The Freedom Broker, page 11
She’d strategically chosen their usual hotel in case the kidnapper wanted to reach her. Or perhaps it was something from Hakan? Better to play it safe. She reached into her backpack and grabbed a pair of vinyl gloves.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of white paper.
CHRISTOS PARIS AND THE DAMOCLES ARE UNDER OUR CONTROL. DROP TEN MILLION EUROS IN UNMARKED BILLS ONTO THE DECK IN WATERPROOF CONTAINERS BEFORE MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. EVERY HOUR AFTER THE DEADLINE, CHRISTOS WILL LOSE A BODY PART, AND OIL WILL BE LEAKED INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA. NO NEGOTIATION. NO CALLS.
Her hands trembled, but her mind kicked into full gear. The Damocles was one of Paris Industries’ supertankers, carrying more than fifty million gallons of crude. Her father had shown her the blueprints over dinner a couple of years ago. Papa loved all watercraft, big and small, and he’d been proud of his latest addition to the Paris Industries fleet.
She handed Rif the note.
He leaned closer to Stavros. “Who left this envelope?”
“A young messenger boy. Not one of our regulars.” The old man’s brows knitted together. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Not at all. Do you think you could describe this boy to a sketch artist?” The messenger would’ve been paid a few euros for the delivery. It was doubtful they’d be able to identify who had hired him, but they had to try.
“Yes, of course. Remembering faces is part of my job.”
“We’ll have someone here shortly. I need to make a few calls. May we go up?”
“Of course. Sorry if I made a mistake.” Stavros’s face was pale.
Thea squeezed his hand. “Not at all. Please say a prayer for my father.” Stavros was a devout man with a large family—he understood her pain.
The hotel manager tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Absolutely. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist.”
“Thank you.”
Rif led the way to the elevator and remained silent on the ride up. Meanwhile, Thea activated the same GPS app that had allowed her to locate Papa’s yacht. The entire Paris Industries fleet had trackers accessible to Quantum employees, because Quantum provided the company’s security. She typed the supertanker’s name, her pulse throbbing in tune with the flashing red light on the screen.
They entered the suite, and she paced the spacious living room until the location pinged. She waved Rif into the bathroom and turned on the shower to shield their conversation as much as possible from any hidden mics. “The Damocles is nearby, in the Mediterranean Sea. Not exactly a pirate-rich environment. And why are we only finding out about this now?”
“Who would normally be contacted if there was an issue with one of the supertankers—Peter?”
“Not sure. He handles the insurance, but as head of security, Hakan should be the point person. Something’s wrong here. First we receive these strange texts in Latin with insinuated threats, and now a straightforward ransom demand. No proof of life, no negotiations. I’m not sure the messages came from the same person.”
“Maybe Christos was transferred to a new captor?” Rif’s black boots, combat pants, and unshaven look were incongruent with the lavish surroundings.
“Don’t think so. The Latin texts felt personal, revenge-oriented. Suddenly the kidnapper wants cash in unmarked bills? The people on the supertanker may not even have Papa. Could be a phantom demand.”
“And they left us no way to contact them, to negotiate,” he said.
“Or secure proof of life,” Thea said. “I’ll see if I can reach Magnusson, the captain of the Damocles.”
“Wouldn’t he have notified someone if he’d been boarded?”
“If the operators executed a surgical strike, there might not have been time. The ransom turnaround time is tight. If this note is from the real kidnapper, he’s not going to let a bunch of thugs on the deck handle ten million euros. We need to unveil the key player. I’m calling the Damocles’s bridge.”
Abductions varied in sophistication, from a basic express kidnapping—where a random hostage, often a professional or a tourist, was forced to withdraw money from an ATM—to an intricate, well-planned abduction of a VIP. This kidnapping—storming a well-protected yacht and possibly taking control of a supertanker—was as complex as any she’d seen.
She turned off the shower and searched the Paris Industries database for the number of the bridge. After she dialed, she set her cell to record the call while Rif texted Hakan for more information about the supertanker and its crew.
