Evil Deeds (Bob Danforth 1)

by Joseph Badal

  EVIL DEEDS

  Inspired by Actual Events

  Joseph Badal

  Suspense Publishing

  Evil Deeds

  by

  Joseph Badal

  DIGITAL EDITION

  *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Suspense Publishing

  Joseph Badal

  Copyright © 2011 Joseph Badal

  PUBLISHING HISTORY:

  Suspense Publishing, Paperback and Digital Copy, November 2011

  ISBN: 0615556892

  ISBN-13: 978-0615556895

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks

  DEDICATION

  To my dear son John, one of life’s great sources of happiness and pride, and to Whitey, the dog that saved us from a lifetime of misery.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I want to thank my readers who have continued to encourage me in this great writing adventure through their kind words and willingness to step up to the counter and to the internet to buy my books.

  My thanks go to Frank Zoretich and Brittani Lenz for their invaluable editing services. It’s amazing how good you guys are.

  I appreciate those friends who weighed in with suggestions about elements of this book, including Anne Beckett and Rosalie Sherman. I can always count on you both to tell it like it is.

  I want to single out two authors for recognition: Tony Hillerman, who did everything he could to help me go from writer to author. The world lost a great man when it lost Tony. And Steve Brewer, who is always willing to listen to my complaints and frustrations, and is always a source of encouragement.

  The contributions of John & Shannon Raab at Suspense Publishing were dramatic, and their passion for this project made the enterprise a great deal of fun.

  And, finally, I thank Sara for her encouragement and “attaboys.” Everyone needs a muse. I found mine.

  Praise for Joseph Badal

  “Another tightly plotted, deftly executed page turner from a master of suspense and international intrigue. Joseph Badal writes timely stories with authority and compassion. Highly recommended.”

  —Sheldon Siegel, New York Times bestselling author of “Perfect Alibi”

  With “Evil Deeds,” Joseph Badal pulls together the 28-year saga of the Danforth family and their hair-raising adventures in the U.S., Greece and the Balkans. Action-packed and filled with memorable characters, “Evil Deeds” delivers on every level.

  —Steve Brewer, author of “Lost Vegas”

  “A rollicking adventure that will transport the reader to the Greek islands for a high-stakes treasure hunt that opens a Pandora’s box if intrigue, deceit and murder. Joseph Badal serves up a rogue’s gallery of sharply drawn characters present in lean, muscular prose that will always leave you wanting more.”

  —Philip Reed, author of “Bird Dog,” “Low Rider,” and “The Marquis De Fraud”

  “Joe Badal takes us into a tangled puzzle of intrigue and terrorism; a page-turning mystery that gives readers a chance to combine learning of Greece and Greek politics with a tense, well told tale.”

  —Tony Hillerman, New York Times bestselling author

  “Once again, Badal has crafted a superb thriller that grips you from page one and doesn’t let go. “The Nostradamus Secret” has it all—compelling plot, intricate characters and a breakneck pace that will keep readers up well into the night. Another winner for Badal.”

  —Philip Donlay, author of “Category Five” and “Code Black”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  “Evil Deeds” is the first in a series, which includes “Terror Cell” and “The Nostradamus Secret.” Although all three novels can be read as stand-alone thrillers, reading them in the order they were written will give the reader a feeling for the growth and development of the major characters, Bob and Liz Danforth, and their son Michael.

  Part I of “Evil Deeds” is loosely based on the kidnapping of Greek children by the Communists during and after the revolution that occurred in Greece after the end of World War II. These children were taken across the northern Greek border into Communist Bulgaria and Yugoslavia. The Bulgarian orphanage mentioned in this novel is a creation of the Author’s imagination.

  For the sake of authenticity there are a number of foreign language words in this story. In order to facilitate the reader’s experience, the Author underlines the syllable in these words where the pronunciation emphasis should occur.

  There are several references in “Evil Deeds” to genocidal actions in the Balkans during the civil war there in the 1990s. Although the incidents noted here are purely fictional, they are similar in most instances to actual events that occurred during that conflict.

  PART I

  1971

  CHAPTER ONE

  Liz Danforth stood on the terrace of her rented home in the Athens suburb of Kifissia and watched the edge of the early morning Greek sun peek over the top of the six-foot-high stone wall at the back of the yard. The hills in the distance had already begun to turn bright yellow with the first of the May morning’s sunlight. She closed her eyes and welcomed the sun’s warmth on her face. All in all, not a bad way to start the day, she thought.

  The sputtering sound of a motor scooter sounded from the street on the front side of the house, briefly overpowering her husband Bob’s throaty laugh, two-year-old Michael’s high-pitched giggles, and White Dog’s frenzied barking. A hint of a breeze moved a few strands of her hair across her eyes, and she used the back of her hand to push back the blond wisps. She caught Bob looking at her and felt her heart swell. He seemed to revel in her slightest movement or simplest change of expression. How lucky could one woman be?

