by Gar Wilson
McCarter leaped to his feet. His left leg was numb from the Iranian's kick, but no bones were broken or muscles cramped. The terrorist rolled across the floor and reached for a dagger in an ankle sheath. McCarter lunged forward and slammed a karate side kick into the man's chest.
The Iranian fell against a urinal. He lashed a kick at McCarter. The Briton dodged the foot, but the terrorist had ample time to rise from the floor. The Iranian did not try to draw the knife. He assumed a T-dachi stance, hands held ready, fingers rigid like a pair of fighting blades.
McCarter quickly adopted a Wing-Chuan position. His open hands poised to defend the "four gates" to his torso's vulnerable spots. The Iranian swung a foot at McCarter's groin. The Briton's foot rapped into his shin before the kick could connect. The terrorist stabbed a fingertip thrust for McCarter's throat. The commando parried the spearhand attack with his right hand and jabbed a left fist to the point of his opponent's jaw.
The terrorist's head snapped back from the impact of the punch. McCarter swiftly slashed the side of his right hand across the Iranian's exposed throat. Blood splurted from the man's open mouth as he clamped both hands to his crushed windpipe and crumbled to the floor.
"Thanks for the salvation," McCarter said breathlessly.
The Briton used a handkerchief to gather up the little .25 automatic. Then he checked the Iranian's pulse to be certain the man was dead. He was. McCarter felt grateful no one had ignored the Out of Order sign on the door. He did not want to waste time explaining a fresh corpse to airport security.
He dragged the Iranian into one of the stalls and sat the corpse on the toilet. McCarter used the handkerchief to avoid leaving prints on the gun as he pressed the magazine catch. The ammo clip dropped into the dead man's lap.
McCarter did not intend to leave a loaded gun lying about. Some damn fool might find it and cause an accident. He worked the slide to pop a round out of the chamber, wiped off the Bauer once more and dropped it into a trash barrel.
The British ace calmly emerged from the washroom and lit another cigarette. Fortunately the report of the little .25 auto had not attracted anyone's attention. McCarter was thankful his opponent had not chosen a larger caliber weapon.
He returned to gate twenty-two in time to hear the announcement that the flight to Athens, Greece, was ready to receive passengers.
6
Colonel Nicolai Kostov liked Greece. The climate was more agreeable than in his native Bulgaria. The people were generally pleasant, the food was good and the standard of living was better than average — if one looked at it on an international level.
Yet Kostov also remembered a different Greece. He recalled the occupation by German and Italian soldiers during World War II. Bulgaria had been an ally of the Nazis at the beginning of the war, but in 1944, Bulgaria had turned against the Axis powers to support the Soviet Union.
Kostov had been a young man then, but already involved in the world of espionage. He was part of a team of Bulgarian communists that slipped into Greece to assist members of the Communist resistance movement known as the Kokino Lionta'ris.
The "Red Lions" conducted a series of hit-and-run attacks against the Germans. One night the young Kostov personally took out a Nazi staff car with a Molotov cocktail. Two men burst from the fiery automobile, their bodies shrouded in flame. Kostov heard them scream and smelled the sickeningly sweet stench of burning human flesh. The young Bulgarian fell to his knees. Both arms hugged his heaving stomach as he opened his mouth and vomited on the grass. A Greek partisan ended the suffering of the flaming Nazis with a volley of 9mm rounds from a confiscated Schmeisser MP-40 submachine gun. Kostov was unaware an enemy soldier was aiming a gun at his back. He would have been killed if another Greek had not seized the German from behind and plunged a knife between his ribs.
"Ineh indaski, Nicolai," a veteran commando assured Kostov as he helped the lad to his feet. "It is all right, Nicolai. You have done well, boy."
After the war, Bulgaria became a satellite of the USSR. Kostov was once again sent to Greece to assist the Communists in an unsuccessful revolution against the Greek monarchist government. The Kokino Lionta'ris were reunited, but the Greeks branded them as bandits instead of heroes. In 1949, the civil war ended and Kostov returned to Bulgaria. He was the only survivor of the Red Lion commandos left.
