Harvest Hell

by Gar Wilson

  "You have an idea about what happened to the dude?" James asked.

  "Perhaps," the Phoenix Force commander replied. "Frankly, I rather hope I'm wrong."

  Manos Draco drove to the Accident and Orthopedic Hospital on Kifissia Road. The Greek intel officer's identification gained him an audience with Dr. Kessel, the MD in charge of Sioris's treatment.

  Draco spoke to the portly, dour doctor in Greek. Katz and James could not understand the conversation, but Kessel's grim expression warned them that the translation would not be pleasant.

  "Sioris's condition is worse," Draco told them. "He's gone into a coma. The doctor does not think he will live to see the sun set."

  "I still want to see Sioris," Katz insisted.

  "Mr. Goldblum," the Greek began. "The man is dying. Can't he be allowed to do so in peace?"

  "There isn't time for such niceties," Yakov declared. "Too many lives are at stake. I simply want to see if his condition is the same as that of Uri Yosefthal when he died."

  "Very well," Draco agreed sadly. "If you insist."

  "I do," the Israeli confirmed.

  * * *

  Kosta Chrysostomos smiled as he watched Dr. Kessel through the Bushnell 8x30 binoculars. Kessel pulled the bed sheet over the face of Panayotis Sioris, who lay in a hospital bed in a room across the street from Chrysostomos's hotel room. The invalid was dead. Chrysostomos and his partner, Constantine Mercouri, had been cooped up in that hotel for the past five days, waiting for Sioris to die.

  Twenty-four-hour surveillance of a dying man seemed absurd to Chrysostomos, but he was paid well to obey orders and not ask too many questions. His employers rewarded loyalty and punished disobedience swiftly and ruthlessly.

  Chrysostomos and Mercouri were Greek gangsters. They had started their violent careers as members of the infamous Lima'ni Fi'dis. The "Harbor Snakes" was a vicious gang that prowled the dockyards of Piraeus and Vouliagment. A pack of young savages, the Snakes preyed on careless drunks and lone fishermen. Now and then they assaulted young lovers who were drawn to the romantic shoreline without considering the possible hazard of strolling the piers after dark.

  Eventually the hoodlums graduated beyond adolescent crime to find employment as enforcers for a loan-shark organization. Chrysostomos and Mercouri were sent to punish their employer's clients who failed to pay their loans promptly. Breaking arms and legs and disfiguring faces led to an occasional contract killing.

  One night the hoodlums discovered their employer sprawled across his desk. His throat had been sliced open. Blood soaked into the ink blotter. Two men waited for the thugs. Both held Czech machine pistols.

  The gunmen told them a new leader was now in charge of the loan-shark business. They could either work for the new boss or they would be splattered all over the walls of the office. Naturally Mercouri and Chrysostomos chose the former.

  They had worked for their new employer for almost two years. Neither man realized that Dimitri Krio was the man in control. The shipping tycoon paid better than the deceased mobster kingpin and the men were generally given simple assignments that involved little risk. If a thug got arrested for assault, Krio arranged for a good lawyer and often bribed the judge to reduce the sentence. If Greece got too hot for one of his button men, Krio had him smuggled out of the country until things cooled off. His shipping trade made this quite easy.

  The hoods believed they were part of a new criminal syndicate in Greece. This was only part of Krio's plan. He was actually creating his own personal intelligence network, with the unsuspecting gangsters as his agents.

  Chrysostomos did not know why they had been ordered to keep watch on the man in the hospital bed. He assumed the invalid was a member of a rival syndicate, or perhaps a troublesome police investigator. The reason did not matter. The job had been tiresome and boring.

  Chrysostomos saw another figure approach the lifeless form lying on the hospital bed. The Greek hoodlum trained his binoculars on the man who pulled the sheet away from Sioris's face. The stranger had a metal device with three steel hooks instead of a right hand. A tall black man soon appeared beside the foreigner with the steel "hand."

  "Constantine!" Chrysostomos snapped. "Come here!"

  "What is wrong, Kosta?" Mercouri asked as he hurried to the window.

