"For your eyes only, the nights are never cold.
You really know me, that's all I need to know.
Maybe I'm an open book because I know you're mine,
But you won't need to read between the lines."
"For Your Eyes Only" - Sheena Easton
18 January 2000
Portopalo di Capo Passero, Sicily
There is an old adage when it comes to buying things. You can have it good, fast, or cheap; pick any two. Upon seeing the large conex container sitting in the receiving yard, Cyryl Jankowsky was sure the third option would not apply to this particular transaction. The presence of a grinning Demyan Turgenev, Russia's most infamous arms dealer, personally standing at the conex's entrance only affirmed that thought in the Pole's mind.
"What do you think is inside that thing?" Jankowsky whispered to Alan Weatheral.
The retired staff sergeant cleared his throat and crossed his arms. Like the colonel, he leaned against the rented van and stared at the conex.
"Whatever it is, it's enough to start a small war, I'm sure." He sniffed. "And we need a bigger van."
Jankowsky chuckled. "We'll definitely have to bring some of the men down here and make several trips back to the safehouse."
"You get the feeling we maybe should have brought some of them with us as security for this?"
Jankowsky eyed the six men surrounding Turgenev and gave a slight nod. He shrugged his shoulders.
"It's a bit late now. We may as well carry on with it."
With a grunt, Weatheral slid open the side panel of the van and hefted one of the large, heavy satchels full of Euro notes. Jankowsky took hold of the other. Together they made their way toward the awaiting Russians.
"Good morning," said Jankowsky in English once they were within speaking distance. He smiled pleasantly.
Turgenev, like most Russians, did not return the smile. He looked about, a quizzical expression on his face.
"I was expecting to meet David Ashton here," he muttered.
"We are his representatives. He is a busy man and has business elsewhere this morning."
Turgenev nodded, his shoulders dropping somewhat as he let out a small sigh. "I can understand business. Is that the money?" He pointed at the two bags.
Jankowsky lifted his satchel. "All forty million," he said. "As agreed."
"I expect you wish to see the merchandise first." One of Turgenev's men was already moving to unlock the conex as he spoke.
"Yes, please," replied Jankowsky.
The man with the key removed the lock and flipped aside the hasp. Two other men pulled up the levers on the doors and heaved them aside. Turgenev accepted two flashlights from another silent, suited man and handed one each to Jankowsky and Weatheral. He then waved them inside with a touch of theatrical flair.
"Help yourself," he said.
"Thank you," grinned Jankowsky, clicking on the light. He kept hold of the money bag in his other hand as he walked inside. Turgenev showed no offense at the measure of security.
"Tell my men what you would like to see," he said, "and they will open it for you."
The two retired soldiers entered the conex. It was well packed, its sides covered with crates secured by straps and chains. There was a clear walkway down the center just wide enough for a man to pass. Jankowsky stopped at a random crate and indicated it with a nod.
"This one, please."
Without a word, the stocky Russian behind him stepped up and began unfastening the straps around the crate. Another man handed him a crowbar. Jankowsky and Weatheral edged further down the aisle to allow him room to work. Within forty seconds, the Russian had the top of the crate free and pushed it up and away so the customers could see inside.
Jankowsky set his money bag down on the floor and the flashlight on another crate and reached within the crate. He drew out an AK-102 carbine. The rifle was a shortened version of the AK-101 rifle, which in turn was derived from the original AK-47 design and its AK-74 successor. Instead of the 7.62X39mm round fired by the original AK-47, this variant fired the 5.56X45mm round. He handed the carbine to Weatheral and selected another for his own inspection. Weatheral disassembled his carbine, setting the parts atop another crate, checking each major component for quality. Jankowsky ran through a standard functions check with his rifle. Neither man found an issue with their weapon. They returned them to the crate.
Nodding, Jankowsky let the Russian return the top to the crate and they moved farther down the aisle. Opening another random box, they found boots of various sizes. A third crate revealed three L7A2 General-Purpose Machine Guns. Jankowsky smiled and gave another nod.
"I think we've seen enough. Let's go back out."
