Black Skies (19 page)

N
ight fell on the blue Mediterranean Sea as Morgan and Randall’s taxi dropped them off at the small dock where an aging Greek in a ratty polo shirt was waiting for them with a small speedboat.

“Come on, I don’t have all night,” he said hoarsely, breath smelling of alcohol with a hint of anise.

Morgan stepped down onto the boat and held his hand out to help Lily. She scoffed and hopped gracefully off the pier. The Greek gunned the engine, and the speedboat carried them along the darkening waters to a schooner about a mile off shore.

“Welcome aboard!” said Spartan as she helped Randall up onto the boat, then Morgan. Spartan was already in a black wetsuit. Its passengers delivered, the speedboat roared off into the black Mediterranean waters. “You made it. And this is Randall?”

“Who else?” she said. “And you must be the famous Spartan.”

“Built like a twig, aren’t you?” said Spartan, shadowboxing the air in front of Lily. “You sure you can tangle with the big boys?”

Spartan didn’t have Lily’s greyhound physique. She was more solidly built, with a squarer face and a stronger jaw. Her wetsuit clung to her body, revealing its outlines. They were far from delicate, but they were powerful. While she was attractive in her way, she could not match Lily’s eye-turning beauty, the curves revealed by her sheer floral dress.

“Maybe you’d like to try me, blondie,” said Lily.

“Let’s save the violence for Weinberg, all right?” said Morgan.

They walked down the wooden steps into the cabin, which was lit by a dim, flickering light that swayed to the movement of the boat.

“Glad you could join us, Cobra,” said Bishop, who was in his wetsuit as well. Next to him was Diesel, reclining on the wooden seat of the schooner, his naked torso exposed to the cool night breeze. “I take it that this lovely lady is Ms. Randall.”

“Enchanté,”
she said.

“I hear you gave Cobra a little bit of trouble back there,” said Bishop.

“I heard you kicked his ass,” said Spartan, shooing Diesel away to take a seat next to him.

“That’s not quite how it happened,” said Morgan.

“He’s just bitter that he got beat up by a girl,” said Randall.

“She had a gun on me,” Morgan grumbled.

“All right, big guy,” said Bishop. “We have your wet suits here. Ms. Randall—”

“Lily will do fine,” she said. “Ms. Randall makes me sound like a frumpy secretary or a librarian or something.”

“I don’t think
anyone
would mistake you for either of those things,” said Bishop. He handed her the neoprene suit. “We got your size from the MI-5 employee database.”

“How indiscreet of you,” she said.

“I’ll leave you to change,” said Bishop, moving toward the wooden stairs.

As he, Diesel, and Spartan walked up and out of the cabin, Morgan shuffled through the canvas bags to find his own wetsuit and was about to leave when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lily had already pulled her dress down, her black bra exposed.

“Jesus!” he said.

“Oh, you prude,” she teased, and continued to undress. Morgan turned around and unbuttoned his shirt, glad he never shared any of the details of his work with his wife. As he pulled down his pants, he caught a glimpse of Lily’s reflection on one of the portholes, and made a point to avert his eyes from that as well. Careful not to bend the injured fingers on his left hand, he pulled on the neoprene suit, which clung tightly to his skin. He moved around so that the elastic material would settle comfortable on his skin—and to kill time until he was sure he wouldn’t see Lily Randall’s bare chest.

“It’s okay, you can turn around now,” she said. He did, to find her sporting a gently mocking grin, the black suit clinging to her form, revealing her flat stomach and the curve of her waist.

“It’s a bit of a tight fit,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

Morgan rolled his eyes and banged his good hand a couple of times against the wooden side of the cabin, calling out to the others that they were dressed.

They all converged on the open-air deck of the schooner. The captain cut the lights and started the engine, and they rumbled in the darkness under the stars and the nearly full moon. Morgan reclined, laying his head on his pack, resting his back on the hard wood, which felt as cozy as a bed. The others got comfortable too, and they shared war stories in the dark until they were in sight of Weinberg’s villa. The captain cut the engine, and all they could hear was the creaking of the boat as it gently rocked from side to side.

