Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  Although he already knew the time, Bob looked at the dashboard clock: Four thirty-one. It was mid-morning in Paris. He pictured Michael and Miriana sitting at a little cafe in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, eating croissants and people watching. That’s what Liz and I ought to be doing, he thought, instead of my going to CIA Headquarters during my vacation, and leaving a very angry wife at home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JULY 26, 2004

  Bob joined the Central Intelligence Agency after leaving the U.S. Army in the early 1970s. He’d met Jack Cole, who started with the Agency in 1969, during his training. They’d worked together off and on during the past thirty-four years. Now Jack was “DDO,” the Deputy Director of Operations, and Bob’s boss, and Bob headed up Special Ops. To Bob, Jack was like an older brother. But, despite their relationship, Bob was about to dump on Jack for pulling him off vacation. He stopped himself when he saw the expression on his old friend’s face. He could tell that something terrible had happened. Jack already looked a lot older than his sixty-two years. Long work days and tremendous stress had taken their toll. His face had become pale and slightly jowly, and his athletic body had sagged and rounded in the last few years. But he now looked sick, too. The cold, hard look in his red-veined eyes was a window to his soul. Puffy, dark bags showed under his eyes. He looked devastated—and angry.

  Bob took a seat in front of the desk. “What’s up, Jack?” he said.

  Jack swallowed and shook his head. “They murdered Fred Grantham and Harvey Cornwell, Bob. Shot them on their way to a meeting at the British Embassy in Athens.”

  Bob now felt like Jack looked. “Dammit!” he exclaimed. “Who? Who did it?”

  “No one’s claimed responsibility yet; but it’s got the signature of Eleeneekee Aneexee—Greek Spring.” Jack slammed a hand down on his desk. “Those bastards.” His face seemed older, more tired than he’d already looked when Bob entered the office. “You know how the Greek press refers to these murderers? EPSILON ALPHA! EA! Like they’re a fucking college fraternity.”

  Bob stood and paced the office, his mind awhirl with memories about Greece. His last assignment as an American Army officer had been in Greece, in 1971, the place where his son had been kidnapped the first time, when Michael was just two. He’d learned to love the country and the Greek people, despite the painful memory about Michael’s abduction; but the Greek Government’s execution of the investigation into terrorist groups like Greek Spring had left a bad taste in his mouth. Every Western Intelligence agent felt the same. Like Theka Efta Noemvri, the 17 November terrorist group that assassinated Richard Welch, the CIA Station Chief in Athens in 1975, Greek Spring had operated with impunity for three decades. They had gained confidence and become more aggressive over those thirty years. 17 November had murdered as many as twenty-three people, and Greek Spring at least another twenty-four. Fred Grantham and Harvey Cornwell could very well be the group’s twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth murder victims. And not one single member of the group had been identified, let alone arrested.

  “Dammit, Jack, Fred and Harvey were a couple of the best in the business. We’ve never had better cooperation between the agency and the Brits than we’ve had since Fred Grantham took over as Station Chief in Athens. And the Brits in MI-6 call Cornwell ‘007.’ Someone, some group has pretty big balls to murder the CIA Station Chief and the British Defense Attaché.”

  Jack nodded. “It’s time we stopped screwing around with these thugs. It’s time we get payback for Richard Welch, the eight other Americans, and now Grantham,” he said, referring to the Americans murdered by 17 November and Greek Spring. “Plus, for all the Americans these terrorists have wounded and their families.” Jack hesitated a moment, then added, “England has had a team of investigators working in Athens since 17 November assassinated Brigadier Stephen Saunders in Athens four years ago. The Brits are going ballistic. Cornwell’s murder was Greek Spring’s way of rubbing the Brits’ noses in the dirt.”