The phone rang and rang and rang. She was about to hang up and try again when someone picked up.
“Captain Magnusson speaking.” His voice was strong, but an underlying tension lingered in his tone.
“Thea Paris here, Captain. Has the Damocles been compromised?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it has.”
She sensed his shame. Her heart plummeted. Some part of her had been hoping this ransom note was a misdirection.
“Has anyone been hurt?”
“Not so far.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home to your family. I keep losing track—how many kids do you have now?” Magnusson was a savvy guy. He’d know what she was asking.
“Ten. That’s why I spend so much time at sea.”
Muffled voices sounded in the background. She couldn’t tell what language they were speaking.
“That’s quite a handful. Is my father on board?”
“Can’t say for sure. I’ve been forced to remain on the bridge since they boarded.”
“Can the kidnapper hear me?”
“Correct.”
“Please put him on.” She didn’t want to place Magnusson in the untenable position of risking his life for what might be useless information.
“You have your instructions. Drop the money off, and Christos Paris will be returned unharmed.” The voice was clipped, concise, with no hint of an accent.
“Who am I speaking to?” Get him talking, work for more information.
“Ten million euros by midnight tomorrow, dropped onto the deck in waterproof containers. In exchange, we return the crew and Christos Paris.”
“It’s impossible to gather that much cash so quickly. Give me a couple of days.”
“Pietro Andreas can make it happen.”
She reeled at the mention of Papa’s personal banker. How could they know? “Let me speak to my father. We’ll need proof of life before we make delivery.”
“You have already received the watch.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. The speaker’s lack of contractions left her with the impression that English wasn’t his first language. “Put Christos on. We need confirmation he’s alive.”
“Sorry, Mr. Paris is busy at the moment.”
“We need proof of life.”
Shuffling. A loud scream in the background. It sounded like Captain Magnusson.
“Midnight tomorrow, or Christos starts losing body parts, and we open the valves to blacken the sea. Your choice.”
A click, then nothing.
She turned on the shower again, e-mailed the file to Hakan for analysis, then pressed the button to replay the entire conversation, listening closely for any further clues.
“My father says there’s a twenty-four-man crew,” Rif said.
“And we can assume ten kidnappers. Magnusson will do his best from his end. Usually kidnappers wax poetic about the horrific pain they’re going to inflict on the hostage, trying to intimidate the family. This guy was more sterile.” She rubbed her palms on her 5.11 Tactical Stryke pants.
“He did promise to cut off Christos’s body parts.” Rif’s eyes narrowed.
“The man had no passion or swagger. I’m not sure who we’re dealing with here.” She paced the spacious marble bathroom. “We need to board that supertanker.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Papa would hate for any of his company’s oil to cause an environmental disaster. When the BP spill happened in the Gulf of Mexico, he was furious. He might be an oil man, but he’s also the son of a fisherman. He went on a tirade about how the oil’s strong scent interfered with sea animals, causing the babies to be rejected and abandoned, leaving them to starve and eventually die. He instituted safety measures on his fleet before they were legislated, built double-hull tankers to protect against spills even though it cost him a lot of money and time to do so. The Mediterranean is his home. He would expect us to act on this and prevent a spill.”
“Where’s the Damocles?”
“Forty nautical miles off Kalamata. Get the team ready. Johansson and Brown should be arriving soon. Hakan had them report for duty the moment Papa was kidnapped.”
“Johansson’s shoulder is fully healed?” Rif asked.
“The man’s superhuman. Blueprints of the tanker are on their way?” she said.
“Absolutely.” He paused. “Even if Christos isn’t aboard, waterproof containers, a deck drop—we’re not dealing with amateurs here.”
She dialed Hakan’s number and put him on speakerphone. “The team’s set?” she asked.
“Mobilized. They’ll be in Athens in a couple of hours. The banker’s preparing the ransom. I started liquidating funds last night.”
“Let’s re-hijack the Damocles.”
