Saturday 6:13 P.M.
"Vance?" The portly, balding desk clerk studied his computer screen at
the Athenaeum Inter-Continental. Here in this teeming marble lobby the
new world met the old. "Dr. M. Vance. Yes, we have your reservation."
Good. Novosty had done exactly what he said. The play was going down.
"Welcome back." The man looked up and smiled, his eyes mirroring the
green numbers on the screen as he looked over Vance's shoulder. "Our
records show you were just with us, four days ago. We still have your
old room, if you like."
"That would be fine."
He was back in a city renowned as much for its hospitality as for its
mind-numbing brown haze of smog. It was also said to be the safest city
in Europe, with a miniscule crime rate. However, Michael Vance did not
feel safe as he stood in the lobby of Athens's most luxurious hotel.
"Were you on a bus tour of the Peloponnisos, perhaps?" the clerk
continued with a pale smile, his voice trying for perfunctory
brightness. "The Mycenean ruins in the south are always--"
"Business." Vance tossed his passport onto the counter. They both knew
he didn't look anything like a candidate for a four-day CHAT package
tour on a bus. But the man seemed nervous, anxious to make
conversation.
"I'll be needing a car in the morning. Early. Is that in your
reservation file too?"
"No problem." The clerk ignored, or missed, his impatient tone. "We
have a Hertz outlet now, just over there," he pointed, "next to the
travel desk. I'm sure they will be happy to arrange for it."
Vance tossed his Amex card onto the counter, then reached for the slate
clipboard holding the registration slip. Dusk was falling outside, but
here in the warm glow of chandeliers the moment felt like sleepwalking.
His mental bearings kept shifting. Nothing was real. He wanted to think
it was merely routine, like checking into a thousand other streamlined
international hotels, something he'd done more times than he cared to
count. But that was wrong; danger lurked somewhere nearby. His senses
were warning him.
He kept thinking about Eva. Was she serious about getting back
together, sailing on the Ulysses? Maybe he didn't know her as well as
he thought, which was troubling for a lot of reasons, not the least
being that right now he needed to be able to think exactly the way she
did. They'd have to work as a perfectly coordinated team tomorrow, with
no rehearsals.
"May I have someone take your bag?" The clerk glanced down at the new
leather suitcase sitting on the floor, then reached to ring for a
bellhop.
"No." Vance lunged to stop his hand.
Whoa, he lectured himself, chill out. Keep the lid on. Why not just let
it happen? Here. Maybe you want them to do it here. Why wait?
The clerk tried to hold his composure. "As you wish. Of course you know
your room."
"I can find it." He tried to smile, then thumbed over his shoulder.
"You're busy anyway. The tour coming in . . ."
"Yes." The clerk was shoving across the heavy brass key. "You remember
our schedule. Breakfast is served until ten over there in the dining
room, eleven in your room."
"Thanks." He picked up the bag, heavy, and turned.
The rental car desk was across the lobby, past the tour group now
pouring through the revolving doors. They clearly were just off a Paris
flight, chattering in French, brandishing tour badges, and quarreling
about luggage with Gallic impatience.
"I need a car for tomorrow. Early."
The dark-haired woman at the desk looked up as he began fishing for his
credit card and driver's license. Her Hertz uniform was unbuttoned down
the front to display as much of her bosom as Greek propriety, perhaps
even the law, would permit. A heavy silver chain nestled between her
ample breasts.
"Our pleasure." She swept back her hair as she mechanically shoved
forward a typed sheet encased in smudged cellophane. "We have some new
Austin subcompacts, or if you want a full-size--"
"What's the best car you've got?" It would be a long drive, over
uncertain Greek roads. He wanted to take no chances.
"We do have an Alfa, sir. Only one. A Milano." She absently adjusted
the V-neck of her uniform. "For VIPs. I should warn you it's
expensive." She bent forward to whisper. "To tell you the truth, _ine
poli akrivo_. It's a rip- off." She leaned back, proud of her new
American slang. "Take my advice and--"
"Can you have it here, out front, at six in the morning?"
"I can check." She sniffed, then reached for the battered phone. A
quick exchange in Greek followed, then she hung up. "They say it just
came in. There should be no problem."
He glanced around the lobby once more as she picked up the charge card
and license to begin filling out the form. There was still no sign, no
indication. And yet the whole scene felt wrong. Something, something
was warning him.
That's what it was. The man standing across the lobby, at the far side
next to the elevators. He had a newspaper folded in his hand, but he
wasn't reading. He was speaking into it.
Hotel security? Not a chance. For one thing, he wasn't Greek. Although
he was too far away to see his face, something about the way he stood
gave him away.
