Next
Somewhere east of Paris, the Concorde began its descent.
"The Cabinet's divided down the middle," Pierre Lacouste was saying on the screen. "Half want to let them go now. The others want to hold on to the Feydeheen a little longer in the hope they'll stop Raza from launching a further attack in France."
Chernow shifted in his seat. "That's never worked before. It won't work now. If your people weaken, the whole thing will really begin to crumble. As it is, I'm having a problem holding them together."
"The Italians?"
"And the Germans and the Dutch. Their politicians are beginning to kick against the clampdown. A few hours of delays at airports and borders has a wonderful way of concentrating the minds of voters. They start to call their MPs. The MPs call their ministers. The Ministers call the Prime Minister. He orders security scaled down. It's already happening in Rome and the Hague. If your people let these terrorists go, we'll be back to normal. Europe will be like a cheese --- with enough holes for Raza's people to come and go as they please!"
Lacouste sighed. "Merde, merde, merde. I'll go back and push some more." His image disappeared.
Chernow turned to the adjoining screen where Matti Talim waited to talk to him from the Israeli Consulate in New York. "How you doing, Matti?"
"I've known better days. Right now, this is where we're at: the first five hundred names on the list I gave them have been processed by the FBI's TRAC people. They say there's not even a postage stamp to link any one with Raza." The Terrorist Research and Analytical Center had been set up by the FBI after the first spate of hijackings to Beirut. Its prime function was contact tracing.
"How many more to go?"
"Over four thousand. They figure three more days."
"Too long. They've got to do it in two --- maximum."
"I'll tell them. I've had our Swift people drop everything and concentrate on the UN and the Arab embassies in Washington. They've got taps everywhere. But again --- nothing." Talim paused to look at his notes. "Bill Gates --- nothing. Same with the Admiral. Lou says everyone is going down to the wire..."
"What about the White House?"
Talim shrugged. "Appleton's being his usual self." Brent Appleton was the President's National Security Adviser. From the day he'd been appointed, he'd made no secret of his strong pro-Arab feelings. Talim made a face. "It'll get worse as November comes and the President looks for a second term."
"What's Appleton doing?"
"Being gung ho in public and saying all the right things. You want the Marines, he'd give them to you. He'd give you anything as long as you didn't plan to use it against any Arab country." He paused and shook his head. "In private, he's whispering in the President's ear all these little reminders of how political futures evaporated in the sands of Iran and Iraq." Jimmy Carter had ended his Presidency with his failure to rescue the first American hostages taken in the Middle East, the staff of the US Embassy in Teheran. Ronald Reagan's eight years in the White House were finally blighted by the scandal of his secret deal to trade arms with Iran for the freedom of other American hostages in Beirut. The Gulf War had left George Bush presiding over a nation never more divided since Vietnam.
Chernow came to a decision. "I'll talk to Appleton. Meantime, run your own checks on those other two thousand names I've just had the Honeywell send you. There'll be the usual academics and businessmen, but there just could be a name that will trigger something."
The Concorde was coming uo to the French coast as the forbidding features of Brent Appleton appeared on the screen. He seemed dwarfed in the armchair. Chernow knew that what Appleton lacked in inches, he made up for with intellect. "Good afternoon, Colonel." Appleton's smile was cold and brief. "What can I do for you?"
Chernow told him about the split in the French Cabinet and what was happening in Italy and Holland.
"I see," Appleton said, steepling his manicured fingers. "In the wider political context, I can understand, and even sympathize with, their reaction. The Italians and Dutch have always had good relationships with the Arabs. In many ways, what they have achieved is something we could all emulate. The fact is, of course, that this business with Raza is playing havoc with efforts to build new bridges with the Islamic world. While I would be the first to say Raza must be firmly dealt with, I only hope that nothing will be done to destroy the delicate negotiations with the Arabs many of us wish to bring to a successful conclusion."
"If we don't neutralize Raza, there may be nothing to negotiate about. Right now, nothing else is my concern," said Chernow evenly.
"But the wider picture must remain mine," Appleton said more sharply. "The President is not only keen to maintain his dialogue with Damascus, but to open new ones with Teheran and Baghdad."
"All the more reason to remove Raza."
"Of course," Appleton cut in swiftly. "But a lot of people in the region see him as a hero. That what he is doing is right and just. We can all disagree with that. But we must take it into account. The view from Damascus or Teheran is very different from the perspective held here in Washington --- or, for that matter, Tel Aviv."
Chernow felt the anger begin to course through his body. "Is that what you're telling your President? That there's no real difference between a nation being forced to defend itself or be overrun --- and massacred --- and the mindless terror Raza unleashes?"
Appleton's fingers steepled and unsteepled. When he spoke, his voice was as cold and thin as the air outside the fuselage. "Colonel, what I tell the President is between him and me. But I will tell you this: we will do everything we can to support you in your work. But I will continue to urge the President to do absolutely nothing that would adversely affect the future of this country."
Chernow's face was as stony as his voice. "You mean to make sure nothing compromises his chance of being reelected?"
"To ensure he does not find himself led into needless conflict with our Arab friends," Appleton said quickly.
Chernow saw Appleton glance at his Rolex. "Let me tell you this, Mr. Appleton. If I find anything you are saying or doing gets in my way, you'll answer to me personally."
"Are you threatening me, Colonel?"
"No. Reminding you of what the real priority is. By all means, get your President reelected. But don't do it at my expense. Have a nice day, Mr. Appleton."
Chernow turned his back on the screen before it darkened.
Thirty minutes later, Chernow and Tyreen came down the ramp at the RAF base at Northolt where the Concorde had landed to avoid the logjam at Heathrow due to the security restrictions.
Wolfie was waiting in the government car Percy West had sent. Chernow and Tyreen threw their bags in the back and climbed in.
Wolfie turned around and briefly laid a hand on Chernow's shoulder. "I'm sorry. The ACC told me."
"Thanks, Wolfie." Chernow gripped Wolfie's arm quickly. "Good to see you."
He then introduced Tyreen; they'd only seen each other out of small screens.
The car moved across the tarmac to the perimeter gate guarded by armed gate handlers.
"The ACC says it's the biggest flap since the IRA bombed that Brighton hotel," said Wolfie.
"My bet is that the bombers will have long gone. But Raza will have others out there, for sure." Chernow glanced out the window, then turned back to Wolfie. "Michelle okay?"
"She's fine. The Italians are kicking up. The old whine about operating on their doorstep without permission."
Chernow grunted. "If we'd told them, it could have leaked --- like it did with Nidal." A couple of years ago, he'd found Abu Nidal holed up in an apartment in Trastevere, Rome's late-night quarter. Bitburg had insisted he tell the Digos, the Italian antiterrorist squad. When they'd hit the apartment, Nidal had gone. It had had to be a tip-off. "Bitburg can say mea culpa, Wolfie."
