by Joseph Badal
***
Pavlos Manganos stood by the front window of a bookstore across the street from the office building. He had followed Danforth from his hotel and waited in the store for the American to emerge. When Danforth finally did, an hour later, Manganos followed him. He trailed fifty meters behind as the CIA man walked to a car, where another man waited behind the wheel. Danforth entered the vehicle, which immediately pulled away from the curb. Manganos raced back to his motorcycle and sped to catch up with the car. He tracked the two men to the building in Glyfada.
Manganos parked down the block and used his cell phone to call Photos. “The American is at the Glyfada place,” he said.
“Leave him for now,” Photos ordered. “I have something more important for you to do. Come to Piraeus.”
***
After Photos ended the call from Manganos, he dialed Demetrios Mavroyianni’s cell phone number. “Where are you?” he said.
“In Kolonaki, outside the Englishmen’s offices.”
“Are they all there?” Photos asked.
“I guess,” Mavroyianni answered, his tone betraying his boredom.
“I want you to come in,” Photos said.
“What’s happening?” Mavroyianni said, an edge of excitement now in his voice.
“Just come in,” Photos snapped. “Piraeus.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
AUGUST 5, 2004
“Is everything in order?” Dimitris Argyropoulos asked, his hands balled into fists and buried in his pants pockets to hide their trembling. His future, his place in history rode on the events of the next eight days.
“As much in order as they can be,” Photos answered.
Argyropoulos didn’t like Photos’ answer. “What are you telling me?”
“Nothing . . . it’s just that everything is happening so quickly. I—”
“Quickly, my ass. We’ve waited twenty-nine years for this. I’ve thrown all my support behind you for nearly three decades; I’ve risked everything to suppress investigations into your activities. Are you telling me it has all been for nothing?”
“No, no, that’s not it. I just don’t like being rushed.”
“Malaka! You listen to me. You will make this happen. This is our time. If you blow this opportunity, I’ll have your balls. Everything is in place for this summer. The Kurds are on board; our man at the missile site will do whatever he is told; and the Greek people are ready for greatness. You can set the tone with your actions in the next two days. CAN YOU DO IT?”
Photos paused before answering. “Yes, I can do it,” he finally said.
“Good, Giorgos, good. I much prefer congratulating you on success, than cutting off your balls.”
***
Photos tried to get his breathing and heart rate back to normal after Dimitris Argyropoulos terminated their telephone conversation. It took fifteen minutes before he had calmed down enough to place a call to Musa Sulaiman. He asked the Libyan in French, “Are you ready?”
“You shouldn’t call me,” Sulaiman barked. “I already told you that everything is set.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that—”
Sulaiman spat out a lengthy chain of Arabic, cutting off Photos.
Photos didn’t understand the words; but he understood the Libyan’s tone. He opened his mouth to respond just as he heard Musa slam down the receiver.
Photos felt as though steel bands were wrapped around his chest; he could barely breathe. He had run Greek Spring for three decades and had taken incredible risks. Now that egomaniacal politician, Argyropoulos, and this psychopath, Sulaiman, were treating him like some unruly teenager. Even with the tightness in his chest, Photos paced the room in the safehouse, clenching and unclenching his hands, cursing under his breath. Finally, he threw on a windbreaker and walked out the back door. Despite a steady drizzle, he had to get some air. He was fearful that if he didn’t, he might explode.
***
“Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch! We got it,” the Greek Ministry of Public Order agent shouted. “We got it.”
The man’s supervisor, sitting next to him in the van parked two blocks from the small house in Piraeus, put down his coffee cup and snatched up an extra pair of headphones. “What is it?”
“A conversation between two men. They spoke French. Then one man said something about everything being set. Then he got angry and cursed at the other man in Arabic.” The communications expert rewound the tape and played it back for his supervisor.
“Arabic?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe this isn’t about drugs, after all. Get the tape over to headquarters; I want it translated as soon as possible.”
The supervisor then got on the telephone and called his boss. “You know that house in Piraeus we received a tip about? The one where the old man called in and said he thought there was drug dealing going on?”
“Sure, what about it?”
“I don’t think it’s drugs. We heard a conversation in French, then Arabic. We should consider raiding the place.”
“On what evidence?” his boss asked. “Because some old bastard sees a bunch of people coming and going at odd hours and thinks there’s drug dealing going on, and because you hear Arabic and French spoken? What! Frenchmen and Arabs don’t use drugs?”
“We taped a conversation—”
“That’s it? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You need to trust me on this,” the supervisor said. “I know it’s weak, but I’ve got a feeling.”
“Oh, wonderful. And I’ve got a pension that’s supposed to start in two years. You better get me more to work on than that. Call me when you’ve got more than a feeling. And get someone at headquarters to approve a raid . . . if you get more information. I’m not sticking my neck out.”