Silence extended on the line for a long moment. “Thea, you sure you want to take this risk? If your father’s on board, they could kill him before you find out where he is.”
“Just paying the ransom doesn’t guarantee anything. We also can’t let the crew down. We’ll go in dark.”
“I’m concerned the kidnappers have an inside track somehow. They sent you Christos’s watch, had a team attack you, and they anticipated you’d be at the Grande Bretagne. How did they know you were coming to Athens?”
“I wonder the same thing,” she said.
“Maybe it’s an inside job,” Hakan said.
“Why not have Freddy do a thorough check on the entire team at Paris Industries as well as Quantum, see if anyone might be hiding something?”
“Already on it. I’ll keep you posted. You sure about this plan?”
“Yes.” It’d be a hell of a gamble, given that they didn’t know for sure that Papa was on board, but she had to try.
“Thea’s right,” said Rif. “Information like the existence of the watch could be leaked, traded, or sold, and this could be a copycat or phantom kidnapper. Hell, the actual kidnapper could even have hired these men to act as a decoy while he transports Christos somewhere else. Taking the offensive is the only way to get answers.”
“It’s your call to make. I’ll arrange for the sketch artist, so we can try to find the messenger boy. The team will arrive with full gear. Anything else you need, let me know.” Hakan’s tone was committed.
If all went well, they’d recover Papa and the funds, but when was the last time anything went according to plan? She signed off with Hakan.
Honor, reputation, dignity—they were Christos Paris’s mantras. He even had a public relations firm on speed dial to manage his image. He wanted to be seen as the angel of world energy; Paris Industries, the clean, caring company that stood out from the others. He had also taken great pride in the company’s reputation as a philanthropic giant, setting up grants, scholarships, and charities, all showcasing him as someone who gave back. No way would he want to cause harm to the environment or others.
Her gaze met Rif’s. “Tell me I’m not making a huge mistake.”
“I can’t, but your father would be proud of you.”
“A lot of good that’ll do if I get him killed.” She straightened her shoulders. “Okay, time to plan the mission.”
Chapter Twenty
Blackness cloaked Thea’s team as they torpedoed through the water in two modified cigarette boats, each harnessing over one thousand horsepower. Stealthy and seaworthy, the racers had deep-V hulls that sliced through the swells like hot knives through butter. The inky depths of the Mediterranean and the muffled engines masked their approach to the Damocles. The VLCC—very large crude carrier—rode low on the water, bloated with several cathedral-size tanks, and was slow-moving, which worked to Thea’s team’s advantage. Dressed all in black down to face paint, they blended into the night. She captained one cigarette, Rif the other.
She adjusted her earpiece, waiting for the pilot’s command. The low-flying Cessna was about to drop ten million euros in unmarked bills onto the deck of the Damocles in large waterproof containers. Timing was key. The ransom drop offered the perfect distraction for her seven-man team to board the supertanker undetected.
All of Paris Industries’ crews had been trained to deal with piracy, but supertankers were especially vulnerable. Mostly automated, the bulky, slow-moving vessels had small crews. A crash-stop maneuver, taking the ship from full speed to full reverse, required fourteen minutes and nearly two nautical miles. And international law prevented the tankers from carrying weapons, so the men on board were sitting ducks, the perfect prey.
But Thea’s team was ready to help the Damocles eject its hijackers. Brown and Stewart were responsible for eliminating the kidnappers’ ability to leak oil into the Mediterranean Sea—Brown had a background in engineering, a useful skill set for this type of operation. Rif and Jean-Luc were assigned to disable the kidnappers’ helicopter, leaving the two cigarettes guarded by Neil. Thea and Johansson were tasked with finding her father, if he was even on board.
She double-checked her blood sugar levels on her smartphone. All good.
“Operation Drop Zone initiated,” the Cessna pilot rasped in her earpiece. She accelerated the speedboat toward the Damocles, headed straight for the rudder. The ship’s curved hull blocked the kidnappers from spotting them. Somali pirates had perfected the use of this natural blind spot for boarding vessels undetected.