Blinking in the sunlight, Jankowsky faced Turgenev. "Do you have the packing list with you?"
"Of course." The arms dealer drew several sheets of paper from inside his suit jacket and handed them to the Pole, exchanging them for the flashlight. Jankowsky set his bag down and perused each page.
"I think we are good to go here, gentlemen," said the colonel, smiling again. He folded the papers and put them in his back pocket.
For once, the Russian smiled. "Excellent."
Behind Turgenev, his men started shutting the conex doors and locking it again. Jankowsky and Weatheral handed their satchels to two other attendants while they worked. They then shook Turgenev's hand. Weatheral accepted the key to the conex from one of the men.
"It is a pleasure to do business with you," said Turgenev. "Please give my regards to Mr. Ashton for me."
"We will certainly do that," assured Jankowsky. "Have a good morning." He waved and watched the Russians as they turned and walked away.
After a minute of silence, Weatheral let out a breath. "Well, that went a lot better than I thought I would."
"It certainly did. I am more than a little surprised," agreed Jankowsky. He started walking back to the van. "Let's get some of the others and come back for this stuff. There's no point with just the two of us killing ourselves at it."
Weatheral grunted again and followed him. As they walked, Jankowsky began to chuckle. He turned to Weatheral, smiling. "Did you notice it?"
"Notice what?"
"Unless I'm distinctly mistaken, I do believe Demyan Turgenev was far more afraid of meeting our David Ashton in the flesh than the two of us ever were of him and his six goons."
xxxxxxxxxx
20 January 2000
Catania, Sicily
Catania–Fontanarossa Airport
The two Government Aircraft Factories (GAF) Nomad airplanes idled just off the runway. Oskar Traeger sat in the pilot's seat, his eyes on the panels before him. Forty minutes in the air had told him how the machine handled in flight; now he listened to its behavior on the ground and monitored the instruments. How did it perform after a bit of stress? Next to him, Andrew Reardon, his copilot, tested the radio set again, sending a message to the other plane.
"Falcon Two, this is Falcon One, radio check, over."
"Falcon One," came the other plane. "This is Falcon Two. Radio check, out."
"We're good on the radios," reported Reardon. "Five by five," he said, explaining that he could send and receive perfectly.
"Good," said Traeger. "I see no problems here. We can shut down on our end."
"Tests complete," transmitted Reardon. "Going dark, over."
"Roger that. Same here. Going dark. Out," Stephen Fields, the copilot of the other plane told him.
Traeger finished his notes and clicked his pen shut. He stowed his pad in his jacket and reached down for the money bag next to him. Reardon picked up a similar bag and opened the plane's door to climb down.
"We can finally be rid of these," he called to Traeger. The German grunted in reply.
Across from the planes, two men wearing sunglasses awaited their return. Traeger knew them by reputation. This was his first time meeting them in person, however. The taller of the two, Gunter Hartmann, stood with his hands behind his back, his face expressionless. The other man, a smiling American named Mike Johnson, shuffled his feet and alternated between crossing his arms and shoving them in his pockets.
"So, what do you think?" asked Johnson once Traeger, Reardon, Fields, and Edward Pitts, the other pilot, had all joined them. "Jewels to fly, aren't they? Just like I said they'd be."
"Not bad," allowed Traeger. "They performed decently during the test flight and the radio sets worked well. They seem to have been well maintained."
Johnson kept smiling. "They'd have to be, for Gunter and I to be able to fly them halfway around the world from Australia to get here and for them to then be able to handle all the acrobatics you four did up there the very next day. I'd say they were exceptional."
Traeger said nothing, only looked at Johnson. The American shuffled his feet again.
"So…" he continued, "what do you say to forty million Euros for both of them?"
Traeger shook his head. "I say thirty or have a nice day."
"Thirty?" repeated Johnson. "For that, I'll just take my planes back to where I had them." He glared at the German. "Thirty-eight."
"Thirty-two," countered Traeger, his tone passive.
Johnnson's smile faded a fraction. "You're a bastard, Traeger." He crossed his arms and remained silent for several seconds. "Thirty-seven five."
