Thriller (58 page)

weaknesses that would compromise the target. Bravado was his

strong suit. Even the long-entrenched
Capos,
protected by their

armies of minions and bully boys, were not safe from his reach.

Some questioned his abilities, claiming an American didn’t possess the finesse for the work. Not in Europe. They said he was

best left to the gunslingers in Las Vegas and Miami Beach. The

loudmouthed impresarios in Manhattan. And the braggarts in

Beverly Hills. Six years in the trade said they were wrong.

The Greek shrugged, rose from his table and ventured across

the room. “Finally, we meet,” he said, offering an arthritic hand.

Neumann stood. “A pleasure. Won’t you join me?”

The Greek sat down and spent a long moment placing the napkin in his lap, adjusting his necktie, pulling the cuffs from his

sleeves. Finally, he looked up. “I trust you ordered the specialty

of the house.”

“Each year I think of choosing something else, but can’t quite

force myself to do it.”

“In summer, I prefer the Dover sole. I ask them to grill it, then

add lemon juice. Never any butter.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” But Neumann was sure to keep his

hands away from his jacket for fear of upsetting the uneasy truce.

The Greek leaned forward, beckoning with his trigger finger.

“I’ve heard rumors.”

Neumann shifted uncomfortably. “Oh?”

“They say that you enjoy your work as much as I do.”

Neumann considered this. “It’s a living.”

445

The Greek laughed richly. “A paltry one for the services we

provide. We cull the weak from the strong. I think of it as ‘natural selection.’ Tell me one thing. Are you satisfied?”

“More or less. You?”

“After so many years, there can only be one answer. However,

I find that it’s hard on the soul. I only think of the bad ones. I

feel as if my hands were covered in blood. So many dreams destroyed. I sleep poorly.”

The waiter arrived. The Greek made sure to hear the specials,

then said, “The same as my friend.”

“And the champagne…Veuve Clicquot is acceptable?”

“Eminently.” The Greek measured Neumann with a respectful eye. “You’re here on assignment.”

“Unfortunately. And you?”

“I can’t afford to quit. A tip…Rome…Sabatini…the trout

isn’t bad.”

“Beirut…Alfredo’s…minced lamb and couscous. Passable.”

“You travel to Beirut?”

“The region’s a bit unstable, but if you know your way around,

it can be lucrative.”

The Greek motioned toward his jacket. “May I?”

Neumann studied the cut of the coat, then said, “Yes.”

“My memory isn’t what it used to be.” The hand dug out a

small notepad and jotted down a few words. “Did you hear about

Yuri? He let one off the hook.”

Neumann didn’t bother hiding his shock. Yuri’s reputation

was second to none. He was ruthless, daring, and always relentless. A master. “Was he terminated?”

“There are no second chances in this game. At least, he can

be thankful it was quick.”

“What happened?”

“They lured him back to the head office in Paris. The Boss likes

to do it in person.” To make his point, the Greek made a

grotesque pantomime of slashing his own throat. Despite himself, Neumann winced. The Greek removed his glasses and spent

446

a long moment polishing them with his napkin. “And now you

and I together in Zurich?” he said absently. “After the same target. Hardly a coincidence, I imagine.”

“Probably not.”

“Contract or freelance?”

“Contract. You?”

“Same as ever.”

“And so?”

“We do what we must do. It is our calling. May I wish you

luck.”

“Likewise.” Neumann smiled to himself, viewing the assignment with added relish. He’d always enjoyed competition, the

zest of going face-to-face with another as well trained.

The meal arrived. Heaping portions of sliced, infinitely tender veal bathed in a delicate cream sauce were portioned onto

generous wedges of lightly fried potatoes. He picked up his knife

and fork, hesitating at the last instant. “A Bordeaux? After all,

for one of us, it is to be his last meal.”

“The LaTour ’79 would be suitable.”

“Eminently,” said Neumann.

Afterward, the two men strolled across the Limmat Bridge. The

rain had frozen to sleet. A stiff wind blew off the lake. Winter

was near.

“And so?” asked the Greek.

“One star,” declared Neumann. “Very good in its category.”

“Two,” said the Greek. “Worth a detour to visit.”

“Never!” Neumann looked at Milos, bent, satisfied, content,

and in that instant, knew that his own skills were superior, that

he would triumph, and that the Greek would make the lonely

trip to Paris and give up his badge as an inspector for the Michelin
Guide Rouge.

“It’s true, then, what they say,” Milos whispered, his tired

voice hardly audible above the wind.

“What’s that?” asked Neumann.

“You’re an assassin.”

Brad Thor spends a lot of time in Greece and has always

wanted to set a novel there. When he was approached to

write for this anthology, he knew right away that he wanted

to write about an idea that came to him in the Greek Islands

several years ago.

For decades a terrorist organization known as 17 November wreaked havoc throughout Greece. In fact, the United

States still spends more money defending its embassy in

Athens than any other embassy in Europe. It started in

1975 when the organization assassinated the CIA’s Athens

station chief with what would become its trademark

.45-caliber pistol. Since then, the group has claimed responsibility for twenty-one murders, four of which were

U.S. diplomats. Though 17 November’s initial attacks were

directed at senior U.S. officials and Greek public figures,

they eventually expanded their targets to include ordinary

citizens, foreign businesses and European Union facilities.

Thor was always perplexed by the government’s inability to make any progress in bringing 17 November to justice. For years, no member of the organization had ever

448

been arrested, and no clues as to who was orchestrating

their attacks had ever been found.

