Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “Tell me you found something,” Bob said.

  “Not yet; but I think we may have a chance of making a connection.”

  “How so?”

  “I had breakfast this morning with a friend of mine with the Czechoslovakian Embassy. She’s in their Intelligence Section and was recently assigned to Greece from D.C. We got to know each other in the States.”

  “All in the spirit of détente,” Bob said.

  Stacey smiled. “That and the fact we go bar hopping together. We seem to like the same kind of men. Anyway, I brought up the subject of the terrorists and the thought that one or more of the leaders might have been trained in a Communist school or terrorist training camp supported by the former Soviet Union. She told me she’d do some research and see if she could find something.”

  “That’s good work, Stacey. Keep me informed if anything comes of it.”

  The young woman blushed from Bob’s praise and left the office.

  Bob thought about Stacey’s information. It was amazing what a difference a few years could make. He would have just as soon shot any Iron Curtain Czechoslovakian Intelligence Officer as look at one just a few years ago. Now CIA and Czech agents spent evenings together meeting men in the nation’s capital.

  But Stacey had given him an idea he should have thought about himself. He booted up his computer and sent an encrypted message to Frank Reynolds at Langley: Contact former Soviet bloc sources for information about all Greeks who attended Communist training schools and/or terrorist training camps sponsored by Soviets. Bob had taken Stacey’s idea a giant step forward. If this request bore fruit, he would see to it that Stacey Frederick’s personnel file included a letter of commendation.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  AUGUST 1, 2004

  Giorgos Photos watched Pavlos Manganos pour two inches of retsina wine into each of three glasses. Manganos handed one glass to Photos, a second one to Demetrios Mavroyianni, and then picked up the third glass. The three men lifted their glasses. “Steen yia sas,” Photos toasted.

  “Yia sas,” Manganos and Mavroyianni repeated.

  While they each sipped from their glasses, Photos wondered about the embarrassment of information riches that had fallen into his hands. It normally wasn’t this easy. He might be the recipient of one bit of information that could lead to the identification of one target. Suddenly, it was as though he had received a cornucopia of leads and potential targets. Again, he was a bit uncomfortable with the time sequences involved with these potential opportunities; but he had to take the chance. This was the beginning of the final campaign, the campaign that would lead to the climactic event.

  The slip of paper that had been passed to him by one of his cell members had identified three British Intelligence Officers operating in Athens, along with an address he assumed was their headquarters. Two out of three of Greek Spring’s last assassinations had been Englishmen. Three more would send a message to the bastards that they were messing around with the wrong people in the wrong location. They’d planned an attack against the English, against the British Tourist Bureau. An attack against British Intelligence was a whole other matter.

  The information about the English was a bounty in and of itself; but the information from Elizabeth Danforth’s visa application and about her flight number, arrival date and time into the Athens airport really excited Photos. Greek Spring had principally targeted political enemies, both foreign and domestic. The next phase of the campaign he and Dimitris Argyropoulos had devised not only included attacking political targets more frequently, but also involved hitting their family members and civilians at random. They were going to create an atmosphere in which no one felt safe, in which the citizens of Greece would cry out desperately for a leader who would make them secure. The assassinations of Robert Danforth and his wife and of the Brits would be big steps in that process.

  Photos took a seat at a table. The other two men followed suit.

  “Demetrios, I want you to surveil the address we were provided. See if you can identify the people who go in and out of the building. Follow one of them at the end of the day. Find out where they go, who they meet with.” He passed a sheet of paper to Mavroyianni with the names of the three Englishmen printed on it. “These are the ones we’re interested in.”

  ***

  Photos turned to Manganos. “Pavlos,” he said, “you will follow the American. You know what he looks like. I want to know his habits, where he goes each morning, and so on.”

  Manganos nodded his understanding.

  “We must assume that Danforth will meet his wife when her plane arrives. But, of course, that isn’t a certainty. So, in addition to following the man starting tomorrow morning, I want you to be like a hair on his ass on Friday morning. If he moves toward the airport, our team will be ready.”

  “Do you plan on hitting them as they leave the airport?” Mavroyianni asked.

  Photos slowly rubbed the fingers of one hand over his chin and inhaled a long, deep breath. After loudly exhaling, he looked first at Manganos and then at Mavroyianni. “I’ve thought about that a lot. It would probably be easier that way; but I think we could do it with a great deal more impact in Constitution Square.”

  Photos wasn’t surprised at the other two men’s reactions. They each placed their glasses on the table and stared at him. Round-eyed shock showed on their faces.

  “You’re assuming Danforth will bring his wife to the Grand Bretagne Hotel?” Manganos asked.

  Photos met the man’s gaze and said, “Yes.”

  “There are Evzones guards right across the street in front of Parliament, not to mention a dozen policemen wandering around the square,” Mavroyianni said. “The American woman’s plane gets in around ten a.m. That would put Danforth and his wife in the square around noon. The sidewalks around Constitution Square will be crowded. Mostly Greeks.”

  “All the better,” Photos said. He carefully noted each man’s surprise. Mavroyianni and Manganos looked at one another. They didn’t appear happy.

