by Jeff Buick
He grinned as he drove. Charter an airplane is what they could do, and what they would do. A private flight would allow them to leave the country without their passports being scanned at the airport. He stopped at a deserted corner and slipped out his map of Rafah. A tiny airstrip serviced the settlement, and he reversed direction, heading for it. There was no control tower, and only one tin and adobe building offering gas and limited mechanical services. Nine privately owned airplanes lined the runway and nowhere was there mention of charter services. Garret left the airstrip and returned to his hotel. He was finished in Rafah. The nearest major center was Tel-Aviv, and after a few hours of sleep, he would drive back to the city of over a million people. One of the charter services would identify McNeil and Carlson and he would be on their tail. He felt sure of it.
Although he was well rested from the overseas flight, he still managed four hours of sleep. The night manager was just ending his shift as Shaw paid his bill in cash and left in the rental. He made good time on the early-morning roads, reaching Tel-Aviv just after eight o’clock. He stopped at a convenient restaurant and had breakfast as he got his bearings. Ben Gurion International Airport was twelve miles southeast of the city on the highway to Jerusalem. A private airstrip bordered Ben Gurion and shared the international airport’s restricted airspace. Twenty minutes, tops, would have him at the airport.
Wednesday mornings were business as usual across the board at all the charter companies flying small aircraft out of Tel-Aviv. The first company he approached was small, and the counter man was also the pilot. He guaranteed Shaw that he had not seen or flown a couple matching their description in the past week. The man did provide Shaw with the names of three charter companies that would be most likely to charter an aircraft on short notice for cash. Shaw zeroed in on the three companies and hit pay dirt at the second counter.
“Yes, I remember them well,” the charter rep said. “Very polite and they paid cash. I asked for a premium rate for the short notice and he didn’t even balk. Just paid it.”
“Where did they charter to?”
“Cyprus. Nicosia.”
“Could you arrange a plane to take me to Nicosia? It’s imperative I reach them quickly. A relative has died and they must be present at the reading of the will.” He smiled at the rep. “A very wealthy relative.”
“I understand. I’m sure one of our pilots could get you there this afternoon.”
“I would prefer the same pilot, just in case he overheard something that would help me find them quicker. The name of a hotel, anything . . .” He added an additional five hundred dollars to the rate the man had quoted him.
“The pilot’s on his day off, but I’m sure we could arrange something.”
At almost precisely noon, Garret Shaw and Ari Cohen, the pilot who had flown McNeil and Samantha to Cyprus, were cleared for takeoff. The Beechcraft King Air 200 could accommodate four passengers, leaving Shaw with ample space in the rear of the aircraft. He waited until they were about halfway through the flight before moving up front to engage Ari Cohen in conversation. The twin engines were muffled but the noise level in the cockpit was high. Shaw realized that even if his pilot had tried to listen in on what McNeil and Carlson were saying as they relaxed in the passenger cabin, it would have been impossible. Even so, the man may know something.
It turned out that he did. After yelling over the engine noise for a half hour, he finally jogged the man’s memory. The pilot remembered the woman saying she had always wanted to see the Acropolis. That term was used in one country and one only—Greece. Shaw settled back, wishing the flight were over and he could get on with locating the charter that flew them into Greece. He checked his watch. They would be in Nicosia before the charter companies closed for the day. He should be able to ferret out which one had flown them to Greece quite easily. Nicosia was not a major center. Shaw worked his timetable through in his head. It was Wednesday afternoon. On Thursday morning, he would have Ari fly him to Greece. Which island, he didn’t know, but that would come. If they were in Athens, it would take some time to find them. But if they had opted for a quieter spot, that would make things easier.
So much easier.
THIRTY
Second to perfect weather, room service at the Lindos Mare was the most predictable thing on the island of Rhodes. Every day at precisely eleven o’clock, the maids showed up to clean the room, change the linen and restock the mini-bar. Travis and Samantha left the room and sat by the pool, soaking up the midday sun and sipping on the dark roast coffee the resort brewed for its guests. Travis offered to rub some suntan lotion on Samantha, despite the fact that she was already glistening brown and didn’t need it. She humored him and lay on her stomach in the chaise lounge as he slowly massaged the oil onto her back.
“How’s Basil doing with the box?” he asked, knowing Samantha had talked to their London connection earlier in the day.
“Excellent. He found a standard box at a lapidary shop that he can modify. He’s already replaced the foam padding with the material to mold around the diamonds. Drilling the holes through the box was tougher than he expected—it’s made with high-quality steel. He’s having trouble trying to figure out how the box can hold the liquid zircon.”
Travis squeezed a few more drops of lotion on her back. “Does he think he can have it ready in time?”
“Today is Thursday and we need the box by Sunday at the latest. He needs one day to get the zircon and the catalyst from a chemist in London. Then another day or two to perfect storing the liquid zircon and catalyst in separate chambers and injecting them into the molds.” She counted on her fingers. “That takes us to Saturday or Sunday. It’s going to be tight.”
“He’ll get it done; he always does.” Travis undid her bikini top and let the ties drop onto the chaise lounge.
“Don’t get any ideas. This is a public area.”
