by Joseph Badal
It was too dark to see the water, but Photos looked out at the lights of houses scattered along the shore and imagined what the sea must look like. He cleared his throat and said, “I assume your men are in place.”
“Of course,” Mahmoud said. “All fourteen of them will arrive by boat before light tomorrow morning. The tour bus will pick them up at eight a.m., and will cross the Greek border well before noon.”
“How about the border guards?”
“No problem,” Mahmoud said. “The credentials you provided are unchallengeable. Just a bunch of Turkish football fans from a club in Ankara on a tour of the region on its way to the Olympics, to watch their national team.”
“Good,” Photos said. “And you have directions to the place in Koropi?”
Mahmoud chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, my friend, everything is in order. We will succeed, and your people will own Greece, and my people will finally have a chance to have their own homeland.”
Photos wished he didn’t have to worry, but that was his job and his nature. So much was riding on Mahmoud and his Kurdish fighters. They were an integral part of Photos’ plan to take control of Greece. He would accomplish his mission to turn his country into a Marxist-Leninist state. And Turkey would be in such turmoil, there was no way the government there would be able to deal with a Kurdish uprising at the same time it was trying to avoid war with Greece. Mahmoud and his Kurdistan Liberty and Democracy Party would finally achieve an independent nation.
“The opening ceremony will be in full swing by ten a.m. on Friday. Your men should be in place well before that time.”
“I understand,” Mahmoud said. “That’s why we’re going in two nights before. Make sure your man is there.”
“It’s all done. The base commander, Major Petroangelos, is with us. He’ll get you inside the base. You’ll take out the gate guards. At that time of night, most of his men will be asleep in their barracks. They should be easy to deal with.”
“You know we don’t have to kill the airmen. We can subdue them. They won’t be a danger to us once they’re bound and gagged.”
“I want all but one of them eliminated,” Photos said. “The Greek people must become enraged about the attack. Kill Petroangelos as well. No one should be left who can compromise us. All we need is one wounded airman who can tell the world that a group of Turks was responsible for the attack.”
“Okay, okay, that’s the way it will be done.”
“Good,” Photos said. “The Chinook will be in place to evacuate you and your men from the base on Friday. The base commander has taken care of arrangements. You have to get out of Greece as soon as possible.”
Mahmoud gave Photos an impatient look. “I know, my friend, I know.”
***
Musa Sulaiman alternated between cursing and praying. The pain was stunning. He wanted to slit the throat of the hack digging at the bullet in his right shoulder. He almost regretted declining anesthesia; but he couldn’t take the chance of being sedated. Trying to take his mind off the pain, he thought about the money in his bank account. Allah had been good to him. He had faith that a thousand virgins awaited him in heaven some day for the attacks he had executed against the infidels; but the money in Zurich would buy hundreds of long-legged Brazilian women before he went to the afterlife.
He would use one of his false IDs and hide in Rio de Janeiro, where the idiots running Al Qaeda couldn’t find him. It was only a matter of time before one of those maniacs in the mountains of Pakistan decided he should make the ultimate sacrifice and blow himself up for the cause in some suicide bombing.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
AUGUST 9, 2004
Despite having slept for only four hours, Bob felt rested. Sam Goodwin’s news had given him a surge of energy. Bob telephoned Tony and asked him to come by and drive him to the office. Then Bob showered, dressed, and, while waiting for Tony to show, called Jack Cole at Langley. They discussed Sam’s information about Argyropoulos, as well as the list of Greeks with some connection to France.
***
While waiting for Bob and Tony, Sam and Stacey pulled up information about the Deputy Prime Minister from both the Greek Ministry of Public Order and the British files. Argyropoulos had taken part in the 1973 student demonstrations against the junta. This was neither surprising nor uncommon. Many of the individuals in the current Greek administration traced their political careers back to student activism against the junta. Vassa Markeson, however, was too young to have played a role in the riots and demonstrations of the seventies. When Bob and Tony arrived at the office, they joined in the conversation.
“Do you have any idea how Argyropoulos and Vassa Markeson met?” Bob asked.
“Nothing yet,” Stacey said, “although it could have been through social ties. Both their families, the Argyropouloses and Koufoses, are well-to-do and have been big-time players in Greek politics.”
“I could call some of my contacts at the Ministry of Culture,” Sam offered. “I play tennis with a guy who’s like the Vanderbilt of Greece. He knows all of the heavy hitters on the Athens social register.”
“Good,” Bob said. “Find out all you can about the two families and ask if he knows anything about the affair between the Deputy Prime Minister and Mrs. Markeson.”
Bob pointed at Tony. “Don’t you have a couple of informants who could help us?”
“There’s one who might be of some help. His daddy owns the second largest shipping company in Greece. He probably runs in the same circles as the Argyropoulos and Koufos families.”
Bob nodded. “Good; follow up on that lead. There’s something that still bothers me. What was Stanton Markeson’s wife doing in that hospital room?”
