Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “What are you doing here?” a young airman demanded. “This is a military installation. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m having transmission problems,” Abdul shouted above the noise of the bus motor. “Can you call a mechanic?”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” the airman said. “You’ll need to stay with the bus until the morning. But you have to move it back down the access road.”

  “What’s going on?” a second man from the guard shack demanded as he joined the first airman. He appeared to be in his late thirties and spoke with authority.

  “Just some bus driver, Major,” the airman said. “He’s having some kind of mechanical problems.” Then the airman lowered his rifle at Abdul and, in a nervous voice, said to the other man. “At least that’s what he said; but he made it all the way up the access road. And what’s he doing up here, anyway?” He glanced briefly at the officer. “Something’s wrong, Major. We’re twenty kilometers off the main road.”

  “Go outside and check out the vehicle,” the Major said, “and be careful.”

  “But, Major, that’s not—”

  “Do as I say,” the Major shouted. “We can’t have a bus sitting outside the gate, blocking the entrance.” The officer waved at the second guard who was now standing outside the shack. “Go with Corporal Patrakos.”

  The second guard unslung his weapon and followed the first guard outside the gate.

  Abdul said, “I’ll go inside the bus and work the gears so you can hear the noise the damn thing makes.”

  The first guard waved the muzzle of his rifle at Abdul. “Stay right here,” he growled. He looked at the second guard and said, “Watch him; I’m going to check out the bus.”

  Abdalan knew that if the guard came aboard, he would have to open fire on the man. He had no doubt the second guard and the officer would eventually be killed, as well; but probably not before the guard shot Abdul. Abdalan thought something had gone wrong. Giorgos Photos had told him he had a man inside the missile site. This wasn’t going down as he expected. He moved his hand under his leg and touched his pistol, when the Greek officer suddenly moved through the gate to within a few feet of the two airmen, reached inside his tunic, withdrew a pistol, and shot the two guards in the backs of their heads. Abdalan heard the telltale pfft, pfft sounds of pistol rounds going through a silencer.

  “Now,” Abdalan shouted.

  The rest of the Kurds leaped to their feet and retook their seats. Abdalan ordered two of them to follow him as he left the bus. He told them to assist Abdul in throwing the guards’ bodies into the bus’ luggage compartment. He approached the Greek officer and saw the man’s nametag: PETROANGELOS. “How’s it going to go down from this point?” Abdalan asked.

  “I’ll ride with you up to the command and control building. There are three men on duty inside. The rest of the airmen are in bed in the barracks.”

  “Are the men in the command and control building armed?” Abdalan asked.

  “They are issued pistols, but their weapons are kept inside a vault.” The Major laughed. “After all, the only time they would need to get their weapons would be when the guards at the front gate called to warn them there was a problem.” He laughed again and Abdalan couldn’t help but feel a visceral disgust and hatred for the man. Ally in this operation or not, the man was a traitor to his own men and to his country. He would take pleasure in executing him after he was no longer useful.

  “Where are Photos’ men?” Abdalan said.

  “The one named Demetrios called an hour ago. He said he and his three men would be in position outside the perimeter fence around the missile storage area down near Koropi by 3:00 a.m. tomorrow. Don’t worry, they’ll make sure no one interferes with the missiles once the attack begins.”

  Abdalan nodded and grunted. The heart of the Nike Hercules Missile Base was the command and control center here on the top of the mountain. Along with the radar equipment, it was on high ground where radar could get long-range line of sight. The weapons—the missiles and the warheads—however, were positioned down in the valley. The command and control center used the radar to see targets and control the firing of the missiles.

  A problem, Abdalan knew, would be with the American contingent outside the missile storage area. The Greeks manned the command and control center at the top of the mountain. There were no Americans stationed there. But there were about twenty-five U.S. Army soldiers assigned to that part of the base near Koropi. Their job was to maintain two-man control of the exclusion area, within the outside perimeter fence. Although the Nike Hercules missiles belonged to the Greek Air Force, the arm plugs that turned the nuclear warheads mated to the missiles into lethal weapons were under U.S. Army control. Two American soldiers were on duty outside the missile storage area at all times. It took two men to open the safe holding the arm plugs, and it took a TOP SECRET/CRYPTO message from higher command to authorize the mating of an arm plug to one of the missiles.

  Abdalan looked at his watch. They were supposed to sanitize the command and control site and wait. The real action was supposed to start at 3:00 a.m. on the 13th, a little more than twenty-six hours from now. How in Allah’s name Photos was going to get the Americans to arm a nuclear weapon was beyond him. But Photos had told him he had it covered.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Bob had tried to get some rest, but he was too wired to sleep. He got out of bed at 1:00 a.m. and padded across the room to the sitting area, closing the bedroom door behind him so as not to disturb Liz.

  He booted up his laptop and scanned some of the files loaded there. Acid seemed to be running through his system. He was downright scared to death. The 2004 Olympic Games opened tomorrow and, because it was such a potential stage for the terrorists to get global attention, he just knew something was going to happen. But what?

  He pulled up another file as his cell phone chirped. He picked up the phone from its charger. “Hello.”

