Imminent Threat

by Jeff Gunhus

  Mt. Athos was a special polity within the Greek Republic, granted special sovereignty that was codified even in the admittance documents to the European Union. This sovereignty allowed the so-called Athonite State to restrict the flow of goods and people within its borders. Specifically, it allowed them to exclude any woman from touching their shores.

  This was no small thing. According to the file from Langley, even female livestock were not permitted on the isthmus. In an uncharacteristic editorial comment, the writer of the brief opined that perhaps the purpose of this rule was to “keep the monks focused on their prayers instead of looking for love in all the wrong places.” Mara laughed out loud at the comment, guessing the author was a woman who felt as chafed by the practice as she did.

  Tradition or not, the gender politics of any church using their ancient texts to minimize the role of women in the world really pissed Mara off.

  She’d seen the impact of entrenched misogyny all around the world. Saudi Arabia using the Quran to relegate women to the periphery of society. The Catholic Church for centuries had done the same, even though the first pope, St. Peter, had been a married man and women were important figures in the early church. When the Protestant faiths rebelled against the church’s ways, they often chose to retain the misogynistic traits of the mother church, refusing female participation as clergy or in the church government. Many of the new churches over the last century had removed these restrictions, but the admonition in Colossians in the New Testament that said wives, submit to your husbands still found its way into even some of the more mainstream, progressive churches.

  An entire part of a country in the twenty-first century that was off-limits to women didn’t sit well with her.

  The irony was that the entire setup was reportedly all due to one particular woman’s request. According to tradition, St. John the Evangelist had been blown off course from Joppa to Cyprus to visit Lazarus. His traveling companion was a woman destined to become part of the very heart of the church, Mary, mother of Christ. They landed on the shores of Mt. Athos. When the Virgin Mary walked ashore, she was so taken with its beauty that she asked her Son in heaven to make it her garden. A voice came whispering on the breeze for all to hear, “Let this place be your inheritance and your garden, a paradise and haven of salvation for those seeking to be saved.” That was enough to consecrate the ground as the garden of the mother of God. Since the rise of the monastic life over eighteen hundred years ago, no other females were allowed on the land.

  “I say screw their traditions,” Mara said. “They abetted and radicalized a terrorist. They can handle having a woman crash their party.”

  Scott looked up from his own reading tablet. He usually didn’t read the brief but she suspected too he was a little short on his knowledge of the Eastern Orthodox faith. “Did you know that two popes excommunicated each other? The Catholic one and the Orthodox one? That’s messed up. It was a thousand years ago, but it’s still messed up.”

  “Are you listening to me?” she said.

  “Not really,” he said without looking up. “No need.”

  Mara felt her anger toward the traditions of the world’s great religions shift to just focusing on the man in front on her. “No need?”

  He kept reading. “Did you know the name Athos was one of the Gigantes in Greek mythology that challenged the gods? Athos threw a massive rock at Poseidon and it fell into the Aegean Sea where it became . . . wait for it . . . Mt. Athos.”

  “I’m about to throw a rock at your head,” Mara said.

  He finally lowered his tablet to his lap. “I said no need because we both know the right move here and that’s for you to sit this one out. Trying to get these monks to open up to an outsider will be hard enough. If we start off by blowing one of the central tenets of their existence out of the water, they’re not going to tell us a damn thing.”

  Mara knew he was right, but that didn’t make it any less annoying.

  “Whatever you say,” she said, purposefully channeling her teenage self. It made Scott grin as he lifted the tablet back up.

  She did the same, digging into the documents to try and parse out any clue that might help them.

  The nameless CIA briefer had included the most colorful parts of the region’s history. The mention of the mountain in the Iliad. The fact that Xerxes passed through the area on his way to invade Greece. And that after Alexander the Great died, the great architect Dinocrates had seriously suggested carving the entire face of the mountain into the image of the fallen king.

