Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “What about Abdalan?” Stacey said.

  “The man on the Turkey desk knew all about Mahmoud Abdalan. He’s a real hero to the Kurdish people, but is known to be more of a diplomat than a warrior. He lives in a village almost right on the Turkey/Iraq border, no more than a mile from Iran. There’s no evidence Abdalan has ever been involved in any sort of terrorist activity. The same goes for Mirzadeh.”

  Stacey thanked Tanya and tried to make sense out of what she’d just learned. She walked to the wall in the conference area and looked at the world map hanging there. She tapped a finger on the northwest part of Iran, on Azerbaijan. She then moved her finger westward, across Azerbaijan and into Turkey, to the Turkey/Iraq border. “What’s the connection?” she wondered aloud. Why would a slip of paper found in Giorgos Photos’ backyard have the names of an Iranian cleric and a Kurdish politician on it? She felt a tremor of something—excitement or fear, she wasn’t quite sure. Maybe both.

  She grabbed her desk phone and dialed Bob’s cell number, settling back into her chair while the telephone rang.

  “Hello,” Bob said.

  “It’s Stacey. I’ve got something here; the problem is I don’t know what I’ve got.”

  “In our business, that’s not unusual. Tell me about it.”

  Stacey related what she had learned and then waited. After several seconds, Bob told her he would be in the office in thirty minutes. After he hung up, she had a long period of uncertainty. What if I’m causing one of the top people in the CIA to come down here late at night for no good reason?

  ***

  Bob and Michael were on their way back to the Grand Bretagne Hotel when Bob received Stacey’s call. He shut his cell phone and said, “I need to go to the office. We’ll go to the hotel first and drop you off. I’ll take the car from there.”

  “I don’t know Athens very well at all,” Michael said, “but isn’t the hotel out of our way? If you don’t mind, why don’t I tag along? I’m having a great time.”

  Bob laughed. “You’re supposed to be on leave, not gumshoeing around Athens.”

  “If the truth be known, Dad, I was bored silly in Paris. This is the best time I’ve had since going on vacation. I trust you won’t tell Miriana that.”

  Bob made an “X” on his chest with his finger. “Cross my heart,” he said.

  ***

  At the Glyfada office, Bob made Stacey go over again everything she had gathered on Mirzadeh and Abdalan. Tony sat down with them. When Stacey finished, Bob asked, “Does it seem strange to you that Mirzadeh and Abdalan come from the same part of the world; that their home towns are no more than fifty miles apart?”

  Stacey winced. “The whole area is a hotbed of violence and ethnic strife. It’s probably just a coincidence. Besides, the last I heard, there is no love lost between the Iranians and the Kurds.”

  Bob nodded. “It could be that Mirzadeh and Abdalan don’t know one another. Maybe our boy, Photos, is in league with the two of them for two completely different reasons; but I find the geography intriguing.”

  Stacey shrugged. “Remember what Madanowski said. That Photos had contact with both Iran and the Kurds. I don’t know, though. It’s probably just coincidental.”

  “There are no coincidences in this business,” Bob said. “Let’s decide what the hell we’re going to do with this information.”

  “By the way,” Tony said, “I got that information you wanted.”

  Bob had dumped so many demands for information on his people, he couldn’t remember what Tony was referring to. Tony must have noticed the confusion showing on his face.

  “The location of nuclear weapons in Greece. The Defense Nuclear Agency had the information down to the serial numbers on the weapons. Most of the American weapons in Greece were shipped out years ago, after the junta was overthrown. The only reason governments since then have agreed to keep nukes in the country was because they saw them as a deterrent against an attack from Turkey, particularly with the Cyprus situation.” He smiled and said, “We’ve got nukes mated to missiles in Turkey for the exact same reason. It’s like a mini Cold War.”

  “Where are these weapons?” Bob asked.

