The Schliemann Legacy Read online

  "Martin, a scenario begins to unfold. The players introduce themselves. I see many different paths converging in Colombia. We will have great sport."

  Erhart grimaced and waited for the standard lecture from his pompous employer. It always began . . .

  "Who deserves to amuse me by accepting this morsel of information?" The fat man struggled to his feet and paced across the suite. After several steps, he began to wheeze. He stopped and lowered himself into the creaking desk chair. "We will ignore the so-called "Superpowers". They offer so little enjoyment. Instead, we limit ourselves to the smaller organizations," Mardinaud continued. "Those directly involved with the treasure or the Nazis. We must invite the Israelis to our little game. Obviously, they do not know of Kadner's whereabouts or Assi Levy would have sent a team after him. I am sure he will be ecstatic to hear about this old acquaintance. Yes, Assi Levy will pursue the matter."

  "Who else would you suggest?" asked Martin, scribbling on his pad.

  Mardinaud examined his fingers for residue butter as he spoke. "The next most obvious would be the Greeks. The treasure substantiates much of their civilization's ancient history. At the very least, the Greeks could goad Turkey with the artifacts. I look forward to seeing who they send after them. Contact Nikolas Stefandis."

  Martin frowned at the mention of the head of Greek Intelligence. "Stefandis opposes Greece's preoccupation with antiquities. He wants the Greeks to abandon the past and create an even greater present. Surely, he is not the man to contact."

  Henri chuckled. "Yes, he's rather vocal about his countrymen resting on the laurels of their ancestors, isn't he? Which is exactly why you must contact him. No matter how much he may wish to, Stefandis won't be able to ignore this task. The news of the treasure will destroy his weekend. Contact him at his home on Saturday afternoon."

  "Very good, Monsieur," the assistant sighed. "Will there be anyone else?"

  "One other. Contact Duman."

  Erhart nearly dropped his notepad. "Are you sure it would be wise to bother Duman?" he asked weakly.

  Henri looked at Erhart's pale face and understood the fear he saw there. Mardinaud, himself, felt uncomfortable around Duman. However, Henri had his reasons for wanting this particular terrorist. "Duman is important to the game. Someone must represent the Turks if the Greeks have a player. He's as good a representative as any. Besides, Duman will add the missing spice to the game. A measure of danger - especially for the Greek player." Mardinaud chuckled once more.

  "I . . . I just don't like the man," Erhart said. "He's a sadistic killer, a psychotic, a maniac…"

  "Nonsense. There is no reason to distrust him. He's not psychotic. He's simply a man with a passionate dream. It just happens he believes violence is the key to realizing his dream. He is a killer, but he has integrity and honor. The only danger is in betraying him. Believe me, I have no intention of doing that. Try Paris," Mardinaud suggested.

  "I still don't know about him," Erhart persisted. "He's uncontrollable."

  "Nonsense!" Mardinaud roared. "I control the information. Through the information, I manipulate him. I am control. Besides, without uncertainty, what is the value of the game?"

  Erhart did not look convinced but made a note on his paper. Remembering a tidbit of information he had received several weeks ago about Duman, a plan flitted across the landscape of his mind. Unbidden, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He dismissed the thoughts as foolish - dangerously foolish. But enticing, so enticing. Handled properly, with finesse, bravado, and intelligence… "If that is all, Monsieur, I will begin immediately."

  As Erhart left, Henri painfully waddled back to the chesterfield. With the thoughts of the coming adventure, the fat man had lost interest in the chess game.

  He would enjoy setting his players in motion and watching their progress. They would fight and claw to attain their goal and, in the end, only the best would survive. All because of him.

  He felt like a god.

  Chapter 2 - GREECE

  "With the mood he's in today," the secretary said, "you'd think it was Tuesday."

  George Stamatakes smiled at middle aged woman. Since the Ottoman Turks took Constantinople on May 29, 1453, a Tuesday, the Greeks had considered it the unluckiest day of the week. George paused with his hand on the office door.