  "The two men who arrived on the American military airplane are visiting the sick one in the hospital," Chrysostomos explained, handing the field glasses to his partner.

  "Are you certain of this?" Mercouri frowned.

  "See for yourself," Chrysostomos told him. "A Negro and a man with one hand. That is the description we received from Xerxes. Right?"

  "Right," Mercouri agreed when he examined the hospital room through the Bushnell spyglass. "You are right, but the sick one is dead. We need only report the fact that the Americans have come here. Then we can go home."

  "Don't be a fool," Chrysostomos snapped. "Those two must be important. Why else would we have been told to watch for them. I'm going to contact Xerxes right now."

  "Do you think he will order us to follow these Americans?" Mercouri asked wearily.

  "Probably," Chrysostomos answered. "Unless he wants us to kill them immediately."

  8

  "I wondered when the hell you blokes would finally get here," David McCarter told Katz and James when the three Phoenix Force members met in the safehouse on Ditamou Street.

  "Glad to see you, too," Katz said dryly.

  The trio had assembled in the Spartan kitchen, where McCarter had just pried open a wooden crate. He removed an aluminum case similar to the luggage Katz and James had brought with them on the C-130.

  We arrived about three hours ago," the Israeli explained. "We're late because we stopped by the hospital to see Sioris."

  "Kalvo told me about him." The Briton nodded. "How's he doing?"

  "He's dead," Calvin James replied.

  "Sounds like a permanent condition," the Briton remarked. "I heard the poor bastard wasn't able to digest food."

  "That's right," the black commando replied. "I assisted with the autopsy. I've never seen anything like it before. Dude's stomach was full of moldy, rotten food. Stuff didn't digest, but it still decayed. Must have caused five different types of food poisoning."

  "They should have pumped his stomach and fed him intravenously," McCarter said as he worked the combination lock to his metal case.

  "That wouldn't have saved him," James replied. "Sioris's pancreatic and intestinal fluids didn't work. The peritoneum was ruined. The pylorus, gastric glands and large and small intestines all failed to function. Liver, mesenteric artery were both useless. Even the serum in the blood wouldn't retain nutriments."

  "What could have caused that to happen?" McCarter asked.

  "I don't have any idea," James admitted. "Yakov has the only answer that might make sense."

  "Well, don't keep me in suspense, Katz," McCarter said as he opened his case and smiled. It contained a Browning Hi-Power autoloading pistol and a compact M-10 Ingram machine pistol. Both weapons were in 9mm parabellum caliber. They were also David McCarter's favorite tools of the trade. In addition, the case contained spare magazines for both firearms, as well as a Bianchi shoulder holster rig for the Browning and three SAS "bang-flash" concussion grenades.

  McCarter's mood improved as he handled his weapons. Katz explained about Uri Yosefthal's death while the SAS warrior slid into his shoulder rig and nestled the pistol into leather under his left arm.

  "The bloody KGB must be responsible for this," McCarter declared.

  "That's what we figure," James agreed. "The bastards must have tested some sort of new chemical or biological weapon on Yosefthal. Probably used it on other political prisoners in their labor camps, as well."

  "The Soviets released Yosefthal because they knew he was going to die," Katz stated. "And no one would be able to prove the KGB was responsible, since the effects of their murderous chemistry didn't materialize until Yosefthal was transplanted to the Un
ited States."

  "And now the Bulgarians have the chemical," James added. "No surprise about that, since the Bulgarian secret police are controlled by the KGB."

  "That must mean the Communists and Krio are working on the starvation chemical on the island," McCarter stated.

  "Seems to me they've already perfected it," James commented. "But they might be making more of the compound there."

  "I've seen aerial photographs of the island," the Englishman told his partners. "There are several large buildings there. Any one of them could contain a chemistry laboratory."

  "But why would they produce it on Krio Island?" James wondered aloud. "They could do it with greater security within the Soviet Union."

  "There are two possible reasons," Katz began. "You're the chemist, Cal. What's the greatest danger involved in chemical-biological warfare?"

  "Controlling a viruslike strain," James answered. "I see your point, Yakov. The KGB might have insisted that the chemicals be produced outside the iron curtain because they were afraid of a possible epidemic."

