Critical Mass (30 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Critical Mass
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MCGARVEY RODE IN THE BACK SEAT OF THE BATTERED LAND Rover, bracing himself as best he could as they bounced slowly over the extremely rough dirt track. Theotokis sat in the front passenger seat while his bodyguard drove. As the crow flew it was barely three and a half miles from Thira to the monastery, but the track led over the spine of the island, rising to an elevation of more than 1,600 feet.
It had been simple to convince them to betray Spranger by bringing McGarvey out here. It was either that or be killed. Theotokis had had the intelligence to read that much from McGarvey's eyes.
Georgios the bodyguard, however, had watched McGarvey very closely for any sign of weakness, for an opening, no matter how small, that he could take advantage of. He wasn't a Santorinian. McGarvey would have been willing to bet that the man had learned his trade on the streets and back alleys of Athens or some other big city.
Over the central massif, the stony path plunged into a valley, and then started immediately up again to the crest of a much lower hill. They were nearing the top.
“How much farther?” McGarvey asked.
Georgios glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, but then turned back to his driving, which was difficult along the narrow track and made more dangerous by the wind and rain.
“The church is just on the other side of this hill,” Theotokis said. “We will drop you off at the summit, and
from there it is only a small walk of perhaps less than a half kilometer.”
“Turn off the headlights, and stop here,” McGarvey said.
Again Georgios looked at him in the rearview mirror. “What?” he grumbled.
McGarvey jammed the barrel of his pistol into the side of the big man's head. “Do it now,” he ordered.
Georgios complied immediately, and as they lurched to a halt, their lights out, they could suddenly hear the wind shrieking around the volcanic rock outcroppings just above them, and the driven rain hammering against the car.
“Do you mean to kill us?” Theotokis asked.
“If I see you again, I will,” McGarvey said. “Now you and your friend are returning to Thira.”
“As you wish …”
“On foot,” McGarvey said. “You're both getting out on the passenger side.”
Georgios started to turn, but McGarvey jabbed harder with the pistol barrel. “Keep your hands in plain sight, and your eyes forward.”
“Do as you're told,” Theotokis sighed. “The little walk will certainly be uncomfortable, but considering the alternatives …”
McGarvey opened his door on the passenger side and directed Theotokis to do the same.
“Carefully now.”
“We will do exactly as you tell us, Mr. McGarvey, you may believe that.” Theotokis got out of the car, and his bodyguard slid across the seat behind him and climbed out.
McGarvey got out and stepped a few feet off the track. “Take off your shoes and socks.” He had to shout to be heard over the wind.
“That's inhuman,” Theotokis protested.
“It's late,” McGarvey shouted. “I'm tired. I'm out of patience. And I'm going to kill again for what has been done to my wife and daughter.”
“I see your point,” the Greek said and he and Georgios removed their shoes and socks.
“Now, go,” McGarvey said.
Georgios stared at him for a long time, as if he were trying to memorize McGarvey's face, his eyes narrowed, his lips compressed. “Ernst and his people will kill you,” he said. “And in the morning I shall piss on your body.”
 
The rain seemed to intensify as the two Greek mafiosi picked their way down the rock-strewn path. McGarvey watched until they disappeared into the darkness. In another age he might have killed them for their part in Spranger's operation. But they were only little people; petty hoods who had no conception of the larger issues, or any desire to know. And McGarvey was finding that he was finally losing his stomach for the business.
He turned and looked up the hill in the direction the Land Rover was pointed. He had lost his stomach for the kill except for Spranger and men of his ilk. He'd been told repeatedly that wherever he turned up trouble would almost certainly develop. Well, Spranger had lured him here. And this night there would be trouble. The man had stepped over the line. Way over the line.
McGarvey holstered his gun, and got behind the Land Rover's wheel. The engine ticked over softly, and for a second longer he hesitated, watching in the rearview mirror for any sign that Georgios or his boss had doubled back. A fleeting thought passed through his head: He wondered how he had gotten to this point in his life from where he had started on his parents' ranch in Kansas.
There were no simple answers, he told himself. Or at least none that he wanted to face just now. But they would come. They would come.
The crest of the hill was about two hundred yards farther up the final slope. He drove to a spot just below it, and picked his way to the top on foot. They knew he was coming and they would be watching for him. He didn't want to be spotted just yet. But there was little or nothing to be seen except for what appeared to be an indistinct mass below.
He checked his watch. It was a few minutes after four,
dawn still about two hours off. Even then, if the weather continued overcast and rainy, he'd have an additional half hour or more of covering darkness.
Back at the Land Rover, he popped the hood and, working by feel alone, found the ignition coil and removed the wire between it and the distributor cap. He pocketed it and the keys. Now no one would be able to take the vehicle, but on the way out he could get it started in less than a half minute if need be. There was no telling what shape Kathleen and Elizabeth might be in. It was possible, even likely, that they would not be able to travel very far on foot.
Out of Thira they had driven slowly to the northeast, which meant the sea was now straight ahead and to the right. Coming around the headland earlier this evening with Karamanlis and Papagos, before the weather had completely closed in, he'd seen the tall cliffs that rose directly out of the sea along this section of the island's coast. The monastery was perched on the edge of the cliffs. There would be a path down to the sea, but Lipton's team would be blocking that egress, and the weather was too bad for them to be picked up by air. Which left by land.