“And just to confuse the matter even more,” Stacey said, “we received a call from the detective working the shootings at the hospital. He told us the ballistics tests had come in on the two pistols found on the hospital room floor. Stanton Markeson’s pistol, which was identified by the British Embassy as the weapon assigned to him, had been fired. Despite scouring the room and the hallway outside the room, they couldn’t find the bullet. The shell casing was there, but they couldn’t find the bullet.”
“Which might mean Stanton hit someone.”
“That’s right,” Stacey said. “In fact, the police found a trail of blood that started at the end of the corridor, went up the stairs to the roof, and then stopped there.”
“I heard a helicopter last night,” Bob said, “just as I approached Manganos’ room.”
“And remember the body of the helicopter pilot the police found,” Sam added. “There’s got to be a connection.”
“What about the ballistics test on the second pistol? How about fingerprints?” Bob asked.
“Whichever of the Greek cops picked up the pistol, he destroyed whatever fingerprints were there,” Stacey said. “Another example of state of the art police work. But the ballistics side of the story is intriguing,” Stacey said. “That weapon had not been fired; but when the police traced the serial number, they found it was taken from a Greek Army outpost in a raid in 1997.” Stacey consulted a legal pad in front of her and said, “On March 4, 1997, Greek Spring issued a communiqué which listed the weapons they had ‘legally appropriated’ from the Greek Army. The serial number on the second pistol matched one of the weapons listed in that communiqué.”
“Which means someone with connections to the terrorist organization carried that weapon into the room,” Tony said.
“Correct,” Bob said, “and I’ll bet it wasn’t Stanton. If Stanton was going to murder Manganos, he wouldn’t have called our office to ask for assistance. So, it had to be either Stanton’s wife or the person we have to presume Stanton shot, and who shot Stanton and his wife and Manganos. But, if I had to guess, I would pick Mrs. Markeson.”
“Why?” Sam asked.
“The wo
unds I observed showed none of the typical powder burns usually evident in execution style slayings. The assassin, especially in the case of Manganos, shot his victim up close and personal. The absence of gunpowder residue indicates the killer used a weapon with a silencer. Sure, he might have carried a second weapon, but I doubt it. Besides, if the killer had brought in another pistol, there was no need for him to use it. He shot all three people in the room with the silenced pistol. Ballistics has already proved that. Why pull the second gun? And, if he did pull it, why wasn’t it fired? Vassa Markeson carried the second pistol into that room.”
Bob’s words seemed to have stunned the others.
“Holy cow!” Sam said. “That means she was connected to EA.” Sam looked around at the others as though he was waiting for someone to argue the point. Then he added, “Markeson’s wife slipped him the bugged cell phone on orders from EA.”
“And if Vassa Markeson was literally sharing Dimitris Argyropoulos’ bed, as the Greeks’ own investigative report shows, where does that put the Deputy Prime Minister?” Sam said.
CHAPTER SIXTY
AUGUST 10, 2004
For the first time in his life, Dimitris Argyropoulos couldn’t decide what to do. He was beside himself with fear about what Markeson might have whispered to Danforth after Markeson was shot. Now the Englishman was in the Intensive Care Unit at Saint Mathias Hospital, and trauma surgeons and other doctors had been brought in from England to care for him. Additionally, British Special Operations personnel had taken over security outside the ICU and augmented security outside the hospital building. There was no way a team of terrorists could infiltrate the hospital. Argyropoulos tried to get the Prime Minister to order the British soldiers from Greece, but Yiannis Ierides would have none of it.
The only hope Argyropoulos had was that Markeson would die or would be too weak to say anything more. Three days, that’s all he needed. Ierides and most of the members of Parliament would be dead by then. He would accede to the top position in the country at a time when Greeks would be clamoring for revenge. The Englishmen and the Americans would be ordered from his country. He would see to that. And he would arrange to have Markeson silenced permanently. The thought warmed him.
He stopped pacing and looked across his office at his assistant, Ari Stokolos. “We’re almost there, Ari.”
“It’s been a long time coming, Dimitris.” Ari stretched his arms over his head and groaned. “This old body of mine can’t handle much more of this. You remember when we were in school together? We’d study, play, drink, and get no more than four hours sleep, and still be ready to go the next morning.”
“Fifty-five isn’t old, Ari.”
“Tell that to my bones. I feel ancient.”
“Hah, that’s just your imagination.” Argyropoulos began pacing again. “That bastard Photos better do his part.”
“You worry too much, my old friend. Photos has kept that group of psychopaths and hoodlums together for a long time. He’s been on the front-lines forever. He’ll make it happen. Don’t forget it was him who came up with the idea of involving the Kurds and the Iranians. Without his connections with the Kurds, the Mullahs, and Al Qaeda, none of this would be happening.”
Argyropoulos sucked in a long breath and waved a hand, as though to tell Stokolos he understood. “What time is it?” he asked.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to make the meeting. I’ll have your driver come around.”
After Stokolos left the office, Argyropoulos returned to the chair behind his desk. He thought again about Vassa and felt a wave of relief. She had been a potential liability. He rubbed his crotch and admitted to himself he had looked forward to returning to the Celestine Palace the other night. Vassa had been one of the best. He had been curious to see whether the years had made a difference. But on the value scale, no piece of ass outweighed what he had to gain.