Leaving the air base, the driver began to cut through the back streets.
"There's a mass of data on these dead women. I've dipped it through the computers. Nothing showed up," said Wolfie.
"Costas surfaced?"
"He sent a fax about an hour ago. He'd been out of town chasing a tip that some of the bombers were heading back to Beirut through northern Greece."
"And?"
"Nix. He's now working on that tanker explosion. A real five-star disaster. Almost forty dead now. Lucky it happened late at night, otherwise there'd have been casualties to match the hotels."
"Many women?"
"Costas says about a dozen. Housewives. A couple of hookers. And what they think was some gypsy. He reckons they'll probably never identify her."
Tyreen sat up straight. "How'd they know she was a gypsy?"
Wolfie fished in his pocket and produced a sheet of fax paper. "The Athens police think she could be a street peddler because of the bits of glass their forensic guys found on her body."
Tyreen sat up even straighter. "What kind of glass?"
Wolfie glanced at the paper. "Costas doesn't say. But probably trinkets. When I was there last, there was a plague of these peddlers selling just about anything."
"Including perfume?"
Wolfie looked up at Tyreen and shook his head. "Jesus, you don't think she could have been carrying the stuff, do you?"
Tyreen looked across at Chernow and smiled briefly. "No. We couldn't be that lucky."
"For sure." Chernow took the paper from Wolfie and carefully folded it before slipping it into an inside pocket. Then he looked out of the window.
It had started to rain. Each time he'd come to London, it had rained. He mentioned it to Tyreen. She said it was an omen. When he asked a good one or a bad one, she smiled enigmatically.
Michelle buzzed them in. The safe house was a large flat on two floors. The furniture looked as if it had come from a rummage sale; nothing seemed to match. There were a few cheaply framed pictures of Israel on the walls.
Michelle embraced Chernow quickly. "So sorry. So very sorry about your great loss," she murmured.
"Thanks." Since Ruth, he'd never known how to handle condolences.
They stood for a moment in silence. He then turned toward the stairs, gesturing for Tyreen to join him. "Let's get settled in."
"I can go to my own flat."
"We've got room, and I'd rather you stay close. Unless you need to go."
When she shook her head, he led her upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Leaving her there, he entered the safe room.
There was a computer and VDU, several telephones, a shredder, two fax machines, and the obligatory safe. Molded plastic chairs allowed for three people to sit in the room.
Both fax machines were receiving. Madrid station was reporting that the Spanish navy was searching all boats off its long coastline for Raza. Mossad's woman in Lisbon said the Portuguese were mounting a similar operation. Bill Gates had sent a CIA update; nothing new. Admiral Burness' office was reporting that the satellite link with General Yertzin's Spetsnaz was working perfectly. But there was nothing to report.
Chantal Bouquet had sent a message. Lou Panchez had called to say Appleton was making unpleasant noises about being threatened. He wanted the President to call Karshov.
Chernow tore off the message, crumpled the paper, and lobbed it into the maw of the shredder.
Anwar Salim had sent a long report detailing how Egyptian agents in half a dozen Arab capitals were reporting no trace of Raza. It confirmed separate reports from Mossad agents in the same cities.
Lester Finel had sent an update. His mutes were widening their search to include Japanese and Asian associates of Arab terrorists. Problem. That added a further seventeen thousand names to the checklist. A day' work.
Humpty Dumpty was heading off on a new direction --- trying to establish when the tape had been made. Knowing that would help fill in the background timetable: how long Al-Najaf could have been in Rome; the gap between the recording and Trekfontein and the hotel explosions. Thankfully, he had not bothered to send a technical description of how this could be achieved. That probably would have needed a whole roll of fax paper.
The professor had sent Arab reaction to Trekfontein and the bombings. There was unanimous condemnation. The most vociferous had come from Libya. The professor thought the Supreme Leader would add to the pressure on Muzwaz to hold off calling for a holy war.
The rest of the traffic consisted of names and descriptions of the deaths of several hundred women who had died in the past few day within a 500-mile radius of Beirut. Wolfie was right. None of them looked as if they could be that sister of the perfume who had gone to her prophet.
And nothing to show where Raza could be.
As Chernow turned from the fax machine, one of the phones rang.
"We have a break!" Danny Nagier was barely able to contain his excitement. "I've been playing a long shot the last twenty-four hours. Had my best team checking the pulse tone on that call."
"About the dead woman?"
"Right. We've been comparing the tone with those of every other telephone system in that radius. That meant ringing every city and town in the area, recording their telephone output, superimposing the message we taped going into Beirut, and then running comparison tests. We've run hundreds. Several were close matches. They're often hard to separate now that several countries use almost identical signals..."
"So where did the call come from?" Chernow interrupted.
"Athens. We've checked it a dozen times. Each time, it fits. Same pulse tone. It's as accurate as genetic fingerprinting."
"Let's get Costas on this fast."
Nagier's sigh carried clearly from Tel Aviv. "I've been trying. He's not answering his MRT."
Chernow started to give orders. "Get Covert Action to send a backup team to Athens. Have Gates get his local people to liaise with them. He's got a couple of good men there."
Chernow glanced over at Tyreen. She was already at another screen, speaking rapidly to the face there.
He turned back to Nagier. "And with the Brits. Tyreen's already got them moving. And Danny, keep trying Costas. I'll do the same at this end."
"Understood."
When Chernow next spoke, his voice was softer. "And Danny. Tell everybody, well done. And you, too."
Nadine and Anna arrived in Constitution Square late in the afternoon, a time when the largest piazza in Athens was crowded with tourists. Both girls were dressed in sky-blue uniforms of pleated skirts and bolero jackets with white blouses. Draped across each bolero was a bright green sash bearing the gold printed words Grecian Nights. Each carried a clipboard. Anna also had an Polaroid camera hanging from a strap around her neck, while Nadine carried a large canvas pouch hanging from a shoulder strap.
The bag had two compartments. In the smaller were the five remaining bottles of Anthrax-B-C. The larger contained the other bottles, which the two girls had filled with a blend of their own perfumes, Raza's aftershave, and several bottles of toilet water they'd found in the apartment. To this, they had added sweetened mint tea.
Anna checked the camera, looking nervously at Nadine.
"You'll be fine," reassured Nadine. "Just remember to take a picture that shows the mule's face and mine."
They began to walk around the square, looking for unsuspecting tourists who would carry the bottles of anthrax into the United States and Britain.
"Remember, too," Nadine reminded Anna, "we're only interested in American or British mules who are flying home in the next twelve hours."
