Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “What do you want to know, Stanton? About Dimi Argyropoulos, my lover, or the man who is going to be the next leader of Greece?”

  Markeson didn’t think she could shock him any worse than she already had, but he found he was wrong. It took a moment to catch his breath before he said, “Everyone knows Argyropoulos is going to be the next Prime Minister.”

  She smiled her thin, evil smile again. “Oh, he’ll be much more than that. He’ll be the Supreme Leader of the first Marxist government of Greece. And I will be there at his side.”

  Markeson shook his head and began to tell his wife she was an even bigger fool than he was, when the door opened and a man in a white smock entered. The man’s clothes caused Markeson to drop his guard for a split second. In that moment, the man raised his arm and fired a pistol. The first round hit Vassa in the back of the head, spraying Markeson with blood and brain matter that exited the front of her skull. Vassa slumped to the floor without making a sound. Markeson fired his pistol at the same instant the man in the white smock fired again. Markeson heard the man grunt as he felt the man’s second shot rip into his chest.

  ***

  Sulaiman cursed as he fired two more rounds at the man who had shot him and watched the man fall backwards against the bed and slide to the floor. Musa then stepped forward and fired two shots into Manganos’ brain. His right shoulder burned as though a hot poker was pressed against it. Each time he had pulled the trigger, his shoulder felt as though it was smashed with a sledgehammer. He looked at the source of the pain and saw blood already soaked the right side of his smock. He cursed again, while looking around the room. Satisfied he had accomplished his mission, he turned and looked into the hall. Still empty. He ran from the room, back to the staircase, up to the roof, and over to the helicopter. He anticipated the pilot would balk when he saw the blood on his coat; but the pistol would convince the man to fly back to the airport.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  AUGUST 8, 2004

  When Bob received the telephone call from Sam and learned about Stanton Markeson’s call to the CIA office, he instructed Sam to contact Tony and have him go to the hospital.

  Bob took a taxi from the Grand Bretagne Hotel to Hellenikon Hospital. He quickly entered the building, ran straight to the elevator, and pushed the UP button. At the third floor, he drew his pistol from a shoulder holster under his suit jacket, cautiously exited the elevator, and found the corridors empty. He moved as quietly as possible to Manganos’ room, his attention momentarily diverted by the sound of what sounded like a helicopter flying over the top of the building.

  The door to 324 was wide open. A bloody scene greeted him. Red pools swamped most of the floor from the inside of the door to the hospital bed. A woman lay three feet into the room. Her eyes were wide open in a death stare. A gaping, gruesome wound occupied most of what had been her forehead. Bob recognized Stanton Markeson lying between the woman and the bed. He stepped around the woman and the blood encircling her body, and moved beyond the curtain, making sure the rest of the room was clear. He reholstered his pistol and held his breath while he looked at the terrorist in the bed. Someone had shot the man in the head. Bob walked to Markeson and squatted next to him. He checked for a pulse and was rewarded with a faint, fluttering beat.

  “Hang in there, Stanton,” Bob said, standing and moving to the door. “I’ll get help.”

  Markeson weakly shook his head. His lips moved, but no sound came from him.

  Bob hesitated a moment, then the clatter of running footsteps sounded behind him, from out in the hall. He looked over his shoulder as two uniformed police officers appeared, their weapons drawn. The bodies and the pools of blood seemed to stop them at the entry. Then the policemen moved aside and a man in a suit took their place in the entryway: Argyropoulos.

  “Ah, Mr. Danforth,” Dimitris Argyropoulos said, “we meet again.” Argyropouplos stared at the female body and seemed momentarily unsettled. Then he pointed at the bed, at Markeson, and then at the female. “You’ve been busy, I see,” he said.

  “You think I did . . .” Bob said, but stopped. This wasn’t the time to get into a discussion with the Deputy Prime Minister about who shot the woman, Markeson, and Manganos. He needed to get help for Markeson. Bob turned and moved to Markeson. “He’s still alive,” he said, stabbing a finger at one of the cops. “Get a doctor.”

