Dark Rule (COIL Book 3), page 17
From his peripheral vision, Nathan saw Fredrick study this cocky German who flaunted his position. The general had probably told Fredrick to accommodate the German. They needed Nathan's socialist wallet.
"You know, Dirk, you're not in Germany anymore."
"Yes, I know." Nathan looked the giant in the eyes. "I'm in the toilet of the Mediterranean."
Figuring he'd successfully laid his presence out before his hosts, Nathan relaxed in the Jeep's bouncy seat and surveyed the countryside. Cretan farmers worked the land with oxen as if from another century. They all wore vrakes—the baggy, seat-dragging, black pants. He wouldn't mind wearing a pair of those rather than the Berlin-styled suit he'd been assigned a day earlier by his operation coordinators. Passing a small village, he saw a father and son working on the engine of an old Chevy, and half-naked, thin children playing soccer with a ball of trash.
The road curved to the east and followed the cliff overlooking the ocean just before they dropped down into the capital. Nathan sat forward for a good view of the town he'd already memorized from aerial photographs. Fredrick watched Nathan's face as he admired the small city.
"What do you think now?" The bald man swept his arm across the view.
"Impressive." Nathan was careful not to show too much satisfaction. He wanted them to earn his approval.
In fact, from a distance, Zalzuna was impressive. As desolate as the volcanic cone was, the greenery of the town was startling. Vines and bushes grew from the flat rooftops, pouring over the sides of houses and onto the streets. The whole town was built on the edge of the harbor where a number of sizable yachts were anchored amongst dozens of ancient fishing boats. The water was a beautiful marble-green.
A moment later, they were within the town itself and Nathan got a closer look at the modern culture. Electricity seemed scarce. Hand pumps provided water access from a large underground pipe that rose above the ground in places.
The Jeep swerved left and climbed the volcano foothills to a fortress where the Turks had made a final stand during a historic battle. But the current dictator, General Jalway Yousef, had renovated and improved the fortress, incorporating electricity and the purest water from the pipe before it was pumped into the town. The Zalzuna flag waved in the sun: a red star on an ocean of blue. They drove through a tunnel and pulled into the large keep of the fortress. The driver climbed out of the Jeep and grabbed Nathan's bags. Fredrick moved into the driver's seat. He pointed at the driver.
"He'll show you to your quarters. We'll have dinner together tonight, but I have business in the city right now."
Nathan nodded.
"This way, sir," the driver directed.
Using an iron handrail, they climbed a long flight of rock steps. On the landing, Nathan paused at the balcony to admire the view. He stood on an old battlement and felt the rush of ancient conflict upon the land. Nathan had known much conflict in his adult life. It seemed he'd been born for it—as well as to save others from it.
From the battlement, he could see over the fortress walls. The town was quiet. Other places in the region took their siesta time very seriously, though he wasn't sure if Zalzuna recognized such a practice. It was the typical communist atmosphere, Nathan reflected, and he'd seen many of them. Supposedly, everyone lived equally, communally, yet somehow the rulers lived in luxury while the peasants barely managed. They couldn't buy a boat ride off the island if they wanted to.
He spotted Fredrick's Jeep winding into the town. Nathan would keep his eye on the bald giant—probably the general's goon. Fredrick was nothing to Nathan, though; just someone to work around. What he really needed to do was prowl through the streets of the small city to hear the local banter. If he needed to, he'd use Fredrick to gain access.
Turning, Nathan entered the fortress. He would meet the general that evening. And if Nathan was still alive at sundown, he'd get to work. Though locating the Jamisons was his operational priority, he ached to bring Trevor Niles to face the world court.
*~*
Chapter Nineteen
With steely eyes, Heather Kooper gazed out of the commercial jet window as it descended upon the Balkan Peninsula to land in Athens. She'd been in Athens dozens of times—none of them for pleasure, always for work. Or maybe it was for pleasure since she loved her work so much.
