Chapter 52

 

 

DAY 3

 

 

OIA, SANTORINI ISLAND

AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET, 1747 hrs.

 

Calla stepped onto the narrow street in Oia, a town that covered the whole Greek island of Therasia, the northwestern part of Santorini. The local attractions were beginning to close being October. The late afternoon sun brushed her face as she hustled through the narrow street, her mind scouring house numbers of the low-lying, lime-washed condominiums concentrating on why they’d come. Find Mila.

She strained her eyes toward the Mediterranean, observing as tourists shifted in front of her from shop to café, soaking in the island’s glamour, relishing Greek cuisine, all the while mesmerized by the stunning sunset about to form around the next bend.

Cooling heat bore on her bare shoulders signaling that the nights at this time of year were crisp. She glimpsed to her left and caught the hillside where Oia stretched. The bustling town was marked with traditional white houses, boasting blue window frames delved into the porous rock, with views to the belly of the volcanic caldera of Santorini, and the deep blue of the Aegean Sea. White, red and black sand beaches adorned the island, marking Santorini with its own appeal after a large volcanic explosion centered on it, possibly before the fall of Troy, sinking the center of the small island.

Jack seized her hand. “Mind if I wait for you guys here?” To her right stood a souvenir shop with its trinkets priced two-times their worth, and a run down Internet café. “Call me when you find Mila.”

“All right, Jack. Keep your cell phone handy,” she said.

She continued moseying with Nash down the single street coursing along the entire length of Oia that only had two sets of cliff-side stairways, descending to the bays of Ammouda and Armeni. They ambled their way through a sea of throngs arriving simply to watch the legendary sunset. Calla observed as every available space comfortable enough to sit on, or not, wall, step, or patch of ground was seized by masses who anticipated an unforgettable display of the Cyclades.

“You’d think I’d come here on vacation, instead of hunting an operative who doesn’t want to be found,” Nash said.

“I’ll make it up to you, Nash. I hope Mila is where Allegra said she would be.” She set a hand on his shoulder. “Nash, I’m really sorry about your house.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Hey, we made it out alive.”

 

Several minutes later, Nash and Calla stood facing a blue iron gate on the main pedestrian path with white steps leading to a luminous yard. Calla pushed the entrance open and they tread down the steps toward an entryway of a house built in the traditional Santorini style—vaulted roofs, arched entryway, and a whitewashed façade.

She pounded on the door.

No answer.

They glimpsed through the kitchen window whose shades had not been drawn. The house was set deep in the rock, with little natural light in its inner recesses, tunneled into the soft volcanic cliff, a feature that kept the residence cool in summer and warm in spring or fall.

She stepped back and checked her smartphone “This should be the place. Mila moved here two months ago.”

Nash peered inside the window. “You positive?”

Calla nodded. Her eyes traveled to a knob they’d missed–the doorbell. She rang it. The chime reverberated for several seconds with no answer. They glided back up the stairs to the pedestrian path, and gazed back into the quieting alleyway, abandoned as the hordes congregated at the tip of the island. The descending sunset settled on the horizon, an orange orb bathed in lavender and amber luminosity. Last stragglers roamed toward the viewing spot as dread crept through Calla’s spine. If they didn’t find Mila, they had nothing.

Something made her turn her head toward the roof of the house, several meters above them.

Movement drew her chin up. There was just enough time for her to arch back as ruthless projectiles zipped towards her, before she noticed they’d been fired.

Nash rammed an elbow in the nearby wooden hedge, ripping out a plank of wood. He drove her out of the line of fire and they landed on the stone path in a hammering thud. The bolt had been swift, quiet, silenced by the late afternoon sounds of the tourist town.

Their attacker was not done.

The assailant’s missiles landed one by one in Nash’s shielding wooden slab that he raised above their heads to screen them from the onslaught.

Mounted on the uppermost point of the white house, the camouflaged man cocked the bow of his compound crossbow and fired a hail of shots.

Nash barely regained his balance before he could fire his gun toward the assault.