  Liz had been afraid when the Army assigned Bob to Greece. She’d never been outside the United States before. The fact that Greece was ruled by a military junta only made things worse in her mind. But, despite her fear of living in a foreign country, she had acclimated well. And she’d take being with Bob in Greece any day over the year they’d been separated when he was in Vietnam.

  “Okay, big guy,” Bob shouted at Michael, “Superman time.”

  Liz watched Bob run over to Michael who chased White Dog, a longhaired mutt with a lot of Australian Shepherd blood and who knows what else running through her veins. Bob scooped up the boy and ran around the backyard, while White Dog trailed after them, barking ecstatically.

  “Soup Man, Soup Man,” Michael yelled in his husky voice, flying through the air, arms extended, a towel tucked into his collar floating behind like a cape.

  Liz chuckled at her two-year-old son’s pronunciation of Superman. Father and son, she thought. Except for the difference in age and size, two peas in a pod. Black-haired, hazel-eyed, high cheekboned peas. Her men.

  Bob stopped running and extended his arm straight above his head, balancing Michael in one hand. Liz felt her breath catch.

  “Bob, be careful!” she yelled. “You’ll drop him.”

  “Not a chance,” he shouted back. She saw a fleeting scornful look on his face and regretted having said anything. But the wa
y he roughhoused with Michael scared her to death. She held her breath, anticipating what would come next, the way the game always ended.

  Bob suddenly dropped his arm and Michael fell three feet to where his father caught him against his chest.

  Michael giggled. “Again, Daddy,” he yelled. “More! More!”

  Bob nuzzled his son and kissed him on the cheek. “Gotta go to work, Mikey. But, I promise we’ll play Superman when I get home.”

  Liz saw the disappointed look on her son’s face—an expression midway between pouting and disappointment—when Bob carried him across the yard and up the four steps to the terrace. “No bye-bye, Daddy,” he whined.

  Bob again buried his face in his son’s neck and gave him tickling kisses until Michael started laughing. Then he put Michael down and stepped to Liz, barely having to bend his six-foot-two-inch frame to kiss her lips. He put an arm around her back, then lowered his hand to the seat of her jeans. “Not bad for an old married lady,” he said, squeezing a cheek. “You sure make it hard on a working guy. How do you expect me to keep my mind on my job, when the vision of you standing here in tight jeans and a tank top stays with me all day?”

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Liz blurted. “It’s Saturday. I bet there’s not another officer working today. The General’s probably playing golf, the Colonel’s sailing, and everyone else is down at the beach. But not Captain Robert Danforth. Why don’t you try coming home earlier than eight o’clock, for a change?” Liz said, giving him a shame-on-you look. “Then maybe we could discuss your visions . . . and other things, too.”

  Bob slapped her lightly on the butt. “I might do just that,” he said, smiling lecherously.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Liz said. “Promises, promises.”

  White Dog suddenly barked and planted her two front paws on Bob’s leg.

  “See,” Liz said. “She agrees.”

  Bob laughed. “White Dog always takes your side.”

  “I’m serious, Bob. Try getting home early tonight. We could all go out for dinner, then take Michael to the American Club Theater. They’re going to show Cinderella. He’d love it.”

  Bob shrugged, and then leaned forward to kiss her; but she planted her hands in the middle of his chest and pushed him away.

  “Dammit, Bob, I mean it.”

  She watched his face turn red and suddenly felt guilty for once again sending him off to work knowing she was upset. But she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. She’d been looking forward to spending the day at the beach. This wasn’t the first time Bob had broken his promise because of work.

  “I’ll get back here by noon,” he said. “I promise.”

  She wanted to believe him, but she wasn’t about to bet on it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After Bob’s Greek driver picked him up in the usual dented blue, decrepit Chevy pickup, Liz carried Michael through the back door of the house, into the kitchen.

  “Dam-nit Bob, I means it,” Michael suddenly exclaimed through a mischievous smile.

  Oh boy, Liz thought. I’m going to have to watch what I say around little big ears here.

  “You know what a workaholic is, Mikey?” Liz knew the best way to make her son forget something she wished he hadn’t heard was to talk to him as though he was an adult. In five or ten seconds, he’d be bored to death. Michael stared at her with a wide-eyed look that seemed to say, Oh no, Mommy’s at it again.

  “It’s a person who lives to work, not works to live. Daddy’s one of those workaholics. He thinks he’s the only man out there who’s responsible for helping the Greeks defend themselves against the Communist hoards who are just waiting to attack Greece from the north. And, of course, there are the Turks to the east, who are going to swoop across Greece, raping and pillaging. But your daddy is the only thing that’s holding the enemy back.”

  Michael wriggled out of her arms and slipped to a sitting position on the floor.

  “Mission accomplished,” she whispered.

  But then Michael looked up and stared at her. “What’s raping and pill–?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said, then briskly walked back to the bedrooms.

  Thirty minutes later, after making the beds and cleaning up the breakfast dishes, Liz picked Michael up off the kitchen floor, where he had entertained himself with pots and pans, an empty cereal container, and a collection of wooden spoons. She carried him back outside. This was their time together – for reading, playing, and talking – before the sun rose higher in the sky and the yard turned too hot. Michael didn’t want to be carried, so she lowered him to the terrace and held his pudgy, little hand while he toddled down the steps to the lawn. Then she let him run free.

