Spy Ink includes The Spy Fiction Hall of Fame
Home The Secret Exploits of Angevine Rose The Triakis Action (1) The Triakis Action (2) The Triakis Action (3))	The Secret Exploits of Angevine Rose The Triakis Action Copyright 2008 by M. Wolf
	IV. Angevine Rose reached the alley just in time to see the woman she was after slip around a corner onto a street at the other end. She started off in pursuit -- then pulled up short when she heard the shooting. It was a hit, and Michael was in trouble. Was Yasmin involved? How could Yasmin be alive. Angevine hesitated a few precious seconds. She was sure she had just seen the woman who had haunted her sleep almost nightly these past two months. And yet ... and yet Yasmin Liraz had died in Salonia. Hadn't she? Angevine remembered it vividly -- kneeling at the body for only an instant, reaching out to touch her lover, Michael running past, sweeping her away, and she with only time enough to clutch at Yasmin's hand ... and the ring coming off the Mossad agent's finger. No, Yasmin couldn't be involved. But Angevine didn't have time to ponder all of that. She hesitated for only a moment. Yasmin was getting away. Michael was under fire. Angevine turned back. Only to find the passage blocked by a pair of men who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. In a glance she knew them for what they were. Evzones. Greek street toughs. The name had originally signified Greek soldiers, but its common usage included any tough guy. Maybe these two were local. Or maybe they'd been imported. Since he didn't put much stock in coincidence, Robinson was confident of one thing -- they were hired help -- hired by the local KGB network. And they were both armed with knives. "I know this isn't playing fair, guys," said Angevine, raising the Beretta. "But I don't have time to play." "We do not want to play, Amerikanos," said one of the evzones. "We are here to kill you." They had separated, moving to either side of her, a classic maneuver, and one Angevine knew she had to forestall. So she fired, putting a bullet into the leg of one of the Greeks. This one fell back against the wall, clutching his leg. The other one attacked in the same instant. Angevine was ready for him. She nimbly eluded the vicious sweep of the knife, latched onto her assailant's wrist in passing and flipped him head over heels. Once the man was on the ground, Angevine used her grip on the man's wrist to leverage him over onto his stomach. A little more pressure, bending the wrist in a direction it wasn't intended, forced the evzone to drop his weapon. Angevine kicked it away. Only then did she release the man. Backing up, she covered them with her pistol. "Check out of this game," she advised with a cold smile. "It's no place for amateurs." With that she spun and headed back up the alley.... Crouched behind the Sunbeam Alpine, Hazard had an idea. The street was at a slight incline; if he could put the car in reverse it would roll backwards -- perhaps as far as the street corner. And if they could get that far they'd be able to dodge down the intersecting street and out of the sniper's line-of-sight. It beat hanging around waiting to get shot. "Stay low," he told Triakis. "When the car starts to move, move with it. Just remember to keep your head down." He didn't wait for a response from the scientist. The shooter hadn't fired in almost thirty seconds -- he was waiting for a target. And the streets were empty -- the inhabitants of Kastraki had wisely sought cover. The passenger door was ajar; he crawled across the front seats, cut the ignition, released the parking brake, reached down with his left hand to depress the clutch and used his right to shift into reverse. As he had calculated, the car began to roll backwards. He slid out to rejoin Triakis. They stayed behind the car, crouched low. The shooter fired again, puncturing one of the tires on the driver's side. He'd figured out what Hazard was up to, but there wasn't much he could do to stop it. Twenty more feet. Ten. The driverless car began to veer off the road, then hit a light pole at the corner. Grabbing Triakis by the arm, Hazard made a run for it. The sniper fired again. Hazard slammed Triaki against the wall of the building on the opposite side of the intersecting street. They were out of the shooter's sight now. Hazard heard police car sirens, and breathed a sigh of relief.... Vulkan's weapon of choice was a Husqvarna 561. It was a .358 Magnum centerfire sniper's rifle with a three-round magazine, 25.5 inch barrel, hand-checkered walnut stock and corrugated butt plate. The weapon's total weight was a little less than eight pounds. The breech pressure was about 20 tons p.s.i., so the muzzle velocity was quite high and the trajectory of a 150-grain bullet was flat. The rifle was mounted with a Bausch & Lomb Balvar 5 scope. The