  “Now isn’t the time to get queasy about what we’re doing. It’s time to put pressure on the government. It must learn that the more it cooperates with our enemies, the more we will retaliate. The Americans and the English wouldn’t have investigative and Intelligence people here without the agreement of the Prime Minister. We must teach the Greek Government a lesson. Are you ready to do your duty?”

  First Mavroyianni, then Manganos nodded his head, albeit reluctantly.

  “I asked you if you are ready,” Photos shouted.

  “Yes,” Manganos replied.

  “I’m ready,” Mavroyianni said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AUGUST 2, 2004

  Monday morning turned out to be more of the same for Bob. Lots of research, a meeting with Rodney Townsend at the British team’s offices off Kolonaki Square, and a long telephone conversation with Jack Cole at Langley. Bob knew that Intelligence work was mostly sweat, eye strain, and frustration. But it was those things that solved cases. He was disappointed to learn that nothing had come back from the Agency’s contacts with the former Soviet bloc. He realized he was being impractical to assume they would have any news for him this quickly; but he had an almost primal feeling that something would come from that source.

  Bob wasn’t especially looking forward to the afternoon. He had scheduled an appointment with Ambassador Finch for 2:00 today to go over the agenda for Bob’s meeting with the Greek Prime Minister on Friday. When he’d called the ambassador to confirm the meeting, Finch informed him he was going to invite Grady McMasters, the Chief of the FBI’s Counter-Terrorism unit stationed in Athens, to join them. Bob had objected, but the ambassador had threatened to pull his support if Bob didn’t agree. Bob knew he would have to meet with the FBI man sooner or later, but he would have preferred later.

  “I’m not going to have two different U
.S. agencies running around Athens without each other’s knowledge,” the ambassador had said.

  The CIA and the FBI didn’t have the warmest of relationships. McMasters would surely get his back up when he learned a CIA covert team was operating in Greece without his knowledge. The President of the United States had personally authorized the formation of the CIA team in Greece, and, for whatever reason, had not informed the FBI Director of his decision.

  Bob wanted to spend his time productively—not get into a pissing match over turf or jurisdiction. He didn’t know McMasters, but his experience in working with the FBI didn’t leave him feeling optimistic about the meeting that afternoon.

  ***

  The ambassador’s secretary showed Bob into the ambassador’s office at 2:00. The ambassador was seated behind his desk. A second man stood by the bank of windows.

  “Bob Danforth, meet Grady McMasters,” the ambassador said.

  McMasters looked like Goliath in a light-blue Sears Roebuck suit. He stood at least six feet five inches tall and weighed around three hundred pounds—much of it muscle. The guy was a monster and seemed to relish the effect he had on most people. He crossed the thick blue carpeted floor and shook Bob’s hand while staring into Bob’s eyes with an obvious challenge. He turned the simple greeting into a competition. When Bob thought the giant might crush the bones in his hand, he reached up with his left hand and pressed his thumb into the inside of the big man’s wrist, causing McMasters to yelp. The FBI agent’s face went red as he released his hold on Bob’s hand.

  “Well, gentlemen, I see you’ve introduced yourselves,” Ambassador Finch said with a smile. “Shall we get started?”

  McMasters shot Bob an evil look before turning around to face the ambassador. He moved toward one of the chairs facing Finch’s desk, but did not sit. He pointed a sausage-sized forefinger at Bob, who was seated in a chair three feet away, and barked, “What the hell’s going on? Since when is it the Agency’s business to be—”

  Finch stopped the FBI man. “I would appreciate it if you would sit down, Mr. McMasters.” He waited until McMasters had done as asked, then continued. “You both work, through your respective chains of command, for the President of the United States.” Finch made a point of meeting first McMasters’, then Bob’s eyes. “The President personally made it clear to me he expected both of you and all your people to cooperate over here.” Again, Finch paused for effect. “Do we understand one another?” he asked.

  “I’m happy to cooperate,” Bob said.

  McMasters grunted.

  “What was that, Mr. McMasters?”

  The FBI man’s face turned red once again. “Of course we’ll cooperate with our friends at the Agency.”

  “Excellent,” Finch said, a smile again creasing his mouth. “Let’s go over the agenda for the meeting this coming Friday with the Prime Minister.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  AUGUST 2, 2004

  Demetrios Mavroyianni took a seat at a sidewalk café table across the street from the building in Kolonaki Square housing the British offices. After arriving at 7:00 a.m. and eyeballing the men who went in and out of the six-story office building for the next hour, Demetrios chatted up the waitress who had been serving him coffee. He asked her if she knew of any Englishmen named Rodney, Cyril, or Marcus who worked in the building across the street. The Greek girl was tripping all over herself trying to please the good-looking Demetrios.

  “Sure, there’s an Englishman named Marcus who comes in here all the time.”

  Demetrios lied to the waitress, telling her he was a newspaper reporter writing about foreign investors buying Greek real estate. That he had information the men he’d asked her about were working for a British realty company. “Would you be willing to point out this man when he leaves the building?” he asked her.