It was built high on a steep and otherwise empty and barren hill, dimly lit by the light of the moon. It was typical of what they called Cycladic architecture, bearing whitewashed, round-edged walls, climbing the slope in boxy, steplike segments. A high wall circled the entire property, although they could see the house itself because of the angle. The dimensions of the villa were as expected for a man like Weinberg—at least eight bedrooms, spacious verandas, a large backyard hidden by the angle, and a helicopter on a landing pad—a two-seater, but Morgan couldn’t tell what kind from that distance.

“Damn,” said Diesel. “Must be nice, being a millionaire.”

“That’s billionaire,” said Spartan. “With a
b
.”

“Yeah, well, either way.”

Morgan took a pair of night-vision binoculars from the field pack that they had brought for him and examined the house. His vantage point prevented him from assessing whether Weinberg was in there, although the armed guards patrolling the property told him that was more than likely.

“How many do you count?” Morgan asked Bishop.

“Six.”

“I count seven,” said Morgan.

“Two by the pool, two at the side of the house, two circling the perimeter,” said Diesel, joining the party. “That’s six.”

“There’s one on the roof,” said Morgan. “On the far end, near the window that has the light on.”

“I see him,” said Bishop. “All right. Diesel takes sniper duty. We take it in teams of two. Scale the walls on either side. On the right there’s a small gap in the bushes against the house itself. On the left there’s a covered, out-of-sight sconce. Diesel keeps us informed about the location of the guards as much as he can. One team secures the first floor while another moves on to the second. We converge on Weinberg’s room and take him away while Diesel provides cover.”

“What are the teams?” asked Morgan.

“Since you and Lily are already acquainted, you can team up,” said Bishop. “Mistrust is a tactical disadvantage.”

“Mistrust?” said Lily, with mock outrage. “Of little old me?”

“Might have something to do with you stealing the thumb drive off Cobra and leaving him to get caught,” said Spartan.

“Teaming up with Lily will be fine,” said Morgan. “Are we ready?”

“Let’s go,” said Bishop.

They assisted each other in putting on their scuba gear and waterproof rucksacks and dropped off the back of the boat. Morgan was last to jump in, the cool water enveloping him. He looked at the compass strapped to his wrist, and swam in the dark water due south. He continued for about ten minutes until he could just make out the outlines of the land rising in front of him. He found the ridge that he was aiming for, and came out of the water on the other side of it, shielded from view of the house. He spotted Bishop, Lily, and Diesel already there, crouching and unstrapping their gear. A few seconds after he got out of the water, Spartan’s head emerged, snorkel first. They stashed their gear behind a rock, put on boots and bulletproof vests. They strapped on their sidearm holsters—Morgan with his Walther PPK—shouldered their backpacks and slung their HK MP5s across their chests—all but Diesel, who had his M39 sniper rifle instead. They then tested their communicators.

“Zeta, we are in position,” said Bishop.

“Mission is go,” said Shepard. “I repeat, mission is go.”

“All right, move out,” said Bishop.

They lowered their night-vision goggles and ran in a line with the ridge on their left, shielded from view. When they were level with the lower wall of the villa, they turned to make their approach—except Diesel, who broke off from the group and continued climbing to find a suitable sniper nest.

They ran under the cover of darkness over the uneven rocky terrain, Bishop taking the lead, Morgan bringing up the rear behind Lily. Upon reaching the whitewashed outer wall, they stood up against it so that they couldn’t be seen by anyone above. Morgan signed to Lily to follow him along the ocean-facing wall, while Bishop and Spartan ran up the slope.

They ran about three hundred yards, negotiating the tricky footing of the rock at the foot of the four-yard wall. They rounded the corner and Morgan signed for them to halt. “In position.”

“Ready here, too,” said Bishop.

“Hold in position,” said Diesel. “Wait for it.... Okay, move out.”

The wall was too high to climb unaided, but they had brought along a tactical ladder for that purpose. This was a device with a square hook at one end attached to Kevlar rungs. He reached back to retrieve it from his pack. He then swung up the hook and tossed it over the wall, then pulled the ladder down. The hook found purchase at the top of the wall, and he pulled the ladder taut.

