Barracuda

Home > Historical > Barracuda > Page 9
Barracuda Page 9

by Richard Turner


  14

  Ministro Pistarini International Airport

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  Mitchell and Jackson made their way through the bustling terminal at just after nine in the morning. Outside, a cool, damp breeze greeted the men, who were restless after being cooped up in a plane for twelve hours. Michell flagged down a cab and told the driver to take them to their hotel, which was situated a few kilometers from the airport.

  “Do you think Yuri will meet us here?” Jackson asked his friend.

  “Knowing him, I suspect that he’s going to rendezvous with us in Ushuaia,” replied Mitchell, thinking of their next destination far to the south. “I told him that we were going to need a helicopter to get around. He’s probably haggling with someone right now, trying to get it for as little as possible while still billing the company for the full price.”

  Jackson looked out the window of the cab at the long rows of trees that bordered the busy road. He had never been to Argentina before. As the country was about to enter its winter season, he wondered how cool it got during the day in southern Argentina.

  Fifteen minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of their hotel. Mitchell paid their driver while Jackson retrieved their luggage. After checking in, they made their way to their room. Mitchell checked his watch. As Buenos Aires was two hours ahead of Albany, he decided to wait an hour before calling Donaldson. He was anxious to learn what, if anything, his colleagues had discovered about the armed men who’d ambushed them at the bank. Regrettably, they had been able to find out precious little before he and Jackson had had to head to the airport in Madrid.

  Jackson threw their luggage onto the two queen-sized beds in the room, and then picked up the phone and ordered a pot of coffee along with a tray of pastries from room service while they waited to speak with their colleagues.

  An hour later, Mitchell opened his laptop and called Donaldson. The image on the screen was that of the briefing room back home. Mike, Fahimah, and Jen sat at the table, looking up at a camera built into the wall.

  “How are things going from your end?” asked Donaldson.

  “Can’t complain,” replied Mitchell. “I half expected the police to detain us at the airport in Madrid, after what had happened at the bank.”

  “Speaking of the bank,” said Fahimah, “the manager you dealt with yesterday was found dead in his apartment late last night. It is being reported on the news as an apparent overdose.”

  “In a pig’s eye,” snorted Jackson. “Find whoever was responsible for the shootout at the OK Corral in front of the bank and you’ll find his killer.”

  “Yes, those fine, upstanding gentlemen. Have you learned anything about the men who were after the diary?” asked Mitchell.

  “So far, the only theory we have been able to come up with, is that two rival gangs wanted to get their hands on the diary,” replied Jen. “By your description of the tattoos on the neck of the Greeks, the closest potential match we can find is of one used by certain neo-Nazi organizations.”

  “Nazis?” blurted out Jackson.

  “Actually, it makes a lot of sense when you think about it,” said Donaldson. “There are neo-Nazi groups in every country in Europe. Both North and South America have their fair share of far-right-wing organizations as well. The people who threatened Mrs. Milos could be from one of these neo-Nazi organizations.”

  “We suspect that Navas was being paid off by one of the groups and alerted them to your arrival,” added Jen.

  “I suppose that could explain the Greeks, but what about the Germans?” asked Mitchell. “I didn’t see any tattoos on their necks.”

  “It all comes back to the missing treasure,” said Fahimah. “Undoubtedly, there are people out there who wish to keep the location of tens of billions of dollars’ worth of stolen treasure a secret. Hence the Germans.”

  Mitchell shook his head. Why anyone would belong to a failed political movement decades after it had been defeated escaped him. “Well, this is all cheery news. What about the good Kapitanleutnant Schur? Have you been able to learn anything about him?”

  Jen looked at her notes and said, “We have several queries in with the German Military attaché in Washington, as well as a couple more with the Bundesarchiv in Germany. We hope to hear back from both in the next few hours. All we have been able to learn so far from open sources is that Kapitanleutnant Schur was reported killed in action when his submarine, the U-1309, sank in the Mediterranean Sea on the twelfth of February, 1945.”

  “How do you explain that Kapitanleutnant Schur’s Iron Cross, along with a book written by Alexander’s grandfather, was placed in a safe-deposit box three years after his reported demise?” asked Mitchell.

  Donaldson shrugged. “No one said this would be an easy assignment.”

  “Whatever you do next, be careful,” Jen said.

  Mitchell smiled. “I will.”

  “He meant to say we will,” interjected Jackson.

  Mitchell asked, “Have you heard from Sam and Gordon?”

  “Yes, they called this morning and said that everything is nice and quiet where they are,” replied Donaldson.

  “Have you had a chance to do a background check on Mrs. Milos’s bodyguard?” asked Mitchell.

  Jen nodded her head. “He looks clean. I spoke to the manager of the company he works for and he told me that Makris served in the Greek Army and was a member of their Special Forces before retiring. He now specializes in close protection for wealthy people.”

  “As all the flights to Ushuaia today were fully booked, Nate and I will be taking the first plane out in the morning. I hope that it won’t take more than a couple of days to explore the island,” said Mitchell.

