Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  Again Ierides laughed. Then his face set in a hard, angry look. “That too is being taken care of.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  Lieutenant Alexandros Kantelos went from feelings of inconsolable sorrow, to deep remorse, to almost uncontrollable anger. Simon Barrows had died saving his life. But he didn’t have time to indulge his feelings. He joined a Greek Army Special Forces unit that raided the command and control area. They drove through an open, unguarded entry gate and sped toward the top of the site as a Chinook helicopter lifted off from a flat area behind the command and control trailer. Kantelos thought he saw Major Petroangelos sitting near the open door to the cargo bay. The aircraft was out of range of the Special Forces soldiers’ weapons by the time they reached the high ground.

  Kantelos followed the assault team into the barracks where they found the bodies of twenty-two airmen. He found one airman inside a storage building. The young man was so traumatized, he was incoherent. He just kept babbling about Turks.

  Kantelos was beside himself with sorrow and anger and felt as though he was losing his mind, when an idea hit him like a thunderbolt. He ran to the command and control trailer. The system was on. He searched the radar screen and immediately spotted an aircraft that was no more than twenty kilometers from the missile site. He fixed the Acquisition Radar’s beam on the aircraft, then transferred the aircraft to the Target Tracking Radar. The console showed the exact altitude and location of the aircraft. What he wished he could do was fire one of his unit’s missiles at the aircraft, but that was an impossibility with all the launchers disabled. He lifted the telephone receiver from its cradle in the console and called Greek Air Force Missile Command Headquarters in Athens. He passed the coordinates of the helicopter’s position to the Duty Officer there, who had already learned about the slaughter at the missile site. The man was more than ready to accept Kantelos’ information as gospel.

  The Duty Officer contacted his counterpart at Air Force Fighter Command. The news of the traitor at the Koropi missile site had spread like a wildfire through the entire Greek military community and to the Greek Prime Minister. Emotions were high, as was a universal need for revenge. The Fighter Command Duty Officer informed his commanding officer of the helicopter that had left the missile site. The traitor, Petroangelos, was aboard the aircraft.

  The commanding officer issued an order to launch a fighter jet. There was nothing ambiguous about his follow up order: Blow the sonofabitch out of the air.

  ***

  Major Lambros Petroangelos tried to relax in the back of the Chinook helicopter, but he couldn’t seem to make it happen. Something had gone wrong. He had done what he’d been paid to do, but the missile had not reached the target. He knew that because he had watched the screen in the command and control trailer as the Missile Tracking Radar followed the missile. It had been on target until it suddenly disappeared from the screen. Things were coming apart. He hadn’t heard from Demetrios Mavroyianni or any member of his team. They were supposed to radio him when they were ready to be picked up; but when Petroangelos hadn’t heard from them, he tried to contact them. There had been no answer.

  “Relax,” Mahmoud Abdalan said across the cargo bay. “We’ll be there in a couple hours and then you can enjoy your riches.”

  Petroangelos tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite pull it off.

  ***

  Mahmoud Abdalan was the first to see the Harrier jet approaching the helicopter. He had been about to throw Petroangelos into the sea, per his agreement with Giorgos Photos. But he now put aside the Greek officer’s death, at least for the moment. At first, the Harrier was an object of curiosity. But now that it was coming closer to the Chinook, Abdalan felt a chill come over him. The jet came within about two hundred meters and then stopped, hovering at the same altitude as the helicopter, aligning its nose with the Chinook as it continued on its southeastern course. Then Abdalan screamed as a missile burst from a pod under the jet’s left wing.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

  AUGUST 13, 2004

  The Greeks had put an amazing amount of pomp and ceremony into the Olympic Games’ opening ceremony, but Bob wasn’t able to concentrate on the last few minutes of the ceremony. Even when Michael arrived, he couldn’t focus. He felt as though something had died inside him. What frightened him was that it might be his soul that had died. He had once again risked his life, his son’s life, and his entire family’s future. He realized he had made a difference, and had helped save thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of lives. But he didn’t feel like celebrating.

  “You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Prime Minister Ierides whispered to Bob, who sat on the Prime Minister’s right. Michael had been placed on the leader’s left.

  “I apologize, Mr. Prime Minister. I guess I’m getting too old for this much excitement.”

  “Perhaps you and your son would like to join your wives at the Grand Bretagne,” Ierides said.

  Bob raised his eyebrows and said, “You do have your sources of information, sir.”

  Ierides tipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “My old friend Jack Cole called me the day before you arrived in my country. He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

  Now Bob was flabbergasted. “I don’t quite know what to make of that,” he said.

  “Don’t even try, Mr. Danforth. Some things have no explanation. But remember that Jack Cole is a friend you will never be able to replace.” Ierides pressed Bob’s arm and, tears forming in his eyes, added, “And I will be your friend for life. My people and I will never be able to repay you and your son for what you have done.”

  Bob held Ierides’ gaze, and then shook the man’s hand.

  Ierides wiped a hand across his eyes and wagged a finger at one of his bodyguards. “Please drive Mr. Danforth and Captain Danforth to the Grand Bretagne Hotel.”

