by Joseph Badal
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JULY 29, 2004
Bob left the Glyfada office in plenty of time to make his meeting with Rodney Townsend. He wanted to get off on the right foot with the man. He remembered that parking was a problem in the Plaka, so he had Tony drop him off three blocks from the restaurant. They had kept alert on the drive from the office, and hadn’t detected anyone following them. But Bob didn’t want to take any chances. With the directions to the restaurant Tony had provided him, Bob fast-walked up a narrow lane, while Tony blocked traffic for a couple minutes.
The Plaka dated back to antiquity. Its streets had been built for pedestrians and carts, not for automobiles. Buildings came almost to the edge of the street, separated by narrow sidewalks, or no sidewalks at all.
Bob saw the restaurant a block in the distance. After he made sure no one had followed him, he quickly moved to the restaurant entrance. He thought he spotted Townsend as soon as he entered—the only man in the place wearing a tie. His dark-blue pinstriped suit said Savile Row. Besides, the man was the only person in the place with blond hair and milk-white skin. The man looked to be in his late forties, with brilliant blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin lips defining a wide mouth. Bob also noticed the man’s clenched jaw and fingers drumming the table—tension, impatience, or just plain anger at being here. This is probably not going to go well, he thought. I’ll try to kill him with kindness.
He walked over to the man. “Rodney Townsend?” he asked in a low voice.
The man stood, nodded, and shook Bob’s extended hand. “Danforth?”
Bob sat opposite Townsend at a small, round, corner table and said, “Thanks for agreeing to meet me on such short notice.”
“Quite all right,” Townsend said, with the warmth of a North Korean border guard. Townsend looked at his watch. “I have to be somewhere in an hour, so we should get started.”
“My condolences for Harvey Cornwell,” Bob said. “He was a good man.”
Townsend shot Bob a sharp, narrow-eyed look. His thin lips pursed and his hands balled into fists. “You don’t have a clue how good a man Harvey was. I . . . .”
Townsend paused, took a breath, then apparently decided to not continue.
So much for killing him with kindness, Bob thought. He leaned forward and, in a slow and easy tone, said, “Actually, I do have a clue; I knew Harvey quite well. We worked together on three occasions—most recently on an operation in the Balkans in 2000. We got together whenever he came to the States. I counted him among my best friends.” Bob let that sink in. He could tell from Townsend’s round-eyed reaction that his relationship with Cornwell was a shock for the man.
“And, don’t forget,” Bob said, still in a quiet, easy tone, “we lost one of our best people, too. It seems to me that we have enough problems dealing with Greek recalcitrance and incompetence, without creating problems for one another.” Bob checked his watch. “There’s no reason for you to stay here another fifty-eight minutes if you have something better to do. I sure as hell do. I’m going to find the Greek Spring bastards who have now murdered five Americans and twenty or more others, including Harvey Cornwell. We can do that together, or work on the problem at odds with one another. Make up your mind right now.” Bob’s voice had gone from quiet and velvety to hoarse and hard.
Rodney Townsend’s mouth had dropped open just enough to show his surprise. He swallowed and his face reddened, but he quickly recovered and answered. “Please forgive my rudeness; but explain to me why I should believe that anyone from the CIA would want to cooperate with us.”
“All you can do is take my word on it,” Bob said. “You’ve obviously had bad experiences working with the Agency. I apologize for that. Now that we’ve both apologized, why don’t we start afresh.”
Townsend glared at Bob for a few seconds and then a smile slowly creased his face, evolving into a belly laugh. He reached across the table and offered Bob his hand. “Sounds like a plan.”
Bob shook Townsend’s hand. “So, what’s good here?” he asked.
Townsend laughed again. “Everything is fantastic, of course; it’s a Greek restaurant. It’s too bad they can’t track down terrorists as well as they cook.”
Bob smiled at the remark and said, “Whatever you’re having is fine with me.”
After ordering lunch, Bob looked around to make sure no one could eavesdrop on their conversation. Satisfied, he said, “Before leaving the U.S., I forwarded the Agency’s entire file on Greek Spring to Brigadier Watkin-Coons, including the data on each of the investigations involving the first four Americans murdered by the group, along with our information about every murder, assault, bombing, and theft they perpetrated. I assume he will forward the entire file to you.”
Townsend nodded. “We’ll probably receive it tomorrow.” He took a sip of water, seemed to be thinking about something, and then said, “If you will forgive me, I have to say I don’t agree with the way your government has handled the investigations into EA.”
Bob signaled Townsend with his hand to continue.
“You’ve allowed the Greeks to manage the entire process, and what little the U.S. has done has been handled as though the murders of your people were four separate incidents, instead of four interrelated events.” Townsend had an obvious challenge in his voice and in his expression. He looked as though he dared Bob to contradict him. His expression softened when Bob not only didn’t argue with him, but also agreed with him.