Where the hell was Novosty? This wasn't supposed to be the drill.
He suddenly found himself wondering how much clout Alex had left. Maybe
Novosty was out of the play. Maybe the rules had changed.
"Could you please hurry that along." He turned back to the dark-haired
girl.
"You said you wouldn't be needing the car until tomorrow, sir." Formal
now, abrupt.
"I just changed my mind. I'd like it tonight. Right now, as a matter of
fact."
"Do you want the insurance? It will be an extra--"
"No. Yes. Look, I don't care. Just let me sign that damned thing and
give me the keys."
"Well, give me a chance." She petulantly turned the form toward him and
shoved it across the desk. "If you'll just initial here and here," she
was pointing with her pen, "and sign there. And did you say you wanted
the car now?"
"Immediately."
"I'm afraid that's not possible." She retrieved the form.
"What?"
"It's just--"
"Then give me something else." He glanced toward the man, still
speaking into his newspaper, then back. They would make their move any
second now. "What's the problem with the car?"
"I'm trying to tell you it just came in. Our people will need at least
half an hour to clean it, go over the checklist. So if you'd like to
have a cup of coffee in the dining room, I'll call you when--"
"Where is it now?"
"They said it's just been returned. It's probably parked somewhere
outside." She gestured toward the glass revolving door. "Across the
street. That's where they usually--"
"An Alfa?"
"That's right. Dark blue. But like I said, it's not--"
"Give me the keys."
"They're probably still in it. Our people--"
"Thanks." He reached down for the suitcase.
"Your card, sir, and your license." She pushed the items across with a
tight smile, clearly happy to be rid of him.
As he reached for them, out of the corner of his eye he saw the first
movement. The man had stuffed the newspaper, and walkie-talkie, into
his trench coat and was approaching across the marble lobby. Just as
Vance expected, the garb was polyester, the hair a slicked-up punch-
perm, but he still couldn't make out the face.
He didn't need to. He knew who they were. The encounter at Knossos
flashed through his mind.
They know I've got a copy of their protocol. And until that gets iced,
there's always a chance their secret is no longer a secret. But they
can't know we've cracked the encryption. Unless she told them. Which
she never would.
No, they couldn't know that yet, which meant he still had the
bargaining chip he'd need.
Except for one problem. They were about to try and break the rules.
Just like the old days. Maybe they'd forgot he knew how to break rules
too.
As he pushed through the milling crowd of French tourists, suitcases
and knapsacks piling up near the entrance, he sensed the man was
gaining. But only a few feet more and he'd be at the revolving door.
Halfway home.
This wasn't going to be easy. There'd be a backup. Probably just
outside, at the entrance.
As he reached for the rubber flange of the revolving door, he knew the
man was just behind him, maybe two steps. Just right. He turned to see
a hand emerge from the polyester suit jacket, grasping a Heckler & Koch
KA1 machine pistol, a cut-down version of the MP5.
The barrel was rising, the hard face closing in. But it was the
suitcase he wanted.
So why not give it to him?
"Here." He jammed his foot into the revolving door, leaving a small
opening, then wheeled around, hoisting the case. The quick turn brought
just enough surprise to break his attacker's momentum. As the man
involuntarily raised his left hand, Vance caught his right wrist, just
back of the pistol's grip, and shoved it forward, into the door. Then
he brought up his elbow and smashed it into the attacker's jaw. As the
man groaned, he caught his other wrist and shoved him around.
Now.
He rammed his shoulder against the revolving door, closing it and
wedging the gun inside.
"Let's keep this simple, okay? No muss, no fuss."
He threw his full weight against the man's body, bending him back
around the curved metal and glass of the door. There was a snap and a
muted groan as the wrist bones shattered. The machine pistol clattered
to the marble floor inside the circular enclosure.
"Sorry about that." Before the attacker could regain his balance, he
kneed him into the next revolving partition and rammed it closed. Only
one foot remained outside, kicking at an awkward angle across the
floor.
Now where's the other one? He glanced around as he drew away. There's
sure to be two. Somebody was on the other end of that radio. Novosty?
Did he set this up?
He swept up the suitcase and shouldered his way through the auxiliary
door on the side. Odd, but the scuffle had gone unnoticed amid the din
of the arriving tour. Or maybe Parisians weren't ruffled by anything so
everyday as an attempted murder.
Now what?
As he emerged onto the street, he saw what he was looking for. The
other assailant was waiting just across the wide entryway, past the
jumble of bellboys, taxi drivers, and the last straggle of tourists
coming off the bus.
