The Cypriot Agent

By JR Rogers

1974 – Charged by the Justice Department and the FBI with espionage and facing arrest in Washington, D.C., the CIA intervenes and allows the Soviets to recall Marina Kovalev known as Brenda Farber, a Soviet mole in order to avoid the embarrassment of revealing to the world that the U.S. had been duped. Now the CIA sets in motion a covert action to board the vessel returning her to the Soviet Union at its final port of call in Famagusta, Cyprus and there deal with her once and for all.

As the Agency plots the slow progress of the freighter across the Atlantic and into the Eastern Mediterranean the ouzo flows and the cigarette smoke swirls in the Constantia Taverna in Famagusta. There the Agency’s hired Cypriot assassin Georgios Spyrou and his former sidekick, Manos Pavlou, who wants in on the action, debate the risks of the assignment and how best to carry it out.

On the ground for the CIA is Orville Middleton, an officer under non official cover who recruits Spyrou, a former British MI6 hit man .

However an hour away, in the capital city of Nicosia, and behind the closed doors of the Soviet Embassy, countermeasures are being put into play by the KGB Rezident. Suspecting the Americans intend to somehow double-cross them Kovalev is secreted off the freighter in Istanbul and flown home.

But when Spyrou and Pavlou finally board the Soviet bulk freighter Komsomolets Smolensk in Famagusta they are ambushed by the forewarned crew and overpowered. From Moscow to the KGB Rezidentura comes instructions the surviving Cypriot hit man is to be transported to the Soviet Union for interrogation.

Spyrou is jailed aboard the Nikolayev, an 8,500-ton Kara-class large anti-submarine warfare ship of the Soviet Navy’s Black Sea Fleet and brought to Novorossiysk. There, in the naval base town on the Black Sea, a KGB interrogator awaits. He has orders to break the Cypriot and learn about the plot while awaiting instructions from Moscow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JR Rogers
• Release date: Sep 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311925657

JR Rogers

J.R. Rogers is a literary historical thriller novelist. He has written eight novels of espionage, intrigue & romance. His latest is To Live Another Day. He also writes short stories a number of which have been published in various soft cover and/or online publications. He lives in southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Marseille, France - April 1974

The Mistral, the French railway company’s flagship express from Paris rolled slowly down the silver-colored tracks into Marseille’s St. Charles train shed. It was not quite seven in the morning and the train, almost always on schedule, was three minutes early.

The engine, a massive red and silver box-like CC-6500 electric locomotive with its reverse sloping front windshield and twin headlights, trailed 12 first class coaches. Moments before coming to a stop, after its 536-mile overnight run, the public address system crackled to life to announce its arrival from the capital city.

All up and down the steel passenger carriages the doors were thrown open by the conductors. One of them, standing alongside the train at the bottom of the steps watched, as he usually would, the passengers begin to descend one at a time.

He spotted the man in seat 14A, a window seat, as he stepped down easily onto the platform. The conductor went out of his way to give the man a quick but respectful two-fingered salute and wished him bonne journée.

Moments ago the man had slipped him a generous gratuity, as the train slowed to enter the station, the passengers all standing in the center aisle anxious to be on their way after their seven-hour overnight journey.

The conductor took pleasure in his good fortune. It was a gracious gesture coming from an unknown passenger who had just sat in his seat and only asked for a blanket to warm him in the air-conditioned coach.

The passenger was Georgios Spyrou. At 5’6", and in his mid-forties, he was lean and sunburned with swept-back salt and pepper hair and unencumbered by any luggage. He wore a Rolex, a snug made-to-measure Ermenegildo Zegna gray suit, his trousers held up by a handcrafted Federico Polidori leather belt, an open neck white nylon Hermes shirt, and Sergio Rossi pointed toe but soft black slip-ons.

Stepping aside on the platform to let the others go around him, Georgios patted his jacket pocket for his Raquel cigarettes. After shaking one out and lighting it, he checked his wristwatch before setting off. While cutting around the other passengers moving in a slow ragged line toward the station, he ran his cigarette hand back over his hair several times to smooth it, something he did often and without thinking.

