by Trevor Scott
Now, the anchor pulled and the yacht turned to the west, they began picking up speed swiftly.
Svetla, wearing a pair of short shorts and a white T-shirt tied just below her braless chest, exposing her tanned dark stomach, sat in a lounge chair sipping a glass of Greek red wine in the aft section of the massive yacht.
Petros Caras came outside carrying a bottle of Ouzo and two glasses. He opened the bottle and poured them each a small glass of the clear anise-flavored liquid.
She didn’t want to tell Petros this, since she knew it was not only their national drink but the man actually owned the factory that made this drink, but she wasn’t a big fan of anything that tasted like licorice.
“This will ruin my wine flavor,” Svetla complained but took the glass nonetheless. Maybe if the man drank enough he would tell her where they were going.
They clanked their glasses and Petros drank down the entire glass with one swift motion. She forced down about half and tried not to react negatively.
“Where are we going, Petros?” she asked him.
“With this yacht, does it matter?”
He had a point, she knew, but it was her job to keep track of his movements. Much of that could be accomplished by the GPS in her phone, and if that failed, she had placed a back-up tracker on the huge craft just after arriving on the yacht this time.
“Well, my mother in Prague is not feeling great. I was hoping to give her a call. She might need me.” This was a lie, of course. Her mother had died years ago.
Petros looked somewhat confused. “I thought I read that your mother died in a skiing accident when you were a child.”
She thought quickly now. “She did. But I meant my step mother. My father married again and she helped raise me.” In reality she hadn’t talked with her step mother in more than two years. They hated each other.
“You should still have cell service for a while,” he said. “After that you can use our satellite phone.”
She got up to go inside to her cabin but he stopped her.
“But first have one more drink with me.”
Looking at her half-full glass, she nearly choked when he filled it to the top again. Then they clicked their glasses again and this time they both downed everything. She nearly gagged. Then she started off toward her room.
“Be careful,” Petros said. “We will be cruising all night at a very high speed. It could get rocky.”
She nodded and went back to her room. Closed off by herself, she picked up her phone and thought for a moment. She was told only to call if something was wrong. But she wasn’t sure that was the case. Who knew what drove a billionaire to suddenly pull up anchor and speed off to the west. Maybe there was a sale on capers in Israel.
Svetla decided to call anyway. She waited as the phone rang, her eyes glazed over as the island started to disappear out her porthole. Her head was starting to swirl from that rotten licorice Ouzo, making her stomach lurch with each wave the yacht hit hard.
Finally, her contact picked up on the other end. “Pronto. Come va?”
“Grazie, va bene cosi.” Any other phrase and her contact would know something was wrong. Svetla knew the woman’s Italian was flawless, but guessed she was actually an American. They had only met a couple of times in Rome, and the woman’s fake blonde hair and real blue eyes made her appear more Slavic like her than Italian.
“Where are you?” her Rome contact asked, switching to English. She had said her name was Elisa, but that was probably as fake as her hair color.
“I have to make this quick,” Svetla said. “We’re on his yacht heading fast to the west.”
“To where?”
“Not sure.”
“Listen, his man Zendo was sent to Rome to follow an American named Jake Adams. Does that mean anything to you?”
Long pause on the other end. “How do you know this?”
“I overheard their conversation in Greek. They said this Adams was a dangerous man and had been sent to find the American professor.”
“Thanks for the intel. Anything else?”
“Yes. How long do I have to have sex with this pig?”
“I’m sorry about that. But there was no other way to get close to him.”
Easy for her to say from the comfort of Rome. “Well, I’m having a hard time faking orgasms. The man has the penis of a ten-year-old.”
She heard a slight laugh on the other end.
“As soon as you reach your destination, we’ll find an excuse for you to fly back to Prague. Until then do your best to gather as much intel on the man as you can. Fake a period if you must.”
“Understood.”
The line went blank and she quickly deleted the call from the phone’s history. She lay down onto her bed and the room seemed to be spinning around. The drinks were not settling in her stomach right. Neither was this assignment. Seconds later and she passed out.
●
Petros Caras had been forced to come inside the yacht because of the speed they had reached and the rocking of the boat. He sat now in the lavish sitting room with a cigar in his left hand and a satellite phone against his right ear. Zendo was giving him an update.
“So Jake Adams went directly from the professor’s office to the train station?” Petros asked him.
“Yes, sir. I had three of my men keep track of him until I arrived in Rome. I just stayed at the airport waiting to see which flight he would get on.”
“And?”
“As suspected, he caught the first flight to Valletta. Flight leaves in about an hour.”
“Will the four of you fly to Malta on the same flight?”
“There were only two extra tickets, so I’ll take Demetri with me and have the other two catch up to us on the next flight. That makes more sense tactically anyway. Adams would have seen Niko and might make the connection. Besides, we’re still just following, right?”
Petros thought about that. He needed to find the American professor and Jake Adams was their best lead. “Just follow for now. Once we find this Sara Halsey Jones we can get rid of him. Call me when you get to Malta. We’ll be there by morning.”
