Vulcan Eye

by Roger Weston

  Chuck saw a man sauntering through the museum and walking toward him. He wore an expensive suit, big wire-framed glasses, and was all smiles. He looked at Chuck with curiosity, but also with friendly, shrewd eyes.

  “I am Boris Methodius. I understand you wanted to talk with me. Did we have an appointment?”

  “Not exactly. I’m Bill Cash. I represent several museums in America. I’m a buyer and looking for some authentic Greek statues that might be for sale.”

  Wrinkles formed on his forehead. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. There are art studios you could visit in town.”

  Chuck shook his head. “No, I want truly extraordinary pieces. I’m looking for new finds, statues that are…let us say … from off the grid. With all your buying and selling, I’m sure you can point me to sources the public never knows about. I’m looking for primary sources.”

  Methodius glanced at a security guard by the exit then said, “I’m sorry. You’ve come to the wrong place. We get most of our artifacts through gifts and donations. Even then we are very selective. When we do buy statues, we tend to purchase them at auctions, often from failing museums or estate sales.”

  Chuck nodded. “I understand. I’m not here to waste your time. I can’t identify my sources, but I have been assured that you can help me. Keep in mind, I’ll be happy to pay for your help.”

  Methodius frowned looked around nervously. He stepped toward Chuck and spoke softly: “Sir, maybe I can talk to you, if nothing else, but not here. Meet me in an hour in the Plaka neighborhood. It’s not far from here. There’s a little café called Pella. I have a short lunch, so don’t be late.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Twenty-four hours till shoot-down

  Plaka was a touristy neighborhood on the slopes of the Athens Acropolis. Like a rich flower garden, vibrant colors and energy permeated the atmosphere. Old historical buildings featured lively yellow and orange paint. The area was inviting, and it was easy to see why it was popular with tourists. Friendly pedestrian streets were graced with daily menus of cafes and lush plants in large ceramic pots. Chuck walked past bird cages hanging from flowering trees. The scent of baking filled the alleys.

  Chuck strolled past a pizza restaurant. He located the Pella Café mentioned by Borus Methodius, but he didn’t waltz up and stand around like tourist. He took a more systematic approach geared toward surveilling the area for any signs of a set-up—a surveillance team, or worse. In particular, he looked for men who seemed to be loitering in places with a clear view of the little café. The area looked relatively safe. He kept moving and watching the changing scenery. When he saw Boris arrive, Chuck circled the area again. Then he stepped around a corner and waved to Boris to come over.

  When Boris approached him, Chuck said, “I don’t want to sit down. Let’s take a little walk around the neighborhood.”

  “My lunch time is short. I’d like to talk here.”

  “Boris, you have bigger problems than missing a meal. Let’s take a walk.” Chuck scanned the area again.

  “Just relax, Brandt. I said I’ll talk to you, but right here. Otherwise, forget it.”

  Chuck grimaced. He walked over and sat down.

  All of a sudden, Boris was looking very nervous. “I’ve got to go to the rest room. I’ll be right back.”

  Chuck grabbed his wrist. “What are you up to, Boris?”

  “Nothing. I have to go. I’ll be right back.”

  Chuck was rocking back and forth in his seat, but he held Boris’s wrist. “This is a set-up, isn’t it, Boris?”

  “No, I’ll be right back.”

  Suddenly, the vase of flowers a few inches from Chuck’s face exploded.

  Boris tried to jerk his hand free and run.

  Chuck snatched up a table knife and stabbed it through Methodius’s hand, tacking it to the table.

  Methodius yelled in shock and fear; the pain hadn’t even set in yet.

  “Stick around,” Chuck said.

  A woman screamed. A man at another table cursed in Italian.

  Chuck pulled the knife out and tugged on Boris’s wrist. “On second thought, come with me.”

  Chuck pulled his arm—hard. Boris flew over the table and landed face first on the ground. Chuck was kneeling down low now behind the table, looking for the sniper with the silenced rifle. Another scream was heard as several customers abandoned their lunch and fled the area.

