An Aegean Prophecy - Jeffrey Siger [56]
The Russians presented a more difficult problem. They did not play by the same rules of morality. So be it.
13
The place the coast guard picked was among a cluster of barely inhabited, rock-strewn, hilly islands about ten miles north of Patmos. Though small, it still was big enough so that whatever went on in a cove to the northwest wouldn’t disturb the family of goat herders living at the southern end.
One of the Zodiacs from the operation, minus mounted machine gun, met Andreas and Kouros at the port in Skala and had them on the island twenty minutes later. Only a bit of daylight was left by the time they started up the beach toward a tiny, all-white structure. It had a round roof and sat nestled on a ledge about twenty yards above the shore.
‘You’d think they could have found a better place to do this,’ said Kouros.
Andreas smiled. ‘I don’t know, I think it might be fate.’
Light was coming from inside the building through the only window they could see. There were no windows on the front side, only a blue door facing west - in the tradition of all Greek churches, even those in the most remote of places. A man in his early twenties, about Andreas’ size, was standing next to the door watching them approach. Andreas waved as he walked up to him, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Great job, sailor.’
The man nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. The captain is inside with the prisoners.’ He pushed open the door.
The space inside the church was cramped, but neat and clean, as if tended to every day. A military issue, battery-powered lantern stood on a small table next to the door. The required icons were in their proper places, but there was no candle stand. As if reading Andreas’ mind, the captain said, ‘We took it out. No reason to give our friends here anything to swing at us in case they decide to get frisky.’ He smiled. ‘Again.’
The three prisoners sat in a row at the captain’s feet, legs tied together straight out in front of them, and tied again to each other’s. Their hands appeared tied behind their backs. On either side of the row stood a sailor, each armed with a twelve-gauge short-barrel semiautomatic shotgun. They were the best for close work and gave an unmistakable message to the three on the floor: the end is near and here if you want it. From the way the three looked, Andreas doubted they were anxious to test that possibility.
Andreas pointed to the man in the middle. ‘Looks like his face ran into a door a half dozen times.’ The others didn’t look much better.
The captain laughed. ‘They’re big boys, and I guess they thought my little guys couldn’t handle them. They took a run at these two,’ he pointed to the sailors holding the shotguns, ‘when we brought them on board the cutter from the caique. They were wrong.’ The captain smiled again, then kicked the one closest to him on the bottom of one foot. ‘Assholes.’
‘Captain, thank you very much. We’ll take it from here,’ said Andreas.
‘You want us to leave you alone with them?’ He sounded worried.
‘Don’t worry, we can handle it. Just leave a shotgun with my buddy here. He once was one of you.’ Andreas nodded toward Kouros.
The captain smiled. ‘Another sea-sucking lokazides?’
Kouros grinned and gave the captain and the two other sailors some archaic hand-slap that must have meant something to the shared DYK special ops brotherhood of Greece’s equivalent of U.S. Navy Seals.
Andreas had insisted to the minister that the operation use only coast guard vessels so as not to attract unusual attention, and that the men involved must be able to handle trained military types willing and capable of killing without hesitation.