by Joseph Badal
He knelt on the stoop. “What happened, Michael?” Tony whispered.
“They know,” Griffas groaned.
“Who knows? What do they know?”
Griffas coughed, spraying Tony’s face with wet droplets. When he tried to talk, a gurgling sound resonated inside his chest.
Tony moved the light and saw that blood covered the man’s white shirt above his stomach. Griffas gripped a knife handle in his left hand, the blade of the weapon red with blood.
“He stabbed me.” Griffas took in a rasping breath. “It hurts bad, Tony.”
Tony raised Griffas’ upper body and propped him against the side of the doorway. His hand came away from the man feeling wet and sticky. “Who knows? Who stabbed you?” he prodded Griffas. “What do they know?”
“Ee terroreestee xeroun,” Griffas gasped. “Kai . . . O dievtheendees mou . . . xerie.”
What the hell, Tony thought. The terrorists know; his boss knows. “Tell me what they know,” Tony rasped.
Griffas’ mouth opened, then closed and opened several times, like a beached fish fighting for air. Then a long venting of air escaped the man’s lungs as his head flopped to his chest. Tony knew he was gone.
Tony searched Griffas’ pockets, but found only the man’s wallet. He backed out of the doorway and retraced his steps down the lane. He shined the flashlight on his wristwatch and saw it was nearly 10:00 p.m. He called the team office on his cell phone, hoping someone was still there. He caught Stacey Frederick on her way out. He told her what had happened and asked her to place a confidential call to the Greek police to report a dead body on the lane in Piraeus. It wouldn’t do for the Greek authorities to know the CIA was involved with a murdered Greek National.
Then Tony called the Grand Bretagne Hotel and asked for Bob Danforth’s room; but Bob wasn’t there. He left a message to call him back on his cell phone.
Tony sagged against the wall of the building and willed himself to calm down. He could feel adrenaline surging through him and his heart rate pounding like a bass drum in his chest. He needed to compose himself. The area beyond the lane was crowded with locals and tourists. He slipped the pistol into his holster and replaced the flashlight in his pocket. He stuck his bloodstained hands in his pants pockets and strolled out the opposite end of the tiny street, keeping to the shadows, away from the moonlight. He suspected his face was dotted with blood spatters. When he reached the first cross street, he circled around the block and found his car.
Tony’s stomach was in revolt over Griffas’ murder. The man had been a clerk who wanted nothing more out of life than to watch as many basketball games as possible, and, perhaps, to meet Michael Jordan some day. He’d signed on with Tony as an informant for one reason only: to help stop the violence that was poisoning Greece—that violence which had now claimed him as its latest victim.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JULY 29, 2004
It was a relatively cool night and Bob was too wound up to sleep. It was 10:00 p.m. and he thought a walk around the Plaka might help settle him down. Bob assessed his day as he strolled through the old part of Athens, a half mile from his hotel. His meeting with Rodney Townsend had started off about as he had expected, but had finished on a high note. After they’d gotten past Townsend’s initial pique, the meeting had turned out to be damned productive. He was optimistic about the working relationship that could develop between their teams. The afternoon with the CIA team had also been worthwhile. The team members were top notch and their dedication was to the point of being fanatical.
It had been a long time—over three decades—since he had been in the Plaka. This was his second visit there today. He grunted an almost silent laugh at the errant thought that attacked his brain—Wouldn’t it be fun to see the Plaka as a tourist? Maybe some day, he told himself.
The walk took him into the heart of the old city; then he retraced his steps, returning to Constitution Square and the Grand Bretagne Hotel. It was just past 10:45 and he felt suddenly tired. The thought of crisp, clean sheets seemed almost sensual. He collected his key at the front desk and turned toward the elevators, when the desk clerk said, “Oh, Mr. Danforth, you have a message.” Bob accepted a slip of paper from the clerk and moved to the elevators. He saw the call was from Tony Fratangelo. “Urgent” had been written across the bottom of the paper. Bob called Tony as soon as he entered his fourth floor room.
“What’s up?” Bob asked.
“We need to meet,” Tony said.
“I’ve got a meeting at ten in the morning. How about eight?”
“We need to meet tonight,” Tony answered. “It’s important.”
***
Armed with Bob’s room number, Tony rode the hotel elevator to the fourth floor and found room 421. After knocking and being let into the room, he dropped into a chair, removed a twice-folded 8-1/2” x 11” sheet of paper from his jacket, and placed it on a small cocktail table between Bob and him. He moved forward in the chair and said, “I lost an informant tonight. He worked on the Prime Minister’s staff. I wrote down what he said on that paper.”
“Lost?” Bob said.
“Murdered,” Tony answered. “I wrote down on that piece of paper exactly what the man said before he died. I think I’ve been made.”
Bob unfolded the piece of paper. When he finished reading what Tony had written, he looked up, handed the note back to Tony, and loudly cleared his throat. “Kai O dievtheendees mou xerie. My boss knows. What do you make of this? Who’s his boss?”