  “About that island,” said Jen. “Be aware that both the Argentinean and Chilean governments claim sovereignty over it. Depending on who you speak to, it can be called by different names. We’ve taken to calling it by its Argentinan name of Roberts Island, named after an unfortunate Scottish sailor who was marooned on the island for nearly a year in the 1780s. Would you believe that the two countries almost went to war in the late 1970s over it?”

  “Fighting over worthless rocks in the middle of nowhere seems to be a human pastime,” observed Mitchell.

  “We checked with both embassies, and neither had any objections to your planned visit to the island. We told them you were scouting the place for a nature documentary, so make sure you carry several cameras with you to look the part. However, don’t be surprised if your visit there draws the attention of both nations’ armed forces. I’d recommend carrying your passports with you all the time so there’s no room for misunderstanding, should someone decide to pop in and see what you’re up to.”

  “Wonderful,” muttered Jackson. “If something goes wrong, we get the choice of which country’s prison we wish to spend the rest of our lives in.”

  Mitchell ignored Jackson’s gloomy remarks. “Unless there’s nothing more from your end, we’ll sign off and check in with you before suppertime.”

  Donaldson looked at his colleagues. They had nothing to offer, so he agreed to call them back at five o’clock.

  “Now what?” said Jackson. “We’ve got the better part of a day to kill.”

  Mitchell stood. “I know what we can do. The hotel has a gym, so I’m going to burn off a few calories before we head out and do some shopping.”

  “Shopping! Why do we need to go shopping?”

  “Check your tablet and see what it says about the weather around Ushuaia. Right now the daytime temperature hovers just above freezing, not to mention the brutally cold storms that come in from time to time off the Atlantic Ocean. Trust me, we’re going to need some warm winter clothes or we’ll run the risk of dying of hypothermia.”

  “Ryan, just to let you know, sometimes this job really sucks. How come no one ever hires us to search an island off Hawaii or Tahiti?”

  “Quit your bitching and get changed. If you think I’m going to leave you to sit aroun
d the room and watch TV when you could be working off some of the extra weight you have around your midsection, you’re fooling yourself.”

  15

  Stavros Alexander’s Home

  Athens, Greece

  The tension building up in the back of Alexander’s neck was becoming intolerable. He could not remember a time when he had been so stressed. After pouring himself a stiff drink, Alexander took a seat in his living room. He was furious at General Davos, his longtime friend, and mentor. He still had a hard time believing that the man had tried to kill his sister and that he would soon try to seize power for himself. Had he not heard it with his own ears, he would have thought it all some horrible nightmare. With a weary sigh, he rubbed his tired eyes and reached for his cell phone. He quickly scrolled through his messages hoping to see one from his sister. Instead, there were more than a dozen from his office and one from Mike Donaldson. He could ignore his office until the morning. However, after what Davos told him about the firefight in Madrid, he knew he had to call Donaldson to try and find out what happened to Mitchell and Jackson. Alexander checked his watch and saw that it was still the afternoon in the States. He dialed Donaldson’s number.

  Donaldson picked up right away. “Good day—or should I say good evening, General?”

  “You are correct,” Alexander replied, “it is already half-past eight here in Athens. I got your text asking me to call you. Have you heard anything from your people in Madrid?”

  Donaldson filled Alexander in on what had happened at the bank and that Mitchell and Jackson were in Argentina, leaving out precisely where they were heading, and why. Alexander had long suspected that the trail would lead to South America. He thought about pressing Donaldson for more information but decided to let it go for now. If he were in their shoes, considering everything that had happened to date, he wasn’t sure he would trust himself, either. Not that he was going to tell an outsider what he had just learned, either.

  “Have you heard from Elena?” Alexander asked, switching topics.

  “No, but I spoke with the people looking after her and they said that everything is going well and that your sister is fine.”

  The thought that Elena was safe made him relax a little. “Mister Donaldson, you and your people are to be commended. I am sure you are busy so I shan’t keep you any longer. Please give me a call tomorrow and let me know how things are going in Argentina.”

  “Will do,” replied Donaldson before hanging up.

  Alexander placed his phone down. He thought about calling Davos but decided to wait a couple of minutes to collect his thoughts before he spoke to his boss. Alexander took a sip of his drink while he stared at a painting of the Greek God Ares on his wall. It wasn’t lost on him that the God represented war and bloodshed. With an uncertain future facing his country, Alexander prayed that cooler heads would prevail and that Davos’ scheme would fail. He just was not sure what his part in all of it would be. Alexander stared at his phone. He thought about calling the Prime Minister’s office and asking for a meeting with the PM, but decided to sleep on it and see where his allegiances lay in the morning.

  “I need a shower,” he said to himself.

  He stood and stretched his arms over his tired shoulders. Loud cracking and popping noises reminded him that he wasn’t as young and as fit as he had once been. He lowered his arms and headed to the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

  As quiet as a cat, a man dressed in dark clothing slid a skeleton key into the back-door lock of Alexander’s two-story home. A second later, it opened. The man slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. He drew a silenced pistol from inside his jacket and flipped the safety off. The assassin smiled when he heard the sound of water running upstairs. It was going to be easier than he thought. He had failed in Oregon; this time, however, he would not.

