Pandemic pr-2

by James Barrington

  Though it was a bright sunny day, something about the way Richter uttered those last few words sent a chill up Fitzpatrick’s spine. ‘When you say “handle it”, can I assume this renegade American won’t be bothering us here any more?’

  ‘You assume correctly,’ Richter said, his face hard and unsmiling. ‘I brought Charles Ross into this mess, and now he’s dead because he was doing his job. That makes his death my responsibility, at least by implication. The man who killed him won’t just walk away from this, that I can promise you.’

  Just then two police cars arrived outside the hotel opposite and squealed to a halt, their sirens dying away in a discordant duet. Four officers scrambled out and ran into the hotel entrance. Murder’s a fairly rare crime on Crete, and Richter assumed they were all eager to take a good first look at the victim.

  ‘Right,’ Fitzpatrick concluded, ‘I’ll see what I can do. Can you hang on here until I’ve got things sorted out across the road?’

  Richter nodded. ‘Until you find me this bastard’s location, I’ve got nowhere else to go.’ As Fitzpatrick crossed the street towards the hotel, he heard Richter summon a waiter and order another cup of coffee and a baklava.

  Between Kolymvári and Réthymno, Crete

  Mike Murphy had just passed the north-bound turning for Georgioúpoli, heading back towards Réthymno, when he spotted the light blue Seat Cordoba travelling in the opposite direction. Murphy had extremely good eyesight and immediately recognized the Seat’s registration number. It helped that he’d been expecting to see the car, having been copied Stein’s pick-up instructions by Nicholson.

  He did nothing until the Seat had got about a quarter of a mile behind him, then he hauled the Peugeot round in a U-turn and floored the accelerator pedal. He didn’t know exactly where Stein was going, but he figured that the target was on his way to a new location somewhere on the western end of the island, and closer to where the helicopter would land the following day. Murphy guessed that Stein had the case and file with him, and the easiest option was to follow his target and find out where he was going next. Then he could choose his moment for eliminating the man and completing the job.

  But Stein was a fellow professional, and would certainly be constantly watching his mirrors. The traffic was light, which didn’t help, so once Murphy had got close enough to double-check the Seat’s registration number, he dropped back steadily until he was about five hundred yards behind. There he hovered, close enough to keep visual contact with the Cordoba but hopefully too far behind for Stein to become aware of his presence.

  The problem came when the Seat approached the turning for Máleme, in now thickening traffic. Murphy found himself sandwiched between two tour buses and the lorry that they were slowly overtaking, and by the time he could clearly see the road ahead of him again, the blue Seat was no longer in sight.

  Murphy accelerated hard, just in case Stein had increased his speed, but by the time he reached the junction for Kolymvári he knew that his quarry must have pulled off the road earlier, probably heading into Máleme.

  He cursed, swung the Peugeot off into Kolymvári and then back onto the main road, heading east. He’d just have to check every possible turning and hope that he spotted the Seat again before Stein dumped it.

  Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  John Westwood had been shelving the vast majority of his regular work ever since the briefing he’d attended in Walter Hicks’s office, but he’d now reached the point where he had to stop trying to track down the shadowy figure lurking behind the deaths of James Richards, the Hawkins couple and now Henry Butcher, and do some real work.

  The killing of Butcher had to some extent brought the current phase of the investigation to an end. Butcher had been the last CIA officer known to be involved in Operation CAIP. It was a reasonable assumption that there would be no more killings, simply because nobody else currently or previously employed by the Company knew about CAIP. Apart from the killer, of course, and Westwood was still determined to find him, one way or the other.

  But there was simply too much other important stuff piling up in his in-tray for him to ignore it any longer. Some of it he could pass on to his deputies and assistants, but most of it he couldn’t: he was a head of department here and he had greater responsibilities than just tracking down Mr X.

  Once he had the personnel files on the remaining fifty-seven possible suspects delivered to his office, he put them straight into his wall safe and locked it. He’d start reading through them the following morning, hopefully with a clearer pair of eyes after a good night’s sleep – and with less subconscious pressure if he could manage to clear some of the routine stuff that was awaiting his attention.

  So he pulled his in-tray towards him and got to work.

  Máleme, Crete

  Murphy’s deduction had been correct: Stein had pulled off the main north-coast road and headed into Máleme. He drove around for a few minutes, getting a feel for the layout of the town, located on the south coast of Chaniá Bay, then stopped on the western outskirts.

  He found a tiny hotel well away from any of the usual tourist areas and paid in cash, in advance, which avoided him having to use any personal documentation. He booked two nights’ bed and breakfast, though he knew he would be leaving early the following afternoon. He wasn’t prepared to wait around in the hotel’s tiny lobby after being forced to vacate his room in the morning.

  As a precaution, he parked the Seat in a car park a couple of hundred yards down the road and carried his two bags the short distance back to the hotel. The room he chose was on the first floor at the rear, right next to a circular metal fire escape that ran down from the top floor to the ground, in case he needed another way out in a hurry.

