Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  Bob’s heart was pumping a mile a minute. “Anything else?”

  “Oh yeah, boss. The Bulgarian said the Professor spent time in Northern Iraq and Western Turkey working with the Kurds. He also spent two months in Iran after the fall of the Shah.”

  Bob took the legal pad on which he’d written the information Sam had given him and placed it in front of Stacey. “See what you can find on the first two names.”

  Stacey eyed the pad. “The second name looks Iranian,” she said.

  Bob nodded. “And I think the first one is Kurdish.”

  “You know Photos’ wife’s name is Maria,” Stacey said.

  Bob patted Stacey on the shoulder. “Yep, I know. See if you can find out where Maria Photos was raised, if she has family anywhere else in Greece.”

  “You think she’s gone underground?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “Maybe she’s ignorant about her husband’s activities,” Stacey said.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Giorgos Photos sat on a chair on the deck of a thirty-eight foot sailboat, located in a cove east of the Attican Peninsula. He’d gathered the sails and anchored the boat. The orangey-red sun was melting into the sea, spreading red fingers of brilliance across the water’s surface. He stared in the direction of Koropi and wondered what was happening at the missile site’s command and control area. As bad as he wanted to phone Abdalan on his cell phone, he didn’t dare. The Kurd would either pull it off or he wouldn’t. The man was a professional; the odds of success were in his favor.

  He looked at his wristwatch and saw he had two minutes before calling Mullah Parviz Mirzadeh. The Mullah had been a radical fighting the Pahlavi Shah, before becoming a senior Muslim cleric. The Ayatollah Khomeini had elevated him from an obscure part of Azerbaijan, in northwestern Iran, to the heady environment of Tehran. The radical Mirzadeh, who Photos had known in Paris so many years ago, was now akin to the Beria of Iran, with tentacles spreading throughout the Middle East. He was very quietly the Al Qaeda connection in Iran.

  Photos poured himself an ouzo and splashed in an inch of water. After downing the cloudy drink in one gulp, he dialed the Mullah’s number.

  “Right on time, my friend,” Mirzadeh said with obvious joy. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

  “I’ve been ready for tomorrow all my life,” Photos answered. “I assume all is set.”

  “Of course. We will strike a mighty blow tomorrow.”

  Photos had always appreciated the man’s talent for understatement. “And your Kurdish problem should go away.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mirzadeh said. “Our army will drive the Kurds in Iran across the border into Turkey to join their brethren there.” The Mullah paused, then said, “They’re a contentious lot, you know, always crying about independence and wanting their own nation. Once they’re all across the border, it will be Turkey’s problem. And the lands they occupy in Iran will be occupied by real Persians.”

  “There are many other minorities in the area, are there not?” Photos asked.

  “Oh, yes, many. Assyrians, Chaldeans, Turks, and more. But they too will be relocated.” He laughed at his choice of words. “Relocated. How do you like that?”

  “Whatever makes you happy, my friend.”

  The Mullah belly-laughed. “This makes me very happy.”

  “And the planes?” Photos said.

  “Everything is ready.”

  “We should have an absinthe together, like in the old days in Paris.”

  “Alcohol is abhorrent to Islam,” Mirzadeh said.

  “Right,” Photos said. “I’ll have to drink two, yours and mine.”

  Mirzadeh laughed again, but there was less humor in it this time. “We really are very different, my Greek friend.”

  Now it was Photos’ turn to laugh. “We’re not different at all, Parviz. Maybe our religions are different—Islam versus Marxism; but we each want the same thing. Power. And we’re willing to do anything to get it.”

  Photos ended the call to the sounds of his and Mirzadeh’s boisterous laughter.

  The sea was now red wine-dark. Photos had one light burning at the top of the mast and lights at the bow and the stern. Hundreds of lights blinked on the shore in the distance. Close, he thought. I’m as close to the realization of all my dreams as I have ever been.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Mahmoud Abdalan walked inside the perimeter fence of the missile site’s command and control area. His men were now posted at the front gate and at fifty-meter intervals around the site. The Greek major was handling communications with the missile storage area down near the town of Koropi. Abdalan prayed that no enterprising Greek officer from higher command decided to pull a surprise inspection at the missile site. With the Olympics starting tomorrow, he suspected that all Greeks had only one thing on their minds: the Games.

  He passed the Greek barracks building and quickly covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. Allah protect us, he thought. He moved away from the building and ordered two of his men to seal it, closing the doors and windows. The heat was already causing the bodies inside the barracks to putrefy.

  Abdalan moved to a storage building, threw open the door, and switched on the lights. The only surviving Greek airman of the massacre inside the barracks sat blindfolded and gagged in a corner. The man’s face was bruised and bloodied; he shook as though he was freezing. Abdalan knew it was fear and shock that caused the man’s trembling.

  “You Greeks will be sorry you ever threatened my country,” Abdalan said in Turkish, playing his role. “Turkey will once again conquer you Greeks and make you the slaves you were meant to be. Not only will Cyprus be ours again, but so will the mainland.” It didn’t matter that the airman couldn’t understand a word of Turkish, as long as he understood that Abdalan was speaking Turkish.

