Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “First of all,” Liz said, her voice tinged with anger, “I am not interested in gallivanting around town. But I’m not going to let some uissant Greek assholes turn me into a prisoner. So, you tell Moose McGurk out in the hall, or whatever his name is, to let me out of here.”

  Bob saw Stacey coming toward him with a short, squat, brown-haired man in tow. He sighed and thought how nice it would be to have back again the shy, retiring girl he’d married so many years ago, instead of the tougher-than-nails woman that girl had turned into. “Put Stein on the line,” he told Liz. “But if you leave the room, he’s going with you. I don’t want an argument about that.”

  “Why would I argue about having a handsome young man escort me around Athens? Besides, I already figured that would be part of the deal.”

  Bob gave Liz’s guard new instructions and closed his cell phone as Stacey walked up. She introduced Reginald McHugh to Bob and Tony.

  “Nice to meet you,” Bob said. He waved his arm in the direction of the tent and said, “Unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Bloody right,” McHugh said.

  “I was surprised that Stanton Markeson wasn’t in attendance today,” Bob said.

  McHugh shrugged. “The man’s got a lot on his mind.”

  Bob gave McHugh a narrow-eyed look. “Besides the death of his comrades?”

  Again McHugh shrugged.

  “Something tells me you’ve got something on your mind,” Bob said. “Why don’t you share it with us. We’re on your side, remember.”

  McHugh half-turned, as though he was going to walk away; but then he turned back and said, “I shouldn’t be telling you anything; I haven’t shared this information with my superiors yet.” He sighed and, after looking down at his shoes for a moment, looked back at Bob. “I found a bug in Markeson’s cell phone. He told me the phone was a gift from his wife. He hung around here through Saturday night. I couldn’t get him to share his thoughts with me; but I could tell he was upset. Then he took off this afternoon like he was on a life or death mission.”

  “Do you know how to contact him?”

  McHugh gave Bob an embarrassed smile. “I have his cell phone number.” He paused a moment and said, “The one with the bug inside.”

  ***

  Bob ordered Stacey to join him and Tony after leaving McHugh. They took off in the Tahoe, with Stacey driving and Tony in the backseat. Bob told him to try to raise Markeson on his cell phone, reminding him to be careful what he said to him. Greek Spring could be listening. Tony dialed the number McHugh gave them, but no one answered.

  Bob turned to look back at Tony. “I’m going to have Stacey drop me off at the hotel, then I want you both to pick up Sam and try to figure out where Markeson is. I’ve got a feeling he knows something about the attack on the Lambrakis Building.”

  Stacey looked incredulous. “You can’t believe he’s in bed with Greek Spring,” she said.

  “I didn’t say that,” Bob answered. “I just find it very suspicious that a man who is usually at his office at the crack of dawn picks the day when terrorists blow up his office to come in late.” Stacey opened her mouth as though she was going to object, but Bob held up a finger to cut her off. “I’m not necessarily saying he had anything to do with the blast; I’m only saying it’s suspicious that Markeson wasn’t there when the building was destroyed. I just want to know why he wasn’t in early last Friday and why he missed the memorial ceremony.”

  Bob let his comments sink in, then added, “And I want you to dig up everything you can on Mrs. Markeson. She gave the cell phone to her husband. It may not have been bugged when she gave it to him, and even if it was, she may not have known anything about it; but let’s assume the worst. That Markeson’s wife is somehow associated with Greek Spring.”

  “Jeez,” Stacey said.

  “Right,” Bob said.

  ***

  Stanton Markeson trailed the limo. After getting close enough to read the license plate number—he’d hoped the vehicle had diplomatic plates so he could tie it to an embassy; but it had commercial plates, which told him nothing—he dropped back so the limo occupants didn’t get suspicious. He followed the car to the Celestine Palace Hotel, watched Vassa get out with her suitcase and enter the hotel, and then followed the car as it circled the block and came to a stop in front of the Hellenikon Hospital. Markeson’s anger had brewed just below the surface for hours. Combined with a lack of sleep, his emotional state had exhausted him. But he suddenly felt recharged with energy when he recalled that the terrorist Pavlos Manganos, who had been involved in the attack on the Danforths on the same day as the Lambrakis Building bombing, was in this hospital.

  He pulled his car into the parking lot in front of the hospital and watched a man exit the rear of the limo. The man looked familiar, but in the waning light he couldn’t identify him.

  What the hell is going on? he thought.

  Markeson decided he would watch the ten-story hospital building for a while. If nothing interesting transpired, he would drive back to the Celestine Palace Hotel and confront Vassa. God please don’t let her be mixed up with Greek Spring, he silently prayed.

  Markeson sat in the car for fifteen minutes, hoping the man he saw get out of the limo would return. Maybe he’d recognize him when he came out of the building, under the security lights, facing toward him. But sitting in one place was fatiguing. The renewed energy he’d felt a few minutes earlier had dissipated and he felt himself nodding off. He rubbed his face with his hands and then slapped his cheeks. Stay awake, he told himself. He realized he couldn’t sit here for too much longer. He was so damned tired. He had just about made up his mind to go back to the hotel and try to find Vassa, when he detected movement out of the corner of his right eye. He looked in that direction and saw a dark colored sedan pass through the parking lot, bypass the front of the hospital and stop at the far end of the building. It was a strange place for a car to stop—away from the hospital’s front entrance and at the side of the building. There was no parking spot there.