Traeger's green eyes locked with Johnson's. The German tapped his thigh twice with a finger. "Thirty-five," he offered.
Johnson stood immobile, his arms still crossed. Ten seconds later, his smile broadened. He removed his sunglasses. "Thirty-five and you cover our first-class accommodations back to Australia and our drinks and meals in the pub while we wait for the flight."
"Done," said Traeger, offering his hand.
"Hah!," exclaimed Johnson, taking his hand. "You're a tough nut, Traeger, but it's still a pleasure doing business with you."
xxxxxxxxxx
20 January 2000
Paris, France
The Hotel Raphael
Ashton had been busy the last several days. He had set aside several million Euros in cash in his suite for operational expenses, such as paying for the cost of the suites at the Hotel Raphael. He'd had a change of heart regarding the recon teams and decided they should relocate to safehouses in the Paris area. Several hours of phone time and several thousand Euro had been spent lately coordinating for new lodgings for the teams.
His reasoning for the change was simple enough. The hotel staff would notice the regular comings and goings of the teams. This presented a security problem should the Hunters begin questioning the staff. Relocating to suburban areas would reduce this sort of passive security issue…hopefully.
He arranged a primary and alternate location for each team. He, Barron, Abjer, and Dublin all dealt with the landlords randomly so there would be no pattern noticed. Leases were set up for several months at a time and paid in advance in cash. All the teams had to do now was move to their new homes.
xxxxxxxxxx
20 January 2000
Portopalo di Capo Passero, Sicily
Alan Weatheral poured a cup of coffee and sat across from Cyryl Jankowski. He sipped the dark beverage and sighed with contentment, crossing a leg over his knee.
"You look like you've had a full day already, Al," observed Jankowsky with a grin.
"You could say that, sir. The boys have all the gear offloaded from the conex and stowed here at the house. Sandy has latched onto one of the men and they have it all inventoried and have started issuing uniforms and equipment out to everyone. We also have all the positions of the roster filled except for two. Those two are due in tomorrow, per Mr. Ashton's information."
"Who are they?"
"Two people for the control cell security element, Arthur Jefferson and Ilyas Ishaq. They're coming in from the States. They'll be here in the morning. Mr. Ashton contracted them specifically for this job."
"Hmm. I wonder why he wanted them," wondered Jankowsky.
"He didn't say. I know the other two men, though. I think you may have heard of them, also."
"Oh, really? Who's that?"
"Wendell Lewis and Andy Szabo."
"Wendell and Andy? Oh, yes. I've heard of them. I've worked with Wendell in the past. He's young, but skilled. I haven't worked with Andy, but I've at least heard that he's a good man."
"Well, you can say the same thing about Andy. He's a young guy, but he has a lot of promise. I think he'll do well. We also have the rest of the control cell - I guess I should start calling them TOC (tactical operations center) - people, too. I only know one of them. The other one is a recommendation from that Courtorielle girl."
"Who's the one you know?"
"Jack Middleton."
"And the one Nicola brought in?"
"Some girl named Robyn Radway. I have to admit I'm a bit worried about her. She's not even twenty. She might be too young for this kind of thing."
Jankowsky shrugged. "We won't know until it all starts. We'll watch her and see how she handles it all."
Nodding, Weatheral sipped his coffee again. It was already cool. He scowled at the cup and got up to top it off.
"Well," suggested Jankowsky, "how about we take a look at the plan while the boys get themselves situated out there?"
"Sounds good, sir." Weatheral returned to Jankowsky's side of the table while the colonel spread out the map and overlays.
"Alright, let's see. The TOC will be here," Jankowsky said, pointing at Annaba. "That's where I will be along with Jack and the others you mentioned earlier. We'll be set up there a day before the teams get on the plane here in Sicily so we can be sure we have good comms."
He moved his finger south to a relatively straight section of Highway 20 just south of Mechta Jorf el Ahmar. "The plane will land here and the teams will disembark and unload their gear. This will be the difficult part, I think, because they will have to carry all of their equipment with them for forty kilometers as they go south toward the camp. There is a lot of hilly terrain and at least two rivers to traverse during that movement. That's not going to be easy for them."