  "Mr. Stefandis wanted you to go right in," the woman urged, not wanting her boss further annoyed.

  George ignored the secretary and collected his thoughts. When the Director's summons had arrived, George had made several hurried telephone calls. After the third call, he was cursing aloud. Mardinaud's communications always meant problems and this latest information was no exception. However, his outlook had quickly adjusted when a new thought occurred to him. This mission presented a perfect opportunity to bring Katrina back to active duty. All he had to do was convince Stefandis to acquiesce - something he'd been trying to do for three years.

  George knocked once and pushed open the door to the Director's office.

  * * * * *

  "It's ridiculous," Nikolas Stefandis repeated for the eighth or ninth time in the past fifteen minutes. "Why should I waste time and money on something as unimportant as this? We don't have enough to deal with? But what choice do I have? I have to send someone after it. If I don't, and the damn artifacts turn up... Stupid, damn stupidity!"

  Stefandis kicked at the small wastepaper basket beside his desk. The can soared across the room and crashed into the wall. A portrait of President Sartzetakis slid along the paneling and landed face down on the blue carpeting. The revolving can slowed and came to a stop as Stefandis sank into his chair.

  George Stamatakes walked across the room and scanned the dark paneling for the nail that had held up the large, gold framed portrait. Unable to find it, he leaned the portrait against the wall before retrieving the trashcan. He ran his fingers along the several large dents in the sides. Hiding his smile, he set the can in its place, then lowered himself back into one of the two leather chairs in front of the Director's desk.

  He sat silently, watching the red slowly drain from his boss's face and neck. As Operations Chief, George had seen many such outbursts from the ill tempered Director of Greek intelligence but today's was special - a masterpiece of rage. George had been listening to Stefandis rave for over fifteen minutes but had been told little.

  All he'd gleaned from Stefandis' ranting was that a message had arrived from Mardinaud at the Director's home yesterday afternoon. The message had ruined Stefandis' weekend. In return, Stefandis seemed determined to ruin everyone else's week. Of course, prior knowledge via his own sources did give George the advantage of understanding the rage.

  In the past, information had frequently come unbidden from the grotesquely fat man. In fact, the choicest bits usually arrived unsolicited. Unfortunately, according to the Director, this latest intelligence was both unwelcome and distressing. Mardinaud had dredged up a morsel, which was contrary to everything Stefandis believed the Greek people should be.

  "That French bastard had it delivered to me on purpose," the Director said. "He knows how I feel about our history. He has no right to do this. Why couldn't he just keep the information to himself? With everything going on right now, I don't need this!"

  Stefandis stopped talking and sat motionless with his eyes closed.

  George imagined Stefandis was thinking about last week's meeting with the Minister of Finance. The Minister had announced a twelve-percent cut in funding. The shortage of funds had forced Stefandis to cancel several operations. Operations that the Director considered critical to monitoring the continuing tensions with Turkey.

  "It just isn't possible to do it all. Don't they understand?" By the sudden calm in his voice, George realized the Director had accepted his fate and was beginning to address the logistics of the operation. "God, but I hate that Frenchman," Stefandis continued. "Still, we have to take the good with the bad. His information has been welcome in the past. The treasure might even bring us so
me needed funds."

  "What was Mardinaud's message?" George asked. He didn't want the Director to suspect how deep his sources were within the agency.

  With a sigh of resignation, Stefandis sank back in his chair. A heavy paunch protruded over his belt and strained the buttons of his shirt. He scratched his hairless head and then kneaded the muscles in the back of his neck.

  "Mardinaud claims to have located Schliemann's treasure. That is, the golden treasure discovered at the site of Troy."

  "Sorry, sir. I'm not up on ancient history." The lie came easily to George. "Never had much of an interest. Not very patriotic of me, I guess."

  For the first time that morning, Stefandis smiled at his Chief of Operations. "Congratulations, George. This country would be better off with more people like you. Our countrymen spend too much time reveling in the past instead of creating a future."