***
Giorgos Photos wanted to flee and leave it all behind. He had millions of dollars tucked away as his “runaway” money—his sponsors in the Greek Government and from other countries had been very generous over the years. He was nervous about what was going to happen over the next few days; he was pissed off about the way he’d been treated by Argyropoulos and Sulaiman; but now he was just plain scared to death. While walking in the rain, he’d spotted a gray van with an antenna on its roof. The truck was two blocks from the safehouse but had a line of sight to it. Had the police tracked him down?
But Photos couldn’t run. He’d left his address book in the house, along with a detailed description of the attacks planned for this week. God forbid the police found these things. It would ruin everything. He circled the block and entered the safehouse through a basement door at the rear. All the while, his heart beat like a jackhammer and sweat cascaded from his already rain-wet body. He recycled in his mind the conversation with Musa Sulaiman. No names had been mentioned. He was sure nothing incriminating had been said. He breathed a bit easier as he crept up the backstairs to the second floor. After gathering up his address book, the attack plans, and some cash stashed there, he fled the house. The weapons would be forfeited, but there was nothing he could do about that. Although they were clean of fingerprints, the police would easily trace them. After all, they had belonged to the police before Greek Spring stole them.
***
The translation of the phone conversation was telephoned back to the supervisor in the van. He held his breath as the linguist related the meaning of the Arabic words.
“The man speaking Arabic called the other man ‘a cowardly son of a leprous whore.’”
“That’s it?” the supervisor said.
“Let me finish,” the linguist retorted. “He went on to say, ‘This is the last time I do anything for this cowardly professor. I ought to blow up his fucking pink island house, rape his daughters, and castrate his sons and grandsons.’”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
AUGUST
6, 2004
Bob thought he was dreaming. It took several seconds before he realized the ringing telephone by his hotel room bed was real. He fumbled with the receiver and finally got it right side up and pressed against his ear. The digital clock on the bedside table showed 2:15 a.m. His heart lurched. Calls in the middle of the night usually meant bad news.
“Hello,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“Bob, it’s Tony Fratangelo.”
“What’s up, Tony? Is everything all right?”
“No one’s hurt, if that’s what you mean. There’s good and bad news.”
Bob heard Tony exhale loudly into the phone. “Give me the bad news first,” he said.
“The damn Greek bureaucracy struck again,” Tony said. “I got a call from an investigator with the Ministry of Public Order. He’d set up a listening post outside a house in Athens. Apparently, some citizen thought something was going on because strangers kept going in and out of the place at odd hours. My contact heard something suspicious—someone talking in Arabic after having a conversation with another man in French—and called his boss. His boss decided that covering his ass was more important than swinging into action. By the time the tape of the conversation was translated and the assault team called in, the place had been cleaned of everything other than a cache of weapons.”
“They didn’t catch anyone?” Bob asked.
“Nope. But get this; most of the weapons in the house were identified as having been stolen from a police armory six years ago. Greek Spring claimed responsibility for the crime at the time.”
“That’s good news,” Bob said. “Any fingerprints?”
“Not a thing.”
“What about the translation of the conversation?”
“That’s worrisome. The conversation in French sounded as though there was something going down. But the words in Arabic were a completely different story. One of the men on the call was obviously frustrated with the other man and was cursing him out. The really interesting part of what he said involved the mention of a professor with a pink house on some island.”
“A professor, huh,” Bob said. “That is interesting.”
“Yeah, and my informant was damned excited about the mention of a pink house,” Tony said. “You see, nearly every island in Greece has very strict zoning codes. It’s the law on most of the islands that the outside color of structures must be white. Even the shutters and doors have to be painted according to zoning laws.”
“Sonofagun,” Bob exclaimed. “Of course. Every house I’ve ever seen on any of the islands has been stuccoed white. But how do the Greeks propose finding one pink house on one island out of a thousand islands?”
Tony shrugged. “Hell, I don’t have a clue. I guess they could try to identify the islands which don’t have strict zoning codes.”
“Well, at least we have something. I want you to find out all you can from your contact about what the Greeks are going to do with this information. Then I’m going to take it to the Prime Minister. I’m meeting with him later this morning. I’m going to put him on notice that if someone leaks this information to the bad guys, or if they do nothing to investigate this lead, we will have proof the Greek Government is aiding and abetting these terrorists. The President has lost all patience with the way they’ve handled the investigation over the years. It will mean the end of all aid to Greece. Several EU leaders have also agreed to pull the plug on Greece if the U.S. takes the first step over this terrorism issue.”
“Jesus, boss, that’ll shut down the Greek economy and undermine the current government. Without financial support from the U.S. and other European countries, they won’t even be able to pull off the Olympics.”
“It’s put up or shut up time,” Bob said. “The Greeks either prove they’re serious about bringing down these terrorist cells, or they suffer the consequences. And, speaking of the Olympics, the President is prepared to tell the Prime Minister that the U.S. will withdraw its team from the Games. We announce we’re pulling out, and there will be a chain reaction, with dozens of other countries following suit. It’s all been arranged. The Russians, Chinese, English, Canadians, and many more are already on board.”