She exited the plane on the tarmac and waited in line as the baggage handlers unloaded their belongings. From the corner of her eye, Heather acknowledged Bruce Lavers' bear-like frame. The third member of the team, Clifford Lavers, was to her right. The two brothers were nothing alike, and neither of them fit into the crowd as she did, but she'd worked with them often enough to know they were dependable.
Heather secured the strap on her backpack. One never knew what to expect when called out for an operation, so she'd brought everything she might need. Rarely was she called unless a mission demanded her expertise. As a professional Canadian spelunker, she'd brought climbing rope and scuba gear. But if a job didn't fit her exact qualifications, she was always ready to prove herself amongst the mostly-male operatives with whom she worked.
"Hey, honey," a Frenchman greeted as he approached Heather. She figured all he saw was a wiry, brunette with broad shoulders, nearing forty years old. "You all alone in Greece, babe? I'll show you around, if you want."
The Frenchman stopped in his tracks when he was met with the coldest eyes he'd probably ever seen.
"Touch me and you'll regret it." Heather clenched her fists, not bluffing a bit.
"My apologies." He raised his hands defensively as he backed away and lost himself in the waiting crowd.
Glancing at Bruce, Heather nodded at him. Since they were in operative mode, he would've moved in like lightning if anyone bothered her. Clifford, on the other hand—the younger of the brothers—was the type to let her fend for herself, which she appreciated.
Bruce nodded back and crossed his arms as they waited for their luggage. The three-person team had arrived together to meet on Jasper O'Shottie's yacht. Jasper had been one of Heather's principals for over twelve years. Heather, in turn, was the handler for the unofficial team of which Bruce and Clifford were members. There were five others, but at the present, they were actively contracted elsewhere. As requested, she'd come with whom she could round up—which was just the two men. The last time the three had worked together was in Hong Kong two years earlier on a COIL intelligence grab.
The brothers made up their own army. Bruce was forty with a square jaw and bald head. At six-four, he weighed in at a muscled two hundred and fifty. He was bright, quiet, and thoughtful, unlike Clifford, who was four inches shorter, and shot his mouth off as quickly as the thought occurred. Clifford was a skinny one-hundred-eighty pounds, with a limp left over from a terrorist attack in London where he'd been a city policeman. He was too handsome for his own good, even with a bump on his nose, but Heather could barely stand him. She preferred quiet Bruce, regardless of his troubled past.
Those who learned about Bruce's past usually feared him, but only until they took the time to get to know him personally. He'd been convicted of murder, and spent twelve years in a prison outside Liverpool. It was during his incarceration that he found Christ, and upon his release, he and his brother went into business together for themselves, since Clifford was wounded but had a healthy amount of money from the settlement. They contracted out their expertise—everything from picking locks to covert operations. With these skills, the brothers served Christ inside countries where Christians were regularly targeted and in need of specialized relief. In fact, Heather knew of no other two men who'd successfully assisted more troubled Christians than the Lavers brothers. As opposite as they were, they made a perfect team. COIL offices around the world called on them several times a year.
Heather's attention was suddenly drawn to someone she thought looked familiar—a young man a couple inches short of six feet with short-cropped hair, and wearing a suit. She guessed he was as young as fifteen, but what concerned her was that she'd seen him before. As she watched, the young man drew a device from his suit pocket and tapped away.
A moment later, he returned the gadget to his pocket, then leaned close to speak to another young man, a little older and much taller than he was. Heather browsed the other passengers. These two young men were traveling alone. Though the shorter, younger one seemed familiar to her, the taller one in a t-shirt and jeans wasn't. Who where they? She caught Clifford's eye and gestured toward the young men twenty yards away amongst the passengers. He spotted the two who didn't fit in with the rest of the tourists, and nodded. Clifford would know she wanted him to keep an eye on the two strangers, having trusted her instincts on other operations.
Frowning suddenly, Heather realized the two young men hadn't been on the plane with them; they already had their luggage with them at their feet! Heather's heart thumped with anticipation. She turned, her eyes sweeping the tarmac where jets came and went noisily every thirty seconds. Yep, two hundred yards away was a small, private jet parked outside a silver hangar. The boys had arrived separately from them, so why were they among the other plane's passengers now? Was it a trap? Were they neo-generation assassins? All sorts of people had been targeting Christian operatives lately. Heather had a lengthy list of enemies all of her own.