  There were a number of windows, but Chuck’s best guess was a building about a hundred yards away. It was hard to see how a pro would have missed from anywhere closer.

  “Let’s go,” Chuck said. “We need to talk.”

  “My hand.” Boris held the bloody thing against his chest.

  “It could get worse, Boris. Stay low. We’re going to run around the corner of the building.”

  “Okay.”

  Pulling the curator’s other wrist, Chuck made a break for cover. Two windows just inches above them shattered. After, they made the corner, Chuck shoved him. “Walk.”

  “My hand. Why did you do that?” Blood was dripping down by his feet.

  “You set me up, Boris. You better start talking.”

  “I need a doctor.”

  “That’s right. You only have a few minutes or you’ll be in trouble from blood loss. You’d better answer my questions quickly. The clock is ticking.”

  They hurried down a long pedestrian street, past outdoor tables and flowering trees. Patrons were standing at their tables, ignoring their coffee. These people had not heard the silenced shots or seen the panic that ensued, but it looked like they’d heard the screams and were wondering what was happening.

  “Hurry up, Boris. Talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Polizia,” a woman shouted. “Chiama la polizia!”

  Chuck tugged on Boris’s arm. “You really need to pay attention, Boris. I need to know who your source is. Who provides you with black-market artifacts?”

  “Nobody.”

  Chuck twisted his arm hard. Boris yelped in pain.

  “Time is short, Boris. It’s going to take time for you to get medical help. You better start talking. And don’t even think about lying to me. There’s nowhere on earth I can’t find you.”

  They kept moving. They turned twice, but then they headed down a longer street. It was another pedestrian street, but this one was more like walking through a restaurant. Tables were set up all along both sides of the street for a full block.

  “Now, Boris.”

  “Alright. It’s the Symi Connection.”

  “What’s that? Be clear.”

  “The master of a ship called the Cassandra is docked at Symi Island. He’s my source.”

  Chuck looked back over his shoulder and saw two men running his way.

  “Alright, Boris, get some help.” Chuck let him go and ran down a side street. He sprinted a block. At the corner he looked back. The assassins were very fast. They’d cut the distance in half. Chuck ran up to a parked cab, pulled the driver out, and shoved him away.

  A woman in a flowing yellow blouse and skirt gasped in surprise. She covered her mouth with her hands and stepped backwards until she was against a building.

  “Emergency. Sorry.” Chuck burned rubber and turned the car around. He hit the gas. Just as he got to the pedestrian street, the two shooters sprinted around the corner. Chuck nicked one them. The guy flew to the ground and would be very sore, but he would live. The second was on the windshield with his face pressed to the glass. Chuck roared the engine and the cab flew down the street. A block down, he hit the brakes. The free rider flew off the hood and rolled several times on the sidewalk. Chuck got out and ran, but to his surprise, the assassin got up and ran after him. Chuck sprinted past a couple of old weathered doors. The shooter opened fire. Window displays turned into waterfalls of shattered glass. Chuck cut left and darted into an open door to a little apartment building. He flashed up the stairs to the second floor. There was no third floor. So he stood to the side and wait
ed for the killer to arrive.

  He waited less than a minute.

  The hands with the pistol came through the door first. Chuck grabbed the wrists and twisted hard. A bullet hit the ceiling as the assassin hit the floor. It wasn’t a clean gun-strip. The pistol hit the floor. The killer jerked his arms free and dove for his gun. Chuck couldn’t get there first so he kicked the man’s face in mid air. He landed clear of the weapon, so Chuck kicked it away. The assassin gained his feet like an indestructible nightmare. He ran at Chuck, but Chuck answered him with a solid chest kick. The killer staggered backwards and crashed through a window. Chuck followed him. He looked through the window frame and saw that the man had landed on the roof of the cab. Glass was all around him. He was moving slowly now. He was lucky to have landed on the cab because it was a soft landing compared to the stone sidewalk. A woman in a wide-brimmed white hat and looked up at Chuck and screamed. Her two poodles barked frantically and tugged on their leash.

