CHAPTER SIXTEEN
1866 Words
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Reid’s phone chimed as the Gulfstream descended from the sky toward Athens.
It was Langley.
“You’re cutting it awfully close,” Reid answered. “We’re about to set down.”
“Well, it wasn’t easy to find,” Cartwright replied somberly. “Outside of the Syrian refugee registry, there wasn’t a single mention of a Muhammad al-Mahdi.” Reid’s heart sank for a moment, thinking Greece a dead end, until the deputy director added, “But we did locate an M. Mahdi. He’s had a suite reserved at the Athens Grand for eleven days now.”
Reid frowned. The Athens Grand is a five-star hotel, his brain told him. He had been there; he had a sudden and keen recollection of marble floors, vaulted ceilings, white columns, and suited bellboys. The way his memory was coming back was interesting, different from last time; while before he would get brief flashes of memories, like scenes cut from a movie, he was now getting names, images, and full recollections, as if the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place the more he was able to recover.
“The Athens Grand seems like kind of a posh place for a displaced Syrian, don’t you think?” he said.
“It’s why it was checked last, but lo and behold. The hotel isn’t far from the airport, so you should be able to get there quickly.” Cartwright sighed. “Listen, this lead was discovered by our friends at Interpol. They shared it with us, but you can bet that agents are en route right now, and that Greek police are going to know in minutes. You’ve got a very narrow window of opportunity.”
“There’s nothing you can do to keep them at bay?” Reid implored. “We should keep this covert. If this guy is here, I don’t want him spooked.”
“We’re already sticking our necks out big-time,” Cartwright replied. “Our hands are tied. Get there fast and see what’s what. And remember, this is one of those situations that might be worse for us if you’re right than if you’re wrong…”
“So we’ll proceed with extreme caution,” Reid interrupted. He was beginning to feel like Kent again, the way he had back in February. A nervous excitement bubbled within him, and try as he might to stifle it, he had to admit that he enjoyed the thrill.
“You should know, Steele, the president has ordered a cease on all international travel into the US,” Cartwright told him. “As has the entire EU, Morocco, and Mexico. Reports of infection are coming from as far north as central France…”
Reid’s breath caught in his throat. “Another attack?”
“We don’t think so; seems like it’s still fallout from the Barcelona outbreak. All the same, it doesn’t bode well if the WHO can’t contain it. And word is starting to get out on this. There are some in the media that are reporting suspicions of terrorist activity.”
“We’ll get it done,” Reid promised. It was more of a vow to himself than to the CIA.
“Report back with an update…”
“Wait, one more thing,” Reid said hurriedly. He bounced slightly in his seat as the wheels of the Gulfstream touched down on the Athens tarmac. “That Amun assassin, Rais, he’s still out there. I’d like my girls moved to a safe house until I get back.”
The deputy director was silent for a moment. “Kent, your girls are safe. We need you concentrating out there—”
“I won’t be able to concentrate unless I know they’re okay,” Reid interrupted. It came out harsher than he expected. Two rows in front of him, Dr. Barnard twisted in his seat to throw a quizzical glance Reid’s way. He lowered his voice. “If anything were to happen to them…”
“Kent, listen to me. Our latest intel suggests he’s moving towards Russia. Besides, with ports of entry shut down, there’s no way for him to get into the country. Your girls are fine. As soon as we hang up, I’ll call Thompson myself.”
Reid’s nostrils flared. It wasn’t an outlandish request, nor was it a difficult thing for Cartwright to do. But he also understood the severity of their current op, and he imagined that the deputy director, much like himself, wanted to stay focused on the task at hand.
“Fine,” he said finally. “But if we have any reason to believe otherwise…”
“We’ll move them in a heartbeat,” Cartwright promised. “I’ll handle it myself. We’re a little short-handed right now as it is, but as soon as we have an agent available I’ll send them over and have them picked up, all right? Now get to it. Athens Grand, room 405. Quick, quiet, and keep it clean.” Cartwright hung up.
The plane slowed to a stop and Agent Watson lowered the exit ramp. “We have a destination?”
“Athens Grand Hotel, room 405,” Reid told them. His team exited the plane—Watson, Carver, Maria, Barnard, and himself. There was a dark SUV waiting for them on the tarmac, another arrangement by Cartwright and Riker.
As they climbed in, Carver asked, “We have anything to go on here? A description, an age, any distinguishing features…?”
“Outside of being Syrian, no.” Reid got into the backseat, Maria beside him and Barnard at the window. Watson drove, with Carver in the passenger side. “So our target is whoever is in room 405. We keep this non-lethal. Our aim is to detain, search, and question.”
Watson punched the Athens Grand into the GPS console of the car. Cartwright was right; the onboard computer told them it was only a six-minute drive to reach the hotel.
“Johansson, Carver, I want you to take the stairs up,” Reid instructed. It was strange to him how just being around the familiarity of an op could bring back his nature as an agent. It was almost as if he’d never left. “Watson and I will wait in the lobby, in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Radio down to us when you’re in position and we’ll take the elevator up.”
“What should I do?” Dr. Barnard asked.
“You’re going to stay in the car until this is over,” Reid told him frankly.