  He watched a figure move from the front passenger seat, under the canopy of several large shade trees, and toward the side of the building. The figure paused for a moment and looked toward the front of the hospital. The limo was still parked there, one hundred meters to the right of where the figure stood. Markeson was more curious than suspicious—until the sun’s last rays peeked below the tree branches and highlighted the figure: Vassa. He was confused. What was she doing here? Then, like being hit with a lightning bolt, the thought struck that if Vassa was involved with Greek Spring, her presence here must have something to do with the terrorist in this hospital. He had a sinking feeling. His prayer had gone unanswered.

  Markeson reached under the front seat and felt around until his fingers touched the Walther PPK he kept there. He gripped the weapon, leaped from his car, and ran toward the hospital’s front door. He slipped the pistol under his jacket, into the back of his slacks. He was quickly winded and drenched with perspiration. The limo driver, leaning against the driver-side door of his vehicle and smoking a cigarette, stared at Markeson, but didn’t move.

  Markeson found the reception desk and flashed his credentials. He didn’t give the young female receptionist time to absorb the information on his ID card. Between the official looking card and his fluent Greek, he hoped she would assume he was somehow associated with the Greek Government. When she shot to her feet, almost coming to attention, he knew his ruse had worked.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  “Pavlos Manganos. What floor is he on?”

  “He is on Floor Three,” she said. “Room three-twenty-four. You will need to check in with the policeman there.”

  Markeson hurried to the elevator and paced back and forth until the door finally opened. He punched the “3” button, rode the elevator to the third floor, and rushed from the elevat
or car, ready to deal with the police guard on duty. He was shocked to find no policeman outside the elevator.

  The corridor led off in two directions from the lobby. To the left, the corridor was empty; to the right, about halfway down, a chair rested against a wall. Not a person was in sight in either hallway. Markeson’s heart rate sped up. There should be at least one guard in the lobby and another one outside Manganos’ room. Suspecting that the chair was where a guard should be sitting, Markeson moved in that direction. He reached under his jacket and extracted the pistol, letting his hand hang by the side of his leg. Still ten yards from the empty chair, movement suddenly sounded behind him, sending his heart into his throat.

  Markeson spun around. He brought his gun hand up, ready to squeeze the trigger.

  “Ochi, ochi, min—”

  Markeson kept his pistol trained on the white-clad nurse and put his finger to his lips, telling her to keep quiet. As he moved over to her, she backed against the hallway wall, covering her face with her hands.

  In Greek, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She didn’t move, her hands still covering her face.

  Markeson softened his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. Where are the guards?”

  The woman lowered her hands, clutching them against her breast. “The . . . the . . . his Excellency, Minister Argyropoulos ordered them to the conference room on the second floor for a briefing. The medical staff, too. I am the only one here.”

  Argyropoulos, Markeson thought. Dimitris Argyropoulos, the Deputy Prime Minister. He thought the man who got out of the limousine had looked familiar. Argyropoulos was the one who picked up Vassa at their home and dropped her at the hotel. “Where’s Manganos?”

  She hesitantly pointed to her left and said, “There. Room three-twenty-four.”

  “He’s alone?” Markeson asked.

  The nurse nodded.

  Markeson considered sending her downstairs to fetch the policemen with Argyropoulos; but he figured if the Deputy Prime Minister was up to something, he would delay the police. “I want you to find a room at the other end of the hall, one with a telephone. Lock the door and call the police emergency number. Tell them there’s a madman on this floor who is threatening to kill the Deputy Prime Minister.” The woman started to run down the corridor, when Markeson growled, “Don’t come out of the room until I tell you to.”

  He stuck the pistol back in his trousers waistband and pulled his wallet from his jacket. He took Stacey Frederick’s business card from the wallet and read her office number. He used his cell phone to call the number—screw it if EA was listening in—and recognized Sam Goodwin’s voice. “I have a situation here at Hellenikon Hospital. Possible assassination of Pavlos Manganos in process. I can’t be sure; but I don’t like what’s going on around here.”

  “Jesus, Stanton, what do you need?” Goodwin said.

  “Shit, I don’t really know what I’m facing here. I’d appreciate it if you could send a couple of your chums up here to cover my back. I’ll be in Manganos’ room, number three-twenty-four.”

  “You got it. Bob Danforth is at his hotel. That makes him the closest to your location. I’ll call him now.”

  He wasn’t certain the Greek police would respond to the nurse’s call, or, if they did, if they would come to the hospital in time. But he was sure the Americans would come. Now that his own team had been eliminated, he would have to depend on Danforth and his crew.

