by Joseph Badal
One-star Rear Admiral Silas Wyncourt, also fifty, a tall bull-of-a-man who was built like an NFL linebacker, commanded the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson and reported to Admiral Bowden. Admirals Bowden and Wyncourt had served together on three previous occasions. They were fast friends and well-respected naval officers. The carrier, a Nimitz-class nuclear-powered super carrier, had a ship’s company of three thousand two hundred men and women, and an air wing complement of two thousand four hundred and eighty men and women.
Wyncourt had flown over to Sixth Fleet headquarters in Naples, Italy for a meeting of all of Admiral Bowden’s senior officers. After the meeting, when the others left the room, Bowden said to Wyncourt, “Si, I’ve got bad news.”
Wyncourt crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and waited. After over two decades in the Navy, including four years as a SEAL, and the death of his wife after a long battle with cancer, there wasn’t much he couldn’t handle. Besides, he knew Bowden tended toward the hyperbolic. Bad news to Bowden might be “okay” news to Wyncourt.
“I received a message from SECNAV that, because of anti-NATO and anti-American demonstrations encouraged by the new Socialist government in Greece, the pencil pushers at the Pentagon and the State Department have decided there will be no shore leave in Athens.”
“That’s too bad,” Wyncourt said. “My people really want to get back on terra firma for a couple days.” He chuckled. “A lot of bottled up hormones.”
“You’d better figure out a way to keep your boys and girls occupied.”
“We might as well go back out to sea. No point in anchoring in Piraeus Bay.”
Bowden wagged his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not an option. SECNAV wants us to fly the colors. Let the Greeks get a good look at a real live carrier group.”
“So, my sailors will be able to see Athens; they just won’t be able to touch, smell, or taste it.”
Bowden smiled. “That’s about it. I’m sorry, Si. After six months at sea, I know your people could use a break.”
“Not your fault, Al. We’ll deal with it.” As an afterthought, Wyncourt said, “Maybe the owners of the bars, restaurants, and retail shops in Athens will rise up against the Socialists in their country when they realize how much business they’ll miss.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice? But don’t hold your breath.”
THURSDAY
JUNE 26
CHAPTER 48
Laila felt like a zombie. Too much work, frustration, and travel, and too little sleep. When she’d finally rolled into bed the night before, well after 11 p.m., she fell asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. But her sleep went undisturbed for only a couple of hours. Then the dreams started.
She dreamed about the CIA agent who had been killed in the explosion in Rome. She didn’t know the man’s name, but he had been a colleague. Then her dreams segued to the names of insurance companies, about Saber Commodities, about mothers, about Iran. The dreams recycled over and over until they finally woke her.
Laila snatched a pen and pad from the bedside table and wrote down as much of the dream as she could remember. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the bedside clock: 5:23 a.m. Then she looked down at the pad.
Saber Commodities and Iran, she thought, made sense. But what the hell did ‘mother’ mean? It wasn’t her mother she had dreamed about; it was mothers in general. She got out of bed, stretched, showered, and dressed. After a quick breakfast of hot tea and toast, she put the dishes in the sink and glanced again at the notepad on the kitchen table. A ray of light seemed to illuminate a dark corner of her brain. “What an idiot I am,” she muttered.
Laila dug out the secure satellite phone hidden in a small safe the CIA had installed under a carpet corner in her walk-in closet. She called Zeller but he didn’t answer. Then she considered the time in D.C.—close to midnight, but shook off concern about waking up Raymond Gallegos.
“It’s Laila,” she said.
“I know. What is it?”
“The Western mothers of the men. You remember I told you about them?”
“Yes.”
“What if I gave you the name of one of the women who supposedly married a foreign student?”
“All we’d have to do is search the database for a woman with that name. Records would show if she married a foreigner and if she had emigrated to another country.”
“Anne Parker. Please check on that name. Probably left the country twenty-five to thirty years ago. One of the terrorists told me that was his mother’s name.”
