"Second guy is Stathis Vlachos," Beasley went on. "He's harder to pin down. Solomos says he retired from the DEA about two months ago, but he won't tell us where he worked or who he worked for. He's older, maybe thirty-five, and there's a hint that he got his job through some sort of pretty powerful political connections. Nephew of the Prime Minister, that sort of thing."
"Is he?"
"Not so far as we know. Washington is looking into it. No lurid details yet."
Through the binoculars, Murdock could make out the boat's name, written in Cyrillic letters. He could sound them out but didn't know what the word meant. "Papagos," he said quietly. "What's 'Glaros'?"
"Sea gull, Lieutenant."
Beasley chuckled. "If you really want an eyeful," he said, "have a look through here. Move over, Hodge. Give our guests a peek."
The spotter grunted and moved aside. Murdock handed the binoculars to Roselli, then got down on his knees and put his eye to the glowing objective.
The Glaros was transformed, the boat's hull still visible, but overlaid now by ragged, glowing patterns of colored light that gave the vessel's interior an eerie, three-dimensional aspect, as though the hull were made of some substance not quite so transparent as glass. Most of the thermograph colors were shades of green and blue, but some oranges and yellows showed up as well. The water, being coolest, was black. Most of the boat's hull was ultramarine or deep purple, especially at the edges and along the waterline. The man on the after deck glowed bright yellow-orange, with a bright white spot marking the hot tip of his cigarette. The thermal image was so detailed that Murdock could see a pistol-shaped patch of blue obscuring part of the yellow of the man's chest.
The truly interesting part was forward, however, in the yacht's cabin. The thermographic imaging of this IR unit was sensitive enough to pick up minute variations of temperature, less than a tenth of a degree or so Celsius; with barriers as thin as curtains or the fiberglass hull of a boat, radiated heat from inside could be picked up from the outside. The image was fuzzy and not nearly so detailed as that of the man on deck, but Murdock could easily make out several shapes, seen through the hull in muted patterns of heat. That bright red glow was probably an alcohol or kerosene heater… and that smaller one a motor of some sort, possibly the exhaust fan from a small refrigerator. Other shapes nearby were in writhing, shifting motion.
"What in the world?" There appeared to be two brighter, horizontal patterns of warmth a few feet apart, and they…
"Hey, Navy," Hodge said in a flat, fake-Mexican accent. "You like feelthy peectures?"
"Definitely X-rated," the sniper said, his cheek still resting against the stock of his high-tech rifle. "Now that's what I call a pleasure boat."
With that as a clue, the thermal images resolved themselves in Murdock's mind, too fuzzy to be more than mildly titillating but obviously created by the body heat radiating from two couples lying side by side. One couple was engaged in some rather frenetic, rhythmic movement; the other seemed more relaxed… watching the show, perhaps.
"Okay," Murdock said. "We have five people on board, total?"
"That's right," Beasley said. "The guy on deck is paid help, a local thug named Katris. We think the other two hired him as muscle, or maybe he's just there to pilot the boat. Vlachos and Trahanatzis are in the cabin with a couple of girls from town."
"Girlfriends?" Murdock asked, turning away from the eyepiece. "Or professionals?"
"Nah, they're strictly amateurs," Hodge said. "Pickups at a bar."
"You've been following these guys around town, I gather."
"Ever since Solomos and his boys filled us in."
"What are you going to do about them?"
"Nothing, at the moment."
"Nothing?"
"The DEA has them under surveillance. We're under orders to stay clear until they complete their investigation."
Murdock turned his eye back to the thermograph eyepiece. The hard-driving, rhythmic motion had ceased, though there was still movement going on. "Shit," he said. "If Solomos and his people think these two are tied in with the Kingston hijacking, why don't they go in and grab them? I'd be kind of interested in what they might have to say."
"So would we. But the Greeks are moving extra slow on this one. All they have is a couple of their Special Missions guys who might have outside sources of income. And I gather there are some sticky political problems."
"Vlachos and his patron?"
"Worse. Friend Trahanatzis is the son of a rather wealthy Greek shipping magnate. Not an Onassis, but pretty well-to-do. And he's a steady contributor to the Greek Christian Democrats."
"Wait a minute. I thought you said they couldn't explain his bank balance. If Daddy's a millionaire…"
"Apparently Poppa T. wasn't pleased when Junior didn't follow in the family business. Trahanatzis is on a tight allowance. Why else would he take a job with the Athens City Police, eh? But he has made some pretty sizable deposits in the bank over the past couple of weeks."
"Okay. I follow."
"Yeah. Anyway, Solomos still doesn't want to have the guy arrested, not with Poppa holding purse strings that just might find their way into the police budget, see?"
"I'm beginning to. Whose name is the boat in? Trahanatzis's?"
"Negative. Vlachos."
"Interesting."
"Guess who made the deposits in Trahanatzis's account?"
"Vlachos?"
"Bingo. We're pretty sure Vlachos is a link in the chain to somebody higher up. We don't know who, though, and the Greeks don't even want to guess. They're too afraid of what they might find." Beasley's words were dry and tight, only just hinting at the frustration he must be feeling.
Murdock rose, stepping back from the eyepiece and motioning for Roselli and Papagos to take their turns.
"Tell me something, Captain."
"Yeah?"
"Have you considered helping things along at all?"
"of course. But we're operating under strict orders… very strict orders. This show belongs to the Greeks."
"Meanwhile, a member of the United States House of Representatives has been the prisoner of somebody, we don't even know who, for almost three days, now."
"I hear you. Let me tell you something. I've leaned on our friend, Solomos, just about as hard as I can. I've been on the satellite horn every day to Washington, trying to get things moving from that end, so far with zero effect. I got from Athens, finally, permission to set up this op to keep the suspects under surveillance. The Sniper is my idea and Solomos doesn't know about it. He'd shit if he did, I think, but Hodge and Kraus over there are my insurance in case Vlachos and his pal decide to do a fast fade. Right now, that's our number one worry, that those two get spooked and decide to tear out of here in that high-performance motor yacht of theirs."
"Where would they go?"
"Shit, if they have friends in the police force, anywhere they want. That's the problem. If they wanted to just run for the border, well, Turkey is maybe fifteen hours by sea."
"So you figure a 50-caliber bullet through the engine might slow them up, eh? Good thinking. I take it the DEA is keeping tabs on the suspects, too?"
Beasley nodded toward the white facade of a hotel overlooking the Leofors Nikis. "For what it's worth, they've got a team up there. For all I know they're keeping a closer watch on my team than they are on Vlachos and company."
"I dunno about that, boss," Hodge said. He had just resumed his place at the IR scope. "Looks like they're going at it again over there. If it was me, I'd rather watch thermoporn than watch us watching thermoporn any day."