As the boats approached the expansive stern, they slowed to match the tanker’s speed. Johansson crawled up the cigarette’s deck and attached a powerful magnet to the Damocles’s hull, tossing a rope to Brown to hook onto the speedboat. Jean-Luc completed the same maneuver for Rif’s boat.
The rattle and hum of the approaching Cessna masked their sounds.
Almost time for the drop.
Johansson, an avid mountain climber, scaled the hull using specially designed suction cups, the kind used by art thieves. A few minutes later, he dropped two rope ladders for the others to use. Neil stayed with the boats while the rest of the team slipped over the transom. With the bridge positioned at the stern, they needed to stay dark.
Crouched low, Thea and Johansson quickly scouted the area for any sentries, sound-suppressed MP5s slung over their shoulders. Light glowed from the bridge, and a lone silhouette stood inside. As expected, the arriving ransom was occupying the kidnappers’ attention.
The Cessna’s buzzing intensified as the plane swooped in for the drop. The team used the distraction to spread out and execute their tasks.
She and Johansson moved to the stern stairwell. If Papa was on board, he’d probably be kept guarded in one of the cabins belowdecks.
They padded down the stairs with measured steps. Six Quantum team members, twenty-four dedicated crew, and likely ten hostiles. As in FATS—firearm training simulator—drills, they’d have to determine in seconds if the people they came across were friend or foe.
Pale yellow light from an overhead bulb cast a sickly glow in the narrow hallway. The group inched forward to the first room. Thea eased open the steel door. Empty. She signaled Johansson, and they crept down the hall.
A sound. Scratching. Moaning. Her father?
Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Her hand tightened on her silenced MP5. She and Johansson ducked into the first room, leaving the door cracked open an inch.
A man dressed in black fatigues strode down the hall, AK-47 in hand. He stopped, listened. Another soft moan. Mr. AK headed for the noise.
They had to neutralize him quickly. She nodded to Johansson.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rif and Jean-Luc crept along the deck toward the heliport. This operation had been designed on the fly because of the tight time line. Three teams executing three different missions simultaneously meant three opportunities for fuck-ups. But oddly, the riskier the situation, the calmer Rif became. And the upside was, they still hadn’t been detected by the kidnappers.
Even so, the deck was a covert operator’s nightmare. Open and expansive, it left very few places to hide as they moved toward the helipad. Large pipes spanned the length of the deck, sectioning off the starboard side. They squatted low, scanning the area before moving forward into the night.
Several loud thumps kick-started Rif’s pulse. The waterproof containers holding the ransom landed on the unforgiving deck as the Cessna buzzed by. They had to move quickly. Once the kidnappers confirmed the funds were enclosed, they’d load the containers into an incoming boat or the helicopter and take off.
Two soft beeps sounded in his earpiece. Team two, Brown and Stewart, identifying themselves. He waited. Three more beeps. Excellent. They’d rigged the pipes so the kidnappers couldn’t leak oil into the sea. A temporary fix, but at least they’d neutralized that threat.
One mission down, two to go. The timing was critical. He didn’t want to cause any commotion before Thea and Johansson had thoroughly searched the tanker. Hard to say whether Christos would be on board. It would’ve been easy enough to transport him from the Aphrodite to the Damocles in a Bell 206, but the billionaire could also be secreted in a faraway country by now. The whiplash turnaround of the ransom demand left little room for negotiation or investigation. Rif had been involved in enough of these operations to know that the kidnappers’ tactics were rare and concerning.
With their job done, Brown and Stewart would be joining the search for Christos. Time to disable the ship’s helicopter. He inched forward. Two dark shadows paced beside the Bell 206. Guards. Rif signaled to Jean-Luc.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Down below, Thea cracked open the stateroom’s door again so they could scan the passageway. A slight squeak from the hinges echoed in the eerie silence. The gunman turned, his AK-47 ready for action. Johansson fingered the trigger on his silenced MP5, firing three quick bullets into the man’s torso. He collapsed in a heap.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of white paper.