  He debated for a while about getting rid of the Seat, just in case it had been spotted back in Réthymno, but he decided not to. He would only have to use it for one more journey, the following afternoon, and he believed he would be exposed to far more risk of being identified if he tried to hire or steal another car.

  Stein plugged the laptop and the mobile phone into power sockets for recharging. He might well have to use one or the other the following day after he’d left the hotel. Then he jammed the back of a chair under the door handle, stripped off and ran a bath. He took the SIG into the bathroom with him, just in case.

  Réthymno, Crete

  Forty minutes later Martin Fitzpatrick walked back across the street and sat down next to Richter. ‘We make progress,’ he said. ‘They had to get it cleared with their powers that be, which is why it took so long, but they’ll be taking no further official action over the incident. If anyone pushes them they’re going to claim that it was accidental death. Ross was entitled to carry a firearm in certain circumstances, although we both know he wasn’t armed today, so the official position will be that it was an accidental discharge with no third-party involvement.’

  Fitzpatrick pushed a piece of paper across the table. ‘They’ve tracked down the full registration number of the Seat. You were right: it’s a Cordoba and it was hired a short while ago here in Réthymno by an American tourist called George Jones.’

  Richter nodded. ‘That’s a new name, of course, but I’ve no doubt it’s the same man.’

  ‘Right. The Cretan police have put out a watch order for the car itself, but a hands-off instruction for the driver, as you requested. As soon as anybody spots it I’ll let you know. Where are you going to be for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Right here in Réthymno,’ Richter said. ‘I’ve got a room at a hotel about half a mile up the street. I’m going to hire a car this afternoon so that I’m able to get moving immediately, but until I hear from you, I’ll be staying at that hotel. I’ll have the mobile Ross gave me switched on at all times.’

  Fitzpatrick stood up and extended a hand. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. ‘Just a shame about the circumstances. I’ll be in touch.’

  As the SIS officer walked away, Rich
ter’s mobile rang.

  ‘Richter.’

  ‘Tyler Hardin,’ the voice said. ‘I don’t know if it’s much help to you, but I’ve been passed a preliminary report about the weapon used to kill Curtis.’

  ‘Wait one,’ Richter murmured, putting the mobile down on the table. He pulled a ballpoint pen and notebook from his pocket and prepared to write. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘OK, Curtis was killed by two bullets from a nine-millimetre weapon, presumably a pistol. The local forensic laboratory has only been able to state what weapons within that calibre didn’t fire them.’

  ‘Which were?’ Richter asked.

  ‘OK, this isn’t my field, so I’m reading from a list here. The two bullets I pulled out of Curtis’s chest had six grooves and a right-hand twist, like those fired by just about every other 9mm pistol that’s ever been built. The weapons that couldn’t have fired them include a Glock; Steyr; some of the Czech CZ models; Heckler and Koch; most of the Russian pistols like the Makarov and Tokarev; most Chinese pistols; Colts; and the old Luger. Colts have six grooves but a left-hand twist in the rifling, and all the others have a different number of grooves, usually four, or a strange barrel shape like the hexagonal thing on the Glock. Does any of that make any sense to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Richter said. ‘It makes perfectly good sense, but it doesn’t help much. It just means whoever killed Curtis wasn’t helpful enough to use some kind of more unusual weapon that could help me to identify him.’

  Máleme, Crete

  Stein sat down on the edge of the rather hard bed and looked at the map that he’d spread out beside him. The laptop computer was perched next to the bed on an upright chair, the screen again displaying the email he’d received earlier that day from McCready. He’d read the text at least half a dozen times and still wasn’t sure about it.

  It was just about possible that McCready was prepared to play it straight. The single, and unquestionable, advantage that Stein had was actual possession of the steel case containing the flasks and the Company file. To recover those items, he believed McCready would go to almost any lengths, so he was fairly certain that a helicopter from the US Navy frigate would appear at the pick-up point specified. What he wasn’t sure about was who else might have been told to turn up at that rendezvous, and what their orders might be.

  The problem was, Stein couldn’t actually see what other options he had. Before he’d shot that unknown man in his hotel room, there had been at least a chance he could have tried slipping away from Crete by air or ferry, but the killing had precluded that. The Cretan police would by now have both a good verbal description of him and a copy of his passport photograph, since the hotel clerk in Réthymno had photocopied all three of their passports as they’d checked in. The fact that the name on that passport wasn’t the same as the one he was currently using was, in that context, irrelevant. If the police had done nothing else meanwhile, they would at the very least ensure that all the port and airport officials would have his picture sitting on view right in front of them.

  One alternative he had considered was to hire or steal a boat and sail it up towards the Greek mainland. But Stein knew that his own abilities fell far short of what was required: just getting that open boat back to Chóra Sfakia after the dive had taxed him to the limit.

  So, despite the inevitable risks, he really had no option but to turn up at McCready’s rendezvous. He’d be sure to get there early, take every possible precaution, and watch his back as best he could. If he even made it as far as the chopper, he’d feel safe. Until then, Stein was going to be living on his nerves.

