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  "But, are you not Muslim? You speak Turkish so well."

  "Yes. But, I am a conflicted Muslim. I observe my daily prayers; but I also possess the heart of a European, which leads me to sin. I occasionally drink alcohol, and I have some on board. I also watch some popular European movies. They are beautiful and deeply meaningful. The one in my DVD player right now is Scandinavian. It won many awards. There are love scenes, which many Muslims would deem forbidden."

  "We must search your boat," a sailor declared.

  Nikolas Antoniou said nothing, and he was careful not to make a hand gesture or other motion that would indicate his consent. But, the sailors weren't concerned about consent. They were the law on this stretch of water.

  The Turkish men were orderly as they passed through the hatch and down the companion ladder into the sailboat's saloon, bringing Nikolas with them. Two men rifled through cupboards, drawers, and closets. One man opened the microwave. He closed it once he found it empty. One sailor discovered the collection of DVDs—the European movies. "We will confiscate these."

  Nikolas did his best to look disappointed. He even faked a stammer. "That—that is my prized collection of some of the finest European films," he lied. He was pleased they were confiscating the distraction and falling for the countermeasure. He was occasionally boarded by the Turkish or Lebanese navy. If his boat had been free of infractions, the searchers would just search deeper. If he spoon-fed them easy violations, they would issue their citations, collect their fines, and move on. "These films. They mean so much to me. I beg of you."

  "The Republic of Turkey does not forbid all pornography," the sailor continued. But, it does forbid unnatural pornography. We will cross reference these titles with our database. Leave us your address in Greece, and we shall endeavor to return the movies we judge acceptable. We must also collect one thousand lira, for postage."

  Postage, Nikolas thought. A subtle bribe request. He liked the suggestion. "Just one moment." He stepped into the stateroom, slid open a wall panel, and revealed a safe. He quickly entered the combination and opened the safe. This too was all according to his contingency plans. This safe contained money for such an inconvenience as this. "I have the postage money right here." He handed one man 1,000 lira. The Turkish sailor could not contain his smile. The other men looked on with envy, which concerned Nikolas. He did not want the sailors who remained unpaid to search for additional infractions. "And just in case you should lose that cash to a particularly violent storm, here is a little insurance." Nikolas gave the other men 1,000 lira each. The jealousy vanished; now everyone was happy. Nikolas felt profound relief. Certainly, the movies would also be divided amongst the men, not cross-referenced to a database. They would never be returned. Such a small bootie for these pirates, thought the Iranian spy disguised as a Greek. If only they knew the riches and secrets hidden within The Winds of Athens.

  "Well, sir, see that you do not return to Turkey with this salacious material again." The sailor's voice was stern.

  "Oh yes,” Nikolas said. “Once you return my precious movies to me, they shall remain in Greece. I apologize for my error in judgment." Nikolas noticed they gave no thought to writing down his address in Athens. They didn't even ask his name, insist on inspecting his passport or inquire about the travel documents he had filed with their country's Ministry of Customs and Trade.

  "We must ask you, what is your destination?"

  "Athens."

  "Is that your final destination."

  "Yes," Nikolas lied. "Athens is my home. I must return to my responsibilities." It was true he had a beautiful home in Athens. But, he would only stay there for a matter of hours before he boarded a plane for Chicago.

  "Very well. You may continue on your journey."

  Nikolas surveyed the catamaran. The ship was entirely out of place in a naval fleet. "How did the catamaran come to be part of your fleet?"

  "This sir, is a product of the biggest criminal arrest on Turkish seas. We confiscated this catamaran when we arrested a Russian mobster. He used it to run drugs and weapons. It also has a sad history of human trafficking. I've never looked a more vicious, well-financed criminal in the eye before."

  Sounds like a small-time criminal to me, Nikolas thought as he wished the sailors safe passage. If they only knew what my eyes will soon behold.

  Nikolas watched the catamaran sail away. Then he fired up the diesel engine and sailed at twelve knots through the Dardanelles Straits and into the Aegean Sea. Nikolas again accessed his microwave oven safe. There, he secreted away his Iranian passport—a document that had never seen the light of day in the Western world. He removed his Greek passport and slipped it into his pants pocket. This small ceremony completed the transition from Iranian traveler to Iranian operative—functioning under a Greek identity in the United States of America.