CHRISTOS PARIS AND THE DAMOCLES ARE UNDER OUR CONTROL. DROP TEN MILLION EUROS IN UNMARKED BILLS ONTO THE DECK IN WATERPROOF CONTAINERS BEFORE MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. EVERY HOUR AFTER THE DEADLINE, CHRISTOS WILL LOSE A BODY PART, AND OIL WILL BE LEAKED INTO THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA. NO NEGOTIATION. NO CALLS.
Her hands trembled, but her mind kicked into full gear. The Damocles was one of Paris Industries’ supertankers, carrying more than fifty million gallons of crude. Her father had shown her the blueprints over dinner a couple of years ago. Papa loved all watercraft, big and small, and he’d been proud of his latest addition to the Paris Industries fleet.
She handed Rif the note.
He leaned closer to Stavros. “Who left this envelope?”
“A young messenger boy. Not one of our regulars.” The old man’s brows knitted together. “Have I done something wrong?”
“Not at all. Do you think you could describe this boy to a sketch artist?” The messenger would’ve been paid a few euros for the delivery. It was doubtful they’d be able to identify who had hired him, but they had to try.
“Yes, of course. Remembering faces is part of my job.”
“We’ll have someone here shortly. I need to make a few calls. May we go up?”
“Of course. Sorry if I made a mistake.” Stavros’s face was pale.
Thea squeezed his hand. “Not at all. Please say a prayer for my father.” Stavros was a devout man with a large family—he understood her pain.
The hotel manager tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Absolutely. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist.”
“Thank you.”
Rif led the way to the elevator and remained silent on the ride up. Meanwhile, Thea activated the same GPS app that had allowed her to locate Papa’s yacht. The entire Paris Industries fleet had trackers accessible to Quantum employees, because Quantum provided the company’s security. She typed the supertanker’s name, her pulse throbbing in tune with the flashing red light on the screen.
They entered the suite, and she paced the spacious living room until the location pinged. She waved Rif into the bathroom and turned on the shower to shield their conversation as much as possible from any hidden mics. “The Damocles is nearby, in the Mediterranean Sea. Not exactly a pirate-rich environment. And why are we only finding out about this now?”
“Who would normally be contacted if there was an issue with one of the supertankers—Peter?”
“Not sure. He handles the insurance, but as head of security, Hakan should be the point person. Something’s wrong here. First we receive these strange texts in Latin with insinuated threats, and now a straightforward ransom demand. No proof of life, no negotiations. I’m not sure the messages came from the same person.”
“Maybe Christos was transferred to a new captor?” Rif’s black boots, combat pants, and unshaven look were incongruent with the lavish surroundings.
“Don’t think so. The Latin texts felt personal, revenge-oriented. Suddenly the kidnapper wants cash in unmarked bills? The people on the supertanker may not even have Papa. Could be a phantom demand.”
“And they left us no way to contact them, to negotiate,” he said.
“Or secure proof of life,” Thea said. “I’ll see if I can reach Magnusson, the captain of the Damocles.”
“Wouldn’t he have notified someone if he’d been boarded?”
“If the operators executed a surgical strike, there might not have been time. The ransom turnaround time is tight. If this note is from the real kidnapper, he’s not going to let a bunch of thugs on the deck handle ten million euros. We need to unveil the key player. I’m calling the Damocles’s bridge.”
Abductions varied in sophistication, from a basic express kidnapping—where a random hostage, often a professional or a tourist, was forced to withdraw money from an ATM—to an intricate, well-planned abduction of a VIP. This kidnapping—storming a well-protected yacht and possibly taking control of a supertanker—was as complex as any she’d seen.
She turned off the shower and searched the Paris Industries database for the number of the bridge. After she dialed, she set her cell to record the call while Rif texted Hakan for more information about the supertanker and its crew.
The phone rang and rang and rang. She was about to hang up and try again when someone picked up.