  The airman’s shaking intensified.

  Abdalan left the building, slamming the door behind him. If the airman didn’t die from a heart attack, he would have plenty to say about the Turks who took over the base and killed his comrades.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  The drive to the hospital where Stanton Markeson was being cared for was an adrenaline rush. Bob had relinquished the car keys to Michael while he made one telephone call after another. He discovered that his son approached Athens traffic as a challenge.

  “Who taught you to drive?” Bob asked while he dialed a number on his cell phone.

  Michael smiled and said, “Mom. You were always too busy to do it.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Bob said. Then a woman who said her name was Inspector Sonya Crane answered his call.

  “Inspector Crane, this is Robert Danforth. Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, “what can I do for you?”

  “I understand Stanton Markeson has regained consciousness and—”

  “With all due respect, sir, how did you—”

  “Let’s not waste our time, Inspector. I’m on my way to the hospital. I want to talk with Stanton and I want to make sure I can get past your guards out in front of the building and outside his room. I would appreciate it if you would see that I am not delayed.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that, Mr. Danforth,” Crane said. “My orders—”

  Bob cut her off. “I’m going to give you a telephone number for Brigadier Jeffrey Watkin-Coons’ private number in London. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to bother him; but I see now that it’s going to be necessary. Call the Brigadier and tell him Robert Danforth is requesting immediate access to Stanton Markeson. I’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.” He disconnected the call and reflexively stomped his foot into the car’s floorboards as Michael raced up behind a s
low-moving car, jerked the steering wheel to the right, and zipped around the car. Bob pointed to the intersection ahead and, in as calm a voice as he could muster, said, “Take a right at the light.”

  ***

  Bob wasn’t sure if Inspector Crane had called London, or decided that bothering Brigadier Jeffrey Watkin-Coons was not a particularly good idea. Whatever the reason, the skids were greased for his entry to the hospital. One of the English Special Operations people outside the building opened the car door for Bob even before Michael had brought the vehicle to a screeching stop.

  “Wait here,” Bob instructed Michael. “I’ll be back down as soon as I can.” Then he hurried inside the hospital, following the Special Ops guy to an elevator, which took them to the fifth floor where three armed men stood guard. As Bob trailed the Englishman down the hall, he noticed two more armed men stationed at intervals along the hallway. And an additional two stood outside a room in the middle of the corridor.

  Inside Markeson’s room, Bob immediately questioned the accuracy of the information he had received by telephone from a cooperative member of the nursing staff. Markeson did not look as though he was recovering. He looked like death warmed over. He was gray in color. His eyes were closed; the only sounds in the room were the steady beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor and a sonorous, labored breathing. A gray-haired, thin, diminutive man, wearing a white smock and looking down at a clipboard, stood at the foot of the bed. A young woman in slacks, a white blouse, and a blue blazer stood on the far side of Markeson’s bed, her eyes boring into Bob’s from the moment he entered the room.

  “Inspector Crane?” Bob guessed.

  “Yes, sir. You must be Mr. Danforth. Sorry about—”

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. Besides, I got what I needed.” He shot her a self-deprecatory smile.

  She nodded back. “This is Dr. William Maybury, Mr. Markeson’s physician,” she said.

  The man with the clipboard looked up at Bob. “He’s very weak and is in and out of consciousness.” The man hunched his shoulders. “I can’t tell you when he might be able to talk again.”

  Bob turned back to Crane. “Has he said anything?”

  She shook her head. “Not much, and nothing we’ve been able to understand. He’s said something that sounds like ‘dimi’ several times, but none of us can figure out what he’s talking about.”

  Bob moved to the side of the bed and lightly gripped Markeson’s forearm. “Stanton,” he said, “it’s Bob Danforth; can you hear me?” Bob watched Markeson’s face, but saw no reaction at all. He tried again. “Stanton, it’s Bob Danforth; can you—”

  Markeson’s eyelids fluttered and then stopped moving, remaining only half-open.

  Bob leaned over the bed, hoping Markeson would see his face and recognize him. “It’s Bob Danforth,” he said again.

  Markeson’s eyelids did another dance, but when they stopped this time, his eyes were fully open. Bob felt Markeson’s arm move.

  “Vassa . . . Dimi . . . terror . . . .”

  “Dimi?” Bob asked. He waited a moment, then moved his hand and grasped Markeson’s hand. “Squeeze my hand if you can, Stanton. If your answer is yes, squeeze my hand. Okay?”

  Bob’s chest swelled with relief when Markeson’s hand flexed.

  “What is this dimi?” Bob asked. “A place?”

  Markeson’s hand remained still.

  “A person?” Bob said.

  Bob felt Markeson’s hand lightly squeeze his own. “Dimi is a person?” Another squeeze.

  “He’s a terrorist?’

  No reaction.

  “Is he associated with the terrorists?”

  Squeeze. Markeson’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “Is dimi a man?”

  Squeeze.

  “Is this the man’s name?”

  Squeeze.

  “Do you know the man’s last name?”

  Squeeze.