  Beyond that were details of the political organization of the monastic state, the current leadership, a brief history of apocryphal prophecy coming from the community, as well as maps with both roads and ancient footpaths.

  Mara felt the researchers at Langley were unheralded heroes. Only a few hours earlier, Mt. Athos hadn’t been on anyone’s radar as a potential destination. Now she had nearly two thousand years of history and a current database of every monk living there at her fingertips.

  As she read, her mind wandered to Rick. She hadn’t spoken to him for three days. He was likely back in DC now or would be soon. Certainly, after word of their interview with Belchik reached Rick’s boss, all hell was going to break loose. Patterson wasn’t a good listener, either. Early in his presidency, he’d overridden the Secret Service recommendations and warnings often enough to cause Mitch Dreslan to tender his resignation. Rick had been in the room for that meeting and had given her the play-by-play. Two ex-Marines going toe-to-toe right in the center of the great seal on the floor of the Oval Office.

  Rick had told her the story as they lay in bed together, the sweat still cooling off their bodies from a sex session that’d left them both spent but satisfied. She traced her fingers over his chest and abdomen while he talked, loving the sound of his voice as he recounted what had happened.

  Dreslan had brought Rick as a witness, just so that there was never any confusion about whether he resigned or was fired. He was pretty sure those were the only two outcomes the meeting might have. Dreslan presented the president with the facts, a one-page summary of the times in the last month that the president had directly ignored or reversed a decision by the Secret Service. Rick did a good Patterson impersonation and Mara laughed as he did a Saturday Night Live version of the president.

  After he milked all the laughs he could get, Rick turned serious. The argument that got the president in the end was Dreslan saying he wasn’t resigning because the president was putting his own life in jeopardy, but because he was putting his protective detail’s lives at unnecessary risk. Dreslan had looked him in the eyes and said, “Sir, on any given day, any one of my agents will take a bullet for you. If it happens in the line of duty, I can live with that. But if it happens because of recklessness, whether it’s yours or mine, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror. And if you think you could, then I can’t work for you any longer.”

  The line worked. Patterson had backed down. Agreeing to listen more, take fewer unscheduled stops, work fewer rope lines. He wasn’t perfect after that, but he was a lot better.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Mara had asked. “Dreslan.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass,” he’d said, his hands caressing her shoulder. “But yeah, he’s a strong leader. Popular because he doesn’t give a shit about being liked. He cares about the job getting done right.” After Rick had told her that story, he’d turned quiet afterward, contemplative.

  “I’ve never told anyone that story,” he’d said. “There were only three of us in the room. It’s the kind of thing that never gets out.”

  “And it never will,” she’d said, kissing him softly, feeling the warmth from the trust he’d shown her as much as from his body pressing next to her. “I promise.”

  The train lurched to the side, hitting an old piece of track before smoothing out. It was just enough to shake her out of her thoughts and bring her back into the present. She felt a lingering desire for Rick and a worry.
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br />   If Scarvan intended to go after the president, then he would be in the line of fire.

  The thought only pissed Mara off more that she couldn’t go to Mt. Athos to question the monks there. At least she knew her dad wouldn’t let them off easy. If anything, they might need to polish off their prayer books to get ready for what was about to happen to them.

  CHAPTER 18

  The teams transporting them across Italy and Greece were all business. Scott and Mara departed the train at the small town of Ventimiglia, Italy, where a beat-up pickup truck waited for them in the parking lot, driven by a man who looked like a farmer . . . if the farmer lifted every day and consumed a regimented diet to maximize his performance. That was the thing about some special operators: no matter the clothes they wore, it was impossible to disguise their bearing and their extreme fitness level.

  This “farmer” greeted them and explained their ride was only twenty minutes out of town. He drove the truck in a circuitous route through the town’s ancient streets, eyeing his mirrors for possible tails. Seeing nothing, they headed to the outskirts where a helo sat in an open field, all lights off.

