“I’m surprised Hammond didn’t put a stop to it. The guy’s got a rep as a shark.”
“That might not happen for a lot of reasons, one of which I’m trying to prevent this morning. Or at least it’s something I want to find out.”
“Whoever this private citizen is, he must be important, sir.”
“Kirk McGarvey.”
“Jesus.”
The Strategic Liaison Group’s offices occupied a part of the third floor in a building directly across First Avenue from the Dag Hammarskjöld Library. Sherman parked on the street in front and put an FBI OFFICIAL BUSINESS placard on the dash.
She and Bender showed their IDs at the door and were buzzed in by the security officer inside the small lobby.
“May I help you?” the cop asked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Wilfred Maslak. Hammond Enterprises Strategic Liaison Group.”
“You’re investigating the accident with Mr. Rodriguez, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“You guys are about eight hours late. The office was closed and everything moved out even before I got here this morning.”
“Everything?” Bender demanded.
“I went up and took a look myself when I came in. Nothing’s left. They even swept the floors.”
The Turkish Airlines flight arrived in Athens on time at quarter to nine in the evening local, and after getting through customs and immigration—with no questions about the contents of their sealed diplomatic pouch—McGarvey and Pete took the shuttle over to the nearby Sofitel Hotel.
The next ferry to Serifos from Piraeus left at five after seven in the morning, which gave them a full night to get some rest, and then all day the next day to get settled in at the lighthouse. McGarvey was pretty sure that if there was to be an attack, it would come in the middle of the night. Pete had agreed, and so had Otto.
They got a room looking away from the airport toward the hills sparkling with house lights and streetlights.
“I’m going to jump in the shower and then try to get a few hours’ sleep,” McGarvey said.
“Do you want to have dinner downstairs or here in the room?” Pete asked.
“Here.”
“Any preferences?”
“Something Greek,” Mac said, and Pete laughed.
If this time a team was coming after them, their numbers would be a disadvantage as well as an advantage. More firepower would tip the scale for the opposition, but in the dark, on unfamiliar ground, they could become disoriented under the right circumstances.
McGarvey had thought about it on the flight over, and he’d finally come to the conclusion he’d experienced in the field on more than one occasion—the man whose life was being threatened had the advantage if he kept his head. The adrenaline released knowing you were being hunted was a powerful stimulus.
The optimum situation would be four operators coming after him and Pete. Enough firepower to give the team confidence and yet a large enough number that a strategy of hit-and-run could scatter them. But it would become a problem if there were more of them, enough to set up a firing line or, better yet, an attacking front that was meant to herd their prey toward a fixed position.
When he was finished and in a robe, the waiter had just brought up their dinner of avgolemono soup, dolmades, a plate of salted sardines and pita bread with olive oil, plus a bottle of ice-cold Retsina wine.
“Is this okay?” Pete asked.
“Perfect,” McGarvey said, and they sat down to it, Pete pouring the wine.
“What’s the plan?” she asked as they ate. “Still sleep by day and wander the hills at night like gypsies?”
“It’ll be a night attack, I’m pretty sure of it. There’s too many people out and about during the day.”
“I don’t think that these people would give a damn about collateral damage.”
“No, but they don’t want witnesses.”
“Okay, a night op. Makes sense for them, especially if they think to bring along night vision optics. Do a SEAL Team 6 on us.”
“Blind them with tactical flashlights,” McGarvey said, but he was beginning to get uneasy. She had warmed to the operation, almost as if she were looking forward to it.
“Do we go our separate ways?” she asked. “A circle of two, or one of us as bait?”
“Together. Each of us can effectively cover a one-eighty arc.”
She raised her glass. “You and me, babe, together,” she said, making the toast.
He was about to remind her that this wouldn’t be some exercise they’d played at the Farm, when Otto called.
“No definitive proof yet, but Lou has upped Hammond’s probability to 17 percent.”
McGarvey had put it on speaker mode. “What do you have?”
“Bender paid a call to Hammond’s office that liaises with the UN.”
“The one that Rodriguez headed?” McGarvey asked.
“Yeah, and the place was empty,” Otto said. “Bender called me himself and said the office had been totally cleaned out, not so much as a scrap of paper. A forensic team is fine-tooth combing the place, looking for whatever they can find. Maybe Hammond’s fingerprints.”
“Seventeen percent isn’t a gimme.”
“No, but he gave me two other tidbits. They’re trying to find out where Hammond is at the moment and send someone out to interview him.”
“He wouldn’t talk without an attorney.”
“No, but if he’s involved, it would put him on notice,” Otto said. “But there’s more. Bender is sending a team over to Serifos to help you out.”
“Goddamnit. Talk to Taft and see if the son of a bitch can be delayed.”
“I don’t know.”
“Thirty-six hours.”
“You think it’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
“I think so.”
“A premo?”
“Something like that,” McGarvey said.
FIFTY-NINE
The Gulfstream was held up on the tarmac at the international airport outside Sofia, Bulgaria, for nearly three hours before Captain Bogdan Borisov called from the cockpit and Vetrov went forward.
“There’s been a delay,” the captain said in Russian. He was a stocky Bulgarian with dark features and almost Siberian looks. His copilot, Darina Petrov, was a slightly built blond woman with movie-star looks and a hard expression in her eyes as if she would take no crap from anyone, especially a man.
“What