  Chuck said, “Lady, he needs help. Hey! Listen to me. Call the police. He’s a criminal.”

  She hurried away, practically dragging her two poodles.

  “I don’t blame you,” Chuck mumbled. “I’ve had enough of Athens myself. Time to go to Symi Island.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Twenty hours till shoot-down

  After a long helicopter ride, the harbor at Symi Town looked better than a postcard. A poem could barely do it justice. Colorful neoclassical homes decorated the hillside like a painting in the Louvre. Boats floated in a bay of luminous blue Cool-Aid. Little wavelets licked the sand and filled the air with feelings of peace and warmth. People strolled on the boardwalk with smiles and relaxed demeanors. Happy, well-dressed children sat at tables with their mothers and fathers, laughing and sipping straws and colorful fruit drinks. The glittering sun-rays, the warm air, the scent of flowers on the breeze—it was paradise for distracted people. They were blissfully unaware of ongoing operations to take down three airliners, probably never even considered who owned the false-flag ship that was anchored in plain sight just offshore, outside the bay. Compared to all the little sailboats around, a ferry docked nearby looked like a massive leviathan, but the black-market freighter anchored offshore was even bigger.

  Chuck had just arrived, and barely in time for meeting an important contact. Placed along the waterfront by a park-style bench, the big black-painted anchor was a prominent feature of Symi town’s shore walk. A colossal piece of steel leaning on a support bar, the anchor overshadowed a pile of its own anchor chain which itself weighed thousands of pounds.

  Standing by the massive anchor was a feather of a woman. She wore brown khakis and a vest over a brown blouse. Her nobility and dignity made her seem like a brown-haired princess. Lithe, lean, and pretty, she looked like a porcelain masterpiece, an Oriental doll come to life. But she was no placid creature of the gardens. When she turned toward Chuck, he saw turmoil and suppressed emotion, but he saw more than that—much more. He noticed her solid posture and her firm lips, complimented by her … eyes. He saw something in her eyes that touched his heart. They were loving eyes, full of life and passion. But they were deep eyes, too, and in those depths he saw more steel than in the ten-foot anchor and thousand-pound chain she stood next to.

  For some reason, Chuck felt slightly embarrassed, but he smiled at her and introduced himself. They exchanged the usual formalities and small talk.

  Then Chuck said, “Sebastian is having a tough time over the way you left him.”

  “It had to be that way,” Angela said. “The woman he knew and loved—she is dead. The Hood killed her as completely as if he’d buried me.”

  Chuck nodded slowly in acknowledgment. “I understand the Hood held you captive for several weeks. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Listen, Brandt, I agreed to meet with you because Lawrence Robertson contacted me last night. He said you were going to take down the Hood and needed help.”

  “That’s right, but I’m confused. You live on Symi?”

  “No, I came here by boat.”

  Chuck glanced over at the ferry.

  Angela said, “By speed boat.”

  Chuck nodded. “I see. Must be very fast.”

  “It is. So let’s get down to business. I don’t talk about personal issues.”

  “If that’s how you feel about it—”

  “That’s exactly how I feel about it.”

  “Excellent, but I need to know why you want to help.”

  “I want him dead, Brandt. If I have to I’ll kill him myself.”

  Chuck was startled by the steel in her pretty eyes and in her feminine voice. Chuck said, “You don’t want to kill a person if you can avoid it. Believe me.”

  She crossed her tanned arms. “I can’t even sleep at night. I fear strangers on the street. I don’t trust anyone, not even you, Brandt.”

  “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t either if I were you.”

  “So what now?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t willing to take a chance on me. So let’s take a chance.”

  “Okay, but if I get the slightest bad vibes about you I’m out of here.”

  “Fine. I’m gonna take down the Hood.”

  “Then I’m talking to the right person.”

  “Let’s hope so. What can you do to help me? Lawrence hasn’t told me anything.”

