Critical Mass

by David Hagberg

“Tony and Jules will get you ladies off the island, and then call for help,” Lipton told them.

  Elizabeth clutched his arm. “My father is here. He’s looking for us, but they know he’s coming. It’s a trap.”

  “As soon as we get you to safety we’ll see what we can do to help him.”

  Elizabeth looked at Lipton’s team, and laughed, the sound short and sharp. “I’m sorry, but I hope you brought more men with you than this.”

  Lipton glanced at Tyrell. “Why is that, Ms. McGarvey?”

  “Because there’s a lot more of them than there are of you. And they’re very good.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Lipton said. “But first, you and your mother are getting out of here.”

  Elizabeth looked at him for a long time. “Then good luck,” she said, and she took her mother’s arm and they started single file down the stairs.

  McGarvey held his breath as he tried to distinguish sounds other than the shrieking wind and the annoying ringing in his ears. He thought he’d heard someone on the stairs behind him, and he had looked over his shoulder, but there was nothing yet.

  The flames from the burning helicopter in the courtyard had finally begun to die down, and there was much less light up here in the loft, which was just as well. If he couldn’t see his attackers, then they couldn’t see him either.

  Both stairwells were in darkness, and he kept switching his gaze from one to the other, his eyes barely above the level of the overturned pews, so that he almost missed the movement in the west stairwell.

  His heart froze, then steadied, as he switched his attention to the opposite stairwell, bringing the Kalashnikov up and resting it lightly on the pew.

  “Take a peek,” he muttered softly. “Just a little peek to see what’s going on up here.”

  A head and shoulders appeared in the stairwell, and McGarvey fired once, driving the figure violently backward and out of sight.

  Switching his aim immediately back to the west stairwell he was in time to see a figure dart left into the shadows toward one of the stone pillars.

  He squeezed off a single shot, catching the man in the side, flipping him over the stairwell railing with a desperate cry, and McGarvey heard him crashing down the way he’d come.

  Spranger could hardly believe what was happening. Dürenmatt was dead, his body lying in a pool of blood on the stone floor where McGarvey had flipped it over the chorus loft balustrade. Scherchen was crumpled in a heap at the foot of the east stairwell. And Magda was shaking and crying silently with rage over the body of her husband lying in the west stairwell.

  Their chopper was destroyed, their pilot and maintenance man dead, and aside from Lessing down on the dock, that left only three: Him and Liese at the east stairwell and Magda on the opposite side.

  Liese was staring at him, a slight smirk on her beautiful lips, as if she were saying, I told you so. He had the urge to reach out and slap the look off her face.

  Tiny flashes of light were going off inside his head, like police cameras in a morgue, each burst illuminating some morbid scene in the recesses of his mind.

  Radvonska’s warning in Rome about McGarvey kept coming back to him, and he kept pushing it away. This operation was falling apart at the edges. Monaco, Japan, the States … all unraveling. All because of one man.

  He looked up into the darkness of the loft. The two shots that had been fired had come from a Kalashnikov. Dürenmatt’s, which in itself was so galling he could hardly stand it.

  Who was he?

  Intense pain from his burns threatened to blot out what little sanity was left to him. Only through sheer force of will was he able to hang on. To think.

  They were going to have to leave this place soon. It wouldn’t be long before the Greek authorities began to sit up and take notice that something was going on out here. And Dürenmatt had said that McGarvey had not been alone in the courtyard. Which meant the man had help. Who?

  Maybe Lessing had seen something out in the water after all.

  He pulled the walkie-talkie around and keyed the talk button. Liese was still staring at him, the same fixed expression on her face, in her eyes. She was, Spranger thought, an enigma even to him.

  “Bruno, what is your situation down there?” he said softly into the microphone. “Have you seen anything else?”

  He keyed the transmit button, and waited impatiently for Lessing’s reply. But there was no response.

  “Bruno, do you copy?”

  Still there was no answer.