Their eyes met, and the man's right hand darted inside his dark suit
jacket.
Use the crowd, Vance thought. Enough hand-to-hand heroics. These guys
mean business.
Since the pile of luggage coming off the bus separated them, he had an
advantage now, if only for a second or so. Without thinking he seized
the straps of a canvas knapsack sitting on the sidewalk with his free
hand and flung it with all his strength.
It caught his attacker squarely in the chest, breaking his rhythm and
knocking him back half a step. It was only a moment's reprieve, but it
was all Vance needed to disappear around the rear of the bus, which was
pouring black exhaust into the evening air, blocking all view of the
avenue. Maybe he could move fast enough to just disappear.
As he dashed into the honking traffic, headlights half blinding him, he
surveyed the street opposite looking for the Alfa.
There? No. There?
A pair of headlights swerved by, inches away, accompanied by honking
and a cursing Greek driver. Only a few feet more now and he'd be
across.
There. A blue Alfa. It had to be the one.
But it was already moving, its front wheels turning inward as the Hertz
attendant backed it around to begin pulling out.
He wrenched open the door and seized a brown sleeve. The arm inside
belonged to a young Greek, barely twenty, his uniform grease-covered
and wrinkled. He looked up, surprise in his eyes, and grabbed for the
door handle.
"Change of plans." Vance heard the Alfa's bumper slam against the car
parked behind as the startled attendant's foot brushed against the
accelerator.
"_Den katalaveno!_"
"Out." Vance yanked him around and shoved him toward the asphalt
pavement. "And stay down."
Now the bus had begun pulling out from the entryway across the street.
Although traffic still clogged the avenue, he was a clear target.
He threw the suitcase onto the seat, then slid in and reached to secure
the door. As he pulled it shut, he heard the ping of a bullet
ricochetting off metal somewhere. Next came a burst of automatic fire
that seemed to splatter all around him.
The young Greek pulled himself up off the pavement and reached . . .
"Down." Vance waved him away as he shifted the transmission into drive.
At that moment a slug caught the young attendant in the shoulder,
spinning him around. He gave a yelp of surprise, then stumbled
backward. But now he was out of the way, clear, with what was probably
only a flesh wound.
Vance shoved his foot against the accelerator, ramming the rear fender
of the car in front, then again, knocking it clear. Another spray of
bullets spattered through the back window as he pulled into the flow of
traffic.
Your time will come, friend, he told himself. Tomorrow, by God, we
finish this little dance.
He finally became aware of the pumping of his own heart as he made his
way north up Syngrou Avenue, trying to urge the traffic forward by
sheer will.
The thing now was to get out of Athens, take Leoforos Athinon west,
then head up the new Highway 1 toward the mountains, lose them in the
country, find some place to spend the night. His final destination was
only about two hundred kilometers away. He just had to be fresh and
ready tomorrow, with everything in place.
But at least he now knew the game had no rules. Maybe knowing that gave
him an edge. And so far his timing was still intact. He'd handled it.
Maybe not too well, maybe with too much risk, but he'd handled it.
Novosty's note had said there would be a straight swap. But the other
team clearly had no intention of bothering with niceties. Fine. That
cut both ways.
Sunday 11:45 A.M.
The place was Delphi, the location Novosty had specified. Heading
warily up the Sacred Way, Vance paused for a moment to take in the
view. From where he stood, the vista was majestic, overwhelming
humanity's puny scale. He'd always loved it. Toward the north the sheer
granite cliffs of the Phaedriades Mountains towered almost two thousand
feet skyward to form a semicircular barrier, while down below the river
Pleistos meandered through mile after mile of dark olive groves. It was
an eyeful of rugged grandeur, craggy peaks encircling a harsh plain
that stretched as far as the eye could see. Greece in the midday sun:
austere, timeless.
His destination, the ancient temple of the Delphic oracle farther up
the hill, overlooked this panorama, row center in a magnificient
natural amphitheater. The Greek legends told that the great god Zeus
had once dispatched two eagles, one flying east and one flying west, to
find out where they would meet. They came together at the center
of the earth, Delphi, whose main temple, the Sanctuary of Apollo,
contained the domelike boulder Omphalos, thereafter named the "navel of
the world." Here east and west met.
He'd parked the Alfa on the roadway down below, and now as he stared up
the mountainside, past the conical cypress trees, he could just make
out the remains of the stone temple where almost three thousand years
ago the priestess, the Delphic oracle, screamed her prophesies. She was
a Pythia, an ancient woman innocent of mind who lived in the depths of
the temple next to a fiery altar whose flame was attended night and
day. There, perched on a high tripod poised over a vaporous fissure in
the earth, she inhaled intoxicating gases, chewed laurel leaves, and
issued wild, frenzied utterances. Those incoherent sounds were
translated by priests into answers appropriate to the queries set
before her.