 

A furtive hand reached between Calla and a propelling arrow. It snapped the aluminum bolt in half. “Let’s go!”

The voice belonged to a veiled woman, dark eyes visible through the otherwise full-body, white cloak-over attire, tan combat trousers and a white T-shirt. Her strong build flexed able shoulders, her deflection marking accuracy. Under her cloak, she concealed a similar crossbow.

The woman bucked against the wall between them, glimpsing toward where the onslaught had come. She released three bolts one after the other.

The attacker on the roof plummeted face down and rolled off the tiles, colliding on to the stone by the steps.

“This way,” said the woman. “We can’t talk here.”

Calla glanced in her direction. “Mila?”

“You’re late.”

 

 

 

1759 hrs.

 

Calla and Nash plowed behind Mila, past the side of the house and down the 235 cliff-side stairs, ripping down to Ammoudi port. Once their feet hit the pebble beach, Calla glanced back, catching sight of two archers perched on adjoining rooftops of two flat roofed houses. “We’re being followed!”

She scanned the small harbor with its fishing boats, waterfront taverns and restaurants. A path led from the beach around the base of the mountain.

“We’re exposed,” Nash said.

A bolt sliced into the soil, missing Calla’s foot by a finger breadth.

“This way,” Mila said. “To that boat.”

Nash and Calla spurted in the direction she was pointing in. Docked on shore, they spotted the state-of-the art, two front-seater speedboat.

“In here,” Mila commanded. She rocked around and fired off another malicious arrow that slashed one attacker on the wrist.

Calla’s gaze narrowed in on the two men. They were swifter than most attackers they’d encountered. Speed and accuracy was discharged with every fired shot. She flashed forward to the boat behind Nash, scuttling to climb on the speed vessel as it buoyed in the water.

Nash ignited the surface drive propulsion, capable of touching speeds of eighty knots.

Behind them, a miniature arrow sliced into Mila’s arm, generating an agonized outcry from her lips. Calla scaled off the boat, darted toward Mila and reached her in time to break her fall. She rolled her behind a protruding rock.

Nash launched off the boat and raced to were the women cowered. His gun leveled at the first archer. He fired.

The bullet caught the man’s chest. Nash watched bewildered, as the man shot up unharmed. The archer shot down the stairs after them taking two steps at a time, his companion in tow.

“Let’s go,” Nash said. He hauled the women to their feet.

Calla retrieved Mila’s discarded bow and arrow from where it had fallen. She aimed it at the first archer who’d hurtled to the bottom of the stairs and started a dash in their direction. She fired a projectile that caught one man in the leg. He recoiled grasping his hamstring.

She sizzled a second missile at his companion. Calla’s attention turned to Mila. The arrow had entered her arm. Nash broke the tail off. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No!” Mila yelled. “They’ll find me there.”

“Who are they?” Calla said.

“Mason’s science project.”

Nash reached under Mila’s body and hoisted her off the ground before scurrying to the boat. They reached the speed vessel just as the other archer regained his balance. Joined by his hobbling companion, they loped after the trio.

Nash scanned the mini cabin for any sign of keys. With eyes barely open, Mila pointed to the joystick that steered the boat. Cramped for space in the two-person boat, Nash maneuvered the power system behind a split–display screen that set the vessel’s cylinders in motion. The boat waded out a few meters into the open sea before he fired the engine at full throttle. Soon the vessel, created for the serious-minded racer, roared as it gained speed, carving the current and nosed in the direction of Athinios port.

Calla raised her head. The two archers hesitated at the edge of the water and aimed for a few seconds before lowering their weapons. Out of their firing range, Calla breathed a sigh of relief as Nash barreled the boat with marine skills, Calla didn’t know he had.

He pulled out his phone. “Jack? Listen, change of plans. Meet us at Athinios port. I’ll send over the details. Make it a half hour. Be careful.”

A blast of headwind hit them as the boat bounced off on heavy water, tilting Calla off balance. She hunched on the deck floor by Mila. Instantly, a yelp left Mila’s lips.