  Markeson moved quickly to room three-twenty-four and looked around. A door to the right of the entry opened onto a bathroom. The light was on. A man lay in the single bed in the room. Beeping monitors were mounted on a shelf above the bed. Tubes snaked from medical drips and the monitors into the man’s nose, arms, and under the cover into who knew where. The patient looked more dead than alive. A white curtain attached to a circular track in the ceiling was drawn from headboard to footboard on the far side of the bed. A chair sat outside the curtain at the foot of the bed. Markeson moved toward Manganos and lightly shook his arm. The terrorist didn’t even groan. Markeson skirted the bottom of the bed and looked behind the closed part of the curtain. There was a recessed window there that had been covered with a two-centimeter-thick piece of steel, obviously to discourage an attack from outside the building into the terrorist’s room.

  Markeson adjusted the curtain, closing off the bed from view from the room entry. He walked to the bathroom and tested the door, opening and closing it several times. He was relieved to find that it swung silently. He pushed the light switch to the left of the bathroom door, plunging the room into darkness, entered the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar, sat on the toilet, and waited.

  Vassa climbed three flights of the emergency staircase and checked her watch. It was 7:25. She coolly took a cigarette case from her left jacket pocket, while touching the right pocket with her fingers to feel the reassuring outline of the pistol that Dimitris had given her. She lit the cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs, feeling the nicotine calm her. Vassa thought about meeting Dimitris in the hotel room after she took care of business here at the hospital. It had been years since they had been in bed together. She couldn’t help herself; she felt charged. Dimitris had always been an excellent lover—rough, the way she liked it, and attentive to her needs. And she had to admit, fucking the next Prime Minister of Greece made her thighs tremble and her insides heat up.

  ***

  The unmistakable throbbing beat of helicopter rotors penetrated the hospital room walls. Markeson was shocked that the Greek authorities had responded so quickly. Then an idea came to him that he was about to look like an idiot. What if he had overreacted? What if there was no plot against Manganos? But where was Vassa?

  ***

  Vassa first heard the helicopter, then felt the thrumming of its rotors. She hardly gave it a thought. It was now 7:30. The floor should be clear. Dimitris would have gathered the guards and the medical staff for the briefing. She opened the door to the third floor and briskly moved to 324, looked left, then right, quietly opened the door, and moved into the pitch darkness.

  ***

  Musa Sulaiman straightened his white medical smock with the Caduceus embroidered on its breast pocket and instructed the helicopter pilot to keep the aircraft’s engine running on the helipad atop the hospital building. He reminded the pilot he would need to make the return flight to the Athens heliport after he dropped off the cooler with what he had told the man contained whole blood. Sulaiman stepped from the helicopter with the cooler, crossed the helipad, and opened the access door at the far end of the roof. He descended the emergency staircase through seven floors and stopped in the stairwell on the third floor. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. A crushed butt lay at his feet. He opened the cooler and took out a Smith & Wesson .22 caliber pistol and a silencer. He screwed the silencer to the pistol muzzle and then removed two grenades from the cooler. He assumed there would be guards outside Manganos’ room, as well as others guarding the elevator lobbies on the third floor and on the main level. He wasn’t worried about the ones on the first floor; but he needed to dispense with the guards on the third floor.

  He looked at his watch and saw it was 7:32. He held his breath and opened the door, peeking down the hall. There was no one there. Musa blinked and surveyed the hall again. He couldn’t believe it. He stuck the grenades in his smock pockets and stepped into the corridor, the pistol at his side. Room number 330 was on his right. He walked down the hall toward 324, ever alert to someone entering the hallway, still wondering what had happened to the guards.

  ***

  Markeson heard the shushing sound of the room door opening. He held his breath and tightened his grip on his pistol. The click-click-click of heels reverberated in the room. Silence for a few seconds. Then the sound of the metal rings of the curtain scraping against the metal curtain track in the ceiling. The snicking nois
e of a pistol hammer being operated. He opened the bathroom door enough to slip inside the hospital room, raised his pistol, and flipped on the light switch.

  In the instant that Markeson turned on the lights, he saw Vassa standing next to the comatose Manganos, a pistol in her hand pointed at the man’s head. She jerked around and loudly sucked in a breath. Her eyes were round and her mouth was gaping.

  “Hello, wife,” Markeson said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I . . . I . . . was just—”

  “Just what, dear? Making a quick stop at the hospital to murder one of your cronies so he can’t talk with the authorities.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  “Shut up!” Markeson barked. “You’ve made a fool of me; you’ve used me in the worst way.” He paused, then said, “Drop your pistol.”

  Vassa did as ordered, the pistol in her hand clattering to the tile floor. Markeson stepped around her and kicked the pistol under the hospital bed. He grabbed Vassa by the arm and turned her, placing her between him and the door. “How long have you been mixed up in this?” he demanded.

  Her face was red, but the fear in her eyes was beginning to subside. “Years,” she said. Then she smirked and said, “You’ve been a big help, Stanton, so willing to share your thoughts with your loving wife. Every damned thing you ever told me was passed on to my friends at Greek Spring. How does that make you feel?”

  Markeson felt sick. He’d been more than a fool. He was responsible for the deaths of his friends and co-workers. “What does Argyropoulos have to do with this?” he demanded.

  Vassa gave him a smile that seemed to be formed from sinister darkness within her. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen this part of her before. Or, perhaps he had and just ignored it. This thought only served to make him feel more wretched.