The Forgotten Soldier: A Pike Logan Thriller (18 page)

34

C
arly went from Knuckles to me, looking for a joke that wasn’t there. She said, “What’s going on? What’s Guy doing?”

I said, “What did you help him with?”

She jerked her hands away from Knuckles and said, “Don’t go prosecutor on me. What’s he
doing
?”

Knuckles looked at me, the team leader. Not wanting to voice it out loud himself, he deferred to my judgment on what to say. Carly followed suit, looking me in the eye and saying, “So you think Guy’s over here exploiting the economic turmoil? He’s in Greece using his government connections to make a windfall on the mess of the eurozone fight?”

It was the least possible of a bad situation. She didn’t believe it even as she said it. I saw the hope in her eyes, wanting it to be something as simple as fraud. I hesitated for a moment, then said, “You know Guy. Would he do that?”

Her eyes on me, I saw the hardness come. The realization. She shook her head, saying, “No. He’s not someone who would exploit anything for personal gain.”

I nodded.

She said, “Then what?”

I glanced at Knuckles, wondering how far to go. I decided to take a step back. “All we need to know is what you did for him. We’re trying to find him and don’t have a handle.”

She took that in and said, “Don’t have a handle. . . . You can’t even call him? He’s your man. What’s going on?” She locked eyes with Knuckles and said, “I deserve to know. I lost Decoy. Now I’m losing Guy. Tell me.”

Knuckles glanced at me for help. I decided not to sugarcoat it.

“Guy is off the reservation. He’s hunting men, and he’s killing them.”

She took that in, going from me to Knuckles, skepticism on her face. She’d seen enough of the intelligence world to wonder if maybe Guy had done something sanctioned and was now being cut free, with her helping to hang him. She paused at my words, considering, then said, “He’s killing innocents?”

I leaned forward. “No. They aren’t innocent. At least I don’t think so, but they
are
innocent until proven guilty. He wasn’t sent on this mission. He took it on his own, and he’s killing people one by one.”

She looked at Knuckles and said, “Guy wouldn’t do that.”

He said, “I know. It’s complicated. He thinks he’s in the right, but he’s not. We want to stop it and need your help.”

She repeated, “Guy wouldn’t
do
that. He’s not a murderer.”

I said, “You don’t know what he’s capable of, but I do. I was chosen for this mission because I’m the one who knows what Guy is turning into. I’m the
only
one. And now I’m hunting him.”

She studied me, looking for the lie. There was none. She said, “What do you want to know?”

Knuckles said, “Everything you do.”

And she told us, going through their meeting and his subterfuge about a mission, detailing her complicity in setting up a meeting with a member of the Greek underground, a man who could get him explosives and weapons. Toward the end, I saw her hands shaking, sure she’d just facilitated the extrajudicial killing of men she didn’t even know.

I stopped her and took her hands, saying, “Don’t do this to
yourself. You did what you thought was right. You trusted Guy, and that
was
right. You couldn’t recognize the change.”

I looked at Knuckles and said, “He didn’t recognize it in me.”

Knuckles rocked his head, looking at the sky and thinking. He said, “That’s correct, to a point. But you left the unit before you became Guy.”

I let a grim smile escape and said, “Yeah, yeah. I suppose that’s true.” I returned to Carly and said, “Look, you did nothing wrong. You used your judgment, and any other time it would have been correct. I need you to use it again. I need to find this man you turned him on to. Nikos.”

She nodded and said, “I can do that, but if I do, Nikos is going to wonder what’s going on. Why would I engineer two separate meetings? It makes no sense. He’ll be waiting, and he’ll be less than friendly. He’s not a man to cross.”

I considered her words and said, “Yeah, okay. That’s probably a bad idea. No meeting. Yet. But give us everything you know about him. It might come in handy to find Guy. More important, Guy may contact you again. If he does, we need to know about it. Can you do that? Can you set him up for us if he calls?”

Knuckles’s phone rang. He looked at the screen and said, “Creed.” He stood up and walked away.

Carly let him leave and said, “What do you mean, ‘set him up’?”

“All I want to do is bring him home. I’ve known Guy longer than you. I have no desire to harm him, but this has to stop. It’s going to cause repercussions to the national interests. He’s not hunting wannabe jihadists. He’s killing government officials. No matter how much I might agree with the targets, he’s in the wrong.”

She slowly nodded, then said, “Maybe I can help, if he calls again.”

I said, “That’s all I’m asking.”

Knuckles returned and said, “We’ve got to go. Creed cracked the
Carrier IQ software. The good news is he managed to find the name registered with the phone, and we now own the handset. The bad news is Guy’s left Athens.”

“Where is he?”

“Crete.”

35

G
uy listened to the phone buzz its distinctive rhythm one more time, then threw his toothbrush into the sink and ran into the bedroom, pulling up the OneSpy application on his laptop. The target was on the move, the speed showing he was on foot, but Guy knew he wouldn’t be walking for long.