  “I can pull my team together within the hour,” Bob offered, “and get caught up on the data in the files by day’s end. Maybe there’s something we can share with the Brits which would help them find the murderers.” Bob’s offer sounded hollow even to his own ears. He knew that CIA analysts had gone through every bit of information the Agency had on the terrorist groups in Greece, including Greek Spring. They hadn’t found a kernel of data that led to the identification of even one member of any of the groups. “You know, if it hadn’t been for that idiot from 17 November blowing himself up while planting a bomb in Piraeus two years ago, the Greek Government would probably never have been able to take down that organization. That guy rolled over on many of the 17 November members.”

  “We could use a little luck like that every once in a while.”

  Jack appeared uncomfortable, anxious. His face now flushed, he stood and walked across the office, opened the door to a cabinet, and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He went back to his desk, splashed two fingers of booze into each glass, and lifted one of the glasses toward Bob. “Maybe you should drink this.”

  Oh crap, Bob thought, what now? “You’d better say whatever you’ve got on your mind,” he said, “before you stroke out. Besides, isn’t it just a tad early in the day for the hard stuff?”

  Jack handed one glass to Bob anyway, then plopped back into his desk chair and lifted the other glass. “Go ahead and call your team in. You’ll need all the research we can provide . . . before you go to Athens.”

  Bob had just sipped a bit of the bourbon and the strong amber liquid caused him to cough. It took him a half-minute to stop. “To do what?” he said.

  “To head up our side of the investigation into Greek Spring. You’ll work with the Brits. I talked to Brigadier Jeffrey Watkin-Coons this morning. They’re fed up with waiting for the Greeks to catch those bastards. So am I. Whether Athens likes it or not, we’re going into Greece and we’re going to put an end to those psychopaths.”

  “That’s a bit optimistic,” Bob said.

  Jack stopped and gave Bob a guilty look. “I’m sorry it’s got to be you. I know this is going to be tough on Liz, what with Michael’s abduction there years ago.”

  “I hate to admit it, but don’t you think I’m a bit long in the tooth for field work?”

  Jack’s smile seemed forced. “I know this is irregular, but you know the people, the language, the culture. Plus, you’re the most experienced person we’ve got.” He paused. “Yeah, it’s optimistic. But I know you can make it happen.”

  “I’d better call in my team. Then I’ll need to go home and make arrangements, pack a bag, and smooth some feathers.”

  Jack’s expression turned sorrowful. “You’re going to need more than a bag, Bob,” he said. “This is going to be a long-term assignment. You’re there until EA is out of business.”

  Bob placed his glass on Jack’s desk and started out of the office.

  “One other thing,” Jack said before Bob reached the door, “I don’t care what you have to do to accomplish this mission. We want these sonsofbitches taken down.”

  “Pretty broad rules of engagement,” Bob said. “You wouldn’t want to put that in writing?”

  Jack laughed. “Good luck, buddy,” he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JULY 26, 2004

  “Oh, Bob, this can’t be happening,” Liz said, wiping her hands on a dishtowel and tossing it on the kitchen counter. “You’ve talked about retiring in a couple of years. They’re not supposed to send people in your position into the field.”

  Bob winced. “You mean people my age.”

  Liz squinted at Bob. “That, too.”

  “I can’t think of a better way to finish my career at the Agency.”

  “That’s bull,” Liz countered, eyes flashing. “This could finish you permanently.” She wanted to scream, to curse the Agency, to shout at her husband about h
is priorities. But she saw the determination on his face. She knew he had a burning need to set things right, to crush evil wherever it occurred. Liz waved her hands in the air as though to signal defeat. She moved against Bob and put her arms around him, burying her head into his neck. She whispered, “Whatever you’ve got to do, I’ll live with it.” Then she pulled away for a second and said, “I feel sorry for the stupid bastards you’re going after.”

  Bob wrapped his arms around her. He’d fallen in love with Liz the very first time he’d seen her, and, if anything, his feelings for her had grown with the years. She was still as trim—maybe a bit more rounded in all the right places—as she was when he met her at a college dance in his senior year. Her long blond hair was cut in a bob now, and gray highlights had developed naturally. All in all, he still thought of her as one hot babe.

