afternoon when they encountered an imperious Paris-based director of a fashion
shoot in pursuit of the ever potent combination of skimpy swimsuits, abundant
white sand, and azure sea. The Frenchwoman was convinced that Theo and Marina
were models, and demanded the name of their agency. All she saw were their
perfect white teeth, flawless olive complexion, glossy black hair—and the
possibility that these attributes were not enlisted for some commercial
enterprise struck her as a wasteful indifference toward a valuable natural
resource.
“Then you’re going to be a father,” Janson said. The rush of warmth he had felt
on hearing the news quickly cooled.
“You don’t sound overjoyed,” Katsaris said.
Janson said nothing for a few moments. “You should have told me.”
“Why?” he returned lightly. “Marina’s the one who’s pregnant.”
“You know why.”
“We were going to tell you soon. In fact, we were hoping you’d agree to be the
godfather.”
Janson’s tone was almost truculent. “You should have told me before.”
Theo shrugged. “You don’t think a dad should take risks. And I think you worry
too much, Paul. You haven’t gotten me killed yet. Look, I understand the risks.”
“I don’t understand the risks, dammit. That’s the point. They’re poorly
controlled.”
“You don’t want to orphan my kid. Well, guess what—neither do I. I’m going to be
a father, and that makes me very, very happy. But it isn’t going to change the
way I lead my life. That’s not who 1 am. Marina knows that. You know it,
too—that’s why you picked me in the first place.”
“I don’t know that I would have picked you had I realized—”
“I’m not talking about now. I’m talking about then. I’m talking about
Epidaurus.”
It was only eight years ago when a twenty-man contingent from the Greek army was
detailed to a Cons Op-run interception exercise. The objective was to train the
Greeks to detect and deter a growing small-arms trade that made use of Greek
freighters. A ship a few miles off the coast of Epidaurus was chosen at random
for the exercise. As luck would have it, however, the ship happened to be loaded
with contraband. Even worse, a Turkish drug merchant was on board, accompanied
by his heavily armed private guard. Things went wrong, terribly wrong, in a
cataract of misfortune and misunderstanding. Inexperienced men on both sides
panicked: the supervisors from Consular Operations could observe—by means of a
digital telescope and the remote listening devices on the frogmen’s suits—but,
agonizingly, they were too far away to intervene without jeopardizing the
trainees’ safety.
From a small frigate anchored half a nautical mile away, Janson had been
horrified by the disastrous unfolding of events; in particular, he recalled the
twenty tension-filled seconds in which matters could have gone either way. There
had been two bands of armed men, evenly matched. Each individual maximized his
own chance of survival by opening fire first. But once the automatic weapons
were engaged, the surviving members of the adversary would have no choice but to
return fire. It was the sort of suicidal “fair fight” that could easily have
resulted in 100 percent fatalities for both sides. At the same time, there was
no chance that the Turk’s guards would stand down—it would be seen as a
treasonous abdication, ultimately repaid by their own compatriots with a swift
death.
“Don’t shoot!” a young Greek shouted. He lay down his weapon, yet the gesture
conveyed not fear but disgust. Janson heard his voice tinnily but clearly
through the transmitter unit. “Cretins! Dolts! Ingrates! We work for you.”
The jeers of the Turks were boisterous, but the claim was sufficiently bizarre
that they demanded further explanation.
An explanation arrived, mixing fact and fiction, brilliantly improvised and
fluently delivered. The young Greek invoked the name of a powerful Turkish drug
magnate, Orham Murat, to whose cartel the merchant on board belonged. He
explained that their commanding officers had assigned him and the other soldiers
to search suspect freighters but that Murat had paid them generously to ensure
that his own vessels were protected from seizure. “A generous, generous man,”
the young officer had said, in a tone of solemnity and greed. “My children have
him to thank for their three meals a day. With what the government gives us?
