Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “What?” Markeson said.

  “Give me a minute.” He removed the back of the cell phone and inspected the inside. Then he took out the battery. “I don’t get it,” he said. “The wand indicated something was transmitting from the phone; but I don’t see anything.” He slowly rolled the phone over in his hand, holding it close to his face.

  McHugh moved to a workbench and searched in a drawer for something. Finally, he removed a tiny screwdriver from the drawer and worked on four screws securing the back and front of the phone together. He separated the two halves and laid them side-by-side. He adjusted an eight-inch diameter magnifying glass on a flexible neck to just over the top of the workbench. The twenty-power glass enlarged the inner workings of the telephone. “Well, I’ll be damned,” McHugh said. “You’ve been bugged, my friend.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone put a very advanced listening device inside your cell phone. Every word you or a caller speaks into this telephone is being transmitted to another location. How long have you had this phone?”

  “About four years.”

  “In other words, since about the time of the second attack. The one on Victoria Bryson.”

  Markeson nodded.

  “I assume the phone was issued to you by the embassy.”

  Markeson swallowed. “No, actually, it was a gift from my wife.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  AUGUST 8, 2004

  Giorgos Photos was scared to the point of paranoia of meeting Musa Sulaiman at one of Greek Spring’s safehouses in Athens. The phone tap and raid on one of the group’s safehouses had shaken his confidence. He was even more frightened about meeting Sulaiman on the Island of Evoia since he received the most recent call from Dimitris Argyropoulos. The Deputy Prime Minister informed him that the Americans suspected some professor who owned a pink house on a Greek island had a telephone conversation with an Arab believed to have links to Al Qaeda.

  As soon as Argyropoulos ended their conversation, Photos called a local painting contractor and hired him to paint his island home white. Then he called his wife at their home near Sounion and ordered her to vacate the house there and travel to the Island of Samos, where her parents lived. She wasn’t happy about having to move again, having just left Evoia, but she did as she was told.

  Despite his plans to make the house on Evoia his operations base for the next week, Photos knew he would have to change that. After terminating the call to his wife, he grabbed a flashlight, went outside, used a key to unlock a padlock securing the cellar door, and entered the cool, dark space. He dragged a rusted metal cabinet away from the stuccoed wall, exposing a two-foot by three-foot hole. He pulled a wooden box from the cavity. After replacing the cabinet, he hefted the box off the floor, and, grunting with effort, carried it outside to a fifty-five gallon drum. He turned the box over, dumping its contents of documents into the drum. After retrieving a can of gasoline from the cellar and carrying it to the drum, he poured gasoline on the papers and dropped a lit match into the drum. The papers ignited with a whoosh and Photos jumped back. He watched the fire burn for a minute and, when he was confident the flames would consume the documents, he returned to the house. He packed a bag with clothes and seventy-five thousand Euros, drove down to the ferry dock, and, after a forty minute wait, took the ferry to the mainland.

  Photos drove south into the Peleponnesos, to the Corinth Canal, where he’d arranged to meet Sulaiman. The area would be heavy with traffic, between tourists and Greeks on Sunday drives, so Photos allowed plenty of time for the drive. He made it to the Corinth Museum an hour earlier than his 3:00 p.m. appointment. He played tourist while waiting for Sulaiman to show, slowly walking through the museum, viewing the exhibits of ancient Greek sculptures, pottery, statuary, and weaponry. It is this legacy that I am trying to preserve, he told himself. This greatness that must be restored to Greece.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  Photos jumped at the voice behind him. He jerked around and saw Sulaiman standing three feet away.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sulaiman said, although the grin on his face told Photos that’s exactly what the killer intended.

  “You didn’t startle me,” Photos said. “I . . . .” Photos stopped himself. He realized he was just giving Sulaiman more satisfaction. The grin on the man’s face had grown into a full-blown smile. “Let’s go outside,” he said.

  The museum grounds were strewn with chunks of marble of all sizes and broken pieces of statuary and pottery shards. Photos led Sulaiman to a spot where the remains of ancient stone columns lay haphazardly at the top edge of a hillside that looked down on the canal. They were well away from other sightseers They circled the pile of broken columns and looked out at the sea.

  “I need you to take care of a problem for me,” Photos said in French.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “One of my men, Pavlos Manganos, was seriously injured and is now in the hospital. He is heavily sedated and has not spoken to the police, yet. But I can’t take the chance he’ll talk.”

  “What are you worried about?” Sulaiman said. “Why would he say anything about your organization? No one will connect him to Greek Spring.”

  “They’ve already done that,” Photos said.

  Sulaiman whipped around and stared at Photos, who continued to look out at the water. The Libyan’s voice turned gravelly and threatening. “What do you mean?”

  “My man was injured while trying to kill an American CIA official. The pistol he carried will soon be tied to us. We stole it from a Greek police station and later took credit for the robbery. Once they check the serial number on the weapon, they will know for sure that Manganos is one of us.”

  “And you’re sure your man hasn’t talked to the police?”

  “Take my word for it. My source is very highly placed.”

