in one piece. I know you have issues with him, but—’
‘I don’t have
Simpson waggled a warning finger. ‘You just let the law handle Lomas, Richter. I don’t want to see any kind of vigilante action from you when those Eyeties pull him out of that house.’
‘Oh, come on, Simpson, there are ten heavily armed men down there, and all I’ve got is a Kevlar vest. What are you expecting me to do, choke him with it?’
‘Just remember what I’ve said, Richter.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Richter muttered. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
It was five minutes after Richter had slipped from sight behind the stone wall that Simpson finally realized his employee hadn’t actually confirmed that he wouldn’t try to kill Andrew Lomas. ‘Oh, shit,’ he murmured, then got to his feet and began picking his way through the trees, following the path Richter had taken down to the road.
Just over three hours after his pager had summoned him from the shower, Tyler Q. Hardin was buckling his seat-belt for the flight north from Atlanta to New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport. In his pocket was an onward ticket to London Heathrow first and from there a direct flight to Crete. About four hours behind him would come the other three members of his team, now hastily assembling protective clothing and equipment.
CDC personnel are given automatic priority on all US carriers when responding to a request for assistance, and two disappointed passengers had been bumped from the flight to provide Hardin with a seat. In fact, only one had been bumped for the seat, and the second to ensure sufficient space in the hold of the Boeing 757 for the two large reinforced cases, sealed with tempered-steel padlocks and carrying Customs-exempt labels, which contained everything Hardin hoped he would need for carrying out his initial investigation.
What little clothing he had brought with him was crushed into a leather carry-on bag sitting in the locker above his head, and beneath the seat in front of him was stashed his Toshiba Satellite laptop. As soon as the seat-belt sign was switched off, he was going to haul out the computer and call up everything in the database about Ebola and other members of the filovirus family and start preparing a series of protocols for whatever he might find on Crete when he finally got there.
The villa looked quiet and peaceful as Perini and his men approached it. To satisfy legal requirements, the DCPP had in their possession a warrant to search the property, and Perini had received permission to gain access by whatever means he, the man on the spot, felt necessary. Knowing Lomas’s reputation, the Italian had decided that the best means of entry was to kick down the front door and go in with, metaphorically speaking, all guns blazing.
About twenty yards from the boundary of the property Richter stopped and watched. Perini had briefed the DCPP officers to effect their planned assault in two groups, which made obvious sense as the villa would undoubtedly have both a front and a back door. The groups were clearly all linked by radio, because Richter could hear nothing apart from the furtive movement of the men across the ground. Perini stood off to one side of the drive curving up to the front door, a broad sweep of old gravel flecked with grass and weeds. He was watching as his men deployed.
Five black-clad figures soon grouped by the front entrance and Richter watched one of them reach out, turn the handle and press his hand firmly against the door. When it didn’t open, a second DCPP man began pushing at its right-hand edge, starting at the top and working downwards. Richter could see the ram leaning against the wall near by, and knew that they were trying to locate the locks or bolts so that they could target the ram against them.
On a silent command, three of the five stood back, Spectre sub-machine-guns at the ready, while the other two picked up the ram. Richter saw Perini’s lips move as he issued an order – and suddenly it started.
With a shout that echoed around the quiet valley, the two DCPP men smashed the heavy steel ram into the villa’s entrance door just above the lock, and Richter could clearly hear a splintering of wood. When the door didn’t budge, they propelled the ram forward again, slightly below the lock this time. Abruptly it gave and the door crashed open. The men immediately dropped the ram, swung their Spectres to the ready, and burst inside.
Standard special forces assault tactics call for the use of noise and violence so as to shock, intimidate and hopefully persuade suspects to disarm. These DCPP types certainly knew how to make a noise. Richter heard two stun grenades detonate, then shouts and bellows from the interior of the building as the men systematically cleared one room after another. And suddenly two single shots sounded, followed by a three-round burst of sub- machine-gun fire, then finally silence.
Perini approached the door of the villa, and Richter followed a few feet behind. When the Italian heard him, he turned round and gestured. ‘They’ve found three people inside,’ he said. ‘One is the man we believe to be Lomas himself, one we presume is the man Lomas sent to meet the consular official in Salerno, and the other was probably just a bodyguard.’
‘The shots?’ Richter asked.
‘The one that we think was a bodyguard fired his pistol. He missed, and now he’s dead. The other two men weren’t armed. They’re bringing them out now.’
Just as Perini finished speaking, two DCPP officers approached, half-carrying, half-dragging a dazed-looking man. Richter stepped forward and pulled his head up by the hair. ‘That’s not Lomas,’ he said.
Perini nodded. ‘He matches the description our watcher gave for the go-between.’ He then issued instructions for the prisoner to be taken away and processed.
Another three men emerged, two black-clad DCPP officers flanking a slightly built middle-aged man. Richter stepped forward, but this time he had no need to lift the suspect’s head: the man was walking normally upright, except with his hands tied behind his back, and secured at the wrist with plastic cable ties. Richter took one look and turned to Perini.
‘That’s Lomas,’ he said. ‘No question.’
David Elias looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and then up again at the building in front of him, checking the address carefully. It was five past ten, so he was ten minutes early for the meeting the Director had instructed him to attend.
He walked up the steps of the house and pressed the bell push set in a polished brass plate beside the door. Immediately, lights flared on above his head and he was suddenly conscious of the empty stare of two security cameras mounted behind protective grilles set on either side of the entrance.
A minute later a hidden speaker crackled. ‘Yes? Please press the button again and state your name.’
Elias pressed it and spoke towards the brass plate. ‘My name’s David Elias. I think I’m expected.’
The speaker clicked off, then the door opened and a squat, heavy-set man peered out at him, shoulder holster clearly visible beneath the open jacket of his dark blue suit.
‘Your ID, please, Mr Elias?’
Elias dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out his CIA card and handed it over. The man scrutinized it carefully, handed it back and then opened the door wide. ‘OK. Come in.’ The hallway was spacious and high-ceilinged, an elegant entrance to an obviously expensive property. ‘Follow me.’
Elias walked down the hall, following the man in the dark suit. The man stopped beside a mahogany door at the far end, knocked twice, and opened it without waiting for a response. He gestured inside. Elias entered and heard the door close behind him.
Probably originally a formal drawing room, it was large and square, with comfortable sofas and easy chairs. In the far corner a youthful dark-haired man sat behind a small oak desk in a leather wing chair, looking slightly ill at ease. Elias had never seen him before, and neither did he recognize the two other men sitting in front of him.