“Captain Magnusson speaking.” His voice was strong, but an underlying tension lingered in his tone.
“Thea Paris here, Captain. Has the Damocles been compromised?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it has.”
She sensed his shame. Her heart plummeted. Some part of her had been hoping this ransom note was a misdirection.
“Has anyone been hurt?”
“Not so far.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you home to your family. I keep losing track—how many kids do you have now?” Magnusson was a savvy guy. He’d know what she was asking.
“Ten. That’s why I spend so much time at sea.”
Muffled voices sounded in the background. She couldn’t tell what language they were speaking.
“That’s quite a handful. Is my father on board?”
“Can’t say for sure. I’ve been forced to remain on the bridge since they boarded.”
“Can the kidnapper hear me?”
“Correct.”
“Please put him on.” She didn’t want to place Magnusson in the untenable position of risking his life for what might be useless information.
“You have your instructions. Drop the money off, and Christos Paris will be returned unharmed.” The voice was clipped, concise, with no hint of an accent.
“Who am I speaking to?” Get him talking, work for more information.
“Ten million euros by midnight tomorrow, dropped onto the deck in waterproof containers. In exchange, we return the crew and Christos Paris.”
“It’s impossible to gather that much cash so quickly. Give me a couple of days.”
“Pietro Andreas can make it happen.”
She reeled at the mention of Papa’s personal banker. How could they know? “Let me speak to my father. We’ll need proof of life before we make delivery.”
“You have already received the watch.”
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. The speaker’s lack of contractions left her with the impression that English wasn’t his first language. “Put Christos on. We need confirmation he’s alive.”
“Sorry, Mr. Paris is busy at the moment.”
“We need proof of life.”
Shuffling. A loud scream in the background. It sounded like Captain Magnusson.
“Midnight tomorrow, or Christos starts losing body parts, and we open the valves to blacken the sea. Your choice.”
A click, then nothing.
She turned on the shower again, e-mailed the file to Hakan for analysis, then pressed the button to replay the entire conversation, listening closely for any further clues.
“My father says there’s a twenty-four-man crew,” Rif said.
“And we can assume ten kidnappers. Magnusson will do his best from his end. Usually kidnappers wax poetic about the horrific pain they’re going to inflict on the hostage, trying to intimidate the family. This guy was more sterile.” She rubbed her palms on her 5.11 Tactical Stryke pants.
“He did promise to cut off Christos’s body parts.” Rif’s eyes narrowed.
“The man had no passion or swagger. I’m not sure who we’re dealing with here.” She paced the spacious marble bathroom. “We need to board that supertanker.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Papa would hate for any of his company’s oil to cause an environmental disaster. When the BP spill happened in the Gulf of Mexico, he was furious. He might be an oil man, but he’s also the son of a fisherman. He went on a tirade about how the oil’s strong scent interfered with sea animals, causing the babies to be rejected and abandoned, leaving them to starve and eventually die. He instituted safety measures on his fleet before they were legislated, built double-hull tankers to protect against spills even though it cost him a lot of money and time to do so. The Mediterranean is his home. He would expect us to act on this and prevent a spill.”
“Where’s the Damocles?”
“Forty nautical miles off Kalamata. Get the team ready. Johansson and Brown should be arriving soon. Hakan had them report for duty the moment Papa was kidnapped.”
“Johansson’s shoulder is fully healed?” Rif asked.
“The man’s superhuman. Blueprints of the tanker are on their way?” she said.
“Absolutely.” He paused. “Even if Christos isn’t aboard, waterproof containers, a deck drop—we’re not dealing with amateurs here.”
She dialed Hakan’s number and put him on speakerphone. “The team’s set?” she asked.
“Mobilized. They’ll be in Athens in a couple of hours. The banker’s preparing the ransom. I started liquidating funds last night.”
“Let’s re-hijack the Damocles.”
Silence extended on the line for a long moment. “Thea, you sure you want to take this risk? If your father’s on board, they could kill him before you find out where he is.”