“Nash, she’s badly hurt.”

“Here, take the stick.” He said. “Can you ride one of these?”

“Try me.”

They exchanged positions on the high-performance, unique hull and Calla gripped the joystick, zipping the boat forward. Nash dipped to Mila’s side and raised her head before lifting her to the hydraulic seat under the nose of the boat.

Calla glanced back briefly and observed Nash as he searched above Mila’s head for a First-Aid kit. He found one in a compartment above the seat. Mila drifted in and out of unconsciousness, her head swooning from side to side as Nash stabilized the arrow wound. He applied adhesive tape to the base of the shaft, keeping the arrow still and minimizing Mila’s discomfort. He observed her for a response to pain, then wrapped clean gauze around the base of the shaft, before applying direct pressure on the bleeding wound. Blood seeped through as Nash held the gauze on top of the first. The blood loss eased. He rose and searched more compartments before hauling out a blanket and wrapping it around her shivering frame.

Mila’s eyes settled on his face. “Looks like you know what you are doing. Thanks.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.” Nash turned to Calla. “I can take over.”

Calla returned to Mila’s side as Nash navigated the boat on a calming sea. She studied Mila’s face and helped her remove the veil, revealing a soft, pale face. “Why does Mason want you?”

Mila rose to a seated position barely able to breathe. Calla suddenly realized she had shut her eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?” Calla said.

“There’s no time. Let’s get to the shore and find our way off the island. Those archers, Mason’s recent recruits won’t be far.”

“Who are they?”

“Mason has trained a new breed of assassins, three operatives to be exact, who can eliminate any operative hands down. I’m afraid our defenses are a little inferior to his. They have immense resilience to most hand weapons, except theirs.”

“When did he do this?” Calla asked.

Nash slowed the boat, steering into the mooring and turned briefly.

“My guess is he’s been at for years,” Mila said. “I had the cove build this crow-bow when we discovered the kind Mason was developing.”

 

Thirty minutes later, they docked into Athinios. The stunning shore, belted by elevated volcanic cliffs, accommodated the ruins of an old lighthouse. Mila was silent, but breathed steadily. As Nash leaned to carry her off the boat, she held a hand in front of him. “Wait. From here, we can get a car to your plane.”

Calla took a seat on the leather beside her as Mila reached in her pocket and drew out a worn package. “I’ve kept this long enough. This is yours, Calla. Your mother told me never to give it to you unless it was necessary.”

“Why?”

“Find her, Calla, the last time Mason came on with such force at the operatives, she was the only one who could thwart him. She stole a blueprint of something he was working on, just before—”

Mila fell deathly still.

“Before what?” Calla understood that Mila didn’t intend to take the topic any further. She fingered the enveloped note. “What is in this?”

“That’s how you find her,” Mila said her eyes rolling.

The package dropped to the deck floor. Calla retrieved it before it sailed into oblivion. She fingered it with cold hands and glanced at Nash recognizing the enormity of the moment. Would its contents reveal the whereabouts of a mother she’d searched for all her life? She slowly ripped the brown envelope. Her fingers drew out a microfilm. She ran her eyes over it and pulled it to the diminishing light, catching little, yet some symbols stood out. “It’s coded with incomprehensible characters, like the Deveron Manuscript.”

Mila smiled. “Trust her to take extra precaution.”

Calla scanned the symbols and remembered the mystery it had been decoding the Deveron Manuscript. She found Nash’s gaze. “I need the journal with my parents’ codes.”

Nash nodded.

Calla blanked at him. “I’ve no idea what it says.”

 

 

1813 hrs.

 

The cramped room was not ideal, but gave Jack the anonymity he sought and the ability to scan Santorini’s network on location. Jack slid his index finger over his tablet. He would switch to British government networks if he couldn’t find a strong enough signal.

The network signal in the café wavered. One by one, frustrated users started leaving the tiny Internet café until only two, fervent social media addicts remained. With his tablet connected to the café’s low-level Wi-Fi system, Jack took a risk. It was not a secure network but he had to verify something—the location of that hacker.