A Greek Cypriot, and a contract killer, his previous employer had been Britain’s MI6. Now he was in town to undertake an assignment for his newest client, the CIA.

He had never been to Marseille but he was accustomed to arriving in out-of-the-way places in different parts of the world, and he soon found a shortcut through the busy station. Gray clouds were massing overhead, signaling rain as Georgios walked to the curb on the rue St. Charles and engaged the idling taxi at the head of the line.

The driver, occupied with reading the morning’s Le Provencal, put it aside and folded it when he heard the rear door open. He flipped the meter on at once and glanced into his rearview mirror.

Bonjour, vous allez ou?

Hôtel du Vieux Port.

Oui d’accord. C’est pas loin. He put the cab in gear. Disappointed by the short run he nevertheless pulled away into traffic for the quick trip downtown via the boulevard d'Athènes. Often, it was the business types who were the first to reach the curb, but this one seemed in more of a hurry. They arrived at the hotel in less than ten minutes and the driver’s passenger had his fare in hand.

Georgios passed over a 100-franc note after sitting up to glance at the meter, wagged his finger at the driver to tell him not to bother with the change, and exited in a hurry, slamming the door behind him.

Situated in the heart of Marseille, Hôtel du Vieux Port was well within hailing distance of the city’s Old Port. It was a slim, pastel-colored, and weathered building with a facing of tall double windows and narrow panes, an arched-shaped entry that led into a dim lobby, and forty rooms above arranged on four floors.

Georgios circled around a woman vacuuming the empty lobby and approached the desk clerk to ask for a room. He didn’t have a reservation and doubted he needed one. He insisted on paying ahead of time; he wasn’t going to spend the night and had taken it only as a precaution. In the hours before the assignment that had brought him to Marseille he would avoid having to lurk in town and risk being observed and remembered by the police or the careless and offhand citizenry of France’s second largest city.

After riding up to the third floor and entering his room, he used the toilet and then spent a moment glancing around to review what his 360-francs had bought him. It wasn’t much. And the view from his window was equally uninspiring.

The upper floors of the hotel were wrapped around an interior courtyard, and a dismal natural light filled his room. Checking his watch again, Georgios removed his jacket and trousers and was careful when he draped them over the arm of the only armchair before proceeding to stretch out in his underwear on the surprisingly comfortable mattress. He plumped the pillow behind his head and tried to doze aware he would need to leave in about another three hours.

It was almost noon when Georgios set out again, his Ray-Ban sunglasses shielding his eyes, first down the narrow street on which the hotel was situated and then left up La Canebière, the wide avenue sloping up the hill from the Old Port that ran as far east as the Réformés quarter. The cream and blue trolleybuses were everywhere, jamming the artery as he negotiated the wide sidewalk, past cafés, hotels and department stores. Georgios shouldered his way through the bustle of pedestrians, the honking of little cars and the rattle of diesel engines fully engaging his senses.

In the near distance, jutting up behind the ragged rows of four and five story buildings lining both sides of the sloping avenue, Georgios spotted the twin 70-meter spires of the Église des Réformés, whose tall spires seemed to graze the low hanging clouds. Though he was of a mind to look at it more closely when he reached the top of the hill, he slowed instead as he walked past and inspected it out of the corner of his eye.

La Canebière became boulevard de la Liberation and Georgios stopped for a quick citronnade at an outdoor café. Ten minutes later he was off again before he spotted at last the boulevard de la Blancarde branching off to the right.

He was in a dismal part of town now, one lined with bars and rundown establishments in front of which idled silent groups of tough-looking characters. They eyed him with predatory interest, as if trying to decide whether to accost him and pick his pockets while engaging him in conversation designed to detract him. Georgios hurried along confidently, refusing to make eye contact, past one small shabby establishment after another whose exact business often could not be discerned. And then past others, closed, their storefronts shielded behind roll-down metal shutters on which had been plastered once colorful but now faded posters for old political contests.

La Poupée, when he found it at last, was a seedy strip club venue. The display window was painted black, and the gaudy red neon sign above it lit, despite the shafts of bright Mediterranean sun piercing the cloud cover and bathing the avenue.

