That was of no concern to Mihajlovic, who saw Macedonia as key both to the future of Greater Serbia and to his own personal future.
His driver turned left onto a dirt road that wound sharply up a steep, thickly forested hill. Several hundred meters into the woods, the road turned right into a clearing, offering a splendid view of the castle.
Gorazamak — the name was Serbo-Croat for "Mountain Castle" — was perched on a rocky cliff some fifty meters above the lakeshore road. It wasn't actually much of a castle as European castles went, with little to the place save an irregular, outer wall enclosing a five-story inner tower or keep. The place had been renovated perhaps fifteen years before and operated for a time as a hotel. It had gone out of business with Macedonian independence, and eventually had been purchased by Mihajlovic's agents. As a student of military history, Mihajlovic found a fine irony in the fact that a medieval castle, a type of fortification long obsolete in an age of airmobile troops and nuclear weapons, could once again play a part in a modern military operation.
The road ran across a narrow steel and concrete bridge spanning a natural moat, a crevice plunging straight to the boulders rising above the coast road below. Beyond was the massive gate tower that led to the courtyard or bailey. Soldiers in the gray Soviet-style uniforms of the home defense militia stopped them at the gate, looked over the driver's ID and papers, and checked Mihajlovic's face against a photograph before saluting and ushering the car through. Inside, military vehicles and a few civilian cars were parked alongside a low building to the left that had once been a stable. To the right, similar buildings served now as barracks for the outpost's fifty soldiers. Beyond, the tower loomed high in gray stone blocks against the evergreen forest of the higher slopes beyond.
Leaving the car with his driver, Mihajlovic strode across the flagstone pavement, up five steps, past two more sentries who saluted with crisp present arms, and through the high, vault-arched doorway opening into an impressive entry hall. The walls had been stripped bare of the banners and tapestries and museum relics that once had hung there, and the carpets once covering the floor and the broad, stone steps winding up either side of the room to a railed gallery overlooking the chamber had been removed. An unpleasantly anachronistic counter backed by racks and shelves to the left of the entrance as he walked in had once been manned by ticket-takers and stocked with souvenirs; now the area served as a guard post, where two men in the brown and gray camouflage of Yugoslavian Army uniforms stood watch, snapping to crisp attention as Mihajlovic walked in.
An aide hurried from the communications office, in a room leading off to the left. "My General!" the man called, and the sharp, military click of his boot heels echoed through the stone-walled chamber. "Welcome back!"
"Thank you, Ivo. Are our guests comfortable?"
"As comfortable as the circumstances permit, my General. They have been complaining of the lack of heat, the lack of privacy, and the poor food."
"You may tell them that their captivity will probably not last much longer. It is important to keep their attention focused on release, rather than on attempts at escape." He looked at the aide sharply. "You have not permitted them to see those uniforms, have you?"
"No, my General. As you ordered, their guards and those who tend to their needs wear militia uniforms. I doubt that the women would know the difference. The American officer, however, probably would. He has several times questioned his jailer about military matters, trying to draw him out, I think."
"It may be best if that one does not survive his rescue. He is entirely too clever, too observant."
"His dossier says that he was a POW in Vietnam. No doubt he entertains fantasies of escape."
"Well, we shall discuss his fate later. And our troops? They are settled in?"
"All is in readiness, my General. As you ordered."
"Excellent, Ivo. Another week, I think, and the whole world shall know of the Macedonia terrorists and their hijacking of an American congresswoman. We shall give the Americans a couple of days to deal with the hijackers at Skopje, and then we shall show them how a hostage rescue really works."
"Yes, Sir."
"In the meantime, I want-"
"General!" A man in a JNA sergeant's uniform appeared in the doorway to the communications center. "General Mihajlovic! You're here!"
"Yes, Sergeant. Just this moment. What is it?"
"Sir, a Priority One message has just come through. From Athens."
"Voice?"
"On the fax modem. They are running it through decryption now."
"I'll read it in there." Athens? What could he want? There was to be no communication with the Greek side Of the operation until…
In the communications center, a female lieutenant looked up from an IBM computer screen. "General! The message has just been cleared."
"Let me see."
Taking the woman's chair, Mihajlovic leaned forward and read the words written on the screen in glowing yellow phosphor.
IMMEDIATE
VLACOVIC CAPTURED AND BROKEN, SALONIKA. EXPECT HRU ACTIVITY YOUR AREA.
— ARISTOTLE
Damn the man! Why couldn't he have transmitted more information? When had Vlacovic been taken? And by who? Was it a screw-up with the local authorities, or were the Americans already involved? Why couldn't that idiot Vlacovic have been silenced in prison before his interrogation? How much had the opposition learned from him? Was the HRU, the Hostage Rescue Unit, to be the American Delta Force, as had been assumed? Or were the Greeks behind it, or somebody else? It wasn't even beyond the realm of possibility that Vlacovic was playing at some game of his own. The first rule of operations in the twisted world of Balkan politics was never trust anyone.
And that, of course, applied even to Aristotle, even though Mihajlovic had groomed him for his current role himself. Had Aristotle betrayed the operation?
Doubtful. Not with those photographs and videotapes documenting Aristotle's rather bizarre sexual tastes in such lurid detail still safely locked away in the safe upstairs. If the man wanted to continue in Greek politics — if he even wanted to continue showing his face in public — he would continue to play the role in this drama Mihajlovic had assigned him.
For a moment, Mihajlovic toyed with the idea of contacting Aristotle in hopes of learning a few answers to go with the torrent of questions racing through his mind, then decided against it. He would assume the worst — that the Americans had been the ones to take and interrogate Vlacovic — if only because only news of that urgency would have prompted Aristotle to break the agreed-upon protocol and send this message. And even assuming the worst, nothing had really changed. The timetable for Dvorak would have to be moved up a bit, that was all. And it would help to increase military security here at the castle.
"Ivo!"
Boot heels clicked at Mihajlovic's back. "Yes, my General!"
"Prepare the draft of an order. I wish to bring in more men, immediately. C and D companies, I believe, are still at the Struga airfield?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Have them brought to the castle immediately. And I will wish to review the deployment of our forces."
"At once, my General. The… hostage rescue? You are moving up the schedule?"
"Possibly. This…" He tapped the computer screen with the knuckle of his right forefinger. "This may force us to move a bit faster than we anticipated. I would still like the operation carried out after an American rescue attempt at Skopje, however, if possible."