  “I don’t think I’ll be gone more than a few months,” he said.

  Liz suddenly jerked away from Bob and glared at him. “What does that mean?”

  Bob met his wife’s gaze for a moment, but couldn’t hold it. “I was just saying—”

  Liz jabbed his chest with a finger. “You’re telling me you’re going to Greece without me; you’re leaving me here?”

  “This isn’t a vacation, Liz. I’m—” The anger in Liz’s eyes hit Bob as though daggers had struck him.

  “I know it’s not a damned vacation,” she growled in a menacing tone. “Don’t you know anything about me after all these years? Do you really believe I’d let you go halfway across the world without me? I don’t like this assignment one bit; but how I feel about it has nothing to do with anything.” Tears came to her eyes. “You can be one royal S.O.B., Bob Danforth.”

  “You’re an agency wife,” Bob blurted. “You know what’s expected of you.” He immediately knew he’d made a mistake in lecturing her and tried to gather her in his arms, but she slapped at him and stalked out of the kitchen. He watched her leave the room.

  “Aw shit,” Bob groaned. He realized he knew better than to pull that old “agency wife” crap on Liz. He had plenty of reasons to feel conflicted about events in his life, but the number one conflict had always been between the role of his job and his role as a husband and parent. He knew Liz and their son had suffered as a result. He shook his head and tried to rationalize his behavior: He had served his country, he had worked on projects vital to America’s security, and he had made a difference. But, as true as all that might be, Bob also realized he’d let his family down. Liz wanted more children, but Bob hadn’t agreed. He already felt guilty about how little time he had spent with Michael. Liz wanted stability, to live in one community, to make friends and socialize with those friends week after week, year after year. But first the Army and then the CIA had moved them all over the world—thirteen times in thirty-seven years. Most of all, Liz wanted her family to be safe. Bob couldn’t even give her that. Michael had been kidnapped as a two-year-old when they were stationed in Greece. Bob nearly lost his life trying to rescue their son then. He and Michael could have been killed in the Balkans when Michael was captured by a Serb SPETSNAZ unit three years ago and Bob joined the rescue effort to bring him back. There was the assassin who nearly murdered Liz, all because of Bob’s involvement in a clandestine CIA operation. And then there were all of the assignments in the intervening years where Bob had risked his own life and his wife and son’s well-being.

  I’ll make it up to her, he told himself. This will be it. My last assignment, then I’ll put in my papers. But he felt his resolve weaken almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JULY 26, 2004

  The return trip to Langley took Bob nearly an hour. During the drive, he reflected on the compromise he and Liz had reached. He would fly to Greece without her. As soon as he got settled in and figured out the parameters of his mission, they would set a date when she could join him.

  It was 11:00 a.m. when Bob entered the conference room at CIA Headquarters where his team was working. Frank Reynolds, Tanya Serkovic, and Raymond Gallegos had, in a matter of only a few hours, covered most of a eight-foot by four-foot conference table with piles of documents. Each of them was working a laptop computer and a printer was spewing paper. A projector connected to a fourth laptop sat in the center of the table atop a stack of files. Its motor ran, filling the room with a constant whirring sound.

  “Hey, Chief,” Frank said, raising one hand in an abbreviated wave, barely taking his gaze from the computer screen. “We’ll be ready with a briefing in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Anything I can do in the meantime?” Bob asked.

  “Sure,” Frank said, “you can order some lunch. We haven’t had anything but bad coffee since getting together at six this morning.”

  Bob smiled. Frank was the only guy in the Agency, including the Director, who would treat Bob like an administrative assistant. He meant no disrespect; he was just all business. Bob went to the telephone and placed an order at the cafeteria. Then he took a seat and grabbed a file folder. He’d opened it before he noticed the label: Richard Welch-23 December 1975.

