by Joseph Badal
He smiled at her, then jerked his head back to the front.
***
Savvas Krinon’s assassination plan was slightly different this time. He adjusted the net bag suspended around his neck, making sure the opening in the top of the bag was in the best possible position for him to reach inside and extract the grenade. He touched the hammer in the inside pocket of his leather jacket with a gloved hand. Instead of the one-step process of firing a pistol, this would involve two steps: smash the window glass with the hammer—letting it drop to the ground—then toss the grenade through the broken window. They were just three blocks from where the hit would go down.
***
“That man is crazy,” Andrew Fratangelo declared from his seat in the middle of the Taurus’ backseat.
Tony ignored his son’s high-pitched words. He had other things on his mind. He saw Michelle shift in her seat and look back at their son. “Who’s crazy?” she asked in a placating tone.
“The one on the motorcycle,” Andrew said, pointing. “He’s not supposed to drive like that, is he, Daddy? You always say you shouldn’t go from lane to lane like that. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right,” Michelle said. “That’s what Daddy always says.” She turned back to look out the windshield. “He’s right, you know,” she told Tony, “look at that maniac.” She jabbed a finger to the front of their location.
***
Tony picked out the motorcycle about six car lengths ahead, in the middle lane. Two men rode the bike; each wore motorcycle helmets and black leather jackets. The jockeying motorcycle didn’t hold much interest for Tony. Athens was notorious for its demented, reckless drivers. But he kept an eye on the motorcycle because, like watching a bullfight or a NASCAR race, he wondered when something awful might happen. The two guys on the bike were risking their lives.
Tony saw Bob move from the center lane to the left lane. The cycle mirrored Bob’s maneuver. Bob passed a couple vehicles, then pulled back into the center lane. The motorcycle again copied Bob’s maneuver, remaining two cars back now. It surprised Tony that the motorcycle driver pulled back in Bob’s lane, because the left lane suddenly opened up, offering a freer path. He concentrated a bit more on the bike. When Bob again pulled into the left lane and the motorcycle almost immediately followed suit, Tony’s antennae quivered.
“You have your seatbelt on?” he asked Michelle.
“Of course,” she said. “Why?”
“Check on Andrew’s belt; then tighten yours.”
Tony picked up his cell phone and dialed Bob’s cell number. “Shit!” he exclaimed when the phone rang busy.
“Daddy said a bad word,“ Andrew said.
“What’s going on?” Michelle asked.
“I think that motorcycle is following the Danforths. I called to warn them, but their phone is busy.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice suddenly tremulous. She looked at Tony, then back at her son.
Tony slowly shook his head. He gave Michelle an apologetic look. “I don’t have time to drop you two off and still be able to catch up to the Danforths. I want you to crawl over the seat. You and Andrew need to get down on the floor. Don’t even think about raising your head until I tell you it’s safe.”
“Tony, what—”
“Just do it, Michelle. It’ll be okay; I promise.”
After Michelle laboriously climbed into the back, unbuckled Andrew, and got down on the floor, Tony flipped on his bright lights and his emergency flashers. He jammed his foot on the accelerator and pressed down on the horn until the car in front of the Taurus moved into the next lane. Tony careened from one lane to the next, gaining on the motorcycle, but worried sick he wouldn’t get there in time. And worried he was endangering his family if he did get to the motorcycle in time. And then there was a ghost of a thought pecking at a corner of his brain: What if I’m over-reacting? Andrew was correct; the man was driving the bike like a maniac. But what if that was all there was to it?
Tony decided he needed to get close enough to the motorcycle to be in the position of being able to herd it away from the Danforths. But all three lanes of traffic were now blocked in front of him. His heart hammered in his chest and perspiration ran down his face, chest, and back. His hands were wet on the steering wheel.
He wanted to try Bob’s cell phone again, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off the road or try to drive with one hand. But Michelle could do it. He slipped his cell phone from his shirt pocket and dropped it over the seat.