“I remember. What’s this about, Laila?” Raymond asked.
She remembered the look on the face of the terrorist, Parviz Baluchi, when he told her his mother’s name: Anne Parker. “I just want to clear something up. I’ve got a gut feeling about . . . . Please humor me.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Laila took two hours to prepare an after-action report, which included her assignment on Sicily, her interrogation of the terrorists, her conversation with Raymond Gallegos, and an update on the trading activity at GA. After she emailed the report to Walter Zeller and Raymond Gallegos, she moved to replace the phone in the safe, but then remembered Doctor Innocenti.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Doctor, I was wondering about that autopsy report I paid you to prepare.”
“Ah, yes. I apologize for the delay.”
“What did you find?”
“There was a small percentage of Greek/Italian extraction, which many people have.” He laughed. “The ancient Greeks and Romans traveled a lot and conquered a lot of territory. In fact, many Western Europeans with centuries-old roots in Ireland and the British Isles show small traces of Greek/Roman in their DNA. I—”
“What were the men’s primary DNA identifiers?” Laila interrupted.
“Yes, yes. Of course. That’s where I was surprised. Other than the Greek/Italian traces, each man’s DNA was almost equally distributed between Western Europe and Eastern Europe. One parent was more than likely from the British Isles and the other from the Balkans.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Please forward your report to the address I gave you earlier. And, remember, there can be no copies.”
“I understand.”
Laila cut off the call and immediately called Raymond back. She quickly told him, “When we drugged the five terrorists the SEALs took off the two yachts, we extracted their suicide molars.”
“Right.”
“We should put those teeth into the hands of a DNA expert. We need to discover the genetic extraction of those men. In fact, we should have someone pull DNA from the dead terrorist, too.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Doctor Innocenti on Sicily just called me. The two bodies he examined had no Semitic traces. One was from either southern Russia or maybe Iran. The other was from the Balkans. We already suspected that because of what Miriana Danforth told Bob.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know, Mister Gallegos.” She sighed. “Jeez, I really don’t know. But think about it. We’ve got terrorists who speak English, Farsi, Arabic, and Serbo-Croatian. We’ve got DNA from a diverse group of backgrounds, yet the one terrorist who talked told me his comrades were Persian. At least he gave me Persian names. It’s as if there’s an Iranian connection here, but the facts don’t always support that connection.”
The weather in Athens couldn’t have been better. Temperatures in the low eighties. A slight breeze off the water. Not a cloud in the sky.
Nick Vangelos hosted a lunch for the Danforths, and his fifteen-year-old daughter, Sofia, at an outdoor estiatorio in the Plaka, the old part of Athens. They had an unobstructed view of the Acropolis.
After a meal of pita, horiatiki salata, taramosalata, octopodi, tiropitakia, and patates, and galaktoboureko for dessert, Nick announced that he needed to return to his office.
The attention Robbie paid Sofia during lunch hadn’t eluded Bob. He asked, “Sofia, would you be willing to give Robbie a tour of
the Plaka while Mrs. Danforth and I visit some old friends here in Athens?”
“I would be happy to do that,” she said in perfect English highlighted by a sweet Greek accent.
“Robbie, I assume that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, sure, that would be fine. I mean . . . that would be great.”
Bob glanced at Liz who gave him a knowing smile. He stood and pulled out Liz’s chair and they said goodbye to the two teenagers.
“Have a good time,” Bob said to Robbie. He slipped the boy a few folded Euro notes. “For a cab,” he whispered. “Make sure Sofia gets home okay.”
“Thanks,” Robbie said.
Bob watched Robbie and Sofia walk downhill toward the heart of the Plaka. Then he turned to Liz, and asked, “You have anything you want to do?”
She said, “I thought you wanted to meet some old friends,” but she grinned and added, “You are such a devious old fart.”
Bob shrugged and spread his hands. “Robbie seemed to like Sofia.”
Liz kissed Bob’s cheek. “I knew there was a romantic streak in you somewhere. Nice to see it finally come out.”