weapon had never failed Vulkan before. But it was failing him now. He cursed under his breath as he checked the Balvar 5. He'd fired four times, and each time the shot had gone wide to the left. He was trying to adjust, but that wasn't easy -- only with the fourth shot had he hit what he was aiming for, the Sunbeam Alpine's tire. He could only assume that Borodov had tampered with his weapon at some point in time after his final check of the Husqvarna. But why? What game was the cell commander playing? The police klaxons were much louder now; Vulkan peered over the low parapet that encircled the roof. Two police cars were skidding to a halt at the front of the building; the third was speeding on towards the intersection where the Sunbeam Alpine was resting against the light pole. Vulkan checked the intersection through the scope. Triakis and the Department K agent were out of sight, and they wouldn't be foolish enough to emerge into the open. He saw the third police car stop. Two uniformed men got out. He was surprised to recognize one of them. It was Zandros. What was Zandros...? Then he swung the rifle slightly to survey the street -- and saw Angevine Rose coming out of the alley into which she had disappeared only a moment before. Vulkan was sighting to the right of his target, trying to adjust, when the policemen burst onto the roof. They had moved more quickly than he'd anticipated. Turning, he fired the Husqvarna from hip level, emptying the magazine with two shots, both of which hit their marks. It was the third policeman who killed the Section 13 assassin with several shots from his service revolver. The impacts of the bullets sent Vulkan reeling over the low parapet. He was dead before he hit the street.... Angevine was halfway to the intersection when he saw the two policemen emerge from their car and approach Hazard and Triakis, who were pressed up against the front of a building. Both policemen brandished saps and struck their unsuspecting victims without warning. Angevine shouted, lengthened her stride -- and then hurled herself to the street as one of the policemen whirled and began shooting at her with a pistol. In seconds both Hazard and Triakis had been bundled into the car, and as it sped away, one of the policemen tossed a canister underneath the Sunbeam Alpine. Angevine scrambled to her feet and tried to put as much distance as possible between herself and the car. When the explosion came its force was sufficient to knock her down. Metal shrapnel whistled overhead. By the time she dared look up, the police car was long gone.... Standing on the rim of a steep hillside above Kastraki, Ilya Borodov lowered the Negretti binoculars and allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. From his vantage point he had been able to watch the entire operation unfold. Standing beside him, Chenko breathed a sigh of relief. "So it went well, Colonel?" "Of course," replied Borodov. After all, it had been his plan. "Zandros has Triakis, and one of the American agents. Elena did her job well. And Vulkan is dead. All in all, quite satisfactory." "General Gorinsky will not be pleased," worried the cryptographer. "There will be nothing he can do about it. Vulkan died valiantly. He did his part in a successful operation to recover Triakis. Vulkan for Triakis -- it is a trade not even Gorinsky would dare question openly." "What will you do with the American?" Borodov shrugged. "He may be of some value. We will let Valenten decide his fate." "But there is a kill-on-sight order...." "That is Gorinksy's doing. Not Valenten. Besides, I am not a Section 13 assassin." "And what about ... the girl?" Borodov knew Chenko meant Angevine Rose. "We cannot concern ourselves with her. She has failed twice. Her career is finished. Come, we will be late for our rendezvous with Elena. And then we will return to Ikor and prepare to go home -- at long last." They climbed into the black Peuguot awaiting them on a nearby road and drove away.   When Cultural Attache Nils Larsen walked into his office at the U.S. embassy in Athens the next morning, he was shocked to find Angevine Rose waiting for him. "How did you get in here? Why wasn't I informed?" Angevine, sprawled wearily in an armchair, raised a forefinger to her lips. "Keep your voice down, Lars. You might wake the Marines. I'll tell you my secret if you'll tell me yours." "What are you talking about?" "Michael said there was an intercept of an KGB message about me from Borodov's cell. That must have come from you. I want to know where the message originated." Larsen grimaced. He went to his desk and sat down and kept his hands on the top because he knew Angevine was watching to make sure he didn't reach underneath to hit the emergency button that would summon a squad of the very stern and dedicated Marines assigned to embassy security. He