  “There’s a U.S. Army Artillery Detachment headquartered in Katsamidi, not too far from Athens. There are Nike Hercules missiles there, some with nuclear weapons. The detachment commander also has three other teams: one each in Thivai, Koropi, and Keratea. Thivai is about sixty miles north of Athens. The other two sites are south. All four American teams control the arm plugs that go into the nuclear weapons to make them go hot. The weapons are already mated to missiles, which are the property of the Greek Air Force.”

  “These are the only nukes in Greece?” Bob said.

  “That’s it,” Tony said.

  Bob walked around the room for a minute, then said, “I’m going to think about this Abdalan/Mirzadeh/Photos connection for a minute. I want you to call Langley and get Jack Cole to call the Pentagon. They need to contact the commander of this artillery detachment and get him to personally check out each of his sites. He needs to inventory his nuclear arming plugs and nuclear weapons.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  AUGUST 12, 2004

  Mullah Parviz Mirzadeh made his nightly obeisance to Allah, thanking his God for all that had been granted him in the temporal world and for the great honors that would accrue to him in the afterlife. He knew Allah would bestow all of the riches of heaven upon him for what he was about to inflict on the infidels.

  He put his prayer rug in the closet and walked outside his home near Urmia in northwestern Iran. He ordered his driver to take him in the Land Rover to the secret airfield in a small valley ten miles from the Turkey/Iran border. There were no fences, berms, or revetments that would indicate this location was a military installation. A half-dozen armed Iranian soldiers dressed as tribesmen patrolled the area. The only buildings were seven huts replicating a tiny Kurdish settlement.

  Mirzadeh told his driver to take him past the huts, to a flat area that was dense with juniper bushes. At one end of the area, the Land Rover stopped and Mirzadeh stepped from the vehicle. He lifted the corner of a camouflage net and stepped under it. Two armed guards came to attention. There, looking sinister to Mirzadeh, were the instruments he would use to wreak havoc on the infidels. The six French Mirage jets with Iraqi markings sat like prehistoric predators. The sight of them made Mirzadeh’s heart speed up.

  “Where are the pilots?” he asked.

  One of the guards pointed in the direction of the huts. “Getting some rest,” he said.

  Mirzadeh nodded, walked around the airplanes, enjoying their beautiful symmetry and immense power. After circling all six aircraft, Mirzadeh moved to a table in a corner of the camouflaged, open-air hangar that covered an area the size of a soccer field and removed a large white cloth covering a half-inch stack of maps. He ran a finger across the top map, along the route the planes would take, moving his hand until his finger stopped on the city of Athens. He flicked his forefinger against that spot on the map and said, “Boom.”

  Mirzadeh left the hangar by the same way he’d entered it. He marched quickly to one of the huts and used a key to unlock a padlock on the door. He entered and closed the door behind him. After flipping on the light switch, flooding the little one-room building in light powered by a 200 KW gasoline generator, he changed from his civilian clothes to his robes. Up to now, he had donned paramilitary clothing, dark glasses, and a long-billed cap when meeting with the pilots. He didn’t want them to be able to identify him should one or more of them have a change of heart and leave. But now, things were different. The mission would begin in the early morning hours and Mirzadeh’s guards had orders to shoot anyone who tried to leave the site. It didn’t matter that the pilots knew his name, not after the aircraft were airborne. The planes had been rigged to prevent the pilots from bailing out or from land
ing.

  The Iraqi pilots—rabid Iraqi nationalists, fellow tribesmen of Saddam Hussein’s, Islamic fundamentalists, and Al Qaeda supporters—had been told, up to now, that Mirzadeh was a Saudi connected with Al Qaeda. That they were going to fly a mission that would give them the opportunity to avenge the overthrow of the Iraqi leader by the Americans in 2003. That’s all they knew up to this point. Mirzadeh would fill in the blanks now and tomorrow morning.