  Bob scanned the contents of the file. Richard Welch was the then CIA Station Chief in Athens. He was assassinated on the evening of December 23, 1975 outside his home in Old Psyhiko. According to Welch’s wife, a man came up to his car and said, “Keereeay Welch?” Welch got out of the car, stood for a moment, and peered at the man standing in the shadows. Suddenly, the man fired three shots at Welch, one of which hit him in the heart, killing him instantly. Two other men accompanied the killer. They all got away. The file included quotes from Welch’s wife, Kristina. She mentioned she had seen a suspicious gray car outside their home in the previous few days. They’d received a number of hang-up telephone calls. Concerning the killing of her husband, she was quoted as saying, “He got out of the car because he thought it was a friend. I rushed to him. But he was gone.”

  Bob thought again about the prudence of Liz joining him in Greece. He put the thought aside. That was a consideration he would have to deal with at another time. Besides, who was he kidding? He’d never win that battle.

  The Welch file also included references to how Welch’s CIA affiliation had been identified by the killers. The CIA director at the time, William Colby, espoused one hypothesis. He blamed Counterspy Magazine, which had published Welch’s name several months before his murder. Others claimed Welch’s identity had been revealed in a book by Philip Agee, a former CIA Case Officer. One note in the file caught Bob’s attention: “We passed evidence to the Greek Government that would have identified Welch’s murderers, but the Greeks did nothing about it.”

  Welch’s assassination had occurred twenty-nine years ago. 17 November claimed responsibility. Since Welch’s murder, Greek Spring had kept pace with 17 November. Each group had killed at least twenty-three people and committed at least one hundred violent acts of terror, and yet not one member of either group had ever been arrested or even identified until one of 17 November’s men mishandled a bomb he was placing in Piraeus in 2002.

  The words “. . . the Greeks did nothing about it” stuck in Bob’s mind as though they’d been laser-stamped there. He didn’t want to believe it; but how could terrorist organizations operate for nearly thirty years unless the local authorities were somehow in bed with the groups? Or, at the very least, sympathetic toward them.

  After replacing the file, Bob looked around the room at his team. He’d worked with these people on a number of clandestine operations over the last five years. They were as good as any the Agency had.

  Forty-seven-year-old Frank Reynolds, a bookish, twenty-four-year CIA veteran, with an IQ in the stratosphere, had spent most of his career with the Agency analyzing message traffic and news reports coming out of the Balkans, Turkey, and Greece. He’d studied Serbo-Croatian, Turkish, and Greek at the Defense Language Institute, West Coast, in Monterey, California, and received his doct
orate of Slavic Languages and Literature from the University of California at Berkeley. He knew more about the political systems and parties in the entire region than anyone in the free world. Frank’s wiry salt and pepper hair, as usual, looked as though it had never known a comb. The man was banging at his computer keyboard as though he was trying to see how much punishment it could take.

  Forty-years-old and thirty pounds overweight, Tanya Serkovic wore loose-fitting, grandmotherly dresses, but had a fire burning in her eyes that was anything but grandmotherly. She had thick, shoulder-length black hair and exotic Slavic features, with a trace of Oriental blood showing in the shape of her mesmerizing violet-colored eyes. A Bosnian expert in Eastern European Languages, and also fluent in Greek and Italian, she’d witnessed the genocide committed by the Serbs against her people, fought with the Bosnian resistance, and fled to the United States when Serb hit-squads were sent to assassinate her.

  Raymond Gallegos was thirty-eight-years-old and had the dark good looks of a Latin movie star and the intelligence of a nuclear physicist. A highly decorated Army veteran, he’d earned his Bachelors and Masters degrees in Geography after a tour in the Gulf War, and spent seven years with the National Security Agency as a cartography consultant, before moving to the CIA. He was familiar with every part of Southern Europe the way most people know their own neighborhoods.