He logged in to his account at ISTF. It was the only way he could take a good look at data, having detected a processing signal from Santorini Island. Who was controlling it?

It was not a strategic location from a military or diplomatic perspective, yet a network on this island was operating an Internet address allowing a hacker to upload worms to steal identities, control NASA systems and copy sensitive stock-market files.

Damn it!

The signal from the Wi-Fi router went out. Jack slammed a fist on the desk, drawing a questioning look from the bearded café owner. He needed to remain on the hackers’ network.

“Everything okay there?” the heavyset man asked.

“Yeah. Can I connect to the landline?”

The man shrugged. “The wire stations are downstairs,” he said pointing to a narrow staircase in front of Jack.

Was there time? He had to meet Nash and Calla. Jack rose taking his tablet and headed downstairs. The dim room confined three filthy desks. Jack settled in one and hooked a connection to the main router with a smaller tablet he drew from his bag. Its power was a lot stronger than the tablet. He failed to link up to ISTF satellites but could reconnect to the clandestine network. He charted onto the UK Space Agency framework, before dialing Scarlet in London on his cell.

“Scarlet. I need you to document something for me.” An incoming call interrupted his conversation. Nash. “Hang on, Scarlet.” He tuned into Nash’s call. “Okay, I’ll head there right away.”

He hung up on Nash. “Scarlet, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, please jot this down.”

“Yes?”

“The web portal I’m loading to ISTF systems now manages five spacecrafts conducting active space missions including those to Mars and Saturn. Hackers have compromised the accounts of most users. This means their networks are wide open. It’s a security lapse. Did you get that? I’ll advise on when, or whether they need to be shut down, but we’ll need the cooperation of the UK Space Agency. Got that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Thanks, Scarlet. I’ll call if there’s anything else.”

He hung up the phone and tried the ISTF satellite again, finally connecting remotely to his computer-tracking program. He swore. A computer within radius was disrupting NASA signals, and those of the UK Space Agency, which in turn was affecting satellites belonging to those two nations.

Jack attempted to program a worm that could isolate the hacking signal. “No use! I can’t infiltrate the system.”

He tried another tactic. If he could mimic the program, and transfer a copy to his netbook, perhaps he could get a chance to see how it functioned.

His battery was draining out. Scrambling under the dust infested desk, his fingers found a socket. He slotted the tablet into the power and connected the other end to his machine. Jack fingered several buttons in a coded language he’d developed. The laptop started constructing a program, mimicking each function of the hacker’s activities. How is this hacker bypassing firewalls and protocols?

Once the program was done, he encrypted the logarithms. Jack unplugged his laptop and sat for several seconds thinking. The hacker was gaining unauthorized access to computer systems in the United States and the UK. It could log in to NASA networks. What would be next? The military? Defense systems? All the while negotiating unidentified scripts.

Some language he understood. Parts of its scripts were programmed using ANX, a high-level, dynamic programming language. He’d worked on the program with US and UK signal intelligence agencies not long ago. He’d helped develop ANX as a general-purpose scripting language to make report processing easier. ANX code was powerful, smart and unbreakable. Until now.

His eyes were drawn back to the screen. The Santorini signal had stopped. Had someone pulled a plug? He had the information he needed to investigate further. Was it enough? He checked the time. Nash and Calla would be at Athinios port by now.

The ISTF program flashed, registering the IP address he’d tried to identify since entering the café. The computer was registered to an ISTF account holder. He scanned the new IP address and tried to align it to a name in ISTF’s database.

A name flashed across his screen.

Mila Rembrandt.

 

 

 

1912 hrs.

 

CALLA HELD MILA’S frigid hand. She was alert, perhaps delirious. The operative had only spoken in half whispers since they’d fled Oia. With eyes glassy like beads, skin ashen white, her skin lax with fatigue, Mila’s words had been incomprehensible most of the ride.