“Just paying the ransom doesn’t guarantee anything. We also can’t let the crew down. We’ll go in dark.”
“I’m concerned the kidnappers have an inside track somehow. They sent you Christos’s watch, had a team attack you, and they anticipated you’d be at the Grande Bretagne. How did they know you were coming to Athens?”
“I wonder the same thing,” she said.
“Maybe it’s an inside job,” Hakan said.
“Why not have Freddy do a thorough check on the entire team at Paris Industries as well as Quantum, see if anyone might be hiding something?”
“Already on it. I’ll keep you posted. You sure about this plan?”
“Yes.” It’d be a hell of a gamble, given that they didn’t know for sure that Papa was on board, but she had to try.
“Thea’s right,” said Rif. “Information like the existence of the watch could be leaked, traded, or sold, and this could be a copycat or phantom kidnapper. Hell, the actual kidnapper could even have hired these men to act as a decoy while he transports Christos somewhere else. Taking the offensive is the only way to get answers.”
“It’s your call to make. I’ll arrange for the sketch artist, so we can try to find the messenger boy. The team will arrive with full gear. Anything else you need, let me know.” Hakan’s tone was committed.
If all went well, they’d recover Papa and the funds, but when was the last time anything went according to plan? She signed off with Hakan.
Honor, reputation, dignity—they were Christos Paris’s mantras. He even had a public relations firm on speed dial to manage his image. He wanted to be seen as the angel of world energy; Paris Industries, the clean, caring company that stood out from the others. He had also taken great pride in the company’s reputation as a philanthropic giant, setting up grants, scholarships, and charities, all showcasing him as someone who gave back. No way would he want to cause harm to the environment or others.
Her gaze met Rif’s. “Tell me I’m not making a huge mistake.”
“I can’t, but your father would be proud of you.”
“A lot of good that’ll do if I get him killed.” She straightened her shoulders. “Okay, time to plan the mission.”
Chapter Twenty
Blackness cloaked Thea’s team as they torpedoed through the water in two modified cigarette boats, each harnessing over one thousand horsepower. Stealthy and seaworthy, the racers had deep-V hulls that sliced through the swells like hot knives through butter. The inky depths of the Mediterranean and the muffled engines masked their approach to the Damocles. The VLCC—very large crude carrier—rode low on the water, bloated with several cathedral-size tanks, and was slow-moving, which worked to Thea’s team’s advantage. Dressed all in black down to face paint, they blended into the night. She captained one cigarette, Rif the other.
She adjusted her earpiece, waiting for the pilot’s command. The low-flying Cessna was about to drop ten million euros in unmarked bills onto the deck of the Damocles in large waterproof containers. Timing was key. The ransom drop offered the perfect distraction for her seven-man team to board the supertanker undetected.
All of Paris Industries’ crews had been trained to deal with piracy, but supertankers were especially vulnerable. Mostly automated, the bulky, slow-moving vessels had small crews. A crash-stop maneuver, taking the ship from full speed to full reverse, required fourteen minutes and nearly two nautical miles. And international law prevented the tankers from carrying weapons, so the men on board were sitting ducks, the perfect prey.
But Thea’s team was ready to help the Damocles eject its hijackers. Brown and Stewart were responsible for eliminating the kidnappers’ ability to leak oil into the Mediterranean Sea—Brown had a background in engineering, a useful skill set for this type of operation. Rif and Jean-Luc were assigned to disable the kidnappers’ helicopter, leaving the two cigarettes guarded by Neil. Thea and Johansson were tasked with finding her father, if he was even on board.
She double-checked her blood sugar levels on her smartphone. All good.
“Operation Drop Zone initiated,” the Cessna pilot rasped in her earpiece. She accelerated the speedboat toward the Damocles, headed straight for the rudder. The ship’s curved hull blocked the kidnappers from spotting them. Somali pirates had perfected the use of this natural blind spot for boarding vessels undetected.