Delphi. He loved its remote setting, its sacred legends. Those stories,
in fact, told that the god Apollo had once summoned priests from Crete,
the ancient font of culture, to come here to create this Holy of
Holies.
Was he about to become a priest too? After sending off a telegram to
the Stuttgart team, notifying them of a delay in his schedule, he'd
journeyed from that island back to Athens via the ANEK Lines overnight
car ferry from Iraklion. Not at all godlike. But it had a well-worn
forward section it called first class, and it was a low-profile mode of
travel, requiring no identity questions. He'd ended up in the bar of
the tourist section for much of the trip, stretched out on a stained
couch and napping intermittently during the twelve-hour voyage. It had
cleared his mind. Then from Piraeus, the port of Athens, he'd taken a
cab into the city. After that the hotel and the car.
As he stared up the hill, he had in his possession a wallet with nine
hundred American dollars and eighty thousand Greek drachmas, the
suitcase, and a Spanish 9mm automatic from Zeno. He also had a
translated version of the opening section of the protocol.
His anger still simmering, he continued up the cobbled path of the
Sacred Way, toward the exposed remains of the oracle's temple situated
halfway up the hill. Nothing was left of the structure now except its
stone floor and a few columns that had been re-erected, standing bare
and wistful in the sunshine. In fact, the only building at Delphi that
had been rebuilt to anything resembling its original glory was the
small marble "treasure house" of the Athenians, a showplace of that
city's wealth dating from 480 B.C. Today its simple white blocks
glistened in the harsh midday glare, while tourists milled around
speaking German, French, English, or Dutch. Even in the simmering heat
of noon, Delphi still attracted visitors who revered the ancient Greeks
as devoutly as those Greeks had once worshipped their own adulterous
gods and goddesses.
So where the hell was Novosty? Noon at the Temple of Apollo, his note
had said.
He searched the hillside looking for telltale signs of another ambush--
movement, color, anything. But there was nothing. Although tourists
wandered about, the temple ruins seemed abandoned for thousands of
years, their silence almost palpable. Even the sky was empty save for a
few swooping hawks.
If Alex is here waiting, he asked himself, where would he be?
Then he looked again at the treasure house. Of course. Probably in
there, taking a little respite from the blistering sun. It figured. The
front, its columns, and porch were open, and the interior would be
protected. Conveniently, the wide steps of the stone pathway led
directly past. A natural rendezvous.
In his belt, under his suede jacket, was Zeno's 9mm Llama. It was fully
loaded, with fifteen rounds in the magazine plus one up the tube. He
reached into his belt and eased off the safety.
Holding it beneath his coat, he continued on up the cobbled pathway
toward the front of the treasure house. As he moved into the shade of
the portico, he thought for a moment he heard sounds from inside. He
stopped, gripping the Llama, and listened.
No, nothing.
Slowly, carefully, he walked up the steps. When he reached the top, he
paused, then gingerly stepped in through the open doorway. It was cool
and dank inside. And empty. His footsteps rang hollow on the stone
floor. Maybe Novosty's dead by now, he thought fleetingly. Maybe his
luck finally ran out.
He turned and walked back out to the porch, then settled himself on the
steps. In the valley below, beyond the milling tourists, the dark green
olive groves spread out toward the horizon.
The protocol. The mind-boggling protocol. Something was afoot that
would change the balance of world power. He'd translated the first page
of Article I, but it had raised more questions than it answered. All
the same, he'd taken action. Today he was ready.
Novosty had to know the score. Had to. But now Vance knew at least part
of the story too.
He glanced down at the suitcase. It contained Eva's Zenith Turbo 486,
of course, which undoubtedly was why it was such a popular item. But it
also had a hard copy of the scrambled text of the protocol, courtesy of
a printer Zeno had borrowed from a newspaper office in Iraklion, as
well as a photocopy of Vance's partial translation.
They didn't know it yet, but there was another full copy, which he'd
transmitted by DataNet to his "office" computer in Nassau. It was
waiting there in the silicon memory.
Quite a document. Twenty-eight pages in length, it was the final
version of a legally binding agreement that had been hammered out over
a long period of time. From the page he'd translated, he could
recognize the style. The text referred to the rights and obligations of
two distinct entities--the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and Mino
Industries Group.