“That fast?”
Laughing, Petros said, “This is the fastest yacht of its size in the world. We can cruise at over forty knots. My captain assures me we will be there before brunch.”
“Great. I’ll let you know if he leaves the capital city.”
Without saying goodbye, Petros simply clicked off the phone and threw it onto the leather sofa next to him. He considered the progress of this case and felt like everything was progressing as planned, except that his men should have really found this American woman weeks ago. How in the hell can they not find one woman in Europe? Especially now, where everyone must use credit cards to fly. He also wasn’t sure he fully trusted that sloppy Czech slut who was probably sleeping by now in her stateroom. She better be after all the drugs he’d put in her Ouzo. He wasn’t sure he wanted to screw her again without strapping a board to his ass to keep him from falling in. God, she had the biggest vagina he’d ever experienced. Maybe he should go to her room right now and take her up the ass. That was bound to be tighter, since she had refused him access to that hole so far. No, near necrophilia was no fun. He preferred willing accomplices, especially when he could reach around and grab onto a hard cock.
●
Elisa Murici shoved her phone into her purse and glanced across the airport terminal at the man sitting in the leather chair, his eyes closed. She had been tasked by her boss at AISE, Italy’s External Intelligence and Security Service, to track the movements of this man since his arrival in Rome. But now, after her conversation with her agent undercover in Greece, she felt like she needed to warn this man. Checking the clock on the wall, she knew his flight would leave for Malta within the hour. It was now or never.
She walked casually toward him and took an open seat next to him.
Without opening his eyes, the man said, “Let me guess. DIS? AISE? Or perhaps AISI?”
“Mi scusi?” she asked.
The man opened his eyes but still didn’t look at the woman. “You heard me.”
Frustrated, she said softly, “My name is Elisa. External. You are Jake Adams.”
He turned to her now, smiled and gave her a full kiss on the lips, which she accepted without reluctance.
He pulled away and smiled. “If you look over my right shoulder, you’ll see a man in a white linen suit with dark hair to his shoulders. I’m guessing he’s not with you. But is with the man he’s trying his best not to look at, the guy across the corridor wearing the black jeans and the muscles bulging his gray shirt.”
“I heard you were good. Anyone else?”
“Not at this time. There were two others who followed me from the university to the train station, first in a Fiat van and then on foot. Pretty decent tactics with their pass off technique, but not flawless. So, tell me why you just exposed yourself to scrutiny?”
Now she was embarrassed and confounded. “I needed to let you know that you were being followed. Your cell phone no longer works.”
“My cell phone is probably in a landfill in Sicily by now,” Jake said. “I sure hope you haven’t been trying to call me since Trapani.”
“I’m sure you did not see me that far back,” Elisa said.
“Let’s see. When I got off the ferry you were wearing a dark green top and black slacks with nice leather pumps, pretending to read a map of Trapani. On the plane this morning you changed into your current ensemble. I really like how the tan slacks accentuate your fine backside.”
She shook her head, a cross between further embarrassed and totally pissed off. “So, I’m a total. . .how do you say it. . .hack?”
“Not at all, Elisa. Your tactics are far superior to those men. You did a nice job of staying under the radar. But let’s face it. With your stunning good looks, did you expect me not to notice? Of course I don’t think you could do anything to disguise this.” He smiled and motioned his hands in front of her, meaning the whole package.
God he was frustrating. But she had read that about him also.
“What’s your interest in me?” he asked her and then before she could answer, he gave her another kiss. This time she embraced him like an old friend.
She pulled back reluctantly, with a coy smile. “Would you please stop that?”
“Hey, I want these Greeks to finally notice a beautiful woman. I suppose if you had been a young boy, they would have been on you like a priest on an alter-boy.”
“That’s offensive,” she said. “But probably true.” She tried her best not to smile but failed.
“Who told you to keep track of me?”
“I don’t know where it came from. I was working a case in Sicily and was just told to get to Trapani to catch up with you and keep an eye out.” No need to mention the fact that she had been assigned to find the American woman ever since she first contacted Professor Bretti weeks ago. Or the fact that the Greek billionaire, Petros Caras, was somehow involved.
“Right. I’m guessing our State department had something to do with it. How long have you been looking for Professor Sara Halsey Jones?”
She slumped into her chair just as she heard the boarding call for the flight to Malta. “That’s our flight.”
He stopped her from getting up. “Just a minute. Answer my question.”
Elisa considered her choices. She had to trust this man. Had been told to do so anyway. “Since she first contacted Professor Bretti and then went to Venezia. I lost her after that.”
Jake Adams finally looked confused. “What flagged her as a target for your agency?”
She couldn’t tell him at this time about Petros Caras. “I can’t say. Let’s just say that Bretti used to work with one of our intelligence agencies in the past. He brought her to our attention.” That was close enough to the truth. “Can we catch our flight now?”
He took his hand in hers and said, “Wait just a minute. I want to see if the men from Greece will be with us.”
Now she smiled. “They will. I’ve already reviewed the manifest.”