As fast as she thought it, the taller youth stepped up to the baggage clerk and handed him a claim slip. The clerk found a package and hefted something wrapped in brown paper. The freight was the size of a pillow. After that, the rest of the luggage came for the other passengers. The crowd surged toward the clerk and the mountain of baggage, but Heather stood to watch the two strangers depart with their parcel.
"Friends or foes?" Clifford reached her side, following her gaze across the tarmac.
"Don't know." She checked on Bruce and saw he was fetching their gear. "Look at that kid's suit. He's no tourist. I've seen him somewhere before."
"I'm on it." Clifford didn't hesitate to start away. "See you at Jasper's."
Striding across the tarmac, Clifford followed the two youths. Heather knew him to be an adequate tail, unless his patience was in demand. The man was sometimes too hasty. But tailing the two unsuspecting young men would be easy.
Seeming to pay her no mind, Bruce passed her by. He carried four suitcases in his arms, and Heather's scuba gear was strapped to his back. She watched the other passengers for a moment longer to ensure she hadn't missed anything, then she walked across the tarmac toward the terminal entrance. Once inside the air-conditioned terminal, she stopped to dig her cell phone from her backpack and slipped it into her pocket for easier access. Only then did she chastise herself for not snapping a quick picture of the two youths. Heather was more curious than concerned about them, but in her business, there was no room for error.
Outside the front entrance of the airport, Bruce was busy loading their bags into a taxi with the help of the driver. Hailing a second taxi, Heather climbed in.
"Piraeus," she instructed the driver. "Toukolimano."
No more needed to be said. Toukolimano was one of the two most famous yacht basins in the port. The taverns that specialized in seafood were favorites of tourists and wealthy locals alike. The cafe tables were mere feet from the water where yachts bobbed. It was the perfect cover for the party to gather with Jasper O'Shottie to prep for the mission.
Before she reached southern Athens, her phone rang.
"Yeah?"
"It's me." Clifford's voice was strained. "Um. They're some of ours. Those two, uh . . ."
"What? Those two kids are with us?" she asked. "How do you know? You're sure?"
"Well, the big one has me by the throat right now, and the shorter one is searching my pockets. I walked right into them."
Heather smiled. She appreciated such boldness. Clearly, she'd underestimated the two young men. Clifford was an ex-policeman who'd worked covert ops for several years. He wasn't the type to be outsmarted by a couple of youths. But they'd nabbed him, which meant they were more than they seemed.
And as she considered it further, she realized from where she knew the odd-looking boy.
He'd been on the front of some Euro-magazine, something to do with science. Was he the "child" who'd summoned her to the Aegean in the first place?
"Put him on the phone, the young one."
"Good evening, Ms. Kooper," the familiar young voice greeted. "I hope to witness more sophisticated work than this once we begin to deal with Zalzuna. This is your man we have?"
"Yes, he's one of the members of the team you asked me to put together. What do they call you? Are you Walter Kassviney?"
"I am. We'll discuss more at Jasper's."
Hanging up, Heather clenched her jaw. Though she appreciated boldness, she didn't like taking orders. For years, she'd asked God to help her with her pride, but she trusted no one besides herself, and that forced her to rely only on herself. A youngster who'd never shaved was already outsmarting her team? That bothered her. But she'd been bothered before. What usually helped her get past her attitude was to engulf her team in a mission. Once she found out what this mission was, she could take charge and be herself.
Until then, she would be bothered.
#######
The sun had set over Athens by the time the team gathered for prayer in Jasper O'Shottie's houseboat in the Tourkolimano Basin. As the six settled into their seats, measuring one another with uncertainty, they could hear the folksongs from the shore a stone's throw away. Bouzouki peasant musicians and singers were among the tourists, teaching them the old lyrics of gods and battles and seafaring people.