As he seated himself beneath a lone almond tree and took a last look at
the olive groves down below, he was tempted to pull out the translation
and reread it one more time. But that was unnecessary; he'd memorized
it, right down to the last comma.
_Article I
1. For the full and complete compensation of one hundred million
American dollars ($100,000,000.), to be deposited in the Shokin Gaigoku
Bank of Tokyo on or before May 1, Mino Industries Group will legally
transfer to the USSR full ownership of one operational prototype, this
transfer to be executed on the agreed date, May 1, Mayday. At the time
of this transfer the prototype will satisfy all technical performance
criteria enumerated in Document 327-A, "Specifications." The USSR may
thereafter, at its discretion, contract for production models at the
price specified in Document 508-J.
2. Upon the USSR having satisfied the terms stipulated in Article II,
Mino Industries Group will extend the USSR financial credits in the
amount of five hundred billion American dollars ($500,000,000,000.),
such credits to be provided in increments of one hundred billion
dollars ($100,000,000,000.) annually for a period of five years. These
credits will be arranged through Vneshekonombank, the Bank for Foreign
Economic Affairs (Article IV).
3. Within one year of the satisfaction of all formalities pursuant to
the above-designated credits, the USSR will . . .
_
That's as far as he'd translated. The rest was still in Minoan Linear
B. He took a deep breath, again trying to digest what it meant in the
grand scheme of global strategic alliances.
Most importantly, what was the "prototype"? Something was about to
appear on the planet that would make its owner unassailable. But what?
Eva's stumbled onto dynamite. Mayday. That means it explodes in less
than a fortnight. No wonder Mino Industries wants her out of the way.
Among the clusters of tourists on the road below, a white limousine was
pulling to a stop, followed by a gray Saab.
He watched as Novosty emerged from the Saab and glanced up the hill,
then started the climb. Nobody got out of the limo.
Vance watched as he slowly made his way along the cobbled path leading
up the hill, puffing. He was almost out of breath by the time he
reached the top.
"Michael, I'm so glad you could manage to make it." He heaved a sigh as
he trudged up the last remaining steps.
"It was the lure of your scintillating company."
"I'm sure." He looked around.
"Is Eva down there? She'd damned well better be."
"She is safe." Novosty sighed again. "It was most unwise for her to
have gotten involved in all this, Michael. She is making matters
difficult for us all."
"Too bad." He removed the Llama from beneath his coat. "By the way,
congratulations on your new clients. Mino Industries. That's a Yakuza
front, partner. Guess you know. The CEO was a Class A war criminal.
These days he owns the LDP and runs Japan. Alex, you asshole, you're
way over your head here. Mino Industries is owned lock, stock, and
hardware by _the _Japanese godfather. His _kobun_ make your KGB look
like a Boy Scout troop."
"Michael, please."
"And here I was thinking you'd finished consorting with the criminal
element, decided to live clean. Then the next thing I know, your
client's gorillas are trying to kill Eva and me. Me, your new partner.
Things like that tend to inspire mistrust, and just when we were
starting to hit it off so well." He finally stood up, holding the
Llama. Novosty was lounging nervously in the sunshine, fishing for a
cigarette. "Where's your Uzi? You just may need it."
"Michael, all this has nothing to do with me." His eyes were weary.
"I'm operating independently this time."
"Cash and carry. Maybe you should just post your prices, like a cheap
cathouse."
"I prefer to think of myself as an expediter. But this time I
encountered more difficulties than reasonably could be anticipated.
Which is why I need your help now to straighten it out."
"What? The whole shoddy scene? Looks like the KGB's hot on the trail,
say maybe about two feet in back of your ass. Or is it your client, who
you're about to try and screw out of a hundred million dollars?
Incidentally, that's probably a serious miscalculation, health-wise."
"The situation _has_ grown awkward."
"Of course that touching fable about returning the hundred million to
Moscow was just the usual 'disinformation.' "
"You are perfectly correct. It will not be returned. But any thought I
might have had of keeping it now also seems out of the question." He
sighed. "Instead I'm afraid we must--"
"_We_? Now that's what I call balls of brass." He laughed. "Surely even
a fevered imagination like yours can't suppose--"
"Michael, I told you I would split the commission I took for cleaning
it. That offer still holds. Fifty-fifty. I might even go sixty-forty.
What more can you want? But those funds must be delivered. Given the
new situation--"
"Not by me."
"Be a realist, my friend. I no longer have freedom of movement, so now
you are my only hope. If those funds aren't transferred within the
week, I'd prefer not to reflect on the consequences."
"The consequences to your own neck, you mean." Vance stared at him. "By
the way, just out of curiosity, what's the 'prototype'?"
