by Joseph Badal
“Three yachts were hijacked in the Ionian. The hijackers had detonators in their possession and met with a boat that carried explosive devices. They offloaded explosives onto the hijacked craft. As best as we can surmise, they planned to attack U.S. Navy ships at Sigonella.”
“You surmise?” Garvin said. “On what basis?”
Cole briefed the four men on exactly what had happened and why the CIA had taken action and had come to their conclusions.
“And what happened to the hijackers?”
Cole felt even more confusion. There were other questions he would have asked first if he were Garvin. Like: Who did the hijackers work for? Were any of our men injured or killed? What happened to the explosives? Or: What’s our next step?
“Those who weren’t killed are now in custody.”
“Where?” Thurston asked.
“Sigonella Naval Base.”
“When do you plan to turn them over to Italian authorities?” Steinhouse asked, underlying anger in his tone.
A bulb went on in Cole’s brain. It was obvious the President and his minions were more concerned about international reaction to the United States’ conducting a special op in the Ionian than anything else.
“I don’t plan to turn these people over to anyone until we have the opportunity to interrogate them.”
Garvin burst from his chair and jabbed a hand at Cole. “You listen to me. The cowboy days are over. You will make certain those men have been read their rights and that they are immediately transferred to the Italians. I will be in Prague for a G-8 summit conference next week and we are neck deep in six-country negotiations with Iran over their nuclear program. The last thing I want is for our allies to be upset about an illegal military operation.”
Cole looked sideways at Kurtz and saw nothing in the man’s expression that told him the Defense Secretary understood one iota of the situation. He turned to Thurston and Steinhouse and found nothing different there.
“I’ll call the SECNAV and have him give instructions to Admiral Johnson at Sigonella,” Kurtz said.
Another light bulb went on in Cole’s head. The U.S. Military was a huge organization with hundreds of admirals and generals. He doubted the Secretary of Defense would know the name of the base commander at Sigonella. Kurtz had just spouted Johnson’s name off the top of his head. The four men in the room already knew about the incidents off Sicily.
“How long have you known about what happened?” Cole asked.
“What difference does that make, Mister Cole?” the President said. “What matters is why I didn’t hear about this from you well before you sent in DELTA and SEAL teams. What matters is that you chose to run an operation in international territory without informing the State Department, the Pentagon, or me.”
Garvin turned to Kurtz. “I want every commander who even touched this operation relieved of their commands and strongly encouraged to retire.”
He turned back to Cole. “And I want your resignation on my desk—”
Cole stuck his arm out like a traffic cop. “Stop right there, Mister President. I suggest you ask your other guests to leave us alone.”
“We played that game already, Cole. After the Lone Wolf operation against the Black Gold Brotherhood. I will not stand for it happening again. I—”
“It’s your decision, Mister President, if you want me to discuss ICT in front of them.”
Anger had turned Garvin’s face red. But his face suddenly turned pale and then grayish. “I . . . I . . . um . . . I think you gentlemen should give Director Cole and me a minute.”
Cole watched Thurston’s normally ruddy complexion go white; Kurtz’s expression turned almost feline, as though he had heard something he might be able to use for his own benefit. Steinhouse looked confused.
After the others left, Garvin sat down. “What do you want?”
Cole stood and moved to the front of the President’s desk. “Turn off the recorder switch under your desk.”
The switch made a clicking sound when Garvin flipped it off.
“From the look I saw on your Chief of Staff’s face, I suspect he is fully aware of your . . . arrangement with ICT. That communications legislation you got passed will be worth billions to that company over the next decade. The stock options they put in a blind trust for your wife should allow you both to live in world-class luxury after your term is up.”
“I asked what you wanted.”
“Several things. First, there will be no repercussions taken against anyone involved with the operation in the Ionian. In fact, I think it would be a perfect expression of a nation’s gratitude in recognition of their bravery to promote every one of the men involved and award them medals.”
“Sonofabitch,” Garvin muttered. “You can’t make . . . .” Then he said, “Done!”
“Second, no more talk about turning over the terrorists to the Italians. There’s more to this than just attacks planned against a few of our ships based at Sigonella.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I feel it in my gut. It’s my instincts developed over decades with the Company that makes me so valuable to you and the United States.”
Cole again paused and waited.
“If word gets out—”
“The only way word will get out is if those idiots Kurtz and Steinhouse tell someone. I hope you can control them. By the way, did you notice the look on Kurtz’s face when I mentioned ICT? He thinks there might be leverage there that he can use against you. Be careful, Mister President.”
Garvin finally agreed to Cole’s second ultimatum. “Anything else?”
“Two things.” Cole pulled a copy of a document from the file he’d brought with him and passed it to Garvin. “I want you to re-read this to jog your memory.” He waited while Garvin read the document and raised his head.
“You remember you signed that after Operation Lone Wolf.”
“Under duress.”
Cole nodded. “That’s right. It was under duress, for good reason. You agreed that the DCI would, under extreme circumstances, have unilateral authority to mount special operations intended to defend our country against foreign threats anywhere on the planet. What occurred in the Ionian fell under that directive. And do you remember why I demanded that authority?”
