The Schliemann Legacy (3 page)

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

"Where is the treasure?"

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

"Where?"

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

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

"No, but obviously you have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3 - ISRAEL

Morning came to the desert.

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, the scream of two jets shattered the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

The soldiers began firing as their feet touched the ground and they headed for the closest cover. The pilots delivered another hail of machine gun fire above the heads of the running men as the transports took off. Lifting to two hundred feet, the craft hovered like huge dragonflies.

As the sun obliterated the shadows, the commandos formed a jagged line along the border of the town. At a signal, they moved into the village, splitting into groups of three soldiers. The teams broke into the remaining buildings and searched for survivors or snipers, using the pickax to check for trap doors. When they heard the dull thud of the wooden cover, the men surrounded the entryway, pried open the door, and lobbed a flash grenade down the hole. A team member risked a cave in and checked the tunnel. After completing each search, the team marked the hut with green paint and moved on.

The men reached the far end of the village within ten minutes and a blue smoke flare exploded in the air. Seconds later, the signal repeated. A loud air horn sounded as the helicopters settled to the ground. The commandos relaxed and broke formation, trying to escape the scorching sun by sitting against the partial wall at the rear edge of the village. Drinking from their canteens, they laughed and talked, oblivious to the destruction behind them.

* * * * *

As the rotors of the helicopters slowed and stopped, the silence of the desert settled back over the village. Only the crackle of fires and the low murmur of the men broke the eerie calm.

Behind the soldiers, the village lay in ruin. No building had escaped the onslaught of bombs, artillery and commandos. Huts were missing roofs and walls or totally reduced to heaps of rubble. Deep craters pitted the roads. Fires continued to burn, fuelled by wood and straw. All the visions of war were complete, save one.

No bodies littered the battlefield.

The village was deserted.

David Morritt stood on the low wall and scanned the destroyed buildings. The barrel of the rifle he held was still hot from the rapid firing only minutes before. The ammunition pouches of his jumpsuit were empty, as was the final clip he had discarded. His web belt held no grenades. As David surveyed the ruins, another commando, sporting the rank of a
Rav Seren
, came up behind him.

David, sensing the other's presence, turned and gave a mock salute. "Major Sigura. How did we do on this most important mission? I trust we did not lose any men."

Yaacov Sigura ignored the older man's sarcasm, but the obvious boredom in David's voice concerned the major. "The timing was a little off," he said. "We were almost twenty-five seconds behind."

"I hope this old body didn't hold
you
back."

Yaacov watched David remove his helmet and scrub his sweat drenched head. Gray was heavy at the temples and sprinkled throughout the short dark hair. At fifty, Morritt stood out among the young men of the elite squad. Even Yaacov, the commander of the unit, was over twenty years his junior. However, David possessed a commodity none of the younger men did - experience. Each commando considered it an honor to have David Morritt present. In many ways, David was a legend in their eyes, though most would never know reality from legend. And even the legends paled against the reality that would never be known by more than a few select individuals.

"Hold us back? We needed someone to hold you back." Yaacov pointed at David's empty ammunition pouches. "Have you forgotten the most important rule?"

"I know.
Don't use all your ammunition unless absolutely necessary
," David quoted.

"It could save your life one day," Yaacov said.

"Maybe, but I never get to feel the kick of a gun or smell the powder." Morritt's voice trailed off.

Yaacov glanced back to check his men and then sat down on the wall. "Do you want to talk, David?"

David turned back to the view of the village. "What's to say?" he asked.

Yaacov laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. "David? I've never seen you this bad before."

Morritt sighed and sat down on the wall. These exercises challenged the boredom, but he was becoming anaesthetized to the thrill. "I haven't felt this bad before. I suffer the curse of Bilbo Baggins."

Yaacov avoided David's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with this Baggins fellow," he said. "Was he also in the Service?"

David threw his head back and laughed. "Yaacov, you must vary your reading. Put down your manuals and histories. You can learn much from fiction. This 'Baggins fellow' is a character in Tolkien's
The Hobbit
. After many great adventures, Bilbo couldn't settle into his old life so he wanders from home at every opportunity. His life bores him and he prays for adventure. That's me. I can't settle into the routine. All my life, any type of routine could be fatal. Now, they expect me to sit back with my feet up. I can't do it."