"That's the one thing I cannot possibly discuss, Michael." Novosty
caught his breath. "But what if the contract for it is abrogated
because of those funds not being delivered, what then? What if the USSR
just makes a move to seize it? I fear there could be war, my friend.
Bang, the apocalypse." He flicked his lighter. "Even worse though, as
you say, both parties to the agreement would probably spend a week
devising the most interesting way possible for me to depart this
earth."
"If the KGB somehow locates and freezes the embezzled funds before you
can finish transferring them, it could scuttle the whole deal. Mino
Industries would probably be very annoyed. Not to mention certain
parties back home."
"Precisely. You can see we are on a knife edge here. But first things
first. You must return Eva's pirate copy of the protocol, please. I beg
you. It must disappear. I have promised them that, as an act of good
faith. I'm afraid the participants in Tokyo are near to losing patience
with me."
"And what about her?"
"She's with them now." He pointed down the hill, to the long white
limousine. "Unfortunately, they have taken over the situation."
"Better buckle your seat belt, pal. It's about to be a bumpy
afternoon."
"She is safe, don't worry. They have assured me. It is only the
protocol they care about. The matter of security. They know you have
her only other copy, in the computer. Now please let me just give
whatever you have to them. Then let's all try and forget she ever had
it."
"You know, those hoods down there tried a little number on me last
night in Athens." He hadn't moved. "It took the edge off my evening."
"Michael, I tried to tell them that was imprudent. But they are very
concerned about time. Just be reasonable, my friend, and I'm sure
everything can be straightened out." He sighed again. "You know, these
tactics of kidnapping and such are very distasteful to me as well. But
when she told them she didn't have all the material, that you still had
a copy, they decided that taking her into their custody was the best
way to ensure your cooperation."
"They don't know me very well." He looked down the hill. "Tell your
buddies they can go take a jump. Nobody blackmails me. Nobody. I plan
to hang on to this little suitcase till she's out of danger. That's how
we're going to work things. Tell them it's her insurance. They release
her right now, or I'll personally blow their whole deal sky high."
"Tell them yourself, Michael. I'm just here as an observer." He
gestured toward the white limo parked below, nestled in among the line
of tourist automobiles and busses. "And while you're doing that,
perhaps you should ask her if that's her wish as well. They refuse to
release her until they recover the materials she had. They are calling
it 'protection.'"
He stared down. "You've got a hell of a nerve. All of you. Alex, when
this is over--"
"Please. Let's just get this ghastly protocol affair sorted out." He
rubbed at his beard. "Then we can all concern ourselves with what's
really important. The money."
"Right. I almost forgot."
He scanned the hillside. Was everything set? He'd seen no sign. But
then that's how it was supposed to be. The other problem was the
tourists, everywhere, complicating the play.
But maybe the tourists would be a help, would make it start out slow.
Think. How can you use them? Clearly the other side had hoped for an
abandoned place in the middle of nowhere. They had to be off balance
now too.
He hesitated a moment, then decided. Go for it. He had the Llama. Just
settle it here and now.
He took one last look at the temple as he rose. The Delphic oracle.
That's what Eva had been all along. She'd somehow divined the outlines
of the story, but after the disappearance of her old lover at the NSA
she didn't dare speak it directly. Everything was coded language. So
what better place than here on this mountain to finally have a little
plain talk?
As they passed down the last stone steps leading to the roadway, he
found himself thinking about Mino Industries. Did they really have half
a trillion dollars lying around? Not likely. To come up with that kind
of money, even in Japan, you'd have to be deeply plugged into
legitimate financial circles--pension funds, insurance companies,
brokerage houses, banks, all the rest. But still, the _Mino-gumi_ had
connections that went wide and deep, everywhere. Their _oyabun_, Tanzan
Mino, had been in the game for a long, long time.
Now, as he approached the limousine, one of its white doors slowly
began to open. Then a Japanese emerged, dressed in a black polyester
suit. He wore dark sunglasses, and his right wrist was in a cast. The
eyes were very familiar. Also, one of his little fingers was missing.
But Vance's gaze didn't linger long on the hands. His attention was
riveted on what was in them. Yep, he'd seen it right last night. It was
a Heckler & Koch machine pistol. One of those could lay down all thirty
rounds in an eight- inch group at thirty yards. World-class hardware.
It figured. The _Mino-gumi_ was known everywhere as the best-run Yakuza
syndicate of them all. Hardened criminals, they considered themselves
modern-day samurai, upholding some centuries-old code of honor. It was
a contradiction only the Japanese mind could fully accommodate.