“What do you mean? I’m a very romantic guy.”
Liz turned and walked toward Constitution Square. She looked over her shoulder at Bob. “Oh please,” she said and laughed.
Robbie and Sofia meandered through the Plaka’s narrow streets and alleys. Other than tourists, the area was relatively empty.
“Where is everyone?” Robbie asked.
“It’s the meseemvreenos,” Sofia told him. “You know, like a siesta. We usually have a break after noon until maybe 5 or 6 in the evening. Then shop keepers and restaurant workers return to work until late at night. It’s a very civilized way to live.”
“My father leaves for work at 6 a.m. and usually doesn’t return home until after eight at night. And that’s when he’s home. When he’s out of town, I think he works even longer hours.”
Sofia shook her head. “You Americans work too hard. You need to learn to enjoy life. Stop and smell the roses.”
Robbie thought about saying that Greeks ought to learn to work more but decided he didn’t want to start an argument. Instead, he asked, “Can we go up to the Acropolis?”
“Of course. If you think you can make the climb. It’s a long way up there.”
Robbie smiled at her. “Lead the way. I’m sure I can keep up. Especially with a girl.”
Sofia’s dark eyes momentarily flashed; her jaw muscles twitched. Then she apparently realized he was teasing her and smiled. “We’ll see about that,” she said, and took off at a run; her long, tanned legs churned; her sandals slapped on the ancient cobblestones.
“Hey, wait for me,” Robbie shouted.
“I’m too old for this crap,” Jack Cole said under his breath as he slowly climbed the twelve steps to his Georgetown townhouse. It was nearly midnight and he had an eight o’clock meeting in the morning. “Another Jack Cole day in paradise,” he said with a sigh.
“You say something, sir?” his driver/bodyguard, Hank Riordan, asked.
Cole stopped halfway up the steps and turned. “Just the musings of a tired public servant, Hank. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Seven o’clock sharp, sir.”
Cole knew Riordan would scan the street left and right and wait for him to enter the townhouse and lock up. He turned back to the door and climbed the rest of the way to the front threshold. He inserted the key in the lock and, just as he bent to pick up the newspaper on the doormat, a loud noise startled him.
Riordan shouted, “Down! Down!”
Cole’s heart rate leaped. He had spent enough time in the field to recognize the sound of a high-velocity bullet striking metal. He rolled to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Riordan charge up the steps and shout into his lapel mic, “Shots fired!”
Riordan was almost to the threshold when Cole heard the snick of a second shot almost simultaneous with an explosion of wet matter that splashed the side of his face. Riordan went down; his head smashed; his arms extended over his head.
Cole grabbed the Sig Sauer P-229 DAK pistol from Riordan’s right hand, glanced up at the front door of his townhome, and saw the mangled remains of the brass doorknocker. The first bullet had impacted right behind the spot where his head had been the moment before he’d bent down. He guessed the shots had come from directly across the street. An elderly couple—a retired Air Force general and his retired schoolteacher wife—lived there. With a herculean effort, Cole pulled Riordan’s body behind a five-foot-tall masonry planter. He reached under the man’s body, jerked his mic from the inside of his jacket lapel, and yelled, “Shots fired! Shots fired! Man down!”
Cement chips scattered like shrapnel and pierced Cole’s forehead as a bullet crashed into the planter. He saw movement in an open second floor window across the street and spotted the barrel of a rifle there. He returned fire and the rifle disappeared.
Two unmarked Company cars roared from either end of the street and stopped in front of Cole’s home. Two men piled out of each car, weapons drawn.
Cole pointed across the street. “Second floor window.”
Two of the men ran to the opposite townhouse and kicked in the front door; a third ran down a paved setback between the townhouse and the one beside it. The fourth man raced to where Cole now knelt next to Riordan.
“Sir, you need to get inside,” the man ordered.
Cole looked up at him. “I’ll go inside as soon as Hank’s body has been taken care of.”
