SEAL's Justice: A Navy SEAL Romantic Suspense Novel by Ferrari, Flora (2)

CHAPTER 2

 

 

Who was I kidding?  I had been in for seven entire days now, ever since that late afternoon in Mykonos one week ago when I saw a dead man swim to a boat where he was greeted by three beach blonde Barbie bimbo Russians offering towels and champagne.  I wasn’t hallucinating.  It wasn’t a case of mistaken identity.  It wasn’t a close resemblance or doppelganger.  It was a man who had died six years ago.  I was one hundred percent sure.  The sun was bright, and I had my shades on.  No excuses about reflections off the crystal clear waters of the Aegean Sea.  It was him.  If I could picture him older by six years this is what he would look like.  He even had the marks of the bullet holes that had killed him.

 

It was late afternoon at Paradise Beach, Mykonos.  I was free diving while Masha, Dasha, and Natasha snorkeled just overhead.  We met the night prior at Sakis Gyros in old town and finished the night with a night capper at their beach bungalow.  The night capper had rolled over into morning debauchery which now had me up 36 hours straight.  No better way than to catch a second wind than with some time in the water.

 

We made our way to the rocks just over on Paranga Beach and then began the swim back to Paradise Beach to grab our towels.  We wanted to have a cocktail in hand in time to catch sunset back on the west side of the island where I was staying.  The girls promised to cook me a traditional Latvian dinner after drinks.  Two offers I couldn’t refuse.  We were no more than one hundred yards from shore on Paradise Beach.  No more than forty yards to my left was a sleek, dark grey yacht.  I heard the engine fire and saw the guy pull himself up the ladder and board the vessel.  He was in a small Gucci banana hammock and Persol 619 sunglasses.  He looked like a mash up of Liberace and Steve McQueen.  An unlikely pair if there ever was one, but in Mykonos the unusual is usual.  He looked about forty.  He turned back to raise the ladder.  We looked right at each other as you do at someone in such an instance when you’re a man surrounded by beautiful woman and spot another man surrounded by beautiful women.  A hat tip of sorts.  There was nothing of the sort today.  I swam another stroke and stopped.  He paused in the middle of raising the ladder.  Something had clicked in both our brains.  I wasn’t sure if he had recognized me.  I was wearing a beard; very different from the last time he had seen me.  He had a strange look on his face.  He stowed the ladder and accepted the champagne offering from one of his bimbos.  The other two proceeded to towel him dry as he walked from the stern to the bow.  The yacht elegantly moved forward without so much as a wake or a shake.  They were surely on their way to one of the many hidden corners of the island.

 

I made a mental note of the craft identification number.  I stayed calm and kept a clear mind.  If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it, but I had, and I did.  Six years of facts had been refuted by one new fact.  Visual evidence.  He was alive.  This was going to be a big problem.

 

That’s how it all started.  The first day.  The girls and I made our way to the shore.  Seems like we weren’t the only ones with ideas of sunsets and cocktails.  There was a mad rush of people preparing to go.  Shaking the sand from their towels.  Brushing the sand from in between their toes.  Covering their toned and sculpted bodies with sarongs and oversized shirts on the way back to their accommodations.  The sarongs and shirts were so transparent it was more of the idea that they might provide a level of respectable modesty than actually providing it.  None of that mattered.  I wasn’t thinking about random girls and the idea of catching a sunset with my new holiday companions was quickly forgotten.  I took a rain check from the girls.  They weren’t too happy about it.  I jumped on my scooter and headed back to my bungalow.

 

I told myself I wasn’t going to use electronic devices on this holiday.  That rule was out the window.  I fired up my computer and pulled up the text file where I kept my list of encrypted contact names and numbers.  I was looking through the names of people I hadn’t seen or spoken with in years.  I needed someone I had been close with.  Someone who I had a tight bond with.  Key word was had.  For a moment I faintly wished I had sent out Christmas cards every year like my mom said I should.  Too late for that now.  I choose a guy who I had spearfished with a couple times.  I had met him when we teamed with the Coast Guard for some training years ago.  We had had a few beers together since our last time in the water, but we weren’t especially tight.  At least he might have the access I needed.

 

“I need your help with a craft identification number,” I said over an echo-filled Skype line.  “Personal favor.”

 

He remembered me, so he was cool about the call.  We didn’t small talk, but I’m sure he remembered me showing him one of my better spots for halibut.  I said the numbers.  I was on the top of the hill and the Wi-Fi was strong, but I had to repeat the numbers twice more.  I let him know that it was most likely registered to an individual or possibly wrapped in a business or shell corporation for privacy reasons, but definitely wasn’t government.  The reception was bad and he asked for a proper phone number.  I looked at the phone beside my bed.  This will have to do I thought.  He wrote it down and said he’d call me back in the morning his time.  That would be the afternoon my time.  And that would be day two.

 

The call never came.  At least not the one to me.  He decided to call someone else instead.  I don’t blame him.  Most people in his shoes would have done the same thing.

 

I had woken up early on the second day and went for a swim at Agios Stefanos beach.  It was just down the hill and I could hit up the café for breakfast after.  After breakfast I walked back up the hill and waited for the call.

 

Instead of a call I got a knock on the door.  It was just after 1500.  I looked through the peephole.  There were two people.  One man and one woman.  They weren’t in swimsuits or even shorts.  Navy blue polo shirts and trousers.  The man had a satchel.  They were holding up official looking IDs.  They had them positioned so that I could see them clearly if I was looking through the peephole, which of course I would be.

 

“Federal agents,” the man announced.  It was loud, but not loud enough that any of the neighbors would hear.

 

I thought about pretending like I wasn’t around.  The odds were high that I might be out for a swim or enjoying my holiday.  That wasn’t going to fly in this case.  I had been on the other side of the door plenty of times.  Usually armed and dangerous.  That may or may not be the case here, but certainly they’d wait me out or just call the manager of the bungalow.  I opened the door and stepped aside so they could enter.  No words.

 

They had a cautious look about them.  It was as if they already didn’t trust me.  I was only wearing shorts.  Not even flip-flops.  They scanned the room quickly.  I could see the tension leave their faces when they saw I was a pair of swim trunks away from being naked and there were no guns in sight.  If things got out of control they figured they were at least starting with the upper hand.  It probably didn’t hurt that I was calm and didn’t look like some crazy guy.

 

There were plenty of worried faces these days.  The Greek economic crisis had the people on edge, both on a personal level and from a business point of view.  Tourism was down by at least twenty percent.  Less crowded was all I thought.

 

They handed me their IDs and walked around.  They were professional, not rude.  Still I would have preferred they weren’t anything at all.  That they hadn’t shown up.  The badges said: Drug Enforcement Administration.  At the bottom they said: Special Agent.  There was an eagle at the top.  Wings spread of course.  Over the Eagle it said:  Department of Justice.  In the middle it said:  US in huge letters as if I couldn’t already guess.  Their IDs had their photographs in the top right with a Department of Justice seal to their immediate left.  There was a bar code at the bottom and plenty of other writing on the rest of it.  The name said Bill Frost.  An ironic last name considering it was easily over one hundred degrees outside in the spot where Bill had just been standing.  I wondered if his first name was really Bill.  Being a government ID they’d surely require he use William if that was his given name.  I’m not sure if I ever met a guy with a given name of Bill.  The man in the photograph was certainly the man standing in front of me now.  Bill was Bill.  Granted he looked a little friendlier now than in his picture.

 

When you take those government issued IDs they always tell you not to smile.  I’m guessing for the DEA they instruct a mean or serious look.  That way the smile they give you when they’re busting you must feel that much sweeter.  I guess they have to earn it.  In Bill’s case I couldn’t tell if he was friendly by nature or he was friendly because he wanted to try and build trust before he tried to break me down and find out just what I was after.

 

Bill looked to be about forty, but was still in good shape.  He didn’t seem out of breath, which was a surprise, as the hills on Mykonos are steep and I didn’t hear a car or see one parked outside when I opened the door to let them in.  The woman’s ID said: Claire Abbey.  Claire Abbey was a lot younger than Bill Frost.  She looked to be half his age, but had to be at least twenty-one to apply to the agency.  She looked like she barely made the cut off.  She was athletic and fit.  She could have been Bill Frost’s sister.  Two attractive, fit, sandy blondes with pale skin in the middle of summer.  The pale skin likely the result of too much time behind a desk shuffling paperwork and not enough time fighting bad guys.

 

“If you want to conduct a search, go for it.  I’ve got all afternoon, and the fridge is stocked with beers.  Mythos lagers.”

 

I gave them their IDs back and they quickly put them inside their pockets.  They were carrying Glock 23s.  Easier to conceal than the 22s and takes magazines for both.  As accurate as the 22s on a twenty-five yard course.  They weren’t twenty-five yards away and their weapons weren’t concealed either.

 

“There’s no need to search the room,” Frost said as he continued to eyeball the room.  “We’re interested in a craft identification number.”

 

“Don’t have a boat,” I said.

 

There we were.  All three of us in the living room.  A triangle.  The game of cat and mouse had begun.  Frost opened it up, as he should.  He’s senior and a man dealing with a man.  I wasn’t sure if Abbey was along for the ride to gather some experience or if she was actually going to get her hands dirty with this one.  Probably depended on how deep they got.  They seemed tired.  It made sense.  What in the hell were two pale, DEA agents doing on a sun scorched Greek holiday island full of jet set multimillionaires, fashion models, gay partiers, and a few backpackers thrown in here and there for good measure?