“That’s why I’m here now,” Bob said. “My government has come to the same conclusion.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
JULY 29, 2004
Stavros Theodorakis loved June. It was warm, but not hot, and the annual pilgrimage of tourists was in full swing. Most visitors eventually traveled to the islands; but almost all of them spent one or two days in Athens. He especially loved the Scandinavian tourists—the girls with their pale complexions, blond hair and blue eyes. He would love to meet one of these beauties, but just the thought of approaching one made shivers run down his spine. He didn’t have the nerve. Besides, he had neither the looks to attract them nor the money to entertain them.
As though the gods decided to torment him, two blond girls strolled by his sidewalk kafeneio table at that moment. Stavros ran his eyes over the girls, starting at their feet and moving up to their crowns of golden hair. The familiar heat crawled up the back of his neck and made his scalp tingle, while pressure built in his groin. Stavros rated the girl on the left an eight; her friend merited a nine. He twisted in his chair in order to watch them while they moved to the street corner and waited for the light to change. He sighed loudly when two young Greeks seated at the far end of the I, just a meter from the corner, suddenly started talking to the girls. The blonds flashed brilliant white smiles at the men, who left their table and stepped up to the girls. After a moment, all four of them were laughing. The foursome talked for another minute, then turned around and followed a serpentine path through the I tables to an interior table close to the one from which Stavros watched.
The heat at the back of Stavros’ neck and between his legs dissipated, replaced by a familiar pain in his stomach. He knew the pain would grow quickly and he pulled a pill case from his jacket pocket and swallowed two antacids, chased down by a gulp of water. He adjusted in his chair so he wouldn’t have to see the Scandinavian girls and their new Greek friends; it was bad enough that he could hear their laughter and conversation.
Suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. Stavros’ stomach erupted as though filled with a thousand bees; his heart seemed to stop for a second. He began to jump out of his chair, when a calming voice said, “Take it easy, cousin, it’s just me.”
Stavros settled back into his chair and took another drink of water while his cousin, Demetrios, moved from behind Stavros’ chair and took the chair next to his.
“You startled me,” Stavros said.
Stavros felt his face go hot. He waved a dismissive hand in the air and said, “Oh, they’re all right.”
“All right?” Demetrios said. “They’re world class. You want me to fix you up with one of them?”
Stavros felt a spark of excitement radiate throughout his being. What he wouldn’t give for a night with one of those girls! Hell, what he wouldn’t give for a night with any woman! He knew Demetrios could make it happen, too. He’d seen his cousin in action. His cousin had a mean streak. Stavros had seen Demetrios walk up to another man and frighten him with just a look. He also had movie star looks and his pockets were always full of cash. Women loved Demetrios. He didn’t know where Demetrios got his money—he didn’t have a job and his parents were poor. He suspected it had to do with Demetrios’ involvement with some shadowy group he had alluded to on a couple of occasions. Stavros quickly met his cousin’s gaze, then looked away. He saw the humor that had been there for just an instant depart. Demetrios’ eyes had gone hard, shark-like.
“You called me,” Demetrios said. “What’s up?”
The tingly sensation started again; but this time it wasn’t caused by the blonds. It was the excitement of being involved with something illicit, feeling a part of something dangerous. “I got a hit today,” he said. “One of the passengers on a flight that came in yesterday matched up with a name on the program you gave—”
Demetrios’ hand on his arm stopped Stavros. He saw the waiter approaching their table. Demetrios ordered ouzo, Stavros a limonada. When the man walked away, Demetrios skidded his chair a couple inches closer to Stavros, leaned forward, and said in no more than a whisper, “Go ahead, but keep your voice down.”
Stavros took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I got a match against the program you gave me. A man flew in on the Delta flight that landed at 8:20 a.m. yesterday. He told Customs he was here on a pleasure trip. He had one checked bag and was traveling alone. A man with the same name showed up on the computer software program you gave me.”
“The man’s name,” Demetrios demanded.
“Robert Danforth.”
“And . . . .”
Stavros felt his pulse quicken. He smiled and said, “And, he’s an employee of the United States Central Intelligence Agency.”
Demetrios slowly moved back into his chair. “Anything else?” he said.
“He’s high level in Special Operations. Been with the CIA for over thirty years.”
“What about a hotel?” Demetrios said.
“Nothing yet. But it won’t be hard to find him once we learn what hotel he checked in at. They’ll collect his passport and put the information into the computer. I should know where he’s staying within a day, two days at the latest.”
Demetrios patted Stavros’ arm and smiled. “You did well, cousin. Call me as soon as you know where the man is staying.” He pulled an envelope from his pants pocket and placed it on Stavros’ lap. “We appreciate your support,” he said. Demetrios pushed his chair back, stood, and walked away, disappearing in the growing evening crowd.
Stavros peeked inside the envelope without lifting it from his lap. He fingered the cash and counted five one hundred-Euro bills.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JULY 29, 2004
Demetrios Mavroyianni’s hands shook as he dialed the telephone number. The information his cousin, Stavros, had given him was momentous. The CIA had sent a high-level operative to Greece. He suspected that this Robert Danforth’s presence was a clear sign the Americans were going to increase pressure on the Greek Government to find the members of Greek Spring and of other terrorist groups. Demetrios snickered. All they would accomplish, he told himself, was to add one more name to the victim list: Robert Danforth.
