by Joseph Badal
Bob was standing behind his desk, packing up the last of the files in a pouch for shipment to Greece.
“You all set?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I’d be a lot better prepared if I had a few more days, but . . . .”
“I’m sorry about you having to be the one to go over there.”
Bob shrugged. “Our’s not to reason why.” He pointed at a cell phone lying on the edge of his desk. “The boys and girls in TSD brought that up. It’s equipped with an encryption device that will allow us to talk between here and Greece on a real-time basis, without our having to worry about someone with big ears listening in.”
“The guys in Technical Service Division get more James Bond-like every day. I—”
Frank Reynolds burst into the office, cutting off Jack. Frank nodded at Jack, then walked up to Bob and handed him a file. “You should see this.”
Bob plopped into his chair and began going through the file. After a minute, he tossed it in the center of his desk and glared at Frank.
Frank pointed at the file and said, “Five pages of bullshit. That’s what those Greek Spring psychopaths sent to their buddies at the newspaper in Greece.” He reached for the file and opened it. “They claim they killed Fred Grantham and Harvey Cornwell for their roles in, and I quote, ‘the planning of the barbaric air strikes against Serbia and the invasion of Iraq.’” Frank looked at Bob, then at Jack, and continued, “This crap is nothing but a regurgitation of the articles and editorials that the Greek newspapers have been spouting for two years: the attack on Iraq was part of Great Britain and the United States’ desire for world domination, that Saddam never committed atrocities against his own people, that the English and Americans targeted civilians in Iraq. Everything in this release has already been spewed by the Greek press, even by some of Greece’s leading government officials.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you over there, Bob,” Jack said. “You’re going to have a tough time figuring out who to trust.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JULY 28, 2004
The banshee-like whine of the plane’s lowering landing gear startled Bob awake. He’d preset his watch to Athens time and saw it was 8:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. The view outside invigorated him, awakening a warm feeling inside. The azure, sparkling waters of the Aegean always had that effect on him. How could such a beautiful country, with such an inspiring history, be so screwed up as to have terrorists running around killing people in its capital?
Bob reflected on his conversation with Liz at Dulles Airport terminal before he boarded the plane. He’d suggested she change her mind about coming to Greece. He’d told her he would be working day and night and wouldn’t have a lot of time to spend with her. “So, what else is new? I’m used to your obsessive schedule,” she’d responded. “I would rather you ignore me in Greece, where I can keep an eye on you.”
He’d reminded her it would be dangerous being with him. She’d scoffed at the implication she should be afraid. Bob hadn’t wanted to get into an argument with Liz; but his instincts told him he was making a mistake allowing her to join him in Greece. But, once again, he reminded himself that if he told her not to come to Greece, she would come anyway. The sweet, innocent girl he had married in the sixties had long ago turned into one tough cookie. The thought made him smile while he collected his carry-on and started down the aircraft aisle.
Bob claimed his luggage, went through Customs, and fast-walked through the airport’s open doors. The smell of the sea mixed with the stink of gasoline fumes comprised his inaugural breath of Athens’ air. He suspected the stench of air pollution would get a lot worse as he approached the center of the city. Bob spotted the white Ford Taurus he’d been told would pick him up and walked toward it.
A man perched on the front fender, wearing light-brown loafers, tan Dockers, a yellow Polo shirt, and a blue blazer, sprang forward and said in a low voice, “I’m Tony Fratangelo. Welcome to Athens, Mr. Danforth. I recognized you from your photograph.”
“Good to meet you,” Bob said. He shook Fratangelo’s hand, then opened the car’s back door and tossed in his bag and briefcase. He closed the door and slipped into the front passenger seat.
Fratangelo, a mid-thirties, olive-complected, jet-black-haired guy who appeared to be built for speed, jumped behind the wheel. He dropped the transmission into drive and pulled away from the curb.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Bob said. “Anything new on Grantham and Cornwell’s murders?”
“You saw the release the killers sent to the newspaper?”
Bob nodded.