  At the helm of his ship, he sailed over the blue waters of the Aegean Sea. He would leave The Winds of Athens, and his Iranian passport, in Athens. A direct flight would soon have him back in Chicago turning billions of Iranian investment dollars into a silent jihad against the disbelievers.

  CHAPTER 4

  Near Chihuahua, Mexico

  Rivera continued his boxing announcer imitation as he described the rattlesnake. "In this corner at three feet, four inches long, ... Crotalus scutulatus."

  "A Mojave rattler?" Stoker asked.

  "This baby's indeed a Mojave," Rivera confirmed. "Let's get you to the field hospital right away. We're not messing around out here in the Mexican desert. The Mojave's several times more toxic than other rattlesnakes. We're throwing out the textbook and treating you aggressively."

  "Bring it on," Stoker said with his eyes squinting in reaction to the pain. He cradled his injured arm next to his chest.

  "I'm sorry about your snake bite. But, your injury does help us, in a way," Rivera said. "You just opened a window of opportunity.”

  That hospital, here in Chihuahua,” Stoker said. The one we need to check out.

  “You’ve seen the intel,” Rivera said. There's some weird stuff going on in that hospital. And, your injury gives us a perfect excuse to visit. It gets our foot in the door. Now, let's get moving."

  Stoker pushed himself up into a standing position and held his snake-bitten arm against his abdomen. Then he winced as he stooped to grab his backpack and turned toward the helicopter. "What is this window of opportunity?" Jessica asked.

  "There's an outbreak in a Chihuahua hospital,” Rivera said. “And we need to look into it. We heard about it from an asset who’s working as a nurse on the hospital's medical floor. Her story seemed far-fetched. But, when we verified it with a second nurse, we decided it was time to investigate it. Stoker’s going to get admitted there. Hospital de Los Santos is the name of the facility. Using his hacker skills, Z verified the outbreak rumor."

  "Give me the latest details about this disease outbreak in this Hospital de Los Santos," Stoker said. The pain of holding his arm in one position became overwhelming. Again, he jostled his shoulder with an instinctive twitch.

  "Oh no, I'm not going to tell you what I think's going on. Let's see if you can figure out what's going on there," Rivera said. "Hey, can you please do your best to exhibit symptoms that get you admitted to the medical floor? That's where all the action will be."

  "Sure, Rivera. No problem." Stoker was closing his eyes now. Between comments, pain pursed his lips. "When I get to the hospital, I'll give them my two cents worth of what I think is going on with my symptoms. I'll fake some severe pain in my right, lower quadrant."

  "Don't overdo it, buddy. I don't want you to land in the ICU."

  "Let's get going,” Stoker said, “The pain in my arm's getting nasty."

  "If it's getting nasty for you, the pain would be excruciating for mere mortals."

  "Whatever, Rivera. Let's quit the chit-chat and go. I'm not interested in bucket kicking today."

  Stoker, Rivera, Jessica, and Z all climbed in the helicopter. Above the whir
ring of the blades, Stoker yelled out. "What is this beast of a gunship, Rivera? It's not American."

  Rivera smiled his infectious toothy Cuban grin. "No Comrade! It's Russian. She's a Mil Mi-24."

  "How did you get your hands on a Russian gunship?" Stoker asked as he winced and climbed into the helicopter in one fluid motion.

  "It was a trade."

  "Okay, I don’t feel like guessing." Stoker leaned against the seat, winced his eyes closed, and gritted his teeth. "What did you trade?"

  Z interjected a quick answer. "For our services to the American government, we were allowed to purchase this from some Russian friends. This is it in a nutshell. Espada Rápida did a little intelligence gathering that would've been illegal for OGAs."

  "What? The OGA?" Jessica asked.

  Stoker interjected. "Other government agencies."

  "Okay, I get it."

  Z continued with the story. "We had a deal, and the Russian president kept his end of the bargain.