“But—”
“Call an ambulance and get the Georgetown Police. I want a hundred men on these streets in the next five minutes. I want the asshole who did this.”
Carlo Marchetti had abandoned the M89SR semi-automatic sniper rifle, manufactured by Technical Equipment International in Israel. He loved that rifle and was sorry to leave it behind. But he had no choice. Had no time to disassemble the weapon, store it in the customized guitar case he’d carried it in, and then escape. The weapon couldn’t be traced to him.
He’d left the back door of the townhouse open and made sure there were no obstacles that could hinder a rapid retreat. With Pooh under one arm, he burst through the gate at the rear of the small backyard and crossed the alley behind the row of houses. He quietly closed the backyard gate he’d propped open on his way in and continued down the setback path to the next street. He placed Pooh on the sidewalk and cooed, “What a good girl you are. You never made a sound the whole time.”
Marchetti walked up to the next intersection, turned right, and calmly strolled until he reached the car he’d parked hours earlier. He’d had no idea when Jack Cole might return home from work, so he’d slit the throats of the couple in the townhouse and waited. For five hours.
But he’d failed. He was a patient man. He would try again. But it would be more difficult the next time. He used his key fob to unlock the car doors, opened the driver side rear door, and dropped Pooh on the back seat. After he closed the back door, he opened the driver side front door and moved to drop onto the seat, when he heard a sound behind him. He whipped around and shielded his eyes with a hand against the blinding beam of a flashlight.
“Do you live on this street, sir?” a woman asked.
It took Marchetti a few seconds to realize the woman was a uniformed cop. “No, Officer. I was visiting friends. I’m on my way back to my place. Something wrong?”
“Would you mind showing me some ID, sir,” the cop said.
Marchetti was used to bullshitting his way out of trouble but, despite the courteousness of the cop, there was something hard in her tone. He made a show of patting his sport jacket pockets and then said, “My wallet’s in the glove compartment.”
The cop said, “I would like you to get it out for me.” She still shined the flashlight at his face, but she now had her right hand on the butt of her pistol.
“Of course, Officer.” He slid onto the seat and reached to open the glove compartment. T
he compartment door dropped open and Marchetti stuck his hand inside. He wrapped his fingers around the butt of the ancient military COLT .45 pistol and used his thumb to disengage the safety. He tensed as the safety made a small ‘click.’ He looked back at the open car door and smiled at the female cop who still had her flashlight pointed at him. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then tightened his grip on the pistol. Now or never, he thought. Then the front passenger door flew open and a male policeman stuck his service pistol in Marchetti’s cheek. The cop roared, “Gun! Gun! Hands on your head! Now!”
CHAPTER 49
Butterflies waged war inside Walter Zeller’s stomach. The short sales that Gerhardt Anlageberatungs had executed were troublesome in the extreme. He needed more information, however, about those insurance companies. On a lark, he called a banker friend in Athens.
“Ya sou, Pavlos.”
“Ya sou, Walter. Pos pie?”
“I am well, Pavlos. How are you and Vassa?”
“All is good here, other than the economy, and the national debt, and the large percentage of the population that believes the new Socialist government should support them, and the fact that the AEK soccer team is not in first place. Other than all that, life is grand.”
Zeller laughed. “So, nothing much has changed since I saw you last?”
Pavlos Ierides laughed back. “That’s correct. Are you here in Greece?”
“No, my friend. I wonder if you can dig up some information for me.”
“Of course. What do you need?”
“Do you know anyone at the Greek Department of Finance & Insurance?”
Ierides chuckled. “I’m a banker. Of course I know someone in the department. It’s one of the departments that regulate the banking industry. Why?”
“I need to check on something. There have been a large number of high-dollar transactions that involve short sales of insurance company stocks. All the companies have risk exposure in Greece. Some of the stocks shorted are in Greek insurance companies. These are not international companies; they’re more regional in nature. It’s almost as if the people who shorted the stocks think something catastrophic is about to happen in Greece.”