“Cover me,” he told Lily, and began the climb. It took him seconds to reach the top and jump over the wall, landing on the deck as lightly as he could. Here, he was in the spot chosen for insertion—covered by an awning, a dark corner which turned into a spacious deck and Olympic-sized swimming pool illuminated by floodlights.

Leaning over the side, he signaled for Lily to follow. He raised his night-vision goggles and stood against the side of the lowest boxy unit of the house, drawing his combat knife. Lily soon swung her body in a smooth fluid motion over the wall, landing at his side. She pulled the ladder up and stashed it in Morgan’s rucksack. It was surprisingly compact when bunched up.

“Diesel, we’re up here. Give me the position of the guards?”

“There’s one right above you. Keep flat against the wall. Another one is about to round your corner in just over ten seconds. Bishop and Spartan, there are two there, facing away from you about eight feet from the corner. I want you all to make your move on my mark.”

Morgan gripped his knife.

“Three,” counted Diesel, “two, one . . .”

The guard appeared at the corner right at Diesel’s mark. He appeared to be looking out at the moonlit ocean, oblivious to the death that awaited him. Morgan let him walk to the edge of the wall, so that he had his back to him. In a quick and precise motion, Morgan grabbed the man’s forehead and slit his neck. He gurgled, and Morgan nudged him so that he slumped over the wall. The man spun in the air to land on his back on the ground below. Morgan then heard the whistle of a sniper’s bullet, and the dull impact above. The guard from the roof tumbled down and hit the deck around the corner from Morgan and Lily, blood and brains splattering around his head.

Morgan signaled for Lily to go. She took the lead this time, and he followed behind.

“Lily, you’ve got a man behind the glass at the entrance nearest to you.” He was referring to the enormous French doors that faced the swimming pool. “Bishop and Spartan, there are two bad guys coming around from the front on your side.”

“How do you want to take this one?” Morgan asked.

“Follow my lead,” she told him. She dropped her gear, undid her bulletproof vest, and then unzipped her wetsuit, pulling off the top so that it hung limply at her front and Morgan could see her exposed back.

“What the hell are you doing?” She walked out, in full view of the glass door, and continued to walk forward.

He heard the door unlock, slide open, and another of the guards, Uzi in hand, emerged from the interior. The man whistled to call her attention, and she turned around, looking innocent.

“Oh, dear, am I in trouble?” she said innocently.

Morgan was so stunned by what she had done that he almost forgot to take action. He approached from behind and plunged his tactical knife into the man’s neck. Holding on to his torso and still gripping the knife, Morgan pulled him backward, setting him gently down in the darkness where he wouldn’t be spotted.

“I’d like to see you try that trick,” said Lily.

“Let’s get inside,” Morgan told Lily, who had followed him. “And for God’s sake, put a shirt on.”

She pulled on her wetsuit and re-strapped her vest. They rounded the corner once more, Bishop and Spartan showed up from the far end of the house. They met at the open French doors, and Bishop took the lead, spreading wispy white curtains as he entered.

They had come into a sort of lounge, with sprawling couches all done in wicker and white leather. Morgan couldn’t help thinking that Jenny would adore it.

“We’ll get Weinberg upstairs,” said Morgan. “You two secure the first floor.”

“Roger,” said Bishop. Morgan lowered his night-vision goggles and signaled for Lily to follow him, clutching his MP5. They crept up the wooden staircase and found a hallway upstairs with five doors, all on their left, facing the ocean, ending in another curving staircase. Lily guarded their back as Morgan checked the rooms one by one. The first four came up empty. The door to the fifth was closed.

Morgan pushed the door, which opened with a creak. Beyond it was a suite furnished with a rustic hardwood bed with matching closet and dresser. White curtains billowed from the door to the balcony, on the opposite wall. Weinberg was lying on top of the comforter on the bed, naked, curled up facing away from them. Morgan raised the MP5 and unlocked the safety catch.

“Weinberg!” Morgan shouted.

The German sat up, confused and blinking in the darkness.