  Thanking their driver, they climbed into the AW139M helo with its signature elongated nose cone and strapped in. Scott liked the choice of aircraft. The AW139 had a max speed over 300km/h and, despite its high-performance design, was a rugged animal that could fly at twice the altitude of an Apache and land anywhere with its robust main and nose landing gears.

  The helo was painted black and held no markings or insignia. Scott assumed there was a supply of decals stored on board so that that crew could change the helo’s appearance and ownership in only a few minutes, depending on the needs of the situation.

  There was a three-person crew: pilot, co-pilot, and one very nasty-looking man in the cabin with them who didn’t take his eyes off them once. Langley may have told this crew to pick them up and give them a ride, but it didn’t mean they necessarily trusted Scott and Mara.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” Scott said, adjusting his headphones with directional mic so he could talk to the pilots.

  “You mean good morning, sir,” came back a female voice, clearly pleased to correct Scott.

  Mara grinned. “Good morning, ma’am. Thanks for the ride.”

  “Our pleasure,” she said. “ETA to Malaga airfield is less than thirty minutes. Hold on.”

  The pilot lifted off and the helo surged forward, accelerating into the night.

  True to her word, they touched down twenty-five minutes later at a sleepy regional airport of the coastal town of Malaga. Once they disembarked, the helo wasted no time, ascending and streaking away. The Gulfstream G600 sitting on the tarmac with the steps extended was their next ride.

  “What, the Citation X+ was being used?” Mara asked.

  Either aircraft was overkill for their needs. Superluxe with beautiful interiors, these business aircraft had the added benefit of being the fastest in the market. Each of them went just under Mach 1. It wasn’t subtle, but the good news was that neither were Europe’s jet-setting crowd. The Gulfstream stood out in sleepy Malaga, but it would blend right in with the other jets in Thessaloniki.

  As soon as they boarded the craft, the dual Pratt & Whitney engines spun up. A young man greeted them inside and directed them to their seats. “Sat phone connections are active. Director Hawthorn requests that you call once we’re under way. If you need to reach us up front, you can call the cockpit on the phone on that wall,” he said, pointing. “Or just knock on the door.”

  Scott and Mara thanked him and settled into the leather captain’s chairs. Soon, they taxied off the runway and the jet soared into the lightening sky in the east.

  “You call him,” Scott said, meaning Hawthorn. “He likes you better.”

  “He should,” she said. “You’re the one usually causing all the problems.”

  She picked up the sat phone and dialed Hawthorn’s secure number, which she had memorized. She put it on speaker.

  “About damn time,” Hawthorn said on answering.

  “Hi Jim. It’s Mara. We’re both here.”

  “Any word from the Russians yet?” Scott asked.

  “None,” Hawthorn said. “We have eyes on the site and there hasn’t been a new crew over yet.”

  Scott and Mara exchanged looks. “The men inside should have come around by now. No activity?” Scott asked.

  “None yet,” Hawthorn said. “Leave that to me. I’ll navigate the absolute shitstorm you’ve stirred up with the Russians, or I’ll at least manage our categorical denials that we had anything to do with it.”

  “I’m sure they’ll buy that,” Mara said.

  “The timing’s bad,” Hawthorn said. “Cooperation with the FSB would be useful right now. We’ve gone through the list of other potential people Scarvan will go after. The list is actually shorter than you might think.”

  “That’s surprising,” Scott said.

  “First, the operation to kill Scarvan twenty years ago was a closely held secret. There were too many people loyal to him inside the KGB, so Belchik didn’t want to tip him off. But Scarvan is going after anyone even remotely associated with that night. Even the captain of the trawler was found dangling from the end of a rope.”

  “He’s had twenty years to think about this revenge binge,” Scott said. “He’s making the most of it.”

  “You said that was the first reason the list was so short,” Mara said. “What’s the second?”

  “The second reason is that most people on the list were already dead,” Hawthorn said, pausing to let that fact sit in. “Scarvan’s been busier than we thought at first. Just very careful. Nearly all appeared to be accidents, and no one put together the connections. Until now.”