  He ran to the glider swing and climbed onto one of the seats. “Swing, Mommy,” he called.

  Liz walked behind Michael to push the swing. She exulted in being a mother. Michael was her miracle.

  Children’s voices carried over the stone wall separating one side of their backyard from the elementary school grounds beyond. Liz turned and stepped onto a cinder block retaining wall enclosing a small, raised flower bed and stretched to look over the top at the school’s blue and white Greek flag moving lazily in the slight morning breeze. She smiled at the trio of grade-school girls waving at her. Even on weekends, the school’s playground attracted the neighborhood kids. Then the girls ran off toward the far side of the school grounds and all became quiet.

  “Swing, Mommy,” Michael said.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Liz said when she turned back. “Mommy’s coming.”

  Liz had just stepped over the sleeping White Dog and taken a stride toward the swing set, when a whining sound came from the dog. Liz turned to look at White Dog and was surprised to hear the animal now growling low in her throat. The dog was usually calm, but now her brown-tipped ears were erect. She stood up and bared her fangs.

  “What is it, girl,” Liz said, “having a bad dream?”

  The doorbell rang.

  Amazing! Liz thought. Fast asleep and she hears someone at the front door before they ring the bell. Liz looked at Michael seated on the swing. “Come on, Mikey. Let’s go see who’s at the door.”

  “No-o, Mommy. I want to swing.”

  Liz glanced around the backyard. The five-foot-high, wrought iron street-side fences, along with the stone wall at the back and the school-side of the property, would keep her son safe inside the yard.

  “Okay, Mikey. Mommy will be right back.” White Dog preceded her up the steps from the yard to the terrace and through the open back door into the house, barking all the way.

  When Liz reached the hall leading to the front entrance, she looked out through the glass panel of the locked front door. A dark-complected, black-haired woman of about thirty, dressed in an ankle-length red dress and a yellow headscarf, stood on the porch. A Gypsy.

  White Dog was now growling, her nose pressed against the door handle.

  Gypsies often came through Kifissia in horsedrawn wagons, stopping at houses to trade for clothing, blankets, and small appliances. A month ago, Liz had traded an old winter coat for a longhaired, white flokati rug.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Liz told the dog. “Sit!”

  White Dog sat but continued her low growling.

  Liz unlocked and opened the front door.

  “Hello, Missy. You vant buy nice rug?” the Gypsy said in a thick Slavic accent, fingering a long string of beads around her neck with one hand and pointing with the other hand at a fluffy orange flokati she had spread out on the porch. The woman gave Liz a warm smile.

  Liz smiled back. The woman had bright, penetrating eyes, sparkling-white teeth, and was taller than most Gypsies Liz had seen in Greece.

  “No, thank you; we already have more than we need.” She felt bad about turning the woman down. She knew the Gypsies had a tough life, but she already had four of the rugs.

  The Gypsy frowned. “I guess I get here too late,” she said.

  “Maybe next time you’ll bring
something other than rugs,” Liz said.

  The woman showed a bright, toothy smile. “You vont find good rug like this no vere. Ve got many more to show in vagon. You sure you don’t vant?”

  “I’m sure,” Liz answered. “But not – “

  White Dog suddenly rose up, her ears erect, her growling increasing in pitch and volume.

  Liz grabbed the dog’s collar, concerned that she might go after the Gypsy woman.

  The Gypsy stared, stepped back, raised her hands as though to defend herself.

  White Dog turned, twisting her collar in Liz’s hand. She lunged toward the back of the house, now barking ferociously.

  “I’m sorry,” Liz said to the woman. “She never acts like this.”

  The Gypsy smiled, then shrugged, bent down, and slowly folded the rug, while Liz stood in the doorway and watched, tightly gripping White Dog’s collar. With swaying skirts and a hand wave thrown over her shoulder at Liz, the woman walked down the stairs to the front gate and out to the street.

  Liz shut the door and turned toward the rear of the house, releasing the dog. She was shocked at White Dog’s behavior. The dog rushed toward the back door, snarling in a way Liz had never heard. Vicious rather than just protective. White Dog raced ahead, careening into the high chair in the breakfast room, her paws sliding on the marble floor.

  Liz trailed, more puzzled than alarmed. By the time she reached the open back door, White Dog had already crossed the terrace, jumped the four-foot drop onto the lawn, then ran to the empty swing set. Michael wasn’t on the glider. He was nowhere in sight.

  “Michael! Michael!” Liz called.

  No reply.

  Liz watched White Dog, a speeding blur vault over the fence separating the yard from the side street. Liz dashed to the fence and looked down the street in the direction the dog had run. Nothing.

  Panicked now, her heart racing and acid assaulting her stomach, Liz turned right at the back corner of the house and ran down the interior walk paralleling the street and leading around to the front porch. Where was Michael? She caught a glimpse of White Dog racing down the street in front of the house. Liz rushed to the front gate.