The Schliemann Legacy (14 page)

Now, Katrina paused just outside the factory to examine the Heckler & Koch automatic the Greek had given her. She slipped it into her purse and shoved a satchel of American cash into a stack of wood. If the contacts checked out, she would return for the money. She slipped through the partially open door into the darkness.

Grease and grime covered the high windows of the factory, allowing little light to filter into the interior. Decrepit machines, vandalized for useful parts, lined both walls and created a wide walkway down the middle. She could make out three separate sets of footprints in the dusty floor; two turned to the left into a small, dimly lit room and the third branched off to the right and disappeared into the darkness. She heard muted voices coming from the small room and headed toward it, calling out in Spanish.

The two men in the middle of the room stopped talking when she entered. She could feel their eyes work over her body. Their crooked, yellow teeth showed when they smiled at her. The shorter of the pair approached her and ran his fingers through his greasy hair. Needle marks dotted his arms. The pupils of his bloodshot eyes were dilated and when he spoke, his voice had the careless tone of a dedicated addict. Katrina thought he may have shot up just before she arrived.

"Beautiful lady," he said. "You come to buy something from us?"

He tried to caress her face, laughing when she batted his hand away.

"Where is the merchandise?" Katrina asked.

"Where is the money?" he mimicked, openly leering at her. "Or do you plan to pay with something else?"

Katrina glanced over at the second man whose stare had not left her breasts. "My partner has it, outside. When I see the merchandise, he'll bring it in."

"So, you have a partner," said the first man. "Just outside is he? Is that the truth?"

Suddenly, someone snatched her purse from her shoulder and threw it across the room. Two strong arms wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides and crossing her stomach just below her breasts. Her captor pulled her back and lifted her off the floor. She was helpless. As he squeezed tighter, she could barely breathe. Dangling from one massive hand was her satchel of money.

The other set of footprints, Katrina thought. She had ignored the third person and kept her back to the open door. She struggled but the arms only tightened. She could feel the man grind his pelvis against her.

The first man approached and caressed her face again. His hand traced a path to her left breast and he squeezed viciously. "We have you. We have your money. Now, we'll have some fun."

Katrina brought her right knee up and connected with his groin. The force of the blow almost lifted the small man off his feet. He moaned and sank to the floor.

The second man made a move toward her, pulling an eight-inch knife from a sheath in his belt. Before he took half a step, Katrina slumped in her captor's arms and lowered her chin to her chest. The arms around her tightened, but she felt the man's body straighten.

Instantly, she brought her head back and snapped it up into the third man's chin. His jawbone pushed into the soft tissue of his lower brain, knocking him unconscious. His arms went slack. Katrina used the big man's arms to pivot and propel him into the second man and the outstretched knife. The two men collided and fell to the floor, the second man pinned beneath the dead weight of his partner.

Katrina snatched up her bag and ran between the machines and scrambled through the outer door. Once outside, she blocked the entrance with a length of wood and sprinted for her car. Gravel sprayed from the tires as she sped from the lot. Looking through the rearview mirror, she saw the second man emerge from the factory with a Cobray M11 in his hands. She instinctively ducked, expecting a spray of bullets from the powerful gun. Surprisingly, only a single shot rang out. She was moving too quickly to consider the implications of that shot.

Now, as she walked toward her hotel, she wondered if Stefandis was right. Considering her recent failures, maybe she shouldn't be in the field. She had a talent for analyzing intelligence, but was she effective away from the safety of her basement office? First the attack in the hotel room and now a nearly fatal mistake with the gun dealers.

She had no excuse for falling into such a blatant trap, she told herself, other than pure stupidity. She should still be buried in the records department. She couldn't even attain her weapons. What hope did she have of getting into Kadner's compound and escaping with the treasure? The doubts that had mired her in fear and self pity for so long following the death of Alex returned with vengeance. Even after three years, the memory of that day remained sharp and clear.