  “You’ve put me in a very dangerous position,” Sulaiman growled. “If the authorities have already identified you as an associate of this Manganos, being here with you could be my end.”

  “No, no, they haven’t got a thing out of Manganos. I swear it. I want to keep it that way. That’s why I called you.”

  “You want me to kill your man, is that it?”

  “Yes.” Photos could feel Sulaiman’s gaze on him and felt sweat pour off him. “I think—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think. Why don’t you have one of your own people do the job?”

  Photos swallowed. His throat was parched and his heart beat a mile a minute. “The police already have one of my people; I didn’t want to take the chance of another member of my group being captured.”

  “In other words, you consider this a very risky assignment.”

  “Well, yes,” Photos answered.

  Sulaiman seemed to think for a long moment about what Photos had just said. When he finally spoke, he gripped Photos’ arm and pulled him to him. “This is the last time I will work for you, do you understand?”

  Photos couldn’t make his voice work. He nodded.

  “And this will cost you another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. If the fee hasn’t been transferred to the same account as last time by five p.m. today, the deal is off.”

  Photos nodded again.

  “Now, give me the location of the hospital and Manganos’ room number.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  AUGUST 8, 2004

  Stanton Markeson had now gone without sleep for over forty-eight hours. He’d suffered from survivor’s guilt on Friday night, having been away from the Lambrakis Building when the bomb went off, and stayed up all night Saturday agonizing over an evil worm of a thought that had been boring into his brain since meeting with Reginald McHugh at the British Embassy.

  At first, he ran scenarios through his head about how a terrorist group had slipped a bugged cell p
hone to an unsuspecting Vassa, who then gave it to him as a gift. But the more he thought about it, the sicker he became. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that Vassa had intentionally passed him a “hot” phone. And, when he thought about her sudden passion for him on Friday morning, he felt absolutely nauseous.

  Markeson stayed in the embassy on Saturday night and tried to come up with a resolution to his nightmarish thoughts. But the evil worm just kept burrowing through his brain. He was sick at heart. If Vassa had betrayed him, then he was responsible for eleven terrorist attacks, including Fred Grantham and Harvey Cornwell’s murders and the murders of his co-workers and all the innocent people who worked in the Lambrakis Building.

  Markeson felt anger seep through every cell in his body. But, despite the anger, he prayed he was jumping to the wrong conclusion. He left the embassy when the sun was halfway to the western horizon on a beautiful Sunday, and drove to his home. He needed to confront Vassa. He turned onto his street, stopped, and pulled over to the curb while still fifty meters away. A black limousine with tinted windows was parked in front of the house; his wife, Vassa, was stepping into the vehicle. She had a small suitcase in her hand.

  ***

  “Hello, my dear,” Dimitris Argyropoulos said. He kissed Vassa’s cheek while wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him.

  Vassa turned her face toward Argyropoulos. “A kiss on the cheek, Dimi. Is that the best you can do?”

  Argyropoulos laughed. “Of course not.” He pressed her to him and kissed her lips. She responded immediately, stabbing her tongue into his mouth.

  When they pulled apart, Argyropouols said, “Ah, I’ve missed you. The things we do for our country.”

  Vassa squinted at Argyropoulos. “What’s our country got to do with you dumping me?”

  Argyropoulos wagged a finger at her. “You know better than that. We couldn’t very well continue to see one another while you were married to a British agent and I was Deputy Prime Minister.”

  Vassa seemed to consider that for a moment, then said, “So, how is this going to work?”

  Argyropoulos looked toward the glass divider between them and the driver. Satisfied that the glass was tightly closed, he reached into a leather, soft-sided briefcase between his feet, extracted a pistol, and handed it to Vassa. Argyropoulos laughed. “Ierides put me in charge of the investigation into Friday’s attack on the American CIA agent. One of the assassins is now in the hospital in critical condition. As of fifteen minutes ago, he had not regained consciousness. I’ve called the hospital to let them know I’m going to stop there at seven p.m.”—he looked at his wristwatch—“an hour from now. I’ve instructed my advance man to notify the police detail and the medical staff that I want a briefing from them at seven-thirty, after I look in on the captured terrorist. My man will clear the floor by seven-fifteen. That will give you time to enter the hospital, find Pavlos Manganos’ room three-twenty-four, put a bullet in his brain, and make your escape.”

  “What are you going to do, drop me off at the front door?” she asked sarcastically.

  “No, my dear, I told my driver to drop you off at the Celestine Palace Hotel. You will check in, drop off your bag in the room.” He smiled at her and brushed the back of his hand over her breasts. “We will meet there after our business at the hospital is complete.”

  “How do I get to the hospital?” she asked.

  “After you go to your room, you will leave the hotel by a back exit, cross the lawn behind the hotel, where my assistant, Ari Stokolos, will pick you up. He’ll take you to the side of the hospital where you’ll enter the building via an emergency exit door that has been disabled and propped open.”

  “And how do I get back to the hotel?”

  “Ari will be waiting at the emergency exit.”

  “Where I’ll wait for you to join me?”

  “Exactly right,” Argyropoulos said.