"Raza is so clever," sighed Anna. "Do you think he is still angry with me?"
"No, of course not." How easily she could lie for him.
"I'm glad Lila's gone," continued Anna. "She was... very demanding. I never made love to a woman before. It was very strange."
"She won't bother you again," promised Nadine.
A couple of hours before, Lila had dropped off the replacement tape Nadine had made at the radio station. Then she had continued on to the airport to begin the first leg of her long journey through Asia and across the Pacific to the United States.
"There, look," said Anna, nudging Nadine. At one of the outdoor tables, an elderly couple were poring over a travel itinerary.
Nadine briefly studied them, then shook her head. "No good. They're German." She had learned enough German to recognize the boldly printed word on the back of the itinerary --- Reisebüro. "Look for people who speak English."
They continued to move around the square. Only Nadine knew that Raza was somewhere close by, watching over them. It made her all that more determined to carry out the mission to his complete satisfaction.
There were peddlers everywhere, selling all kinds of gaudy souvenirs.
"How about him?" suggested Anna, nodding toward a short muscular man strolling toward an open-air bar next to the Grande Bretagne.
Nadine forced herself to smile. "Even I can see he's Greek. Don't be so impatient. We'll find someone. Come on, let's try over there." She led Anna toward the King George Hotel.
Costas Calcanis continued strolling toward the bar. The Israeli prided himself on looking like a Greek in his custom-made suit, shirt, and shoes whose maker had cleverly built in an extra inch to make Calcanis taller than his five-six. What he lacked in inches, he made up with a leonine head and a truly wonderful smile.
It was absent now, leaving his face only tired-looking and somewhat irritated. During the past twenty-four hours, he'd driven nonstop over some of the worst roads in Southern Europe. There hadn't been a sign of the hotel bombers in any of the small towns and villages he'd checked. And once more, this newfangled MRT had played up. It had emitted loud crackles, first in a café, and later when he'd pulled off the road for a catnap.
Coming back into the city, he'd switched off the damn box. When he had a moment, he'd send Tel Aviv a blistering report on its behavior. The MRT was still in his jacket pocket, close to the .38 handgun in its shoulder holster.
He'd returned to Athens to find Danny Nagier's Double Flash asking for full details on every woman who had died in the country during the past few days. After he'd faxed the names of those killed in the tanker explosion, he'd farmed out the tedious task of checking every hospital, mortuary, and funeral parlor to one of his contacts in the police department. The man would be glad to earn a week's salary for no more than a long day's work.
After briefing the man, Calcanis had come to the square to enjoy a drink and the parade of pretty girls. He had a bachelor's natural talent for spotting who could be persuaded to join him for a drink, followed by dinner, and then bed. He knew that his worldly charm and fund of outrageous stories had, over his two years in Athens, established his reputation as one of the city's playboy seducers. He also suspected it was this, more than anything, that made Chernow so prickly. But as long as he did his job and enjoyed the patronage of Bitburg, Calcanis knew he would survive.
Setting himself at a table, he ordered Pernod and began to scan the newspaper the waiter brought with the drink.
The tanker disaster continued to dominate the news. The unaccounted body now had a face of sorts. Most of the tabloid's front page was given over to a crude composite drawing of a woman whom the readers were invited to name.
Calcanis thought she looked a little like the young woman sitting by herself at the far end of the bar. They had the same thick black hair scraped back from the forehead, and similar high cheekbones. But the face in the drawing had a squarer jawline, and the woman toying with her coffee was softer around the mouth.
Just another tourist, Calcanis decided, probably an American. The last one he'd bedded had proved highly inventive. He gave the woman a longer glance, this time adding a little smile.
Nancy Carson stirred in more sugar, wondering how she could escape his attention. She'd glanced at him once, quickly, then turned away. He reminded her of Rob, and that was enough to look away.
Their affair had lasted a year --- until that afternoon she'd returned to the apartment and found him in bed with her best friend. Nancy had never suspected either capable of such deceit. She had moved out within the hour. A month later, the school term over, she'd gone on this vacation she'd planned with Rob, two weeks in the Greek islands.
She'd been surprised how much she enjoyed the freedom of being alone, of being able to choose and decide for herself, of being able to exorcise Rob from her mind.
She was going back to teaching filled with new resolve. The last thing she wanted was to become involved with Rob's lookalike.
Sipping his drink, Calcanis continued to appraise her. No doubt at all, she was attractive. Her halter-top revealed tanned skin and toned muscles, and breasts that were unfettered. The full peasant skirt showed off her long legs. He raised his glass toward her, smiling.
Nancy felt her cheeks begin to warm. She'd always blushed in unexpected situations. Dammit, she was twenty-six and should know how to keep a man at bay. But this wasn't New York --- and it was her first trip overseas. And though she had enjoyed herself, she'd often felt an innocent these past two weeks. Yet she wasn't just going to sit here and allow herself to be ogled by this... gigolo. He was really getting to her. Nancy looked around for something to distract her from this staring, smiling man.
Calcanis ordered another drink and asked the waiter to send a flute of the bar's best champagne to the woman at the end of the bar. It always worked. He sat back to wait, wondering where he would take her for dinner.
"There," said Anna. "I am certain she's American. Look how arrogantly she sits. And she has just pushed her glass away. Only an American would order champagne and then decide it was not good enough!"
Nadine turned to where Nancy Carson sat, drinking her coffee.
When the flute had arrived, Nancy had tried to send it back. The waiter had smilingly refused, explaining it was a house rule that a drink could not be returned. She had pushed the glass to one side and turned her back.
Calcanis had sighed. He'd never chased a woman in his life. He was not about to start. He ordered another Pernod and looked for someone else to catch his fancy.
He saw the two girls in their fetching uniforms. He dismissed the shorter, pale-faced one. But her companion was quite stunning. He sighed again. He never picked up a local. That only led to problems with husbands or boyfriends --- or a woman who didn't know when it was over. Briefly, he wondered what they were touting, then he turned away to watch the tourists coming out of the Grand Bretagne.
"I think this time you are right, Anna," said Nadine, not quite able to contain her excitement and relief. So far, the English-speaking tourists they'd approached had either waved them away, or turned out to be Australian or Irish. They'd given them some of the bottles containing the concoction.
"She's calling us over." Anna began to walk toward Nancy.
"Wait," commanded Nadine. Raza had said not to appear eager. That could raise a mule's suspicions. She led Anna to a table near Nancy. It was filled with a boisterous group of tourists who were clearly at he playful stage of their drinking.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," began Nadine. "We represent one of Greece's largest manufacturers of perfume, and we would very much like your help in a market survey we are conducting for a new range."