  “So, this Russian behemoth was part of the deal?” Stoker asked.

  “Yes, amigo,” Rivera responded. "I was also motivated to get involved, thanks to a phone call from a friend on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence."

  Rivera took a quick look at Stoker’s bite wound before he buckled in. “At the hospital in Chihuahua, we'll admit you under a fake identity so we can all remain anonymous. I’ll come up with a good name."

  "All right then. Get me to the field hospital!" Stoker said. "The sooner you can take off, the better. This snakebite makes my arm feel like it's on fire. It's a bitch."

  "You've got it," a pilot responded as he flipped a few more switches and controlled the throttle.

  "I always look forward to seeing new places," Stoker said with blatant cynicism in his tone. "Chihuahua, Mexico here we come."

  The Mil Mi-24 took off and ascended into the Mexican sky. The pilot radioed the field hospital and informed them of his intent to land there. Rivera continued treating Stoker. Z used the permanent marker to draw another outline on Stoker's arm, documenting the advancing redness and underlying cell damage. Rivera jotted some quick medical notes on a pad of paper about Stoker's vital signs and fluid intake.

  For the next few minutes, the helicopter flew over the Mexican desert landscape. Stoker kept his eyes closed as he supported his elevated arm. The burning pain from the venom sinking deeper into his tissues forced his facial muscles into a bitter wince. With an I.V. dripping vital fluids into Stoker's bloodstream, Rivera kept a vigilant watch over his friend, colleague—and now patient. As a colonel and a doctor, Rivera was supposed to possess an acquired tolerance for others’ pain. But, the best he could do was mask his distress with humor. Seeing a devoted friend in pain brought back a flood of memories from wars, overt and covert, when the pain of blood brothers once seared his soul and almost snuffed out his will to live.

  CHAPTER 5

  Temporary Special Operator Base Camp

  Near Chihuahua, Mexico

  "There he goes," said one of the U.S. Army Night Stalkers. "That phenom physician, Stoker, just pulled off his first solo HALO dive, and after just one training jump." These elite Army aviators had been training in Mexico with Stoker all week. Also joining the team were CIA operatives, agents from the FBI's Joint Terrorism Task Force, some Navy SEALS, and a few of Israel’s elite special operators. This multi-organization task force was on maneuvers tailored to address the threat from a group of rogue Iranians and other Shiites staging and training in Mexico.

  Just eight days earlier, these elite teams descended upon a few acres in this sparse desert. They set up a small field hospital, which primarily served as the classroom for training by battle-hardened trauma surgeons from the Israeli Mossad. Doctors from the Army and Navy joined Drs. Stoker and Rivera as they immersed themselves in the practical desert warfare medical experience.

  For a week, these teams also conducted extensive training in Krav Maga, marksmanship, parachuting, and the Farsi language. They focused on preparing to combat radicals inside the United States and along its borders. Survival training prepared the men for the warm deserts and cold semi-arid terrain that made up most of Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, and Yemen—countries with sizable Shiite populations. On day six, the teams went out and did some snooping and pooping on a group of would-be terrorists. With binoculars and parabolic microphones, they spied on this cell of Shiites who were training in the Mexican desert with the intent of sneaking into the United States and joining sleeper cells. They overheard their conversations, filled with the hateful rhetoric of radical men hoping to achieve jihad on the streets of America. The not-so-covert training camps were out in the desert, a few miles from the city of Chihuahua.

  "That shrink’s got some balls," commented a CIA agent. "He ran at the front of the pack on our training run yesterday.”

  Another Night stalker commented on how Stoker trounced a Mossad instructor in hand-to-hand combat and had one of the best shooting scores with his .45 caliber 1911.

  "I'm no psychiatrist, but it sounds like somebody's been repressing his inner soldier."

  The elite operators’ laughter was cut short as they continued to monitor Stoker's descent.

  "He's falling through about 3,000 feet. He'll have to open his chute pretty quick here."

  "There he goes. Chute deployed at 2,500 feet. That's pushing it."

