Nice as this place was, Charlie Grey couldn't stay here forever. For one thing, room service was a little slow. For another, there was no bed in this little nook underneath the rhododendrons. The sole advantage—overwhelming though it was—was that it had successfully hidden him from his pursuers for an unknown number of hours.

Daylight; that meant that he'd slept away the remainder of the night since escaping from the clutches of the authorities. After the beating that he'd taken, he'd needed it. Movement was still pretty dicey, but he now had a fifty-fifty chance of walking more than ten yards instead of seventy-thirty against.

Water, that was the big thing. His tongue felt swollen, to go along with his lips, and only part of that was due to the number of fists smashing into his face. The rest was his body screaming for fluids in order to replenish the blood loss.

First things first. Charlie peered through the thick green leaves of the rhododendron, trying to figure where he was. Reconnaissance was of prime importance if he wanted to pry himself out of this mess. It was a given that they were still looking for him. They had no reason to stop; they would only stop if they found him, dead or alive, and Charlie had no intention of giving himself up.

Dead or alive he had a choice about. Alive was definitely preferable, and to remain in that condition he would require water. There was a whole bunch of it just over those rocks, but those rocks were located across a large plaza filled with people who would be more than happy to reintroduce him to the authorities that he'd escaped from. In addition, the water beyond those rocks had a significantly salty taste to it, a taste that he could do without. No, Sgt. Charles Grey was in the mood for something a little less briny. While he was at it, he might as well hope for someone to throw a couple of ice cubes into the glass.

Another hour, he decided. It would be close to dusk, with a better chance of slipping away unnoticed, to find better accommodations. Charlie settled himself down to wait, doing his best to convince himself that he really wasn't all that thirsty.


Andre Zelinko strolled down the pier, observing the various yachts that had moored there, admiring the polish on this one, the mast on the sailing vessel over there. The sun was bright, yet the day was not over-hot as it could have been. The cool breeze wafting in from the water had something to do with it, he admitted to himself, bringing the pleasant scent of salt water to his nose.

His people were tardy. Zelinko understood very well that a timetable down to the minute was not possible when one relied on the sea, but this was verging on six hours after the scheduled appointment. Had the captain of the vessel decided to go into business for himself? The shipment of small arms would fetch a desirable sum on the black market. Zelinko was quite certain of that fact, since he himself had just arranged to sell those very same weapons for that exact price. Failure to deliver the goods would be a black mark against his name.

He did not like this. Andre Zelinko most assuredly did not like what was happening around him. There were too many unanticipated events. First, he had learned of the spy traveling from Rize to Istanbul. It had been a stroke of luck that the man had been spotted through routine surveillance by the Turkish government, and an even greater stroke of luck that the low level agent had chosen to pass that information on to Zelinko himself. The man had been well-rewarded; Zelinko knew that having many such people sprinkled throughout the Turkish government would help Zelinko to continue doing business. There had been evidence that someone had spied on Zelinko himself as he negotiated a deal with some of the South Ossetians of Georgia some three days previously. His people had found a footprint in the dirt outside, a footprint suggesting a better made shoe than most Georgians possessed these days. From there it was only a minor leap of faith that the man caught here in Komkoy was the spy.

The locals had attempted to question the man. Zelinko had put a stop to that exercise immediately, paying off the locals with enough Euros so that more than one could retire wealthy. Zelinko could afford the graft; actually, he couldn't afford not to offer the graft. There were fortunes to be made, and that meant that he needed the locals to stay out of Zelinko's business while he arranged those fortunes. However, the initial damage had been done. The locals were clumsy, trying to extort information from the spy through mere physical torture, and ham-handed torture at that. The spy had taken advantage of their stupidity by slipping into unconsciousness and then escaping from the decades-old prison cell in the basement of the town hall before Zelinko could do more than say hello.

Zelinko resolved to rectify the matter. The reward he offered set every one of the locals out watching for the spy, and Zelinko added his own people to ensure better coverage. None had found even a trace of the spy, but Zelinko was patient. There were walls around houses and thick forests and men posted at the ends of the town, and there was the sea to cut off one entire avenue for escape. The spy could hide, but he would not evade Zelinko forever. Zelinko need only be patient.

His patience, though, did not extend to his men at sea, the ones who were currently ferrying the shipment of Kalashnikovs from Point A to Point B. He would have sharp words for the captain if the man had permitted his crew a premature celebration with ouzo. A sharp knife would do equally as well. Zelinko believed in rewarding good behavior, and he believed in equivalent rewards for bad.

His eyes roved over a yacht recently arrived in port, an older yet still lovely vessel that wore a Greek flag off of her mast. Vacationing fishermen, then; many such roamed the Aegean in search of relaxation. Like others before them, the men had likely grown tired of eating their own cooking and had stopped into this little town for a change in fare and perhaps some female companionship while apart from their wives. It was a common enough scenario; the yacht in the slip next to it had moored three days ago with the same story. Zelinko had stationed a man on the pier with instructions to monitor this possible escape route for the spy and had received details about several of the visiting boats.

He found his attention caught by an imperfection in the hull. Zelinko frowned; it was an odd spot not to be smooth. There was always the possibility that someone had been careless with a boat hook, gouging out a divot in the wood, but this still looked odd. In fact, it looked like a bullet hole—

"Can I help you?"