She produced a bottle from the larger compartment of the pouch. "What country are you from?" she asked.
"Holland!" came a chorus of voices.
"Very good," Nadine smiled. "Now, this perfume will be on the market in your country next year. But this bottle will be yours. Hey... sir... please!"
One of the men at the table had grabbed the bottle and was holding it under the nose of the woman next to him. When Nadine tried to take back the bottle, the man held it out of her reach.
"Please, sir!" implored Nadine. "First, you must answer questions!"
The man laughed and lobbed the bottle across the table to another woman. Surprised, she dropped it. The bottle broke among the beer glasses and there was a sudden silence. The man looked sheepishly at Nadine, then fished in his hip pocket and produced a bulky wallet. He removed a wad of drachmas.
"Here," he said, thrusting the money at Nadine. "I pay for the breakage."
A round of applause came from his companions.
"And I buy everyone a bottle!" he added.
Nadine stepped back. "You can't buy," she said, smiling. "It's a promotion." Raza had said always to smile.
The man picked up a piece of broken glass and sniffed it. "Lousy perfume!" he pronounced, putting his money back in the wallet.
His companions laughed loudly.
Still smiling, Nadine turned away and led Anna to Nancy.
The incident had attracted Calcanis' attention. The tall girl was truly beautiful, and not Greek. A Levantine probably, another Beiruti who had fled the city to graft elsewhere. He cocked his head to read the words on her sash. Maybe she'd known the missing girl in the tanker disaster. It would be one less name for his police contact to bother about. He'd wait until they'd finished their pitch before talking to them.
"You handled that very well," Nancy said, when Nadine and Anna reached her. "There's nothing like a bunch of drunks to give you a hard time."
Nadine gave her a brilliant smile. "You Americans have such a wonderful way of describing everything."
Nancy shook her head. "Actually, I'm Canadian. Born and raised in Toronto."
"Oh." Anna could not quite conceal her disappointment.
"But I live in New York," Nancy grinned. "Not that anyone really lives there. You just survive, day to day. It's still really the only place to be." Suddenly, she felt a longing to see her adopted city, her room, and the nice elderly widow she rented from.
Nadine gave another brilliant smile. "I would like to go to New York one day. All those skyscrapers and wonderful shows."
"For me, it would be for the hamburgers!" said Anna, slipping into the patter Raza had told them to use. "and the milkshakes!"
The three girls laughed, instantly united.
"You are on vacation?" Nadine asked.
"Almost over," Nancy nodded.
"You like our country?" asked Anna politely.
"Love it," replied Nancy. "I mean, there are some things that take a little getting used to, like the food and the amount of wine everybody drinks. And the men..."
"Ah!" smiled Anna. "Always the men! Greek men are like bulls!"
Once more, they laughed together.
"Would you like to join me for coffee?" asked Nancy.
"Thank you, but we have work to do," explained Nadine. Raza said never become too involved with a mule. She explained about the market research. Nancy said she would be happy to help.
Nadine reached down and removed one of the bottles containing the Anthrax-B-C, and carefully placed it on the table. "What we would like you to do," she continued, "is to answer some simple questions about the image our perfume conveys."
Nancy picked up the bottle and turned it over in her hands before putting it down. "Can I try some?"
Nadine stooped and produced a bottle of made-up perfume. She quickly broke the seal and unscrewed the stopper. She sprinkled some of the liquid on the back of Nancy's hand.
Nancy drew it under her nose, sniffing. She looked at Nadine and Anna. "It seems very light."
"Like the water in our mountains?" prompted Anna.
Nancy grinned. "I'd go with that."
Anna made an entry on her clipboard.
"After a while, the air deepens the perfume," explained Nadine.
Nancy sniffed one more.
"It's refreshing, yes?" asked Anna politely.
Nancy nodded. "You can say that." She didn't want to hurt them by saying the perfume had a cheap smell.
Anna consulted her clipboard. "What does the shape of the bottle convey to you?"
Nancy considered. In all the islands she'd visited, she'd been struck by the stunning rock formations. "A headland I saw on Rhodes," she replied.
"Very good," said Nadine.
Anna made another entry on the clipboard. "And the color?" she asked.
Nancy grinned. "The sea at Thessalonïki."
"Perfect," said Nadine. "The best answers we have had all day."
"No kidding?" grinned Nancy. She reached for the sealed bottle. "Can I keep this one? A keepsake to remind me of Greece."
Anna looked at Nadine. Raza had said that once hooked, a mule must be handled with great care. "Well... there are difficulties," she began.
"You see," continued Nadine, "we are only permitted to give samples to people who are leaving the country in the next twelve hours."
"No problem," said Nancy, looking down at the bottle. Even if she dumped the perfume, the bottle would be an attractive bathroom ornament. She looked up at Nadine. "In twelve hours, I'll be somewhere between here and the over the Atlantic, heading for Kennedy."
Nadine looked doubtful. "Our company is very strict on such matters. I would need to see your ticket."
"No problem," repeated Nancy. She opened her purse and removed the flight coupon.
Anna wrote down Nancy's name and TWA flight number on the clipboard. She returned the ticket.
"All set?" asked Nancy, preparing to put the bottle in her purse.
Nadine gave another smile. "Just two more requirements. Firstly, regulations forbid the bottle to be opened until you have cleared customs. Secondly, you must carry the bottle a hand baggage for easy inspection. This arrangement between both our countries concerns all such items." Raza had made Nadine rehearse the words until she was perfect.
"No problem," promised Nancy. "Anything else?"
Nadine laughed, delighted at how well it had gone. "Because your answers were so good, we would like you to pose for a photo for our company house magazine."
No kidding?" grinned Nancy, rising to her fee. "Snap away!" She picked up the sealed bottle and held it like a pack shot in her hand.
Nadine moved to her side while Anna readied the camera. Raza had said to take several shots to be absolutely sure.
Afterward, Nancy dropped the bottle in her handbag. It really was a beautiful shape.
Nadine and Anna exchanged quick smiles.
Nancy looked at them. "Could I ask a heck of a favor? I'd like to keep my bottle, but the lady I rent from would just go nuts for it. Could I buy one for her? If it's a question of paying, no problem."
Nadine looked at Anna and nodded. Their luck was running. One mule carrying two bottles would make everything simpler at Kennedy. Nadine smiled at Nancy. "No, no," Nadine said, shaking her head. "We cannot sell. But we will give you a second bottle because we are certain your answers will help make our perfume a great success!" She handed Nancy another bottle containing Anthrax-B-C.
"Terrific," said Nancy, also putting the bottle in her handbag. "Really terrific."
"No problem," mimicked Nadine.
One more, they all laughed together.