  She lifted the chain of her gold necklace, but the charm at the end was neither a cross nor an amulet. It was a flash drive. “I’ve almost perfected a virus which I want to upload onto the computers of the Vulcan Eye. It will recalibrate the lasers so that they will miss their targets.”

  “What do you know about Vulcan Eye?”

  She let go of the necklace. “Enough. The Hood—the monster—was … ‘grooming me,’ as he called it. On a couple of occasions, he decided to trust me to see how I would react. He knew I could never escape from Shavaro. It was his private estate—heavily-guarded. I had access to the weapon and stealthily made backups of the anti-missile software that controls Vulcan Eye. This enabled me to create a virus that will foil the weapon.”

  “You said you’ve almost succeeded with the virus.”

  “Yes,” Angela gently put her hand to her throat. “I thought it would be finished a few days ago, but I ran into some glitches.”

  “When will it be finished?”

  “Maybe today, maybe tomorrow—I can’t say for sure.”

  “Then I can’t use your virus, unfortunately.”

  “It’s almost ready.”

  “Well, keep working on it and keep me posted, but I don’t have time to wait around.”

  “I want to help you.”

  “Just keep working on it. We’ll see what happens.”

  Chuck turned to leave but stopped. He said, “Maybe there is something you can help me with now. What do you know about that big ship anchored outside of the bay?”

  CHAPTER 5

  The Cassandra was a big old tramp ship, stretching six-hundred feet in length—a real classic from the old days. There weren’t many ships like her around anymore. Her oversized steamer stack rested amidships upon her rust-streaked white accommodations and wheelhouse superstructure. The long black hull was overdue for a paint job. Her cruiser-spoon stern looked like a ladle coming out of the water and was capped with a large after-deckhouse. Her high narrow bow was sleekly-designed to cut through the waves… Cargo booms dominated the fore and aft decks like giant fishing poles tilted at various angles.

  When the Cassandra’s shore boat tied up along the boardwalk in Symi Town, Chuck approached the long-haired, bearded driver. He was a little guy with thin arms and a long sun-wrinkled face.

  “Hey, buddy. I need a ride out to your ship.”

  He shook his head. “Nobody goes out there.”

  “Boris Methodius sent me. I’ve got lots of money to spend. I’m told your captain has something to sell. I represent museums in America and pay top dollar.”

 
The guy winced and looked away.

  “Listen, pal. I’ve got plenty of cash to spend. You want Methodius to tell your boss that you turned me away? Here’s my letter of introduction.”

  The boat driver flinched. Crows’ feet formed at the corners of his eyes. He reluctantly took the letter, but held it away from him as if he thought it was a trick or something. He threw a couple of hostile glances at it then said, “Alright, get in.”

  The boat ride out to the ship took just a few minutes. Chuck was surprised the boat man agreed to take him out there. Chuck figured there was a fifty-fifty chance that Boris Methodius had called ahead and warned them. He’d only been testing the waters by approaching this weasel.

  As the shore boat eased up next to the freighter, Chuck stood on the bow and reached for the boarding ladder. When the timing was just right, he stepped off the tender and began climbing up the ladder, which was a twenty-four foot climb up the side of the ship’s hull. At the top he stepped onto the ship’s starboard walkway. A hoodlum with a submachine gun was there to greet him.

  “You the agent?”

  “No. Here to talk with the captain. Business call.”

  “Follow me.”

  Chuck was led up several stories to the captain’s cabin.

  “Have a seat. The captain will be here in a few minutes.”

  As the door was pulled shut, Chuck looked around. A walnut coffee table was bolted to the floor with its maroon carpeting. A metal tea pot and cups lay on the table next to a book of tides and currents. Rich walnut paneling covered the walls and provided background for a Paul deVos painting of a pack of dogs savaging a deer. Two bottles of rum sat on a walnut desk next to the cognac.

  Chuck stepped over to the deck and rifled through a few drawers. He was looking for any information on the Hood’s or Vulcan Eye’s location.

  He found no rolodex, no messages about the Hood, and nothing about Vulcan Eye.