 

“Mind if we take a load off?” Frost asked.

 

“No problem,” I said.  “Here or would you prefer to take in the view outside?”  Even though there was a pristine white cabana perfectly shaded with ocean breezes I knew the answer.  They would want to keep their business indoors.

 

“In here is fine,” Frost said.

 

“Make yourself at home,” I said.  “Beer?”

 

I walked towards the kitchen separated from the living room only by a two-seater bar.

 

“No, thank you,” Frost said.

 

I grabbed a cold beer and took a swig.  If I had opened a can of worms that was going to take some time to close at least I wanted to have a drink first.

 

I walked back into the living room.  The agents both sat there staring at me.  I walked back to the bar and grabbed a stool.  Took it to the living room and sat down.

 

Frost had pulled a chair from the desk in the corner and put his back to the wall and his butt in the seat.  Abbey had opted for the couch.  A good choice.  Maybe too good.  It was comfortable and she looked in need of a nap.  We were in a triangle again.  Staring at one another.

 

“You go by Zamora.  Is that correct?”  Frost wasn’t wasting any time.

 

I was looking at Abbey.  She was beautiful.  I couldn’t make her out for English or American.  Maybe she was a mix of both.  The name Claire Abbey sounds very English which makes it even stranger that she’d be involved in anything involving the DEA.

 

Her partner’s name, Bill Frost, sounded about as American as baseball and apple pie.  Were Springfield, Virginia and London running a joint operation here?

 

I took a break from checking out Abbey and looked over to Frost.  I nodded, although why I wasn’t sure.  It was apparent they already knew that much.  No point in trying to deny the obvious, nor did I care to.

 

“This rental is registered to a Williams.  Jason Williams,” Frost said.  “Mr. Williams paid with cash for three nights and said he might request to extend.”

 

“That’s right,” I said.

 

“Tonight’s that third night.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Well?”

 

I just stared at Frost.  Didn’t change my expression at all.  Let him ask the questions.

 

“Plan on leaving tomorrow?  Maybe even later today?”

 

“Not in my plans.”

 

“What is in your plans?”

 

“Don’t have any.  My plan is not to have a plan much these days.  Just take things as they come.”

 

“And how’s that working out for you?”

 

I never liked that question.  Seemed pretentious like the one asking it was being condescending to your current situation.

 

“Really well,” I said.

 

“Who’s Williams?”

 

“Well, there are probably a lot of Jason Williams.”

 

“And which one are you pretending to be?”

 

“White chocolate.”

 

Frost looked at me blankly.  I didn’t take him for much of a basketball fan and my suspicion was confirmed.

 

“White chocolate?”

 

“White chocolate was his nickname.  He was a point guard in the NBA.  He was so fluid and had such moves they called him white chocolate.  He valued showmanship quite a bit.  Some people think he was incapable of making a routine chest pass.”

 

“And what about you?”

 

“I disagree.  Saw him make plenty.”

 

“Not that, Mr. Zamora.  Showmanship.  Do you value showmanship?”  Frost seemed to be growing frustrated.  It seemed like an odd question, but I could see where he was heading.

 

“A guy who uses an alias to check into a private bungalow owned by a Greek lady who doesn’t speak English wouldn’t be the type of guy to value showmanship.  Too much at least.”

 

“At the dock?”

 

“Come again?”  I didn’t see where he was going.

 

“This place is near impossible to find.  Not on any online travel booking websites.  Not even Airbnb.  The only way you can find it is at the dock.  That and you have to know Greek to speak with the lady who manages the place.”

 

“Or how to communicate with your hands.”

 

“Is that how you found it Mr. Zamora?”

 

“Nope.  I met a couple Italian girls on the Blue Star Ferries on the way over from Athens.  They know somebody that stayed here once.  Said it was really nice.  I took their word on it.  Worked out fine.”

 

Claire Abbey hadn’t taken her eyes off me.  I couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed.  She probably thought I was toying with her boss.  Or was it the guy the agency had partnered her up with?  Her thoughts about me currently depended on her thoughts towards Frost.  Not that I cared either way.  What I did care about was learning more about her.  That seemed odd considering I was hoping they would leave as soon as possible.

 

“We spoke with the Coast Guard soldier.  Summerset was his name,” she stated.  “You called in a favor.  Asked if he could provide the info on a craft identification number.  Said you knew it was a private registration.  That or at least nothing government related.”

 

She didn’t seem accusatory.  She was just stating facts.  If I were her I’d want to wrap this up as soon as possible too.  Get in my swimming suite and make it to the seaside to soak up some rays, especially if I was pale.  At least we had a common interest.  Or at least that’s what I was going to tell myself.  I held her look.  Didn’t reply.

 

“We’ve been watching that vessel number.  We set up an alert if it came up in any attempts to search.  Google searches.  CIN tracking sites.  Government computers.  I think you get the idea,” she said.  “Once Summerset typed in that last number he was a sitting duck.  I was speaking with him less than three minutes later.  He was definitely taken off guard.  Said he was just curious.”

 

“Aren’t we all.”  It was a statement.  Not a question.

 

“As far as the people in this room go, yes.  Other than that, I really don’t know.  And of course if I did I wouldn’t be able to say.”

 

“And what does that have to do with me?”

 

“That’s what we want to know.”

 

“And you tracked me down how?”

 

“It wasn’t easy.  We had help.”

 

“Summerset?”

 

“No.  He’s got your back.  He didn’t want to give you away.”

 

“That’s good to hear.”

 

“True.  Especially considering you haven’t seen him in so long.”

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“We can put the pieces to a puzzle together pretty quickly, Mr. Zamora.”

 

“And what puzzle is it that you’re looking to solve with this CIN?”

 

“The first puzzle is why you called it in.  The second is why you care.  The third is how you’re involved.”

 

“Is this kind of like the three strikes rule?” I said.

 

“Something like that.”

 

“So three strikes and I’m out?”

 

“Maybe you won’t take any strikes.  Maybe you won’t swing and miss.  Maybe you’ll swing and knock it out of the park.”

 

“A home run.”

 

“A home run,” she said.

 

“For me or for you?”

 

“We don’t know yet.  Hopefully for both of us.”

 

“So you like baseball?”

 

“I’ve seen it before.”

 

“Live or on the tube?”

 

“Both.”

 

“With the name of Claire Abbey I wasn’t sure if you were English or American.”

 

“And now you know?” she asked in an irritated tone.

 

“No, but at least I know you know about baseball.”

 

“And English women don’t know about baseball?”

 

“Most women I know don’t know much about much.”

 

“Is that supposed to be funny or misogynistic?”

 

“Tragic actually.  If you ask my mother and friends at least.”

 

“How so?”

 

“They think I’m just wasting my time with big boobied bimbos who want to have some fun.”

 

“What do you say to that?”

 

“I say what’s wrong with that?”

 

“Nothing inherently.  If everybody’s happy then it’s their business, right?”

 

“Exactly what I’m thinking right now.”

 

“Except when business concerns others.”

 

I didn’t say anything.  Just admired Claire Abbey.  I liked her style.  She let her boss take the lead.  Making him feel comfortably superior.  When things started to stall she jumped in.  Not to save the day.  Just to cut to the point.  Contrary to some of my recent choices in play dates, I like a woman who can just get right to it.  Challenge me verbally and mentally.  Or at least give it a go.

 

“A random guy calls in a CIN,” Abbey said.  “Why in the world would he do that?  Well, maybe he got in some sort of argument with the guy.  Maybe he’s just jealous of the guy.  Maybe he wants something the other guy has,” she said.

 

“Maybe he’s in the market for a boat and he just found one he likes,” I said.

 

“Or maybe it’s not the boat.  It’s the person, or persons, on the boat.  But since you’re interested in the CIN, then I’m guessing it’s a specific person.  Probably what is, or appears to be, the owner of the boat.”

 

Now we’re getting somewhere.  She’s trying to set me up.  If the boat is involved in some sort of government work then that boat is probably her friend.  That by default doesn’t work well for me.  On the other hand if the person in that boat isn’t on friendly terms with Claire Abbey and Bill Frost, then we might see eye to eye.  To stick with the sports analogies, we’re on the same team.

 

“Have you seen the view from the cabana?”

 

“Saw it on our way in,” she said.

 

“Did you like it?”

 

“Not as much as you did two nights ago,” she said.  “The two Italian girls.  The housecleaner heard noises all night.”

 

“She wasn’t here.”

 

“She stays just down the hill.  Noise travels farther at night.”

 

“Did the girls sound satisfied?”

 

“Immensely.”

 

Frost rolled the dials on his combo lock into place.  The satchel snapped open.  He removed a bunch of papers inside one of those plastic paper holder things you use in elementary school.  The ones you use to show the teacher in a way to say that this is valuable stuff.  More important than the normal homework you just shove in your Trapper Keeper with the red sports car on the front.  It looked like printouts.  Most were black and white, but there were some in color.  Photographs.

 

“You were a SEAL.”

 

I could see my name on a few of the sheets.  I’m sure he wanted me to.  That and some headshots and a shot of me on the terrace from this morning.  I was hosing myself down with some fresh water after the swim.  Nude of course.

 

“Those aren’t going to TMZ are they?”

 

“Is there a market for Zane Zamora nude photos?”

 

“Only on Tinder,” I said.

