Pandemic pr-2

by James Barrington

  Once they had all reported themselves ready, Perini, who had donned a Kevlar vest and was also now carrying a Spectre in his left hand, crossed over to where Richter and Simpson leaned against the bonnet of one of the Alfas. ‘We’re ready to go,’ he announced.

  ‘Are you sure he’s still in there?’ Simpson asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Perini replied, ‘we’ve had at least one watcher covering that villa ever since our operative took her photographs. We’ll now be leaving one man here to watch the cars, Mr Simpson, and I suggest you stay well to the back until the target area has been secured. Mr Richter: the same applies to you, but please be ready to come forward as soon as we have captured the suspect.’ As both men nodded their understanding, Perini walked back to the DCPP officers.

  Four minutes later the armed men were crouching in a small copse of trees that looked down over a gentle incline towards a shabby white-painted villa about one hundred yards away, nestling in an overgrown and obviously untended garden.

  Kandíra, south-west Crete

  ‘He would have been out in his boat all day,’ Christina Polessos stated definitively, ‘and drinking in the kafeníon all evening.’

  ‘Boat? What kind of boat?’ Lavat asked, opening his notebook.

  ‘He was a smuggler, or worse,’ Christina continued, ‘but he claimed he was a diver. He has a boat moored somewhere out there in the bay.’

  ‘What do you mean “or worse”?’ Lavat demanded.

  Christina suddenly seemed to realize that she was talking to a policeman rather than one of her gossiping cronies from the village, and began to clam up. ‘That’s not for me to say,’ was all she murmured.

  ‘Right, we’ll find his boat later. Which bar did Aristides normally use?’

  Maria Coulouris laughed suddenly, the unexpected sound incongruous in the silent street. ‘You obviously don’t know Kandíra, Inspector. There is only one bar – Jakob’s.’

  When Lavat and his sergeant reached the kafeníon, Jakob was just opening up.

  ‘I’m Inspector Lavat,’ the officer announced, keenly aware that he didn’t look much like a policeman in his white overalls. He showed his identity card to the scowling Cretan, who stood peering out from behind his street door. ‘We need to talk to you about last night.’

  Jakob looked closely at Lavat’s identification, slowly comparing the man with the photograph, before he answered. ‘What about last night? Nothing happened here.’

  ‘We know that. We just want to ask about one of your customers.’

  For a moment Lavat thought Jakob was going to slam the bar door in his face, but instead he shrugged and opened it wide. ‘Very well, come in. But I have customers to serve, so you must be quick.’

  Lavat glanced up and down the street, then into the echoing emptiness of the bar, redolent with the stale odours of coarse tobacco, cheap beer and hard liquor. ‘Yes, obviously,’ he said, the sarcasm lost on Jakob, who had moved behind the counter and was now ostentatiously wiping it with a dirty grey cloth.

  ‘Which customer?’ Jakob demanded curtly, pointedly not offering either man a drink.

  ‘Spiros Aristides,’ Lavat replied. ‘He was drinking in here last night?’

  ‘Don’t know him,’ Jakob muttered.

  ‘Look,’ Lavat said, tiring of the Cretan’s sullen and stubborn attitude, ‘this is a murder investigation, and you have two choices. You can talk to us here, which means your bar will stay open and you won’t lose any valuable custom.’ Lavat glanced round at the conspicuously empty tables as he said this. ‘Or you can get in the back of a police car and we’ll drive you over to our headquarters in Irakleío, and we’ll talk to you there. Of course, we have a lot of potential witnesses to interview meanwhile, so we can’t guarantee how long all that might take. Could be a day, maybe two or three. Maybe even more. Now, let’s try one more time. Was Spiros Aristides drinking in here last night?’

  Jakob stared at Lavat for a long moment, then reached below the counter and brought out three beers. He snapped off the caps, pushed one bottle towards each of the policemen, picked up the third and took a long swallow. ‘You mean the Greek?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes,’ Lavat said, picking up the beer, ‘we mean the Greek. Was he in here last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jakob nodded. He pointed at the far corner of the room. ‘He sat over there.’

  ‘Did anyone speak to him? Did he meet anybody here?’

  ‘Some of my customers know him,’ Jakob conceded reluctantly, ‘but I don’t think anybody else talked to him until the other Greek arrived.’

  ‘Other Greek?’ Lavat asked. ‘What other Greek?’

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday

  Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy

  Richter watched with professional interest as the DCPP officers moved out of the copse and headed down the slope to his left, carefully keeping out of sight of the villa. The house was located a short distance from the road and accessed by a rough gravel track, the property itself bordered by low stone walls and shrubs.

  Richter waited until the Italians were almost at the villa, then stood up to follow them.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Simpson demanded.

  ‘Down to the villa,’ Richter replied. ‘I’d like to be in at the kill, so to speak.’

  Simpson glared at him. ‘Make sure that’s just a figure of speech, Richter,’ he said. ‘We want Andrew Lomas in one piece. I know you have issues with him, but—’

  ‘I don’t have issues with Lomas, as you put it,’ Richter interrupted. ‘He and his minders tied Raya Kosov down in a chair and sliced bits off her until she died of pain and shock and blood loss, and then they dumped what was left of her body on the bed next to me, so the first thing I’d see when I came round was her mutilated face. I don’t think the word issues actually covers something like that, do you?’