  "Or they may intend to use the terrorists as agents to transfer the chemical to cities throughout the world for sabotage purposes," Katz added.

  "Of course," McCarter agreed with the latter theory. "Krio doesn't have a terrorist training camp in the usual sense. It's a base for using terrorists as agents for chemical-biological warfare sabotage. From what Draco and Kalvo have told me about Krio, such a scheme fits his style."

  "Kalvo is the CIA guy, right?" James asked. "Draco warned us that he doesn't like us horning in on his turf."

  "Bloody right he doesn't," McCarter confirmed. "Expect some flak from that one. Kalvo was really pissed-off when we had to go to the British Embassy to get my crate. Thinks I'm with Her Majesty's Secret Service, or something like that. He doesn't see why he should take orders from us. Can't blame him for being upset, since he's been in Greece for a long time and speaks the language like a native. Probably is annoying to have a bunch of outsiders arrive and take over command."

  "Where is Kalvo now?" Katz inquired.

  "Filing a complaint about this situation to his control officer at the American embassy," McCarter said.

  "That won't change anything." The Israeli shrugged. "Our authority comes from the Oval Office, so Kalvo can just grit his teeth and follow orders. Now what were you saying about Krio's style?"

  "Oh, converting thugs to work in an intelligence network is sort of a Krio speciality," the Briton explained. "The coppers believe Krio is actually the power behind the second largest criminal syndicate in Greece. Clever bastard appears to have set up a sort of private spy ring, using hoodlums for field operations — recon, general intel and assassination."

  "Oh, shit," James muttered. "There are supposed to be about a hundred guys on the island alone, and now you tell us we have to worry about a bunch of Krio's hired goons here as well?*'

  "Hell." McCarter shrugged. "Why worry about it? We've figured out what Krio is up to. Let's tell Draco and Kalvo. Then we'll see about getting a strike force of Greek paratroopers or U.S. troops together. We'll raid Krio Island and crush the conspiracy before it can get any worse."

  "I'm afraid it's not that simple, David," Katz began. "We can't prove Krio and his group are involved in an insidious international plot. We can't even prove Sioris was murdered. The authorities will never agree to a raid without solid proof."

  "Besides," James added, "Colonel Kostov is a pro. You can bet your ass he's got explosives wired to the lab just in case he has to destroy it in a hurry."

  "Sure he'd destroy the evidence," McCarter said. "But he'd also get rid of the virus."

  "On Krio Island." Katz nodded. "But don't forget this chemical was developed in the Soviet Union. If we destroy it here, that won't solve our problem. Or the threat facing the free world. We have to get a sample of the virus so our own scientists can analyze it. It's the only way we'll be able to defend ourselves against the virus if the Kremlin attempts to use it again in the future."

  "Then that means Gary and Rafael will still have to go to the island," James said grimly.

  "What's this?" McCarter raised his eyebrow.

  Katz explained the plan to his British partner.

  McCarter frowned. "I don't like it, Yakov," the Englishman stated. "Sending them in there is too bloody dangerous. You know what happened to Sioris."

  "Manning and Encizo have arranged to meet with Krio," Katz said. "Just a business meeting that should last only a few hours. The Greek isn't stupid, and neither is Kostov. They wouldn't do anything to a pair of so-called American businessmen, even if they suspected their visitors might be sent to spy on them."

  "Tell that to Sioris," McCarter insisted. "They killed him, didn't they?"

  "Sioris was on the island for almost twenty-four hours," Katz replied. "Krio clearly had no doubts about Sioris, but he can't be as certain about Manning and Encizo."

  "That's an assumption," McCarter declared. "You hope Krio won't use the virus on them. Besides, what's the point? If Sioris didn't learn anything in an entire day on the island, why should we believe Gary and Rafael will do any better?"

  "It does seem like an unnecessary risk, Yakov," James agreed.

  "The value of firsthand information from two members of Phoenix Force is obvious," the Israeli told them. "Our people are better trained and more experienced than Sioris. We're the best in the business, or we wouldn't be part of Phoenix Force. The possible gain merits a degree of risk."