He’d rented a car for a reason, and Guy was sure he was linking up with that vehicle.

This is it. The meeting.

Guy packed his bag, one eye on the digital display. The dot was stationary for a minute, then began to move, much faster than before.

On the road.

Guy jogged downstairs, ignoring the elevator, then speed-walked past the front desk to the sidewalk outside. He reached the narrow lane in front of the hotel, a mess of traffic cones and yellow tape marking road construction. Behind it was a line of scooters, something that was ubiquitous around the island, so much so that Heraklion Airport had a poster from the British consulate warning its citizens about getting drunk and wrecking them, apparently something that occurred frequently enough for an ad campaign.

After leaving the waitress at the restaurant, he’d debated getting a car and had settled on the scooter. Since there was no parking at the hotel, a rental wasn’t responsive, as he’d have to have it delivered at a
time he wanted to use it, then picked back up. Since he had no idea of a time, he’d opted for the ridiculous scooter, taking a risk that the target wasn’t going to drive for hours. The only problem with it was they didn’t take cash. He was forced to pay with his new credit card.

It would be a trace someone could use. He’d paid cash for the hotel, and cash for his plane tickets, but he knew he’d have to cross this line sooner or later. Couldn’t be helped, and anyway, he’d had to present his passport for the plane tickets. If they had the card, it would be through the passport to begin with.

He looked at his phone, the OneSpy app showing the blue dot moving out of the city on the E75, the main east-west highway. A dangerous sign for Guy’s little steed. He wheeled the scooter around and set out, feeling like Austin Powers.

Traveling at a blistering fifty-five kilometers an hour, being passed by all the cars on the road and getting his face pelted by flying insects, he drove for thirty minutes before pulling to the side of the road to check his phone. The target had stopped at a small coastal enclave called Sisi. Guy did a quick search and saw it was known more for its beaches and expats than anything else.

He pulled back onto the blacktop, continuing on. Twenty minutes later, he was off the highway, taking a left toward the coast on a bumpy, potholed piece of asphalt. He held his phone in one hand, zoomed to maximum, entering the town and then weaving left and right. Eventually, he ended at an empty field, the phone beacon just beyond, inside some sort of house near the water.

He parked and skulked through the tall grass of the field, kicking beer cans and bottles as he tried to remain quiet. He got closer and heard music, then laughter. He reached the front and saw a skull and crossbones pirate flag, two men on a balcony drinking.

It was an expat bar, called, appropriately enough, the Jolly Roger.

He entered a gate and swung around the back, seeing the ocean and the light of tiki lamps surrounding an open deck. In the corner,
under a neon sign, he recognized the neatly trimmed mustache of his target. Next to him was a young man of about twenty-five. Medium height, swarthy skin, and sporting a scraggly jihadi beard as if he had the mange.

Between them was the banker’s bag.

Guy took a seat in the corner, away from the strands of lights crisscrossing the deck. He ordered a beer from the waitress, a Brit who attempted small talk. He answered in short, clipped sentences, not mean but definitely not looking for conversation. He waited until the beer had arrived and the waitress had given up on him before drawing his camera. He took the best photographs that he could of the new man, knowing the lighting would cause havoc with the image, then settled in, watching from across the deck, the light strings above swaying in the breeze, alternately illuminating, then darkening the target table.

Eventually, the banker’s bag was unlocked and opened. Guy watched a manila folder, three fat envelopes, and an old-school flip phone passed across. His target said a few more things, then stood to leave.

Guy felt the choice forced upon him. This was most definitely the meeting he’d heard about in Athens, and now his time for the mission was ticking down. The target had accomplished what he’d been sent to do, and might be driving straight back to the boat to leave. But the new man was intriguing.

He felt his target slipping from his grasp, but couldn’t shake twenty years of operational deployments. Of eliminating the threat for those who couldn’t. And this meeting had all the hallmarks of something bad. Something that should be reported.

He let the target leave, feeling the sliver of darkness coil, demanding he follow. He stuck with the new man. After twenty minutes, the man stood, pulling a bill out of one of the envelopes. Which gave Guy one answer on what had been passed.

Money. And lots of it.

Guy threw his own bills on the table and began to shadow the new man through the small town. Eventually, he entered a three-story cinder-block hotel, a mom-and-pop establishment for the lower stratum of vacationers. Guy stayed outside, and thought about his options. Thought about the conflicting pressure of the killing he wanted to accomplish juxtaposed against the problem in this hotel he wanted to solve.

He decided maybe he could do both. He waited until he was sure the man was settled in his room, then got his own. He checked it out, surveying the dilapidated bathroom and worn bed. He pulled a wooden chair from a corner and set it in the center of the room, thinking through his interrogation strategy. Satisfied, he picked up his phone and dialed another.

When the woman answered, he said, “Hey, you ready to earn that money?”