Garvin looked even sicker.
Cole answered his own question. “Because I don’t trust you or any politician to do the right thing. I want you to keep that copy handy. I am sure you will need to remind yourself of its contents as long as I am DCI.”
Garvin rested his head against the back of his chair. “You said two more things. What’s your other demand?”
“You’ll call the CEO at ICT and tell her to reverse the stock option grant. There is no way I want the President of the United States susceptible to blackmail.”
“Isn’t that what you just did?”
Cole smiled. “It’s okay if I know how corrupt you are; I just don’t want it to become common knowledge. At least, not just yet.”
Garvin lowered his head into his hands.
Cole walked toward the door, but stopped with his hand on the handle. He looked back at Garvin. “What the hell happened to you? You started out your presidency with real promise.” He hesitated a beat to see if Garvin would respond, but the man neither answered nor changed his position.
Warren Thurston returned to the Oval Office after Jack Cole left. “Do we have a problem?” he asked.
“That bastard Jack Cole! I wish there was a way to get rid of him.”
“I assume you mean that getting him to resign isn’t going to happen, and firing him isn’t an option.”
“Right on both counts.”
“How badly do you want him gone?”
“Almost as badly as anything I’ve ever wanted.”
CHAPTER 42
“Here we are, back in Greece again,” Liz said as the Olympic Airlines flight bounced twice on the Athens runway before it finally settled onto the tarmac. The set
ting sun was visible through the plane’s window. “You ever notice that these planes always smell like bad coffee?”
Bob detected a slight nervous trill in Liz’s voice. He wasn’t surprised. Michael, two years old, had been kidnapped in Greece in 1971, while Bob was stationed there with the U.S. Army, and they had been attacked by terrorists in 2004, during the Athens Olympics. They had many happy memories of their times in Greece, but a child kidnapping and a terrorist attack tend to influence good memories.
He looked at Liz in her window seat and said, “I’m sorry that things haven’t worked out.”
As the plane taxied to the terminal, Liz looked at Robbie, seated across the aisle from Bob and next to Nick Vangelos, and whispered, “Think of the stories Robbie can tell when he returns home.”
“I wonder how he’ll deal with the bullying Miriana told us about after his experiences here.”
Liz pursed her lips and waggled her head. “Maybe the bullies will move on to someone else.”
After they deplaned and secured their baggage, Nick led them outside the terminal. He pointed to a Vangelos Charters van parked directly in front.
“How much did you have to pay the asteenomeea to have your van parked there?” Bob asked with a smile.
Nick put on a shocked look. “Why would I have to pay the police anything? All Athenians strive to provide the best service to visitors.”
“And . . . .”
“And my cousin Spiro is a police captain.”
Bob laughed.
They boarded the van and Nick introduced everyone to the driver, Christos, who immediately assumed the role of tour guide. He pointed out every site of interest they passed. The one time Bob paid special attention was when they stopped at a traffic light at the intersection where terrorists had attacked the car he and Liz were in over a decade earlier.
“Where will we stay tonight?” Bob asked.
“We have a special rate at a hotel near Constitution Square. It’s close to the Plaka. I think Robbie will enjoy the location.”
Bob asked, “Does a cousin of yours own the hotel?”
Nick looked momentarily embarrassed. “He’s only a third cousin.” Then he said, “We’ll go straight to the hotel. It’s almost eight, so we’ll drop off the bags, give you time to clean up and change, if you wish, and then we’ll have dinner in the Plaka. The boat is supposed to arrive some time tomorrow afternoon. We’ll board it after it’s cleaned and provisioned and will be south of the Peloponnese a couple hours after that.”
“What kinda boat will we be on?” Robbie asked.
Nick lapsed into a detailed account of the yacht, which engaged Robbie.
The forty-minute drive to Constitution Square ended just as Nick finished his monologue about the length, beam, draft, mechanics, sleeping accommodations, electronics, navigation equipment, and dozens of other details of the boat, the Sofia Mou.
“Who’s the boat named after?” Robbie asked.
“Sofia Mou means My Sofia. That’s my daughter’s name. She will be part of our crew. Our cook. She’s worked on our boats since she was eight years old.”
Christos pulled up in front of an eight-story, glass-fronted building with ornate, brass handles on glass doors that led into a luxurious, marble-floored lobby. A large crystal chandelier hung inside the entry.
Nick picked up the Danforths at their hotel an hour later and drove them to a taverna in the Plaka. After a waiter took their order—orektika (hors d’oeuvres), horiatiki salata (salad), calamaria (squid) for Liz, dolmades for Miriana, and souvlakias (lamb shish kabob) for Nick and Bob. Nothing for Robbie.
“I think I’ll walk around for a bit,” Robbie said.
After Robbie walked away, Liz gripped Bob’s arm and gave him a worried look.
Bob whispered to her, “Let’s give him some time alone.” Then Bob’s cell phone rang. He stood and walked away from the table.
“Hello.”
“Dad, it’s Michael. Where are you?”
“At the moment. Athens.”
“Damn. I hoped to see you all here on Sicily.”