  George relaxed. Stefandis was in a better mood now and thinking less emotionally. "Yes, sir. I couldn't agree with you more. Still, remember Lord Elgin. When the Turks sold him one of the caryatids from the Acropolis, all of Greece mourned. Schliemann's treasure belongs in Greece."

  "Of course, you're right. However, I can think of much better ways to spend my manpower and dwindling budget than chasing after bits of metal, ancient or not."

  "Where is the treasure?"

  Stefandis sighed. "The Frenchman doesn't say. All I know is, he located the treasure and wants a meeting."

  "Where?"

  Stefandis leaned forward and looked at a sheet of paper. "Don't ask me why, but Mardinaud wants to meet in Munich."

  George laughed. "The fat slob must have suddenly got a craving for Wiener Schnitzel. Either that or life is too hot for him in Paris. Too much terrorist activity. Have you thought about who you would like to send on the mission, sir?"

  "No, but obviously you have."

  George paused and took a deep breath. "I think, sir, it's time we gave Katrina Kontoravdis another chance."

  Stefandis slammed his fist down on the desk. "I don't have enough problems with this damn mission?" he cried. "You want to send her out? Christ, she screwed up the last time and it cost her partner's life. Some mistakes are unforgivable. She shouldn't even be in the service."

  George glanced down to see if the blow had cracked the glass desktop and resisted the temptation to reply immediately. The predictable refrain about past mistakes concealed the Director's discriminatory nature. Centuries of conditioning had ingrained his sexism and George had long ago abandoned any effort to change the attitude of his boss. To Stefandis, the male was God and the female was little more than a slave.

  Stefandis used the failure, no matter how unfairly, to justify keeping yet another woman away from field duty. Regardless of the past, Katrina was still one of the best agents they had. George knew her work in the previous years had been exemplary. That was why he had fought so hard to keep her in the Service. A fight he had barely won. George knew the only reason she was still in the Service as Stefandis' perverse nature. He enjoyed dangling the possibility of reinstatement in front of the woman. Assuming time had not eroded her confidence completely, she would be perfect for this assignment.

  "With all due respect, sir," he began, "our investigation showed Katrina was not at fault. She only…"

  "She only fucked up and got her partner killed," Stefandis interrupted. "If she'd done her job, Alex would still be alive. There are no ifs or buts. Plain and simple - she fucked up. She can stay down in Records where she won't kill anybody."

  Despite the Director's flashing eyes, George tried again. "I realize Alex was a friend, but he was looking for glory. He wanted Duman for his own and didn't wait for assistance. Alex was the senior operative and the decision to proceed was his. He got himself killed trying to be a hero. Katrina deserves another operation. Three years is long enough for her to pay for Alex's error."

  "Well, maybe you're right at that." George looked up in surprise and saw Stefandis was grinning widely. Too widely, George thought. "You're the Operations Chief, George, and this should be your decision. Maybe it's time she had another chance. Yes, this could solve all my problems. Go tell Miss Kontoravdis that she has an assignment."

  Something was wrong, George thought. The Director was submitting too easily. "As for her partner, sir, I would like to…"

  "No partner," Stefandis said. "She's a good agent? Isn't that what you keep telling me? She's capable? She's not the screw up I think she is? No? Good, then, she doesn't need a partner for so simple an assignment."

  George met the Director's challenging gaze. "With all due respect, sir, we don't even know who has the treasure. Wait until she gets word from Munich before you decide if she gets a partner. You know how Mardinaud arranges his little games."

  Stefandis shook his head. "I'm not going to risk another man with her. I can't afford it. If she gets the treasure back, I'll admit I'm wrong. I'm a big man, I have broad shoulders. If she screws up, she risks only herself. Then, you'll have to get off my back about her. She's on her own for this one."

  George looked across the desk and knew he had no choice. The Director had won this round. Stefandis cared little for the operation and less for Katrina. The perfect combination to get Katrina killed.

  George rose from the chair and snatched the piece of paper off the desk. At that moment, he would have given his pension to knock the grin off Stefandis' face. Instead, he turned and left the office, heading directly for the basement sports complex.