The Soviet Union, which owned Bulgaria lock, stock and puppet government, recognized Kostov's potential. The KGB recruited the Bulgarian intelligence officer to serve with Department Eleven, the Eastern European Control Section.
Kostov was a highly motivated operative. He tended to regard all non-Communists as simply different versions of the old Nazi regime. Kostov felt a worldwide Communist government was the only hope of crushing the Hitlerian powers he believed to exist.
Years of experience and assignments in various countries had altered Kostov's former zeal. He realized most of the Soviet Union's propaganda was false. He knew the KGB specialized in subversion and terrorism. Kostov had been able to compare Communist societies with the democracies of West Germany, Italy and Greece. He saw for himself that the latter offered its citizens more rights, freedom and a higher standard of living than the former.
However, Nicolai Kostov had become part of the sinister bureaucracy of the Russian RGB. His dedication to the Party had earned him the godlike prestige and power of a field-grade officer in Department Eleven. Power is addictive. Kostov was not about to jeopardize his position of authority.
That didn't mean he had to like this newest assignment that had brought him back to Greece. Yet he would carry out the mission with his usual professional determination and skill. He was too proud to lower the standards of his work and too old to start disobeying orders from the Rremlin.
* * *
The Bulgarian colonel sat in a deck chair on the marble patio with Dimitri Krio. The sun bathed Kostov with pleasant heat as he gazed out at the beautiful Mediterranean Sea that surrounded the island. A servant brought the pair a tray of dolmatehs and a bottle of Inos Lefkos, vintage 1967.
"Efkahri stoh, Milo," Krio told his servant. "That will be all for now."
Milo nodded and headed for the door.
Kostov noticed a slight bulge in the white jacket under the servant's left arm. The Bulgarian turned to his host. "His jacket is too tight to properly conceal a shoulder holster rig," Kostov remarked. "If you insist that he be armed, I suggest you have him carry his weapon in a holster at the small of his back."
"I will remember your advice, Tungirio Kostov." Krio smiled. "Eat. I'm sure you'll find the dolmatehs to your liking."
"I've no doubt of that, comrade," the Bulgarian agreed. "But there are other matters that are less than satisfactory."
"You worry too much, my friend," Krio insisted as he adjusted his gold-frame aviator glasses. "The authorities have taken an interest in us? They spy on me from time to time. The Greek government doesn't like the fact I do business with the Communists, so I must endure such petty harassment. Yet they can do nothing about my choice of business associates. That is free enterprise, eh?"
Krio laughed, but Kostov was not amused. "They are suspicious," the Bulgarian declared.
"They have no grounds to support their suspicions." Krio shrugged. "I am not a Communist. Everyone knows I'm a member of the panhellenic socialist movement. I have friends in parliament who will vouch for my patriotism to the Republic of Greece."
"Do you think they'll support you if they learn you're harboring a small army of international terrorists on this island?"
"Terrorists'?" Krio raised his eyebrows. "Do you not mean the noble warriors of the great revolution against the oppressive bourgeoisie?"
"Call them what you wish," Kostov said bluntly. "Gerhart, Khatid and several of the others are wanted men. You cannot expect to keep a low profile when you have known murderers, kidnappers and saboteurs on this island."
"Your comrades in the KGB sent them to me," the Greek remarked. "Moscow is 'calling the shots,' a
s the Americans might say."
"Moscow makes mistakes," Kostov stated. "And I'm beginning to think this mission is one of them."
"Are you still concerned about that Greek intelligence agent?" Krio sighed as he poured himself a glass of wine. "The spy did not learn a thing while he was here."
"The man was on this island for two days..."
"But we knew about him even before he arrived," Krio insisted. "Thanks to my own intelligence sources in Athens. It was easy to keep him ignorant until he left."
"He will still be able to supply information," Kostov declared. "He can give details about the island and the house."