“Ouch! What was that?” Michelle said.
“It’s my cell phone,” he shouted. “Hit the REDIAL button. Keep calling until you get through.”
Tony was now three car lengths behind the motorcycle; but there was a solid block of vehicles between him and the Audi. There was no way he could get close to them. Traffic was slowing and bunching up now that they were two blocks from Constitution Square. Then he saw the motorcycle change tactics. No longer satisfied with remaining two car lengths behind the Audi, the cycle driver moved between the center and outside lane. The passenger on the back of the bike reached inside his jacket. Tony saw he now held something in his right hand, which hung down by his right leg. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be a pistol.
***
Pavlos moved the bike up one car length. He was about to pull alongside the Danforths’ car, when a Fiat jerked right, switching lanes, cutting off Pavlos’ approach. By the time the lane was clear before him again, Danforth had put fifty meters distance between them.
***
Tony was frantic. He was blocked. He looked to the right. There was no way he could move over two lanes to the sidewalk. A landscaped median separated the lane he was in from oncoming traffic. He had only one option. He drove the Taurus’ leftside tires onto the four-inch median, the rightside tires resting in the street. He gunned the engine, picking up speed as the sound of bushes and flowers scraped the Taurus’ undercarriage. Car horns blasted in his wake as he passed the barely moving traffic. He grimaced and ground his teeth when the Taurus side-swiped one of the cars in the inside lane, the screech of metal sounding like giant fingernails scratching a blackboard.
“What was that?” Michelle screamed.
Tony ignored her and kept driving. He was gaining on the motorcycle. But he could see it had again caught up with the Audi. The man on the back now had his right hand extended as the bike approached the driver-side rear door. The man retracted his hand as the bike moved inches from the car door.
Tony heard a crash of metal come from under his car. There goes the muffler, he thought. He laid a hand on the horn again. But this time he didn’t let up. Maybe Bob would hear the noise and look around him. Maybe he would spot the men on the cycle.
“Mr. Danforth, oh my God!” came from the back of the Taurus. “I got him, Tony, he’s on the phone.”
Tony shouted at Michelle. “Tell him to brake NOW! Just tell him to hit his brakes.”
Michelle screamed Tony’s instructions. He saw the Audi’s brake lights burn red at the same moment the motorcycle passenger’s hand slashed out. Tony saw the man was armed with a hammer, not a pistol. What the hell! He thought as Bob’s car’s tires screeched and the bike shot past the Audi.
***
There was something in Michelle’s voice that made Bob do exactly what she had yelled. He’d hit the brakes as soon as she’d screamed at him. He saw the motorcycle in his sideview mirror as it went past him, just after the glass in the door behind him shattered and shards blew all over the vehicle’s interior. He knew what was going on without really thinking about it.
“Get out!” he shouted at Liz, as he released his seatbelt. He reached over to open the glove box and started to again tell Liz to get out, when he noticed blood covering her blouse. Blood poured from her nose and mouth. He stuck his hand into the glove box and fished
for the 9 mm pistol he kept there. But before he could grip the weapon, his door was jerked open. He sat back in his seat and looked to his left. A helmeted man stood by the open door. The visor on his helmet was open and he smiled down at Bob. The man had a grenade in his right hand.
“Afto eenay ena doro apo Eleeneekee Aneexee,” the man said. The man’s fingers flexed and the spoon from the grenade tumbled away in a series of somersaulting arcs.
Bob moved to leap at the man, who suddenly disappeared as a giant flash of white sped by, ripping off the Audi’s driver-side door. Bob couldn’t quite process what had just happened; not until the flash of white metamorphosed into a Ford Taurus and slammed into the motorcycle and its driver which sat ten yards away. Then Bob remembered the grenade and dove on top of Liz, dragging her down below the dashboard as an explosion blew out the Audi’s windows.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
AUGUST 6, 2004
Liz moaned, then Bob felt her shift beneath him. He moved off her and helped her sit up.
“You okay, honey?” he asked.
