The Book of Spies

52

Athens, Greece
A GREEK newscast sounded from down the hotel corridor as Judd set their brunch tray on the floor outside the door. Listening, he peered left and right, then stepped back inside the room. Eva was at the table and looked tense, elbows on the top, a hand cupping her chin as she reread Charles's notebook. Last night he had thought he was going to lose her. He was glad she had decided to stick it out, except now he felt even more responsible for her.
He shot the dead bolt and grabbed Preston's S&W from under his pillow. Sitting, he emptied it of rounds, including the bullet in the chamber.
"Join me." He patted the bed beside him.
Eva looked up and saw the gun. "Are you going to shoot me or teach me?"
"Teach. Then you'll be able to shoot someone--hopefully not me."
"We'll see." She gave a small smile and sat beside him.
"This is the safety. Flick it on and off so you know how it works." When she did, he explained the basic mechanics of the weapon. "Stand up."
"Okay." She stood, long and slender, her dyed black hair falling around her face.
"Balance on both feet."
She assumed a heik-dachi karate stance, her feet at shoulder-width distance and parallel. Her knees were flexed, just the way he wanted them.
He passed her the gun. "Hold it in both hands, choose a point on the wall, stretch your arms a bit, but not so much you strain yourself. Aim. . . . Stop hunching your shoulders. Let your bones relax--your muscles need to do the work." Her grip looked capable but not confident. "Your hands automatically want to coordinate with your eyes--let them do it. Good. Now squeeze the trigger." He watched. "Slow down. Pretend the trigger is a baby's ankle. You don't want to hurt it, but you've got to be firm, or the little guy will skedaddle away."
"You did a lot of babysitting in your youth?"
"I have an active imagination."
"You've raised babies in your imagination?"
"No, but I can act like one."
She laughed, settled herself, and tried the trigger again.
"Much better," he said. "You won't know how true your aim is until you fire, but this is better than nothing. Practice one hundred times--slowly. Then take a break and do another hundred. You'll begin to get the feel of the weapon and what it's like to shoot it. If you actually do have to fire, you'll get a powerful kick. This will help you prepare for that, too."
Listening to the clicks, he took out his mobile, downloaded the phone numbers of all hotels in the Athens metropolitan area, and started dialing. At each place he asked to speak to Robin Miller. There were a few Millers, but no Robin Miller. He talked to the ones he could reach. They knew no one named Robin Miller.
Finally Eva said, "That's another hundred." She did not look bored but seemed definitely fed up. "How do I load this thing?"
They sat on the bed again, and he filed rounds into the S&W's magazine. He took them out and handed the magazine to her. She fumbled for a while, then got better, sliding the bullets inside.
Finally, at around two o'clock, she put the weapon into her satchel. When he finished a call to another hotel, she held up a hand.
"Pame gia kafe," she said. "That means let's go for coffee, which in Athens really means let's go out. Enough already. You haven't heard from NSA. Robin hasn't called. Tucker isn't getting in until late. Preston has never seen our disguises, so we're reasonably safe. And once I have a cell, I can help call hotels, too."
She had a point. In fact several of them. They left.
The day was warm. Athens was having a touch of summer in April. Through a thin layer of brown smog, sunshine glazed the concrete buildings and sidewalks. They took the Metro to Plaka, the city's humming market and popular meeting place.
"We can get lost in the crowd here," she explained.
She was right. Plaka swarmed with tourists and locals, cars banned from most of the streets. They walked through winding avenues and passageways crammed with small stores selling trinkets, souvenirs, religious icons, and Greek fast food. He smelled hot shish kebabs and then the cool scent of fresh flowers. Many of the streets were so narrow, sunlight fought for a place to shine through.
"You should be aware of a couple of things before you try to do any business in Athens," she told him. "Never raise your hand, palm up and out, when you greet someone. It's a hostile gesture here. Instead, just shake hands. And when a Greek nods up and down--especially if there's a click of the tongue and what looks like a smile--it's an expression of displeasure. In other words, no."
"Good to know. Thanks."
He bought her a disposable cell without incident, and they stopped at an open-air cafe to go back to work. So far he had seen no sign of a tail.