Zelinko looked up—and up. The speaker was much taller than Zelinko himself, and dark-skinned almost to black. Zelinko recovered himself quickly. "I am admiring your boat," he told the man and, improvising, added, "is it for sale?"

"I wouldn't know." White teeth shone in the afternoon sun, almost blinding Zelinko, giving him a clue as to the man's heritage. American, most assuredly. Most others wouldn't bother with dental cosmetics, allowing coffee and tea stains to rule. Zelinko's own teeth were almost the color of his skin. The man hefted a bag of edibles from his shoulder, placing it down on the pier in order to pass the time of day with Zelinko. "It's rented. I could ask the owner, if you like, when we return it." The tall man turned to admire the Athena himself. "You're right; she is a pretty little girl. Cuts through the water nicely."

Information gathering; that was why Zelinko was down here on the pier. "There seems to be a small scratch in the paint," he said, pointing at the divot. "It looks new."

The tall black man peered at it. "Why, so there is. I wonder when that happened?" He picked up his box of groceries. "I certainly hope that the rental place doesn't try to charge us for the damage. The rental fee alone was outrageous."

"Crooks, all of them," Zelinko agreed with a fake smile. Now that he was looking, he could see soot marks along the stern, marks that had likely come from an explosion. There was always the possibility that the engine in back had belched out smoke, but a recent fight with someone—say, a number of people employed by Zelinko himself—could have been the cause. All of his senses were on alert.

Zelinko extended his hand, offering his business card. "Andre Zelinko," he introduced himself. "I may indeed be interested in purchasing this yacht, Mr…?" He let the sentence trail off with an invitation.

"Jonas Bradford," Jonas Blane lied, quoting the name on his false passport. He tapped his breast pocket, then the ones at his hips. "Sorry, fresh out of cards. On vacation, you know."

"Indeed. American?"

"Canadian." Jonas sent up a prayerful apology to whatever deity watched over his cousins to the North. "I'll pass along your card, Mr. Zelinko. It shouldn't be too long; I and my friends will probably set out this evening. Not too much vacation left, I'm afraid." He glanced along the line of similar yachts and speedsters, all neatly tied up to the dock with heavy ropes. "I take it you don't own any of these fine specimens."

"Actually, I do," Zelinko disagreed. He pointed to one of the speed boats, three piers down.

"A beauty." Blane admired the lines. The thing looked like it could collect a speeding ticket on the Autobahn, never mind that it had no wheels. Dark colors, too; it wouldn't stand out against the water like the other speed boats. "What's the name?" he asked, noting the Turkish script on the side.

Zelinko considered, translating the words in his head. "Rich and Fancy," he finally said.

"It is, at that," Blane told him. "Why would you want a tug boat like this when you have that charming little speedster?"

Zelinko cocked his head. "Have you seen the price of petrol, Mr. Bradford? You should know better."

"I should, indeed," Blane agreed. "Still, a fine boat."

"Thank you." Nothing more to be gained from this encounter. Zelinko took his leave.

On his way back to his hotel, he made a point of stopping to discuss the conversation with his man that he'd stationed here. Now Andre Zelinko had two concerns about the pier: his missing cargo, and the Athena.


Mack Gerhardt only had a split second to make his move. Timing was everything; he had to make sure that he was out of sight of the omnipresent watchers, that one pair had moved on and the next hadn't yet moved in. He had to be sure that none of the tourist types were curiously eying him, and that none of the locals, hungry for tourist Euros, were trying to entice him into looking at their wares.

Done. As Gerhardt moved away from the dirty wall surrounding one of the town villas, a brand new slender blue streak of chalk was revealed.

Mack stepped quickly into one of those tourist traps, moving away from the signal site, fingering the brightly colored scarf that attracted his eye in order to blend in with the rest of the tourists. All the wrong colors for Tiffy, was his first thought. He liked seeing her in pink, maybe blue, something that lit up the color in her cheeks when she looked up at him. He resolutely put thoughts of his wife out of his mind. Stuff like that gets you killed, he mused, and concentrated on his cover. "How much?" he asked the shopkeeper, his attention far more focused on the scene outside.

The incoming pair of watchers discovered the blue streak right away, instantly deciphering what it meant. Correction, Gerhardt thought to himself, they were deciphering what they thought it meant. He turned a big smile on the shopkeeper, completely ignoring the shopkeeper's offer to bargain to a better price. "I'll take it."

Marks like the blue streak were far more common in large cities where intelligence officers and undercover agents of all nations converged. It was a method of communication: put down your mark and pass on the intel to your handler. It had gotten so bad in D.C. and London that the maintenance departments had dedicated an entire three man squad to repainting the walls outside the Capital and Browning Street on a weekly basis, just so that agents could put up new 'talk to me' marks.

Gerhardt accepted the package he had just purchased from the shopkeeper, welcoming the addition to his cover. A second pair of observers had come to observe what the first pair had observed, and now they were all observing together, chattering to each other and chattering into their cell phones. Mack was reminded of a pigeon feeding frenzy in Central Park when some crazy old broad started handing out crusts of stale bread from her park bench. Heads were bobbing back and forth the same as pigeons, too, he thought, trying not to smile. Diversion accomplished.

Stepping out of the shop and away from anyone else, he pulled out his own cell phone.

"Dirt Diver to Hammerhead. You have a go."