Bah!” The other Greeks were silent at first, their reticence interpreted as
simple fear and awkwardness. Then they began to nod, as they understood that
their colleague was telling this tale for their own sakes. They lowered their
weapons and kept their gaze downcast, unchallenging.
“If you are lying … ” the seniormost member of the Turkish guard began in a
growl.
“All we ask is that you not radio about this—our superiors monitor all maritime
communications, and they have your codes.”
“Lies!” barked a gray-haired Turk. It was the merchant himself who had finally
appeared on deck.
“It is the truth! The American government has helped our commanders with this.
If you radio about us, you might as well shoot us now, because the army will
have us executed when we return. In fact, I would beg you to shoot us now. Then
the Greek army will think we died as heroes and provide pensions to our
families. As to whether Orham Murat will be as generous to your widows and
children when he learns that you destroyed an operation he spent so much time
and money on—this you will have to decide for yourselves.”
A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. Finally, the merchant broke in: your
claims are preposterous! If they had access to our communications—’
“If? If? Do you think it is an accident that we were ordered to board your
freighter?” The Greek snorted contemptuously. “I ask you one question. Do you
really believe in coincidence?”
With that, the salvation of his unit was secured. No smuggler—none who survived
long, anyway—ever believed in coincidence.
The young Greek led the other frogmen back into the water and to the
American-run frigate. Loss of life: zero. Seven hours later, a flotilla of
maritime security vessels converged on the Minas: artillery engaged and aimed.
In the face of an overwhelming display of force, the drug merchant and his guard
surrendered.
Afterward, Janson introduced himself personally to the young Greek who had the
spur-of-the-moment ingenuity to seize upon and invert the one implausible
truth—the truth that the drug merchant’s freighter had been boarded by
accident—and so render his tale plausible indeed. The young man, Theo Katsaris,
turned out to be more than just levelheaded, clever, and bold; he was also
endowed with remarkable physical agility and had earned top-percentile scores in
field-skill tests. As Janson learned more about him, he saw how anomalous he
was. Unlike most of his fellow servicemen, he came from a comfortably
middle-class background; his father was a mid-level diplomat, once posted to
Washington, and Katsaris had attended St. Alban’s for a couple of years in his
early teens. Janson would have been tempted to dismiss him as merely an
adrenaline addict—and that was part of the story, without a doubt—but Katsaris’s
sense of passion, his desire to make a difference in the world, was genuine.
A few days later, Janson had drinks with a Greek general he knew who was himself
a product of the U.S. Army War College, in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Janson
explained that he had come across a youngster in the Greek army who had
potential that could not be fully exploited by the routine of the Greek
military. What he proposed was to take him under his wing and supervise his
training personally. At the time, the leadership of Consular Operations was
particularly attuned to “strategic partnerships”—joint operations with NATO
allies. Under such auspices, Consular Operations would gain an asset in the
short term; in the longer term, Greece would ultimately benefit by having
somebody who could pass along skills and techniques in counterterrorism to his
fellow citizens. The deal was done by the third cocktail.
Now, in the rear of the tiltrotorcraft, Janson gave Katsaris a steely look.
“Marina know what you’re doing?”
“Didn’t tell her details, and she didn’t press.” Katsaris laughed. “Come on,
Marina has more balls than the Greek army’s Eighth Division. You know that.”
“I do know that.”
“So let me make the decisions. Besides, if this operation is too risky for me,
how can you in good conscience ask another person to take my place?”
Janson just shook his head.
“You need me,” Katsaris said.
“I could have gotten somebody else.”
“Not somebody as good.”
“I won’t deny that.” Neither man was smiling anymore.
“And we both know what this operation means to you. I mean, it isn’t just work
for hire.”
“I won’t deny that, either. Arguably, it means a lot for the world.”
“I’m talking about Paul Janson, not the planet Earth. People before
abstractions, right? That was something else we always agreed on.” His brown
eyes were unwavering. “I’m not going to let you down,” he said quietly.
Janson found himself oddly touched by the gesture. “Tell me something I don’t