Georgios glanced around before pulling open the heavy metal door. There was no one to watch him except the toughs down the street. The traffic was heavy, the air filled with exhaust. Stepping inside he removed his sunglasses before parting thick burgundy curtains to cross into the club. The music was loud, the pounding percussion deafening. Georgios faced a muscular man with a pitted face wearing a strappy black undershirt. A thick gold necklace was draped over his chest. He sat behind a cashier’s booth bent over a newspaper. He jerked his head up as Georgios came through. Without turning he pointed to a notice on the wall behind him on which was listed the price of admission.

The staggering loud sound of Johnny Hallyday belting out Le Rock 'N' Roll Est Né overwhelmed the dark room and made conversation with the man almost impossible. The place reeked of sweat, beer, and exhaled cigarette smoke and only three of the dozen or so tables were occupied. Up on the small, elevated stage, set in front of a wide floor to ceiling mirror, a nude dark haired brunette was gyrating to the music with little enthusiasm. Over in a corner a bored cocktail waitress, her blond hair in a ponytail, was sitting and smoking, her little tray balanced on her lap.

Georgios watched the stripper for a moment, his eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom, his thoughts momentarily greedy with desire.

Hey, you.

The man was yelling at him.

If you’re staying you got to pay, okay? Otherwise, get out. He gestured with his thumb.

Georgios turned and moved in close so he could be overheard.

You’re Carlo? Georgios’ voice was sharp and hard.

Maybe, why? He was prickly with suspicion and tensed right away. The neighborhood was bad and who knew who this stranger was? He might even be an undercover cop, always a risk because the stripper was underage.

Georgios persisted. He wasn’t going to play games. Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, you Carlo or not? I have business with him.

Who wants to know?

Georgios, from Paris.

Georgios? Now he relaxed.

Yes, yes he grumbled. I’m Carlo. He looked more sharply at Georgios, as if he had somehow imagined someone else. He extended a beefy hand.

They shook informally.

You know why I’m here?

Carlo nodded. I have it, it’s here, don’t worry.

Good. Georgios relaxed a bit, aware the tension had been building in him as he hiked up to his meeting. So far everything had gone off without a hitch, though he would have preferred not to have to deal with some strip club lowlife. He hadn’t anticipated any problems, though it was too soon to be sure. The arrangements had troubled him from the beginning. He didn’t like working through intermediaries, especially ones he didn’t know anything about and couldn’t vouch for.

You want to watch her a bit before you go? Go ahead, I don’t care. Carlo shrugged, seeing Georgios glance again at the stage. Sit if you want. He lit a cigarette. You want a beer?

No. Georgios glanced at his watch. Still time, in fact he was early. But the Corsican was annoying him and right now he wasn’t in the right frame of mind for a strip club. He wagged his fingers. C’mon, give it to me.

Carlo nodded and from somewhere down by his feet pulled up a crumpled brown paper bag and passed it over.

It felt heavy when Georgios took it from him but he knew what was inside. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waitress turn to stare at him. He wondered what had caused her interest and decided she was probably just curious.

Carlo watched Georgios struggle to shove the bag inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Be careful, he said, nodding at Georgios. Don’t get caught with it. They can’t help you if you get into trouble.

Georgios grunted. Thanks, he said, before turning and plunging back through the curtains and out into the street.

Now, he retraced his steps, up boulevard de la Blancarde and over onto the main artery until he was at the top of the hill again, the Réformés church to his right. There he paused and spent a moment looking down at the wide busy avenue that was La Canebière. He’d never been to Marseille and in his business sightseeing was not often an option, though in fact he enjoyed his travels and tried to take back with him, wherever he happened to be, a pleasant mental snapshot of his always too brief stay.

At the bottom of the avenue was the horseshoe-shaped Old Port, the large basin encircled by ancient buildings with red tile roofs, the water sparkling with reflected sunshine, the many white sailboats and cabin cruisers and fishing boats afloat at anchor in the quiet waters. For a moment he absorbed it all, glancing with interest at an enormous white sailing yacht heading majestically out to sea under power. Its canvas sheets were still furled, the deck crew lining the rails.