As the boats approached the expansive stern, they slowed to match the tanker’s speed. Johansson crawled up the cigarette’s deck and attached a powerful magnet to the Damocles’s hull, tossing a rope to Brown to hook onto the speedboat. Jean-Luc completed the same maneuver for Rif’s boat.
The rattle and hum of the approaching Cessna masked their sounds.
Almost time for the drop.
Johansson, an avid mountain climber, scaled the hull using specially designed suction cups, the kind used by art thieves. A few minutes later, he dropped two rope ladders for the others to use. Neil stayed with the boats while the rest of the team slipped over the transom. With the bridge positioned at the stern, they needed to stay dark.
Crouched low, Thea and Johansson quickly scouted the area for any sentries, sound-suppressed MP5s slung over their shoulders. Light glowed from the bridge, and a lone silhouette stood inside. As expected, the arriving ransom was occupying the kidnappers’ attention.
The Cessna’s buzzing intensified as the plane swooped in for the drop. The team used the distraction to spread out and execute their tasks.
She and Johansson moved to the stern stairwell. If Papa was on board, he’d probably be kept guarded in one of the cabins belowdecks.
They padded down the stairs with measured steps. Six Quantum team members, twenty-four dedicated crew, and likely ten hostiles. As in FATS—firearm training simulator—drills, they’d have to determine in seconds if the people they came across were friend or foe.
Pale yellow light from an overhead bulb cast a sickly glow in the narrow hallway. The group inched forward to the first room. Thea eased open the steel door. Empty. She signaled Johansson, and they crept down the hall.
A sound. Scratching. Moaning. Her father?
Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Her hand tightened on her silenced MP5. She and Johansson ducked into the first room, leaving the door cracked open an inch.
A man dressed in black fatigues strode down the hall, AK-47 in hand. He stopped, listened. Another soft moan. Mr. AK headed for the noise.
They had to neutralize him quickly. She nodded to Johansson.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rif and Jean-Luc crept along the deck toward the heliport. This operation had been designed on the fly because of the tight time line. Three teams executing three different missions simultaneously meant three opportunities for fuck-ups. But oddly, the riskier the situation, the calmer Rif became. And the upside was, they still hadn’t been detected by the kidnappers.
Even so, the deck was a covert operator’s nightmare. Open and expansive, it left very few places to hide as they moved toward the helipad. Large pipes spanned the length of the deck, sectioning off the starboard side. They squatted low, scanning the area before moving forward into the night.
Several loud thumps kick-started Rif’s pulse. The waterproof containers holding the ransom landed on the unforgiving deck as the Cessna buzzed by. They had to move quickly. Once the kidnappers confirmed the funds were enclosed, they’d load the containers into an incoming boat or the helicopter and take off.
Two soft beeps sounded in his earpiece. Team two, Brown and Stewart, identifying themselves. He waited. Three more beeps. Excellent. They’d rigged the pipes so the kidnappers couldn’t leak oil into the sea. A temporary fix, but at least they’d neutralized that threat.
One mission down, two to go. The timing was critical. He didn’t want to cause any commotion before Thea and Johansson had thoroughly searched the tanker. Hard to say whether Christos would be on board. It would’ve been easy enough to transport him from the Aphrodite to the Damocles in a Bell 206, but the billionaire could also be secreted in a faraway country by now. The whiplash turnaround of the ransom demand left little room for negotiation or investigation. Rif had been involved in enough of these operations to know that the kidnappers’ tactics were rare and concerning.
With their job done, Brown and Stewart would be joining the search for Christos. Time to disable the ship’s helicopter. He inched forward. Two dark shadows paced beside the Bell 206. Guards. Rif signaled to Jean-Luc.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Down below, Thea cracked open the stateroom’s door again so they could scan the passageway. A slight squeak from the hinges echoed in the eerie silence. The gunman turned, his AK-47 ready for action. Johansson fingered the trigger on his silenced MP5, firing three quick bullets into the man’s torso. He collapsed in a heap.
