The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

the camera was for people lacking the talent of which he was justifiably proud.
His method of operation was one that required great patience, but Papanicolaou
had plenty of that. Whenever his superiors got wind of a possible terrorist
operation in the Athens area, he prowled hotels and airports and docks. He
wasn't the only such officer, but he was the best. He had a nose for it as his
father had had a nose for where the fish were running. And he hated terrorists.
In fact, he hated all variety of criminals, but terrorists were the worst of the
lot, and he chafed at his government's off-again/on-again interest in running
the murderous bastards out of his ancient and noble country. Currently the
interest was on-again. A week earlier there had been a possible sighting report
of someone from the PFLP near the Parthenon. Four men from his squad were at the
airport. A few others were checking the cruise docks, but Papanicolaou liked to
check the hotels. They had to stay somewhere. Never the best – they were too
flashy. Never the worst – these bastards liked a modest degree of comfort. The
middle sort, the comfortable family places on the secondary streets, with lots
of college-age travelers whose rapid shuffling in and out made for difficulty in
spotting one particular face. But Papanicolaou had his father's eyes. He could
recognize a face from half a second's exposure at seventy meters.
And the driver of that blue Fiat was a 'face.' He couldn't remember if it had a
name attached to it, but he remembered seeing the face somewhere. The 'Unknown'
file, probably, one of the hundreds of photographs in the files that came in
from Interpol and the military intelligence people whose lust for the blood of
terrorists was even more frustrated by their government's policy. This was the
country of Leonidas and Xenophon, Odysseus and Achilles. Greece – Hellas to the
sergeant – was the home of epic warriors and the very birthplace of freedom and
democracy, not a place for foreign scum to kill with impunity . . .
Who's the other one? Papanicolaou wondered. Dresses like an American . . . odd
features, though. He raised the camera in one smooth motion, zoomed the lens to
full magnification and got off three rapid frames before putting it back down.
The Fiat was moving . . . well, he'd see where it was going. The sergeant
switched off his on-call light and headed out of the cab rank.
Russell settled back in the seat. He didn't bother with the seatbelt. If he had
to escape the car, he didn't want to be bothered. The driver was a good one,
maneuvering in and out of traffic, which was lively here. He didn't say a word.
That was fine with Russell, too. The American moved his head to the side, and
scanned forward, looking for a trap. His eyes flickered around the inside of the
car. No obvious places to hide a weapon. No visible microphones or radio
equipment. That didn't mean anything, but he looked anyway. Finally he pretended
to relax and cocked his head in a direction from which he could look ahead and
also behind by eyeing the right-side mirror. His hunter's instincts were taut
and alert this morning. There was potential danger everywhere.
The driver took what seemed to be an aimless path. It was hard for Russell to be
sure, of course. The streets of this city had predated chariots, much less
automobiles, and later concessions made to wheeled vehicles had fallen short of
making Athens a Los Angeles. Though the autos on the street were tiny ones,
traffic seemed to be a constant, moving, anarchic log-jam. He wanted to know
where they were going, but there was no sense in asking. He would be unable to