Heavy-duty connections, Vance told himself, the very best. Which meant
Novosty was in even bigger trouble than he probably imagined. The
latest rumor in the world of hot money was that Tanzan Mino and his
Yakuza had, through dummy fronts, just bought up half of Hawaii. If
that were true, it meant he laundered real money these days. Who the
hell needed a small-time operator like Alex?
Then the man reached in and caught Eva's arm, pulling her into the
midday glare.
Thank God, he thought, she still looks vaguely okay. Will she be able
to stay on top of this once it gets moving?
He noticed she was wearing a new brown dress, but her short hair was
tangled, her face streaked with pain.
The bastards. They must have worked her over, trying to find out
everything she knew.
There were two "representatives," Novosty had said. So the other man
was still in the limo, in the driver's seat, covering in case there was
trouble.
Good move. Because there was definitely going to be trouble. A lot of
it. Tanzan Mino's goons were about to have all the trouble they could
handle.
"Michael, oh, Christ." She finally recognized him. "Thank God. Just
give them--"
"Can you understand what's going on here?" He raised his hand. "These
guys are _kobun_, professional hit men. They have a very sick sense of
humor. They also have no intention of--"
"Please, they have given me their word." Novosty interrupted him, then
glanced back. "You can see she is well."
She didn't look well at all. She seemed drugged, standing shakily in
the brilliant sunshine, a glazed stare from her eyes, hands twisting at
her skirt.
Eva, Eva, he thought, what did they do to you? Whatever it was, it
worked. You look defeated, helpless.
"Michael, just let them have the computer." She spoke again, her voice
quivering. "They say it's all they want. Then they'll--"
"Eva, it's all a lie. The big lie. So just lighten up and enjoy this.
We're not giving them so much as the time of day until they let you go.
First tell me, how badly did they rough you up? I want to know."
"Michael, please."
"You will be happy to learn that Dr. Michael Vance is a specialist in
international finance," Novosty interrupted, addressing the tall
Japanese. "He has kindly offered to serve as my agent in completing the
final arrangements for the transfer of funds from London. He will
resolve any remaining difficulties. As I said, he is my agent, and it
is important that he not be harmed."
"Alex, back off. I haven't agreed to anything." Vance turned to the
Japanese. "How's the arm? Hope the damage wasn't permanent."
"Where are the NSA materials." The man ignored Vance's question. His
voice was sharp and his English almost perfect. "That is our first
order of business."
"Right here." He lifted the suitcase. "I assume we're all going to deal
honorably for a change. Eva first, then we talk about this."
"I'm sure Dr. Vance has brought everything you want," Novosty added
quickly, glancing over. "Perhaps if he gave the materials to you now,
the woman could be released. Then he and I can proceed immediately with
the matter of the funds."
"You are not involved," the Japanese snapped back. "We have been
authorized to personally handle this breach of security." He stared at
Novosty. "The funds, in fact, were your sole responsibility. They were
to have been transferred to Shokin Gaigoku Bank in Tokyo over a week
ago. You demanded an exorbitant commission, and you did not deliver.
Consequently you will return that commission and our London _oyabun
_will handle it himself."
The _Mino-gumi_ probably should have handled it in the first place,
Vance thought fieetingly. Alex was definitely out of his depth.
"Just a couple of days more . . ." Novosty went pale. "I thought I had
explained--"
"Your 'explanations' are not adequate." The man cut him off, then
pointed to the suitcase in Vance's hand. "Now give us that."
"Why not." He settled the brown leather case onto the asphalt. "It's
good business always to check out the merchandise, make sure it's what
you're paying for."
"She said it was a portable computer." The man walked over, then
cradled the H&K automatic in his bandaged arm while he reached down to
loosen the straps. Next he pulled the zipper around and laid open the
case.
"What is this?" He lifted out the pile of printed paper.
"Guess she forgot to tell you. We cracked the encryption. I thought
maybe you'd like to have a printed version, so I threw one in for
free."
He stared at it a second, almost disbelieving, then looked up. "This is
a photocopy. Where is the original?"
"Original? You mean that's not--?" Vanced looked at it. "Gee, my
mistake. Guess I must have left it somewhere. Sorry you had to drive
all the way out here from Athens for nothing."
"Jesus, Michael," Eva blurted. "Don't start playing games with them.
They'll--"
"I need all the copies." The man's voice hardened, menacingly. "Where
are they?"
"I don't remember precisely. Tell you what, though. You put her on a
plane back to the States and maybe my recollection might start
improving."