considered denying any knowledge of an intercepted KGB message ... then decided that would be a waste of time. He knew this young woman, and she knew he was Department K's source for information of this sort in Greece. "I heard about Kastraki last night," said Larsen, as though he had a bad taste in his mouth. "What a mess. Where the hell were you when Triakis and Hazard were grabbed?" "Chasing a ghost. Now, about that location...." "No way. You're out of this. We didn't really care about losing Triakis. Sure, the Israelis still wanted him, and it would have been a feather in our cap to deliver him, but we had all the information we required after the debriefing. The main thing was to tie up loose ends. Maybe smoke out the Borodov cell. Losing Hazard wasn't in the game plan." "I'll get him back. Just tell me where he is." Larsen sighed, stared at Angevine for a moment. "You're a mess." "Yeah well, you try riding on top of the train all the way from Kalambaka to Athens without getting a little travel-worn." Larsen's eyes narrowed. "The signal came from the island of Thera. We believe Borodov to be in the old castle of Ikor. We can only hope it will take Borodov a little while to make arrangements to get back into the USSR. Because I need twenty-four hours before we'll be ready to go in and try to recover Hazard. I have to use a private contractor. The Department won't risk more assets and Cybil doesn't want to owe the Company that big of a favor." "I'll get him back," said Angevine, heaving herself up out of the chair. "I'm not an asset anymore." Larsen looked skeptical. "Well, you can try. And one more thing...." Angevine paused on his way out the door. "Don't bother coming back without Hazard." Angevine nodded, and left the office.   The old Greek fisherman, his face as creased and weathered as the rocks above the cove into which he had skillfully guided his caique, wasn't getting any fishing done today. But he had a pocketful of drachmas, courtesy of Angevine Rose, so he didn't mind. Chain-smoking Xanthas, he expertly maneuvered the craft as close to the base of the precipice as he dared, then nodded at his son, who -- though distracted by the presence of the pretty blonde girl in the boat, lowered the brown canvas sail. The old fisherman curtly spoke to Angevine, who looked inquiringly at the younger man. "He says beware the kallikantzari," said the latter, with an apologetic smile. "The demons. There are many in this place." Angevine nodded. "Tell me about it." In times of danger her senses seemed particular acute; she was assailed by the pungent aroma of the sea, and of the old wood of the boat and the acrid fragrance of the old man's Greek cigarette. Sitting in the stern, she was running a length of rope provided by the fisherman through the trigger guard of his Beretta, behind the trigger, attaching the other end of the rope to a belt loop at the back of her jeans. Then she snugged the pistol under the waistband at the small of her bac, pulled down the gray tank top to conceal the gun. She'd already shed her shoes, so she was ready when the fisherman gave the signal that indicated the caique was as close to the rocks as she was prepared to take it. When the signal came, Angevine flipped over the stern and plunged into the water. With strong strokes that defied the push and pull of the currents trapped in the cove, she reached the base of the cliff and found a handhold. Only then did she look back -- to see that the caique was leaving the cove at a fair clip, under full sail. She looked up and was unable to see the rim that was her destination, but she'd already calculated that it was a good five hundred feet above the surface of the sea. And at the crest of this precipice was the ancient castle of Ikor. She hoped Hazard was there. Angevine began to climb, her wet clothes clinging to her lithe body. All the techniques, all the lessons she had learned at the Ranger school at Fort Benning kicked in. An experienced climber could move up a rock face that she could not actually cling to. It was a matter of seeking counterpoise between one point of imbalance and another, defying gravity, fingers and toes finding purchase on little ripples or creases of rock that even a serin could not perch upon. The secret was not to stop, particularly at a point of imbalance, and not to press herself against the stone, which was the natural inclination. A natural -- but fatal -- inclination, because to do so cost her leverage. Angevine did not look down, did not let fear take charge, knowing that if it ever did it would weaken her, would mean she did not make the tension foothold or handhold with conviction -- and then she would fall. A hundred feet above the cove she found a fissure, a crack that reached diagonally up the face from her left to her right, and she made good use of it until it petered