“How about the Germans and French?” Tony asked.
“Nothing’s changed there,” Bob answered. “They’re still sulking about us toppling Saddam Hussein last year without their permission.”
***
After fleeing the safehouse on Thursday, Giorgos Photos called Demetrios Mavroyianni and Pavlos Manganos to call off the meeting scheduled at the safehouse. He ordered Demetrios to assist Musa Sulaiman; Pavlos would contact Savvas Krinon and the two of them would deal with the Americans. Photos could tell from the men’s voices that their blood was up.
Photos then hid out in another one of his safehouses until early Friday morning. He made his way to the docks and paid a fishing boat captain twice what he would have made on that day’s catch to take him to Evoia. He was shaken about the authorities finding one of his safehouses, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near Athens when Musa went into action—he checked his wristwatch—in about two hours. About an hour after the boat would drop him on Evoia.
Evoia was the place where Photos went to physically and spiritually replenish his energy. He loved his island home and dreamed of retiring there some day. He would be able to do that if things occurred as he had planned. Only another week.
After the boat docked at the island, Photos walked to his home. He keep looking at his watch for the next hour. He knew that news of the attacks would be all over the media just minutes after Musa, Demetrios, Pavlos, and Savvas did what they’d been told to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AUGUST 6, 2004
Musa Sulaiman had worked frenetically during the night. Despite what he’d told Giorgos Photos, he too didn’t like working under a tight schedule. It meant inadequate planning. And he didn’t like working with people he didn’t know. Photos had assigned Demetrios Mavroyianni to assist him because Demetrios was the only Greek Spring member who could identify one of the Englishmen. He would know when at least one of the British agents was inside the building. The man seemed to Musa to be enthusiastic about working with him and very committed to the Greek Spring cause; but Musa had survived in a very dangerous business for a very long time by being suspicious and cautious. But he was being paid a quarter of a million dollars for this job. For that amount, he could accept more risk.
The van that Mavroyianni provided had Greek and English lettering on both sides, reading Anna’s Plants & Flowers. He’d stolen the vehicle from in front of the Hilton Hotel while the driver was inside making a delivery. Mavroyianni painted over the side panels, while Musa finished constructing the bomb.
Made from lawn fertilizer, black powder extracted from two cases of shotgun shells and stuffed into two glass jars around battery-powered detonators, and ammonium nitrate, the explosive device was the terrorist’s favorite concoction. All of the materials that went into it were easily acquired without raising suspicion. Photos had stored the materials in three separate storage units, waiting for a day just like this one. Musa filled the bottom third of two wheeled, fifty-five gallon drums with the fertilizer, and then placed a jar with the black powder and detonator on top of the fertilizer in each drum. He then poured two pounds of crystallized ammonium nitrate over each jar. He added more fertilizer until the drums were full. Ball bearings and nails were then strapped with masking tape to the outsides of the drums.
Musa used a hydraulic lift to raise the drums to the level of the van’s cargo area and gently pushed them into the back of the van. He bracketed the drum bottoms into place so they wouldn’t slide. It was now 7:00 a.m.
“Are you ready?” Musa asked. “You understand what you must do?”
Demetrios smiled. “What’s there to understand? I go to the restaurant across the street from the building at seven-
thirty and order coffee and a roll. When I see any of the Englishmen enter the building, I call you on your cell phone. It will take you seven minutes to reach the site. I finish my coffee and roll, pay the tab, and walk away five minutes after I make the call.”
Musa grunted. “Good. Don’t be tempted to stop and watch what happens.” He picked up a ball bearing off the floor and tossed it to Demetrios. “One of these innocent looking little things will punch a hole right through you if you’re standing in the wrong place.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be as far from that place as possible when the bomb goes off.”
***
Demetrios Mavroyianni felt like a teenager on his first date. His legs bounced up and down and he had to hold his coffee cup in two hands to prevent his shaking hands from spilling the liquid. He wasn’t scared; he was excited. This is about as good as it gets, he thought. The little waitress who had given him her telephone number the last time he was in the I couldn’t seem to do enough for him. Demetrios hadn’t had time to call her to set up a date. This operation was going down more quickly than he had anticipated. He had to do something about the girl. She’d now seen him twice. He couldn’t take the chance she would identify him to the authorities.
He checked his watch. He was feeling nervous and a little scared. He glanced around like a junkie looking for his connection, when an idea came to him. He saw the waitress was serving two men on the far side of the I. A fiftyish-looking man stood behind a cash register not far from where the two men sat. Demetrios looked at the menu on the table in front of him and saw the telephone number printed on the bottom of the front page. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed the I’s number. When the man behind the cash register answered, Demetrios gave him a false name and said he needed ten croissants brought to the travel agency across the street.