  The policeman ran off. Argyropoulos glared at Bob. Markeson coughed, causing Bob to look at him. The Englishman reached up and grabbed the lapel of Bob’s jacket. His lips moved again, but still no sound came from his mouth. Markeson somehow kept a grip on Bob’s jacket. Bob leaned closer.

  “What is it, Stanton?”

  Markeson coughed again, spraying a fine mist against Bob’s face and his white shirt. Bob reflexively brushed a hand against his cheek and saw it was smeared with blood. He leaned even closer to Markeson. While the man spoke in a hoarse whisper into Bob’s ear, Bob saw out of the corner of his eye that Argyropoulos’ face was rigid and flushed.

  “What are you doing?” Argyropoulos demanded.

  Bob ignored him and listened to Markeson’s words. But the Englishman suddenly stopped speaking; his eyes fluttered and closed.

  “Get him away from that man,” Argyropoulos screamed, grabbing the arm of a uniformed policeman and shoving him into the room. The officer stepped into the blood framing the dead woman, slipped, and fell onto her body. The policeman cursed and awkwardly got to his feet, snatched hold of Bob’s jacket, and tried to pull him from the room.

  Bob twisted the cop’s wrist until the man released his jacket, then he propelled the officer toward the doorway where he ran into Argyropoulos, knocking the Deputy Prime Minister to the hallway floor.

  Two female nurses rushed into the room at that moment.

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Bob told the nurses in Greek, while pointing at Markeson. “The other two are dead. Take care of him.”

  In the hall, Argyropoulos’ face had turned apoplectic, while he struggled to his feet. “What did he say to you?” he shouted at Bob. Before Bob could answer, Argyropoulos screamed at the police officer who had fetched the nurses, “Arrest that man.”

  The cop seemed confused. His hand went to his hip holster. He couldn’t seem to make up his mind as to whether or not he should draw his weapon.

  Argyropoulos’ voice raised another pitch while he shouted, “I said arrest that man.”

  Bob raised his hands and looked at the cop. Again in Greek, he said, “It’s okay, officer, I’ll go with you willingly.”

  This seemed to placate the young officer, who visibly relaxed and removed his hand from his pistol butt.

  “Oh, by the way,” Bob said, “I’m armed; would you like to take my pistol?”

  The officer turned crimson red and looked from Bob to Argyropoulos—who was fuming by this point—and back to Bob.

  Bob took pity on the officer and drew his pistol, handing it over to the young man by the barrel.

  Bob clenched his jaw and moved toward the doorway, avoiding the pools of blood. He stopped and got in the Deputy Prime Minister’s face. “You asked what Mr. Markeson said to me.” He paused. Argyropoulos swallowed. Bob waited a few seconds more. Markeson had been incoherent. Whatever he had been trying to tell Bob had come across garbled. But, for some reason, he didn’t want to tell that to the Deputy Prime Minister. Finally, he smiled at the politician and walked past him into the corridor.

  “I believe his Excellency ordered you to arrest me,” Bob said to the policeman.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  AUGUST 9, 2004

  Sam Goodwin joined Bob at the police station and explained about Markeson’s call to the office, requesting assistance. The police appeared to be confused about the call from the nurse, the one where she said someone was trying to assassinate the Deputy Prime Minister. They seemed inclined to keep Bob and Sam at the st
ation until they ironed out what had happened at the hospital, but a call from the American Ambassador to the Greek Prime Minister, and a call, in turn, from the Prime Minister to the Minister of Public Order changed everything. The cops’ attitudes toward Bob altered immediately and he was turned loose. The sun was just coming up as he left the central police station.

  Bob found Liz in a high state of anxiety when he returned to the hotel. His story about what had happened at Hellenikon Hospital did nothing to assuage her fears. They held each other for a long time. He was glad to have her there. It had been a rough seventy-two hours and having his best friend with him made things seem better.

  “I didn’t think it was this bad,” Liz said. “I thought you were exaggerating when you said I shouldn’t come over here.”