And in the far distance, on the south side of the port on a high limestone mountain was a massive grayish-looking basilica with a square bell tower the structure reminding him it was almost time to enter the Réformés church.

Georgios checked his watch again. It was almost one o’clock; still too early because he was told the church was closed between the hours of noon and one. Pretending to be a tourist he idled for a while across the street in a small park. He lit a cigarette and lingered before an elaborate marble war monument, its top crested by a bronze statue of a woman holding a sword. He heard the soft crunching sound of the paper bag in his pocket, as he slowly circled the statue, his eyes hidden behind his Ray-Bans. He scanned with professional suspicion the benches nearby. There were tourists with cameras and guidebooks, children feeding pigeons and grizzled old men in hats reading their newspapers. They looked harmless enough.

Now at last it was time. Georgios tugged at his suit jacket to try to better flatten the bulge in his pocket and then walked with determination across the street and approached the sanctuary.

In front of the church a tourist bus had just arrived, as he watched the tourists debark in a long snaking line. And out on the sidewalk stood a lounging policeman, his legs splayed, his hands behind his back. He looked bored but there was something about his inquisitive stance, as if about to pounce, that gave Georgios cause for concern.

He waited impatiently at the head of the line while the caretaker finished opening the low iron gates barring entry to the church and was the first to briskly climb the many flights of steps. Halfway up he circled around a large statue on a pedestal of Jeanne d’Arc, a national heroine of France, and a Catholic saint arriving at last outside of the row of thick wooden front doors adorned with bronze panels.

Georgios heard the chattering sound of German voices behind him and, casting a quick look over his shoulder, confirmed it was the tourists with their cameras from the curbside bus. Annoyed by their distracting presence he moved at once over into a far corner of the church and removed his sunglasses.

It was cool and dark inside and a relief after the heat on the street, the air fragrant with the lingering sweet aroma of incense. He watched the tour guide shepherd her charges to one side and begin to lecture, her arm extended, as she recited facts and pointed out aspects of interest, her voice echoing in the sanctuary.

Georgios examined the church carefully. He looked out into the gloom of the nave trying to spot the confessionals. He found them soon enough deep in the shadows, the soft filtered shafts of sunlight streaming through the stain glass windows behind the altar helping him to see built out from a side wall a row of dark wood closet-like structures each with two doors.

He moved toward them at once avoiding the center aisle. Georgios hugged the right-hand side of the soundless church, his leather soles making a pleasant scuffing and resonating sound over the stone tiled floor.

A few penitents had begun to straggle in moving up the center aisle with little noise before installing themselves. Georgios spotted them out of the corner of his eye and tracked their movements, concerned one of them would move to occupy the confessional that was key to his instructions. He was to enter the one on the end, the one closest to the main entrance to the church at exactly ten past one o’clock. Now in place Georgios saw that hovering until the appointed time would be unwise. He considered for a moment sitting in a nearby pew but dismissed the thought, understanding his assignment would be thrown in disarray, and no doubt jeopardized, if someone other than himself entered the confessional before he could reach it.

He saw her all of a sudden, an old woman wrapped in black, her head covered in a shawl, her face hidden and not quite discernible as she turned toward him coming from the center aisle. She clutched prayer beads and moved at a quick and even pace with no visible leg movement, as if riding on rails. It was clear to Georgios they were about to intersect and clear, too, she was making for the confessionals. He stepped up his pace, at one point breaking into a brisk walk in order to arrive before her. At the last moment, just as his hand found the handle to the penitent side of the confessional that was his, she veered off and entered the one alongside. He heard her grumble as she stepped inside and slammed the door behind her.

Inside the confessional it was cramped and atmospheric with muted tones and indistinct outlines. It took a few moments for Georgios’ eyes to adjust to the gloom. Trying to install himself he accidentally kicked the kneeler aside, cursed under his breath, before bending to adjust it and then knelt. The scraping noise had been surprising and loud and he worried about attracting unwanted attention. He checked his watch, annoyed at the unfamiliar circumstances, but anxious to proceed.