  ***

  Neither Bob nor Michael had slept in over twenty-four hours. They claimed opposite corners in the back of the Prime Minister’s limousine. Bob watched Michael close his eyes and wondered at how quickly young people can fall asleep. Michael’s breathing had become deep and regular in a matter of seconds. His boy’s sunglasses had slipped down his nose and looked as though they would fall. Bob gently reached over and plucked the glasses off Michael’s nose.

  Michael surprised Bob when he spoke without opening his eyes.

  “We make a hell of team, Dad,” Michael said.

  “I assume you have the sense not to mention any of this to your mother,” Bob said.

  “It’ll cost you,” Michael said. He laughed, then shifted in the seat and fell back asleep.

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  NOVEMBER 17, 2004

  Three months had passed since Greek Spring had been taken down, but Bob had only been back in the U.S. for a week. He and his team had helped the Greeks make a case against the terrorists and their friends in the Greek Government. Although they had accomplished a great deal, Bob couldn’t get over the feeling that his mission had only been partially accomplished. He knew he would feel that way as long as Giorgos Photos was free.

  Bob was back in his office, reading Intelligence data coming from a myriad of agencies about terrorist activities around the globe, when his secretary poked her head in his office and told him the DCI wanted to see him.

  Jesus, what now? Bob thought. He was surprised that the Director of Central Intelligence, the big boss, would call him directly. Usually, this sort of summons would come through Jack Cole. The chain of command was alive and well at the CIA. And he wasn’t happy about the prospect of seeing the DCI. The man was not only the Agency’s top spy, he also had to be its top politician. And Bob had never felt comfortable around politicians. To make matters worse, the date was ominous: 17 November. Like the terrorist organization. When he arrived in the Director’s reception area, he found Jack wa
iting there.

  “What’s up?” Bob asked.

  Jack spread his hands in a “beats me” gesture, but Bob saw a glint in his friend’s eyes that told him Jack was in on something.

  The Director exited his office and greeted the two men. “You boys want to take a ride with me?” He didn’t wait for a response and breezed through the reception area and out into the hall. Bob and Jack hurried to catch up.

  The Director’s armor-clad limousine was waiting outside the building. They all piled in and the driver took off without being given instructions. The Director picked up the telephone in the limo and made a series of calls all the way into the District.

  Bob thanked Jack for recent personnel moves within the Agency. Bob had lobbied for promotions for the members of his Athens and Langley teams. Jack had seen to it that the promotions came through. But what Bob really had to push hard for was getting Tony Fratangelo appointed to Chief of Station in Athens. Tony was younger than most Chiefs of Station and, as a result, was less experienced than most. But Tony’s performance finally won out in the end.

  “Did you talk to Fratangelo?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah, and I made sure he understood that the only way the job was his was if he took his family for a month-long vacation.”

  “Trying to relive your life through the Fratangelos?” Jack said with a mischievous grin.

  Bob shrugged, but he knew that what Jack said was, at least, in part true.

  Bob was dying to ask where they were going, but he knew better. The Director was a sober, close-mouthed sort. If he wanted them to know their destination, he would have already told them. And Jack could keep a secret. It wasn’t until the limo pulled into the vehicle entrance at the White House that Bob began to get nervous. He was now one hundred yards from where the top politician in the world resided.

  The Director led Bob and Jack into the White House. A Secret Service agent directed them through a metal detector and then preceded them down a hall and into an elevator. After rising two levels, they exited the elevator and followed the agent to a door where another Secret Service agent stood at parade rest. The second agent smiled at Bob for a split second and waved the three CIA men through the door.

  “You ever been in the Oval Office before?” the Director asked.

  Bob looked around the room and shook his head. “Not that I remember,” he said, trying to use humor to relax.

  “Oh, I think you would remember if you’d been here before,” a voice said.

  Bob whipped around and saw the President of The United States come through the same door they had just entered. Behind the President were Greek Prime Minister Yiannis Ierides, Liz, Miriana, and Michael. He forced himself to keep his jaw from dropping.

  “Mr. Danforth, you seem surprised,” the President said, obviously enjoying the moment.

  “Mr. President, I would say that’s the understatement of the millennium,” Bob responded.

  The President laughed and looked at Ierides. “Shall we proceed, Mr. Prime Minister?” he said.

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Ierides said.

  The Director and Jack Cole stepped back while three Presidential aides entered the Oval Office. One of the aides brought Michael, Liz, and Miriana to the center of the room, next to Bob. Each of the other two aides carried a mahogany box and what appeared to be a citation in a gold frame under glass. One of the aides handed one of the framed objects to the Prime Minister and one of the boxes to the President. The Prime Minister read from the citation, which in glowing, but very general terms, recognized Michael for “great service to Greece and the Greek people.” There was no mention of courage under fire, or terrorists, or nuclear weapons.

  The President opened the box and dipped it so Miriana could lift the medal from inside. She took the medal and pinned it on Michael’s uniform, kissing his cheek afterward.