“Nice work,” Jake said. “Okay, then let’s go to Malta. Where are you on this flight.”
Laughing, she said, “Right next to you.” She got up and pulled him to his feet.
The two of them wandered to the gate like a real couple. She was starting to think she should have simply observed this man from afar. After meeting him, he sounded like trouble.
8
Brock Winthrop walked gingerly down the hospital corridor, his buttocks still sore from riding horse with his boss, Senator James Halsey. Jim knew he didn’t like those beasts. He was more inclined, like the French, to consider them a delicacy paired with a fine Bordeaux, a more exotic alternative to beef. But he would never mention that to Senator Halsey.
He had gotten a call from another Halsey client less than an hour ago. Actually, he had gotten a call from Buck Halsey’s private doctor at this exclusive hospital in Arlington, Virginia, where the senator had transferred his father nearly a year ago. Buck Halsey, eighty years old and failing physically, had been Brock’s client first. Right out of college. Although, he was sure, Jim had made that happen. Jim had gone back to Texas to help with the family business, and Brock had moved to Washington, trying his best to make his fortune off the rich and powerful. That was decades ago.
Brock hesitated outside the elder Halsey’s room, the waiting area resembling that of a high end Fortune 500 company and not a place for the elderly or the rich to pass to the next life—assuming there was something after all this.
Meeting him there was Doctor Plaunt, a professorial looking character with unkempt gray and black hair and beard, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist and not one of the best geriatric physicians on the eastern seaboard.
They shook hands as usual and Brock said, “Is everything all right?”
The doctor’s eyes drifted upward and then back to Brock. “He’s not doing well. But he wanted to see you before we call in the family.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I can only assume he wants to get his affairs in order.”
Brock thought about that. Buck Halsey had updated his will a year ago when he was first transferred from Texas to this facility. “Then I must ask you the obvious question. Is he mentally able to make this decision?”
The doctor pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his white lab coat. “This is a letter signed by myself and two other physicians on staff. We all concur that Mister Halsey is of sound mind. It’s his body that’s failing him.”
Brock opened the envelope and quickly read the simple letter that said what the doctor had just told him. Then he put the letter inside his suit and said, “All right. Looks good.”
He went into the room and saw the frail man that had once been almost identical in stature to his senator son when they had first met decades ago, and Brock felt a rush of nostalgia flush through his body. He turned and made sure the doctor had not followed him into the room. No, they were alone.
The old man’s eyes seemed dead already. A cloudy film made him look like a blind man without his sunglasses.
“What are you lookin’ at young man?” Buck Halsey said, his voice still a demanding growl.
“Sir, it’s Brock Winthrop.”
“I know who the hell you are. I had the doctor call you. Now get a little closer so I don’t have to yell.”
Truth be told, Buck Halsey had always scared the hell out of Brock. He had been told stories about how Buck had killed a man at age ten with a shotgun when an escaped prisoner broke into their house and was trying to assault his mother. God only knew how many Germans that man had killed in World War Two.
Brock cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanna get married. What the hell do you think I want from you? I’m damn near dead. I need you to draw up a new will for me.”
Swallowing hard, his mind reeling, Brock said, “Ye
s, sir. What would you like to do?”
“First of all, have you found Sara?”
Brock shook his head. “No, sir.” He didn’t want to tell him about the two failures. “But we have a good man looking for her in Europe now. A former Air Force intelligence officer and former CIA officer.”
“Really? You got a spook working for you?”
“Well, Jim found him. But I’ll be coordinating the effort.”
“Good, good. Jim has his hands full trying to keep those damn liberals in the senate from spending all our money.” Buck Halsey coughed for a moment now, his right hand barely strong enough to cover his mouth with a paper towel already spotted with blood.
Brock waited, helpless. Finally, the coughing over, he asked, “Are you okay? Do you want the doctor?”
“I wanna be forty again in bed with a thirty-year-old brunette. But that ain’t gonna happen. First order of business. Get me the hell out of here! I will not die in Virginia. The tax implications aside, you get me on a private jet to Texas by the morning. You understand?”
Nodding, Brock said, “Yes, sir. But what if the doctor says you’re not strong enough to travel.”
“Fuck the doctor. I’d rather die trying to get back to Texas than try to explain to St. Peter how the hell a Texan ended up dying near Washington, DC. Now you make that happen.”
“Jim isn’t going to be happy with this,” Brock muttered.
“A man can’t decide where they’re brought onto this planet, but we sure as hell gotta have something to say about where we leave it.”
Hard to argue with that. “Yes, sir. What else?”
“Draw up a new will and have it ready for me to sign in the morning before I roll out onto that plane. And here’s what I want you to change.”
Buck Halsey went on with great detail explaining everything he wanted done. The man was not only of sound mind, his faculties were much sharper than most men half his age. But now Brock was in a quandary. He had a fiduciary responsibility to his oldest client, but he also had to keep working with his good friend Jim Halsey. And what the elder had just told him was not necessarily in the best interest of the senator. He would have to walk a tightrope on this one, he knew.