After he let the phone ring twice, he hung up and dialed the number again. This time the call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Embros,” the man on the other end of the line growled.
“I have news,” Demetrios said.
“Avrio stees octo to proee,” Giorgos Photos responded. “Sto spiti konda to panipisteemio.”
Demetrios had been a member of Greek Spring since 1990. He knew instantly when and where he was to meet the leader: 8:00 a.m. tomorrow at the safehouse near the University of Athens. He was familiar with three such safehouses the group used in and around the city. He suspected there were many other meeting places about which he had not been told; but that didn’t bother him. In fact, it gave him further confidence in the leader’s wisdom. Never let any one member of the group know too much. He also knew that if Giorgos decided to put a hit out on Danforth, he would not be selected to do the job. Giorgos would make sure that separation was maintained between the source of the information about Danforth—Demetrios’ cousin, Stavros Theodorakis—and Danforth’s assassin. It bothered Demetrios that someone else would have the honor and pleasure of murdering the American spy; but he understood why it was necessary. He would get his chance again, soon. There were plenty of targets in Athens. Brits and Americans and Turks galore. A virtual feast for Eleeneekee Aneexee.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JULY 29, 2004
So far, none of the time Tony had spent with Mikaelis Griffas had been worth Tony being away from his family. The information the man had provided him had not been of any value. But Griffas was one of only three informants he’d developed since coming to Greece, and the man seemed more excited than usual when he called Tony’s cell phone number twenty minutes ago.
Tony didn’t want to chance missing out on the one time Griffas came up with something valuable. Recruiting Griffas had been a real coup. The man worked in the Greek Government, on the Prime Minister’s personal staff. Western Intelligence agencies had suspected for years that top officials in the Greek Government had intentionally subverted the investigations into terrorist groups. Maybe Griffas had finally come up with something concrete.
Although Griffas was a quirky sort, Tony had come to like the little guy. Griffas was nuts about the game of basketball and crazy about Michael Jordan. He always wore a Chicago Bulls warm-up jacket with Jordan’s name and number on the back. At five feet, five inches and weighing no more than one hundred pounds, Griffas wasn’t built for basketball. But his stature hadn’t diminished his enthusiasm for the game.
Tony parked his car on a side street, two blocks from the Piraeus wharf, and walked down to the water. He strolled along the path between the water and a string of tavernas, playing tourist. Strands of lights decorated the tavernas and the murmurs of diners from a dozen different countries filled the air like the asynchronous sounds of nocturnal animals in a forest. The cooking odors drifting from the tavernas made Tony’s stomach growl. He’d been about to sit down to a late dinner when Griffas called. He would have loved to meet the informant at one of the restaurants; but the man was paranoid to the point of desperation. He would only meet Tony in secluded, out-of-the-way places, far from his apartment in Athens, far from prying eyes and ears.
Tony didn’t like meetings in dark alleys in places like Piraeus. But, if he wanted to play the spy game, he had to accept the risks. He pressed his left arm against his side and felt the comforting hardness of the 9mm pistol in the shoulder holster under his jacket.
From the path along the quay, Tony slipped down a dark lane, barely wide enough for a compact car. Warehouse-like buildings faced each other from opposite sides of the lane. The buildings on each side abutted one another, each with a closed overhead door and a recessed personnel door. Griffas had told him he’d be in the third doorway on the left. It took a minute for Tony’s eyes to adjust to t
he narrow street‘s darkness. He stayed on the left side of the street, close to the wall, stopping at each doorway, his right hand now inside his jacket gripping the pistol. The hair on the back of his neck bristled; he didn’t like the whole setup. After passing the second door on the left, Tony removed the 9mm and held his gunhand down at his side.
The doorways along the lane were staggered—first one on the left, then one on the right. Tony walked slowly, quietly past four doors—two left, two right, checking each one before moving farther into the lane. Just a few yards from the third doorway on the left, Tony’s breath caught in his chest and his heart did a full gainer into the pit of his stomach. The noise sounded primordial—a cross between a monkey screech and a distant panther roar. Tony snapped his gunhand in front of him and rushed to a spot only six feet from the third doorway, where Griffas was supposed to be. He dropped into a crouch and growled in Greek, “Come out and show yourself. Hands up.”
No response. No movement.
Tony tried again, repeating his orders.
The animal-like sound came again from the doorway.
Tony pressed hard against the wall and sidled toward the doorway. He stopped inches from the opening, took a slow, deep breath, and released it just as slowly. He took a penlight flashlight from his pocket and placed his thumb on the ON switch. He peeked around the corner of the wall, snapping on the flashlight, then jerked his head back as his mind processed what his eyes had seen—a man lying on his back in the three-foot recessed space. The door behind the prostrate man was open. Running footsteps echoed in the building, a crashing sound at the far end of the building like a door being shouldered open, and suddenly no sound at all. Tony shone the flashlight up and down the tiny street and saw no one. The same with the cavernous space in the empty building behind the open door. The only sounds he heard were his own breathing and a low moan coming from the man lying near his feet. Michael Griffas.