Pandemic (56 page)

HMS
Invincible
, Sea of Crete

It was quite amazing just how many surface contacts there were around the western rim of Crete, even that early in the morning. Most of them, as the Surface Picture
Compiler knew, were fishing boats, ferries, yachts, power boats, ski boats and a host of other types of pleasure craft that were heading out into the mirrored blue waters of the eastern
Mediterranean to take advantage of yet another beautiful day.

The orders the SPC had been given were quite specific: he was to track and report any surface contacts that appeared to be heading for a landfall anywhere on the western coast. Theoretically,
that meant he could disregard all those contacts heading away from the island, but the problem, as he’d realized almost immediately, was that the vast majority of those contacts were at some
point going to turn round and head back the way they’d come, for lunch, a refuel, change of passengers, an overnight stop or whatever, so actually he was having to track almost everything
that moved.

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
Invincible
. It was heading almost due east, on a track that, if unchanged, would take it to a point
just to the south of Crete. And it was big – much bigger than most of the stuff buzzing about the waters near the
Invincible
. As he’d done dozens of times already, he allocated a
track number to the new contact and reported it to the Principal Warfare Officer at his console in the centre of the Operations Room.

‘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.

Máleme, Crete

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?

South of Zounáki, western Crete

‘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
is
important, is it, Richter? I mean, you do know you’re right at the top of Simpson’s current shit list, and if he thinks you’re just fannying about down
there on Crete he’ll crucify you when you get back here.’

‘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 Zounáki to Nterés. 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 better part of an hour. Richter had tied his wrists together using plastic cable ties,
then secured them to the grab handle above the right-hand passenger door. Stein’s arms were pulled uncomfortably upwards as his torso slumped forwards, but Richter wasn’t bothered about
his comfort. As far as he was concerned Stein was already dead: it was just a matter of when he’d actually stop breathing. But he had wanted to ensure that the American agent was completely
immobilized.

Stein lifted his head, his eyes blinking slowly as he looked around him. The first thing he saw was Richter staring back at him, and the second thing he noticed was the muzzle of a 9mm Browning
Hi-Power pointing at his head.

‘Try to move,’ Richter growled, ‘and you’ll never move again.’

‘Oh, shit.’ Stein’s voice was low and racked with pain. ‘You were that goddamn old man I saw working the street.’

Within ten minutes of the call from Fitzpatrick, Richter had been sitting in his Renault Clio hire car holding eighty miles an hour, en route from Réthymno to Máleme. As he’d
reached the outskirts of the town he’d seen an old man shuffling along in the gutter and hauled the car to a stop. Using a selection of hand gestures and the handful of Greek words that
he’d picked up since he’d arrived on Crete, he’d managed to do a convenient deal. The old man’s hat and coat in exchange for enough money for him to have an overcoat
custom-made for him in London, unlikely though that possibility might be.

Having no idea when his target would leave the hotel, Richter had spent hours wandering about in the vicinity of the car park where he had seen the blue Seat. He had been seriously wondering if
the American calling himself Watson or Jones was going to stay in his hotel all day, when he had at last spotted the man himself approaching the vehicle.

‘Did McCready send you?’ Stein suddenly asked from the back seat.

‘Who’s McCready?’

Stein leaned back in the seat, easing the pressure on his aching arms. For a moment he said nothing.

‘I just asked you a question,’ Richter said. ‘Who’s McCready?’

Instead of answering, Stein studied him curiously. ‘You’re a Brit,’ he decided.

‘Full marks for deduction,’ Richter said, ‘but you still haven’t answered me and I’m not a patient man. Tell me, who’s McCready?’

Stein shook his head. ‘McCready doesn’t matter,’ he muttered. ‘He was just our briefing officer back home, and I was kinda expecting him to have sent a welcoming
committee here, after all the fuck-ups.’

‘Fuck-ups like killing the unarmed man in Réthymno? That kind of thing?’

‘Listen,’ Stein said, ‘I’m real sorry about that. He looked to me like he was going for a weapon.’ Richter just stared at him, saying nothing. ‘I’m
sorry,’ Stein repeated. ‘I thought he was carrying. And who are you, anyway? Who are you working for?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

But Stein shook his head. ‘It might be,’ he said. ‘Are you a cop, or what?’ Still Richter didn’t reply. ‘OK, then I’ve got nothing to tell you,’
Stein added, finality in his voice.

What the hell? Richter thought. Whether or not this American knew who employed him probably didn’t matter.

‘OK,’ he said, ‘I work for British Intelligence. I presume you’re with the Company?’

Stein nodded, an expression of relief on his face. ‘OK, then, great. We’re on the same side.’

‘No fucking way,’ Richter snapped. ‘Any “special relationship” ended the moment you fired your pistol in Réthymno. Your itchy trigger finger killed a senior
British SIS officer.’

‘I told you, that was an accident.’ Stein’s face grew pale as the implications of his action dawned on him. ‘I didn’t know who he was, I swear.’

‘You might be telling the truth,’ Richter said, ‘but I don’t see it that way, and neither will SIS.’

‘What are you going to do with me?’

Richter paused for a few moments before replying. ‘I haven’t decided yet. A lot depends on what you’re prepared to tell me. What was your function in this operation?’

‘I was only the linguist,’ Stein said, deciding to dumb down his role. ‘I speak fluent Greek, which was needed to get the job done. Look, I’ve about had it with this op.
My partner’s as good as dead and I’m hauling around a file I don’t understand and a bug that’ll kill you in under a day. You work for an allied intelligence service, so if
you want that fucking case and the file, you take ’em. Just let me get the hell out of here.’