out a hundred feet further up. Then she found herself confronted by her first real obstacle -- a lip of stone she'd been unable to see from below. Wedging the heels of her feet into the tapering end of the fissure, she reached out and up and pressed the palms of her hands against the underside of the lip. Maintaining constant pressure, she moved her hands further out until she could curl her slender but powerful fingers around the edge of the lip, and even as gravity pulled her away from the cliff face she used that to kick away and curl her entire body up and over the protrusion, letting her weight slide to the right, seeking purchase with her left foot on the lip and groping upwards with her right hand to find the handhold that was the key to her survival at that moment. She found it, and a moment later was balanced on the lip, taking a deep breath before continuing her climb. From that point on it was easier; the cliff rose at about fifteen points off the vertical, and was very weathered, with numerous holds available to her. Twenty feet from the rim she found a ledge, and paused there, catching her breath and, for the first time, looking down. She expertly dismantled the Beretta and dried all the parts with her now partially dry top, including the eight rounds in the magazine. Only when this was done did she scramble the remaining twenty feet to the rim, pistol in her grasp. The base of the castle wall was only a few feet away. Angevine moved along it thirty yards, coming finally to an opening about three feet square. Crouching, she peered into the darkness. The crawlspace angled steeply upward, and she assumed this had once been used for dumping refuse into the sea below. Once again she climbed, wedging hands and feet against the sides of the space, well aware that if she slipped and slid down the hole she would be catapulted right out into space for a long, probably fatal, descent to the sea. Thirty feet along she came to a heavy grate of strap iron, which gave way when she pushed, and a moment later she found himself in an empty stone room with a cold hearth at one end and a heavy-timbered door at the other. She tried the door, muttering a prayer under her breath. The door wasn't locked -- itswung outward on squeaking iron hinges. She was in.   Borodov was at his desk, stuffing maps, dossiers, communiques and the gilt-framed photo of his family into a brown attache case, with Elena standing nearby, when Chenko entered the vast, vaulted great hall. "The helicopter will be here in ten minutes, Colonel," said Chenko. "I just heard from them." "It's about time," said Borodov, irritated. "They are several hours late." "I radioed the plane at Lesbos to inform them of the delay." Borodov nodded. The chopper would take them to a floatplane which would transport them to Istanbul, where they would transfer to a Russian freighter bound for the Black Sea. A short voyage would carry them to Sebastopol. "I have also received a message from headquarters, Colonel, regarding the Department K agent." Borodov stopped what he was doing and looked up. "What does it say?" Chenko was grim. "General Valenten orders you to terminate him." Borodov nodded. "Yes, of course. A bone tossed to Gorinsky, so that he won't feel so bad about losing Vulkan. 'I fear that few die well who die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?'" "Shekspira?" asked Chenko. "Of course. Very well. Go tell Zandros. He will take care of it. Then bring Triakis to the yard." "Yes, Colonel."   Hazard was hanging by his wrists, which were encased in thick iron shackles chained to a wall of stone, and it hurt, because he could barely touch the floor with his toes. Triakis, being shorter, was in worse shape; similarly trussed up to Hazard's right, his feet dangled a good six inches from the floor. He'd tried to find purchase with his heels, but the wall had been worn smooth as glass by centuries-worth of prisoners who had no doubt tried to do the same thing. But Hazard forgot all about the pain when he heard the clatter of the latch on the door to the cell, which then swung open to allow a burly Greek and a slight, boyish-looking Russian enter. The Russian looked a little pale. The Greek didn't look anything at all. His features might as well have been carved from the same stone on the wall from which Hazard was hanging. But there wasn't any question what the pistol in his hand meant. "What, not even a last cigarette?" asked Hazard. "You do not smoke," said the Russian, in English. "I have read your dossier." "Well, that's true, yes. But I'm willing to start if it'll get me a last cigarette." "I am sorry," said Chenko, sincerely. "We have received our orders." "Then stop talking," said Hazard coldly. "And get it over with." Tthe Russian nodded reluctantly at the Greek, who quickly raised the pistol. Hazard closed his