Only moments remained before the priest would enter the other side. Georgios pulled the paper bag from his pocket as quietly as he could and removed a Beretta semi-automatic pistol. He checked and saw it was loaded and well oiled. They had provided a silencer to screw on, too, but Georgios knew it would hardly suppress the detonation. Instead, he shoved it in his pocket and floated the paper bag down to the unseen floor.

Georgios held the pistol down at his side while kneeling and then fidgeted, uncomfortable as he tried to keep his back straight. Restless, he tossed around in his mind whether to begin by whispering invented tales of sins conceived or committed, or to just get on with it and do the job without delay. His mind drifted and he wondered also whether it might benefit him to spend just a moment in an attempt at absolution. He’d killed many times before, but now that he was here the opportunity to be freed momentarily from blame and guilt appealed to him, though it was unlikely to alter his belief that in the afterlife he was headed straight for hell.

Now he glanced up at the crucifix hung above the small screened and curtained opening through which he would fire. To one side was tacked an elaborate card with the order of things: the sacrament and the requisite prayers. He read it over because there was nothing else to do but wait. Raised a Roman Catholic on Cyprus, unlike many of his friends and acquaintances back home who were Greek Orthodox, the litany was as familiar as it was successful in shrouding him in guilt. After a moment he looked away. He refused to dwell in contemplation, unable to even remember his first confession so many years ago. He found he couldn’t even remember himself as a boy. In his memory he was always a man.

Out in the church there was little to hear save for the harsh scraping of chairs being moved, the occasional bursts of coughing, an unexpected sneeze, and the sound of traffic, as the front doors were opened and closed.

The priest was late, now almost five minutes overdue, and Georgios worried he had been detained, the plan perhaps aborted. He cursed at the vagaries of his situation because he was not privy to the secrets withheld, much less the broader scene in which he was featured. Georgios wondered how he would respond if a penitent pulled open the door to his confessional because right away he had noticed there was no lock. It was a prospect he could not guard against.

On the priest side of the confessional there was the sudden and long awaited sound of the door being opened and then a soft click as it was closed.

Georgios tensed and swallowed nervously. He listened to the weight of a body settling slowly into position on the wood bench that creaked as someone arranged himself.

‘Forgive me Father for I have sinned.’ The ritualistic prelude to confession flooded Georgios’ consciousness unbidden, the evocative words like water from a breached dam. He felt his arm tense, his hand tighten around the pistol grip, his finger stroke the trigger, as he watched fascinated the finicky fingers of the priest pull back the curtain.

Straightening himself on his knees and rising Georgios now could see dimly beyond the grill the bulk of a dark seated figure. Without hesitating, Georgios lifted his arm slowly, arranged his forearm at an angle to aim for the priest’s head, and fired once. There was a short, explosive sound as the gun barked. A 1400º flame flared the muzzle and then the 9mm bullet tore through the grill. It was his signature shot. Georgios would fire only once and it would be enough.

Georgios heard the spatter of blood and then a thud, as he lowered his firearm and then a deafening silence.

In Paris, the day before leaving for Marseille, he had underscored his feelings about having to fire inside of a church and how much easier it would be to later identify him as the murderer as he made his escape. He cited the likely witnesses, even at the odd hour of the day, and other priests or altar boys perhaps in attendance; it was certainly not the stealthiest way to murder a priest. He floated the idea of using a garrote instead, but was met with a silent stare, an ungenerous shrug, and an emphatic no.

Follow the instructions, he was told.

It wasn’t just the likely witnesses that concerned Georgios, though their recollections he suspected would be mostly unreliable, as much as the likelihood of a police presence somewhere close by; even one cop walking his beat in the area or standing outside. On that point he knew now he had been correct.

Georgios struggled to his feet, retrieved the silencer from his pocket, shoved it and the Beretta quietly aside on the floor, and slipped on his Ray-Bans before exiting the confessional. A cautious glance out over the nave revealed a few quizzical upturned faces but he saw no sign anyone had grasped what had just happened. The large church was mostly empty. The tour group had decamped, leaving behind only a dozen or so petitioners; some were kneeling in prayer while others gazed silently at the altar in quiet reflection. Delaying his escape to view the victim to confirm the kill was Georgios’ standard procedure. His fee depended on it and botched jobs were unacceptable and furthermore, dangerous to his well-being.

