Since coming on watch he’d been keeping a personal written tote, listing the track number he’d allocated to each contact through the computer system, the location where the radar had first detected it, usually within a few hundred metres of leaving whatever port it had departed from, and its approximate heading. That way, he hoped, he could effectively eliminate all those surface contacts that simply sailed from some Cretan harbour, headed out into the Mediterranean, and then turned round and came back again.
But what he was really looking for were the unknown contacts, those vessels appearing on his radar screen from far out to the west, and especially the bigger ones that might carry a helicopter. Just after seven that morning, he spotted another one. This contact wasn’t yet being detected by the ship’s radar, but had been fed into the system by secure data-link from one of the two ASaC Sea Kings established in holding patterns some fifty miles to the west of the
‘PWO, SPC. New track number two three one, bearing two six two range one hundred and twenty miles, heading zero nine five. Source is ASaC data-link.’
‘SPC, PWO, roger. Maintain tracking. Report any changes of heading and when the contact reaches range fifty.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The SPC bent over his display again, checking that every contact on his screen was wearing a computer- generated label of some sort, but the main focus of his attention was on the new track. Every sweep of the timebase around the radar screen showed it very slightly closer, and it was, the SPC thought, almost exactly what he’d been told to watch out for.
And he was quite correct.
Richard Stein woke up at seven-thirty, climbed out of bed and walked straight across to the window overlooking the car park at the rear. He pulled back the curtain a fraction and looked out carefully at the cars, at the adjacent streets and the adjoining properties, and saw absolutely nothing that seemed out of place. He shrugged, checked that the chair still jammed the room door, headed into the bathroom and took a shower.
Just after eight he sat down to a light breakfast in the hotel’s small dining room, then went back up to his room and again viewed the car park. People were now moving about the streets, and two couples that he recognized from breakfast were loading suitcases into the boots of their cars – a white Opel and a light grey Fiat – but nobody else was visible anywhere near the building.
Stein switched on the laptop and the mobile phone and logged on to the server back in the States. There were no further messages for him or Krywald, so he shut both down and packed them away into his briefcase. The pick-up McCready had arranged was for fifteen twenty that afternoon, which meant he had about six hours to kill before the rendezvous, and Stein had no intention of going outside until he had to. He had no desire to spend the day cooped up in this hotel, but he realized his chances of being recognized would be far greater out in the open.
He took a paperback novel from his overnight bag and lay down on the bed to try to read it, but his mind kept wandering and he found himself re-reading the same page over and over again. Every few minutes he got up to open the door to his room and check up and down the corridor, and inspected the car park below his hotel room window. The only disturbance was the chambermaid who came in to tidy his bed and clean mid-morning. Stein never let her out of his sight the whole time she was in the room, the SIG – minus its silencer – grasped loosely in his hand underneath the novel.
At twelve fifteen he again checked both the car park and the corridor, then headed down to the dining room, bought himself a buffet lunch and was back up in his room just before one.
By one twenty he had packed his few belongings into his overnight bag and put it on the bed beside the crucial briefcase. He glanced at his watch, mentally calculating times and distances, and took a last look round the room and in the bathroom to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Before he left the hotel room, he again spent some time peering out of the window from behind the curtain, checking that nothing seemed out of place. Stein then picked up his bags, moved quietly along the corridor to the rear of the hotel, opened the emergency exit door and climbed down the metal fire escape to the car park. At ground level, he again checked all round him, then crossed the street and strode off down the road towards the car park where he’d left his Seat.
He was about twenty yards from the Cordoba when he noticed that an old Cretan, wearing a filthy hat and ragged coat, was working his way through the car park, checking the garbage bins. Bent and bowed with age, he was moving slowly as if in pain, a plastic bag clutched in his right hand. Stein registered him briefly, and then ignored him. That was a mistake.
Stein used the central locking to open the boot, put both his bags inside and slammed the lid shut. As he straightened up, he felt more than saw a swift movement to his right. He span round, grabbing for his pistol, but he was far too slow. His world exploded in a sudden blaze of stars and lights and he slumped to the ground, car keys and pistol both spinning from his hands.
Murphy had been concentrating on the rear exits of the hotels. He’d seen the old Cretan wander off the street into the car park but, just like Stein, he’d disregarded him, not least because the old man had been hanging around there for most of the morning. He hadn’t even seen Stein because his target had approached not from one of the hotels but from the opposite direction, and had thus been hidden behind parked vehicles.
He was suddenly aware of an engine starting, then saw the rear of the Seat Cordoba swing out towards him, its reversing lights on, and immediately the car moved swiftly away and bounced out of the car park, accelerating rapidly down the road.
Murphy cursed – how the hell had Stein slipped past him? He span the starter, slipped the Peugeot into first gear, and pulled away from the kerb. He reached the main road in seconds and swung his car right to follow the Seat. As he straightened up and accelerated, he gave a puzzled frown. He was almost certain he had seen two people in the Seat. But Elias and Krywald were both dead, so who the hell was in the car with Stein?
‘I need you to check some names,’ Richter spoke into the Enigma mobile. He’d got through to Hammersmith three minutes earlier and briefed the Duty Officer – Simpson not being in the building – on developments overnight. Now he had the fat red file open on his lap, and he was about to read out the names of senior personnel he’d found listed inside the front cover.
‘I imagine these are all CIA agents,’ Richter said, ‘so I suggest you make an initial check with Langley. OK, their names are James Wilson, Jerry Jonas, Henry Butcher, George Cassells, Charles Hawkins, William Penn, James Richards and Roger Stanford.’
‘This
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Richter said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already had the bollocking. Just run that check, will you?’
‘And what’s your source for these names? Are they important?’ Richter gave him a brief summary of what he had discovered so far. ‘Right, you’ve convinced me. All you have to do now is convince Simpson. I’ll get those names across to Langley this afternoon.’
‘One more thing. Do me a favour and run a check on the name “CAIP”, and see if it’s in anybody’s database. I’ll give you a call later today.’
‘You’ve got it.’ The Duty Officer broke the connection.
Richter switched off the mobile phone – he didn’t want it ringing while he questioned ‘George Jones’ – placed it on the dashboard and glanced around outside the car, which he’d parked a little way off the road leading south from Zounaki to Nteres. There were no houses, vehicles or people anywhere within his view. He turned slightly to look behind him.
Stein, sitting on the rear seat, was at last showing signs of coming round, having been unconscious for the
