heat, the lack of privacy, and the poor food.”

“You may tell them that their captivity will probably not last much longer. It is important to keep their attention focused on release, rather than on attempts at escape.” He looked at the aide sharply. “You have not permitted them to see those uniforms, have you?”

“No, my General. As you ordered, their guards and those who tend to their needs wear militia uniforms. I doubt that the women would know the difference. The American officer, however, probably would. He has several times questioned his jailor about military matters, trying to draw him out, I think.”

“It may be best if that one does not survive his rescue. He is entirely too clever, too observant.”

“His dossier says that he was a POW in Vietnam. No doubt he entertains fantasies of escape.”

“Well, we shall discuss his fate later. And our troops? They are settled in?”

“All is in readiness, my General. As you ordered.”

“Excellent, Ivo. Another week, I think, and the whole world shall know of the Macedonia terrorists and their hijacking of an American congresswoman. We shall give the Americans a couple of days to deal with the hijackers at Skopje, and then we shall show them how a hostage rescue
really
works.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, I want—”

“General!” A man in a JNA sergeant's uniform appeared in the doorway to the communications center. “General Mihajlovic! You're here!”

“Yes, Sergeant. Just this moment. What is it?”

“Sir, a Priority One message has just come through. From Athens.”

“Voice?”

“On the fax modem. They are running it through decryption now.”

“I'll read it in there.” Athens? What could he want? There was to be no communication with the Greek side of the operation until—

In the communications center, a female lieutenant looked up from an IBM computer screen. “General! The message has just been cleared.”

“Let me see.”

Taking the woman's chair, Mihajlovic leaned forward and read the words written on the screen in glowing yellow phosphor.

Damn
the man! Why couldn't he have transmitted more information? When had Vlacovic been taken? And by who? Was it a screwup with the local authorities, or were the Americans already involved? Why couldn't that idiot Vlacovic have been silenced in prison before his interrogation? How much had the opposition learned from him? Was the HRU, the Hostage Rescue Unit, to be the American Delta Force, as had been assumed? Or were the Greeks behind it, or somebody else? It wasn't even beyond the realm of possibility that Vlacovic was playing at some game of his own. The first rule of operations in the twisted world of Balkan politics was
never trust anyone.

And that, of course, applied even to Aristotle, even though Mihajlovic had groomed him for his current role himself. Had Aristotle betrayed the operation?

Doubtful. Not with those photographs and videotapes documenting Aristotle's rather bizarre sexual tastes in such lurid detail still safely locked away in the safe upstairs. If the man wanted to continue in Greek politics—if he even wanted to continue showing his face in public—he would continue to play the role in this drama Mihajlovic had assigned him.

For a moment, Mihajlovic toyed with the idea of contacting Aristotle in hopes of learning a few answers to go with the torrent of questions racing through his mind, then decided against it. He would assume the worst—that the Americans had been the ones to take and interrogate Vlacovic—if only because only news of that urgency would have prompted Aristotle to break the agreed-upon protocol and send this message. And even assuming the worst, nothing had really changed. The timetable for Dvorak would have to be moved up a bit, that was all. And it would help to increase military security here at the castle.

“Ivo!”

Boot heels clicked at Mihajlovic's back. “Yes, my General!”

“Prepare the draft of an order. I wish to bring in more men, immediately. C and D companies, I believe, are still at the Struga airfield?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Have them brought to the castle immediately. And I will wish to review the deployment of our forces.”

“At once, my General. The ... hostage rescue? You are moving up the schedule?”

“Possibly. This. . .” He tapped the computer screen with the knuckle of his right forefinger. “This may force us to move a bit faster than we anticipated. I would still like the operation carried out after an American rescue attempt at Skopje, however, if possible.”

The aide's eyes narrowed as he read the screen. “Ah. Is that wise, sir? I mean, if the Americans have learned that the Kingston woman is being held here, instead of at Skopje—”

“The Americans will still assault Skopje,” Mihajlovic said. “They must. They cannot know whether or not all of the Americans have been removed from the aircraft and transported here, and they will want to make certain before launching an assault here. Furthermore, I expect they may wish to keep us uncertain about how much they know. The best way to do that would be to launch a rescue operation at the Skopje airport.” He smiled. “It is even possible that they will think that the story that Kingston was brought here to be a fabrication. If I were they,
I
would not believe so fantastic a story, eh? It has all of the elements of a fairy tale, does it not? A castle on a mountain, the princess held prisoner in the dungeon.”

“It lacks only the fire-breathing dragon, my General.”

Mihajlovic laughed. “Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, my friend. With two more companies of soldiers in place, we will make anyone who comes calling believe that we have a regiment of dragons on this mountain. Come. Let us see about sending that order.”