He cracked opened the door to the priest’s side of the confessional. Crumpled in the dim light was a shocking and unexpected presence; a stocky and unshaved man in a dark suit wearing an open-neck mauve shirt. His face and hair and neck were blood-soaked and there was a gaping hole where once his right eye had been. He was unquestionably dead. Surprised and uncertain now Georgios closed the door softly. Without undue haste he turned and walked back out into the warm stream of Marseille sunshine that had parted the clouds.

CHAPTER 2

At the bottom of the steps the policeman was nowhere to be seen, as Georgios moved off unhurriedly down La Canebière. He stopped briefly to light a cigarette and removed his sunglasses and put them away. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over his arm so as not to be recognized later as the man wearing a gray suit and sunglasses who had exited the confessional. Arrived close to the water’s edge, Georgios crossed over the busy narrow street circling the Old Port harbor and walked past the many moored boats, past one jetty after another. He heard the rhythmic clanking of lines against aluminum masts, as he cut through groups of day sailors carrying elaborate poles and plastic buckets of fresh fish until he reached the jetty identified in his instructions.

A barefoot sunburnt man wearing sunglasses, a no-nonsense crew-cut and a black tee shirt and shorts, his arms crossed over his chest, leaned against a post above which was a sign marking the jetty as No. 12. He seemed to straighten as Georgios approached, as if trying to match the photograph he had looked at earlier with the short dark haired client he was expecting to meet.

Georgios slowed. The lounging man who might have been from the chartered yacht, continued to look back at him critically. Weeks ago, Georgios had arranged with a Cyprus-based yacht broker to be met in Marseille and to be escorted to where the boat was moored. Georgios had insisted on a jetty close to La Canebière.

The man obliged him seeming to have made up his mind. He uncrossed his arms, straightened, and took a half step forward as Georgios slowed. He spoke to him in Greek.

Mister Spyrou? Georgios Spyrou. Is that you?

Relieved, Georgios lapsed into his mother tongue, Cypriot Greek. Yes, I’m Spyrou.

They moved closer and exchanged handshakes.

Solomos, he said introducing himself. From the yacht Eurybia. I’m sorry to have to ask but I was told by the captain to ask for some identification. If you wouldn’t mind, please, Mister Spyrou?

Georgios waved away the man’s concern. Yes, of course.

He pulled out his wallet, found what he was looking for and handed the man a business card. It read Georgios Spyrou, President, Spyrou Performance Automobiles, Ltd., Famagusta, Cyprus.

Solomos glanced at it and handed it back.

Good, now it’s time to go, high tide in an hour, or less. The captain wants to sail on it. We have a long way to go.

I’m anxious to get going.

Georgios cast a quick look behind him. The sidewalk alongside the harbor was busy but looked quite normal. There was no wailing rise and fall of a police siren. He began to relax.

We go this way please, Mister Spyrou, said Solomos pointing.

They set out at once over the concrete jetty jutting out into the harbor, past rows of commercial fishing boats tied up on either side. The sailors, returned from a morning at sea, grunted and cursed as they dragged heaping tubs of silvery fish. The air smelled of the sea, the guts of fresh fish, and the stink of diesel fuel. Seagulls cried and circled and swooped low over the catch from the boats. On board, sailors were busy at work hosing and scrubbing down the decks.

At the water’s edge Solomos stopped and pointed down at a black inflatable rubber boat, its stern weighed down by an outboard motor. It was moored and quietly afloat in the stained harbor waters.

Down there, he said pointing. I’m sorry, Mister Spyrou, but you’ll have to jump. Watch yourself, please.

At once he disappeared over the edge, dropping several feet and cat-like landed upright on the plywood floorboard and moved immediately to the transom to begin to crank the motor.

Georgios slipped his jacket back on, hesitated for a moment, and followed him down, his footing uncertain when he landed.

If you would help me and get the line, please, Solomos said over his shoulder when he felt the small craft shudder, as Georgios landed behind him.

Georgios reached for the damp knotted line fastened around one of the pylons supporting the jetty. He fumbled with it for a minute before loosening the rope and freeing them.