  Bob thought for a second. “I’m going to go through the alphabet. When I say the first letter of the man’s last name, squeeze my hand.” Bob looked at the doctor and saw the worried look on the man’s face. He was afraid the physician was about to cut him off. He turned back to Markeson and said, “A.”

  Markeson squeezed his hand with more force than he had before.

  “The man’s last name starts with an A?” Bob asked, just to make sure.

  Squeeze.

  “Was your wife involved with this man?” Bob asked.

  Markeson’s eyelids rolled shut. He seemed to have lapsed back into unconsciousness; but then Bob felt Markeson’s hand squeeze his.

  Then a thought struck Bob that made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. Were his suspicions about to be proved correct? “Dimi is short for Dimitris, isn’t it, Stanton?”

  Markeson squeezed Bob’s hand three times in succession.

  Bob took in a long, slow breath. He turned to the physician and said, “Doctor, would you mind leaving the room for a minute?”

  The doctor’s expression and body language told Bob the man was going to argue with him; but Inspector Crane came around the bed and took the doctor’s arm.

  “Let’s make this as easy as possible,” she said.

  The doctor looked angry, then unsure of what to do. By the time he opened his mouth to object, Crane had moved him to the hall and shut the door behind him.

  “You’re telling us that Dimitris Argyropoulos is part of Greek Spring, aren’t you?” Bob said.

  Squeeze.

  “How do you know this?” Bob asked, realizing too late he’d asked a question that couldn’t be answered with a yes or no. He was about to rephrase the question when Markeson made a low moaning sound. Markeson’s eyes blinked, then closed again. He sighed. Then he squeezed Bob’s hand with more strength than Bob would have thought possible and rasped, “Vassa said . . . .”

  The effort to say these words seemed to have been too much for Markeson. His hand relaxed in Bob’s. Bob thought the worst for a moment, but was relieved to hear the steady beep of the heart monitor.

  He squeezed Markeson’s hand and then patted the man’s arm with his other hand. “Don’t worry, Stanton, we’ll take care of him.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Stacey Frederick had labored for hours, going through files. The names Abdalan and Mirzadeh had popped up in a few instances; but there was nothing that would tie the names to terrorism or Greece. The Abdalan in the database was a Kurdish poet, and the Mirzadeh was a professor in Chicago who had emigrated from Iran in 1979.

  It was already dark outside and she was feeling dead tired. The wall clock said it was 2:00 p.m. on the East Coast of the United States. She looked over at Tony Fratangelo who had his head buried in notes and files. He was working on something Bob had assigned him. She started to suggest they go out and grab dinner, when she decided instead to call Tanya Serkovic’s number at Langley.

  “You’ve reached extension 5369,” the recorded voice said. “Leave a message.”

  After a beep sounded, Stacey said her name and was beginning to leave a message, when Tanya suddenly came on the line.

  “Sorry about that,” Tanya said, “I’m working on something and didn’t want to be disturbed, unless it was important. How are things over there?”

  “We’re busting our ass chasing ghosts. Bob Danforth is paranoid about something happening during the Olympic Games; but no one has even a clue about what it might be.”

  “I hear your frustration,” Tanya said, “but I’d trust Bob’s instincts.”

  “I do, I do,” Stacey said. “I’d just like to come up with something.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Tanya said, “You called me.”

  “Yeah, I thought I might run something by you. I’ve been trying to get
a hit in the terrorist database on a couple names, without any luck. I thought I’d see if you have any bright ideas.”

  “Give me the names and whatever you know about them.”

  “I don’t know a thing about them, except one of the names sounds Iranian and the other Kurdish. The first one is Parviz Mirzadeh and the other one is Mahmoud Abdalan.” She spelled the names for Tanya.

  “Give me thirty minutes,” Tanya said. “I’ll walk downstairs to the Iran and Turkey desks. Maybe someone down there will recognize the names.”

  “Thanks, Tanya. I’ll be here at the office.”

  After hanging up with Tanya, Stacey tried to find a match on the names in the database by changing the spelling. She even tried making an anagram out of the names, but it was futile. She had just stopped for a cup of coffee when Tanya called back.

  “Where did you come up with the names you gave me?” Tanya asked.

  “Sam Goodwin found a half-burned piece of paper at Giorgos Photos’ island home. The names were on the paper, along with what appeared to be bank account numbers and large sums of money.”

  “Well, you hit a home run,” Tanya said. “The boys on the country desks didn’t even have to look in their files. The reason you didn’t make a connection with these two names in the terrorist database is because neither of them is categorized that way. Parviz Mirzadeh was an advocate of Marxist causes decades ago while an exchange student in France; but he returned to Iran and found religion. The guy on the Iran desk knew Mirzadeh right off the bat because he’s a member of the Iranian Ruling Council. He’s from Azerbaijan and has a base of political and religious support from that region. He lives in Teheran most of the time, but his ancestral home is located about fifty miles south of the Russian border and thirty miles east of Turkey.”

  “That’s Kurd country, isn’t it?” Stacey asked.

  “Well, there are a lot of Kurds there; but there are dozens of other ethnic groups in Azerbaijan, too.”