  “How many people?” Mara asked.

  “Thirteen that we know of,” Hawthorn said. “Not counting Belchik’s family members. Scarvan has proven the years haven’t made him any less of a sick mind.”

  Mara thought of the table covered with the photos of Belchik’s family. A few of his grandchildren had just been little kids. She felt a swelling desire to punish this man they were chasing.

  “Who’s left?”

  “Three people. I just emailed you the files. Turn on the screen in the plane.”

  Scott grabbed the remote control and pointed it at the TV screen attached to the wall. Nothing happened. He pressed another button, shaking the controller as he did it.

  Mara reached out a hand for him to hand it over.

  He tried three other buttons before tossing it to her. She pressed a single button and the TV came to life.

  “Smart-ass,” he said.

  “Old fuck,” she replied.

  “If you’re all done over there, you should see Sergei Kolonov on the screen,” Hawthorn said. An image of a young man in a Russian military uniform appeared.

  “I know him,” Scott said. “He was on the boat that night. One of Belchik’s guns.”

  “Correct,” Hawthorn said. Additional photos of the man flashed on the screen. He aged as the photos went on, turning into long-range surveillance pics by the end. There were shots taken in jungle settings, on airstrips that looked like Central or South America. “Last known photo was five years ago, working in Colombia for the Cali drug cartel. DEA thinks he’s deceased but were working on dredging up confirmation.”

  “I recall he wasn’t too happy with the duty he drew that night,” Scott said. “After Scarvan went overboard, he hammered vodka shots the rest of the night, sending me looks. I thought he and I might get into it.”

  “It was only a year after that he followed the time-honored tradition of the disgruntled and disillusioned operator and became a mercenary,” Hawthorn said. “If he’s still alive, we’ll find him.” The screen changed to another man. This one lean and wiry, dressed in a tailored suit and wearing round spectacles. “Next we have Stefan Nochek.”

  “Don’t know that name,” Scott said.

  “I do,” Mara said.
“Political operative. Works for the Russian oligarchs. Whichever one is paying the most.”

  “Right, back then he was a young KGB bureaucrat who acted as a liaison to the Kremlin. He would have counseled on the political side of the operation. Word was that he pushed hard for the operation, strategically using it to get concessions from the U.S. on banking issues facing the oligarchs at the time.”

  “And I assume we were willing to bend over and take their demands,” Scott said.

  “When there’s a stench, follow the money and you’ll find the source,” Hawthorn said. “This guy is exactly the sort of man Scarvan would want to take out.”

  “Then why’s he still alive?” Mara asked.

  “Good question. It’s either testament to the protection he has working for the oligarchs, or it could be that Scarvan simply had a long list to get through and Nochek’s number simply hadn’t come up yet.”

  “We should be on him,” Mara said, seizing on the chance to have something to do. “We split up. I’ll track Nochek while you visit the land of men wearing dresses and funny hats.”

  “Cassocks,” Scott said. “Not dresses. And the hats are kamilavkas.” He leaned toward the speaker phone, pretending to whisper to Hawthorn. “Mara isn’t thrilled about the men-only policy on Mount Athos.”

  Mara ignored the comment. “Where is Nochek now?”

  “That’s the problem.” A photo appeared of Nochek walking toward a private jet. He was surrounded by a protection detail of five bodyguards. “We don’t know where he is. He was in Helsinki yesterday but left on a private jet. Flight plan said Brussels, but the plane never arrived.”

  “Can’t Jordi track him down?” Scott said. “I thought he was the master of all things.”

  “He’s trying,” Hawthorn said. “And he’s not very happy about not being able to find him.”

  Mara grinned, imagining Jordi cussing out his computer screens with his fake Cockney accent. “He’ll find him eventually. When he does, I’ll take the plane there and start surveillance.”

  “I agree,” Hawthorn said. “And once you’re done on Mount Athos, Scott, you’ll tail the last person on the list. Anna Beliniski.”