"The authorities have surely made maps of the island and copied the blueprints of this house long ago," Krio remarked. "The spy will have little to add to what they already know. However, whatever assistance he may have been to them, he will not be in any condition to supply further information now."
"What does that mean?" the Bulgarian demanded. "Don't tell me you gave him a dose of the Proteus Enzyme," Kostov said accusingly.
"Consider it another field experiment, comrade." Krio laughed.
"You fool!" Kostov snapped. "There was no need for that."
"Retribution," the Greek stated simply. "I dislike those scum sticking their anteater noses into my affairs."
"That was stupid," Kostov said. "It will only increase their suspicions."
"They cannot prove anything," Krio told him. "You know that."
"I do not like this," Kostov insisted. "Our security has already been jeopardized, and now you have agreed to let two Americans come here for a business meeting."
"If I had refused to meet with them that would truly be suspicious." Krio smiled. "I have been trying to get a connection with an American shipping company for almost a decade. I may as well make a profit from the United States now, as it won't be a world power much longer."
"Those Americans might be with the CIA."
"They will only be here for a few hours." The Greek shrugged. "Do not be concerned, comrade. Even if the Americans are spies, they will learn nothing."
"I do not like your recklessness, Krio," Kostov told him. "I have been in this business for a long time, and I have not been a success by working with careless people."
"Come now." Krio sighed. "Soon the last of the tests will be completed. Then the enzyme and our outlaw comrades will be on their way to various locations throughout the world."
"That cannot happen soon enough to suit me," the Bulgarian admitted.
"Indeed." Krio smiled. "The KGB will certainly reward you handsomely for this. A promotion to general, or perhaps you will even become the head of the Bulgarian State Security Service."
"I am not interested in personal glory," Kostov stated, although he knew this was not entirely true. "Or financial gain."
"My gain will benefit the KGB," the Greek said. "We will all profit, Comrade Colonel. You and your superiors in one way, and I in another. The world is about to change. Within a year the powers of the Western world will crumble and fall."
"A great many innocent people will suffer," Kostov remarked grimly. "I can find no pleasure in that."
"But war between East and West is inescapable." Krio shrugged. "You have said so yourself."
"I know." The Bulgarian nodded. "And I suppose the Proteus Enzyme is a better solution than a nuclear war."
"Much better," Krio assured him. "Whoever the genius in the Soviet Union is who conjured up this scheme ought to be the new premier. Not a shot will be fired. No radioactive contamination will result. And there will be no way for the capitalists to blame us for what will happen. It will appear to be what the idiot Christians would call 'an act of God.' "
"Or the devil," Kostov replied with a sad shake of his head.
7
Yakov Katzenelenbogen and Calvin James arrived at the Athens airport shortly after noon. They climbed from the U.S. Navy C-130 and hauled out three oblong-shaped aluminum suitcases. Katz waved his steel hook at the pilot. The air jockey nodded in return. He did not know who his two mysterious passengers were, but he had delivered them to Athens. His job was done.
A slender man dressed in a light-blue suit approached the pair. The face beneath the brim of his straw hat was well tanned and featured a pencil-thin mustache and a black patch over his left eye. The Phoenix Force commandos noticed the butt of a pistol peeking from a cross-draw holster under the guy's jacket.
"Welcome to Greece, gentlemen," he announced, his English containing only a trace of an accent. "Are you with the British embassy?"
The odd question was a password, and Katz replied with the correct counterphrase. "No," the Israeli said. "But can you help us find our friend from England?"
"As a matter of fact, I can." The Greek smiled. "Please follow me."
The Phoenix Force pair followed the stranger through an open gate that led to the luggage transportation section. Katz glanced up at a sign written in Greek above the entrance. Some of the letters looked the same as Russian Cyrillic, but Katz could not translate a single word. The multilingual Israeli was not used to being in a country where he could not understand the native language. He did not like it. He felt ignorant and dependent on others.
"My name is Manos Draco," the one-eyed Greek explained as he led the Phoenix Force vets through the baggage section. "I'm with the National Security Service. I believe you call my position a 'case officer' in the CIA. Correct?"