  “Bob, it’s Jack; we’ve got news.”

  “Good or bad?” Bob asked.

  “Both,” Jack answered. “We just sat down with our Bulgarian friend. You know who I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “We showed him photographs of the Deputy Prime Minister. The guy recognized him immediately as the man they called Casanova. He was the superstar for the Communists; the one they thought would finally give the Communist Bloc a warm water port by turning Greece into a Marxist state. Argyropoulos graduated from every damned top Communist training academy. And he had ties to Bader Meinhof, Brigade Rosse, and Abu Nidal. The bastard was a sleeper for the Soviets.”

  “Jesus,” Bob exhaled, “this guy’s the next Prime Minister.”

  “Maybe not, once this information gets out,” Jack answered.

  “I’m not that confident,” Bob said. “The political atmosphere in Greece is so anti-American, anti-NATO, that I wouldn’t be surprised if the man was hailed as a hero.” Bob paused, then said, “It would be a different story if we could prove he was in bed with Greek Spring. Even the die-hard fanatics would have difficulty defending Argyropoulos if it was proved he was associated with a terrorist group that has been responsible for murdering Greeks.”

  “It makes you wonder what he was doing in the hospital when that terrorist, Manganos, was killed, doesn’t it?” Jack said.

  “And, remember,” Bob added, “Argyropoulos had an affair with Stanton Markeson’s wife years ago. The fact that she was in the hospital room makes me think she and Argyropoulos still had a relationship of some sort.”

  “How’s Markeson doing?” Jack asked.

  “He’s still critical. Hasn’t said a word yet.”

  “I’ll bet he’s got a hell of a story to tell,” Jack said.

  “Let’s hope he gets the chance to tell it.”

  “The Games start to
morrow,” Jack said, worry etching his voice.

  “Yeah, and, despite the assurances from the government here that everything is secure, I’m not feeling confident. They’ve had the Olympic venue sealed for the last month-and-a-half. The security network will include 10,000 military personnel working with 40,000 police and a 200-member team trained by us and the Brits to handle CBN attacks. But these Greek Spring assholes are committed and determined. The entire contingent of chemical, biological, and nuclear experts in the world won’t stop these guys if they’ve made up their minds to act. One woman pretending to be pregnant, with a stomach pouch full of explosives, could do a lot of damage.”

  “And what if high-level people in the Greek Government are aiding and abetting these assholes?” Jack said. “Like our friend Argyropoulos.”

  “You got that right,” Bob said. The line went silent for a moment, then Bob said, “You know, now that I reflect on it, I don’t think it’s going to be a traditional suicide bomber attack. The terrorists can do that sort of thing at any time or place. My gut tells me they’re going for a bigger statement than a suicide bombing. This is their moment in the sun, and I don’t think they’re going to let it pass.”

  “What kind of bigger statement?” Jack asked. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking chemical or biological.”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Jack. It could even be nuclear. We know Pakistan, Iran, and North Korea have the technology. They could supply Greek Spring with the stuff. It’s not as if they’ve been shy about sharing technology with rogue nations. Especially nations which have supported terrorism. Think about what we learned about Libya after Khaddafi decided to get on the side of the good guys this past January. The guy’s WMD program was a whole lot more advanced than any of us thought. And, I think the Greeks, despite their reactive approach to dealing with terrorism, are pretty well prepared for a standard type of terrorist event. One of their spokespersons was quoted as saying, ‘Aside from any fantastic scenarios, there is only one reality: Greece is preparing very hard to organize an absolutely safe Olympic Games.’ I think it’s one of those fantastic scenarios he referred to that we need to worry about. Some sort of dramatic attack against the Olympic venue, with lots of dead and wounded. Right there on television, broadcast to the world.”

  “What do you recommend we do about Argyropoulos?” Jack asked.

  “Well, we can’t arrest him, and I don’t know who we can trust in the Greek Government to share this information with. So, I suggest we put a tail on him. See if he meets with any suspicious characters.”

  “You know,” Jack said, “if he’s in with the terrorists, he’s not likely to attend the Olympics. His avoiding the Games could be an indication that something’s about to happen there.”

  “I had the same thought,” Bob said. “But there are a lot of events that go on simultaneously, so he could be at a soccer game outside the city, when an attack occurs at some other venue. Or he could be innocent and, just by the luck of the draw, not be planning on attending an event the terrorists have targeted. The only event I am aware of that he is going to be at is the opening ceremony. He and the Prime Minister will be together in a box with the rest of the Greek cabinet and some of the leaders of the Greek Parliament. Most of the members of Parliament will be in the stadium as well.”

  “Well, that ought to be one time when it’s safe,” Jack said.

  “You’d think,” Bob said. “I hope—”

  The hotel room telephone interrupted Bob. “Hold on a second,” Bob told Jack. He walked to a table and lifted the telephone receiver. “Yes,” he said.

  “Mr. Danforth, it’s the front desk. There are a gentleman and a lady down here who want to see you.”

  “At this hour! Who are they?” Bob asked.

  “The man says he’s your son.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Bob hugged Miriana. He then held Michael at arms length and looked him over. “Paris must be agreeing with you.”