They'd be expecting him to show up over the hill along the track, which meant they'd probably be waiting in the darkness on either side of the path. It was time then to even the odds.
He screwed the can-type silencer on the end of the Walther's barrel, made certain a round was in the firing chamber and, keeping well below the crest of the hill, struck off to the east, directly toward the edge of the cliffs.
In terms of vegetation very little grew up here. The ground was mostly broken-up volcanic rock and pebbles ranging in size from a marble to a basketball. Picking his way carefully across the debris field he was reminded of another night in Iceland. The weather was warmer here, but the landscapes were similar; barren, apparently lifeless, almost lunar.
About fifty yards off the track he scrambled silently back up to the crest of the hill, and keeping low peered over the top.
He remained crouched in the darkness for a full two minutes slowly sweeping the darkness left to right for any sign whatsoever that anyone was down there; a noise, the glowing tip of a cigarette, the beam of a flashlight. But these men were STASI-trained professionals. They did not make such mistakes, especially not under Spranger's command. But they were out there. He could almost sense them.
Something moved behind him, and he froze. A rock against a rock. A pebble rolling down the hill, the noise almost immediately swallowed by the shrieking wind.
The sound did not come again, but McGarvey knew it hadn't been his imagination. Someone was back there all right. Probably Theotokis or his bodyguard. Possibly one of Spranger's people.
Still keeping low, but making no indication that he had heard something, he slipped over the crest of the hill, and a few yards on the other side, flattened himself behind an outcropping of rock, his pistol at his side.
A half minute later a figure dressed in black appeared at the top of the hill, hesitated just a moment, then started down.
McGarvey tensed. He wanted this one alive if possible. If he could learn the layout of the monastery and exactly where Kathleen and Elizabeth were being held it would be extremely helpful.
He pressed himself farther back into the deeper darkness as the black-suited figure came even with him. When the man passed, McGarvey stepped out, hooked his free arm around the man's neck and pulled him down, laying the muzzle of the silencer against his cheek.
“Make a noise and I'll kill you …” McGarvey said, when he recognized Bob Schade, Lipton's man who'd wanted to tag along.
McGarvey released him, pointing the Walther away as he uncocked the hammer.
“Where is the rest of the team?”
“On the water where you left them,” Schade said, sitting up.
“How the hell did you get here?”
“I stowed away on the fishing boat.”
McGarvey's eyes narrowed. “You followed me to the taverna?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about up the mountain? How'd you find a vehicle?”
“I didn't,” the young man said.
“Well how the hell did you get up here?”
“I ran.”
McGarvey sat back on his heels. “You ran,” he said, amazed. The kid wasn't even out of breath.
“Yes, sir. But I met the two men who took you up here. They were barefoot and pretty well pissed off. Especially the big one.”
“Did you let them pass?”
“I would have, Mr. McGarvey, except I wasn't expecting them, and they spotted me. The old man ordered the other one to kill me. They both seemed to think it was important.”
McGarvey glanced reflexively toward the crest of the hill. “What happened?”
“I had to … eliminate them, sir.”
McGarvey looked sharply at the young man. “I didn't hear any shots.”
“My weapon is silenced, sir. But I didn't use it. I had to take them out by hand. There wasn't any time, or room.”
“I see,” McGarvey said, impressed. The kid was like a dangerous puppy: Innocent and eager, but deadly. “What about your military ID?”
Schade shrugged. “I must have lost it somewhere, I guess.”
“Lipton will have your ass.”
Again Schade shrugged. “I owe you one.”
“Well, there's no doubt that you can take care of yourself,” McGarvey said. “But I want you to listen up now. Spranger is holding my wife and daughter to get at me. But he's not a stupid man. He's kept his life and his freedom this long by meticulous planning and ruthlessness. Which means that he's convinced himself that he's going to kill me tonight, and then
make his escape. He's stacked the odds in his favor, and we've got no idea what preparations he's made.”
“Yes, sir.” Schade looked very serious.
“But he's going to make a mistake.”
“Sir?”
“He's made this personal. He wants to kill me himself. Or he wants to be right there when I know I've lost.”
Sudden understanding dawned on Schade's face. “You tossed the walkie-talkie overboard. You talked to him?”
McGarvey nodded. “You still want in?”
“You bet,” Schade said eagerly.
“I want to take them out if we can do it without raising the alarm. Otherwise we'll skirt their positions and take care of them on the way back out. Wherever they're holding my wife and daughter will be booby-trapped. I want to get them out of there first.”
Schade nodded. He took out a long, wicked-looking dagger, the blade serrated along both edges, blood at the base of the haft, and headed out a few yards to McGarvey's right, down the hill toward the cliffs. A second or two later McGarvey followed.
Within a couple hundred yards they were able to distinguish the deconsecrated church and a half-dozen other buildings, all of them substantially constructed of native stone, with steeply pitched roofs and battlements. In ancient times people took their religion seriously. This monastery was as much a fortress as it was a church. Faith had been defended here, and now the place was being used for the opposite purpose.
McGarvey pulled up short, motioning for Schade to do the same. He'd heard a muffled cough off to the left. For several long seconds he waited and watched, finally picking out a figure standing behind a pile of rocks that formed a ten-foot-tall obelisk. The guard raised a rifle, equipped with what appeared to be a very large spotting scope, and pointed it up the hill toward the track from town.

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