 

“Navy SEAL for seven years,” Frost said.  “The more dangerous, the more likely you were to be there.  Seems you have a special liking for the Middle East.”

 

“A lot of danger there.”

 

“Danger and bad guys.  And the Middle East is just a boat ride away from where we are now.”

 

I didn’t say anything.  A friend from the Recces once told me over beers in a Johannesburg township that Americans don’t know their geography.  Apparently Frost didn’t get that memo.

 

“But I don’t have a boat.”

 

“Plenty of accommodations.  Some inter-service rifle championships.  Multiple confirmed kills of Somali pirates at sea in heavy winds and choppy conditions.  Apparently you’re the best of the best when it comes to sniping,” Frost continued.

 

I wanted to say, that’s right!  But I didn’t say anything.

 

“And then suddenly a promising, more than promising actually, career all thrown away.”

 

Again, I said nothing.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Who said anything happened?”

 

“Why would a man who had built such an incredible and distinguished life for himself, a man who was at the top of his game, let it all go?”

 

“Who said I let anything go?”

 

“What happened then?  Why did you walk away?”

 

“That right there is the problem,” I said.  “I didn’t walk away.  In the SEALs opinion I limped away.”

 

“Not following you,” Frost said.

 

“Unfit for duty.  Too many hits to the head or something like that.”

 

“Says here head, shoulder, back, femur, ankles, feet, hands.  At one time or another you’ve pretty much broken everything.”

 

“Twice,” I said.  “Most things broken twice.”

 

“And they let you go because of that?  Your scores were still off the charts.”

 

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

“And how did that make you feel?”

 

“If you have to ask then you already know,” I said.

 

“And you hold a grudge?”

 

“Not at all.  They made a decision.  That’s their right.”

 

“So you’re not the type to hold grudges?”

 

“If you’re referring to the guy on the boat it’s not a grudge.”

 

“What is it then?”

 

“I’m not accustomed to seeing ghosts on days other than October 31st.”

 

“Come again?”

 

“I saw a dead man on that boat.  I wanted to find out how he became undead.”

 

Frost dug inside his satchel.  He pulled out a stack of photos.  I thought he had already emptied his satchel.  I guess he had more.  He held up a photo.  It was a picture of a Latino somewhere drinking a coffee with another guy.  They were wearing white linen.

 

“Your holiday photos from Cuba,” I said.

 

“Not quite.  See the guy to the right of the Latino guy?”

 

“They both look somewhat Latino, but yes, I see the guy on the right in the photo.”

 

“Turkish.  We’ve been watching him like a hawk.  He’s a big time drug runner.  Looks like now he’s stepped up his game even further.”

 

“How so?”

 

“The migrants.  The ones without money are desperate.  They’re stuck in Syria fearing that ISIS is going to swoop in and make them part of their program.  That or the government is going to mandatorily enlist them to fight ISIS.  They don’t want either of those options.  The ones with cash?  They already took off.”

 

“Seems like they still are.  Saw a ton of them in Belgrade this summer.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the problem.  You saw the first few waves.  Now we’re looking at the late movers.  The ones who didn’t have the money to get out while it was still relatively doable.  Now they’re resorting to more desperate measures.”

 

“Such as?”

 

“Drug mules.  The Syrians are being used as drug mules from Afghanistan.  They pack their bags full of heroin and send them on their way.  The first leg is by car.  Syria to Turkey.  Izmir specifically.  There they ditch the car for little to no money, but it doesn’t matter.  The Turkish guy you saw in the photos.  He meets them there and arranges bus transport to Bodrum.  From Bodrum they transport the drugs across the sea to Kos in Greece, but the Greeks don’t want them.”

 

“But the Greeks want that euro cash so they have put on a happy face.”

 

“Exactly.  And they don’t want those euro fines for not providing adequate facilities or showing a sympathetic face to the global TV cameras so they bite their lips and just transport them across the sea to Athens.  From Athens they set off walking again.”

 

“Taking the Balkan route to and through Belgrade.”

 

“That’s the one.”

 

“So what about the drugs?”

 

“They’re headed to London and Sweden.”

 

“They walk that far?”

 

“Some of them.  It’s good money.  Enough to get established again.”

 

“And they can then apply for asylum and get some of that refugee monthly cash once they arrive.”

 

“About fifteen hundred euros in some cases.  That plus the money they get for smuggling and they’re on their way.”

 

“And they know the game so then they just stay in that trade.  Helping along the next guy and unloading those drugs to all the users in the U.K. and Nordic countries.”

 

“It doesn’t stop there.  A lot of those profits, basically what they don’t skim, is going back to Syria via Western Union and prepaid debit cards to fund ISIS activities.”

 

“Sounds terrible,” I said.

 

“It is.”

 

“So why are you wasting time here with me?”

 

“Because we have good reason to believe the guy with the Turkish guy in the photo is a major player.  Maybe at the top.”

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“The Turkish guy is the major player in Turkey, but we know he’s working for someone else.  Someone who flew in with him and had a very passionate discussion over rosé, cigars, and massive steaks.”

 

“Those guys in the photo were drinking coffee.”

 

“That was as the meeting was wrapping up.  We were trying to get a voice recorder to the table next to theirs.”

 

“Didn’t work?”

 

“Waiters were instructed not to bother them, or the entire area they were in.”

 

“If you had enough evidence why didn’t you just make the bust then?”

 

“More complicated than that.  We’ve got someone on the inside.”

 

“Even better.”

 

“It was until it wasn’t anymore.”

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

“They went missing three days ago.”

 

“How do you know he’s missing?  Maybe he’s just laying low.”

 

“She.  She went missing.  Missed three call-ins.  In our department three straight means they’re off the grid.”

 

“You sent a woman in undercover in Turkey?”

 

“It was the only way.”

 

“Sounds like a desperate move.”

 

“Maybe it was, but there’s a lot of desperation right now.  I hate to say it like that, but it’s true.  From the refugees, the DEA, and if we don’t stop it, soon the U.K. and Scandinavian countries.”

 

“How do you know they’re refugees?”

 

“We don’t.  A lot are just migrants taking advantage of the situation.  We’ve stopped a few.  Pulled them off the trail to deal.  Some don’t even speak Arabic.”

 

“And the ones that do aren’t talking.  More money in the drugs.”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Something like that?  Or that?”

 

“That,” Frost said.

 

I took a swig of my Mythos lager.

 

“So as you can see we have a problem,” Claire Abbey said.

 

“And you need me?”

 

“No playing games.  We’re here to level with you.  We need some help here.  I’m asking you to please help us.”

 

The sincerity in her request took me back.  What had been a lot of back-and-forth posturing was suddenly a real heartfelt request.  I liked Claire Abbey.  She was beautiful, smart, and likeable.  Frost I wasn’t sure about at first.  Now I was just seeing him as a company guy.  He’s a lifer.  Ten or so more years and he can call it a career.  He’s going to go by the book.  Stick to the script.  Abbey seemed more willing to roll the dice.  That was my style.  Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

 

“What do you need?”

 

“We need information on the guy you saw.  His background.  Who he runs with.  Anything you know,” Abbey said.

 

“Who is he?” Frost said.

 

“He’s a dead man,” I said.

 

“Literally or figuratively?” Frost said.

 

“Both.”

 

I took another swig of my beer.

 

“But now he’s undead.  And I need to undo what’s been undone.”

 

“How can we work on this together?” Abbey said.

 

“Hospital records.  I need the hospital records from San Diego, California from six years ago.  Search Scripps, UCSD, all of them.”  I told her the words to search for in the records.  The type of entry and exit wounds.  Time and location of death.  Everything she’d need.

 

“We’ll be in touch,” Frost said.

 

They began the walk down the hill.  I went inside to cook an octopus I had caught that morning.  I knew it was going to take them some time to pull those records.  It was going to take even longer to figure out how a dead man was alive again.

 

I needed to relax before what was surely to be a new mission.  Not in the SEAL sense, but close enough.  This was going to take me back to some deep, dark places.  First I wanted to cut loose.  I knew Tiesto was spinning at Paradise Beach club.  I wasn’t going to miss it, or the after parties that were sure to follow.

 

The next morning the phone rang.  I rolled an Australian girl off my arm.  She didn’t seem to notice.  Too much alcohol does that to anyone I guess.  I took the cordless receiver to the balcony and took the call.  It was Claire Abbey.

 

“Windmills at 1500.  I have what you asked for.”

 

“First of all, good morning.  Second, all ready?”

 

“Yes.  We put a guy on it last night.”

 

“You put a guy on it?  That’s not good.”

 

“He’s inside.  Way inside.  He’s trustworthy.”

 

“I hope so.  See you then.”

 

I went back to bed and set the alarm for 1430.

 

I arrived at the windmills at 1455.  Claire Abbey was practically at the car door to greet me.  I paid the cabbie and exited. 

 

“Surfers found a guy floating just before sunset.  Got him to shore and performed basic CPR.  Didn’t do much, but probably just enough to keep him alive.”

 

“Where was the body?”

 

“Black’s Beach.  He was lucky.  They got to him right away.  Had some fractured ribs and the legs were pretty mangled.  They think it was from a fall, not blunt instrument trauma.  Also a couple bullet holes.”

 

“What was his name?”

 

“They never got it.”

 

“Never got it or he never told them?”

 

“Both.”

 

“What became of him?”