  “And you will join me at the Celestine Palace?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “Don’t delay,” she said. “I’m already wet with anticipation.”

  “Did you miss me that much all these years?” he asked with a leer.

  “Of course, Dimi,” she said. “But there’s nothing like putting a bullet into a man’s head to make a girl really excited.”

  Argyropoulos shuddered. Her words were sobering enough, but it was the look in her eyes that sent shivers up his spine.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  AUGUST 8, 2004

  Jack Cole rubbed his right eye, trying to stop the twitch. The twitching always seemed to begin when he was under extreme stress. Frank Reynolds’ call five minutes ago had raised his stress level to 6.8 on the Richter Scale. Frank had informed him that Raymond Gallegos hadn’t been able to connect with his Bulgarian contact. The man had literally gone fishing. There was a sign hanging on the front door of the Bulgarian’s security company saying that he had gone fishing and wouldn’t return until Tuesday, August 10. Raymond had tried to call the man on his cell phone, but received no answer.

  Jack knew there was no guarantee the Bulgarian would be able to shed any more light on any of the people in their files, but there was always hope.

  What had really elevated Jack’s anxiety level was the fact that the opening ceremony of the 2004 Olympic Games was just five days away. Although the CIA had no hard evidence that international or Greek-based terrorist groups had targeted the Games, there was little doubt in his mind that some terrorist act would occur, especially after the train bombings in Madrid last March. The Olympic Games were too lush a target of opportunity for the psychopaths running terror organizations. And the thing that made the Athens Games so vulnerable was the proliferation of terrorist groups based right there in Greece.

  The terrorists wouldn’t even have to pass through passport control to enter Greece. Members of Greek Spring and other Greek groups were already in the country, as were thousands of Muslim immigrants. There could easily be Al Qaeda members hiding among these immigrants. Like jackals, they could lie in wait.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  AUGUST 8, 2004

  As a senior U.S. official in Greece, Bob was expected to attend the memorial ceremony at the British Embassy for the Englishmen and women murdered in the Lambrakis Building bombing. He made it clear to the other members of his team that he wanted them there as well.

  Security at the British Embassy was even more intense than usual. General traffic in the area had been diverted away from the embassy compound. Traffic going to the compound had to go through a checkpoint, where every driver and passenger’s ID was checked against a list of names. Vehicles were inspected inside and out. Security personnel with bomb-sniffing dogs circled every vehicle. It took Bob and Tony an hour to pass through the checkpoint, and another fifteen minutes to park the Tahoe. Although Tony was still on crutches, he was able to match Bob’s brisk pace from the parking lot to a massive white tent erected on the grounds for the occasion. There were no seats available, so they found space to stand at the right rear of the tent just as the English Ambassador began speaking.

  The final British death count in the bombing was seven men and five women. In addition, four Greek nationals who had worked for the Brits died in the blast. The ambassador talked about each of the victims, giving information about their time with the government, their educational background, and their family situation.

  An hour passed, and the ambassador had turned the podium over to an Anglican priest, when Bob nudged Tony and whispered, “Do you see Stanton Markeson?”

  Tony shook his head. “I was wondering the same thing. I don’t think he’s here. Strange, isn’t it?”

  Bob nodded.

  Tony pointed at Stacey Frederick who was seated five rows from the back and said, “Stacey knows Markeson quite well. She may know something.”

  The priest spoke for fifteen mi
nutes, led the audience in a prayer, and then thanked everyone for coming to honor the memories of the deceased.

  Bob and Tony made their way to the other side of the tent and got Stacey’s attention before the audience began leaving. Stacey hustled out of her seat and came over to them.

  “Have you seen Markeson?” Tony asked.

  “No, sir. I assumed he was pretty torn up about the whole thing, but Reginald McHugh, the Embassy Security Chief, told me Stanton took off this afternoon. Said he burned rubber when he left the embassy, like he was in one hell of a hurry to get somewhere.”

  “Huh,” Bob said. “McHugh say anything else?”

  “Not really. But something seemed to be bothering him. I tried to find out what it was; but he wasn’t talking. He appeared to be concerned about Stanton, though.”

  “Introduce me to McHugh,” Bob said. “Tony and I will be outside by the parking area.”

  While Stacey went to locate McHugh, Bob led Tony outside to their vehicle.

  “What’s on your mind, boss?” Tony asked.

  “The results of three decades in this business. For Markeson to miss the memorial ceremony for his buddies, something very important must have come up. Something very, very important.”

  While waiting for Stacey and McHugh, Bob called the hotel to check on Liz. He was pleasantly surprised when she answered the phone with a strong “Hello.”

  “Hey, babe, how are you feeling? Where’s the guard?”

  “My babysitter is outside in the hall. He won’t let me leave the room and, according to him, that’s on your orders. Is that correct?”

  “Jeez, Liz, when I left there this morning, you looked like you’d gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. You’ve got two black eyes, a swollen nose, a cut lip, and who knows what else. This is no time to be gallivanting around town. I’ll be back in an hour or so. We can grab a bite to eat in the hotel dining room and—”