* * * * *

Although they were by far not his
exclusive
target, Duman had acted against the Greeks several times. These attacks, combined with his Turkish descent, goaded Greek Intelligence, who desperately wanted credit for ending the terrorist's career. By capturing Duman, they hoped to restore some of their country's lost pride. Eight Greek intelligence teams tracked down all leads regarding the terrorist and unearthed information that placed him in New York City. Katrina and her partner, Alex, did the initial surveillance work.

The gods had graced the pair on their arrival in New York. They found Duman and tracked him to his hole - the second floor of a crumbling hotel. The front door of his room led into a narrow hallway and the single window opened onto the fire escape. Alex decided to wait until Duman was alone. Then Katrina and he would make their move.

"We can't go in with just these," Katrina argued, holding up her handgun. "And how can we coordinate an assault without radios?"

"We have him trapped. We can't wait any longer. He could leave any second and we'll lose him."

Katrina saw Alex's eyes gleam with the thought of capturing Duman. He was her partner, but she hated him for his single minded ambition. He was always ready to risk anyone's life, including his own, if it might mean his advancement. He knew the Turk's capture would propel him into the circle of his idol, Nikolas Stefandis. When Alex mentioned his seniority, Katrina knew she had lost the argument.

According to his plan, Alex would storm the front door of the room while Katrina entered through the window. By cutting off his only exits, they hoped to surprise and eliminate Duman. They would shoot to kill. Alex had witnessed the death of eight children when one of Duman's cleverly disguised bombs had detonated a school bus. He had no intention of taking Duman alive.

They synchronized their digital watches and separated.

Katrina encountered her first obstacle when the heavy padlock on the door leading to the roof would not come free. She worked quickly and carefully with a tire iron, but she still used most of her five minutes. She knew Alex would be preparing to batter down the door of the room below and debated whether to risk going back to warn him. At any moment, Duman could leave the room and their chance would be gone. Realizing her indecision was wasting precious seconds she dashed through the door and across the roof to the building's ancient fire escape. She had to descend slowly as the rusted rungs were icy and treacherous.

As her feet touched the platform outside Duman's apartment, she knew she was too late. She heard the wooden door burst inward and looked through the window in time to see a bright flash. She heard four gunshots and saw Alex falling backward into the outer hallway.

Momentarily stunned, she did not see Duman turn to fire at the shadow beyond the window. The bullet went wide by inches. Katrina dove over the railing, only her past gymnastics training saving her as she landed on the snowy tarmac and rolled against the building.

A car sped past her as she ran around the front. Duman was behind the steering wheel, his eyes glittering brightly as he smiled. Katrina would never forget the look on that smug face. Too late, she thought of raising her gun.

She ignored the escaping car and hurried up the stairs. Alex lay on his back, the top of his skull disintegrated by Duman's bullet. A second shot had passed through Alex's right shoulder. Katrina looked inside the room. Three photographer's lights were pointed at the door, rigged to flash when the door opened. Alex had gone into the room blind.

As Katrina stepped back into the hall, her foot kicked two ejected shells lying on the floor. Alex had squeezed off two shots.

She gazed into the deep blue of her own gun. Even blinded and dying, her partner had shot twice. Her automatic remained unfired.

* * * * *

Katrina shuddered at the memory and quickened her pace to the Bacata Hotel. No matter what George or anyone said, she would never lose her sense of responsibility for Alex's death. And for the deaths of all the innocent people Duman had killed since
she
had allowed him to escape.

The result of his operations had always been death, she thought. She suddenly stopped to look around her. Since her arrival in Bogotá, she had felt another presence but had not seen a single suspect. Now, the feeling was stronger. More than just a sense of being watched, Katrina felt an undeniable tingle of danger.

She looked up and down the street. The entrance to the Bacata was only a block and a half ahead. The street was empty except for a few shoppers. Several people left the office building across from the hotel, but headed away from her. The scene was quiet. Nothing sinister.