“That’s it, so far; except ballistics tests showed the weapon used by the killer was the same .45 pistol that Greek Spring has used on a number of their hits.”
Bob was aware of the terrorist group’s preference for using the .45 pistol for close-up murders. The weapon had become a signature of sorts. But he also suspected the repeated use of the weapon was the terrorists’ way of tweaking the authorities’ noses. Pure theater, he thought. “Where have you set up shop?” Bob asked.
“The office is in a station safehouse in a low-rise in Glyfada. Actually a large apartment. We wanted to get a safe distance from the embassy and other government facilities. We’ve got an office for you, a bullpen area for the team, a conference room, and three bedrooms for those nights when we can’t get home. One of them is yours.” Fratangelo snorted. “It’s got a great view of the sea. It’s like being a kid in a candy store; but your parents won’t let you have even one little piece. I’ve been in the country three months and have yet to be able to take my son to the beach.”
Bob looked over at Fratangelo, wondering if the Agency had assigned a whiner to him. But the man was smiling; the expression on his face showed he had merely stated a fact and wasn’t bitching about it. Bob smiled back. “We catch these killers,” he said, “and I’ll see that you get a month on one of the islands.”
Fratangelo deftly moved the Taurus into traffic outside the airport and goosed the accelerator to merge into the left lane. Bob was amazed Fratangelo was able to make the maneuver without making contact with the car behind them. Apparently the driver of that car felt the same. Bob looked back and saw the driver shoot an arm out his window, flashing Fratangelo the palm of his hand—the Greek equivalent of giving someone the finger. Some things never change, Bob thought.
“I understand Langley didn’t inform the Greek Government you were coming here,” Fratangelo said.
“They’ll know I’m here soon enough, right after I meet with the Greek Prime Minister and the Minister of Public Order. That’s one of the reasons I declined a NOC. I figured I wouldn’t really need a non-official cover.” Bob suspected that once the top echelons of the Greek Government learned he was in town, the word would spread throughout the government hierarchy. There were too many people in the Greek Government who were sympathetic to Greek Spring and other terrorist groups. He could become a target for the terrorists. His movements would more than likely be observed in and around Athens. He would have to be armed at all times. Or, in the alternative, he could talk to the CIA Office of Security at the American Embassy to see about getting a couple guys assigned to watch his back. Normally, he wouldn’t move around a city like Athens with a weapon; he would let the security people do their jobs. But this assignment was different. He didn’t want to feel encumbered with guards; he needed the flexibility of being able to move at a moment’s notice. “But, I’d like to have a few days before I have to start looking over my shoulder,” he told Tony.
“I can’t figure out why any Greek would support these bastards,” Fratangelo said. “Hell, they’ve murdered Greeks, as well as non-Greeks.”
“Maybe we’ll figure that out, too,” Bob said.
The two men rode in silence for a minute, until Bob said, “Tell me about our team.” He already knew all their names and their backgrounds; but he wanted to get
a man-on-the-ground’s view.
“Three of us, including me. Sam Goodwin and Stacey Frederick are attached to the embassy. Sam’s been the Commercial Attaché for six years. Knows everyone and can quote chapter and verse on every damned politician and successful businessman in Greece. Stacey’s been on the ambassador’s staff for about eighteen months. Both speak fluent Greek and are well connected. They’ve been assigned to our team until Greek Spring is brought down.”
“You’ve been here just a short time, right?” Bob asked, recalling that Fratangelo was working for a CIA front called Hellenic Cultural & Historical Society.
“Three months. I’m just beginning to find my way around the city.”
“You studied Greek at DLI.”
“Forty-seven weeks. It was a killer.”
Bob empathized with Fratangelo’s statement. He’d attended the Defense Language Institute’s rigorous Greek language course in Monterey, California, as a U.S. Army Captain in the early seventies, before being assigned to Greece.
“How about the English team?”
