“He’ll know that’s a lie.”
“Yes, Mr. President, he’ll almost certainly know that.”
“You’re suggesting that I stonewall it.”
“I don’t think we have any other choice, Mr. President. Otherwise we definitely would be letting the cat out of the bag as you say.” Murphy leaned forward to emphasize his point. “Involve the Japanese and we will be barred from continuing our investigation on their soil.”
“A predecessor of mine ended up with egg on his face when he tried to deny that we were sending U-2 spy planes over the Soviet Union.”
“Yes, sir, there are risks.”
“In this case we’re talking about spying on a friendly country.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if, as it has been suggested this morning, the Japanese are confused, and they are trying to save face by using this incident as a catalyst, the financial implications could be enormous.”
“It couldn’t come at a worse time,” Peale, the president’s economic adviser, suggested.
“You can say that again, Maxwell,” the President agreed. “I’m going to have to offer the man something. Some concession, some promise, something. Anything.”
“Stall him,” Murphy said.
“Why?” the President asked sharply.
“If we can offer the Japanese government the villain, especially a Japanese villain, with the promise that we’ll keep it quiet, they’ll find a way to save face. I can guarantee it.”
“What are you talking about?” Cronin demanded, but the President held off his secretary of state.
“Just a minute, John.”
“We may be on the verge of a breakthrough in Europe,” Murphy said.
“McGarvey?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have we found his wife and daughter? Are their kidnappers in custody?”
“Not yet,” Murphy said. “But we were correct in our assumption that the kidnapping was carried out to lure McGarvey from Japan, which of course clinches the connection between the Japanese and the STASI.”
Murphy quickly told them everything that had happened in France, including the obscure clue of the necklace and blackened diamond that McGarvey’s daughter had evidently left for him in the chalet outside of Grenoble.
“What does it mean?” Milligan asked.
“We’re not quite sure … or I should say we weren’t quite sure until McGarvey made his move. If he’s heading where we think he’s heading then we’ll have it.”
“Go on,” the President said.
“As of a few hours ago he was in Athens, which surprised us because earlier in the day he’d spoken with my deputy director of operations on the telephone from Paris. When he was asked what his next move would be, he said he was going to wait there. Sooner or later the kidnappers would make contact with him, he said. And he did check into the Hotel Inter-Continental, but he slipped out almost immediately and flew from Orly to Greece.”
“How do we know this?” Milligan asked.
“You may recall, the French found a sophisticated communications device used by the terrorists at Orly. The SDECE handed it over to us, and one of my Paris Station people gave it to McGarvey. The idea was for him to use it to intercept the kidnappers’ transmissions, if and when he got close to them. But we modified the device, adding what’s called an EPIRB … an Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon. It’s a National Security Agency-designed version of a civilian device. It transmits an intermittent signal that’s picked up by our satellites from which we can pinpoint his location to within a couple of yards or less.”
“He’s in Athens, you say?” the President asked. “What does that tell you?”
“He was in Athens, Mr. President. But he didn’t stay long. He went south to Piraeus, which is Athens’ seaport, from where he evidently hired a boat.”
“Where’s he going?”
“It took my people all morning to come up with the answer,” Murphy said. “McGarvey is heading to the Greek island of Santorini.”
“Yes,” Cronin said, seeing it before the others. “Santorini, the island most Greeks think was part of the lost city-state of Atlantis.”
“I don’t understand,” the President admitted.
“Neither did I,” Murphy said. “But my people tell me that Santorini was also famous for its black diamonds.”
“Clever,” the President said after a moment. “And you say that McGarvey figured this out on his own?”
Murphy nodded. “Nobody ever denied that the man was bright.”
“His daughter too, evidently,” the President said. “What can we do for him? Assuming that the kidnappers are holed up somewhere on or near Santorini. It’s a big island, filled with tourists this time of the year, I would imagine.”
“The advantage might be ours for once. If we’re reading our signals right, the kidnappers may not be on the island yet.”
“Explain.”
“The Italian customs people reported that a Swiss medevac ambulance crossed their border last night above Torino. It was carrying two cancer patients, identified as Yugoslavian nationals. Women. The ambulance was found abandoned near the waterfront in Venice this morning.”
“They’re going by sea the rest of the way.”
“Only one ship sailed from the port of Venice this morning, and she was the Greek freighter Thaxos, a vessel we’ve long suspected was used by the STASI for contract work.”
“It could be them.”
“Yes, sir. We have a satellite shot several hours old showing the Thaxos entering the Mediterranean past Brindisi. I’d like to intercept them before they land on Santorini.”
“How?” the President asked.
“The Sixth Fleet is nearby. I’d like authorization to use a unit of SEALS to board the Thaxos, without warning, under the assumption that McGarvey’s ex-wife and daughter are aboard, held by Spranger and his people.
“That’s piracy,” Cronin blurted.
The President ignored him. “There’ll be casualties.”
“Yes, sir. Almost certainly.”
The President thought about it for a moment or two. “What about McGarvey?”