Solomos had the outboard running. It roared and belched blue smoke and he fiddled with the idle to calm it. Now, he sat next to the motor and, seeing they were no longer moored, yelled at Georgios to sit. The sailor twisted the throttle over, the rubber boat shot forward and in a final touch he adjusted the hand tiller to set their course.

Out on the harbor waters they skimmed with great speed bouncing repeatedly over the short, broken and irregular waves, the wind tearing at Georgios’ hair, the sailor Solomos back in his element effortlessly steering the craft to avoid the little tacking sailboats crisscrossing ahead of them.

Georgios crouched in the bow looked back repeatedly trying to spot the twin spires of the Réformés church. Though unmoved by the circumstances, he thought for a moment about his victim. He had no idea whom he had murdered or whether he had even been a priest at all and wondered again about the dangerous and crazy plan to lure the man into the confessional and why it had all been necessary.

The American CIA case officer who had ordered the hit was a woman; she was a British MI6 referral and called herself Margot and could have passed easily as someone’s spinster aunt. Graying and middle-aged, a relic of the OSS, Margot was obese and dour looking with crenelated features, and a thin line of dark facial hair above her lip. She wheezed when she spoke, chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and shuffled into a room rocking gently from side to side. Having a woman hire him was a surprising first for Georgios. Her off-putting appearance notwithstanding Margot was wily, knew the game and the force of her arguments often impossible to rebut.

The three of them, he, Margot, and a young very American-looking crew cut aide had met only three times in the empty safe house apartment on the rue de Chézy in Paris’s upper-class Neuilly neighborhood before he was given the assignment.

In his past fifteen years as a contract killer, Georgios had hopscotched around the world doing the bidding of MI6. During the early years of his career it had been just a bullet to the intended victim but as crime scene investigations became more sophisticated he turned to staging accidents to cover his deeds. The business in Marseille had been an aberration; given the time to set things up, he would have preferred to stage a car accident, or a runaway elevator or even use the poison the Soviets were so fond of. Unsurprisingly, his list of victims was as varied as it was lengthy. There was a Monaco casino enforcer, handfuls of generals planning coups in one Latin American country or another, decaying politicians of all stripes sympathetic to the wrong causes, Socialist trade union officials, garden-variety thugs, Communist sympathizers and former Nazis but never a priest.

All the way down to Marseille during the overnight trip, and unable to sleep comfortably sitting up in the plush and air-conditioned first class coach, Georgios had mulled over the soon to be victim and the possible reasons for the hit. But why a priest and what possible reason could an operative like Margot have for commissioning the murder of a prelate? And then, he remembered thinking the tradecraft, too, had been reckless, even indelicate, when Margot presented it to him for his opinion. But just being asked at all took him aback and he remembered shrugging and thinking how unorthodox it was and even his fee seemed not to perturb her at all. It was five hundred thousand in U.S. Dollars, a sum that to his mind only a government could approve so casually.

And when he relented, after giving it some thought because he needed the work, he no longer objected to the church setting, or the intractable, precise instructions, let alone the intended victim. Margot gave him the go-ahead provided it was done her way. She went on to explain about taking the train as a precaution, rather than flying, and the byzantine arrangements to pick up his weapon and how to get rid of it in the waters of the Old Port, something he had refused to do because he didn’t want to carry it with him that far.

In the end, whatever her reasons for hiring him was irrelevant. He would do the job, he had been paid one half of his fee up front and, by the time he stepped off of the Tuesday morning Mistral, was no longer much interested in the back-story. Instead, his emotions torqued in that familiar way they always did, he prepared to focus his energies on eliminating his latest victim.

Now that it was over, he could see in his mind’s eye his monthly statement from the bank in Geneva with another deposit representing the balance of his fee. In the end, he brushed all of his concerns aside. Who even knew anymore with the Americans? They seemed to have their nose in everything these days.

The rubber boat had travelled rapidly and from his position Georgios, turning back once again, was able to glimpse for a final moment the elongated thin white spires that had focused his attention until Solomos moved the tiller again. The agile rubber craft immediately responsive began a wide rapid arc across the harbor and the spires on the Marseille skyline disappeared from view.