A breakthrough occurred in 2002 when a bomb being

carried by a forty-year-old icon painter prematurely detonated in the Athenian port of Piraeus. The bomber was also

carrying a set of keys and a prepaid telephone card, which

led police to an apartment in downtown Athens packed

with antitank rockets, missiles and other weapons. Within

two weeks, police uncovered a string of 17 November safe

houses, two of which contained additional caches of

weapons, disguises and the group’s signature .45-caliber

Colt 1911 semiautomatic pistol used in some of their most

high-profile assassinations.

Since those successes things have been relatively quiet in

Greece, but intelligence officials are concerned that several

members of the organization may have slipped through

their net and have gone deeper underground. These same

officials worry that if and when these last remaining members do surface again, it will be with a terrible vengeance.

Which brings us to
The Athens Solution.

June 12

Athens, Greece

U.S. ambassador to Greece Michael Avery picked his way

through the late-afternoon throng of tourists clogging Athens’s

famous Plaka district. Behind him, a team of CIA operatives

mixed within the crowd, while two streets over, in a nondescript

van, a contingent of heavily armed Diplomatic Security Service

agents and NSA communications experts followed as closely as

they dared. Avery had been told to come alone, but both the Departments of State and Defense would hear nothing of it. Too

much was at stake.

With his crisp white sport shirt and blue blazer, Avery looked

like any other upscale Westerner visiting Greece during the

height of the tourist season. He even had a small backpack casually slung over one shoulder. But unlike the other backpacks

around him, his contained an encrypted laptop, complete with

a wireless modem and sophisticated remote-viewing application.

He was passing a small outdoor café with a nice view of the

450

Acropolis and the majestic Parthenon atop it when his cell

phone rang.

“Stop here and take a table,” said a voice with a heavy Greek

accent. “You know what to do next.”

Yes, the ambassador did know what to do next. A CD ROM

and final set of instructions had been delivered to the embassy

that morning. The instructions indicated that the CD could only

be used once and that any attempts to copy or crack it before the

appointed time would result in all of its data being destroyed.

Avery sat down at a table and, after ordering coffee, removed

the encrypted laptop from his backpack and powered it up. The

CD whirred in its tray. Within moments an instant-message

screen appeared and the words, “Good afternoon, Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for coming,” flashed.

Back in the van, the NSA communications experts could see

in real time exactly what the ambassador was seeing, thanks to

the laptop’s remote-viewing application, and began trying to locate the source of the transmission.

Are you prepared to transfer the funds? appeared next.

How do we know the merchandise is authentic? typed Avery.

One word was returned, Watch.

The ambassador’s screen split into two separate windows.

Next to the dialogue box, an image came up entitled JFK/ATC.

He discreetly tilted his head and spoke toward the microphone

sewn into the lapel of his blazer, “Are you getting this?”

“Loud and clear. So is Washington,” replied one of the techs

in the van. A satellite uplink was beaming everything back to the

States for verification.

Avery pressed the mini-earpiece farther into his ear as he anxiously awaited word. Seconds later, it came.

“Verification complete. Mr. Ambassador, you are looking at a

live picture of JFK’s Air Traffic Control system.”

Knowing what would happen next sent chills down Michael

Avery’s spine. His hands shook as he typed the following message, We are ready to proceed.

451

One by one, aircraft started disappearing from the screen.

Ninety seconds later, the NSA man’s voice came back over the

ambassador’s earpiece. “JFK is reporting a major ATC system

malfunction. They’re losing track of aircraft left and right. The

merchandise is authentic. You are authorized to complete the

transaction.”

Initializing funds transfer, typed the ambassador as he began

the predetermined sequence. The green status bar seemed to

take forever. When the
Transfer Successful
message finally materialized on the screen, aircraft flying in the New York area began

reappearing on ATC radar.

Simultaneously, a third window appeared on the ambassador’s

laptop. In it, he could see a live picture of the device the United

States had just paid so handsomely for. As the image widened,

he could see the Parthenon in the foreground.

“We’re on it,” said one of the NSA men over Avery’s earpiece

as the van took off to claim the merchandise.

The ambassador continued to watch the feed as a pair of hands

came into view, picked up the device and secreted it inside the

nearest trash can, as agreed, for pickup.

“Sir,” said one of the CIA operatives as he approached the

table. “There’s a car waiting. We’d like to get you back to the embassy.”

Avery nodded his head and was just about to shut down his laptop when he noticed the live image from the Acropolis was moving. There were jerky flashes of legs and feet as someone moved

the camera and repositioned it overlooking the road below. Seconds later, the white embassy van with the Diplomatic Security

Service agents and the NSA team entered the frame.

“Jesus Christ,” said Avery. “It’s a trap. Get them out!”

The CIA operative who had been sitting in the café looking

over the ambassador’s shoulder grabbed both him and the laptop while shouting into his radio, “Beachcomber, this is Point

Guard. You’ve been compromised. Abort now. Repeat. You have

been compromised. Abort!”

452

Before the men in the white van could respond, they heard

what sounded like a giant knife tearing through the fabric of the

afternoon sky. The ambassador grabbed the laptop back just in

time to see a shoulder-fired missile slam through the windshield

of the van and explode.

The CIA operative, code named Point Guard, didn’t waste any

more time. He steered the ambassador out of the café and down

the closest side street as he radioed the driver of their car to come

get them. The other operatives headed for the Acropolis as people ran out of the shops and restaurants around the Plaka in response to the explosion.

As Point Guard and the ambassador turned the next corner,

the pair could see the embassy’s dark, armor-plated BMW and

began running even faster. They were
almost
there.

Suddenly, a motorcycle screamed out of a nearby alleyway.

Point Guard reached for his gun, but he was too late.