“He’ll be on the island a few hours ahead of time. If something should go wrong, he’d act as backup.”
“Unknowingly.”
Murphy nodded. “Yes, sir. For the time being I would leave him out of the operation.”
“Not very fair.”
“No, sir. But I believe that we have very high odds of success if we act now. Any move against Spranger once he got to the island could complicate our relations with the Greek government.”
“Do it,” the President said. “But keep me informed, General.”
“Will do, Mr. President. What about the Japanese?”
“I’ll stall Ambassador Shir this afternoon, but I’m going to have to have some results. And damned soon.”
46
THE WEATHER SYSTEM THAT HAD MOVED IN OVER WESTERN Europe was sinking unexpectedly to the southeast, and U.S. Navy meteorologists were predicting thickly overcast skies and rain by midnight over the entire Aegean Sea.
Moving silently, almost as if phantoms in the deepening twilight, the CVN Nimitz and her abbreviated task force were on station fifty nautical miles south-southwest of the island of Crete. They had spent the better part of the past eight months sailing back and forth just off the coast of Lebanon, showing the American flag during the latest round of fighting in the ongoing civil war there. It was time to be rotated home and they’d been steaming for Gib when they’d been given their temporary mission orders.
Lieutenant Edwin Lipton stood hunched over a weather radarscope in operations with the Nimitz group’s chief meteorologist Lieutenant Commander Brent Eastman, and the chief of Air Operations, Commander Louis Rheinholtz.
Lipton was a SEAL, a fact that would have been obvious to the most casual observer, even if he hadn’t been dressed all in black. Physically he stood out. Although he was only of m
edium height, his body was in perfect athletic condition, and with the way he held himself like a boxer ready to spring it was clear that his reflex speeds, coordination and endurance were probably very good. The look in his eyes and the expression at the corners of his mouth were those of a man utterly and totally committed to the task at hand, and completely devoid of any nonsense whatsoever. He and the five men in his elite strike group were highly trained professionals in the highest sense of the word.
“What are the chances for a break in the weather?” he asked. “We’re under a full moon tonight.”
“Less than ten percent, Lieutenant,” Eastman said. “In fact the cloud cover will begin moving in over the region within the next hour. In two hours moonlight will not be a significant factor at all. Your real problem is going to be the next satellite overpass. It’ll be blind.”
Lipton studied the screen for a moment longer, then turned and crossed to the chart table where their present position was electronically updated on a continuous realtime basis.
The last known position of the Thaxos was about sixty miles southeast of Piraeus. She’d made a shortcut through the Gulf of Corinth and the Corinth Canal.
“On that course and speed she’d make Santorini around oh-one-hundred hours,” Commander Rheinholtz said. “Another five hours, if that’s where she’s heading, if she doesn’t change her speed, and if she takes the best direct-line course through the islands. There’s still a lot of sea out there between us and them.”
“Yes, sir,” Lipton said.
“We’d attract too much notice if we sent out patrols to find them. You do understand that.”
“Yes, sir,” Lipton nodded. He stabbed a blunt finger at a spot just north of the island. “We’ll wait here. When she passes, we’ll get aboard.”
“You’re betting they won’t put in at either the old port of Thira or the new port of Athinos.”
“I don’t think so. They’d have to figure they might run into some trouble with the authorities. I’m told that these people are sharp, and I’ll have to go with that until it’s proved differently. But it’s my guess they’ll disembark five miles offshore and come in here, or here.” He pointed to the island’s only two beaches. Everywhere else tall cliffs plunged into the sea, making a landing next to impossible.
“What if you miss them?”
Lipton shrugged. “Then it would be out of our hands. My orders are that we are not to conduct any operation on Greek soil. But we won’t miss them, sir.”
Commander Rheinholtz studied the chart. “We’ll put up a couple of LAMPS III choppers to give you a steady over-the-horizon radar coverage to the north, and we’ll splash you down around midnight.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“These two women are VIPs, but there’s no telling what condition they’ll be in.”
“My people are briefed.”
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Commander Rheinholtz said, and he glanced over at the plotting board they were using for this operation. “Where is Brightstar at this moment?” he asked. Brightstar was McGarvey’s operational codename.
“He’s just approaching the port of Thira, sir,” the plotting board rating replied.
“No telling what he’ll do when he finds out the Thaxos hasn’t docked yet,” Rheinholtz said. “I’ll be glad when this night is over.”
“Yes, sir,” Lipton said, and it was clear that he meant it.
The moon was blood red on the horizon as the aging 37-foot fishing boat Dhodhni chugged into the dramatic harbor of Thira. Once the crater of a volcano, the cliffs rose a thousand feet out of the sea, and from across the water McGarvey could hear the sounds of music echoing off the rock faces.
“You are looking for somebody,” the grizzled old captain said, his broad grin nearly toothless. He’d been drinking ouzo most of the way over, but he didn’t appear to be drunk.
“Two ladies,” McGarvey said.
“Ah, the ladies. Not from this island. So they have come by water.”