  Simpson waggled a warning finger. ‘You just let the law handle Lomas, Richter. I don’t want to see any kind of vigilante action from you when those Eyeties pull him out of that house.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Simpson, there are ten heavily armed men down there, and all I’ve got is a Kevlar vest. What are you expecting me to do, choke him with it?’

  ‘Just remember what I’ve said, Richter.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Richter muttered. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  It was five minutes after Richter had slipped from sight behind the stone wall that Simpson finally realized his employee hadn’t actually confirmed that he wouldn’t try to kill Andrew Lomas. ‘Oh, shit,’ he murmured, then got to his feet and began picking his way through the trees, following the path Richter had taken down to the road.

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Just over three hours after his pager had summoned him from the shower, Tyler Q. Hardin was buckling his seat-belt for the flight north from Atlanta to New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport. In his pocket was an onward ticket to London Heathrow first and from there a direct flight to Crete. About four hours behind him would come the other three members of his team, now hastily assembling protective clothing and equipment.

  CDC personnel are given automatic priority on all US carriers when responding to a request for assistance, and two disappointed passengers had been bumped from the flight to provide Hardin with a seat. In fact, only one had been bumped for the seat, and the second to ensure sufficient space in the hold of the Boeing 757 for the two large reinforced cases, sealed with tempered-steel padlocks and carrying Customs-exempt labels, which contained everything Hardin hoped he would need for carrying out his initial investigation.

  What little clothing he had brought with him was crushed into a leather carry-on bag sitting in the locker above his head, and beneath the seat in front of him was stashed his Toshiba Satellite laptop. As soon as the seat-belt sign was switched off, he was going to haul out the computer and call up everything in the database about Ebola and other members of the filovirus family and start preparing a series of protocols for whatever he might find on Crete wh
en he finally got there.

  Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy

  The villa looked quiet and peaceful as Perini and his men approached it. To satisfy legal requirements, the DCPP had in their possession a warrant to search the property, and Perini had received permission to gain access by whatever means he, the man on the spot, felt necessary. Knowing Lomas’s reputation, the Italian had decided that the best means of entry was to kick down the front door and go in with, metaphorically speaking, all guns blazing.

  About twenty yards from the boundary of the property Richter stopped and watched. Perini had briefed the DCPP officers to effect their planned assault in two groups, which made obvious sense as the villa would undoubtedly have both a front and a back door. The groups were clearly all linked by radio, because Richter could hear nothing apart from the furtive movement of the men across the ground. Perini stood off to one side of the drive curving up to the front door, a broad sweep of old gravel flecked with grass and weeds. He was watching as his men deployed.

  Five black-clad figures soon grouped by the front entrance and Richter watched one of them reach out, turn the handle and press his hand firmly against the door. When it didn’t open, a second DCPP man began pushing at its right-hand edge, starting at the top and working downwards. Richter could see the ram leaning against the wall near by, and knew that they were trying to locate the locks or bolts so that they could target the ram against them.

  On a silent command, three of the five stood back, Spectre sub-machine-guns at the ready, while the other two picked up the ram. Richter saw Perini’s lips move as he issued an order – and suddenly it started.

  With a shout that echoed around the quiet valley, the two DCPP men smashed the heavy steel ram into the villa’s entrance door just above the lock, and Richter could clearly hear a splintering of wood. When the door didn’t budge, they propelled the ram forward again, slightly below the lock this time. Abruptly it gave and the door crashed open. The men immediately dropped the ram, swung their Spectres to the ready, and burst inside.

  Standard special forces assault tactics call for the use of noise and violence so as to shock, intimidate and hopefully persuade suspects to disarm. These DCPP types certainly knew how to make a noise. Richter heard two stun grenades detonate, then shouts and bellows from the interior of the building as the men systematically cleared one room after another. And suddenly two single shots sounded, followed by a three-round burst of sub-machine-gun fire, then finally silence.

  Perini approached the door of the villa, and Richter followed a few feet behind. When the Italian heard him, he turned round and gestured. ‘They’ve found three people inside,’ he said. ‘One is the man we believe to be Lomas himself, one we presume is the man Lomas sent to meet the consular official in Salerno, and the other was probably just a bodyguard.’

  ‘The shots?’ Richter asked.

  ‘The one that we think was a bodyguard fired his pistol. He missed, and now he’s dead. The other two men weren’t armed. They’re bringing them out now.’

  Just as Perini finished speaking, two DCPP officers approached, half-carrying, half-dragging a dazed-looking man. Richter stepped forward and pulled his head up by the hair. ‘That’s not Lomas,’ he said.

  Perini nodded. ‘He matches the description our watcher gave for the go-between.’ He then issued instructions for the prisoner to be taken away and processed.

  Another three men emerged, two black-clad DCPP officers flanking a slightly built middle-aged man. Richter stepped forward, but this time he had no need to lift the suspect’s head: the man was walking normally upright, except with his hands tied behind his back, and secured at the wrist with plastic cable ties. Richter took one look and turned to Perini.