Tony shrugged. “He died before saying anything else. He could have been referring to his direct supervisor . . . or”—Tony paused for a second—“he could have been referring to the Prime Minister.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JULY 30, 2004
George Photos paced inside his home on the Island of Evoia. He alternately stared at the floor and at Savvas Krinon. He clasped his hands behind his back and moved slowly in his usual stooped posture. Finally, he stopped and faced the window that gave him a view of the moonlit sea off the coast of Evoia. At well over six feet tall, he had to bend slightly to look out the window. Sunrise was still two hours away. He didn’t like having Krinon here. This was his private retreat. He bought the property with money robbed from a Citibank branch in Athens several years earlier, and had kept it a secret from the other members of the group. But the meeting was unavoidable.
“What do you want to do, George?” Savvas asked. “Maybe we should back off for a while.”
Photos sneered at the suggestion; but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want Krinon to see the contempt he felt for what the man had said. He put a paternal smile on his face and then turned to look at the younger man. “No, I don’t think we should back off, my friend. We have the enemy on the run. Now isn’t the time to be passive.”
“But they had an informant inside the Prime Minister’s office. He could have exposed our supporters at the top. There could be other traitors informing on us.”
“Had an informant, could have exposed. The fact that we eliminated the informant shows just how powerful, well connected we are. The question is what are we going to do about the American who recruited Mikaelis Griffas, this Tony Fratangelo?”
A gleaming smile came to Savvas’ face. “That’s easy, comrade; like sheep to the slaughter.”
Photos smiled back and nodded. “I’ll issue a proclamation about Griffas; then we’ll take care of the CIA agent, Mr. Fra-tan-gel-o.”
***
Photos took a predawn ferry from Evoia to the mainland. Krinon would catch the next ferry. Photos hired a cab to take him to a street several blocks from the apartment below the Lycavetos Monastery. He spent three hours drafting the five-page proclamation, then read the document through. He reread the last paragraph: Our actions were courageous and in the highest tradition of the Greek Nation in combating the forces of evil corrupting the soul
of the Greek people. Mikaelis Griffas was a traitor, an informant for the treacherous dogs at the United States Central Intelligence Agency, and needed to be purged. Greek Spring will see to it that all such traitors are erased from the Greek consciousness.
He snapped a finger against the pages and sighed with satisfaction. This will raise their blood pressure, he thought. He placed the pages in an envelope and inserted them in the inside pocket of a sport jacket slung over the back of a chair. He put on a pair of sunglasses and a beret. Then he slipped on the jacket and left the apartment. After walking six blocks, he hailed a taxi and had the driver drop him off across from the United States Embassy on Vassileas Sofias.
He strolled along the sidewalk as though he was a tourist and gazed at the building that housed his sworn enemies. He laughed to himself as he noted the extreme security that had been set up to protect the embassy. His chest swelled with pride. Before Richard Welch was killed twenty-nine years earlier, you could just walk right up to the building and go inside. Now there were barricades and heavily-armed U.S. Marines all over the place. He’d learned that the Americans spent more on security at their Athens Embassy than on any of their other embassies worldwide. Because of Greek Spring. Because of him. “Thavmasseea,” he said under his breath. Amazing.
Photos walked two blocks and found a residential street. The fifth house down on the right had a two-meter by two-meter recessed graveled area at the end of the driveway where trash receptacles were stored. He looked around to make sure no one was watching him, lifted the lid off one of the trash cans, drew the envelope holding the proclamation from his jacket, and dropped it in the can. He replaced the lid and walked back to Vassileas Sofias. He signaled to a cab, which pulled to the curb. Before getting in the vehicle, he showed the palm of his hand to the American Embassy and cursed under his breath, “As sto diavolo-go to hell.”
The cab dropped him off three blocks from the Lycavetos apartment. When the cab drove away, Photos went to a pay telephone and dialed a number from memory. When his favorite reporter at the daily newspaper, Eleftherotypia, answered, he said, “You know who this is?”
The man responded after a few seconds. “Yes, I recognize your voice. How are you, my friend? It’s good to hear your voice again.”
“I’m good,” Photos said. “I have another proclamation for you.”
“Where is it?” the reporter asked, excitement in his voice.
Photos almost laughed aloud. After waiting a moment to ensure he was in control—it wouldn’t do to leave the impression there was anything frivolous about his or Greek Spring’s actions—he gave the man directions to the trash can where he’d left the envelope. He emphasized the fact that the address was only two blocks from the American Embassy. He knew the reporter would make a point in his article of noting the proximity of the drop site to the embassy. The reporter loved tweaking the Americans as much as Photos loved killing them.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JULY 30, 2004
Bob sat at the small table in his hotel room, the remains of a late breakfast pushed to the side, a three-ring binder open before him. He knew he would have to do something about Tony Fratangelo. He couldn’t be sure exactly what Griffas meant when, before he died, he told Fratangelo that “the terrorists know” and “my boss knows”; but he had to assume the worst. If the terrorists had identified Fratangelo as a CIA employee, then he could be their next target. He’d deal with the issue as soon as possible; make sure that someone was always with him. Maybe he’d have to have Langley reassign Fratangelo. For now, he needed to focus on the folio his Langley team had prepared for his meeting with the Greek Prime Minister on Friday, August 6—seven days from today. He had reviewed the contents of the briefing book a dozen times. He concentrated on the notes he’d made on the page margins in the binder.