  The Mullah left the hut and paid a visit on the Iraqis. Three of them were asleep; one pilot lay in bed, reading; and the other two were playing backgammon. The hut was divided into multiple sections—six private sleeping areas, each surrounded by a curtain, a sitting area for playing games and eating, and a bathroom. When Mirzadeh entered the hut, one of the men playing backgammon seemed confused for a moment, then stood and shouted at his sleeping comrades to wake up. When all were awake and standing, Mirzadeh embraced each man in turn.

  “I can see you are surprised by my dress,” Mirzadeh said, smiling at the men. “It is time you know who I am, and that you are about to take part in something even bigger than you might have imagined. Your moment of revenge is upon you.” He told them his name and his position in the Iranian Government. When he was confident the men were duly impressed, even awed, he asked, “Are you ready to punish the Americans for the humiliation they heaped upon Saddam, Iraq, and the entire Muslim world?”

  The senior pilot spoke for his comrades. “We are ready, Arbob,” using a title of profound respect.

  “Good,” Mirzadeh said. He gave a fatherly smile to each of the men and said, “Your rewards in this life shall be great, but as nothing compared to the rewards you will receive in heaven.” He smiled again. “I have arranged for your rewards to begin this very night. And after you complete your mission tomorrow, you will each receive two million Euros. Life will be good for you.”

  Mirzadeh clapped his hands and the hut door swung open. Several guards dragged six girls into the hut. They were dressed in tribal garb, with long colorful dresses and scarves covering their heads and faces, and gold and silver necklaces. The girls huddled together. One was crying. These were the most beautiful girls in their Assyrian village on the west side of Lake Urmia. Mirzadeh had arranged for their kidnappings. He knew the oldest of the six Christian girls was barely thirteen years old, the youngest was ten. After the Iraqis were done with them, Mirzadeh would let his soldiers have their way with the girls. Then they would be disposed of. The only fate for all infidels.

  He waved at the pilots as he walked from the hut. “Enjoy yourselves,” he said. “And get some rest. You have long flights to make tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Sam Goodwin had returned from Evoia. The whole team was in the Glyfada office, poring over files, waiting for updates on inquiries they had made about Dimitris Argyropoulos, Giorgos Photos, Parviz Mirzadeh, Mahmoud Abdalan, and a myriad of others. Michael Danforth was pitching in wherever he could.

  Jack Cole’s call from Langley came in a few minutes past midnight.

  “Bob,” Jack Cole said, “the Pentagon is on board. They’ll have the commander of the 37th Detachment contact you there. He’ll be told to take orders from you.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Jack asked.

  “Hah,” Bob blurted. “I’m not sure about anything. I’m operating on a whole lot of hunches. But the sum of all my hunches adds up to a bad feeling. We’ve got the number two guy in Greece playing footsy with the worst terrorist group in the country. Argyropoulos has a Marxist resume that would rival some of the former members of the Soviet Politburo. And there’s not much I can do about it without more than what I got from a half-conscious British agent. And, of course, there’s the good professor, Giorgos Photos, who has disappeared, along with his wife and children.”

  Bob took a deep breath, trying to keep his growing frustration from showing in his voice. When he continued, his frustration wasn’t any less, but at least his tone was calmer.

  “Don’t forget the names on the slip of paper found at Photos’ home on Evoia. What’s with the names Mirzadeh and Abdalan? There’s no love lost between the Iranians and the Kurds, so why do their names show up on Photos’ list?”

  “You have a gut feeling about that, too?” Jack said.

  “The only feelings I have are pain and frustration,” Bob said, staring up at the world map on the wall in front of him. Something had been bothering him about the connection between Mirzadeh and Abdalan since the men’s names had surfaced. He zeroed his gaze in on the areas in Iran, Iraq, and Turkey that the Kurds occupied.

  “Walk me through something,” he said. “The Iranians, like the Iraqis, have had a running feud with the Kurds for generations, right?”