  "You could order them not to go," James remarked.

  "No, I can't," Katz replied. "Phoenix Force is a voluntary organization. We don't have to accept a mission, but when we do, we're committed to its success. The mission must be top priority. It is more important than our individual lives. If Manning and Encizo fail to meet with Krio, the Greek will suspect they were spies. He and Kostov will realize time is running out. They'll step up operations and possibly send out their agents before we can stop them."

  "But we've got to warn them about the starvation virus," James insisted. "Christ, Yakov. They've got a right to know what they're getting into."

  "We'll warn them," Katz assured him. "If they want to cancel the meeting, they can. If they want to accept the risk and meet with Krio, that will be their decision, as well."

  "They'll do it, Katz," McCarter declared. "You know they will."

  "I know." The Israeli nodded. "Meantime, we'd better plan our own strategy."

  "And what the hell might that be?" the British vet asked.

  "I think that will depend on what Mr. Krio and his syndicate decide to do next," the Israeli remarked with a shrug.

  "What does that mean?" a confused Calvin James asked.

  "Didn't you notice the gray sedan that followed us from the hospital?" Katz asked mildly.

  "Yeah," the black man confirmed. "At the time I figured it was a backup team of Greek intel agents Draco hadn't bothered to tell us about... probably because he didn't trust us completely."

  "I thought it might be something like that, too," Yakov stated. "Until David told us about Krio's crime syndicate. It seems Krio's people have already taken an interest in us."

  "Thank God," McCarter said with a wolfish grin. "That means we ought to see some bloody action soon."

  "I knew that would make you feel better." Katz sighed.

  9

  Flight 909 from New York landed at the Athens airport thirty hours after the first three members of Phoenix Force had arrived in Greece. Gary Manning and Rafael Encizo deplaned and descended the ramp. Both men wore conservative, single-breasted suits and carried black attaché cases. They looked like a pair of junior executives on a business trip.

  Of course, that was exactly what "Anthony Peters" and "Ram6n Santos" were supposed to be. Manning and Encizo showed their forged passports to the customs officer and prepared to open their carryon luggage.

  "Me-sighkoriti," the official said in an apologetic tone. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but your papers are not in order."r />
  "There must be some mistake," Encizo protested in broken Greek. "Parakalo. Please, look again."

  "Do not be difficult, Tongirio Santos," the official insisted. "You will both come with me. Now."

  Encizo and Manning followed the customs man into a small office. They wondered if Brognola's people had made a mistake with the passports. Or was the customs man more than he appeared to be? If so, whose side was he on?

  The office was sparsely furnished with a small desk, two chairs, a telephone and some wall charts written in several languages, including English.

  The official closed the door and bolted it. He turned to the foreigners and smiled. "Sorry to give you a bit of a start," the Greek said, his English containing a surprising cockney accent. "Working undercover is nerve-racking enough without an unexpected thing like this happening."

  "Please explain yourself," Manning urged.

  "No need to fret, guv," the customs man answered. "I'm Nikkos Papadopoulos, Greek Security Service. A Mr. Goldblum has a message for you blokes."

  "I don't recognize the name." Manning frowned. "You know anybody named Goldblum, Santos?"

  "Not that I can recall." Encizo shrugged. "Maybe you're talking to the wrong guys, Nikkos."

  "Bleedin' careful, ain't you?" Nikkos grinned. "Goldblum wanted me to ask if you chaps tangled with any outlaw bikers or tiger sharks lately."

  "Okay," Encizo said, offering his hand. "I guess those are a couple details the enemy couldn't have guessed, and nobody could have squeezed information out of our friend this quickly."

  "Seemed like a tough old chap," Nikkos commented as he shook hands with the Cuban.

  "To say the least," Manning confirmed.

  "Bloody good," the Greek agent declared. "All right. I was told to give a message to the gent that speaks French and German."

  "I'll take it," the Canadian replied.

  "Righto." Nikkos nodded, taking a sealed envelope from his jacket. He handed it to Manning. "Wonder which language it's in."