There were several boats in the harbor, but nothing McGarvey thought Spranger would have used. Of course the East Germans could have landed at Athinos, if they had already arrived and if the black diamond had not been a false clue, or if he had not misinterpreted it.
“Who do I see about them?” McGarvey asked.
The old man’s grin widened. “If you are a policeman it may be difficult, you see.”
McGarvey shook his head. “I’m not a policeman.”
“But there is a stench of … trouble on you.”
McGarvey was certain the old man had been about to say death, instead of trouble. “This is important to me. One of the ladies is my daughter, and the other my ex- wife.”
The captain nodded. “When you find them … ?”
“Someone may have brought them here.”
“Then you will kill this someone?”
McGarvey stared at the old man, and after a long time he nodded. “Yes.”
“I thought so,” the captain said triumphantly. “In that case I will help you.”
“You?”
The captain laughed out loud. “Yes, me. You didn’t think that I was a Piraiévs pig, did you? I am Spyros Karamanlis from Santorini. This is my island. You will see.”
47
THE JAPANESE AMBASSADOR TO THE UNITED STATES MADE HIS official call on the President and left. The President’s Press Secretary Martin Hewler called Murphy with the news.
“The man is not happy, but he’s agreed to wait.”
“How long?” the DCI asked. It was a little after three in the afternoon, Washington time, and after nine in the evening in the Aegean Sea.
“Not very long, General. We’re going to need some action on this soon. Like first thing in the morning. Better yet, this evening.”
“With any luck we should have something within the next three or four hours.”
“With any luck,” Hewler said. “Which translates into: We’ve got our fingers crossed, and should a miracle happen, we’ll pull it off.”
“Do your job, Martin, and let us do ours,” Murphy replied sharply.
“Do that, General. Just do that much, and we’ll all come out smelling like roses.”
Paul Shircliff stepped up to tier B of the Special Operations balcony and plugged his headset into Patsy Connor’s console. Shircliff was early swing shift OD at the National Security Agency’s headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland.
Patsy was just entering data from the latest KH-15 pass over the Mediterranean, picking out the EPIRB signal from McGarvey’s transmitter and isolating it against an area overlay map.
“Bring up more detail,” Shircliff said softly.
Without looking up, Patsy punched a series of buttons, which expanded the map view displayed on her terminal. In this instance the scale was such that the island of Santorini barely fit on the screen. A tiny but very bright cross with a series of identifiers to its right indicated the EPIRB’s realtime position. At this scale the cross seemed to be located in the harbor area of the port of Thira.
“Expand,” Shircliff said.
Patsy hit another series of buttons, and now the map scale expanded so that the port of Thira itself mostly filled the screen. “This is the last enhancement,” she said.
The EPIRB was transmitting from a location near the harbor, but not on the water. It was definitely ashore.
“How long has he been at that location?” Shircliff asked.
“About an hour.”
“No movement?”
“None. He’s remained within a three-yard radius the entire time.”
“It’s possible he’d ditched the transmitter then,” Shircliff said, reaching for the folder of Greek maps on top of the console.
“Could be a hotel, I was about to check it out,” Patsy suggested. “The transmitter could be with his luggage.”
Shircliff opened a large-scale map showing the port town in detail. It took him a few moments to orient the computer’s perspective with the printed
chart. “Looks like a waterfront taverna.”
Patsy looked up. “What do you suppose he’s doing there, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Shircliff said shaking his head. “I don’t know anything about the man except that he’s damned important.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me know the moment he makes a move,” Shircliff said, replacing the chart folder but keeping the Thira map out. “I’ll be at my console.”
Clouds were already starting to roll in from the west as Lieutenant Lipton and his five men clambered aboard the SH-3D Sea King that would take them out to the intercept point one hundred miles to the north. The wind was rising and the smell of rain was heavy on the night air. The weather system was developing faster than the meteorologists had predicted, but so far as the SEALS were concerned the weather couldn’t have been better.
“No moon, overcast skies and choppy seas. The Thaxos crew won’t know what hit them until it’s too late,” Lipton told his number two, Ensign Frank Tyrell.
“If we don’t miss them in the darkness.”
“You worry too much.”
Tyrell, who was a deceptively thin and mild-mannered man, grinned. “It’s a bitch, but somebody’s got to do it.”
Lipton started to strap in as the helicopter’s engines came to life and the main rotor began to turn, but a runner from Operations came across the deck to the open hatch and motioned for him.
“Stand by,” Lipton shouted up to the pilots, and he scrambled over to the hatch.
“Commander Rheinholtz wanted you to have the latest on Brightstar, sir,” the rating shouted over the noise.
“Is he on the island?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently he’d been holed up at a waterfront bar for the past couple of hours.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Unknown, sir.
Lipton thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Get word to us the moment he moves.”
“Aye, aye, sir. And good hunting.”
McGarvey sat across from a very well-dressed man by the name of Constantine Theotokis, whom Karamanlis had identified as his uncle. Theotokis was a member of the Greek Mafia, and Santorini was his island in almost every sense of the word.
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