Page 32 of Skotos
Manakin’s tone shifted, becoming sharper. “That’s because itwasn’theart failure.”
Will and I locked eyes.
Manakin, the classic intelligence man, rarely spoke in absolutes. Rather, he referred to percentages or calculations, perhaps odds of something being true. The confidence in his voice was arresting.
“You sure?” Will asked.
“As sure as I need to be,” Manakin said. “Let’s just say we’ve received confirmation from a well-placed source. King Paul was poisoned. We aren’t sure of the delivery mechanism, but we are ninety-nine percent confident in the poisoning itself.”
Silence fell for a long moment.
“Do you know what kind?” I asked.
“No, and don’t bother asking how we know because you won’t get an answer. You need to shift course immediately.”
“We just got here, Manakin. Hell, we haven’t even checked in to our hotel.” Will straightened, his brow furrowing.
“And you aren’t going to. The new government is locking us out. You experienced a tiny slice of it, but we’re eating the whole shit pie, and the President is pissed.” Manakin took a sip of something, coughed a few times, then continued. “The place has closed ranks, and the streets are already humming with revolution. Our sources suggest the foreign minister’s regency has whipped the liberal opposition into a frenzy, which has sent the ultra-right wackos into near-Reich-level clamoring. If this continues, you won’t just be investigating a murder—you’ll be caught in the midst of a civil war. I want you out of that fucking country as quickly as possible. Got it?”
“Okay, fine, understood.” Will frowned. “Where do you want us?”
“Bern, Switzerland.”
He let that sink in.
“Swiss authorities are more likely to cooperate. Hell, they’ve already given us more intel than the Greeks, and their assassination only happened a day ago.”
“Anyone we should connect with?” I asked.
“Refer to the briefing docs Red gave you, but pack light. This thing’s moving fast.” He paused, swallowed something down, then added, “Youleave in three hours. McKeever has your tickets and will arrange a car to the airport.”
Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the folder in front of him suddenly staring back from the table with a jilted lover’s accusation.
Manakin’s voice softened. “I know it’s a quick turn, but we’re not dealing with amateurs here. Someone just took out two heads of state with great precision—only days apart from each other. Think about the coordination and resourcing operations like that would involve. We can’t waste time where the doors are already closed.”
Will looked at me and gave a slow nod. “Understood.”
“Good. Wheels up in three. And, boys?”
“Yes?”
“If anything goes wrong, Washington doesn’t know your names. Not in Bern, not anywhere. This thing’s too hot for headlines. You’re ghosts. Keep it that way.”
The line went dead.
16
Will
Our flight left Athens just after six in the evening, the sun casting a prophetic bloody glow over the city as it dipped toward the horizon. We barely spoke during boarding, both of us weighed down by exhaustion and the lingering sense that something in Greece had slipped through our fingers. Neither of us wanted to leave. We had more questions than answers, and the tourist in me wanted to see more of the Greeks’ fabled capital.
Alas, when Manakin called, we answered.
The flight was long and grueling, nearly seven hours of layovers, lukewarm food, and the kind of stiff silence only two weary travelers can share. We landed in Bern just before one in the morning on a tarmac slick with fresh dew beneath a moonless sky. The chill hit us as soon as we stepped off the plane, a bracing slap of Alpine air that woke us up but did little to revive our spirits.
Customs, thankfully, was quick—Washington’s preflight calls and our diplomatic passports opened doors with barely a glance. Still, by the time we made it to the curb, we were both dragging again.
Waiting beside a gleaming silver saloon car was a man holding a placard that read BARKER/SNEAD. The driver’s sandy hair flared in disarray, and his eyes held the manic pleasure of a man high on something illegal in sixty countries. On top of everything, his powder blue overcoat, a color I had never seen in men’s rainwear, was far too cheery for the hour—or perhapsanyhour, ever.