"Especially trying to do it in a time crunch and unseen," added Weatheral.
"Exactly. If they're slowed significantly by the terrain or encounter passing locals, they may have to hole up somewhere during daylight hours and continue on during night time just to keep from being discovered."
"What are the rules of engagement if we do come across locals?"
Jankowsky's expression was serious as he eyed the Englishman. "We're not soldiers in this situation so I can't exactly order you to do one thing or another. I can say that being spotted will seriously jeopardize this mission. I will leave it up to the team leader on the ground as to what he does. There are no rules of war here, only your conscience. Let's leave it at that."
"Good enough, sir."
"Okay, continuing on. Once reaching the camp, we will establish two hide sites. I think one on the northern side and one on the western side would be most appropriate. The distance from the camp and the exact locations will have to be determined by the team leaders once you're there since we don't have any photo reconnaissance of the camp to help us choose. I think the real issue for the men will be digging, as in how to do it quietly and where to get rid of the excess dirt."
"I wouldn't worry too much about that, sir. The boys are old hands at that sort of thing. Building a hide site is second nature to them." Weatheral sipped his coffee to emphasize his point. "No one will ever know we are there.
"Good. I think putting the sites on the south side of the Qued Lahamine river would be best. It provides a better view of the camp and would allow improved access to the water source for the men when they need it."
"Yes, sir."
xxxxxxxxxx
20 January 2000
Paris, France
"Siobhan," said Locke into the phone receiver. "We're all getting cabin fever in here. How much longer are we going to just sit around waiting? You need to come back to us. We need to do something?"
"Heh, Omeir told me about tha las' thing ya did a week er so ago, Vincent," replied the O'Banian. "It didn't work out so well for ya."
"Urgh, Omeir needs to keep his big mouth shut sometimes, too."
"There's somethin' goin' on over here, Vincent. They're waitin' on the outcome of somethin' but I don't know what. All I know is they want it finished before they meet. Tha''s all I can say right now. Jus' tell everyone to be patient until I tell them we can meet, okay?"
Locke's sigh was loud. "Okay, but they won't like it."
"Yer the leader while I'm away, Vincent. They look to ya fer guidance. They trust ya. An' I have to be able to trust ya to make the right decisions while I'm here. Can I do that?"
Another sigh. "I never asked to be a leader, Siobhan."
"Neither did I. It jus' happened. Tha''s how it goes sometimes."
"Alright. I'll see what I can do. Like I said, they won't be happy."
"Thank you, Vincent."
"Can you give me any idea when the meeting might be? Anything at all so I can give them some hint?"
"No. No idea. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe."
"Weeks?"
"I don't know, Vincent. I'm guessin'."
A third sigh. "Alright. I'll tell them."
"Thank you."
"Goodbye, Siobhan."
"Goodbye, Vincent."
xxxxxxxxxx
20 January 2000
Paris, France
21 Allée Camille Corot
Karl Eichmann curled himself into the passenger seat of the automobile. A glance behind him assured him that De Lioncourt and Frost were seated in the back. He signaled for Marton Razumov to drive off.
"Blow it," he said to Frost when they were a kilometer away.
A click of the detonator sent an electronic command to the thermite bombs inside the house. In seconds, the dwelling and the four bodies within it were in flames. The Rochette family were no more. Eichmann leaned his skull on the headrest, smirking.
"You know, guys," he pondered aloud. "This is really too easy."
"What do you mean, Karl?" The question came from Razumov.
"Simple. These Watchers, Hunters, whatever you want to call them, don't present us with any sort of challenge. I think we need to expand our operations a little bit. Add a little spice to our work."
"What do you have in mind?" queried De Lioncourt.
"Nothing too complicated. We have that handy dandy computer telling us where everyone in the city lives, Watchers and Immortals alike. I say we add a few Immortals to the list."
Frost gasped. "You mean pack hunt Immortals? That's definitely against the rules of the Game."
Eichmann's smile reflected back at Frost in the rearview mirror. "What's life without a little zest, Erik? We'll talk more about it later. For now, let's get back to the safehouse."