"We are wasting time." The door by the steering wheel opened and the
second _kobun _emerged, also carrying an automatic. He was shorter, but
the punch-perm hair and polyester suit appeared to have come from
standard issue, just like the sunglasses. He gestured his weapon toward
Vance. "There is a simple way to improve your memory. You have exactly
ten seconds--"
"My friend, be reasonable," Novosty interrupted, his voice still trying
for calm. "There are people here." He motioned toward the crowd of
gathering tourists. From their puzzled stares, they seemed to be
thinking they were witnessing a rehearsal for some Greek gangster film.
The first man motioned his partner back, then turned to Vance. "You
realize we will be forced to kill her right now if you don't produce
all originals and copies."
"Don't really think you want to do that." Vance stared at him. "Because
if anything happens to her, you're going to be reading about your
'prototype' all over the American newspapers. I can probably even swing
some prime-time TV time for you. I'll take care of it personally."
"No one will believe you."
"Don't think so? My guess is the Washington Post will run your entire
protocol on page one. I'll see they get a very literal translation into
English. Then you won't need this. You can just buy all the copies you
want." He picked up the laptop and walked over to where Eva was
standing.
"Here, take this, and get back in the car, now. I think these guys have
got an attitude problem. So screw them."
"Michael." She reached for the computer.
"Get in that one." He pointed toward Alex's gray Saab. "And take the
next plane out of Greece. That place we talked about. Anywhere. Just
go."
"We're getting nowhere," the second man barked again. Then he leveled
his automatic at Vance's right knee and clicked off the safety. There
was a gasp from the gawking tourists, and the crowd began stumbling
backward for cover. "We have ways of extracting information."
Oh, shit, he thought, whoa.
The man's voice suddenly trailed off, while a quizzical expression
spread through his eyes and a red spot appeared on his cheek. Next his
head jerked back and his automatic slammed against the car door, then
clattered across the asphalt.
Not a second too soon, Vance thought.
"No," Eva screamed, "what's happening?" She lurched
backward, then turned and stumbled for the Saab, carrying the computer.
The first _kobun_ glanced around, then raised the H&K in his left hand,
trying to get a grip.
He'll hit the ground and roll, Vance thought, like any pro under fire.
And he did exactly that, with a quick motion over onto his back and
then to his feet again, clicking off the safety as he came up.
"You want to kill us both?" Vance was holding his Llama now, trained on
the sunglasses that had been crushed by the roll, momentarily
distorting the man's line of fire. "Then go for it." He squeezed the
trigger.
The walnut stock kicked slightly, but he just kept gripping the satin
chrome trigger. Now the gunman's automatic came around, its muzzle
erupting in flame. The crowd scattered, shouting in half a dozen
languages, terrified.
Vance just kept firing, dull thunks into the figure stumbling backward
as the H&K machine pistol erupted spasmodically into the hot, dry air.
"Kill him, Michael. Oh, God! Yes. The bastards." Eva was still yelling
as she slammed shut the door of the Saab. Yelling, cursing, screaming.
Less than a second later the motor roared to life.
Now Novosty was diving across the pavement, toward the open front door
of the limousine.
"Michael, we've got to split up. Get out." He yelled over his shoulder.
"I'll have to go to London now. There's nowhere left. They're going to
come for the money."
Vance scarcely heard him as he held the Llama steady and kept on
squeezing until the magazine was empty and only vacant clicks coursed
through his hand.
The screech of tires brought him back. He looked up to see the white
limousine careening along the edge of the road, barely avoiding the
ditch, its door still open, Novosty at the wheel. Eva was already gone.
He noticed that they'd removed the plates from the limousine, just as
he'd done on his rented Alfa. There would be nothing but terrified
tourists and two illegally armed, very dead Japanese hoods here when
the Greek police finally arrived. The story would come out in a babel
of languages and be totally inconsistent.
Christ! he thought. It was supposed to be over by now, and instead it's
just beginning. When word of this gets back to Tokyo, life's going to
get very interesting, very fast. The _Mino-gumi _knows how to play for
keeps. We've got to blow this thing.
Across, on the hot asphalt, the two Japanese were sprawled askew,
sunglasses crumpled. One body was bleeding profusely from the chest,
the other from a single, perfect hole in the cheek. The _kobun_ who had
come within moments of removing his kneecaps now lay with a small hole
in front of one ear and the opposite side of the face half missing.
What a shot!
But why did he wait so long? We had them in the clear. I see now why
the Greek Resistance scared hell out of . . .
"Never look at the eyes, Michael." The voice sounded from the boulders
of the hillside above, where the muzzle of a World War II German
carbine, oiled and perfect, glinted. "Remember I told you. It gives you
very bad dreams."