The Greyhound COD dropped out of leaden skies, descending at two hundred knots toward the roundoff of the supercarrier's flight deck. Wheels kissed steel, the tail hook snagged the number-two wire, and as twin turboprops howled protest, the aircraft lurched to a halt.

On board the COD, Murdock unhooked his safety harness.

“Haven't we been here before?” Mac said, peering out through one of the Greyhound's tiny windows. The edge of the flight deck just aft of the carrier's island was packed with aircraft, F-14 Tomcats and A-6 Intruders, their wings folded, their fuselages huddled together like huge, gray, nesting birds.

“That we have, Chief,” Roselli said. “But I got a feelin'....”

“What feeling, Razor?” Holt wanted to know.

“That we ain't gonna be aboard for very long. I'd keep my toothbrush handy if I was you guys.”

“Shit,” Jaybird said. “I'm just glad to be the hell out of Greece. I thought for a while they were going to give us a personal tour of their prison system.”

“Me too, 'Bird,” Papagos said. “Hey, I don't think Mr. Solomos likes us very much.”

The others laughed, all except Stepano. Murdock decided that it would be a good idea to keep a close eye on the big Serb-American. Forcing him into the role of interrogator back in Salonika might not have been such a good idea.

Screw it. If they hadn't done it, they wouldn't have found out about Lake Ohrid. Murdock knew he would make the same decision again if he had to.

All the same, Stepano would bear watching for a while.

Their escape from Greece had been somewhat anticlimactic. After leaving Vlachos tied up in the room at the Dimitriu, they'd broken into small groups again and made their way across town to the American Consulate, at number 59 on the Leoforos Nikis, back where the evening's excitement had begun. Two Greek soldiers were standing guard out front, no doubt with orders to arrest any SEALs who might show up. Roselli and Mac took them out, silently and efficiently, leaving them unconscious, tied and gagged, and lying behind a rubbish bin in an alley around the side of the building.

At the consulate, Murdock made several phone calls, using a password that both vouched for his security clearance and demonstrated the urgency of the situation. The last call on his list put him through to Solomos, manning a stakeout back at the Vergina Hotel. In the early morning hours, Solomos had managed to pick up three more SEALs—Rattler, Bearcat, and Doc—when they'd showed up at the hotel in their rental car from Athens, but he'd lost them again almost immediately. Murdock hadn't learned all of the details yet, just something about a smoke grenade going off inside the van the DEA men were using as a mobile headquarters.

But the rest of the SEALs would still be arriving throughout the morning, and Murdock wanted to get them all rounded up without further interference from Greek security. Solomos refused to talk with Murdock when the SEAL lieutenant got him on the phone, but an hour later he'd been contacted by George Aristides, the Assistant Director of the Greek Security Agency. Aristides, it turned out, had just had a long conversation with
his
boss, the Agency's Director, who in turn had just had a long conversation with the U.S. Secretary of State. The SEALs were to be released—all of them—and allowed to leave Greece at once without hindrance.

Solomos, Murdock imagined, was by that time probably delighted with the idea.

Once all of SEAL Seven's Third Platoon had been collected, they'd taken an Olympic charter flight to Hellenica, where they'd boarded the same Navy Greyhound that had brought them there the day before.

And now they were back aboard the
Jefferson.

For ten hours that morning, ever since receiving an alert from the Chief of Naval Operations at the Pentagon, the
Jefferson
had been cruising north through heavy seas at thirty-five knots. Now she was on station, patrolling a racecourse-shaped oval midway between the heel of Italy's boot and the Greek island of Kerkyra, which curled protectively around the southern tip of Albania. Murdock and the other SEALs accepted the padded helmets known as “cranials” in Navy parlance, and life jackets, both of which they were required to don for their trip across the flight deck.
Jefferson
was at battle stations and in the middle of a hectic launch-and-recovery operation; under those conditions a carrier's flight deck was quite literally the most dangerous work environment on Earth.

Murdock stepped off the Greyhound and onto the deck. It had been raining not long ago, and the air was chilly and wet with the promise of another storm. Even through the cranial's built-in hearing protectors, his ears rang with the throbbing thunder of a catapult launch off one of the two waist cats. Preparations were under way at the second waist cat as well. The air shimmered from the jet wash, boiling above the raised rectangle of deck called a JBD, or jet-blast deflector, as the aviator aboard an F-14 Tomcat eased up the throttles on his chariot. A small mob of men in brightly and variously colored jerseys and helmets were in the midst of an intricate performance around the aircraft. At the launch officer's signal, they scattered, drawing back from their trembling gray charge.