  “Bruno, come back,” he transmitted.

  “What’s the matter, Ernst, are your friends deserting you?” McGarvey’s voice drifted down from the loft.

  Spranger stepped back a half pace, as if he expected an apparition to appear at the head of the stairs, guns blazing. A ghost, incapable of being harmed, and yet supremely able to inflict death and destruction.

  “Ernst … ?” Liese said softly.

  Magda was looking across at them, the big Russian assault rifle clutched in her arms.

  Spranger dropped the walkie-talkie on the floor. “Get them,” he told Liese.

  “The women?” she asked, blinking.

  “Yes. Bring them here.”

  Liese looked up toward the loft. “What do you mean to do, Ernst?” she asked. “Let’s leave now, while we still have the chance.”

  “It would be the end of the project.”

  “Fuck the Japanese,” Liese said urgently. “But we can take the women with us. At least the young one. She’s fit to travel.”

  “Liese,” Spranger said. “Get them.”

  She looked directly into his eyes for several long moments, a test of wills, but then her gaze dropped and she turned and hurried off.

  When she was gone, Spranger laid his rifle down, took out the detonator, and motioned for Magda to take a position at the top of the stairs. She nodded her understanding and went up.

  Spranger gave her a half minute to get into place, and then called up to McGarvey.

  “I’m going to come up the stairs, Mr. McGarvey. Unarmed. I want to talk to you about saving the lives of your ex-wife and daughter.”

  “What do you want out of it?” McGarvey answered.

  “There are only four of us left. We would very much like to walk away from here with our lives.”

  “Then go. Turn around and walk away.”

  “Ah, but it’s not going to be that easy,” Spranger said, much calmer now that he had a plan. He started up the stairs. “Here I come, and as I say, I am unarmed. But I am carrying a small electronic device in my right hand. My thumb is on the button. If the button is pushed a powerful explosion will destroy the room in which your wife and daughter are being held. There would be no chance of their survival in such a case. Do you understand?”

  “No,” McGarvey said harshly.

  Spranger stopped halfway up. “Do you believe that I am not serious, Mr. McGarvey?”

  “What do you get out of it? You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I propose to give you the detonating device in exchange for Peter’s rifle and your pistol,” Spranger replied, smiling.

  “Then you’ll kill me.”

  “On the contrary, we will need you alive to effect our escape past your friends.”

  The church was silent for a long time. Even the wind howling around the eaves seemed to have calmed down for that instant.

  “Mr. McGarvey?” Spranger called.

  “Come,” McGarvey said.

  “I need your assurances that …”

  “Come,” McGarvey repeated.

  Holding the detonator away from his body, Spranger went the rest of the way up to the loft. “Here I come.”

  He hesitated for a beat on the last stair, then stepped up, out of the deeper darkness. At first he couldn’t make out much except for a few vague shapes. Something had been piled up in the middle of the loft.

  “Put the detonator down,” McGarvey’s voice came from the darkness, but Spran
ger couldn’t pinpoint it. Had he made another mistake with this man?

  “I cannot see you. Show yourself.”

  “Do it,” McGarvey said, and this time Spranger was sure that the American was at the far end of the loft where he would see Magda if she showed herself.

  “All right, I’ll do it,” Spranger shouted hastily. He had to distract the man’s attention for just a crucial second or two. “I’m putting it down, but you must lay your weapons aside.” He started to crouch down to place the detonator on the floor when Liese shouted at him from the nave, her voice desperate.

  “Ernst! They’re gone!”

  Magda Schey rose up out of the dark stairwell at that moment and brought her rifle up.

  “Nein …” Spranger cried when McGarvey fired once, driving Magda backward, her weapon discharging in a long burst, the bullets ricocheting dangerously off the stone walls.

  Then McGarvey fired again, this shot hitting Spranger in the right shoulder before he had time to react, shoving him off balance down the stairs, every fiber in his being raging at the surprise and injustice. It wasn’t supposed to end up like this!