 

“Rehab.  Psychiatrists.  The whole nine.  Eventually he just walked out.”

 

“What was his name?” Abbey said.

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“No.”

 

I said nothing.  She stared at me as if to say I have done my part, now do yours.

 

“What do you know?” she said.

 

“What do you know about submarines?” I said.

 

“That they go underwater.  And James Bond likes them.”

 

“That wasn’t a submarine.  That was a Lotus Esprit.”

 

“Get on with it.”

 

“I knew you were English.”

 

“My mother’s expression.”

 

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“Whether you’re English or American?”

 

“Maybe if you’re lucky.  If you can tell me about this guy.”

 

I liked Abbey.  Her banter was fun and playful, but always had a reason or fit the dialog.

 

“Nothing about submarines?”

 

“My brother played with a toy one in the tub when we were younger.  That’s about it.” Abbey said.

 

“The U.S. declared a war on drugs in 1971.  Nixon.  Since then the drug business has not only gotten better, but also more sophisticated.  Before I got wrapped up playing hero in the Middle East I was doing it in South America.  Colombia actually.  We were chasing some guy named Escobar.  No, not that Escobar, but equally as dangerous and cunning.  So we’re after Escobar and while we’re tracking his moves we stumble upon an even bigger fish so we start watching him instead.

 

Anyways this new guy we start watching was looking at all his options for supply routes for the drugs.  They had him by air.  Had totally shut down his best routes.  Overland was taking too long and they were improving ways at catching him.

 

SEAL stands for sea, air, and land right?  Well his air and land options are looking slim so he decides to give the sea a try.  Not just boats either.  Guy gets some fish finders for navigation and to provide eyes underwater.  Then he invests in some thin fiberglass.  Only need it three centimeters thick.  Next thing you know he’s in the submarine business.  Load the drugs up in the Colombian jungles.  From there they crawl undetected along the murky, muddy waterways to the Pacific.  He runs them up the coast.  Just off shore they transport the drugs from the subs to speedboats for the last leg in.  The subs are scuttled.”

 

“What do you mean by scuttled?”

 

“Deliberately sunk.”

 

“I know that.  What I’m asking is why don’t they just reuse them?”

 

“Because you’d have to take them back.  The guys have been in them for a couple weeks already.  They’re going crazy.  Sometimes mutiny.  It’s over one hundred degrees, it’s cramped, you’re living on rations.  Plus the chance of getting caught.  If you’re going to make four hundred million or more from the sale then two million is a small operating cost.”

 

“Two million!”

 

“It’s a submarine.  They’re not cheap.”

 

“Guys in the jungle are fabricating two million dollar submarines?”

 

“When the profit margins are what they are on drugs, yes.”

 

“So what about this guy?  The one face down in the ocean?”

 

“Colombian national.  Big time businessman.  Illegitimate businesses, but he washes the money well and has the political connections to keep everything flowing smoothly.”

 

“Which party?” Abbey said.

 

“Does he support?”

 

“Yes.”

 

I laughed.  “All of them.  They’re more similar than they are different.  He contributes to them all.  Hedges his risk.”

 

“So why was he floating face down in the ocean?”

 

“You watched The Spy Who Loved Me?”

 

“The James Bond movie?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sure.  When I was a kid.”

 

“You remember the Lotus Esprit?”

 

“The one you said was a submarine?

 

“You said that, but yes.”

 

“OK.”

 

“It was pretty ridiculous right?  That scene got panned for years after.  It still does today.  It’s just so far fetched and over the top.  It’s like jumping the shark, although that’s with a caveat because Bond films are still good with Daniel Craig.  Better quite possibly.  Anyways, back to the point.  That car.  That waterproof car.  Something like that was in the works for our SEAL teams.  A land vehicle that was also amphibious.”

 

“I thought you already had stuff like that.”

 

“Kind of.  Nothing even close to this level.  The SEALs were working with a private company to design and develop such a vehicle vessel hybrid.”

 

“OK.”

 

“Ever hear of Halliburton?”

 

“Who hasn’t?”

 

“It was kind of like that.  A private company that profits from a lot of government contracts.  Huge conflict of interest between the board of directors and government.  This company was like that.  The guy floating in the ocean was the founder and CEO of that company.  The one that was developing the hybrid.  Equally capable on land or in the water.”

 

“That doesn’t answer why he was floating in the ocean.”

 

“He was blackmailing high ranking members of government in exchange for their turning a blind eye to his using those same blueprints to build subs for his Colombian drug running business.  His attempt at a legitimate business was sea craft.  It was just a cover.  In that business you’re going to meet a lot of wealthy people and high-level players in business and politics.  That’s exactly what he did.  He got the contract for the James Bond style submarine from that business.  Everyone knew he was dirty, but didn’t seem to care.  He financed half of their campaigns.  Once the plans got pretty far along and they got to the prototype stage he flipped it around on them.  The project wasn’t public knowledge so he basically said, I’ll be taking this for myself now.  Thank you.  And he took it down to Colombia and finished it up.  With his engineers and government engineers working stateside.

 

The government engineers didn’t know the tables had been turned.  They still thought they were working on something for the SEAL Teams.  They weren’t.  Not only that.  He had them work on some anti-detection devices.  Sonar jamming.  Stuff like that.  So he had the U.S. government, along with a handful of his guys, build the most advanced submarine the world has ever seen.  A submarine with land capabilities, but it looked mostly like a submarine.  Then he took that sub, and the anti-detection measures our government also developed, and used it against the DEA, Coast Guard, and SEALs to run cocaine undetected right up the coast and into the noses of every Tom, Dick, and Harry from Los Angeles up to San Francisco and over to New York and down to Florida.  And everywhere in between.  Needless to say he upset a number of people.  They were in a Catch-22 so they needed somebody to clean up their mess.”

 

“Somebody off the record,” Abbey said.

 

“That would have made more sense, but this guy was untouchable.  They needed a specific set of skills.  Not only that, but a small, tight team that had all those skills and who also functioned as one unit at the highest level.”

 

“A SEAL Team,” Abbey said.

 

“The only type of team that fits that description.”

 

“And you were on that SEAL Team.”

 

I lifted and lowered my eyebrows.

 

“And you killed him.”

 

I tilted my head to the side and stared at her as if to say, come on.

 

“Right.  Sorry.  But he’s not dead anymore.  What was his name?”

 

“Devlin.”

 

“And you saw him on that boat?”

 

I did the thing with my eyebrows again.  “Luxury yacht.  With the Russian big boobied bimbos.”

 

We took a taxi out to Kiki’s Tavern at Agios Sostis Beach.  They don’t have a phone and there are no signs.  There was a two-hour wait to get in as usual, but it’s free rosé in plastic cups while you wait.  We didn’t have to wait.  Frost was already there with a table.  I was surprised a couple pale DEA agents knew about Kiki’s.  It’s definitely on my top five places in the world to have lunch.  I ordered wine, a Greek salad, and grilled octopus.  After the waiter took our order I was prepared for a barrage of questions.  I wasn’t left disappointed.

 

“How dangerous is this guy?”

 

“On a scale of one to ten.  Definitely a ten.”

 

“In what ways?” Frost said.

 

“I don’t know exactly how you can rate how dangerous someone is, but in my book to be a ten you have to be dangerous in every conceivable way.”

 

“Could you provide some examples?”  Frost’s question was almost annoying.  It was like he had finally got a big break in his case and he couldn’t wait to wring every last drop of information out of me.

 

“Well, for starters you have plenty of weapons.  Hand held.  Shoulder fired.  Remote controlled.  Vehicle mounted.  Even underwater.  Like submarines and torpedoes.  Let’s not forget that.  Let’s say when it comes to weapons you have the works.  Better than the best equipped fighting forces in the world.  Then you also have guys who are trained to use that stuff.  Plus you, and your guys, are weapons yourself.  Martial arts.  Mentally tough.  Totally resistant to torture tactics.  Drown proof.  If all that wasn’t enough you have blackmail on top world leaders.  That’s just insurance anyways.  You’re funding their campaigns and the extravagant economic retreats in Swiss ski resorts so they’re your puppets anyways.  If your puppet acts up you just crush it in front of all the other puppets and get a new puppet from your drawer full of puppets.  Your toys, including your puppets, are on endless supply.  Have you tried the octopus since you arrived?”

 

Frost looked at me oddly.  “No, I haven’t.”

 

“Definitely don’t miss out before leaving the island.”

 

“And you think Devlin is on this island?”

 

“He was two days ago.  No telling where he is now.”

 

“He’s in the area,” Frost said.

 

“Then why don’t we just go catch him?” I said amusingly.

 

“Very funny.”

 

“My point is unless you just saw him, let’s say within the last thirty seconds, then you have no idea where he is.  This guy has the fastest speedboats.  Boats that can outrun the Hellenic Coast Guard.  Helicopters with the best pilots, even in the winds of these beautiful islands.  Come on, he can even dive down in the sea.  The guy probably still has his submarines.  That’s where he got his big break and really expanded his already burgeoning empire.

 

“You make it sound hopeless.”

 

“Nothing is hopeless.  You just need a rock solid plan, that will almost certainly need to be adapted as things develop, and a team that can execute and think on their feet.”

 

“And where are we going to find those guys and how are we going to come up with that plan.”

 

“I thought that’s part of the reason you came to me.”

 

I could see Abbey’s eyes light up.  Frost put his hands on his chair and sat up straight.