  Réthymno, Crete

  Sitting in the hotel bar late that afternoon, a coffee cup, a bottle of water, a glass, two mobile phones and an unopened novel arranged in front of him, Richter had come to broadly the same conclusions as Stein, and for pretty much the same reasons. The Cretan police were probably not as efficient or as organized as some other European forces, but they’d had plenty of practice in locking down all the regular routes off their island.

  The only way Richard Watson or George Jones, or whatever his real name was, could get off Crete was if somebody arranged some kind of a clandestine pick-up for him, and that probably meant either a boat or a helicopter. Fortunately, Richter was in a pretty good position to do something about either option – or, to be exact, he wasn’t, but HMS Invincible was. Richter mused for a few minutes, then made his decision. He’d pissed off the Commander in a fairly big way, and was reasonably certain that any obstacle that man could place in his path he would, so the obvious option was to request what he wanted from their lordships at the Admiralty, through Hammersmith.

  Richter reached for the Enigma mobile he’d collected on the ship itself and dialled a London number. It took him nearly five minutes to reach and brief the duty officer, and another two minutes before he heard Simpson’s less than amiable tones in his ear.

  ‘Now what, Richter? And who’s this man Ross you’ve managed to get killed? I’ve had Vauxhall Cross bleating on about him for the last hour.’

  ‘I didn’t get him killed, Simpson,’ Richter snapped. ‘Charles Ross was the man the local Six office loaned me, mainly for his language and lock-picking skills. Unfortunately, he encountered the last of these three Americans I’ve been chasing. The Yank was armed: Ross wasn’t. The outcome was entirely predictable.’

  ‘Not by you, apparently, Richter.’

  ‘I can’t tell the local Six people how to conduct their business. We had one pistol between us, and as I was acting as the downstairs man, it seemed more appropriate that I should be carrying.’

  ‘So you say. My guess is that Vauxhall Cross will want you grilled and served up on a platter once you get back here. First Lomas, now this man Ross – and in less than a week, too. That’s a pretty unimpressive record even by your standards.’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what Vauxhall Cross – or anyone else, for that matter – thinks of me. I’m trying to do a job over here – like you instructed, if you remember – and I’d manage it a lot better if you climbed off my back and gave me some real help instead of bitching about what’s gone wrong.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Richter. What help do you want now anyway? Another Six man to act as a bullet-catcher?’

  ‘No.’ Richter ignored the jibe. ‘I want a series of orders sent to the Invincible.’

  ‘Why ask me? You can probably see the bloody ship from where you’re sitting now. Just use the phone or a radio or something.’

  ‘It would be better if these orders were official, from the Admiralty. I had a slight run-in with the Commander earlier, and I think I’d encounter fewer problems and more cooperation if the instructions came from above.’

  Simpson’s chuckle echoed in the earpiece. ‘You seem to have a real knack for losing friends and failing to impress people, Richter. So, what do you want the ship to do for you?’

  ‘Just some basic surveillance. This last American agent’s running scared. His picture’s soon going to be plastered across the walls at all the ferry ports and airports, and every local cop will have a photograph in his pocket. The only way he’s going to get off Crete is if somebody organizes a pick-up from a US Navy vessel or even a submarine. My guess is that the rendezvous will be somewhere on the western end of the island. So I’d like the Invincible to move station from her present location out towards the west, and then plot every boat or aircraft that looks like it’s heading for a landfall at that end of Crete.’

  ‘Then what? You want it shot down or sunk as well?’

  ‘You’re joking, I presume. I just want it tracked, and as soon as the landfall location can be established, I want to know about it.’

  ‘Sounds a bit of a long shot to me, Richter. Even if the ship spots a chopper on radar, by the time they inform you and you find your car keys and drive to wherever it’s intending to land, the chances are it will already have picked up your man and headed back out to sea.’

  ‘It is a long shot, as y
ou say, but right now it’s pretty much all I’ve got, unless the local plods can eyeball this comedian’s car pretty soon. If they can, that changes everything.’

  ‘OK, I’ll set the wheels in motion. And, Richter, try and keep the body count down from now on, will you? No doubt this American agent’s going to come to grief if you’ve got anything to do with it, but if you could leave at least some of the local population still standing when you’ve finished whatever the hell you’re doing I’m sure the Cretan tourist board would be grateful.’

  ‘Ever thought about a career on the stage, Simpson?’ Richter pressed the button to disconnect.

  Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  John Nicholson wasn’t exactly worried, but he was certainly concerned. He had realized that the killings of C. J. Hawkins and James Richards – he was hopeful that Henry Butcher’s death would be attributed to natural causes, and Mary Hawkins’s elimination was irrelevant as far as he was concerned – would result in a police investigation. He was also aware that it wouldn’t take the local police long to deduce that the same perpetrator had been responsible for all the deaths. Discovering that the only solid link between the elderly men was their previous employment in the Central Intelligence Agency would, he reckoned, take them longer, hopefully a lot longer, to establish. Nevertheless, sooner or later the police would make this connection and some kind of an internal inquiry would be certain to follow.