  60

  SPRANGER’S HORRIBLY BURNED LEFT ARM AND COLLARBONE broke in the fall down the stairs, and at the bottom his face smashed into the stone floor, crushing his nose and both cheekbones with a grinding agony.

  For a seeming eternity he just lay there, sounds echoing interminably in his head.

  But he was alive and conscious, though just barely, his world spinning, a deep nausea rising up making him gag and almost vomit.

  “Christus, Christus,” he muttered wetly, spraying the floor with blood as he tried to push himself upright with his wounded right arm.

  The instant shot of sharply localized pain was like a burst of adrenalin to his system, momentarily clearing his head and his vision.

  The detonator, its plastic case cracked, lay on the stone floor about two yards away. Spranger started to pull himself toward it, everything within his being concentrating on the one thing: On the electronic device, on revenge.

  McGarvey had brought him to this. The one man. And he would suffer the consequences of his actions. If he was still alive. If Magda hadn’t killed him: She’d managed to shoot.

  He cocked an ear, but there was no gunfire for the moment. If McGarvey were dead, killing his wife and daughter wouldn’t matter. But he would do it anyway, and in the doing he would be striking a double blow—at McGarvey, and at that bitch Liese. If she’d simply kept her mouth shut about the women being gone …

  Spranger stopped for just a moment and turned that stray thought over in his head. Liese had said something about the women being gone. But that was impossible. They could not have escaped from their cell. And even if they had, they couldn’t have gone anywhere.

  She was mistaken. It couldn’t be.

  Suddenly Liese was there, above him, concern written all over her face. “We must get out of here now, Ernst,” she told him. “There are others coming.”

  “Get the detonator,” Spranger croaked, blood slobbering down his chin and the front of his tattered jumpsuit.

  “What are you talking about?” she cried, glancing nervously up the stairs.

  “I want to blow the tower.”

  “They’re gone, you fool!”

  “No,” Spranger growled, the single word torn in anguish from the back of his throat. “I won’t allow it.” He looked up into her eyes. “Liese, please. It’s all I ask. We’ll push the button and then we’ll get out of here. Together. We’ll regroup and finish the Japanese project. It’s all still possible, but you must help me.”

  “I’ll help you,” Liese said, resignedly. She got the detonator and then helped him to his feet. “We’ll go overland, and hide in the mountains until it’s safe.”

  “Do it, Liese. Do it!”

  McGarvey huddled behind the overturned pews, the breath knocked out of him. He had taken two hits from behind, one in the left shoulder, the bullet exiting cleanly just below his collarbone, and the other, much more painful wound, in the meat of his right thigh.

  Once again he understood that Spranger had outthought him, although he was certain that he’d hit the East German general at least once.

  The ringing was back in his ears, and between that and his ragged breath whistling in his throat, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything. He wanted simply to close his eyes and sleep. He wanted peace, something he’d not had for a very long time.

  As he went down he’d managed to get off a second burst before his weapon either jammed or ran out of ammunition. He was too tired to find out which. But he’d got the impression of Spranger falling back. At least that’s what he thought it had been, but lying here in the darkness he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen; or, in fact, if he’d seen anything.

  He’d heard a woman’s voice. But just now it was difficult to recall exactly what she’d said.

  “McGarvey,” someone shouted from below, on the floor of the nave. Spranger? It was a man’s voice.

  McGarvey struggled to sit up. He pulled the Kalashnikov over to him. The ejector slide was locked in the open position, the breech empty.

  “Mr. McGarvey?” someone else called from below. This time it was a woman. Her English had British intonations, but the accent was definitely German.

  “Bastards,” McGarvey shouted, the effort causing a shooting pain in his side.

  “Listen,” the man called. “Sagen Sie, aufwiedersehen.”

  “Bastards,” McGarvey shouted again, when a huge explosion a long way off shook the very foundation of the church. Kathleen and Elizabeth. McGarvey was galvanized.