eyes. A shot rang out. Then another. Hazard opened his eyes -- in time to see Zandros whirl towards the door. The body of the guard who had been posted outside the cell, one of the Greeks in the Zandros apparat, came into view as it fell across the threshold. Then Angevine appeared, in the corridor beyond, and she and Zandros exchanged fire at point-blank range, the gunshots blending into one loud crashing percussion. Zandros was hurled backwards. His pistol skittered across the stone floor. Chenko hesitated, then made for it. But the hesitation cost him dearly. Angevine stepped over the body of Zandros and kicked Chenko in the face as the Russian bent down. The impact of her bare foot sounded like another gunshot, and Chenko sprawled, out cold. "What took you?" asked Hazard hoarsely. Angevine was frisking the dead guard, and produced a skeleton key. "At least it didn't take me two months," she said, with that infuriating smirk. "I could have found you in less time," insisted Hazard. "They just wouldn't let me look." "Excuses, excuses," said Angevine, using the key to unshackle him. Hazard picked up Zandros' pistol. He could hear, very faintly, the familiar sound of a helicopter -- high up on the wall from which he had, until recently, been dangling, was a narrow lateral opening that allowed a modicum of fresh air and light into the room. "Is that our ride?" "No," said Angevine curtly, releasing Triakin. "You're still alive," said the scientist bitterly. "How disappointing." "How sweet." She smiled and touched his cheek. "So how do we get out of here?" asked Hazard. "Do I have to come up with all the answers?" asked Angevine with mock exasperation. She gave Triakin a not-so-gentle shove towards Scott. "Here. Take him out. I've got unfinished business." "Right." Hazard knew there was no point in arguing. Besides, Angevine was already out the door. Standing in the castle yard, neither Borodov nor Elena saw Angevine Rose immediately -- they were both peering up at the Kamov helicopter that had just appeared above the castle battlements, a monstrous loud mechanical insect black against the cerulean blue Aegean sky. It was Elena who saw her first -- some primordial instinct for survival made her look around -- and she shouted a warning to Borodov that was swept away by the tumult caused by the descending chopper, but she grabbed his arm and turned him, and when Borodov saw Angevine he reacted instantly. Elena was still in her Yasmin Liraz disguise, wearing the fatigue jacket and faded jeans and she had not changed her hair. Borodov reached his right hand into a coat pocket and brandished a Steyr automatic even as his left arm snaked around Elena's neck. The stranglehold secured, he used her body as a shield, put the barrel of the Steyr to her temple. Angevine dropped into a shooter's crouch, both arms extended, left hand supporting her gun hand. "Drop it!" shouted Borodov, "Or I will kill her." He began backing up as the helicopter descended to the yard, leaning against the whip of the air currents produced by the Kamov's rotors. "Kill her," he said, his lips brushing Elena's ear. "She won't shoot you. She thinks you're Liraz. Kill him now, Reyanovich!" Frightened, Elena groped under the fatigue jacket, bringing out the Makarov semi-automatic, taking aim at Angevine. Angevine fired -- once, twice. Shocked, Borodov stepped away, letting Elena's lifeless body fall at his feet. Rage twisting at his features, he raised the Steyr and got off two shots that sent Angevine diving to the right. Then he made a break for the helicopter. Rolling and coming up one knee, Angevine drew a bead and squeezed the trigger. She had Borodov dead to rights. But the Beretta was empty.She'd had only the one clip. Standing up, she watched with helpless frustration as the Kamov rose into the sky and veered away sharply, disappearing over the battlements, carrying Ilya Borodov to safety. Suddenly weary, Angevine walked over to the woman's body. She knelt, turned Elena over, gazed at the face that was too much like that of the woman she had loved. But it wasn't Yasmin. No, Yasmin was dead. Breathing a long sigh, and shaking her head at the waste of it all, she closed Elena's sightless eyes. Then, taking the chain from around her neck -- the one that bore the delicate ring of gold filigree that had once belonged to Yasmin Liraz -- she placed it in the dead woman's hand. Hearing footsteps, she turned to see Hazard and Triakis running toward her. Instinct told her the fight was over, and she indulged herself in a slow perusal of the blue Aegean, pushing tendrils of wind-whipped golden hair out of her eyes. The action was over. The loose ends neatly tied. But there was no redemption, no ghosts exorcised. Once more Angevine glanced at Elena's corpse. Just one more ghost added to the ranks of those that haunted her. END