Brad was the only one of the six not sitting. He'd also been the one to take the initiative to lead in prayer. Since they all claimed to be Christians, he saw no reason why they didn't dedicate their safety and decisions to their sovereign God. Nevertheless, he stood protectively close to Walter, with his thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets where he could react in an instant.
He and Walter had spotted the tail before leaving the airport. Outside the terminal, Brad had lain in wait around a corner, while Walter had continued on. Brad was twenty pounds heavier than the operative Clifford, though much lighter than Bruce, whose hand he'd shaken only moments ago. Bruce sat comfortably next to Heather Kooper, who sat next to sulking Clifford. Heather was pretty, Brad judged, but those eyes were too cold for him to consider her attractive.
Jasper O'Shottie burped but didn't excuse himself. The retired Coast Guard agent in his sixties wore a rusty-red beard, and a potbelly tempted the seams of his red and white tank top. But as lazy and unaware as the old sailor seemed, Brad saw thoughtful, wary eyes—eyes as green as the sea—under his red brows. He'd briefly shown them around his double mast yacht, saying he would rename her if they could think of a better name than Sealion. The name fit, though, since Jasper rarely sailed anywhere nowadays, and his boat played the part of a beached sea lion.
Walter seemed to take Jasper's burp as his cue. From behind his chair, Walter dragged out the pillow-sized package he'd collected at the airport, and set it on a cooler in their midst. Heather sat forward with curiosity on her face.
"I'd like to thank Jasper for hosting us." Walter folded his hands before himself, maybe a little too formally. "We're staging from here until I receive intel regarding Zalzuna. Then you guys can move in."
"Zalzuna!" Clifford said. He glanced at his team, then clamped his mouth shut.
"So, what's in Zalzuna?" Heather asked. Brad noticed the team looked to her for leadership, except him and Walter. "Nobody goes to Zalzuna. Everyone with a brain knows that country's been off-limits since 1945. It's too unstable. It's a death zone—a D-Z."
"Well, what's off-limits to the world is a door waiting to be opened for Christ." Walter dropped three photographs on top of the package. "This is the Jamison family. They're missionaries. Albert and Sarah. Lacy is their nineteen-year-old daughter. They missed their scheduled call a few days ago. Only death or imprisonment would stop them from calling in once a month. That's why you're here."
Heather and the Lavers brothers studied the pictures, then handed them to Jasper.
"For those of you unfamiliar," Walter continued, "Zalzuna was founded in 1945 after the communists retreated from the British during the guerrilla war that raged for two years. Eventually, the communists were defeated by US forces, but Zalzuna remained their one and only stronghold. It's been largely overlooked by the world, but other communist nations such as Cuba, China, and North Korea have sponsored various enterprises on the island, mostly money laundering. The terrain is rocky with patches of dense, unkempt vegetation where crops don't grow. The one-thousand-foot-tall volcano has become more active in the last few months, but from the seismic reports I've read, I don't believe it's a threat."
From a number of glossy pictures, Walter provided the team various angles of the island.
"Seismic reports?" Clifford scoffed. "You read seismic reports? Who are you again?"
"Can it, Cliff," Heather hushed. "That's the sort of thing I'd like to know, as a matter of fact. There are enough earthquakes in this region to mess us up. We won't run into problems, right?"
"Correct." Walter nodded. "Notice, there are only a few approaches to the Zalzunian coastline—thanks to the high, vertical cliffs. In three of the four places where there are no cliffs, three small cities have sprung up, which I've labeled for you. If the Jamison family is being held as prisoners, or for trial, they're probably in the capital city of Zalzuna."
"What's this on the western part of the island?" Clifford tapped a finger on the map. "Looks like a . . . desert?"
"The volcano spills poisonous sulfuric vapor. It rolls down the west side of the slope, killing everything in its path, though it's not a problem for humans to breathe, short term. The shelf that looks like a desert is honeycombed with tunnels and tombs. It's an optional approach to the island since it's not guarded. The few olive trees that are tough enough to survive the vapors are only harvested every two years, so we won't have to worry about stumbling upon peasant farmers."