Nancy glanced across the bar. The Greek was still watching her. She turned to Nadine. "Listen, would you do me a final favor? There's a guy over there who's been giving me the eye. I'd be glad if you'd walk me out of the square."
Nadine looked at Calcanis, then turned back to Nancy. "No problem."
Impulsively, Nancy tipped the flute of champagne onto the ground. After leaving payment for the coffee, she walked between Nadine and Anna out of the bar.
Calcanis shrugged. Only an American would want to make her point in such a way. But he still wanted to talk to those promotions girls. He left another drachmae under his glass and set off to follow.
From a lounge window of the Grande Bretagne, Raza had seen what had happened. The girls had done well. But why had the mule thrown away her drink? And why was she leaving with them? That was not part of his orders. Moments later, his mounting rage was replaced by a sudden tension. The girls were being followed. And the Greek trailing them was an expert, keeping his distance, the way a professional did.
Raza strode out of the hotel in pursuit.
In the Foley Street flat, Jacob Chernow and Tyreen Mackenzie listened to the ACC and West. They had come directly from the Prime Minister at Downing Street.
"There was only one question," the ACC was saying. "Was there any way Raza or his people could get into the country with this anthrax? We were able to say with confidence --- no. We've got extra security on every air and sea port. We've blocked off the back door through Ireland. We're diverting all private flights to Stanstead for special handling. We've got the navy patrolling the coast."
"In other words, old boy," West said, "we're as buttoned down as a tick in a mattress."
Chernow moved away from the empty and ugly Victorian fireplace in the living room. He stopped before the two men seated in the deep overstuffed chairs. Michelle and Tyreen sat on the staircase. Upstairs, Chernow could hear Wolfie in the safe room talking to Danny Nagier, reporting still no success in raising Costas Calcanis.
"Raza's not going to try to slip past your defenses with his own people now," said Chernow. "He'll know you're too good for him there, for sure. He'll have had them in place for weeks, maybe months."
"Then how does he get this anthrax in?" asked West.
"A mule of some kind. maybe a student. He's done that before. Or he could use a drug courier. Someone who knows the ropes," said Chernow.
The ACC nodded quickly. "We've anticipated you there, Jacob. We're stopping one in every four incoming passengers at every commercial airport and strip-searching them. We're doing the same to everybody coming into Stansted. Plus taking each plane apart."
"My people have begun to ride on all scheduled flights from the Middle East," said West. "Special Branch and Six have chipped in. So have the SAS. By the end of the week, we'll have someone on every flight into the country. And the regular sky marshals have been briefed."
Chernow nodded and looked at the ACC. "One in four still leaves three unchecked. Why not make it one in two."
The senior police officer sighed. "The civil liberties people are already going to the battlements. And just about every exporter whose got a salesman traveling abroad is raising Cain. I've had more MPs threatening to table questions in the House..."
"Tell them all to go to hell," Chernow said flatly.
"This is not Israel, old boy," interjected West flintily. "That's not the way we do things here."
"For sure, Percy." Chernow deliberately waited before continuing. "Now let me tell you how I want things done here until this is all over. I want a one-in-two search of all passengers coming from all starting points between Rome and Teheran. Tell your people to look out for any kind of bottle. Infiltrate all arrival areas. In Tel Aviv, our people have learned a lot by just listening."
"We're talking extra manpower, budgets, the whole damn kaboodle. Who's going to pay for all this?" flared West. "And have you any idea how many bottles people carry with them through our airports every hour? Customs tell me they confiscate about a hundred thousand a day, mostly booze and perfume. You could be talking of up to a million bottles every twenty-four hours."
The briefest of smiles crossed Chernow's lips. "You'll find a way, Percy, for sure."
The MI5 officer shook his head. "We can't confiscate every bottle. We've got to keep a sense of perspective..."
"You saw that footage from Trekfontein, sir," Tyreen interrupted harshly. People like West made her glad she no longer worked for MI5. "That's the only perspective we should be looking at --- making sure it doesn't happen again."
The ACC nodded at West. "They're right, Percy." He glanced at Tyreen then turned to Chernow. "We'll have the army pull in rummage squads from Ulster. It'll take about twenty-four hours to get everyone in place..."
"You've got to do it in less. Twelve at the maximum," Chernow cut in. "We've got to work within Raza's deadline. If he hasn't got the stuff already in place, my bet is he'll need to do so in the next twenty-four hours."
The ACC nodded, went to the phone on the sideboard, and gave instructions. "Twelve hours," he concluded firmly. "Whatever it takes, do it."
He put down the phone and turned to Chernow. "It'll be tight, but we'll manage."
"Good. Now let me bring you up to date."
Chernow began by describing Danny Nagier's breakthrough in pinpointing the call from Athens.
Nadine and Anna arrived by taxi at Athens airport after escorting Nancy to her hotel behind Constitution Square.
"Suppose she opens the bottle?" asked Anna as they walked into the departure hall.
"She won't," replied Nadine confidently. "Americans are very obedient. Raza always says tell them something and they'll obey. He proved that when he hijacked their planes."
They surveyed the scene inside the hall. It was filled with passengers waiting their turn for departure formalities.
"Not them," Nadine said decisively. "They'll only hassle us like those Dutch pigs. This time, we're looking for a businessman."
They began to walk among the lines of travelers wending their way to the check-in counters.
From his vantage point in the gallery overlooking the hall, Calcanis continued to watch the girls. Increasingly, he felt there was something unusual about them. As he'd passed the American girl's hotel, he'd overheard the Levantine giving precise instructions how the American should carry the bottle. Street sellers never bothered about such details, and they always stuck to their own patches. But he pair had left the city's prime spot for tourists, Constitution Square, and come all the way out here. Nor could he remember a promotion involving only a couple of girls. Usually when a product was launched, there were scores of them, pushing sales literature and samples on every street corner. Besides, the Levantine was much too attractive to be wasting her time promoting a product. She had the looks and walk to be a model.
His curiosity deepened, Calcanis had slipped into his natural rôle.
Following them to the airport, he'd used his car phone to call a contact in the city's leading promotions organizations. She had told him to phone back in an hour. Now, he went to one of the pay phones in the gallery. "Any luck, Susie?" he asked when he was connected.
"Nada," came the cheerful Australian voice.
They'd had a brief affair a year ago when Susie had stopped over in Athens from Sydney. When she decided to stay on, he'd ended the relationship while still managing to remain friends.
"The pitch is definitely not one of our clients," she continued. "I've called all the opposition. None are running a perfume promo. I checked all the leading manufacturers. Again, nada."
"What about a smaller firm?"
"I called several. Nothing. From those glitzy uniforms you say they're wearing, I'd guess a small house couldn't afford them."
"They could be from out of town," he pressed.