“Wha . . . what happened?” She touched her fingers to her nose and groaned. She looked at her fingers. “I’m bleeding.”
“You hit the dashboard when I slammed on the brakes. Your lip is cut and you have a bloody nose. I’m going to get out of the car and look around. I’ll be right back. Okay?”
She nodded, then said in a trembly voice, “Heck of a welcome to Athens.”
Bob tried to respond, but his voice cracked. He leaned over and kissed the side of her head, then left the car and ran toward the Taurus. The normal confusion of Athens traffic had turned into pure bedlam. Screams and shouts filled the air; a few bloodied people wandered aimlessly around the scene. Several of the vehicles in the area were pockmarked with shrapnel. Two cars separated the Audi from a blue truck. Flames licked the truck’s now-scorched roll up back door. Bob guessed the man with the grenade had been hurled over the two cars and landed beneath the back of the truck. It amazed him that the man must have held onto the grenade as he flew through the air.
Bob saw Tony slumped against the Taurus’ steering wheel. He ran to the driver-side front door and threw it open. He pulled Tony back against the seat. Tony’s eyes fluttered open; then he attempted to get out of the car, but yelled and grabbed his leg.
“It’s my knee,” he said. “Michelle and Andrew?”
Bob looked through the rear window glass and saw Tony’s wife and son lying on the floor. Michelle looked up at him and gave him a relieved smile. “They’re fine,” Bob told Tony while he opened the back door and helped them out.
“You okay?” he asked.
“We’re—” Michelle stopped when she saw Tony. “Oh my Lord,” she cried.
“I think he’s going to be fine,” Bob said. “I need you to do me a favor. I’ll get Tony out of the car. Go over and help Liz out of the Audi. I want all three of you to go over to the sidewalk. Get away from the cars.”
“But—”
“NOW, Michelle,” Bob said.
He watched Michelle take Andrew over to the Audi. When she opened the door to help Liz, Bob turned back to Tony. “I want to get you out of the car. There may be others around. I doubt it, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
Tony grinned. “I did a hell of a job on my car, didn’t I?”
Bob smiled and said, “You did one hell of a job on that motorcycle, too.”
Tony leaned on the top of the open door and hopped on one leg around the car. He looked at the wrecked motorcycle and a man pinned beneath it.
Bob walked over to the motorcycle and lifted it off the man. He put his fingers against the man’s neck and felt for a pulse. He was alive. He searched him for weapons and found a .38 caliber pistol in a shoulder holster under the man’s jacket. Bob’s hand shook as he stuck the pistol in the waistband of his slacks. He recognized the feeling of coming down from an adrenaline high. But, just as his shaking abated, anger overcame him and the shaking started all over again. These bastards had nearly killed Liz. Tony Fratangelo had risked the lives of his family members to save them. As soon as he made sure Liz and the Fratangelos had been taken care of, he was going to keep his meeting with the Greek Prime Minister. The tenor of his meeting with the man would be altogether different than he had planned. It would no longer just be tense.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
AUGUST 6, 2004
The Greek Minister of Public Order, Constantine Angelou, personally placed a call to the Prime Minister’s office. He demanded to speak to the PM, but was told by the Prime Minister’s secretary that the Greek leader would not be in the office for another hour.
“Dammit,” he shouted, “I need to talk with him now.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Minister,” the secretary said, “but I have no way of getting in touch with him. He gave me orders to—”
“Then put me through to the Deputy Prime Minister,” Angelou demanded.
After being transferred to the Deputy Prime Minister’s office and going through his secretary, Angelou was finally put through to Dimitris Argyropoulos.
“What can I do for you, Constantine?” Argyropoulos said.
Angelou tried to control his excitement, but he found it difficult to do so. “We finally got one of the bastards,” he blurted.
Argyropoulos said, “What bastards are you referring to?”
Angelou picked up on the Deputy Prime Minister’s condescending tone. He’d never liked the arrogant son-of-a-bitch, but he wasn’t about to let the man’s attitude affect the high he felt.