  The girl smiled and said, “The one called Marcus comes in every morning about this time for coffee and a pastry.” She looked at her wristwatch. “He should be here at any moment.”

  Once the girl ID’ed Marcus for Demetrios, he knew he’d already spotted the guy when he entered the building earlier. He thanked the girl, got her phone number, and left. The girl was a little young; but she had a killer body and a look about her that told him she would be eager to please. Besides, if they hit the Englishmen, the girl might put two and two together and tell the police that a man had been asking about them. She could describe him to the police. He would have his fun and then dispose of her. Just one more sacrifice for the motherland.

  ***

  Giorgos Photos hung up the telephone in the house in Keratea, a small town south of Athens. He threw open the shutters, rolled his shoulders, and sucked in a deep breath. The clean air filled his lungs. He knew in a couple of months the odor of grapes being processed into wine would be heavy in the air. Now the sea air wafted over the village and gave Photos a peaceful feeling.

  Demetrios had come through. He’d identified one of the British agents. And Pavlos Manganos had called earlier and briefed Photos on what Danforth had done that day. He was intrigued by the Glyfada address Manganos had given him, where Danforth had spent the better part of the morning. He would have to get pictures taken of everyone entering and exiting that place. The Glyfada building could be the American version of the British offices in Kolonaki Square. All in all, it had been a very productive day.

  Photos closed the shutters and thought about how he would respond to the information he’d received. He wanted to make a grand statement, and would prefer to take plenty of time in planning something. But time was of the essence. In an instant, he decided he would need the Libyan for this assignment. He’d used Musa Sulaiman before. Al Qaeda hired the man out for special assignments to groups around the world that didn’t have the skills needed to execute certain special projects.

  An errant thought crossed his mind. He would need to warn Koufos and his sister, Vassa, about his plans. No point in eliminating a valuable source. Vassa’s husband had been an unwitting and important source of information for Greek Spring. He didn’t wanted to kill him . . . just yet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AUGUST 3, 2004

  Jack Cole, like Bob Danforth, knew in every cell of his being that Stacey Frederick had developed an interesting, and possibly investigation-changing idea. If there was a training connection between the leaders of Greek Spring and Soviet bloc schools or Soviet-sponsored terrorist training camps, the Agency might be able to identify one or more of the terrorist organization’s people through contacts with former members of Soviet bloc Intelligence services. Jack’s instincts told him that, because the EA had started out as a Marxist group, there was a damned good chance some of the EA members would have a Soviet connection.

  The biggest problems the CIA had, however, when dealing with sources from former Communist countries, was getting those sources to cooperate with them, and how much credence they could place on whatever information they did get. The paranoia of the Russians and the Intelligence people from their former satellites, like Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia, hadn’t diminished with the fall of the Iron Curtain. And, of course, sharing Intelligence with the CIA wasn’t these peoples’ top priority. Half of them were now involved with criminal organizations that seemed to be running the region.

  In addition to Frank Reynolds, Tanya Serkovic, and Raymond Gallegos, Jack had assigned a dozen agents to ferret out whatever information they could about Greek nationals who had contacts with the Communist Governments of the Soviet bloc, or who had been trained in their schools and terrorist camps. He had also called a friend at the Federal Bureau of Investigation and asked for his help. Now he had to suffer through the difficult period of waiting.

  Jack sat across the conference room table from Frank Reynolds and watched the man organize the papers he’d brought with him.

  Frank looked up and said, “We don’t have much to report.”


  “Just give me what you’ve got.”

  Frank hunched his shoulders, as though to say, Fine with me if you want to waste your time. “Raymond Gallegos has a contact in a Maryland security company—you know, alarms, listening devices, hidden cameras. That sort of thing. The guy who owns the place is Bulgarian. He was fairly high up in the Bulgarian Intelligence Service before defecting here. We believe he was the mastermind behind the assassination attempt against the Pope.”

  Jack’s mouth opened, then closed. He decided to hold his tongue for the moment. The Intelligence business truly made for strange bedfellows.

  “The guy has given us some pretty good info in the past. He told Raymond to come back in a week. Everybody you assigned to this project is digging under every possible rock, but . . . .”

  “What’s on your mind?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, hell, we’re pushing on a string. Because Congress changed the laws governing Intelligence gathering, I’m not optimistic. We should have hundreds of contacts we could go to for information. Instead, we have a dozen or so people who were behind the Iron Curtain, and almost every one of them was a low level functionary who didn’t have access to anything more important than petty criminals.”

  “So, what’s your point?” Jack asked, smiling.

  Frank threw up his hands. “No point, just venting. But if Sergei the Bulgarian at the security company doesn’t come through, I don’t have a lot of hope any of our other contacts will come up with anything.”

  “What else?” Jack said.

  “We’re seeing an increase in message traffic coming out of Greece to several places in the Middle East. I have to tell you, I’m worried. This heightened chatter usually happens right before a terrorist attack. I passed this on to Bob Danforth in Athens. He and his crew need to keep a low profile for a while.”