 

“Are you interested in helping us?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

“I’m interested in helping myself.  I think our interests might have some overlap.”

 

Frost and Abbey looked at each other.

 

“How much overlap do you see?” Abbey said.

 

“Just the part about Devlin.  The other stuff I’m not interested in.”

 

They seemed confused.

 

“You have a chance to have a mission again.  We can work together.  This can be your chance to get back to doing what you enjoy.”

 

“Getting back to doing what I enjoy involves a lot more nights like what that housekeeper overheard and a lot less chasing bad guys.”

 

“Don’t you want to make a difference?” Abbey said.

 

“I made a difference already.  And after making that difference the Navy thought I was too different to make future differences so they were indifferent towards me and eventually we went our different ways.”

 

“But you’re not bitter?”

 

“I’m realistic.”

 

“Some would say the same thing.”

 

“And some wouldn’t.”

 

“Which one are you?”

 

“I’m the one who takes things as they come these days.  Sees things in black and white.  Is enjoying life.  I don’t harbor any grudges.  Don’t have a reason or the time.”

 

“So how do we make this work?  Together.”  Frost said.

 

“We don’t actually.  If your plans for catching these guys overlap with what I’m already planning to do in order to catch Devlin then we can do things together and I’ll cooperate.  No problem.  But just remember that I’m in this for myself.  We help each other but most of what you’re going to get is just the overlap of what I’m after.  Once I get that I’m done.”

 

“And what about the agent?” Abbey said.

 

She was right.  I forgot about the female agent they sent in.

 

“That concerns me.  A lot.  I’ll help you guys out with that.  One hundred percent.”

 

“So we have a deal?” Frost extended his hand.

 

My mind said to tell Frost to slow down.  I don’t want to get pregnant on the first date.  My eyes could see they were desperate.  They needed some help.  Badly.  They were trained DEA agents, but they had no idea what they were going up against.  It wasn’t who, it was what.  It was a tight elite force.  Much beyond anything they’d trained for.  Including FARC in their heyday or anything like that.

 

“On the overlap.  And the agent.”  I shook Frost’s hand.  Abbey didn’t extend hers.  She didn’t need to.  I think she saw how Frost’s enthusiasm was turning me off so she played it cool.  Smart girl.  It was probably why she was becoming more appealing to me the more time we spent together.

 

“We should come up with a plan,” Frost said.

 

I could see the waiter over Frost’s shoulder.

 

“We should eat our octopus first,” I said.  And the waiter served our meal.

 

Kiki’s has a canopy of thin white sticks.  It blocks all the sunrays but still allows in plenty of ambient light.  The chef cooks all the meals on an open fire grill right in the restaurant.  You can see all the food being prepared.  No secrets.  If that wasn’t enough you can smell it.  And the smell is mixed with the cool breeze from the ocean.  Just a hint of salt.  Not enough to turn even the most sensitive of stomachs.  Just enough to let you know you’re not in the city.  Not in the urban jungle.  By the time your food arrives you’re about ready to gnaw on the tablecloth.  Before the meal you can enter the small area inside where you pay when you finish.  That’s also where they keep the salads.  The conversation had started so quickly I hadn’t even had time to grab my Greek salad.  I went inside to pick it up.  Octopus, Greek salad, and a glass of rosé.  All this in a beautiful beach restaurant with a pleasantly calm and friendly staff.  It felt like your favorite neighbor’s grandson was bringing you lunch outdoors underneath that big oak tree in your uncle’s backyard.  Why couldn’t every restaurant be like this?

 

We finished up our meals.  Not much small talk.  Seemed like more just piling one bite after the next into our mouths.

 

“You going to be around for a few days?” Abbey asked.

 

“I can stick around awhile longer.”

 

“Same spot?”
 

“Same spot.  You really should come up and see the view one evening.”

 

“Would be lovely, but I have an agent to rescue.”

 

“Right.”

 

We took a cab back towards Mykonos town.  I got out at the top of the hill and cut through a wall of sheep on the way back to my place.  They continued back down the hill towards the town.  I didn’t know if they were staying there.  The town was about ten more minutes by car.  The port was on the same road.  And only five.

 

The next morning my phone rang at 1000 sharp.  I was still shaking off the effects of a late night, or should I say early morning.  I learned from my time in the Middle East, Indonesia, and Malaysia that more than a few of the girls from some of the Muslim countries wrapped their heads and played sweetheart during the day, only to turn into wild party animals by night.  Mykonos seemed to provide the perfect atmosphere for girls from Turkey on a quick holiday.  They told me there names were Bethany and Ellen.  I knew they really meant Belinay and Elif, but how was one to point a finger?  I had played the cover role more times than I could count.  More importantly, who was I to care?  A little role-playing fantasy wasn’t going to hurt anyone, although I did see some pretty deep scratches on my back in the mirror on my way from the toilet to the face plant in my bed when I arrived home.

 

“You know the three wells?” Abbey asked.

 

“Aren’t we going to start off with a good morning?”

 

“No time.”

 

“Definitely not English.  They always make time for manners.  Yeah, I know the spot.  In front of Astra Bar.”

 

“That’s the one.  Can you be there in thirty minutes?”

 

“Thirty minutes?”

 

“That gives you time to get dressed, brush your teeth, and hail a cab.  You’ll have five minutes to spare.  Maybe more.”

 

“What makes you think I’m not dressed?”

 

“Zamora,” Abbey paused.  “Do you think we just rolled up to your place without doing any recon first?”

 

I looked down.  She was right.  Naked again.  I also noticed I was standing right in front of the window.

 

“Am I naked now?”

 

“The three wells, Zamora.  As soon as you can.”  She hung up.

 

I wake up from a phone call hung over and I’m in a better mood.  Doesn’t seem right.

 

I made it to the wells in twenty-four minutes.

 

“A little more native beach attire today I see.”

 

“You like it?” Frost said.  He seemed to have lightened up a little.  Wonder what he got into since yesterday afternoon.

 

“Fancy a drink?” Abbey asked.

 

“Why not?”

 

We made our way inside.  I ordered a Pils.  They opted for sparkling waters of course.

 

“Living dangerously.”

 

“We’re on the clock.”

 

“American or European?”

 

“Both.  We’re all in this together.  Europol has our back on this one.”

 

I didn’t say anything.  I could see they were serious and it wasn’t the time for banter.

 

“Sultan al-Atrash.” Frost handed me a few surveillance photos and a mug shot.  “Familiar?”

 

“Don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

“Big time player.  Syrian.  Had it all.  ISIS came in and took it all away.  He’s too old to run.  He’s in hiding in Syria,” Frost paused.
 

I sensed some tension and apprehension in the end of his sentence.  Usually not what you’re looking for when you know the plan is coming next.  “OK,” I said.

 

“He’s got two kids.”  Frost pulled out some more photos.

 

The photo on top looked kind of like a mash-up of a high school yearbook photo from the 1980s and Glamour Shots.  A boy.  Looked to be about nineteen or twenty.  A nice looking kid.  He was smiling.  He looked easy-going and likeable.  I bet he had a lot of buddies and enjoyed life.  He wore a white button down shirt and had a strong head of hair.  There was a birthmark on the right side of his face.  Left as you look at it.  It started just above the eye close to the hairline and continued down more than half way past the length of the side of his cheek.  “That’s Adnan.  His son.”

 

Frost slid the photo of Adnan to the bottom of the pile revealing a new photo.  “That’s Amena.”  She was younger than her brother, but from the same stock.  You could tell by the facial structure and demeanor.  A pretty girl.  Probably about fifteen or sixteen.  No identifying marks.  “They’re arriving in Izmir tomorrow.  They’re meeting with The Turk.”

 

“What’s The Turk’s name?”

 

“Just goes by The Turk in our databases.  We tried.  No records.  No fingerprints.  Nothing.”

 

“Do we even know he’s Turkish?”

 

Claire Abbey shuffled in her chair.  I think she liked the sound of we.  It signaled I was in, or at least very close.  She caught the subtlety.  It didn’t surprise me.

 

“Technically we don’t.  But we’re pretty sure.”

 

“He could be Kurdish.  Big difference.”

 

“The facial features don’t point in that direction,” Frost said.  He was right, but there’s no telling.

 

“In this case we shouldn’t box him in.  He could be a chameleon.  That is how migrants are taking advantage of the refugee crisis after all.”

 

“Correct.  Most of the people arriving in Kos are Syrians with passports.  The Afghans and the Iraqis don’t have anything on them.  So we don’t know if the Afghans are actually Iranians or the Iraqis are actually Lebanese,” Frost said.

 

“My point exactly.  It’s like trying to identify a street in Tangiers,” I said.

 

“Come again?” Frost said.

 

“They all look and smell the same.”

 

Abbey rolled her eyes.  “Your file mentioned political correctness wasn’t your strong point.”

 

“I call ‘em how I see ‘em.”

 

“Well then, I guess we appreciate your honesty and candor.”  It could have been smug and sarcastic and warranted me walking out on the spot.  For some reason it wasn’t.  Not coming from Claire Abbey.  She didn’t seem the passive aggressive type.  Not at all.  If she had a problem I think she would just come out with it.

 

“You’re welcome,” I said.  Abbey did a quick acknowledgement with a drop and raise of the chin.  The way colleagues often acknowledge other when words aren’t necessary or don’t fit the bill.

 

“So do we know where they’re meeting?” I asked.