  “Right,” Jack said. “The Kurds are an independent, warlike group who have been fighting on the ground as well as lobbying at the U.N. for decades for their own homeland.”

  “Which covers parts of eastern Turkey, northern Iraq, and western Iran,” Bob added.

  “If the Iranians could do one thing with the Kurds, what do you think that would be?”

  “If they thought they could get away with it, they’d nuke the whole bunch. They have a long history of viciously suppressing their ethnic minorities, and that goes a lot further back than just the Pahlavis who ruled Iran up to Khomeini’s takeover.”

  “Hum,” Bob said. “What sort of conditions would have to exist for the Iranians to take decisive action against the Kurds?”

  “That’s a difficult question.” After a long moment, Jack said, “I guess the answer is that they would be able to do just about anything they wanted to do if the geopolitical situation was in such upheaval that the superpowers would have other priorities that were more important than protecting some ethnic group in the boonies of Azerbaijan.”

  “Like a war?” Bob said. Before Jack could answer, Bob added, “That pain in my gut just spiked.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked.

  “We’ve been focusing on our concerns about some uissant terrorist group pulling off an ambitious attack during the Olympic Games. What if it’s bigger than that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Bob said, “but I think we’d better take some unusual steps. Jack, do you think you could get the National Reconnaissance Office to point one of its satellites at the spot where Turkey, Iran, and Iraq meet?”

  “I’ll check,” Jack said. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Bob said, “let’s get an Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft over that area, too.”

  “An AWACS?”

  “Yep. In fact, make it two AWACS. We should also have one hovering over western Turkey.”

  “Anything else?” Jack asked, sarcasm in his tone.

  “Now that you mention it, I could use an SF or Delta Force team in my hip pocket, just in case.”

  “Jesus,” Jack said.

  “Oh, and one other thing, Jack.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack said. “What more could you possibly want?”

  “Michael’s here in Athens and—”

  “I thought he was in Paris.”

  “He was, but after the terrorists went after Liz and me, he decided he needed to come down here to check on his parents. He’s been hanging around with me since he and Miriana arrived.”

  “Nice boy,” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” Bob agreed, “but I’m starting to get worried about him being down here without orders. Even though he’s on vacation, the Pentagon authorized overseas travel to France alone. He could get into trouble just being in Greece.”

  “Not to mention getting involved with the CIA and international terrorists,” Jack said.

  “You understand my concern?”

  “Of course. What do
you want me to do?”

  “I’d say nothing if I thought I could order Mike to return to Paris; but that isn’t going to happen. He’s obviously made up his mind to mother hen his mother and me until his leave is over, which isn’t for another week. Maybe you could pull some strings and get your buddies at the Pentagon to add Greece to his travel authorization.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Jack said, “and I’ll call you about your other requests as soon as I put it together. Forget the Delta Force unit, though.”

  “I appreciate it; I know you’re going out on a limb, considering we don’t have more to go on. And I was just kidding about the Delta Force.”

  “Bullshit!” Jack said. “If this turns out to be a fiasco, at least I’ll be able to take comfort in the fact that you will be forced to retire along with me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Captain Simon Barrows fingered the slip of paper on which he’d written the telephone number his commander had called to give him. He didn’t know what was up, but he sure as hell didn’t like it. First, Colonel Swetland had awakened him at 1:00 a.m. This usually meant one of two things: a surprise inspection team had just arrived to check on his unit’s state of readiness, or one of his men had been thrown in a Greek jail for fighting, DWI, or some such thing. But, in this case, it was something altogether different. The Colonel just gave him this telephone number, told him to ask for a man named Danforth, say Jack Cole told him to call, and to do whatever Danforth told him to do. When he asked Colonel Swetland for clarification, the Colonel had barked at him, telling him to do what he was told to do. His commander’s reaction had surprised Barrows. Barking wasn’t the Colonel’s style. Then the Colonel told him to get rid of whatever Scandinavian or German or English girl he had in his bed and to call the number.