Clearing his throat, Zendo said, “I’ve heard they have hired a new man to find the American woman.”
“So.”
“So, this is not a simple cop like the others,” Zendo explained. “He’s a dangerous man.”
Caras smiled. “Like you and your men?”
“I wish I had a dozen men like Jake Adams.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“You probably wouldn’t have. He’s former Air Force Intelligence, and then he worked for the CIA for years before opening his own security consulting firm in Austria.”
“And he’s that good?”
Zendo nodded his head. “He once took down an entire Kurdish terrorist group single-handedly.”
Caras was impressed, which didn’t happen often. He wondered if the American would consider finding his way into his bed. He might make this one exception to his anti-American aversion. “What do you suggest?”
Smiling, Zendo said, “I’ve already taken steps to see if my intel is correct. I sent two men to simply follow him.”
“Good plan. If he’s as good as you say he is, you should be able to follow this Adams to the American woman.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. Why don’t you head back out and coordinate the effort personally.”
“Yes, sir.” Zendo took that as his sign to leave. He got up and smoothly strut away, his ponytail swishing side to side across his back like a metronome.
Sitting by himself now, Caras thought about this crazy American who could take down a terrorist group by himself. Now he would have to go upstairs and take that Czech woman, whatever her name was, from behind and consider the American spy as he did so.
Still naked, high heels kicked to the side of the bed through the balcony doors, Svetla Kalina had listened carefully to Petros Caras and his fixer discuss some woman who they sought. Her Greek was nearly native, since her maternal grandparents had spoken almost nothing else to her while she grew up in Prague. They even sent her off to spend her summers with her cousins on the island of Crete. This language knowledge was one of the reasons she had been chosen for this assignment. The other, of course, was the well-known fact that the billionaire Petros Caras had a special place in his heart for Slavic women. But she also got the feeling that he would prefer a man instead. And this was her first assignment that involved her actually sleeping with someone. Sure she had used her body to seduce suspects for the Czech Security Information Service (BIS), but she had never had to go this far. The BIS had been asked by some other world organization, she wasn’t sure which one but she suspected the Americans, to get close to Petros Caras. She could get used to this life, the Santorini villa, the amazing yacht, the great food and drink, if it were not for her requirement to sleep with an old fat man. She had to put her mind in a special place when he entered her, trying her best to think of anyone but him as she faked multiple orgasms. Perhaps her only saving grace was the fact that he preferred to take her from behind, like he did with his male toys. Thank God he had a small penis, which she could barely feel inside her.
She heard movement from the chair scraping against the stone patio below, and she knew she needed to shift her mind to a dark place. Time to act, Svetla. She wasn’t sure how long she could play this part, that of a stupid former super model. Well the model part was not a stretch, since she had actually been one until age twenty-five. It had to be real, since the BIS was sure Petros Caras would have done a background check on her, which he had done.
With quiet grace, she made her way to the bed and lay down seductively waiting for the billionaire to enter. Despite his bluster, this would all be over in less than five minutes. It took the man longer to get up the stairs than to finish in her.
Remember, Svetla, enthusiasm and seduction, but don’t over-act.
4
The sun was nearly to the horizon of the Mediterranean Sea off the stern of the Grimaldi ferry from the Tunisian capital to Trapani on the island of Sicily.
Jake Adams stood on the top deck watching the blue wake capped off with white as they skimmed along on the quiet sea. He glanced to the south and could see the rocky Sicilian coast as the waning sun shone off the white rocks, giving them a fire-like glow. He knew this serenity wouldn’t last. It never did.
After the state department man sprung him from the hellish Tunisian prison, he had quickly recovered a bag he had hidden at the Tunis Carthage International Airport, which contained some clothes, another passport, more fake credentials, and, most importantly, cash. He was old school, where cash was king.
Before Rob Pierce, the cultural affairs officer, would set him free to find the American woman, he had insisted Jake check his e-mail on his phone, which contained all the information he would need, in theory, to conduct his investigation, including photographs of Sara Halsey Jones, the two men who had first gone after her, along with a briefing on the woman that included everything anyone would want to know about anyone, from social security numbers and credit card numbers to her proclivity for various specialty foods and wines. Knowing she had been married, Jake had asked Pierce about the former husband. Perhaps he was involved with her disappearance. Not likely. The ex-husband had died of cancer at the young age of thirty, a rare blood cancer not unlike leukemia.
Christ, the woman could be anywhere. Rob Pierce had also decided that Jake couldn’t fly out of Tunisia, which was just fine with Jake. He preferred traveling by boat, train or car anyway — places he could still carry a gun without much difficulty. In fact, he felt naked now without his gun. Especially since he discovered a tail about an hour ago — a man in his early thirties with black hair and dressed with a too-big shirt hanging over his white Chinos. Based on the man’s black boots, his overall physique, and his demeanor, the man was either from law enforcement, the intelligence service, or former military. It usually took one to know one.
Which is why Jake came out onto the upper deck. Not many people were outside. But there was his shadow. Now he had to find the man’s friend. When there was one there was always two. The key was to not let the man know that Jake knew he was being watched.
Considering his options, Jake decided on the direct approach. He slowly strolled along the deck toward the man, who was trying his best not to get caught staring.
What language? Jake stopped a few respectable feet from the man and asked in Italian, “Do you happen to have a cigarette?” Jake didn’t smoke, but it would make the man reach for the pack of cigarettes he could see in his left front pocket.
The man smiled and reached with his right hand. As he did this, Jake grasped the man’s left wrist, twisted it back placing torque on the man’s shoulder and then shoved the man’s chest into the metal and wood railing. Then with a quick strike, Jake punched the man in his right kidney buckling his knees and taking his breath away. As the man slumped to his knees, Jake found the guy’s gun at the small of his back, pulling it holster and all from the man’s belt and clipping it to his own. While he was back there, Jake found the man’s wallet and he flipped it open to view the guy’s driver’s license. Interesting. Athens, Greece.
Jake glanced around and then saw something he had not noticed — a surveillance camera up high on a post. Two actually. One aimed to the bow and the other to the stern. He had been considering whether to throw the man overboard, but someone would see the body fall and call in a man overboard. And it wasn’t like he could interrogate the guy right here. No time and not likely to produce the desired results. He checked his watch. Nearly ten p.m. The ferry would soon be getting into Trapani. He could feel the engines starting to slow.