  “It’s been great. The only thing wrong with it is all the Frenchmen running around the place.”

  Bob laughed, then he turned serious and said, “What are you two doing here?”

  Michael’s face reddened. “Come on, Dad. Two terrorist assassins try to blow you and Mom up, Mom winds up in the hospital, and you want me to play tourist in Paris?”

  Bob held his hands up, palms out, and said, “Okay, okay, I get it. But I’m up to my neck in alligators. I don’t have time to spend with you and Miriana.”

  Michael smiled. “We didn’t come down here for you anyway. It’s Mom we’re here to see.”

  “I figured that out already,” Bob said, smiling back at his son.

  “Where is she?” Miriana asked.

  Bob pointed at the closed bedroom door. “She’s sleeping and—”

  The bedroom door opened and Liz stepped through into the sitting room. “What’s all the noise?” she said, rubbing her eyes. When she dropped her hands, she shouted, “Oh my, what a surprise!” She rushed to Michael and Miriana and gathered both of them into a hug.

  It took an hour for Michael and Miriana to bring Liz up-to-date on their vacation, while Bob showered, shaved, and dressed. He’d decided any hope he had of getting any more sleep that night was shot.

  When Bob returned to the sitting room, he asked Michael if they’d arranged for a room at the hotel.

  “Right down the hall,” Michael said. “They already took the bags to the room.”

  “I think I’d like to change my clothes,” Miriana said.

  “And I need to get cleaned up,” Liz said. She returned to the bedroom.

  “Why don’t I meet you in our room in a minute,” Michael told Miriana, who came over to him, kissed his cheek, and took the room key he held out to her.

  After Miriana left, Michael joined his father who had taken a seat at the suite’s small dining table. “What’s going on, Dad?” he said.

  Bob’s first instinct was to gloss over the situation in Greece. Despite Michael’s position as a U.S. Army officer, and the fact he had a Top Secret security clearance, Michael did not have a “need to know” about the situation in Greece. But Michael had just flown across Europe because he was worried about his parents and Bob was not about to insult his son by feeding him a bunch of pabulum.

  “I can tell you a lot,” Bob said, “but I can’t tell you everything.”

  Michael nodded.

  Bob briefed Michael about the terrorist groups in Greece and the Agency’s theories about Greek Government involvement with some of the groups. He explained to Michael the sympathies some of the Greek press and many Greeks had for the terrorists who had grown out of opposition to the junta. He finished with a recent history of terrorist attacks.

  “So these groups have been targeting Americans, Englishmen, Turks, and even Greeks, and have been operating for decades.”

  “Right, and now that 17 November has been taken down, the worst of the lot is this Greek Spring cell.”

  Michael looked at Bob and scrunched his eyes. “So, what’s changed all of a sudden?” he asked. “Why send you over here?”

  Bob smiled. Good question, he thought. “Two things.” He held up one finger. “Enough was enough. The Brits came to the same conclusion at about the same time we did.” Now showing two fingers, Bob added, “And the 2004 Olympic Games.”

  “You sound and look really worried, Dad.”

  “It shows, huh? Every four years, we gird for a terrorist event at the Olympics, ever since Munich in 1972, and, thank God, nothing much happens.”

  “Except that crazy guy Rudolf in Atlanta.”

  “Yeah,” Bob said. “That was the last thing the FBI expected, some domestic wild man. But this year I think things are different. The Greeks have allowed these terror groups to gain confidence and strength for thirty years. And they’re not operat
ing alone. Every nutcase in the Middle East, especially since we destroyed Saddam Hussein, is looking for a platform from which to make his point. We’ve got plenty of Intelligence showing groups like Hamas and Al Qaeda have been financing Greek cells as surrogates. The Olympics will be a great opportunity for these groups, through organizations like Greek Spring, to hurt their enemies.”

  “So, you think there will be a repeat of Munich?” Michael said.

  Bob spread his arms in a “who knows” gesture. “At least,” he said. “But I’ve got a burning feeling inside that says Munich was benign compared to what we might see this year.”

  “You’re serious, Dad?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. And I believe the Greek terrorists, with their big brothers to the East, are about to graduate to a higher level.”

  “What do you mean, like chemical or biological?”

  Bob just nodded.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Maroula Stephanopoulos had had enough. First that arrogant professor had bought the place down the road from her home, where she had lived her entire life, where her parents and grandparents lived before her. Where she raised three sons and a daughter. She had nothing against university types, as long as they didn’t impact her life. But, when the arrogant, no-good man painted his place pink, she couldn’t sleep for weeks. The house looked like a watermelon every time the sun went down. Then people started coming and going at all hours, disturbing what little sleep she was able to get. They would arrive after dark and leave before the sun came up. Their motorcars would drive her crazy, the engines roaring in the nighttime quiet, the tires spraying gravel at all hours.

  And then there was the disrespect this Dr. Giorgos Photos showed her and the people on the island. He hadn’t invited her or any of her neighbors to his home, he turned down invitations that had been offered him, he didn’t support the local church, he didn’t even shop on the island.