  Silently, he crept upstairs until he stood in the hallway of Alexander’s home. He could still hear the water running. He resisted the urge to walk in and kill Alexander in the shower. His orders had been very specific. He had to deliver a message before killing the traitor. The assassin dug out his cell phone, made sure that it was set to record a video, and then placed it down on the table beside him.

  The shower turned off.

  The man could hear Alexander humming a tune while he dried himself. The killer brought his weapon up and took aim.

  The door to the shower opened and Alexander stepped out with a towel wrapped around his taut waist. He froze the instant he saw pistol aimed at him, but then a flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Good evening, Drakos. I take it General Davos sent you.”

  “That is correct,” replied Drakos. “Now raise your hands, and don’t move a muscle.”

  Alexander stood there, defiantly staring at the man.

  “General, I told you to raise your hands.”

  Alexander shook his head. “No. I know why you are here. You’re going to kill me, no matter what I do.”

  “Have it your way, traitor,” said the man as he pulled the trigger. The silenced weapon barely made a sound.

  The bullet struck Alexander square in the stomach. He instantly doubled over and dropped to his knees, clutching the bloody hole in his belly.

  The assassin lowered his aim and fired again.

  Alexander groaned, and fell to the floor.

  His attacker fired his pistol again and again, and with his last shot, he aimed for Alexander’s head, finishing him off.

  Drakos smiled. His job was done.

  He hid his pistol back under his jacket. He picked up his phone to check that the murder had been recorded. A devilish smile crept across his lips when he played back the video. It had caught everything. Just to make sure, he took several pictures of Alexander’s body and then made a quick call.

  Outside, a van pulled up in the alleyway behind the house. Several men in white coveralls jumped out of the back of the vehicle, carrying mops, buckets, and cleaning supplies, and they entered the house.

  “Up here,” said Drakos.

  The men made their way up the stairs.

  “You have ten minutes to get rid of the body and clean up the mess,” explained Drakos to his accomplices.

  When they were done and the hallway scrubbed clean with bleach, the men loaded Alexander’s body into a body bag and placed his remains in the back of the van for disposal.

  Drakos waited until the vehicle was gone before closing and locking the back door. He walked briskly down the alley until he came to a quiet street. A minute later, he came to a parked car, stolen earlier in the day from a dealership, and got in. His accomplice started the engine and drove off.

  It would be days before anyone would report Alexander missing. His staff were used to his many absences. A fake email had been sent to his aide telling him that Alexander had been asked by General Davos to attend a short-notice NATO meeting in Naples, Italy.

  His love for his sister had cost him his life. Alexander’s body, dumped off the coast, would never be found.

  16

  Ushuaia International Airport

  Ushuaia, Argentina

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said Yuri Uvarov as he warmly greeted his friends when they stepped inside the small airport terminal. With his usual two-day growth of beard on his weathered face and a ponytail hanging down over the collar of a rumpled Hawaiian shirt, Yuri was the unofficial fifth member of Mitchell’s team. Although not actually on Polaris’ payroll, his skill at flying almost anything ever made had made him invaluable to Mitchell’s team.

  “I hope that I didn’t take you away from something important,” said Mitchell, as he firmly shook his friend’s hand.

  Yuri shook his head. “I was in Vegas losing a lot of money when you called. For that, I am in your debt.”

  “What’s the weather like outside?” Jackson asked, eyeing the tall, snow-capped mountains.

  “Not as cold as Russia in the winter, but it’s really damp here,” replied Yuri. “The forecast is not good either. Th
ere’s a storm coming. I’d be surprised if it didn’t snow later today.”

  Jackson shivered and shook his head. “Hawaii; the next one has to be in Hawaii.”

  “Pardon?” asked Yuri.

  “Ignore him, he’s just whining again,” said Mitchell. “Did you manage to get everything I asked for?”

  “Da, and then some. It’s all in the back of my rental van.”

  “What about a chopper?” asked Jackson.

  “Not a problem,” Yuri replied with a smile. “I managed to rent a Huey. It’s a few years old but in pretty good condition. The people who rent it out have kept it well maintained.We have it for the next three days, with an option for a couple more, should we need it.”

  “I hope we wrap this mission up long before that,” said Mitchell.

  “Me too,” added Jackson.

  While they picked up their luggage, Yuri headed out into the parking lot to fetch his van. A few minutes later, they were on their way. The airport was built on the outskirts of Ushuaia and was known as the southernmost international airport in the world. The picturesque town, with its old-world charm, overlooked the cold waters of the South Atlantic. The combination of a city with its mountainous backdrop reminded Mitchell of Scandanavia.

  Mitchell sat up front next to Yuri. “We’re up against the clock on this one. Do you think you could fly us over to the island today? The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the better.”

  Yuri nodded his head. “Da, I can do that. I thought you might want to get to work right away, so I asked for the Huey to be fuelled up this morning.”

 

‹ Prev