He thought about telephoning Photos, to make sure everything was in place; but he didn’t want to take the chance the call might be monitored. Ever since the police had wiretapped one of Photos’ safehouses, Argyropoulos had been reticent to contact the man unless it was absolutely necessary.
***
On the flight back from Bulgaria, Photos felt as though he had thousands of electrodes attached to his body. He fairly vibrated with nervousness. Over three decades had gone into the effort. The years in France, working with the Communist Party, stirring up the student groups and the trade unions. The years before that studying in Bulgaria and Cuba. The months in the Libyan training center. The time he’d spent cultivating contacts in Iran and the Kurdish areas of Iraq and Iran. All for this. Three days and it would all have been worthwhile.
He hadn’t slept well for a week; but he suspected he wasn’t going to sleep well until this week was over. After the airplane landed at the private airstrip in Athens, he drove to a nearby gas station to use the pay phone. He called Demetrios Mavroyianni and told him he wanted to see him. He gave Demetrios the location and time for the meeting, then quickly terminated the call. Now that Savvas and Pavlos were out of the picture, Demetrios and his crew would have to take up the slack. He’d deal with that tonight, and then cut off further communications with any of the members of EA. They were all good men and women, who would do what was expected of them. They had never numbered more than twenty-five, including Photos—it had been important to keep the group small and controllable. Now there were only twenty-three of them left. Demetrios and his three-man team would assist the Kurds. The other eighteen, excluding Photos, had tickets to the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games. It was a reward for their loyalty. The Kurds would take care of Demetrios and his people while flying over the Aegean in the Chinook helicopter that would evacuate them from the Koropi base. The others would die along with most of the senior members of the Greek Government. No one would be left who might become a liability to Photos and his allies in the new government.
He looked at his dashboard clock after pulling out of the gas station: almost noon. He drove to the restaurant in Koropi. He didn’t want to be late for his 1:00 meeting with Major Lambros Petroangelos, the missile site’s commanding officer.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
AUGUST 10, 2004
Frank Reynolds and Raymond Gallegos were parked outside Grigor Madanowski’s security service business when the former Bulgarian Intelligence Officer drove up in his British racing-green-colored van. Painted on the side of the vehicle in eight-inch white letters were the words,
Madison Security Services
Alarms, Surveillance & Investigations
The company’s address and telephone number were painted below in smaller print.
“How was the fishing, Grigor?” Frank said, intercepting the man before he reached the shop’s front door.
Madanowski looked up and down the sidewalk, and then at Frank. He muttered something in Bulgarian and then said in English, “What is it with you guys? You can’t remember my new name.” He pointed at the van and said, “See, it’s Gregory Madison now.”
Frank smiled. “To us you’ll always be Grigor the Bulgarian, Intelligence agent extraordinaire, the poison tipped umbrella assassin. It helps us recall that you were our enemy for so many years.”
“You know damned well I never used that umbrella device.”
“I’ll bet you worked with those KGB assholes in arranging the hit on Markhov in London,” Frank said. “That umbrella trick was pretty slick. A little ricin in an iridium pellet at the tip of an umbrella. A poke in the back of Markhov’s leg. One dead Bulgarian defector.”
“What can I do for you guys?” Madanowski said.
“Now that you’re a citizen of the Free World, we’d like you to look at some pictures for us,” Raymond said.
The Bulgarian unlocked the shop door and waved the two CIA men inside. He followed them and locked the door behind him. “Is this more of that Greek shit?” He eff
ected a childlike voice and sing-songed, “Did you know of any Greeks with a French connection?” He laughed. “That’s funny. French connection. Like that movie with Gene Hackman.” He laughed again.
“Yeah, Grigor, you’re a fuckin’ riot,” Frank said. “Ray, show the comedian the photographs.”
The photographs from the individual files had been enlarged at the CIA lab and placed in a folio. Ray dropped the folio on a counter and flipped it open to the first picture.
“Before you get started,” Ray said, “here’s what we’re looking for. If you recognize the faces of any of these people, just say so. Then we want to know why you recognize the individual and what name you knew him by.”
Madanowski tipped his head in agreement, but before he looked at the first photograph, he said, “The names may not be of much use. Most trainees who went through our programs used aliases. Just like in your CIA. The instructors never knew their real names. In fact, they usually called the trainees by a first name only.”
“Okay, so forget the names,” Frank interjected. “Let’s just see if you recognize any of them.”
Madanowski paged through the folio in a slow, deliberate fashion. He established a sort of cadence in turning the pages. He spent a bit more time with the twenty-seventh photo, but finally shook his head and moved on. He didn’t say a word until he came to the forty-first picture.
“Sonofabitch!” he exclaimed, “it’s the Professor. He loved Marx the way the Pope loves Jesus Christ.”
Frank looked over Madanowski’s left shoulder, while Ray peered over his right shoulder.
“The Professor?” Frank said. He had memorized the names of every person in the folio. Madanowski had just identified Giorgos Photos as a dyed-in-the-wool Marxist.