“The oil’s not going on evenly with the strap in the way,” he protested, a grin on his face. “Did you call Adel Hadr?”
“Yeah. He was glad to hear his car was still in one piece. He’s driving down to Rafah tomorrow with a friend to pick it up. He told me to tell you that nothing’s to happen to me. He seems to think I need you for protection.”
“I don’t think so. You can take care of yourself.”
Samantha turned a bit to face him. “I would have been dead so many times I can’t even count them if it weren’t for you, Mr. McNeil. I owe you more than I’ve ever owed anyone.”
“Is that any part of the reason you’re sleeping with me?”
“Zero.” She laughed at his hurt look. “You just happen to be this Crocodile Dundee meets Rambo kind of guy. That’s a bonus.”
“Okay, then we’re even. I was, and I emphasize was, getting paid to keep you alive. You now get that service for free.”
“Another bonus,” she said, relaxing onto the pool chair. “What time is our flight to Athens?”
“Two o’clock,” he answered, working his way down to her buttocks with the oil. “I reserved on an inter-island airline that flies sixteen-seaters. We have an hour from the time we arrive in Athens until our flight to Rome leaves.”
“How long in Rome?” she asked.
“Two hours. We have to switch airlines, but two hours should be enough.”
He had found a way around using a credit card to book the flights to Rome and London. After spinning a story about having their wallets stolen off the beach while snorkeling, he’d offered another hotel guest cash to put their flights on his credit card. The man had agreed, okay with a chance to help such a nice young couple. They had paid cash for the inter-island flight. That left their passports as the only possible way for someone watching the area electronically to pick up on their movements. And that was a distinct possibility. It bothered him, but there was no other way of crossing international borders and getting to London in time to pick up the box from Basil. He glanced at his watch. It was closing in on eleven-thirty, and the cleaning staff sh
ould be finished. Since they were checking out, the maids would probably only refill the bar fridge. He tied a bow in Samantha’s bikini top and they returned to their suite.
“Let’s try Davis Perth once more before we leave,” Samantha said as she finished packing. She snapped her suitcase shut and dialed the New York number for Gem-Star. Again she was informed that Mr. Perth was sailing in the South Pacific and incommunicado. When pressed for the CEO’s projected return date, his private secretary was tight-lipped. The best Sam could get from her was to try back in a few days. She hung up and shrugged. “I’m not getting a warm fuzzy from that bitch,” she said. Reaching Davis Perth and cutting off Kerrigan’s ties to the United States was important in alienating the man. And it wasn’t going well.
They checked the suite to ensure they had everything, then checked out, paying cash for the tab. The island was small, just forty miles long by twenty-five miles wide, and they still had almost two hours until their flight left. Paradisi, the town next to the airport, was on the windward side of Rhodes, and they asked the cab driver to take the seaside road rather than the shortcut inland. The drive was spectacular.
The Mediterranean was a shimmering veil of teal, its color alternating between luminescent blue and tortoise green. The shoreline was rocky and barren for long stretches, punctuated with sandy alcoves, sheltered and private. Mostly the shoreline was void of people, just the sea and sand. Samantha snuggled close to Travis as they drove, wishing their visit to Rhodes was for different reasons.
The taxi crested the northeast tip of the island and continued along the windward side of Rhodes. The surf was more prominent here, whitecaps rolling in relentlessly on the rocky, scrub-infested shores. Paradisi was only a few miles down the coast and they pulled up to the airstrip twenty minutes before their flight was due to depart. Travis paid the driver and tipped him well, thanking him in Greek for the safe journey. The baggage handler for Delphi Airlines stowed their luggage in the underbelly of the twin prop plane and they were just about to board when Travis felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, instinctively grasping the wrist just above the hand and twisting. He stopped the motion as he recognized the man. It was the pilot who had ferried them across to Nicosia a few days prior.
“Sorry about that,” he said as the pilot grimaced in pain and rubbed his wrist. “It’s Ari, right?” The man nodded. “I thought you said you seldom flew as far as Greece.”
“Very seldom. But I have some very exciting news for you two.”
“What would that be?” Samantha asked.
“It’s good news and bad news. I just flew in with a man who is trying to locate you. I initially flew him to Nicosia, and when we found out from the other charter service which island you had flown to, he hired me to fly him over immediately.” He turned to face Samantha as he spoke. “He told me that your Uncle Everett had passed away in New York six days ago. They’re holding off reading the will until he finds you. One provision of the will is that you be present. He thinks you’re in for a large inheritance.”
“Uncle Everett is dead?” Samantha said haltingly. “This man, what did he look like?”
“White guy, quite tall, over six feet. He’s about thirty-five to forty with short blond hair, military style. Very muscular.”
“What did you tell him? About us?”
“Just that you were staying at the Lindos Mare. You must have just missed him. I only landed twenty minutes ago. He rented a car and I saw him drive off, that way.” He pointed inland, away from the coastal highway they had taken.
“Thanks, Ari. We’ll contact the hotel and give them a forwarding address so he can reach us.” Travis watched the man depart, then searched out a phone and called the hotel. He told them that they were to release no information to the man who was about to show up, especially their telephone logs. The hotel manager assured him that their privacy was guaranteed. The man would be provided with no information whatsoever.