“I’m sorry, son. I wish we could have made that happen. I hope everything turned out okay.”
“Everything’s under control. How’s Robbie?”
“He’ll be okay.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Remember that he killed a man by burning him from the inside out.”
Just then Robbie returned to the tavern. Bob handed the phone to Robbie and said, “It’s your dad.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Robbie. How are you?”
“I’m okay, Dad.” Robbie said.
“I’m going to talk your grandfather about all of you returning home.”
“Please, Dad, don’t do that. This trip has been fantastic. I mean, besides getting hijacked. And . . . . You know. But the history in this part of the world is amazing. We’ll stop at islands with ancient ruins and go to museums and the boat we’ll be on is better than the one on Sicily. Bigger and faster. It’s got twin engines that—”
“Whoa, slow down,” Michael said and laughed. “I can’t keep up with the information dump.” Michael’s heart felt full as he listened to his son’s excitement. “You’re not unhappy about missing out on the sites around Sicily?”
“Sure, but Grandpa and Grandma said they’d bring me back here next year to see Sicily . . . if it’s okay with you and Mom.”
“Let’s talk to Mom about it when we all get home. In the meantime, try not to stow away on any boats.”
“I’m really sorry about that, Dad.”
“I know, son. Have a great time in Greece.”
“Dad . . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son.”
“That’s good.”
“You shouldn’t worry about me, Robbie.”
“I’ll try not to, Dad.”
“I love you, son.”
“Me too, Dad.”
“Now let me talk to your mother.”
CHAPTER 43
Ahmed Boukali stood on the Kerkira’s bridge and watched commercial jets fly over on their way in and out of the Athens Airport. He figured he would arrive at the mouth of Piraeus Bay in another couple hours. Piraeus was a very busy port that strained the nerves and patience of every boat captain who negotiated its sea lanes. As ships had increased in size and number, entering or exiting the port required diligent attention to detail. And they would have to take on a pilot.
He heard movement behind him and could tell from the rapid tap-tap-tap of the footfalls on the metal deck that it was the Iranian engineer, Feramarz Alizadeh. He involuntarily shuddered. The guy gave him the creeps. He had no personality, spent most of each day admiring his handiwork below decks or reading the Koran, and speaking to no one.
“Are we close?” Alizadeh asked.
Boukali turned to look at the engineer. The man had actually spoken to him. “Yeah, we’re close, but there are forty-two ships ahead of us. It’s unlikely we’ll be able to enter the heart of the bay until late tomorrow or early Friday.”
“When will we leave the ship?”
Boukali turned back to look at the Greek shoreline and raised the binoculars to his eyes. He didn’t want Alizadeh to have the opportunity to pick up any sign of dissembling in his expression. “As soon as we are close enough to the target, assuming you’ve set the timers.”
The little engineer’s voice suddenly became shrill. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I worry about everything and everyone.”
After a pause, Alizadeh said, “What has the crew been told?”
“Nothing.”
Alizadeh nodded. “Our names will be immortalized in the minds of every Madhhab and Madrasah student for a thousand years.”
Boukali smiled and said, “You can count on that.”
When a clerk delivered the DNA report on the two men who had died aboard the Zoe Mou, Dr. Salvatore Inn
ocenti pushed it aside. As the Medical Examiner on Sicily, he was responsible for the preparation and submission of myriad reports. His monthly Investigations & Autopsy Report for last month was due by the twenty-fifth of the following month. Today. He had two hours before it had to be submitted to the Uffizi di Medicale Legale. “Forms and reports,” he muttered. “Figlio di troia! That’s all the bureaucrats in Rome care about. Forms and reports.”
CHAPTER 44
Zaidi Shirazi couldn’t stop shaking. The cell the Americans had put him in was cold, cold enough to make his knees knock and the muscles in his chest and back freeze up. Naked except for underpants. Chained to a wall. He wanted to be brave, to tell the Americans to go to hell, but he couldn’t seem to dredge up the courage. He’d never wanted to be a martyr; all he’d ever wanted to be was a teacher. But he’d had the misfortune of inheriting his mother’s western looks and coloring, a common characteristic of all the men with whom he’d trained. Like his crewmates, Mirza Bouladeh and Amin Zarkov, he looked much more Anglo than Iranian. And martyrdom was the only way he could ensure the well-being of his widowed mother and five siblings. Besides, if he didn’t do his duty, the Islamic State would punish his family.
He stretched his legs as far as the chains would allow and tried to stand but couldn’t force his legs to support him. His hands had long since lost feeling from being secured to the wall by manacles attached to chains above his head.
“What do you want from me? You’re not allowed to treat prisoners this way,” he screamed for the hundredth time. No one answered.
He ran his tongue over the space where the molar used to be. His captives had injected him with something. When he came to, he discovered that someone had extracted the suicide tooth. He’d wondered how his captors knew about the cyanide implants.
Navy SEAL Stu Sherman looked at the computer consoles arrayed along the front part of the plane’s fuselage. Each screen displayed images from one of the interrogation cells in the plane’s tail.
“They all seem to have calmed down, except the guy in cell number two.”