Jeffrey Siger - An Aegean Prophecy

It was dark in the room so Barbara couldn’t see his face. It was not a look of joy. ‘Excuse me, my love, I must make a telephone call.’ Vladimir left the room.

‘Anatoly, we have a problem.’

‘Vladimir, it’s almost five o’clock in the morning.’

‘We’ve been set up.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The cop used the woman to get next to me. It’s been a hustle from the very beginning. He wanted to make me curious enough to break into the woman’s house, copy the information, and pass it on — to make it seem real and legitimate. We have to stop it.’

‘We can’t. It’s too late.’

‘I was afraid of that. Then we must do whatever it takes to make it seem that the information did not come from me. I’m certain I’m being set up as the link to something intended to embarrass Mother Russia and get me sent off to a gulag.’ Or worse, he thought but did not say. ‘I wonder which of my enemies is behind this.’

‘Vladimir, relax. We can come up with another source, one that covers both of us. But who else knows about your involvement in all this?’

‘Only the cop, as far as I know.’

‘Then he must be eliminated.’

‘What about the woman?’

Vladimir paused. ‘I think not. She knows nothing more than that she was to be his companion for the evening.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is going to cost a lot of money.’

‘That is not a problem.’

‘I didn’t think it would be.’

‘Just do it. And leave no witnesses.’

‘It will take a couple of days to organize, but consider it done.’

Vladimir hung up the phone. Too bad, he thought, I kind of liked that cop.

Andreas knew he had no control over what he’d set in motion. Too many variables, too many different agendas involved. No telling what might happen. All he knew for certain was that this time he’d done the right thing. He just hoped no innocents suffered because of him if the Russians decided to act. Unlike the traditional Italian concept of a hit — assassinate just the offending one — Russians were prepared to blow up a room full of people as long as they took out their target.

That thinking led him to other thoughts and other concerns. For those who believed in heaven and hell there was always hope that good would prevail and bad would be punished. For those who didn’t believe it was a tougher call, because bad guys didn’t play by the rules, giving them a decided advantage. As Andreas saw it, a cop could be a believer in his heart, but damn well better think like a Dirty Harry nonbeliever on the job.

He decided to spend the rest of the week keeping an eye on Lila, just to be on the safe side. Besides, it was a good excuse for sharing what remained of their pre-baby era of life. He couldn’t imagine being happier, no matter what the future brought.

But he also told Maggie to keep up on the news from Mount Athos, just in case.

Free at last. Praise the Lord. It was noon, and the monastery’s doors at last were open. Everyone was off to eat, then to sleep. Forty days of fasting without meat, fish, cheese, butter, or eggs had taken much of their energy. But Zacharias had no time for that. He had to hurry to catch the fast boat from the port of Daphni to Ouranoupolis and be back in time for supper at seven in the Russian abbot’s monastery. A two-hour mountain road walk to the bus, a half-hour ride to the boat, a one-hour voyage aboard the Little Saint Anna, and a return voyage getting him back to Daphni before evening prayers at six was the plan. Thank God the Russian monastery wasn’t far from Daphni. Still, it would be close.

As he hurried along the dirt path toward where the bus would be, he fiddled with his cell phone. He couldn’t get it to work. Couldn’t be the battery, he’d left it in the charger all week. Then it hit him. He’d also left the phone on, just in case a message somehow got through — and the abbot must have turned off all electricity into the monastery. The phone was dead. Damn, damn, damn.

He quickened his pace. No matter, he’d assume the worst, that none of them made it to Ouranoupolis and he’d have to do this alone. He could do it. He could do anything.

As he walked, Zacharias thought of other possibilities. What if they were caught? What if there were police waiting for him in Ouranoupolis? No, the three would never talk. They’re afraid of the Lord and what would happen to their souls should they stray from the path they’d chosen to walk together with him — and to their families should they cross him. He had picked his men carefully, each with a past and a family to protect. Yes, they would never give him away.

The bus wound its way through timeless green beauty. He stared out the window; there seemed no human presence, man nonexistent. This now was his place. This was where he belonged. He would make it worthy of his work. The boat was there. As if ordained to wait for him. Yes, it was ordained. It was part of the Lord’s plan. The time was now.

It was almost four in the afternoon, and the man had been sitting in the same taverna chair for almost five hours. His ass was killing him. But his orders were clear and direct: ‘Petro, do not move under any circumstances until contact is made, and that means any circumstances.’ They were not instructions one could misinterpret. Especially considering their source. He’d been doing this sort of work for more years than he liked to remember, but this was the first time the director had given him his orders personally.

The jet, the parachute, the underwater approach were right out of one of those James Bond movies, but considering the last minute timing involved with this operation, there was no other real choice. You couldn’t get even a donkey to move in Greece on Easter. Still, he was getting too old for this special ops craziness. He just hoped the boat was here to meet him. All he could do was wonder, because the plan didn’t allow him to leave this goddamned chair to check.

Some plan. Once contact was made it was up to him to make the call: kill, grab, or walk away. The choices had been conveyed in their reverse order of preference. ‘We’d prefer no more dead Greek monks on public streets during Easter Week, and if he seems no threat, let him take the package and go — the dioxin is phony anyway,’ were the director’s exact words.

‘Where the hell is that monk?’ Petro muttered under his breath in Russian. The Little Saint Anna had docked twenty minutes ago.

‘May I have a light?’ someone said in Greek. It was a man who looked to be in his late thirties, early forties, sitting at a nearby table. He could be older, but his full beard was black and neatly trimmed. He was wearing jeans, a plaid work shirt, a fisherman’s hat, and construction boots, drinking coffee, reading a Greek newspaper, and holding a cat on his lap.

‘Here you are.’ Petro responded in Greek, handing him a lighter.

‘Thank you very much, that is very kind of you,’ said the man with the cat. ‘So, where’s the package?’ He now spoke Russian with a Serbian accent.

‘Package? What package?’ Petro responded in Greek.

The man with the cat continued in Russian. ‘Since you understood what I said, there is no reason for you to continue straining to speak in Greek. I’m very comfortable in your mother tongue.’ He smiled in a way suggestive of twinkling eyes, but his remained dark and focused.

‘So I see,’ Petro said, switching to Russian, ‘but I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

The man stroked the cat and spoke as if talking to himself. ‘Of course you don’t. And if I gave you 75,000 reasons you still wouldn’t know, would you?’

That was the amount the director told him would be paid for the dioxin. ‘That’s a lot of reasons.’