  “At the time, I probably was exaggerating,” Bob said. “Things have escalated in the last week.” He pulled away from Liz and loosened his tie as he dropped heavily on the bed. He brushed his hair back with his fingers and stretched out on the bed. “But what’s got me worried is what’s coming up. I think the terrorists’ increased activity is a preamble to their trying to disrupt the Olympic Games.” Bob closed his eyes and groaned. “I’ve got to figure this out.”

  “Maybe if you get a little sleep, your mind will work better.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll grab a short nap,” he said. “Wake me in an hour.” He rolled over and was out in a matter of seconds.

  ***

  Liz watched over Bob from a chair in the corner of the bedroom. He looked very pale, she thought. Every time she looked at him, her heart swelled with love and pride. This was the only man she had ever loved. The prospect of life without him left her feeling hollow and lost. She pressed a finger against an eye and obliterated a tear. He had experienced too many years of danger and stress, too many injuries. He needed to retire; but her nagging him about it would do no good. It had to be his decision, arrived at independent of outside pressure. He has to get out of this business, she thought, or he’ll never see his grandchildren.

  Bob’s cell phone jarred her from her thoughts. She ran to the table next to the bed and picked it up before the second ring. It surprised her that the phone hadn’t awakened Bob. One more bit of evidence that he was exhausted. Even the slightest noise would usually wake him.

  “Hello,” she whispered, walking from the bedroom into the suite’s sitting room.

  “Mom, it’s Michael.”

  “Hello, Michael. How are you and Miriana doing? How’s Paris?”

  “We’re fine. But what about you? It’s all over the news up here about the terrorist attacks. At first, they just reported that an American couple had been targeted; a moment ago they mentioned your names. How’s Dad?”

  “We’re fine, son. It was a couple of incompetent hoodlums who couldn’t get out of their own way.”

  “Uh huh,” Michael said, sounding as though he didn’t believe a word his mother had said. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Fast asleep. I’ll have him call you when he wakes up. You have your cell phone?”

  “Yeah. Listen, Mom, maybe I should fly down there.”

  Liz laughed. “Don’t think your dad and I can take care of ourselves?”

  “Come off it, Mom. I’m just worried about you guys.”

  Liz’s throat felt tight. She swallowed and said, “I know, son, and I appreciate it. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

  “I love you,” Michael said.

  “I love you, too, son. Give Miriana a hug for us.”

  Liz pushed the END button on the cell phone and sagged into a plush chair.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  AUGUST 9, 2004

  “Holy cow!” Sam Goodwin said.

  Stacey Frederick felt her pulse accelerate. Sam was known among his co-workers as unemotional, tea-totaling, and sort of boring. ‘Holy cow!’ from Sam was akin to someone else releasing a loud, violent stream of profanity.

  “What?” Stacey asked, her voice a bit louder than she intended.

  “You’ve got to see this.”

  Stacey moved from her desk to Sam’s. She looked at the sentence in the document in front of him, where his finger tapped the page. She read to the bottom of the page and then pulled a chair over to Sam’s desk.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “It was in the stuff sent over by the Ministry of Public Order. Apparently, the leaders of the junta weren’t the only Greek leaders who spied on their fellow countrymen. Argyropoulos was under surveillance that was ordered by his own party as far back as twenty years ago. The man must have had the party leaders concerned.”

  “How so?” Stacey said.

  Sam blushed. “He couldn’t keep his pants on. He made Slick Willy look like an amateur. I guess the party leaders were afraid Argyropoulos might wind up in bed with the wrong person. Like the Profumo scandal in England or JFK shtupping Judith Exner while she was Sam Giancana’s mistress.”

  “The wrong person, such as the wife of one of the party leaders,” Stacey added.

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, that too,” he said. “So, this report shows Argyropoulos had a long-term affair with Nicolaos Koufos’ sister, Vassa. Koufos is now in charge of Economic Development in the Ministry of Finance and one of Argyropoulos’ allies.”

  “And we now know that Vassa Koufos married Stanton Markeson in 1996.”