 

“We think they’re going to meet at the coffee shop around the block from his indescript office.  We’re not sure, but that’s where he seems to meet with anybody who warrants a face-to-face.  The regulars just meet with his handlers.  He keeps a safe arms distance or two.  The big timers or those with connections get a little more personal treatment.”

 

“Business 101 I guess.” I said.

 

Abbey removed a crude hand-drawn diagram from her pocket.  She unfolded it neatly and set it on the table.  It was at an angle facing back and away from where any of the bar cameras could pick it up.  I’m sure she made a note of the surveillance the moment she first walked it, which was probably yesterday.  I couldn’t imagine her just picking a place she hadn’t looked over first.

 

Although it was a crude diagram, the paper was neat.  The folds were precise and exact.  If I was going to get into this mess at least the team behind me would be dotting i’s and crossing t’s.  Attention to detail is life or death in these kinds of circumstances.

 

“The Turk is dominating the drug smuggling market along the coast.  All the new wannabe gangsters trying to make a land grab on some cash are too busy herding migrants onto rubber boats for €1000 - €1500 a pop while The Turk has a family of three strapped down with €10 million worth of heroin right on their back.  It’s the perfect cover.  The Hellenic Coast Guard and Turkish Coast Guard Command are overloaded.  The refugees are realizing now all they have to do is get past the Turkish Coast Guard.  Once they’re through their clear.  If they make it half way, the Greeks will do the rest.”

 

“You’re trying to tell me the Orthodox Greeks are helping the Muslims from the Middle East?”

 

“With clenched teeth, but full pockets.  They’re getting money from the smugglers on the Turkish side, money from the smugglers on the Greek side, money for working overtime hours, and of course they’re shaking down the refugees and migrants for a small cut.  And the EU politicians play the fear game to win votes.  Not just that, they play on human psychology.  With most people, if your neighbor’s house is on fire you watch and hope somebody else takes care of your neighbors afterwards so you don’t have to feed them and give them a place to sleep.  This migrant thing is getting pushed onto the Greeks and they’re thinking if they’re going to be painted as bad guys for not doing enough to help the refugees they might as well get paid for it.”

 

I hadn’t thought of it that deeply.  Abbey had it all figured out.

 

“A lot of the refugees used to think they were caught when they saw the Greek Coast Guard approaching.  Now they know they’re there to give them a safe lift for the last leg across the only body of water they’ll have to cross on their entire trek.”

 

“Safe relatively speaking?”

 

“Relatively speaking.  They might demand €50 a head, but that’s nothing if you’ve already dropped €1500 for the first hour squeezed into a flimsy, packed, plastic raft like an overcrowded pack of sardines.  And after the first hour you weren’t even sure you were going to make it.  For €50 you get a nice lift right to the dock and once there you say you’re Syrian and you get fingerprinted and registered as such, no matter where you’re from.”

 

“And once you’re registered it’s real.”

 

“Exactly.  And now you have a temporary residence permit allowing you to stay for one to six months.  Then you decide if you want to live and work in Greece illegally, or move on.  Most move on.”

 

“But either option is infinitely better than fighting for, or against, ISIS.”

 

“That’s it.  But that’s if they get halfway,” Abbey said.

 

“What happens on the Turkish side?” I said.

 

“Different story.  The Turkish Coast Guard can be confusing in their choices.  Usually they make three quick, consecutive circles around your raft.  This fills the raft with water and sends the passengers overboard.  If everybody looks to be surviving at that point they just hang out for awhile.  Rub a little salt in the wounds in hope they remember the next time the get the urge to try crossing.  Then they round you up and take you back to Turkey, where you’re sent on a bus somewhere else.  Often times, just up to Istanbul, but you’re out of sight and out of mind.”

 

“So you try to make a go when you know the Turkish side is likely to be understaffed.  When shifts are changing over.  When it’s dark.  Anytime there’s an advantage to be had.  Just to improve the odds by a fraction.”

 

“Or to improve them infinitely if your handlers are paying off the Turkish Coast Guard or someone with inside knowledge of patrol times and patterns.”

 

“Good system these guys have going.”

 

“Very good.  And very good money for all the smugglers, no matter what they’re smuggling.”

 

“But The Turk is surely using better boats and has better connections if he’s moving drugs.” I said.

 

“He might, but if he does he’s not using them.  First, it’s easier to hide amongst the other rafts.  They’re often leaving in formations, believe it or not.  Just a row of rafts.  And this whole time nobody’s checking their bags.  All the way from Syria and never once been asked to open a bag.  Not until they get to Athens to get documented, but at that point they can just leave the drugs in a storage locker at the Port of Piraeus and then retrieve them after their paperwork is processed.  Second, there’s a new problem that’s developed.  Something much bigger than anything the government might throw at them.”

 

“Pirates?” I asked.

 

“You guessed it.  Your specialty actually from what we hear.  We read in your service records what you did time and again with those Somalis.  Incredible.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

Abbey continued, “The pirates were already happy with the regular refugees.  They’re loaded down with all the money they have plus jewelry.  Exactly what any thief would be after.  Now that they’ve found out about the drugs passing through the area they’re foaming at the mouth like dogs.  The take can be astronomical.”

 

“And can go right into the pockets of ISIS,” Bill said.  I had almost forgot he was with us.  He’s not a forgettable guy; I was just really connecting to Abbey’s intel before she broke out the plan.

 

“OK, so I see what we’re facing now.  A few different threats and risks, but minor compared to what I’m used to.”

 

“In that sense you’re correct.  But we’re asking you to do something totally different than something as routine as a snatch-and-grab.”

 

“You want a full infiltration.”  It wasn’t a question.  It was a statement.  Frost and Abbey turned to each other and hi-fived.  It took me off guard, but brought a smile to my face at the same time.  The rah-rah stuff since our first meeting didn’t really sit well with me.  It was like they were playing by some psychological playbook.  He’s a SEAL.  He likes a team.  Adrenaline rush.  Dopamine fix.  Give him that camaraderie.  Give him that thrill.  It sounds so rudimentary and arrogant, but boy is it effective.  At least it was working its magic on me.  “And how do you plan on accomplishing that?” I asked.

 

“We have an agent missing so we don’t have time to wait.  Don’t have time to build it up from the ground.  We need something quick.”

 

“Like a show of loyalty to win trust.”  They both nodded in agreement.  “And the plan for accomplishing that is?” I asked.

 

“Win over The Turk immediately.  These kids are important to him.  Their dad has lost a lot of power due to ISIS, but he still has a lot of connections and pull within the Middle East community.  Everyone knows who he is.  He’s a bad guy, but he’s well liked and respected.  Gives a lot back to the community.  Helps out.”

 

“You make him sound like a good guy.” I said.

 

“Public perception only.  In the eyes of the public he’s a hero.”

 

“Because it’s not their kids he’s getting hooked on smack.”

 

“Exactly,” Abbey replied.

 

I could see the excitement in her eyes.  Her pupils were dilated.  I knew she couldn’t wait to tell me what came next.

 

“You want a sea battle?  Get me to within 100 yards of ‘em and I’ll hit ‘em right between the eyes.  One right after the other.  They’ll be fish food before they know what hit them.”

 

Frost and Abbey glanced at each other.

 

“We don’t want an itchy trigger finger.  We want low risk in a highly controlled environment,” Frost said.

 

I almost reached across the table and slapped him.  I knew what he was talking about, but he didn’t have the guts to say it.  He probably had my service records memorized by now.  They get all excited over the good parts, and there are many, but one little thing gets blown out of proportion.

 

“You referring to Kandahar, Frosty?” I said.

 

Abbey wisely intervened, “Zamora, we’re not referring to anything.  We just can’t have any bodies.  Bodies equal a lot of explaining to a lot of high-ranking people and ultimately it works against our interests.  Bodies will spook everyone we’ve been watching.  They’ll go into lay-low mode.  Ruin all the work up to this point and set us back weeks if not months.”

 

She was right.  I didn’t say anything.  Frost kept calm and just continued like nothing happened.  “We lower the risk by keeping everything on land.  We know that The Turk knows he just has to get them past the Turkish Coast Guard.  He has connections inside and can get them through easily, although if they wind up in a big pack of rafts they could get caught.”

 

“Why don’t they just leave separately and he can phone it in?”

 

“Zamora,” Frost stopped momentarily. “It’s unbelievable.  We’ve been watching them from shore.  Just the sheer number of them.  There are so many of these rafts taking off, especially early in the morning before dawn that even if they don’t start as a pack, they wind up as a pack.  The sea just brings them together.  They’re trying to go vertically so they all just get swept into the same current.  You would think there’s safety in numbers but it works against them.  These overcrowded rubber pieces of junk bump into each other and capsize.  It’s a weird twist of fate.”

 

“Crazy, but true,” Abbey said.  “Far and away our best chance is on land.  On the Turkish side.  Before they even hit the water.”

 

I stopped and thought about it.  They wanted a SEAL for the job and they were about to get one.  Ironically the sea part of being a SEAL was the part they didn’t want.  Or at least that’s what their plan lacked.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” I said.