  The men watched as Stoker floated toward the desert floor. When he made a sudden course change, the always cool special operators let it play out. They shared the instinct—the intuition most elite soldiers are born with. Training perfected the sense. If Stoker needed to alter the game plan, these elite warriors trusted there was a reason.

  To their left, they heard Rivera barking orders as he and the Espada Rápida team ran toward a hanger. The sound of rotors spinning up caught everyone's attention. A few seconds later, the strange helicopter emerged from the hangar and took off.

  "What's going on?" one of the Army Night Stalkers asked.

  "Let's find out," another man replied as he squelched his radio. The men overheard the transmissions between Stoker and Rivera. They listened to Stoker's report about the group of Shiites. "Those tangos are way out of their normal territory."

  A few minutes later they heard Rivera calling through the radio. The Espada Rápida team was about to land. Awestruck, they learned Stoker had wiped out the enemy. They heard the snake bite news. Without even waiting for orders, the two men sprinted for the field hospital. They notified the Israeli Mossad doctor and assembled a team.

  "This is Alpha Bravo Two," came the voice of Dr. Rivera. "Stoker's bit by a nasty-ass snake. He needs some attention ASAP."

  "The team is already assembled,” said a radio operator. “How far out are you, Alpha Bravo Two?"

  "About seven minutes."

  "Roger that. We're ready."

  Right on schedule, Rivera's Russian helicopter landed back at the training base. As the rotors powered down, Stoker exited the aircraft under his own power. Z carried Stoker's backpack. Jessica carried his I.V. Bag. They walked the 200 yards to the field hospital.

  "Right over here, Dr. Stoker," said the Israeli physician, as he motioned for Stoker to climb onto the treatment table. "Let me see the snakebite. I've treated hundreds of them."

  Stoker sat down and held out his arm for the doctor to see. "It was a Mojave rattlesnake."

  "A very venomous rattlesnake here in North America," said the Mossad doctor. "But, your Mojave rattler is, at best, a somewhat lethal snake when compared to the vipers, cobras, and asps of the Middle East. I think you're going to be just fine."

  The Israeli doctor enlisted Rivera's help. Together they mixed four vials of antivenin in a bag of normal saline. Using an infusion pump, the doctors set the antivenin and saline to infuse through Stoker's IV. "I'm going to infuse this over the next hour. After that, we'll repeat additional doses for the next day or so."

  "Right," Stoker said. "Sometimes it takes hours for the effects of the rattlesna
ke venom to kick in. Let's flow it slow and steady."

  Rivera chimed in. "I agree with slow and steady. But, we need to move this treatment to a hospital in Chihuahua."

  "I agree,” Stoker said. “I've been enlisted as a spy and guinea pig in this spontaneous new operation.”

  "Yes, you have. We're going to get you into Hospital de Los Santos's medical ward so we can verify reports we've heard."

  "Well, there’s a history of antivenin causing allergic reactions," Stoker said. "So, if it will speed my hospital admission along, let me roleplay an allergic reaction. I'll be convincing enough to land me in a hospital bed."

  "Let's see some of that psychodrama in the ER," Rivera said. Stoker often used a technique called psychodrama in his psychiatry practice. He, his patients, or groups would act out different scenarios. It allowed participants to process feelings, explore the meanings of their emotions, and recognize flawed thinking. And while Rivera was misusing the term psychodrama, he was tapping into one of Stoker's strengths. Troy Stoker, M.D. was a convincing actor—a handy skill for this spontaneous snoop at the hospital.

  "I can act out that allergic reaction," Stoker said. "Shortness of breath will be easy. But, I can't fake hives and swelling."

  The Israeli doctor interrupted. "For now, let's concentrate on getting these first vials of antivenin into you without an authentic allergic reaction. Then we can see about transferring you to the hospital in Chihuahua to carry out your covert operation."

  "Infiltrating a hospital may not seem like much fun to a Mossad veteran like you," Stoker said.

  "You would be surprised how many of my missions were underwhelming, Dr. Stoker. Most spy work is low-risk and low-excitement. No matter the level of intrigue, good espionage is just about reporting an accurate and useful story. Only sometimes are the stories also entertaining, or better yet, dangerous."