They boarded the plane and buckled in. The flight was about half full and left on time. They rose to a cruising altitude of six thousand feet, leaving Rhodes behind, a jewel amidst the sparkling brilliance of the Mediterranean. Travis glanced over Samantha’s shoulder and out the small window. How had he allowed them to get so close not only once, but twice? They had stayed too long in Cairo and that mistake had cost Alain Porter his life. Three days in Lindos had given Kerrigan’s network enough time to track them and send in an assassin. But how? They hadn’t used credit cards or showed their passports other than for entry into Cyprus, then Greece. The ports of entry were tiny and unsophisticated. He could scarcely believe that the border guards had entered their names into a computer at any point. The only way that happened was at major border crossings or international airports that were equipped with bar scanners. No, Kerrigan had tracked them some other way.
He felt a familiar sensation tingle along his spine as the danger levels heightened. If they had driven directly from Lindos Mare to the airstrip, they would have arrived earlier and been waiting when Kerrigan’s man chartered in. They wouldn’t have recognized him, but he surely would have known who they were. There was one positive aspect to this, he thought. They knew what Kerrigan’s man looked like. And in that, another thought occurred to him. Knowing how capable they were at protecting themselves, Kerrigan had sent only one man after them. Who the hell was this guy?
Travis mentally calculated the time frames. By the time the hired killer reached Lindos, found out they had left and returned to the airstrip, it would be too late for him to fly into Rome and intercept them. That gave them clear passage to London. But Travis was positive Kerrigan would track their movements from Rhodes to London in no time, so they would have to disappear quickly and stay invisible for three or four days. The logistics were getting ugly. They needed Basil’s magic box in their hands and working in a maximum of four days. That would be difficult. And they needed Davis Perth. Without the CEO of Gem-Star on their side, Kerrigan had the United States to turn to for refuge when things heated up. And if Kerrigan still had a free reign after they humiliated him in Antwerp, then all was lost. His financial empire would still be standing and he would eventually find them.
Travis stared out the window at the beauty of the Mediterranean Sea, and saw nothing. He preferred a fair fight, not this. Things that were far beyond their control would decide their destiny, and he knew that it was the uncontrollable variables that often killed a mission. And if this mission were to die, so would he and Samantha.
THIRTY-ONE
Garret Shaw was ready to reach out and snap the woman’s neck, but he controlled the urge and asked her the same question again. “Did they leave a forwarding address?”
“I’m sorry, sir, the hotel is unable to give out any information on our guests.”
“Could I speak with the manager, please?” He managed to keep civility in his tone, but his anger was building quickly. The desk clerk informed him that the manager would only reiterate what she had told him, then left to find her boss. A few minutes later she reappeared with a well-dressed, dark-skinned man in tow. He greeted Shaw and stated Lindos Mare’s policy, just as the woman had.
“This couple is not who they appear to be,” Shaw started, withdrawing a false set of identity papers from his vest pocket. They identified him to be a field agent with the Central Intelligence Agency, operating out of Langley, Virginia. The hotel manager scrutinized the ID for a minute, then handed it back. “They are wanted in the United States for treason and espionage. They are extremely dangerous and will kill on a moment’s notice to stay outside the reach of justice. You and your staff are quite lucky no one died while they were here.”
The manager was trembling as he responded. “I really wish I could help, sir. If you request that the local police get involved and they obtain the proper warrants, I would be glad to help you. Until then . . .”
Shaw snapped the leather ID holder shut and nodded to the man. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance.�
� He left the hotel and began the drive back to the airstrip. Something wasn’t right with the way the hotel staff had reacted to him. They were intimidated, almost scared. Usually when he pulled out the CIA identification, people were intrigued, stimulated by his presence. Somehow they knew he was not CIA. He slipped his cell phone out and checked to see if he was in a service zone. It was roaming, so he dialed Kerrigan’s New York number and waited. Eventually it clicked through and rang.
“Did you locate them?” Kerrigan asked. His office phone had caller ID.
“Just missed them. They were on the Greek island of Rhodes at a hotel called the Lindos Mare. I suspect I missed them by only a few hours at the most. I think the hotel staff are covering for them. I’d like to go back and persuade them to tell me what they know.”
“No.” Kerrigan’s voice was crystal clear. “Keep on their tail. I’ll have my Washington connections dredge up whatever information the Lindos Mare may have. Whatever clues they left will be electronic, not personal. Is there an airport on the island?”
“Just an airstrip, no control tower. I’m heading back there now.”
“Excellent. It would appear you were correct about them chartering out of Israel. Nice work. You’ll find them. Keep your cell phone on; I’ll call you the minute I’ve got something.”
“Okay. When are you leaving New York for Antwerp?”
“Next Monday, via Brussels. Antwerp doesn’t have an international airport. The sight is set for Wednesday. I’ll phone you with a number once I’m checked into my hotel.”
Patrick Kerrigan pushed his finger down on the disconnect button. He let it up and listened for a dial tone. He punched in a number that took him directly into the bowels of the CIA in Langley. A familiar voice answered.