  Sam stood and moved around the room. He shook his head. “This gets curiouser and curiouser. Stanton is wounded, Vassa Markeson and Pavlos Manganos die in the same hospital room, and Dimitris Argyropoulos just happens to be getting a briefing in the same hospital, at the same time.”

  “You need to call Bob,” Stacey said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  AUGUST 9, 2004

  When Dimitris Argyropoulos left the hospital on Sunday night, August 8, the night of Manganos and Vassa’s murders, he felt conflicted. Vassa had obviously killed Manganos. That was good. Apparently, her husband had interfered and they’d shot each other. That also was good. The trail back to him had been obliterated. Neither Manganos nor Vassa could give the police any information, and Vassa had gotten her wish: Her husband would probably die from his wounds. He’d laughed about that. The one thing bothering him was what Markeson might have said to Danforth.

  Now, on Monday afternoon, August 9, Argyropoulos felt more than conflicted; he was downright confused. Things didn’t make sense. The ballistics tests on the pistols found in the hospital room showed that neither of the two weapons had fired any of the shots that hit the Markesons or Manganos. Markeson’s Walther PPK had been fired; but no bullet had been found. The police had found a pistol on Danforth, but that weapon hadn’t been fired. Neither had the pistol he’d given Vassa.

  And now this. He had just learned the police were investigating the death of a helicopter pilot. The man’s body had been found in his aircraft yesterday evening. His throat had been slashed. An employee at the heliport told the police that a dark-skinned man in a white medical coat had hired the chopper. Argyropoulos remembered the sounds of a helicopter over the hospital last night. Could it have been the same helicopter?

  Argyropoulos couldn’t make sense of any of it. And there was still his worry about what Markeson might have said to Danforth. He needed to get with Giorgos Photos, to make sure the man was on top of things. There were only four days until history would be made.

  ***

  Giorgos Photos had waited to board the airplane until television news reported Manganos’ death. He couldn’t make sense of the news about Vassa Markeson’s death or her badly-wounded English husband. Vassa had been a valuable information resource for EA for a long time. Her presence at the murder scene confused him. He knew about the woman’s relationship years ago with Argyropoulos, and that caused him to wonder if Argyropoulos had sent her to kill Manganos. That worried Photos. It would mean Argyropoulos didn’t have
confidence that Photos would get the job done.

  He had hoped he would hear from Musa Sulaiman, but he wasn’t particularly surprised the assassin hadn’t contacted him. Sulaiman was an independent bastard. He’d killed Manganos; his fee had been deposited in his account in Switzerland; and he’d said he wouldn’t work for EA again. So there was no reason for him to call.

  Now, high above the Aegean, Photos checked his watch. The plane was on schedule. The private landing strip’s lights were visible below. He would be on the ground by 8:00 p.m.

  Photos smiled. Aren’t détente and globalization wonderful? Just a few years ago, he couldn’t have flown into Communist Bulgaria without all sorts of red tape. Now he could go almost anywhere he wanted with nothing but a passport. His university position gave him all the reason he needed to travel to other countries, all in the name of research. It would be different for the Kurds, especially with heightened security surrounding the Olympics.

  The plane’s tires screeched and the small aircraft bounced, floated up for a few seconds, then settled on the runway. The pilot taxied to a small metal building at the north end of the small terminal. When the aircraft stopped, the co-pilot opened the door and dropped the stairs.

  Photos stepped to the ground and used a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the car headlights pointing at him. Valise in hand, he walked to the car and opened the right rear door.

  “Welcome to Bulgaria,” the man in the backseat said.

  Photos climbed inside the vehicle. “Welcome to the future, Mahmoud,” he answered.

  Mahmoud Abdalan patted the valise that Photos had placed on the seat between them. “And a great future it is.” Mahmoud started laughing, and soon Photos joined in. Thirty seconds passed, and then Mahmoud shouted something in Kurdish at the driver, who pulled the car away from the metal building and drove several kilometers to a house overlooking the Black Sea.