"I'm Solomon Goldblum, and this is Jim Johnson," Katz replied, using their cover names.
"Your British friend arrived this morning." Draco laughed. "He seemed rather upset to be told the details of his mission from contacts here in Greece."
"We sort of figured he'd meet us at the airport so we could tell him ourselves," James remarked.
"Where is our friend?" Katz inquired.
"Mr. Miller." Draco smiled. "That's what he's calling himself. He's picking up a crate that was delivered to the British Embassy."
"All right." The Israeli nodded. "How well have you been briefed on this mission, Mr. Draco?"
"I probably know as much about the Krio business as anyone who isn't on that island with him. I'll tell you the details on the way to our safehouse. That's what you CIA people call a temporary base of operations, yes?"
"Your English is very good," James commented. "You've even got the Company jargon down pat."
"We were told you'd need translators," Draco continued. "I'm afraid Mr. Kalvo is upset about this business. He's the CIA case officer who was in charge until the new orders put you gentlemen in command. He's been stationed here for years and speaks Greek fluently. You three have sort of stolen his thunder."
"We'll straighten things out with Kalvo," Katz assured him.
"Right now he's with Mr. Miller," Draco commented. "I imagine your British friend and he have exchanged words by now."
"Oh, yeah." James nodded, familiar with McCarter's sharp tongue. "I bet they have at that."
The trio left the airport and headed for the parking lot. Draco escorted the newcomers to a Volkswagen Rabbit. They loaded the luggage in the car and climbed into the VW.
"What can you add to our information about the Krio affair?" Katz asked Draco.
"Not much, I'm afraid," the Greek confessed. "We managed to slip an agent into Krio's house. He was disguised as a caterer and stayed almost twenty-four hours. Somehow Krio must have known. Panayotis Sioris, the agent, was never allowed to venture beyond the house."
"He must have learned something," James insisted.
"We already have a detailed map of the island thanks to aerial reconnaissance," Draco explained. "Sioris drew up some crude blueprints of what he saw of the house. He also noted that most of Krio's servants are hired on a temporary basis. The permanent personnel are very tight-lipped, but they're obviously bodyguards as well, and carry pistols at all times."
"What did he find out about the Bulgarians and the terrorists?" James asked.
"Very little," the Greek said, st
eering his Rabbit onto the Arch of Hadrian. "Sioris never saw Kostov, but he recognized Captain Vitosho leading a group of men dressed in fatigue uniforms in some physical-training exercises. They were working out on a parade field located between two barracks. Krio claimed these are members of a new security corporation he's putting together. Training bodyguards for rich men like himself. Sioris didn't manage to get a better look at the billets."
"We'd better talk to this Sioris," Katz said.
"He can't tell you anything," Draco answered.
"Maybe hypnosis will help," James suggested. "Sioris might not consciously remember anything of value, but under hypnosis we can open up his subconscious and try to find out about little details he might have overlooked."
"You don't understand," the Greek began. "Sioris has become gravely ill since his mission."
"Ill?" James asked. "How ill?"
"He's been hospitalized after complaining about severe stomach pains," Draco explained. "The doctors believe he's suffering from a strange gastral disease. Sioris is literally unable to digest food."
"Dying of malnutrition," Katz said in astonishment, recalling the bizarre death of Uri Yosefthal.
"That is correct," Draco confirmed. "The doctors are quite baffled by this."
"No wonder." Calvin James frowned. The medic and chemistry expert considered possible causes. "Have they said anything about surgery?"
"I'm not sure," Draco admitted. "Apparently they don't want to cut, because they have no idea what's wrong."
"What about intravenous feeding?" James asked.
"That doesn't seem to work, either," Draco said.
"It didn't help Uri," Katz remarked grimly.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Goldblum?" Draco inquired.
"A possible pattern," the Israeli answered. "Can we see Sioris?"
"He's in no condition to be questioned," the Greek stated. "The poor man is dying..."
"He won't have to answer any questions," Yakov said. "But I want to see him immediately."