“Excuse me?” Barnard frowned. “Agent Steele, I assure you I have been trained with firearms, rapid intervention, strike-team protocol—”
“Are you an agent?” Reid interrupted. “Or are you a doctor?”
Barnard stared straight ahead, clearly unhappy but not arguing.
Beside him, Maria’s fingers surreptitiously found Reid’s and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You ready to get back into this?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. “Yeah. I am.” And it was true; his muscles were taut with anxious energy, craving a thrill, a chase, a release of adrenaline and endorphins. It should have scared him, how easy it was to settle back into his Kent Steele persona. But it didn’t; it excited him. He couldn’t help but wonder how he managed it before, when he had all of his memories. How did he go from being Professor Lawson, loving husband and father, to CIA Agent Kent Steele? Was it like flicking a switch? Was he able to leave the terror and bloodshed at the door? He had failed to do that after Davos; perhaps whatever part of him was able to keep up the subterfuge with his family was still locked away in his mind.
“Radios on,” Watson said as they approached the hotel. “Keep the line of communication open.” He pulled the SUV into the roundabout that led to the valet service.
The first three floors of the Athens Grand had been built to mimic ancient Greek architecture, with huge white Ionic columns supporting the stone awning over the hotel’s main entrance. Beyond that, another twelve floors stretched skyward in a simple gray high-rise, a bizarre but beautiful blend of contemporary and past, situated on the edge of the city proper.
Watson parked the SUV just beyond the valet stand. “Barnard, keep the engine running and don’t let anyone move it. We’ll keep in contact.”
The doctor murmured his assent, and the four agents climbed out of the car. A young parking attendant in a red vest chattered at them in unintelligible Greek—I guess I don’t know Greek, Reid mused—but they ignored him and hastily entered the hotel’s spacious white lobby.
“Stairs.” Maria gestured towards a white door to the right of the bank of elevators and Carver followed her. She threw a glance over her shoulder at Reid. “See you soon.” She and Carver headed up to the fourth floor.
Watson and Reid stood in front of an elevator, waiting for Maria and Carver to reach their position and scope it out. The two of them would look like an ordinary couple staying in the hotel; the four of them together might startle anyone paying too close attention.
Reid’s foot bounced against the marble floor as they waited.
“Nervous?” Watson asked casually.
“Anxious,” Reid replied. “And… yeah, maybe a little nervous. For all we know, a potentially world-ending supply of mutated smallpox could be forty feet over our heads. Let’s make sure we play this cautiously, all right?”
Watson scoffed lightly. “Agent Zero is telling me to play it cautiously?”
Reid frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Watson shrugged one shoulder. “Just ‘cautious’ isn’t usually your way.”
This time it was Reid’s turn to scoff. Was that what this was about, Watson’s aloof attitude toward him? Because he didn’t care for the “Kent Steele way” of doing things?
“I’ll remind you that I barely remember what ‘my way’ might be,” Reid told him. Although, he thought, despite not having his memories as Agent Zero, when things got rough his instincts tended to kick in—often with very bad results for the person on the receiving end.
Maria’s voice suddenly came through the radio, directly into his earpiece. She spoke quietly, her words feathered with an edge of white noise. “Fourth floor,” she confirmed. “Hall is empty. We just passed four-oh-five. Door is closed. If anyone is in there, they’re silent. There’s an ice machine just around the corner where we can keep eyes on the stairs; we’ll wait there for you.”
“Got it. Be there in a minute.” Reid pressed the up button, and both agents watched the red-lit display above the elevator as it descended to the ground floor.
The doors opened and Reid stepped aside as five people got out, scattering in different directions. Agent Watson stepped forward, but Reid paused, his brow knitting in the center in a deep frown.
Two of the people who disembarked from the elevator were men, dressed casually, walking slowly toward the exit. Their skin was an olive hue that might have been Greek. There was nothing to immediately suggest that there was anything amiss about them—except that they were speaking Arabic to each other, and Reid understood them as easily as if they had been speaking English.
“It is taking too long,” the first man remarked to his companion as they brushed past Reid. “It should have been ready by now.”
“Kent, let’s go,” Watson prodded, holding the elevator door.
Reid held up a hand sharply and took a few quick steps after the men, just in time to overhear one’s words to the other.
“Patience,” the man told his companion. “The Imam says today is the day.”
The Imam.
“It’s them,” Reid called to Watson. “The Syrians!”
“What?” Watson stepped off the elevator, clearly confused. The two Arabic men heard him and spun quickly. Reid suddenly realized his mistake; he had been listening to an Arabic conversation, and he had unwittingly shouted to Watson in Arabic.
The pair of Syrians wasted no time; they took off at a sprint toward the hotel’s exit. Reid gave chase, Watson not far behind him. A pair of British tourists stepped into Reid’s path as he ran, and he plowed into a hapless middle-aged man, sending him sprawling across the floor.
“Sorry,” Reid grunted. Watson caught up to him and the two agents burst through the doors, just in time to see the Syrians climbing into a silver sports car. A young valet, the same one who had shouted at them upon their entrance, was lying on his back and holding his bleeding forehead.
The sports car’s tires screeched loudly and it rocketed forward, the back end fishtailing around the roundabout and onto the street.
It was them. There was no doubt in Reid’s mind as he leapt forward toward their waiting SUV.
- Writer