The tangerine-colored sunset, slipped behind the horizon and darkness began to envelop the popular island. Calla rubbed her bare arms. The evening evoked a seasonal chill that sent a shiver crawling down her exposed arms and face. Nash placed his jacket over her shoulders.

“Thanks, Nash.”

She patted his hand before examining Mila’s wound. More blood had caked through the tightly wrapped gauze making Calla more determined to get her the pressing attention of a physician. Mila’s fists tightened each time a pang of pain shot up her arm, with the arrowhead still nestled in her arm. Calla’s eyes confronted Mila’s. With every passing noise, whether the horn of a leaving ferry or the laughter of night travelers, Mila’s eyes blinked open.

Uneasy eyes mirrored her mounting concern as Calla leaned in to Nash. “We should get her to a hospital.”

Nash killed the boat’s engine, vaulted off the hull and tied it to the pier. He approached a mule owner whose eager interest in the trio signaled the desire to earn some Euros by renting his animal.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” Nash asked him in Greek.

He shot them a mystified glare, but when he observed Nash return to the boat to heave a perspiring Mila in his arms, the man understood the urgency. He nodded and pointed up toward the winding road that led off the busy port. “Up a few hundred yards, there’s an emergency clinic there by the post office.”

“Thank you.”

The man stared after them as they trudged up the small stairs that left the dock. They crossed the active parking lot and took another set of stairs onto the crowded road, strewn with arriving and departing tourists. The miniature building the man had indicated was burrowed deep in the side of the hill, and from its outdoor terrace, Calla supposed it had once served as a tavern, now converted into a small emergency unit. A bus depot neighbored to one side and a café to the other. Odd as it stood amid the hubbub, Calla’s concern was for Mila. The clinic entrance stood ajar as they advanced past a desk in the reception room.

“Can I help you?”

Calla’s eyes moved to the Greek doctor who stood tall, clutching a clipboard. He surveyed them, a quizzical look crossing his bearded face. Soon, lines of worry creased his face once he heard moaning from Mila. His eyes fell on her anguished body as Nash carried her in like a limp doll.

The doctor dropped his clipboard, and turned his attention to the groaning patient. “This way, please. That looks bad. What happened?”

Nash and Calla exchanged a consented look, before they accepted the doctor’s offer to support Mila’s weight. Two aids scurried into the congested space, with one pushing a wheelchair. Within seconds, Mila was wheeled into an adjacent room. Calla stayed back and took a seat in the deserted waiting room wondering if the arrow had been lethal. It had caused more swelling than a local wound. She twiddled her thumbs and listened to the rotating fan on the little desk.

Several minutes later, Nash appeared through the doors. Calla lifted her head and searched his tense face. “Nash—”

He took in the strain of her voice, and took a seat next to her as he placed a hand over hers. “She’ll be fine.”

 

“She’s out of harm’s way. May I ask what sort of weapon caused the wound?” The doctor returned into the darkening room.

“It was a hunting accident,” Calla lied.

The scouring look in his eye told Calla, he was not to be fooled.

“I’ll arrange for a car to take her to the hospital in Oia.”

“No,” Calla said. “We’re leaving tonight. She’ll be taken to a hospital in London.”

“But—”

“Thank you, but no.” The words poured off her lips more quickly than she’d intended.

Nash set a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Thanks doctor. I’m sure you can give us whatever medication we may need for her. It’s only a couple of hours’ flight to London on a private plane,” Nash said. He reached deep in his pockets and pulled out several hundred-euro bills. “I think this should cover your fee.”

The doctor’s glance fell on the generous amount of money. “Make sure you take her straight to the hospital when you land. I’ll get her ready and give you some medication for the journey.”

Nash deviated to the door and pulled out his phone. “Jack. . .where are you?”

Calla sauntered to his side as he set the phone to speaker mode. Jack’s voice sounded hurried. “I’m in cab to the airport. I thought you’d be heading there.”

“We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Nash responded.

“By the way,” warned Jack. “I found something you guys might want to check out before we go any further. You may not like it.”