met the American, but he knew it was McGarvey. He started to reach out, but his hand stopped almost of its own volition.
“Do you hear me, you son of a bitch? I’m on my way.”
Spranger picked up the walkie-talkie and keyed the talk switch. “I’m waiting,” he said softly, and he hit the transmit button.
Chapter 53
Any lingering doubts McGarvey may have entertained about Kathleen and Elizabeth being on the island left him with Spranger’s two words. He resisted the urge to get back on the walkie-talkie and warn the man what would happen if any harm came to them.
The German knew of him; undoubtedly he still had connections with the KGB, which maintained an extensive file.
Impatiently he advanced the throttle all the way forward to its stop, and the fishing boat surged ahead, her bows crashing into the rising seas as they rounded the north point.
He’d been stupid to radio them. By now the Germans would have to know that he was on his way back to Thira. They had undoubtedly been watching from the monastery.
They would warn Theotokis, who would be preparing a reception committee on the docks.
For a few moments he toyed with Lipton’s suggestion that he stand off and call for help. Spranger and his people could be isolated on the north end of the island. They would not be able to escape.
But Spranger was capable of revenge. He would not allow himself to be captured, and before he was cut down he would make certain that Kathleen and Elizabeth died.
McGarvey’s jaw tightened. It would do no good to send Lipton’s assault force onto the island. Spranger had set this trap to lure McGarvey out of Japan and kill him. This would be a one-on-one fight. Which suited McGarvey just fine.
Ten minutes later, the seas calmed as he came into the temporary lee of a small uninhabited volcanic island to the west, and McGarvey lashed the wheel amidships so that the boat would maintain its course unattended for a minute or so.
Retrieving his leather overnight bag from a corner of the wheelhouse, he took out a spare clip of ammunition and reloaded his Walther.
Next he took the walkie-talkie out onto the narrow starboard walkway and without hesitation tossed it overboard. There would be no farther communication between him and the STASI leader, nor would the Agency be able to track him any longer.
He was on his own, and it was better like this. “Excess baggage is the bane of the field officer.” It was axiomatic.
Back inside, he caught a glimpse of Thira’s lights to the southeast. He unlashed the wheel, made sure the throttle was all the way forward, and steered directly for the port, every muscle in his body, every fiber of his being girding for the upcoming fight.
Big swells were running into the harbor, making all the fishing boats on moorings and at the docks work hard against their restraining lines. Even the sleek 180-foot Athens morning ferry tied up along the main quay moved nervously, the car tires dangling from her port side protecting her hull from damage against the concrete dock.
It was very late. No traffic, vehicular or pedestrian, moved along the quay, or along the main street that led up into the town proper. The rain had intensified, and as McGarvey closed with the quay a hundred yards to the north of the big ferry boat, he could see the drops bouncing off the cobblestones and the red tile roofs.
Unaccountably the rain made him sad, and even frightened; not for himself, for his own personal safety, but for Kathleen and Elizabeth and what this experience would do to them.
Their lives would forever be altered. He was less concerned about Elizabeth’s mental well-being. If anyone could bounce back it would be she. She was very strong, her will almost as fierce as his own. But Kathleen wasn’t so strong. She had been incapable of staying married to him because of the tension his absences caused her. Now she was in the middle of an operation, her life and the life of her daughter in jeopardy.
She wouldn’t fare so well, no matter the outcome, and he was frankly worried about her.
The rising wind was out of the east, shoving the boats against the docks. Twenty yards out, McGarvey cut the engine, revved it in reverse to slow his rate of approach, then shut the engine off, allowing the
Dhodhoni to drift the rest of the way. He didn’t bother with dock lines, or with the rubber tires stacked on deck, ready for fending off.
On deck he braced himself as the boat slammed into the quay with a sickening crunch.
She bounced away; and immediately the wind and swells smashed her into the concrete dock again. Within an hour she would probably batter herself to death. But it didn’t matter; Karamanlis was dead, and McGarvey wouldn’t be coming back this way.
Timing his move with the motion of the boat, he leaped up onto the dock and darted directly across the quay into the shadows along the line of warehouses. Nothing moved.
There were no shots. Only the wind moaning in the rigging of the boats, the protesting squeal of rubber tires being crushed against the docks, and the Dhodhoni
beating herself against the unyielding concrete, disturbed the night.
Keeping to the shadows but moving fast, McGarvey made his way the block and a half to the taverna where Karamanlis had taken him to see Uncle Constantine. It was the only establishment open on the docks so far as McGarvey was able to tell. No lights showed from any of the windows here, and only a hazy yellow glow spread from the open taverna door.
McGarvey turned and hurried around the block behind the taverna where he found an unlocked gate into a long, narrow courtyard beside what appeared to be an apartment building. The courtyard was muddy and filled with trash. He picked his way down its length, where he had to force another tall gate that opened into a passageway exposed to the sky. A trough had been set into the cobblestones, no doubt for use as an open sewer in ancient times, and, by the smells, still being used for the same purpose today.
Stepping across the trough, he tried the back door into the taverna. It opened silently on well-oiled hinges, as he’d hoped it would. During his interview with Theotokis, McGarvey had watched the comings and goings of the Mafia boss’s people. More than half of them had used the back door. It was a regular route for them, apparently, when they wanted to come or go unnoticed by an observer on the docks.
He found himself in a tiny kitchen area, a pantry to his left and a stone urinal trough in a tiny room to the right. A dim light came from behind the copper bar through a swinging door.
McGarvey watched for a moment. Constantine Theotokis was seated alone at a back table.
He was reading a newspaper, a bottle of red wine and a single glass in front of him.
Obviously he was waiting for someone. Probably Karamanlis and Papagos to return and tell him what had happened.
A thick-necked man with an enormous belly leaned against the bar, apparently reading over Theotokis’s shoulder. A double-barrel sawed-off shotgun, its pistol grip stock well used and shining dully in the light, lay on the bar at the man’s back. These two were waiting for trouble.
McGarvey took out his Walther, switched the safety catch to the off position, cocked the hammer and stepped through the swinging doors.
The big man spun around and started to grab for the shotgun, but McGarvey was across to him in two steps, the Walther pointed directly at the man’s face.
“Stand down,” McGarvey said softly.
Theotokis was looking over his shoulder at them, his body absolutely still.
“If need be I’ll kill you both. Believe me, I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Do as he says, Georgios,” Theotokis instructed his bodyguard. “I believe Mr. McGarvey is a man who will listen to reason.”