The contents of the binder included independent research generated by the Agency, as well as excerpts from a myriad of other sources.
Bob reviewed his notes:
1. Greece’s policy in dealing with terrorists for thirty years has been schizophrenic.
2. Greece’s location in southern Europe, close to the Middle East, and its free press make it the perfect place for international terrorist groups to get publicity.
3. Security forces and political leaders have appeared to back away from prosecuting investigations of the terrorists, making Greece a breeding ground for terrorist groups.
4. Greece’s conflict with Turkey, resentment about the U.S.’s support of the military junta, and nationalism have exacerbated the situation. I’ve been injected into a virile petrie dish of terrorism. The Greek press—Al Jazeera West—acts like a propaganda arm of the terrorists.
5. Greeks are sympathetic to radical Middle East regimes (PLO, Syria, Iraq, Iran, and Libya), and Andreas Papandreou exploited this sympathy in an effort to promote Greek leadership in the Third World. It has taken a stronger stand than any other country in the European Community toward Israel.
6. When American and British agents in 1984 raided an apartment in Athens, captured a Jordanian member of the May 15 terrorist group, and turned him over to the Greeks, the Greek authorities released the man. They claimed the evidence wasn’t strong enough and that the Americans and British violated Greek law.
7. Greece has become a net exporter of arms, with clients such as Libya.
8. Many instances of high-level Greek Government leaders’ involvement with or in support of terrorists have occurred: A). Daniel Kristallis, an agent of the Greek Central Intelligence Agency, was arrested in the mid-1990s as a suspected terrorist. He had placed bombs and then taken money for providing false information about the bombs. B). Members of Parliament and certain government Ministers take public positions supporting terrorist actions. C). After terrorist Giorgos Balafas was arrested in 1992, authorities found weapons at two of his apartments, and witnesses came forward claiming Balafas murdered an attorney named Theophanopoulos. A parade of politicians visited Balafas in prison and signed letters of support for the murderer. Balafas was acquitted on appeal.
9. There is no legal basis in Greece for the prosecution of terrorism. The government has been debating new laws that will make it easier to arrest and convict terrorists; but nothing has been finalized.
Bob had made the notations to concentrate on the common theme throughout the briefing book: a policy of appeasement and even support for terrorists by the Greek Government. This would be his focus when he met with the Prime Minister.
He would finish the meeting with a review of the murders of Americans by the 17 November and Greek Spring groups. He didn’t want the Prime Minister to think for even a moment that the United States had forgotten about its murdered citizens, or that it wouldn’t push for the identification and arrest of the killers. Finally, he would make it clear he was not in Greece on a diplomatic mission—whether the Greeks liked it or not.
Normally, the American ambassador would accompany him on a visit to the Greek Prime Minister; but he and Ambassador Finch had agreed it would probably not be a good idea for the ambassador to accompany him on this visit. It was important that the ambassador maintain a working relationship with the Greek Government, and Bob suspected that the Greek leader would be extremely hot under the collar after their meeting. Ambassador Finch had already set up the meeting. His secretary would call the Prime Minister’s office five minutes after the scheduled meeting’s start time and explain that the ambassador was tied up on a call with the Secretary of State, and that the Prime Minister meet with Mr. Danforth without him.
Bob completed his review and decided he’d crammed enough for now. The bedside clock showed it was 10:00 a.m. Tony should be waiting to pick him up out front. He stuffed the briefing book into his briefcase and draped his jacket over his shoulder. While walking to the door, he glanced out his hotel room window and saw a corner of the Parliament building across the square. It was just a short walk to the P
rime Minister’s office. He checked his tie in the mirror on the closet door and smiled. “Well, Bobby-boy,” he said to himself, “in a week you’re going to see how pissed off you can make the top guy in Greece.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JULY 30, 2004
Demetrios Mavroyianni lit a Marlboro while the phone rang in his ear. He loved American cigarettes. He didn’t dare smoke them in Giorgos Photos’ presence—the man was pathologically opposed to everything American. So he took every opportunity to light up when he was away from the leader. He exhaled smoke from deep in his lungs. Come on Stavros, pick up the phone.
“Theodorakis, Ministry of Justice,” Stavros said after the sixth ring, sounding hurried and out of breath.
“Hey, Stavros.” Demetrios hesitated a moment to make sure his cousin recognized his voice.
“What is it?” Stavros asked in a whisper. “It’s only been an hour since you called.”
Demetrios was inclined to play off Stavros’ obvious nervousness, to tease his neurotic cousin, but thought better of it. He should get off the line as quickly as possible. “Did you track down the hotel of the visitor we talked about?”