"I doubt it. This business is pretty well run out of here."
"Thanks, Susie. How about dinner next week?"
"Love to."
Calcanis hung up and continued to watch Nadine and Anna.
Raza had spotted him as soon as he'd entered the hall. The gallery was exactly the place he would have chosen from which to run a surveillance.
He was maintaining his own watch from inside a souvenir shop. Maybe the man was a detective or an investigator from a Ministry? But the girls had broken no law --- and Nadine was carrying all the necessary permits to work any public place in Athens. The cabal's local man had arranged that.
Whoever he was, his presence boded trouble. Raza left the shop and began to move through the concourse.
Anna spotted him and turned to Nadine. "Why is he here? Is he checking up on us?"
"Don't be a fool. And ignore him," Nadine said fiercely. "Just do your job."
From the gallery, Calcanis saw the sudden fear on the younger girl's face, and the flash of anger the Levantine showed before she gripped her companion's arm and led her away. Something --- or someone --- had scared the girl. His eyes swept over the crowd. He saw nothing unusual. Walking briskly, he left he gallery and descended to the lower floor.
"There --- he looks perfect!" Nadine murmured, nodding toward a check-in desk.
Anna looked doubtful. "The flight is for Luton. We are supposed to only go for a flight to London."
Nadine controlled her irritation. "Luton is the same. Like Gatwick or Stansted. They all serve London."
"Shall we approach now?"
Nadine looked around. There was no sign of Raza. She glanced toward the entrance to Passport Control. It was separated from the hall by a screen. Passengers were moving quickly past the policeman checking boarding passes. "No, we'll catch him just before he goes through. It'll give him less time to think." She continued to watch the young, fair-haired and rather handsome man having his ticket processed.
Bill Hardiman gave a pleasant nod to the counter agent, placed his boarding pass in the breast pocket of his suit, picked up his bulky briefcase, and headed for Passport Control. In the past week, he'd traveled another five thousand miles. After the first year, the food, faces, hotels, and airports all looked the same. Only the deals seemed harder to make.
It was a young man's game, he'd started telling Fiona. His wife had replied he wasn't yet forty, and he'd been voted company Salesman of the Year twice in the past three years.
His job with the manufacturers of the world's fastest-selling biological pesticide gave them a lifestyle their friends envied. It also ensured that Dervla and Kate received an expensive private education, and enabled him to add each month to the savings accounts of his daughters. Colleagues joked that if there was an award for the Happily Married Family Man of the Year, Hardiman would win every time.
That was why he felt irritated as he made his way toward Departures. This trip had been so hectic there had been no time to buy Fiona or the girls any presents. It had become a ritual always to bring something back from those exotic places he visited.
"Excuse me, sir."
Hardiman turned.
"Excuse me, sir," Nadine said again, smiling brilliantly. "Could I trouble you for a moment?"
"Just a few questions, sir," added Anna, smiling too.
Hardiman glanced at the sashes. "What are you selling?"
Nadine shook her head. "Not selling, sir. Only market research for a new perfume. If you help us, sir, we will be happy to give you a free sample."
Hardiman glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes to spare. He put down his briefcase. "Okay, what do you want to know?"
Anna glanced at her clipboard. "Can I please have your flight number and destination?"
Hardiman fished the boarding pass from his pocket. "Britannia Airways one-six to Luton."
"Do you live in London, sir?" asked Anna.
"Yes, in Putney."
"What a lovely name," Nadine said. "Can we have your name and exact address, sir?"
Hardiman hesitated. The Foreign Office guidelines for businessmen warned about that sort of thing. But there seemed no harm this time.
The taller girl was smiling at him, speaking a little more quickly. "If your answers are judged to be the best by our company, you will be invited to return here for the launch of our perfume, all expenses paid," she explained. She never took her eyes off the man. Raza had said no man would be able to resist --- or doubt --- that look.
"William Hardiman, 21 River Walk, Putney, London SW15," said Hardiman.
Anna made a note.
"Now, Mr. Hardiman," continued Nadine. "The questions. Should a Greek perfume remind you of our beaches or the mountains?"
Hardiman had no idea. "Both, I suppose."
"Perfect," smiled Nadine.
Anna wrote on her clipboard.
Nadine looked again at Hardiman. "Should a perfume have a fragrance which can be used both day and night?"
Hardiman remembered Fiona saying she wanted a perfume like that. "Absolutely."
"Perfect," Nadine said. "You really are being a big help for our marketing people."
Anna made a further note.
"And the name, Grecian Nights. What image does that suggest ot you?"
Hardiman smiled. "Soft music, good food and wine, the moon over the sea." This was really quite fun.
Anna wrote again.
"Wonderful," breathed Nadine. "What a perfect image, Mr. Hardiman."
He nodded, still smiling. "Glad to be of help."
Anna looked up. Raza was standing a few feet away, studying a flight information monitor. He abruptly turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Nadine moved closer to Hardiman, looking earnestly into his face. "You have been a great help. Unless I am mistaken, you will be hearing from our company."
He laughed; this was incredible. "Will I be able to bring my wife?" Fiona would love it.
"Of course."
No harm in pressing his luck. "I have two girls."
"No problem," said Nadine. "Our company is very generous."
They were all laughing. Hardiman glanced at his watch.
"Ah, your perfume sample," said Nadine. From the bag, she produced a bottle containing the Anthrax-B-C. "You must keep it sealed until you are through British Customs. This is a regulation. I would also like very much for you to allow us to take a picture for our house magazine."
He hesitated. He'd heard photos could be used for all kinds of illegal purposes. "I promise not to open the bottle until I get home. But I don't want to have my picture taken."
Nadine looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hardiman, but I cannot give you the bottle unless you agree." She brightened. "The photo will not be used for any purpose without your written consent." She gave him a look of completely sincerity.
"Well," he said, still uncertain. "I don't know if..."
Nadine came to a decision. "If we can take your picture, I'll give you two more bottles for your daughters," she said quickly.
He began to nod. A bottle each would solve his gift problem, and they'd like the idea of having the same perfume. A picture for a house magazine was really quite harmless. "Okay, where do you want to take the photo?"
Nadine smiled with relief. "How about right here?"
He looked around and noticed the policeman checking boarding passes at the opening in the divider screening off Passport Control. A thought struck him. "How about there?"
"All right," Nadine said. It didn't matter where the pig had his photo taken. All Raza wanted was a picture of his face.
Hardiman held out his hand. "The bottle, young lady."
Nadine handed over the one in her hand.
Hardiman placed it in his briefcase. "The other two as well."
Smiling, Nadine produced the two remaining bottles of Anthrax-B-C and handed them over. He put them in the briefcase as well.