“Greek Spring,” Angelou said. “Epsilon Alpha. We got one of their killers. He’s on his way to Hellenikon Hospital right now. The idiot tried to assassinate an American. Botched the job; nearly killed himself in the process. His partner blew himself up. Can you believe it? After all these years, we have one of them in our hands.”
Angelou paused for a moment; Argyropoulos didn’t say a word.
“I’ve got to run,” Angelou said. “Let the Prime Minister know, will you?”
Angelou hung up and ran from his office, gathering up his bodyguards as he hurried down the hall to the elevator that would carry him to the parking garage under the building. He cracked his knuckles, crossed his arms, uncrossed his arms, and then stuck his hands in his pockets. His body fairly vibrated with tension and excitement. This was the seminal moment of his life. He said a silent prayer, asking God to keep the terrorist alive, at least until his men had the chance to interrogate him. Angelou knew the man would talk. His agents had unparalleled skills at convincing suspects to divulge whatever information they had.
***
Dimitris Argyropoulos felt as though there was a little man inside his stomach, poking at it with a red-hot fork. This can’t be happening, he thought. Not now. Not after all he had worked for. He needed to stay calm, to come up with a way out of the situation. He needed to improvise.
Argyropoulos moved to his desk and opened a drawer. He extracted a bottle of ouzo and, not bothering to use a glass, swigged the clear liquid straight from the bottle. He felt the liquor hit his stomach and send calming fingers of warmth throughout his body. After a minute, he decided on a course of action. He snatched his cell phone off the desk and rushed from the office. Ignoring his secretary asking if he wanted his car brought up, he took the stairs to the first floor and walked to the back of the building, to the alley. He checked to make sure there was no one else around, then called Giorgos Photos’ cell telephone number.
Before Photos could even say hello, Argyropoulos yelled, “You fucked up, Photos. You have potentially ruined everything.”
“What are you—”
“The police have one of your men. The attack on the Americans failed. One of your men is dead; the other is in custody at Hellenikon Hospital.”
“Oh, my God,” Photos moaned. “God help us.”
“Strange thing for a Marxist to say,” Argyropoulos said in a calm voice. “I suspect the last place you can count on for help is from heaven.” Argyropoulos’ voice suddenly went loud and angry. “You pay attention, Photos. Either solve this problem, or tell your wife to start planning your funeral. You won’t be able to hide anywhere on the face of the earth. Your man in the hospital must not talk to the police.” The Deputy Prime Minister’s throat was dry and his pulse pounded in his head. He swallowed, then added, “And tell that cow you’re married to that she’ll have to bury your three sons at the same time she buries you.”
He closed the cell phone, cutting the connection.
Argyropoulos paced the alley. He couldn’t take the chance Photos might fail. He needed a backup plan. If Photos failed, Vassa would not. He’d recruited Nicolaos Koufos’ sister ten years ago, after a three-year, torrid affair with the woman. Vassa lived on the edge. That was the way she liked it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
AUGUST 6, 2004
Stanton Markeson’s blue blazer was white with the concrete dust hovering like a London fog over Kolonaki Square. He felt violently ill, but not just because his lungs were congested with dust, or because of the sight of torn and broken bodies strewn about the Square. It was because he should have been inside the Lambrakis Building when the bomb detonated, inside with his mates. And he would have been there if the explosion had happened on any other morning. But he was late getting in this morning because his wife decided she wanted to fool around.
She had shocked Stanton when she came to his room that morning and climbed into his bed. They hadn’t made love in a year . . . maybe it had been longer than that. And now she had come on to him twice in one week. Stanton had figured out a long time ago that his marriage was based on something other than love and sex. Vassa was in it for his money; he was in it because he loved having her on his arm. No matter where they went together, men stared at her, their faces full of envy. He thought she no longer desired him—he was years older than she was, and his body was undesirable. He was short, fat, and plain looking.