Spiros shook his head, long dark hair swaying. “No. Mr Dillon. I am here because of my expertise with computer based surveillance programmes. My primary role is to ensure that this facility runs smoothly.” He smiled broadly, and sipped his coffee. “I’ll let Ezra tell you about that; he may not want me talking like this.”
“And there was I thinking that you were just the hired help. Tats, doesn’t he look like the hired help?”
Tats nodded, taking a bite out of the peach she was eating.
“Sorry to stereo-type you, but it’s your whole demeanour. Far too subservient.”
“Hired help — subservient!” Spiros stood up and added. “I am no-one’s hired help, and I am a serving field officer with Interpol, seconded to this facility to act as technical support.”
Dillon held up his hands in mock surrender, “Whoa, hold on there, Spiros. I was only fooling with you, no offence man.”
“No offence taken. Ezra simply asked me to bring your breakfast to you as I was passing your rooms. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to do. Thank you for the coffee, and should you require anything else, please speak to housekeeping.” Spiros said, as he turned and left the room.
“An officer with Interpol, and a computer based surveillance programmer, eh? I wonder just what the hell my illustrious uncle is up to down here on Santorini under the British Government umbrella.”
“Well I’m sure it’s not legal,” said Dillon.
“With Ezra, it never is.”
They dressed and, stepping into the early morning sunshine, saw Ezra sitting on the veranda steps. He turned, smiling up at the couple and said, “Looks like we’ve been lucky.”
Dillon stood, stretching his back. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, “Lucky?”
“Nothing has shown up in signals; we’ve scanned all of the usual channels using the hacked satellite links we have access to. There are reports of you — both, something about a stolen light aircraft, nothing about your heading, and no mention of Santorini. If your enemies — ourenemies — are coming here for us, then they are remaining extremely quiet about.”
Dillon snorted. “Don’t get lazy, Ezra. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they are not there.”
Ezra frowned, his face hardening. “I know that, sonny boy. And we have been making preparations. The operation is far bigger than you — or anybody — suspects. It would appear that we are safe from discovery, for now. You therefore, can help us.”
“Help you? How?”
Tatiana smiled down at Ezra. “My uncle Ezra, Dillon, is as you know, a hacking genius; he was one of only a handful of hand-picked programmers who worked on the Chimera Programme at the very outset of the project. You hold the computer access codes for a number of secret Government departments.”
Ezra cut-in, “Your assistance could solve a little problem we have with decoding information that could greatly help us…”
“Just what the hell is it that you are doing here?” Asked Dillon. He leaned against the balustrade, looking out over the Santorini landscape, olive trees rustled in the caress of the warm sea breeze.
“What we have here, is a covert listening and monitoring facility that is funded entirely by the British taxpayer,” said Ezra. “In fact, we are the secret police of allsecret government departments, including the Intelligence Services. If you like, the secret within the secret. Why Santorini, I hear you ask. It’s off the radar — off the beaten track — it’s my home and I was retired many years ago on a full pension. We are a mechanism to stop bad things happening.”
“Hmm,” Dillon rubbed at the back of his neck, easing the tension. “When I was a serving officer in army intelligence, I heard there was a secret police,” he gave Tatiana a long sideways glance, “but I didn’t know you were involved.”
“Not many people do. Our cover is, and always has been, that of a simple olive grower. This serves us well with the locals who we employ at picking times, and saves any awkward questions being asked. And, as all of the facility is deep underground our work can be carried out here, unhindered. Ironically, we are the people who are supposed to have all the answers, and yet there are things happening and we’re at a loss to discover the real reasons. The Chimera Programme — is the ultimate military weapon — but something is out of place, a discordant note, and I’m not sure how deep it goes. You want to know what we do here, Dillon? We solve problems. It’s that simple. And then we go hunting.”
“Hunting?”
“Oh yes,” said Ezra, dark eyes gleaming. “We go hunting.”
The sun had long since set, darkness came and with it the time to eat.
Ezra had spent the morning showing Dillon and Tatiana around his private world under the arid landscape of Santorini; the olive groves flourished with the loving care of a small group of village women who came on foot to tend the trees and harvest the olives.
Now they were seated outside, around the back of the villa, where a small fire was burning in a wrought iron fire basket. Dillon sat in a wicker easy chair facing the view of the olive groves. Tatiana beside him. Ezra was sitting across the fire, large chunks of mutton on a skewer before him sizzling fat that smoked and flared over the flames. Also present — some of them meeting Dillon for the first time — were a few other members of Ezra’s team whom he slowly introduced.
“This is Spiros; I think you have already met.”
Although Spiros looked surly, he reached over, and shook Dillon’s hand; his eyes glinted in the firelight.
“No hard feelings.” Dillon said softly.
“No problem, everything’s cool, dude.”
“This is Franky; our resident computer hacker and presently attempting a spot of breaking and entering into Kirill’s mainframe located in the Scottish Highlands. She learned her craft at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, Canada.”
Franky smiled a wide beautiful smile; of French Canadian descent, she wore her sun-kissed hair in a shoulder length pony-tail, a silken mane, her lips were a deep red, shining in the glow of the flames.
She reached over to shake Dillon’s and Tatiana’s hands; Dillon’s gaze met the intelligent bright eyes of the woman and he had to avert his gaze for fear of gawping blatantly at her beauty.
When she spoke, her words were a soft purr, a luxurious sound, the husky French accent of a predatory female. “I have heard many things about you, Mr Dillon. Ezra speaks with — shall we say, passion — about your colourful career.”
“I am sure he does.”
“Are you everything he says you are?”
Dillon was captivated by that beautiful gaze and magical French accent. He realised that their hands were still touching, her skin warm against his; the fingers stroking his hand with ever so gentle pressure.
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Oh, come now, don’t go all British and modest on me, Mr Dillon.” Franky broke the handshake, and turned, winked at Ezra, then back to Dillon. “He says that although you’re a murderous bastard, you really are extremely talented.”
The men laughed; Tatiana glared, first at Franky, then at the side of Dillon’s head.
“And this is Karp; another professional hacker. At one time he was wanted by the F.B.I. Interpol — MI6 — and the KGB, no less. That is, until he was able to teach them a few things about protecting their supposedly secure mainframes from hacker attacks; bought his freedom and all of their respect.”
“Hi, man,” said Karp, grinning. He was a wiry young man of Northern European origin, his head was completely shaven tight to the scalp; his round face seemed to be one huge grin. He shook Dillon’s hand enthusiastically.