She’s over there, Mister Spyrou. Solomos shouted at Georgios over the roar of the four-stroke engine. He lifted his arm and pointed in their new direction.

Motionless, moored near the center channel on the far side of the harbor Georgios saw a large white motor yacht riding at anchor, its bow pointing out to sea.

That’s it? he yelled back.

Solomos nodded and grinned. Eurybia. He slowed the boat and guided it home.

Georgios spotted the familiar Republic of Cyprus flag angled out over the stern, a white field on which was superimposed a dark orange outline of his island country with twin olive branches beneath. In black letters on the hull he read the name of the vessel and its homeport, Eurybia - Limassol.

With the engine putt-putting noisily Solomos steered the boat slowly around to the starboard side and then cut the engine. They coasted over in silence to the extended passerelle at the foot of the boarding ladder. Solomos reached out to grab the trailing line and then the railing.

Georgios looked up in awe at the wide expanse of gleaming white yacht. Very impressive, very impressive.

Solomos finished tying them up, stood and turned to grin at him. You know yachts? he said, with what sounded like proprietary delight.

The rubber boat rose and fell quietly on the expiring waves pushed out by a cabin cruiser entering into the harbor the deep growl of its engines drawing their attention as it moved past them.

Yachts? Georgios laughed sharply and shook his head. No, nothing at all. He stood carefully. I don’t know anything about them. Never even been on one, but this, he said gesturing, this will be a pleasure.

She’s a Greek boat, of course, 50 meters, said Solomos, as if addressing a buyer. Can go anywhere, anywhere on Earth. Luxury, the best, you’ll see. Now, please, take your shoes off. He pointed at them. No leather shoes on deck, Mister Spyrou.

Georgios, surprised, sat to pull them off and then stood again dangling them from his fingers down at his side.

Please, come aboard after me, said Solomos.

He pointed at the accommodation ladder rising up steeply against the white hull that reached to the afterdeck. Solomos jumped over unto the small passerelle, the teak grating footboard awash in cold harbor waters because it was at sea level. Be careful. Watch your step.

He eyed Georgios still in the bobbing boat. So, now, come aboard, Mister Spyrou.

Teak decks warmed by the sun, the deep reassuring throb of engines underfoot and the salt smell of the sea mixed with the wafting aroma of food delighted Georgios, as he stepped off of the top of the stairs, and onto the Eurybia in his wet stocking feet.

He looked around. I need a telephone, Solomos. Before we leave. Where is it, do you know?

There’s one in your cabin, of course. But you could use the radiotelephone up on the bridge. You should speak to the captain, too. I’ll tell him you’re here.

Good. Let’s go meet him.

Solomos led the way into a well-appointed and air-conditioned foyer flooded with natural light from its large expanse of windows. Centered in the middle of the space was a wide spiral staircase that went both up to another deck level and down to the sleeping quarters.

They climbed up to the bridge without further delay. It was warm in the wheelhouse despite the harbor breeze flowing through the open doors on either side. From the ship to shore radio came the low chattering voices of mariners speaking in French. The captain, balding and in regulation whites, lounged in his elevated leather helm chair reading a newspaper. He looked over his shoulder when he heard the two men enter.

Georgios stepped ahead, came up alongside him and stuck out his hand. Captain? I’m Georgios Spyrou.

The captain lowered his newspaper. Ah Mister Spyrou, at last you’re here. I’m Captain Livanos.

He folded his paper, stood, and tossed it back in his chair before extending his hand.

They shook quickly.

Welcome aboard the Eurybia, said the captain. He had a pleasant but eager look on his face. He was upbeat at meeting his client. All is well and you’re ready to sail? He glanced at his watch.

Yes, captain. Anytime now.

Good, excellent, we’ll get underway in a moment. Oh, and Mister Spyrou? Just so you know. Your guest is aboard so everyone in your party is here. He rubbed his hands together and smiled professionally. Let’s get underway, shall we? Home to Cyprus, isn’t that right?

Cyprus, yes, Famagusta. I’m looking forward to the trip.

Famagusta, yes, said