“Stanton Markeson’s been here for twenty years. Married a Greek gal who’s quite a bit younger than he is. Everyone thinks he’s a spoiled, rich Englishman who’s never worked a day in his life. He’s rich, all right, but there’s nothing spoiled about him. Former commando with lots of medals, I hear. Hobnobs with the Greek shipping set and throws the best damned parties around. The guy’s about fifty and looks sixty. Paunchy, aged party boy. Don’t let his looks fool you, though. Behind his boozy exterior, he’s as tough as any longshoreman is and as sharp as any Philadelphia lawyer.
“The head of their team, guy named Rodney Townsend, has been in Greece for a couple months. Assigned to the British Embassy, counter-terrorism type, old school, and all that,” Fratangelo said, feigning an upper-class English accent. “He’s a hard case. Plenty arrogant and thinks of the U.S. as a British colony. Can’t blame him for looking down on us in one respect. The way we’ve handled this whole terrorist business, at least up until 9-11. The other two Brits just arrived yesterday. I barely met them last night. Names are Cyril Bridewell and Marcus Swinton. They look like commando types. Muscled up with scary eyes. We might as well put a sign on each of them saying British Agent. They’re not going to fool anybody.”
“We going to be able to work with these people?” Bob asked.
Fratangelo shrugged. “They all appear to be pros; but there’s no way we’re going to avoid turf battles. And don’t think they give a damn about any of the victims other than the Brits. They’re here because of the murders of the two Englishmen. As you know, Saunders and Cornwell are the only Englishmen the terrorists have killed.” Fratangelo hesitated a moment, then added, “I’ve got a feeling the terrorists screwed up big time when they murdered the Englishmen. I’m glad to have them working with us. They won’t have to operate under the same restrictions the politicians in Washington have placed on the Agency. Those terrorist bastards have murdered nine Americans, and, basically, all we’ve done is appeal to the Greek Government to find the murderers. This isn’t a diplomatic matter, despite what the State Department thinks. This is war. It’s time we reacted accordingly.”
Bob didn’t respond to Fratangelo’s speech, but he liked what he said and the passion with which he said it. He agreed with him, too. The U.S. had basically ignored the growing terrorist threat all over the globe until September 11, 2001. The way the Americans had reacted for years to terrorist attacks had only emboldened the terrorists. The only real counterstrike the U.S. had executed was the bombing of Khadafi’s compound in Libya after terrorists had bombed a nightclub in Germany, killing several American servicemen. Bob had been horrified by a lot of the actions or inaction of American presidents; but the one step he’d been most concerned about was the Clinton Administration putting pressure on the Israelis to release Arab prisoners who had committed terrorist acts against Israel. The President had wanted to broker a peace accord between the Israelis and the Palestinians, and felt the only way to get the Palestinians to the bargaining table was to obtain the release of Arab prisoners. Israel had agreed to release all prisoners, except those who had committed acts of violence against Israelis. The President had pressured Israel to release all prisoners, including some who later participated in the attacks on the World Trade Center. Bob had a feeling deep in his gut that others of the most violent of these former prisoners would be heard from again.
***
Bob had Tony Fratangelo drive him to the American Embassy and told him to wait outside. By the time he finished meeting with the American ambassador, it was almost noon and he was feeling the effects of jet lag. His meeting had gone well. Ambassador Finch was a professional diplomat, not a political appointee who had received his position based on how much money he’d raised for a President’s reelection campaign. Bob liked the man.
From the embassy, Fratangelo drove Bob to the building in Glyfada housing the CIA’s special ops offices. As they pulled to the curb in front of the building, Bob looked across the street at the sparkling Aegean waters and remembered the weekends he, Liz, and Michael had spent at the Glyfada beach so many years ago. As he reflected on those days, he once again reminded himself that those weekends were too few and far between. He’d worked too damned many Saturdays and Sundays when he should have been with his family. He’d been totally committed to his Army career, and what had it gotten him? Discharged for sneaking into Bulgaria to try to rescue his son from a Communist orphanage.
“You okay, Mr. Danforth?” Fratangelo asked.