You're being paranoid, she told herself. She tried to dismiss her heightened unease as an afterthought of the experience with the gun dealers and the memory of New York. She continued along the sidewalk.

Chapter 16 - INTUITION

Duman twisted the small wheel between the binocular eyepieces and slowly brought the Greek woman's head into focus. The Frenchman had been right. Her hair was shorter, but stylish. She ran her hand through the fine strands, casually brushing them into place.

Her large brown eyes sparkled like rich brilliant topaz jewels, even through the binoculars. Duman pictured himself sitting across from her, watching candlelight dance in those eyes. Her clear, dark, Mediterranean skin gleamed with a light sheen of perspiration. She had accented her high cheekbones with a light touch of makeup. This Greek was a true woman, he thought. Mature, intelligent, and resourceful. Not like the oversexed fluff asleep in his hotel room. This woman approached being worthy of his attentions.

He leisurely lowered the binoculars to take in her lithe body, watching the motion beneath her loose top as she walked down the street. Tight pants hugged the slight curves of her hips. Duman could see the taut muscles flex beneath her clothing. He understood why the Mouse had fallen prey to her.

She was slim and in superior physical condition. Strength pulsated from her, but it was tempered by an uncompromising femininity. Duman wondered what she would be like between the soft sheets of the bedroom across the street. She would possess the experience Helene lacked. Youthful passion, though refreshing, could not replace years of sensual experience. After a string of young lovers, he ached for the fulfilling delights of a mature woman.

His mind snapped to attention as the woman stopped suddenly, a worried expression spreading across her face. Duman watched her search the crowds around her. He smiled. She was sensing the error of her ways. Too late. Impatiently, the terrorist willed her forward as his right hand reached for the powerful rifle beside him.

* * * * *

Early in David Morritt's career, he had accepted that he could perceive danger through some unknown sense. He didn't know whether the source was psychic, spiritual, or unconscious awareness but he did rely on it. Now, David felt his body come alive as the warning sense again passed through him.

Katrina Kontoravdis was a block ahead of him. He had seen her tense and look around. Possibly, the same danger alerted her. Where she shrugged it off, David could not be so casual. A definite reason had triggered his internal warning system.

The man tailing him was gone.

Textbook craft. All nonessential personnel cleared the area of an operation at its climax. This procedure insured the safety of any operatives during a sweep by the authorities. One less mouth to talk.

David watched the street ahead of Katrina and concentrated on the unusual and the commonplace.

The hotel was over a full block away. The crowds were thin. All traffic moved at a normal pace. No vehicles lingered along the curb. The threat did not come from the street. Working south along the sidewalk, he sought the source of his concern. Nothing out of the ordinary. Behind him, the street was even more desolate. Still, the feeling of danger persisted.

Morritt quickened his pace and closed the gap between the Greek woman and himself.

* * * * *

Katrina couldn't shake the claustrophobic feeling of danger. She could sense something closing in, choking her off. Remembering Alex's death wouldn't have produced such an intense feeling. She had never felt danger when she had thought about Alex in the past. Only remorse and guilt. This tenseness was something new. Something urgent.

She took another step toward her hotel and suddenly recognized her mistake.

She was returning to a traceable location. She had escaped Munich and traveled straight to Colombia. Her identity had changed, but little else. Any other operative would have lost themself in another country before continuing with the mission. Instead, she had left a trail leading directly to the hotel. She had supplied any stalker with an address. Now she facilitated him by returning.

* * * * *

Duman focused the binoculars on a spot behind Katrina. Several moments later, he found David. He watched him move with the rhythm of the street. Though he despised the man passionately, he respected Morritt's ability. The old man was a maestro. Over fifty and the Israeli still moved with a skill achieved by few men in their prime. Morritt could blend with the natural cover, anticipating his quarry, always ready to cover his next more. It was one of the reasons he had survived countless years in the business. "Countless years and about half a minute more," Duman muttered to himself. "You should have stayed in Israel, Jew."