  The Prime Minister read from the second framed citation. The wording was identical to Michael’s. Liz did the honors this time, pinning the medal on Bob’s suit jacket. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. But before she released him she whispered in his ear, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you and my son did to deserve this.”

  Bob felt his face go hot. He didn’t dare meet Liz’s eyes.

  The Prime Minister and the President shook Bob and Michael’s hands. The President turned to one of his aides and said, “Please show the ladies to the dining room; we’ll be right down.”

  Bob saw Liz’s eyes narrow and held his breath out of fear she was about to tell the leader of the Free World to go jump in a lake. He expelled the air in his lungs when she left with Miriana and the three aides without making an incident.

  The President closed the door to the Oval Office and congratulated Bob and Michael. “I assume you both understand we will need to collect your medals and citations before you leave here today, and that your experiences in Greece must remain state secrets.”

  Bob and Michael simultaneously said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, by the way, Mr. Danforth,” the President said, “I had a nice chat with the Secretary of the Army. I know you were concerned about negative reactions at the Pentagon about Captain Danforth’s . . . escapades, shall we call them, in Greece. I made it clear to the Secretary that I have taken a personal interest in Captain Danforth’s career, including making sure his name is added to the promotion list to Major. Do you think that ought to do it, or should I do something more?”

  “No, Mr. President, I think that should do the trick,” Bob said, smiling at his astonished son.

  The President suddenly turned somber, looked at Michael, and said, “I wish I could have known Captain Simon Barrows. He appears to have been quite some man.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said. “He was a real hero.”

  “That’s why I’ve arranged for him to receive The Congressional Medal of Honor. I assume you all understand, as his parents have assured me they do, that the awarding of the medal will have to be kept secret.”

  The other men in the room all either nodded or said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” the President said. “Now let’s go join the ladies for a cocktail. It’s been a long day and I sure as hell need one.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  DECEMBER 1, 2004

  Photos was rattled. Everything was coming apart. His lifelong dream had been destroyed. The members of Greek Spring were either dead or captured. The police had set up checkpoints at all the exits from the Olympic Stadium and arrested half of them there. The ones who were arrested had given the police the names of the others. And the whole lot was singing like canaries. Between what the authorities got from his own people, what Nicolaos Koufos left behind in his safe, and what Argyropoulos and Stokolos gave up under interrogation, Greek Spring and most other terror groups in Greece had, at the very least, been emasculated. Even the terror organizations’ moles inside the government had been ferreted out and arrested.

  He had stayed ahead of the police and the counterterrorist agents for over three months now. He knew they would find him sooner or later if he remained in Greece. He settled on France, where he had lived so many years ago. The French were at odds with the Americans; he didn’t think they would ever extradite him—if the Americans discovered his whereabouts. He changed his name, of course, and went underground. And he disassociated himself from his family. He didn’t miss his wife—she had become fat and demanding. But he did miss his children and grandchildren.

  ***

  Ruth Gordon, the U.S. President’s Special Assistant for Islamic Affairs, prepared for her meeting with Rajavi Hashemi, the head of the Ideological Unit of the Iranian Supreme National Security Council. This would be their fifth in a series of meetings that began almost one year earlier, after the devastating earthquake that had leveled the ancient city of Bam, near Kerman in southern Iran. Over forty thousand people had di
ed in the quake. The United States had sent millions of dollars of aid and a hundred rescue workers and medical professionals to assist the overwhelmed Iranian Government. This act of mercy, the U.S. hoped, would begin thawing relations between the two countries.

  “You’re going to antagonize the Mullah,” the Special Assistant’s American translator said, pointing at the woman’s short, sleeveless dress. “If you were Iranian, they’d execute you for wearing that in public.”

  Ruth Gordon, at forty years of age, was still built like a beauty queen. She was also one tough piece of work and she was fed up with the dissembling and bullshit that the Iranian had thrown her way in their previous four meetings. “That’s exactly what I intend to do,” she told her translator. “Antagonize the crap out of that bastard.” She smiled and added, “And this dress is going to be nothing more than minor aggravation when I tell him what I want from him.”

  The translator swallowed, his Adams apple bobbing. He wiped a palm across his forehead, attacking the sweat that had suddenly popped out there.

  “Let’s go,” Ruth said, “we don’t want to keep that chauvinistic, Stone Age asshole waiting.”

  She led the way from the hotel lobby to the limousine waiting under the porte cochere. The ride to the meeting place took less than five minutes. They were greeted by one of Hashemi’s aides who escorted the Americans to gardens surrounding a government building that had once belonged to Reza Shah Pahlavi, the monarch overthrown by the Ayatollah Khomeini.

  At the entrance to the gardens, Ruth instructed her translator to remain behind. “Rajavi Hashemi speaks perfect English. This meeting is going to be one-on-one.” She followed the Iranian’s aide to a table with four chairs that had been set up in the middle of a tennis court-sized lawn surrounded by ten-foot tall hedges. Hashemi and his translator were seated at the table. The translator rose as Ruth approached; Hashemi merely nodded.