 

“ The refugees are hiding in the olive orchards that line the coasts.  These coasts are very rocky in many places.  The combination of the olive trees and the rocks make it impossible to see them from the sea.  It’s also hard to reach these areas on foot.  They’re isolated.  You have to come in with a boat.  The refugees wait their turn in these areas.  Waiting for a boat that they’ve already paid a third party for.  The third party holds the money until the refugee calls saying they’ve made it safely across.  Then they release the payment to the traffickers.  It’s a good system.  They see when you leave.  From that point you have three days to contact them.  If you think you’ll just reach the other side and not call in your arrival then you’re mistaken.  They’ll release the money anyways after three days.  The reasoning is that if you get caught you can come back and they’ll see you were caught.  If you don’t come back then you made it.  Or you didn’t.  Either way they keep the money.  So they wait in these areas.  It’s a tense time.  They’re waiting for their boat.  Sometimes fights break out if they feel they’re waiting too long or if they feel someone’s jumping them in line.  Money and lives are on the line.  The locals are afraid to go to these areas.  They know there are guards there.  You can spot them.  The human traffickers have placed them there to protect what they consider their investments.  Those guards are in control of these areas.  There are only scattered villages around there so you rarely see police.  The officers are in the more densely areas handling day-to-day incidents like traffic accidents, petty theft, and things like that.  That and in the tourist areas making sure the tourists in Bodrum are safe.”

 

Abbey folded the first piece of paper.  I had only looked at it briefly, but saw that it was essentially a map showing the water passage routes and how the authorities cover the area.  Or don’t cover it if they’re getting kickbacks from the traffickers.  She pulled out a second piece of paper.  It was photographic paper.  She flipped it over to reveal an image.  “This is a satellite shot of the cliff which we think The Turk will use as a launching off point for the al-Atrash kids.”

 

“What makes you sure he’ll use this point?”

 

“Historically he always has for the big players or their families.  He uses a bunch of other ones for everyone else, but this one is reserved for his VIPs.”

 

“Very Incarcerated Persons,” I said.

 

“If we have a say so,” Abbey replied.

 

“The good thing is that this area is away from the higher trafficked areas.  It’s even more secluded than normal and he just keeps a couple guards here, and they’re spread apart.”

 

“Armed?”

 

“M-16s.  Nothing special.”

 

“Dangerous?”

 

“Hardly.  We could pick them off whenever we want.”

 

“What’s stopping you?”

 

“Nothing.  We don’t need them.  They’re too low level.  Just average street criminals willing to stand around all day for a few Turkish liras.”

 

“He’s cutting corners.”

 

“The wrong corners.  That’s why we have a great opening here.”

 

“What’s the angle?” I said.

 

“You’re going to get your chance to go after pirates,” Abbey said.  “But not the normal pirates.  Our pirates.”

 

“Bodrum on Broadway.”

 

We all laughed.  “Something like that,” Abbey said.  “I forgot to mention something about these pirates.”

 

“What that they don’t wear eye patches anymore?” I said.

 

“Not usually, but also not what I forgot.  They’re dressed like commandos.  They’re trying to imitate the Greek or Turkish Coast Guard depending on where they attack.”

 

“Simple, but effective.” I said.

 

“Very effective.  Some of the immigrants that make it all the way to Kos in their plastic rafts tell the press they’ve been beaten and robbed by the Greek Coast Guard on their way over.  Not good for PR.  And not even true in nearly all cases.”

 

“Are the rafts rubber or plastic?” I said.

 

“Everything imaginable,” Abbey said.  We’ve even seen kitchen tables flipped upside down and an outboard engine attached.  Inner tubes.  Hand made wooden contraptions.  Once we saw some kites strapped to some PVC pipe.  It really shows you the desperation of these people.  They get the best thing they can find for the four miles, load the numbers of Greek Coast Guard rescue into their phone, push off and pray for the best.”

 

I had goose bumps.  I felt chills across my body.  I felt like I was suddenly slapped square in the jaw with a reminder how lucky I am to be born to fortunate circumstances.

 

“Many times the smugglers captain doesn’t even go.  At the last second before departure he shows one of the passengers how to operate the motor.  When they ask him how to navigate he just tells them to head for the lights on the other shore.  Luckily some of them have charged phones and think quickly enough to pull up GPS.  It can be a lifesaver.”

 

Now I was getting angry.  Really angry.  This needed to stop.  These guys were gutless.  I was all in.

 

“What’s my job?”

 

“There’s a small path leading up to this area.”  Abbey pointed to the spot she had marked on the map.  The spot where Adnan and Amena would be positioned until their vessel came along.  “Conceivably that could be a jogging path.”

 

“Conceivably or realistically?” I said.

 

“Conceivably.”  Abbey said.  Her jaw was firm.  She seemed sure of her decision.  I preferred to start with something that’s at least believable, but wanted to see where this was going.  “You’re a tourist.  You’re already in Bodrum so it is possible that you might want to go for a jog, walk, or hike.  Some tourists get burnt out on just the beach.  They want to enjoy nature too.”  She had a point.  A good one.  “We have our two planted commandos come in for the robbery.  They take out the guards, begin the robbery, and you save the day.”

 

“Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.  Just like that.”  Abbey could see I was mocking the simplicity.

 

“That’s the short version.  The long goes something like this.  You decide to go for a jog.”

 

“Hold on,” I said.  “Why would I go for a jog in an area where surely my resort warned me not to go?”

 

“They didn’t.  This place is not really that close to the other launching points.  That’s part of its beauty.  You can see tourists within one hundred yards of this area, just not this close to the water.  An adventurous, young guy?  He could absolutely wonder down this area for a closer look, a pic, or just to take in the tranquility.”

 

“OK, so it’ s possible.”

 

“Definitely.  So, you’re out for a jog.  I like the jog better because it gives you a uniform.  Sure, it’s just short shorts, t-shirt, and running shoes, but it is a uniform.  A reason for being.  Not so random as a guy taking a walk.  You’re already doing something of your own choosing.”

 

“Makes sense,” I said.

 

“Their security guys are lazy.  And they drink a lot of Coke, which means they go to the bathroom a lot.  They’re even consistent with the trees they choose.  First guy wanders off to go to the toilet.  He always puts his rifle down on the ground a few feet away from him.  We come up from behind, gag him, pick up the rifle and then wait on the other guy to come over after he realizes it’s taking too long.”

 

“But he’ll be on high alert” I said.

 

“Probably.  If he’s not, it’s easy.  He’s getting paid peanuts, so he’s not going to put up much of a fight if he gets caught off guard with a gun pointed at his temple.”

 

“True, but how do you propose we get a gun pointed at his temple.”

 

“Distract and divert.  Stun grenade.”

 

“Still a lot of risk there.”

 

“He’ll be off balance,” Frost said.  “We can take him down.”

 

“I thought we didn’t want bodies.”

 

“We don’t.  We can come in on top of him.  Canopy.  Armed team with Kevlar if need be.”

 

I paused.  “Too risky.  He could fire.”

 

We sat staring at each other for a few minutes.  To me that pretty much settled that that idea was out the window.

 

“Trapping pit,” I said.  “He falls in, we slide a cover over.  Quick and effective.”

 

Frost scratched the back of his head.  “We have to lead him to it.”

 

“He’s nervous.  He’s scared.  It shouldn’t be too hard.  If not then he just runs away,” I said.  “Deserts his post.”

 

“He could fire off rounds,” Abbey said.  “Which technically gives us justification to do what we need to do.”

 

“But we’d like to avoid that,” Frost said.

 

I thought about it for a second.  “He knows what he’s doing.  Naysayers are going to say he’s just some low level guy trying to make a buck.  I say he’s an armed trafficker.  He gets what he gets.  I say we make it a trou de loup.  Put a sharpened wooden stake in the bottom of the pit.”

 

Abbey and Frost looked at each other and shrugged as if to say OK.

 

“What’s next?” I said.

 

“Our two commandos come in for the robbery.  They shake the kids down.  Get them to remove some clothes.  Nothing extreme.  They’re all hiding money in their underwear.  Everyone we’ve seen so far is doing that.  Everyone knows it.  The commandos would know.”

 

“And a Good Samaritan comes along wearing running gear?”

 

“No.  The runner has been attacked by the guards.  He manages to take one of their guns, subdue the other, and then save the kids.”

 

I shook my head.  “Do you know how unbelievable that is?  Who would do that?”

 

“Americans do that kind of stuff all the time.  How about those three boys on the train from Amsterdam to Paris who took down the terrorist at the end of August?  There was also a French national and a Briton involved in taking down that guy.”

 

“Two were trained military.  They were in an enclosed area and were protecting themselves in addition to others.  Don’t get me wrong, they’re heroes, but this is different.  The average person runs away.  Calls the cops or something.  I don’t see this as nearly the same thing.  And I don’t see it working.”

 

The table got silent.  The waiter came and asked if everything was OK.  I ordered another beer.  Frost and Abbey were nursing their sparkling waters.  I was surprised.  It was hot.  Easily over 90 degrees.  I’m a big guy though so it makes sense.  I’m going to need more fluids to stay hydrated.

 

I was thinking while I waited on the waiter.  He returned with my Pils.  I took a swig and put my hand on the table.  “Here’s the thing,” I said.  “When you want electrical work done you hire an electrician.  When you want plumbing work done you hire a plumber.  When you want your yard to look nice you hire a landscaper.  They have specialties.  That’s what they do.  You trust them because of it.  They’re believable in all aspects of their job.  I’m a SEAL veteran.  I know that includes air and land, but my specialty is always going to be in the sea.  Where are we?  We’re at the seaside.  We’re surrounded by islands.  What is the most nerve-racking part of this entire journey for nearly all of the refugees?  Crossing those four miles from Turkey to Greece.  It’s water, it’s border control, and it’s usually night.  The senses are on high alert.  If we want to really make a scene we do it in the water.  It’s believable, it’s scary, and surprisingly it’s more controllable.”