“Oh, sorry,” Bob said, “just daydreaming.” Bob got out of the car and followed Fratangelo inside the building.
In the office, Fratangelo made the introductions. The four then sat around the conference room table. Bob eyed the two men and one woman.
“We’ve got a very important job to do,” he said, “and I can’t do it alone. Sam, Stacey, Tony, your knowledge of the local community and its people, your contacts, and your Intelligence training and experience are going to make the difference. What I bring to the table are contacts at Langley. Anything we need, we get. Understand? This is a high priority mission. We’re all here for the duration. We get the terrorists, we go home. That’s it, plain and simple. Any questions?”
The three team members looked at one another. Bob could see they had questions, but there was silent jockeying going on between them to see who would go first. Finally, Sam Goodwin cleared his throat.
Goodwin was a very old-looking thirty-nine year old. His gray hair showed only tinges of its former yellow color. His deeply lined face and sallow coloring evidenced an unwell man. Bob knew the Agency could have that effect on its Case Officers. Too much stress, too much danger, too much bureaucratic bullshit, too much alcohol. Goodwin’s personnel file had included nothing but glowing reports. Apparently, if he had any health problems, they hadn’t affected his performance.
“You know the ruling party here looks at us as though we’re the enemy, not the terrorists,” Goodwin said. “The government’s not going to cooperate with us in this investigation. What can we do about that?”
Sam’s question seemed to break down Tony and Stacey’s inertia. They followed with one question after another as quickly as Bob could offer answers. Bob could see the frustration that had built up in the three.
“Whoa, everybody,” he said, raising his hands to get them to slow down. He smiled and added, “It’s nice to see that passion isn’t going to be a problem. I met with our ambassador before coming here. I presented him with the mission statement that Langley developed. The mission has been signed off on by the Secretary of State, the Director, the President’s National Security Advisor, and the President himself.” Bob paused to see their reaction. His mention of the President seemed to impress them.
“The ambassador has already scheduled a meeting for me with the Greek Prime Minister for the first thing Friday morning, August
6. Here’s what’s going to happen—at least what I’m pretty damned sure is going to happen—after the meeting on Friday. The Greek Government is going to turn over copies of every investigation file on every single terrorist incident of the last thirty years.” He smiled again. “Your frustration over lack of cooperation from the Greeks is going to turn into frustration over being knee-deep in paper.” He could see both hope and skepticism on their faces. “The next thing that’s going to happen is we’re going to share the information we get with the FBI Counter-Terrorism and the British teams. Once they go through the files, they’ll start interrogating every victim who’s still alive, family members of victims, prosecutors, and cops involved with the terrorist cases. Everyone from sponge divers to streetwalkers.”
“Why turn over the interviews to the FBI and the Brits?” Stacey asked.
“Because that’s not our job,” Bob answered, “and that’s not the best use of our time. The budget on this is unrestricted. What we’re going to do is pave the streets of Athens with American dollars. We’re going to build a network of informants in this city which will ultimately turn over information about some member of Greek Spring, or of one of the other groups. All we need is one name. As with 17 November, one captured terrorist will bring down an entire organization.”
“Unrestricted budget?” Fratangelo asked, more than a little skepticism in his tone.
Bob raised his right hand for a couple seconds, as though he was taking an oath. “Like you, I’ve gotten used to operating with steadily declining budgets. Congress cut our funds back for years, for decades. The politicians have degraded our ability to wage war in the Intelligence trenches. First, the Church Committee, then the Carter Administration, and nearly every Congress over the last twenty years has taken the position that it is unethical and/or illegal for the U.S. Intelligence community to put operatives in the field. Every one of us knows that the best way to gather Intelligence is to get down in the gutter with the operatives on the other side. The absence of U.S. agents and informants has, in part, allowed groups like Greek Spring, the Red Brigade, the Bader Meinhof Gang, Al Qaeda, Abu Nidal, and many others to terrorize the world. As far as we’re concerned, that has all changed.”