"Your wife won't mind you posing with me?" asked Nadine teasingly.
"Not at all," he replied cheerfully, as they walked toward the partition.
Suddenly, Nadine froze. The man from the bar in Constitution Square was standing in front of the partition. At the same moment, she saw Raza. He was beside a kiosk that sold soft drinks, checking the time on his watch against one of the airport wall clocks. It was their prearranged signal for danger.
"You take many photographs?" Hardiman was asking Anna.
"Many."
"But not this time!" Waving his boarding pass, Hardiman quickly stepped past the policeman and disappeared from sight through the gap in the partition.
"Hey, mister! Come back!" shouted Anna, moving after him.
The policeman blocked her way, firmly explaining no one could enter without a pass.
"But I must take his picture," cried Anna.
The policeman merely shrugged.
Anna was close to tears. "Please, officer, let me go and take his picture. It is very important."
The policeman pushed her aside. "Go --- or I will arrest you."
"Don't be a fool!" Nadine said urgently, pulling Anna away. "We must leave at once!"
In the safe house bedroom, Jacob Chernow had taken the phone off the dressing table onto the bed with him.
He continued to listen to Hans-Dieter Müller in his office in Wiesbaden. "Our psychiatrists say the change is genuine. It's almost as intense as a religious conversion. Even six months ago, she rarely showed emotion. Now, she's quite voluble."
"What do they put it down to?"
"At first, they thought it was her way of coping with her inner distress. From the beginning, they'd tagged her a perfectionist, full of self-reproach that she was dumb enough to get caught, not that we were smart enough to catch her. So when she began to open up, our behaviorist saw it as the lid coming off a rather rigid obsessional personality. In between those first outbursts, she'd continue to be obstinate, irritable, and morose. And for a while, she did a lot of what we call vorbeireden, talking past the point."
"A kind of thought-blocking?" Chernow asked.
"Exactly. When you listen to her tapes from that time, it's like listening to recordings with pieces snipped out. You get the feeling of the huge pressure of thought she was under, as if ideas were pouring through her head."
"What did your people do about that?"
There was a pause on the line before Müller answered. "Monitored her biochemical activity. They put her on one of the oxidize-inhibitors for six weeks."
"Your people are absolutely satisfied that her mood change is nothing to do with their pharmacology?" asked Chernow. The Germans had always been keen on the use of complex drugs to control minds.
"Absolutely. She was off the oxidize for a full two months before they saw any real change. But when it came, they had no doubt it was genuine. And it's lasted."
From the safe room came the steady humming of the fax machines. Wolfie was feeding more names of dead women into the computers.
"Has she said much about her sister, Hans-Dieter?"
There was another pause before Müller replied. "That's the one thing she's still tight about. It could be because when she first came in, the interrogators made a point of telling her that when the time came for her to be released, her sister would be long dead,"
"Bit crude."
In Wiesbaden, the security chief cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice was apologetic. "You know how it is? You use anything in the beginning to try and break down that wall they all have."
"What does she feel about Raza?"
"She's gone through the whole spectrum from hero worship to resentment. Now, she only has contempt, complete and total contempt for him. But she's still very nationalistic. The Arab cause burns bright in her."
"That's good, Hans-Dieter. That's very good. Are you going to be there in the morning?"
Müller laughed. "I'll be at the airport with all the paperwork. There's no precedent for this. So we're back on the old German solution. Create a paper snowstorm. The Chancellor has to sign the last flake. He'd like to do it blindfolded."
"Make sure he knows I appreciate it," Chernow said, hanging up and putting the phone down on the bed. He rolled off the bed and went into the safe room.
"Still nothing," said Wolfie, his eyes intent on the VDU. The names of women who had died within five hundred miles of Beirut continued to come and go from the screen.
"Given Danny's pinpoint of that call, the chances are she died in Athens," Chernow said.
"I'm still waiting for Costas," replied Wolfie.
Chernow grunted and walked back into the bedroom just as the phone on the bed started to ring. He picked it up on the second ring.
It was Tyreen Mackenzie, calling from MI6 headquarters where she had gone to check in. She was calling to report her progress --- or lack thereof.
She'd spent an hour briefing the Director and his Chief of Staff. Sir Miles hadn't actually been appointed by Walsingham when he established the first British intelligence service for Queen Elizabeth --- Elizabeth the First, that is --- though it sometimes seemed so.
Tyreen had worked with John Bannon when they both had been with MI5. Their relationship had gone beyond work. They had managed to remain friends as well as colleagues after the relationship ended. After the end of his active field career, he had moved behind a desk and had risen to become the Chief of Staff, while Tyreen with her Arion longevity had remained in the field.
Tyreen had also gotten in contact with Marlen. She, along with all of the Special Air Service, was standing by. Unfortunately, all weapons, even one as powerful as an Arion Prime, needed a target before it could be used. And there still was no definite information regarding Raza's whereabouts. Tyreen and Chernow were still trying to find that target.
"I'm going to swing by my flat and pick up a few things before I come back," Tyreen was saying.
"No hurry," said Chernow, willing to give her a little time at home.
"If you can spare the time, I'd like to take you out to dinner tonight," she said. "Get you around some good English food."
He wasn't convinced there was any such thing as 'good' English food, but it had been a while since he'd had English food, and it was bound to be better than anything aboard the Concorde. And it wouldn't hurt either of them to let her be the hostess on her home turf, if only briefly. "Sounds good. Wolfie and Michelle can run things here for a while. Between them, they can't cook to save their lives, for sure."
"Okay, I'll see you in about an hour."
"It's a date."
As he hung up the phone, another phone was ringing next door. Chernow heard Wolfie's voice. "Hold it, Matti. I'll get him."
Chernow strode into the safe room and took the phone. "What's up?"
"Rachid Harmoos," said Matti Talim. "The DEA have him listed as a suspected laundryman for the Colombia cartel. And the FBI say their treasury people have been working for some months trying to establish linkage between Harmoos and several Swiss banks. Two of their bank are where Muzwaz keeps accounts."
"Anything to connect Harmoos with Raza?" Chernow asked. Harmoos had been on his wait and see list for a year. Until now, there had been nothing concrete.
"Nothing's surfaced."
"Anything to link Harmoos to the cabal?"
"Nothing, except sharing the same Geneva banks. That could be pure coincidence. Like the time we found Arafat was keeping his money in the same bank as the Jewish Defense League."
"Are the FBI or CIA tapping Harmoos?"
"FISC has refused. Not enough to go on."
Chernow cursed in Hebrew. The US Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court had been set up specifically to approve the wiretapping of any suspicious foreigners with links to the United States. It sat in Washington in the utmost secrecy consider every case.