 

“Because we have you there?” Abbey asked.

 

“Because you have me,” I said.

 

“We’re with you, Zamora.  But do you have an idea?” Frost said.

 

“You said a lot of these boat captains are pulling out at the last second, right?  Giving one of the refugees a quick crash course on how to steer the boat?”

 

“That’s correct.”

 

“In these higher level cases; where there’s a VIP going over from this launching point.  Do you have surveillance?  Are they doing the same thing?”

 

“It seems to be about fifty-fifty.”

 

“When the thug who is supposed to guide the boat stays to guide the boat is he armed?”

 

“No.  He won’t take weapons to the sea.  Too risky.  He’ll get in too much trouble.”

 

“So we’re going to have the two kids and maybe a boat captain.  I’m using boat captain very liberally.  That boat captain isn’t even armed.”

 

“Do we have connections with the Turkish Coast Guard?”

 

“We do, but they’re dodgy.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Because their pockets are getting fat from The Turk and guys like him.”

 

“So they can’t be trusted?”

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

“No problem.  We let them clear the Turkish Coast Guard and then we take them half way through.”

 

“How do we do that?” Frost asked.

 

“Easy.  Our fake commandos.  Shake them up while they’re out to sea.  Fake commandos get the trafficker subdued then I come in and take out the commandos and save the day.  Get the kids across and The Turk owes me a favor.”

 

“But The Turk doesn’t even know who you are and why would he care about you?” Abbey said.

 

“Because I’m going to take out the commandos.  Dead.  The kids won’t know if they’re supposed to be Greek Coast Guard or from some sort of rival organization.  Either way I’m in trouble.  Now I’m being hunted. I have no choice but to go to The Turk.  He’ll see that.  Since I’m skilled and I did him a solid with the kids, and more importantly to him their dad, he’ll probably even hire me.”

 

“That’s a crazy plan, but it could work,”  Frost said.

 

“So let’s say you get inside,” Abbey said.  “Then what?”

 

“I start gathering intel.  From what we know they’re not violent, right?  They’re not going to ask me to kill anyone.  I just gather intel and build a case against them.  And of course I find out who the top dogs are in this entire thing.  We want to take down the big fish, right?”

 

“Definitely.  And please don’t forget about our agent.”

 

“Of course not.  That’s understood.  I’m in this for her and for Devlin.  That’s all.”

 

Frost and Abbey leaned back in their chairs.

 

“Zamora, this is better than what we brought to the table, but we have to run it by some people.  Check it for legality and potential pitfalls.  We can’t make a mistake early that allows the courts to throw the whole thing out later.”

 

“Bureaucracy.  I understand.”

 

“Not just that.  People’s rights are at stake here.  Also, just simple humanity.  Good vs. evil.”

 

“And good’s going to win if I have anything to say about it.”

 

No one said anything for a few seconds.  Frost motioned to the waiter for the check.

 

“We have to get going.  The clock’s a ticking,” Frost said.

 

“Understand.”

 

“We’ll be in touch.”

 

They walked out.  I sat in my chair and finished my beer.  The view wasn’t so bad either.  There were plenty of elegant and sophisticated women strolling by.  They were as eager to look at me as I was to look at them.  Although my eyes checked out every one of them, my mind was on Abbey.  These girls were playing a game of elegance and sophistication.  Who knows if that’s what they really represented.  With Abbey I could see it.  Sense it.  Feel it.  She might not be prancing around Mykonos town in designer labels with such panache, but she was what sophistication was all about.  She wore the clothes her job required, and she wore them well.  I could tell those boxy issued uniforms that should have fit her like a tent had been altered.  She cared about her appearance, even if it was just the civilian attire the DEA had issued her.  She was also the true form of sophistication.  To me the truest.  Her mind.  It could banter.  I knew this even though I could sense she was holding back.  She could keep up.  Hold her own.  She could also problem solve.  If that wasn’t enough her thoughts and her heart were in the right place.  She wanted to help people.  Make the world a better place.  I wanted to offer her any help I could in achieving those noble goals.

 

My phone rang that evening.  I wasn’t expecting it.

 

“Zamora, it’s Claire Abbey.”

 

“Good evening, Claire Abbey.  What can I do for you?”

 

“Can you meet down at Agios Stefanos beach in fifteen minutes?”

 

I looked at my watch.  2230.  I looked at my beer.  Half empty.  “I don’t see why not.”

 

“See you then,” she said just before I heard the dial tone.  I finished the beer in one swig.  I slid into my flip-flops and made my way down the hill.

 

Abbey was sitting along the small concrete barrier separating the road from the sand.  She was right where the bus picks up to take the tourists into Mykonos town.  She was holding two Mythos beers that she had probably purchased from the shop just diagonal across the street.

 

“Have a beer with me?”

 

“Can’t say no to that,” I said.

 

She stood up and stepped over the small concrete barrier onto the sand.  I followed suit and she handed me the beer.

 

“Do you think this is going to work?”

 

I could see she was really concerned.  More than I would expect for a mission that seemed so routine.  It was so routine I could barely even call it a mission.

 

“It’s going to work,” I said.  “We’re going to find that agent of yours and put an end to these bad guys’ nonsense.”

 

Abbey didn’t say anything.  We just continued walking north along the beach.  She was walking slowly.  Taking slow, deliberate, big swings with each leg that kicked up sand.  Then she stopped.

 

“Do you think she’s still alive?”

 

I couldn’t lie to her.  “I don’t know.  It doesn’t make sense for them to kill her, especially if they know she’s an agent.  These guys don’t really seem like they could use that kind of heat.  Plus they seem more intent on just laying low and moving their product.”

 

I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

 

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

 

She looked up at me and then in one quick motion fell into my chest.  She was crying.  It wasn’t uncontrollable, but it was close.  I wrapped my arms around her.  She felt lifeless at first then she squeezed my shirt before backing away.

 

“Sorry.  I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

 

“It’s OK.  We’re all human sometimes.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

The beach was coming to an end.  “We can sit here,” I said.  She didn’t say anything.  She just plopped down.  I joined her.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Claire Abbey looked out to sea.  She had her hands on her knees and her feet in the sand.  She looked like a little girl waiting for her ship to come in.  But she looked calm.  Peaceful, which was a big change from a few moments earlier.

 

“You can probably guess I’m new to the agency.”

 

“I figured as much.”

 

“They train you for all these things, but nothing compares to real life.  That agent that’s missing; I knew her really well.  She was my mentor.”

 

“What’s her name?”

 

“Johnson.  Jennifer Johnson.  Agent Jennifer Johnson from Columbus, Ohio.  Forty-two years old.”  She stopped talking, but continued to stare into the distance.

 

“The agency recommended I go in.”

 

“They wanted to put a newbie undercover?  A young blonde in Turkey.  Are they crazy?”

 

“That’s what Agent Johnson said.  The agency thought I was better bait.  I could speed along the process.  The guys would lower their guards much quicker.  More likely to make mistakes.”

 

“More likely to get you killed.”

 

“You sound just like Agent Johnson.  She fought tooth and nail.  Convinced them that she would go in.  And now she’s missing.”

 

I wanted to tell her she couldn’t second-guess what happened, but I couldn’t.  I had been in similar circumstances plenty of times.  Luckily things always worked out, but you’re always going to second guess it.  It takes years of practice and exposure not to.  At least that’s what the Navy shrinks tell you.  It’s not true.  You still wonder what would have been.  I reached over and put my arm around her.  “We’re going to get Agent Johnson.  Everything’s going to be OK.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“Experience.  Training.”

 

At least five minutes went by.  “Thanks for cheering me up.  At least a little.”

 

“Did it work?” I asked.

 

“Not really.  OK, maybe a little, but regardless I appreciate it.”  Abbey reached over and gave me a hug.  As she pulled away she stopped momentarily to look into my eyes.  She kissed me on the right cheek.  “Thank you.”  She stood up as if to leave.

 

“You can thank me when we bring Agent Johnson home.”  She smiled.

 

“Ready to go?”

 

“Not going to finish your beer?”

 

“No.  That was just for you really.  Didn’t want you to drink alone.”

 

“Thoughtful.”

 

She laughed.

 

We made our way back to the bus stop into town.  It was too late for a bus so we waited a few minutes until a cab arrived.

 

“Almost forgot to tell you,” Abbey said.  “Frost wants to meet tomorrow morning at 0800 to go over your plan.  Iron out all the details.”

 

“He’s going to try and shoot holes in it?”

 

“I don’t think so.  He seemed to like it when we got back.  He was pacing around the room.  I think at first he was trying to find glaring flaws.  He couldn’t.  Then he tried to come up with something better.  He couldn’t.  Then he finally sat at the table and started working on the nuances.  He’s in.”

 

“Great.  So where at 0800?”

 

“Hotel Nazos.”

 

“Near the School of Fine Arts?” I said.

 

“That’s the one.  See you there.”

 

I smiled and carefully shut the cab door.  Then she was gone.  Off into the night.

 

The next morning we went over the minutia of the plan until it was solid.  At least as solid as a plan can be before you implement it.  One that would be implemented at sea with a few unknown variables.  It would have to do for now.