  ‘That’s Lomas,’ he said. ‘No question.’

  Arlington, Virginia

  David Elias looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and then up again at the building in front of him, checking the address carefully. It was five past ten, so he was ten minutes early for the meeting the Director had instructed him to attend.

  He walked up the steps of the house and pressed the bell push set in a polished brass plate beside the door. Immediately, lights flared on above his head and he was suddenly conscious of the empty stare of two security cameras mounted behind protective grilles set on either side of the entrance.

  A minute later a hidden speaker crackled. ‘Yes? Please press the button again and state your name.’

  Elias pressed it and spoke towards the brass plate. ‘My name’s David Elias. I think I’m expected.’

  The speaker clicked off, then the door opened and a squat, heavy-set man peered out at him, shoulder holster clearly visible beneath the open jacket of his dark blue suit.

  ‘Your ID, please, Mr Elias?’

  Elias dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out his CIA card and handed it over. The man scrutinized it carefully, handed it back and then opened the door wide. ‘OK. Come in.’ The hallway was spacious and high-ceilinged, an elegant entrance to an obviously expensive property. ‘Follow me.’

  Elias walked down the hall, following the man in the dark suit. The man stopped beside a mahogany door at the far end, knocked twice, and opened it without waiting for a response. He gestured inside. Elias entered and heard the door close behind him.

  Probably originally a formal drawing room, it was large and square, with comfortable sofas and easy chairs. In the far corner a youthful dark-haired man sat behind a small oak desk in a leather wing chair, looking slightly ill at ease. Elias had never seen him before, and neither did he recognize the two other men sitting in front of him. He walked across the room and paused beside a third chair as the man behind the desk stood up.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Elias,’ he said, and gestured to the other two men, who both now stood. ‘To your immediate right is Roger Krywald, and on his right is Richard Stein. This is David Elias.’

  Elias shook hands with both men, then sat down and waited expectantly.

  ‘My name is McCready,’ the dark-haired man continued, accurately anticipating Elias’s unspoken question, ‘and I’m your briefing officer for this operation.’ He scanned the faces of the three men sitting in front of him, then opened a red folder on the desk. ‘As at least two of you know,’ he said, ‘we normally conduct operational briefings at Langley, in one of the secure briefing-rooms there. But the circumstances in which we now find ourselves are not normal, which is why we’re meeting here in this safe house.’

  Elias tentatively raised a hand. ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I’m not really sure I should be here. I’m an analyst. I’m not part of the operational staff.’

  Out of the corner of his eye Elias saw a sneer cross Krywald’s face. The antipathy between the operational staff – the coal-face warriors of the Agency – and the analysts, who sat at desks or in front of computer screens evaluating the take from technical intelligence mechanisms, was well known.

  Each denigrated the work of the other, and each was to a certain extent justified. Technical intelligence was vital – you simply had to know what weaponry the opposition possessed, but without the humint – human intelligence – gleaned from operatives under cover and on the ground, you would have no idea at whom those weapons were likely to be aimed.

  McCready looked at Elias and smiled slightly. ‘That’s right, David. Unlike Roger and Dick here, you’re not. But in one way you’re the most vital member of this team, because of your other skills.’

  ‘My diving?’ Elias hazarded, after a moment.

  ‘Exactly, your diving. In the initial stages of this operation, Roger and Dick will be supporting and assisting you, because without you there could be no operation.’ McCready paused and again eyed each of the three men in turn.

  ‘Before we start, some housekeeping. David, as he’s already mentioned, is not a member of the operational staff, and is essentially a passenger on this mission, along just to carry out one specific task, and therefore we’ve decided that for him to use an alias is an
unnecessary complication. He can use his genuine passport and he’ll be issued with a credit card in his real name.

  ‘You two’ – he gestured towards Krywald and Stein – ‘will travel under assumed surnames, but retaining your real first names, and we’ll have appropriate documentation issued to you. You’ll each have three aliases, but this should be a simple enough operation so I doubt that you’ll be needing more than one. Is that clear?’

  McCready got three nods in exchange. ‘Right,’ he continued, ‘the situation the Agency has found itself in is somewhat unusual, for a number of reasons. First, you need to know some history. This operation essentially began,’ he settled himself more comfortably in his chair, ‘over thirty years ago, on the other side of the world.’

  Outskirts of Matera, Puglia, Italy

  That afternoon Richter had made two purchases in a shop in Brindisi: one was a whetstone, and the other was a flick-knife with a five-inch blade. When he’d arrived back at the airfield, he’d spent a couple of hours honing the blade of the knife until it was quite literally razor-sharp. He wanted there to be no mistake because he knew he’d get no second chance.

  As Perini leaned forward to study Lomas, Richter took a step closer to the captive and eased his right hand out of his pocket. Behind him, he was dimly aware of Simpson approaching the villa, puffing from the unaccustomed exercise.

  Lomas looked at Richter, a faint light of recognition in his eyes, and Richter knew that the Russian was desperately trying to place him.