  Dropping the Kalashnikov, he clawed the Walther from his holster, switched the safety off, cocked the hammer and clambered to his feet.

  “Come back,” he shouted, lurching toward the balustrade.

  Something crashed into one of the pews behind him, and he swung around, getting off a snap shot with his last round at a black figure rising up, as it fired its assault rifle on full automatic.

  61

  A THIRTY-FOOT SECTION OF THE RESIDENCE BUILDING’S OUTER wall was simply gone, the upper floors of the tower, including the area in which the women had been held, gone also.

  Lipton and Tyrell huddled behind a pile of smoking debris just off the great hall waiting for Wasley to report back. He’d gone down to the dock to make sure that no one had been hurt in the blast, and see if that avenue of escape was still open to them.

  The gunfire they’d heard just after the explosion had stopped, and the only sounds now were the wind howling through the jagged opening and the sea crashing against the rocks five hundred feet below.

  “I don’t like it,” Tyrell said. “McGarvey has to understand the significance of the explosion, if he heard it. But there’s been no response.”

  “Don’t write him off yet, Frank,” Lipton replied. “You didn’t see his file. I did, and it’s damned impressive. Bob is no slouch either.”

  “They’re only two.”

  Wasley came through the corridor door and hurried across the great hall, crouching down beside them. He was winded from the climb. “A section of the dock was buried, but they’re okay,” he said. “Joslow said he’s going to hold up there, unless you tell him differently. He’s called Ops for help.”

  “Good,” Lipton said. They’d decided against using walkie-talkies because they’d not counted on being separated, and they’d wanted to keep unsecured communications to an absolute minimum. He could see that it had been a mistake. “How are the women holding up?”

  “Joslow and Reid have got their hands full, sir. The younger one says she’s not leaving the island until she finds out about her father.”

  “What’s Ops’ ETA over the dock?”

  “Unknown. Joslow thinks they’re waiting for authorization. Word from Athens is that the Greek authorities are beginning to stir.”

  “Then we’d better get the hell out of here on the double,” Lipt
on said.

  They crawled over the pile of debris, their weapons at the ready, and ducked into the corridor that ran the length of the monastery complex toward the courtyard and the desconsecrated church at the front.

  Leapfrogging, Lipton first, Wasley second and Tyrell taking up the rear, they hurriedly worked their way forward. Every doorway, every corner, every set of stairs were places of possible ambush and had to be approached with extreme caution.

  But nothing moved. There was no gunfire, no signs, except for the lingering stench of the burning chopper, that the monastery was anything but a abandoned center of study and worship.

  Lipton held up at the final junction, the corridor ending in a T, the intersecting hallway much narrower. Directly across from where they crouched, a window looking onto the courtyard had blown out. The last of the flames were dying down, nothing identifiable left of the helicopter except for a section of the tail and tail rotor.

  The heat had been so intense that lead holding the window panes in place had melted and formed small gray pools on the floor. Even the stone walls inside the corridor had been blackened, and the thick framing timbers in the walls and ceilings had caught fire and were still smoldering in places.

  To the right the narrower hallway ended at a door that opened into the nave of the main church.

  Lipton pointed that way, then keeping low, darted across the corridor, to a spot just beneath the window, and motioned for Wasley to follow.

  Tyrell was the first at the doorway, and he held up until Lipton joined him, this time with Wasley acting as backup.

  On signal the two of them rolled into the nave, left and right, Wasley immediately taking up a position to cover them from the corridor.

  But nothing moved here either, except for the wind and rain that came through an open door at the front of the church.

  Crouching in the darkness Lipton stared at the open door for a moment or two. Someone had left the church? In a hurry?

  Turning back, he spotted the three bodies just beneath the balcony; one in the middle and one at the foot of the stairs on either side. It was obvious even from a distance of twenty-five or thirty feet that they were dead.