  Since Stefandis had retired her from active duty, Katrina had been spending more and more time at both the gym and the firing range. For the past three years, she had been sharpening her skills in preparation for a return to active duty. Now, George was finally able to give her the opportunity.

  Katrina was working on the Nautilus equipment. George stood and watched her for a time - acutely aware of his aging body. He found himself admiring her figure clad in the tight blue leotard. Katrina's short hair, almost black, was combed back in the latest style. (George missed her long hair and wished she had never cut it off.) Her dark eyes shone brightly as she strained against the weights. Well proportioned curves softened her lean and tightly muscled body. As she did her arm flies, her breasts pressing against the thin cloth, George found himself wishing that his new twenty-four-year-old wife had the body of this thirty-four-year-old.

  Finished with her workout for the day, Katrina grabbed her towel and walked across the mats. When she saw George, she stopped in midstride and stared at him as though she dared not step any closer. The Operations Chief held his thumb up to her and she began to smile. Then, to the amazement of the others in the room, she let out a loud cry, took three steps, and executed a perfect midair somersault.

  Katrina Kontoravdis landed with her legs split and her arms stretched skyward.

  Chapter 3 - ISRAEL

  Morning came to the desert.

  The large, orange sun slowly rose, brightening the low sand dunes that stretched far into the distance. The temperature had already risen ten degrees. Most of the wildlife had long since returned to their dens in preparation for yet another day of scorching, dry heat. The remaining few worked feverishly to retrieve the last drops of dew deposited in the leaves of the stunted growth. Only the slight shift of the red sand betrayed the movements of the small creatures. A hawk circled, seeking the sparse prey before resting for the day.

  The village was as silent as the surrounding desert. Laid out in habitual Arab fashion, the mud and straw brick huts were lifeless. The normally early rising laborers were absent and even the small square, home of the village's single spring, was empty. No stooped, black-robed widows came to draw water for their families. No chickens or goats gathered for their morning feeding; the stalls were empty of animals. No children ran in play before their day of labor. The dirt streets, normally teeming with activity, were desolate, as though visited by a plague.

  The silence spread out from the village in ever widening circles, like the hawk hig
h in the sky. There were no groups of men bickering among themselves as they watched their women prepare the morning meal. Even the bell in the makeshift mosque had not called the faithful to morning prayers.

  In the quiet, the hawk's high pitched cry was deafening. With all its God given grace, the bird sped off to the west, frightened by a sound still beyond human ears.

  Suddenly, the scream of two jets shattered the silence.

  Two F 16s emerged out of the blinding sun on the eastern horizon and flew directly at the village, skimming the desert floor at 200 feet to defeat the radar. As they reached their predefined initial point, they pushed their noses up and climbed to 2000 feet. The noise increased to a frenzied pitch as the two planes rolled to acquire their target and flipped back over. Suddenly, death fell from the planes.

  Each pilot released two 750 pound M117 bombs and throttled into a steep dive. By the time the four bombs exploded, the jets were back below the radar, employing terrain masking. Seconds after the blast, the F 16s had disappeared from sight.

  Frail huts burst apart, their hard bricks shattering into thousands of projectiles that punched fist sized holes in the few remaining walls. The spring sustained a direct hit. Water and debris showered down on a third of the compact village. The stables caught fire and the straw erupted into flames.

  A volley of bullets kicked up the dust as two attack helicopters rose under full power from behind a nearby dune. A sixty eight millimeter rocket flattened the uncompleted mosque and four incendiary rockets exploded at the edge of the village. Each helicopter continued the barrage from its single, front mounted machine gun while skidding to a stop.

  Before the helicopters could settle to the ground, commandos jumped from the two craft. The double lion insignia of the elite Israeli squad gleamed prominently on the shoulder of their desert camouflage jumpsuits. Each commando carried an ARM assault rifle. Grenades swung from their webbed belts. A knife sheathed on the outside right calf and a holstered Beretta completed the uniform. Every third man also carried a pickax.