When the waitress came, he started to order Greek coffee, but Eva said, "Two Nescafe frappes, parakalo." The waitress gave a knowing smile and went inside.
"Instant coffee?" he asked, worried.
"What. You're a coffee snob?"
"I spent too many years inhaling desert sand not to appreciate a fine cup."
"Sympathies. But you really have to have it at least once. It's a local favorite, and it goes with the climate and the outdoor lifestyle. Besides, it's expensive, which means we can sit here for a couple of hours without ordering anything else."
He was doubtful but said nothing more. As he wrote a list of hotel phone numbers for her, two glasses of water and two tall glasses of a dark-colored beverage topped with foam arrived with drinking straws.
He glanced at the water and stared at the frappes.
She grinned. "I'm beginning to worry you don't have a sense of adventure."
He sighed. "What's in it?"
"Two cubes of ice, two heaping teaspoons of Nescafe powder, sugar, milk, and cold water. I know it sounds dreadful, but it's actually heavenly on a warm afternoon like this. You're supposed to drink the water first, to cleanse your palate."
"I've got to clean my palate? You must be kidding." But he drank the water. She was sipping her frappe through her straw and laughing at him.
He tried it. It was almost chocolate, the coffee flavor strangely rich and soothing. "You're right. It's good. But next I want real Greek coffee. I like to chew as I drink."
"You have my permission." She glanced around. "I've been thinking about your dad's news clippings. I know you told me the analysts didn't see anything revealing, but I'd like to hear again what was in them."
"International banks were mentioned, and our targeting analysts have been closely monitoring their transactions. Nothing about the Library of Gold. There was a lot about affiliate jihadist groups in Pakistan and Afghanistan and the dangers they pose, but our people are already watching them so closely every one has a skin rash."
"Remember," she said, "I've been off the reservation--in prison a couple of years. Is al-Qaeda as dangerous as it was? Aren't we safer now?"
"Yes and no. It'll help if you understand al-Qaeda's structure. Years ago Osama bin Laden and his people saw what happened to Palestinian jihad groups that let new members join their leadership--intelligence agencies were able to infiltrate, map, and hurt them badly. That made al-Qaeda's leaders reluctant to expand, and after 9/11 they slammed the door entirely, which meant they couldn't even replace losses. They've had a lot--we've captured or killed most of their top planners and expediters. So now they can't compete on the physical battlefield anymore, but they don't need to. Their strength--and an enormous threat to us--is the al-Qaeda movement. It spread like wildfire during Iraq. The new jihadists revere al-Qaeda central and go to them for advice and blessings for operations, because they believe the leaders' bloody theology. It's proved to be an effective recruiting tool and keeps bin Laden and his cronies relevant--and powerful."
As the waitress passed, he ordered real coffee. "What's worrying us about Dad's clippings is the focus on Pakistan and Afghanistan, where the Taliban is strong. The two countries share a border through the mountains, but it's an artificial one the Brits created in the nineteenth century. The people on both sides--mostly Pashtuns--have never accepted it. For them the entire region has always been theirs. As for Pakistan, it's in crisis and has pulled its troops from the North-West Frontier Province. If the province falls to the jihadists, the whole country could crash. At the same time, Afghanistan has taken on its own defenses, so the U.S. and NATO have only a limited presence. Warlords rule the borderlands, and there's concern whether they have the country's best interests at heart, since many have jihadist connections."
Eva sighed worriedly. "And somewhere in there may be where your father thought something awful was being planned."
They worked two more hours without finding Robin Miller. Eva had another frappe, and he ordered another traditional Greek coffee. The sun was below the horizon, sending a violet cloak across the street's paving stones.
"It's discouraging." She put down her cell, leaned back in her chair, and stretched. "Where is that woman?"
"God knows." He leaned back, too. Just when he picked up his mobile again to phone another hotel, it rang. Quickly he touched the On button.
It was the NSA tracker. "One of the disposable cells was turned on briefly. But it's off now. I'll let you know if it's activated again." He relayed an address. Judd jotted it down and turned the paper so Eva could see it.
"It's near," she said excitedly. "South of us but still in Plaka."