"All seven judges voted a no," continued Talim. "As usual, no grounds. And of course, no appeal. The only chance, says Gates, is if he can go back with more evidence."
"We can't wait that long," Chernow said. "Get the Swift people on to it. Get them to blanket Harmoos' house and his associates."
"I'd have already done that, Jacob. But Gates warned not to. He thinks Appleton could get to hear. Then everything would really hit the fan. Harmoos gave a couple of million dollars last time to help elect the President. He's promised double for next November."
Chernow exhaled softly. "Okay, this is what you do. I'll get Danny to put together a team to fly in. You make sure word gets to Appleton that the Swift people are otherwise fully engaged."
"There's still a risk, Jacob," Talim said doubtfully.
"There's always a risk, Matti," Chernow said.
After hanging up, Chernow called Tel Aviv to tell Danny Nagier about Harmoos.
"I'll have a team on the next plane," promised Nagier.
"Costas surfaced yet?"
"Damn him, no. I've sat-messaged him to call in. I'll kick ass when he does."
"Do that. Then put him on to me. I want to know what the hell he's playing at."
Costas Calcanis kept two cars behind the black Mercedes as it turned right at the second intersection beyond the Acropolis. The two girls were in the back.
Trailing them out of the departure hall, he'd seen that the smaller girl was close to tears --- and the Levantine had several times told her to be quiet. They were both scared of something --- or someone. It couldn't be over not getting that photo of a traveler who'd had a little more savvy than most. And why did they need photos anyway? And why had they been so selective? They'd not bothered with the Dutch drunks --- or the others he'd seen them approach in Constitution Square. Only that American girl and then the businessman. They had clearly been working to some carefully arranged plan. Whatever was behind it, it certainly didn't fit any normal promotion. And they'd looked positively stricken as they waited at the curbside. When the Mercedes swept up, they'd jumped into the back like scared kittens. But he'd still had time to glimpse the driver. He was a middle-aged man and well-dressed with a mouthful of gold. And an Arab.
That had been enough to persuade Calcanis to become serious in his pursuit. He hadn't felt like this since he'd picked up the trail of the Tunisian who'd been bringing in Semtex molded into his doctor's bag.
When Calcanis had gone with the police to raid the doctor's apartment, they'd found enough explosive to leave all Athens looking like the Acropolis.
The car telephone rang. Leaving the airport, he'd asked his police contact to check the Mercedes' registration.
"Costas," his contact said, "you ready for this?"
"Try me."
"The car's registered to your favorite Iranian, Ali Akbar Muzwaz. He's got a number of cars in his name. He must have a hell of a garage. They're all listed at the same address."
It was near the foreign legation quarter, toward which the Mercedes was heading. "Thanks, Taki."
"One other thing, Costas, I hear your cousin's looking for you."
Taki had always called the CIA station chief his cousin --- Calcanis couldn't remember now how it had started. The call could be anything. He'd call the station chief later. "How's the list of dead going?"
"Two-fifty so far."
"I'll pick them up later."
When he'd replaced the phone, he fished out the MRT and switched it on. There was a crackle, then a voice boomed in Yiddish from the box's speaker. "This is Gabriel. Call Ha-Zoafim. This is Gabriel. Call Ha-Zoafim. This is..."
Calcanis switched off Danny Nagier's recorded order for him to call El Aviv. Ha-Zoafim was this week's code for Mossad; Gabriel, Nagier's current one.
Now that he was almost certain where it was heading, Calcanis dropped further back behind the Mercedes. He decided he'd call Nagier from his safe room. Then he could tell him more about what a couple of very unusual promotions girls were doing in a car registered to one of Israel's greatest enemies.
Tyreen Mackenzie and Jacob Chernow entered the restaurant through a black lacquered door, which was opened by a maitre d' whose hair seemed to have been similarly treated.
The restaurant was all fake beams and imitation tapestries and whitewashed walls. A silent couple sat over their plates at a corner table. A group, Swedish by their accents, occupied a mock refectory table in the center of the room. Tyreen had left the restaurant's number with Wolfie.
As they were being shown to their table, he ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. They deserved a little something extra, a couple of hours to unwind.
"The champagne first. We'll order later," said Chernow as the maitre d' proffered menus.
The headwaiter bowed and withdrew, quickly returning with the champagne and pouring for the two of them. He again withdrew as they clinked their glasses.
They'd just ordered dinner when the maitre d' returned, murmuring in Tyreen's ear. "A call, Ms. Mackenzie, for a Mr. Chernow."
She gestured across the table. Chernow rose to his feet to follow the maitre d'. The silent couple from the corner table were leaving. The Swedes were clinking glasses as he picked up the phone on a table beside the door to the cloakroom.
"Sorry to bust in," began Wolfie, "but Danny's people have just monitored a broadcast out of Athens. One of those radical station's been playing the tape demanding the French free Raza's Feydeheen. Danny says the words are exactly the same as on the one Michelle picked up. But a different woman's voice. She's got no lisp and she's younger sounding."
"Has Danny got Costas on to this?"
"Not yet. Danny says he's way over reporting-in time. Covert Action won't have people on the ground for another hour. Meantime, Danny's got Gates' boy hustling around."
Chernow came to a quick decision. "There's something wrong. We're on our way back. And alert the Dove." The Concorde could get them to Athens in under two hours.
He went back to the table.
The expression on his face was enough. Tyreen laid some money on the table to pay for their uneaten meal and got to her feet.
Calcanis had left his car a couple of streets away and taken up position in the lobby of an apartment block across from the Mercedes. He'd gained admission by using the MRT to perform the one function with which he trusted it --- reading the electronic security locks on doors.
He watched the Mercedes pull away and the girls enter the apartment block across the street. When the lobby door had closed behind them, he waited a few minutes. The Mercedes driver did not return.
Calcanis left the lobby and quickly crossed the street. The apartment block door would only open by pressing the correct combination of numbers on the small keyboard set in the frame. He placed the MRT against the board and pressed the transmit button. There was a series of clicks as the device read the entry code the girls had used. He pushed open the door and stepped quickly inside, closing it behind him.
The lobby was long and cavernous. Apartment doors were on either side, and at the far end was an elevator.
Calcanis walked down the central carpet strip. The girls hadn't gone to one of the upper floors. He stopped to listen outside the doors. There was no sound from behind the first two. From behind the third door came voices.
He fished in a pocket and produced an earpiece with a small metallic button at the end of its flex. He fitted the piece in his ear and carefully placed the button against the door. Through the earpiece came the voice of the Levantine. She was discussing the photos.
Then Calcanis felt something hard pressing into the mall of his back.
"Just knock on the door," said the gunman, pushing the barrel of his gun more firmly against Calcanis.