Terror Cell (Danforth Saga Book 2)

by Joseph Badal

  “It is an honor to have you again as a guest in our country,” Hashemi said, after Ruth took a seat.

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” Ruth answered, “how hospitable the Iranian people can be. I hope we can someday normalize relations between our two countries.”

  “As do I,” Hashemi said.

  Sure you do, you fanatical son-of-a-bitch. What you want is to blow the U.S. off the face of the map. “Thank you, your Excellency,” Ruth said. “There is something your government could do to show your good faith in our negotiations.”

  The Iranian’s face remained congenial, but she saw the man’s eyes harden. “Of course,” he said, “if it is in my power.”

  “Perhaps your translator could excuse himself,” Ruth suggested.

  The Mullah waved his hand, dismissing the translator.

  Ruth then related a story about how United States Intelligence agencies had discovered the departure point from which six Mirage jets had taken off and flown to Greece, where they intended to attack the Olympic Stadium. She told him that a man high up in the Iranian Government had planned the attack.

  “Who is this man?” the Iranian asked, his voice indicating he didn’t like what he had just heard.

  “Mullah Parviz Mirzadeh,” she said.

  The Iranian’s eyes blinked and the American knew that her counterpart had been shaken. “How did you get this information?” the Iranian demanded, momentarily losing his calm demeanor. “Mullah Mirzadeh is a very important man in Iran. He is in charge of Asian Republic Affairs.”

  Ruth nodded. She felt exhilaration at having rattled Hashemi. The man had asked a question he knew she would never answer. He now knew without a doubt that she had Intelligence sources inside his country. He’d develop an ulcer trying to figure out who her sources were.

  “It would be difficult for my country to restore relations with a country which elevates terrorists to high positions in its government,” she said.

  The Iranian sat statue-like for several seconds, staring unblinkingly into Ruth’s eyes.

  Ruth met the man’s gaze. She uncrossed her legs and recrossed them, showing just enough thigh to cause any red-blooded man’s testosterone to rebel. Hashemi was a fundamentalist zealot, but he was a notorious womanizer and pervert. He had been part of the Iranian leadership who had sanctioned the raping of female prisoners on the day before their executions.

  Hashemi leaped from his chair, his face crimson, the sleeves of his robe flying around as though they were wings. “Parviz Mirzadeh is a hero of the Republic.” He looked down at Ruth’s legs and spat, “You dishonor Islam with your appearance and your false allegations about Mullah Mirzadeh. These meetings between our two countries are over.” He spun around and stormed from the gardens.

  Ruth bounced her crossed leg and tapped the tips of her steepled fingers together. Well, well, she thought, the Iranian Government is going to protect Mirzadeh. As we expected, Mirzadeh wasn’t acting on his own. She had accomplished what she had set out to do—to determine if Mirzadeh was a rogue, or if the Iranian Islamic Republic had orchestrated the attack on Athens. The attack was one more part of the Iranian Mullahs’ goal of bast, or expansion, of the fundamentalist revolution. Ruth took her cell phone from her briefcase and dialed 9-1-1.

  “It’s a beautiful day in Azerbaijan,” a male voice answered.

  “Do it,” Ruth snapped and terminated the call.

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  DECEMBER 3, 2004

  Bob leaned over the bed and kissed Liz’s forehead. “I’m going out for a walk,” he said. “I’ll meet you for breakfast in the dining room in an hour.”

  “Why don’t you give me a couple minutes,” she said. “I’ll get fixed up and join you?”

  Bob patted her shoulder. “Your idea of a couple minutes is more like an hour. We’ll take a walk together after breakfast.”

  Liz gave him a suspicious look. “What’s going on?” she asked. “This trip to Paris is supposed to be a vacation, remember?”

  Bob smiled and said, “Jeez, can’t I take a walk around the most romantic city in the world, full of gorgeous women, without you interrogating me?”

  Bob could tell his attempt at humor hadn’t placated Liz, but he had to go. “See you in an hour,” he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

  He walked through the lobby of the Paris Mirasol Palace Hotel and turned right along the sidewalk to a side street, and made another right turn. He walked quickly to a Peugeot parked at the curb and got inside the car. The driver handed him a copy of Le Monde and pointed at an article at the bottom of the front page.

  “That was pretty quick,” the driver said.

  Bob read the article before responding. The story described the murder of a high-level Iranian Mullah, Parviz Mirzadeh, by unknown persons. Apparently, the Mullah and his seven bodyguards had been attacked and killed while driving to the Iran/Turkistan border.

  “It was about time,” Bob said. He didn’t let on that Jack Cole had called him two days earlier to notify him of Mirzadeh’s assassination. Bob looked out the side window, not wanting the driver to see the expression of pure joy on his face. A U.S. Special Forces team had flown in from Uzbekistan; met up with an Assyrian guide whose two daughters had been kidnapped, raped, and murdered on Mirzadeh’s orders; and intercepted Mirzadeh. Bob knew that the Special Forces team had found ten million dollars in the trunk of Mirzadeh’s car. Money probably intended for Islamic revolutionaries in the former Soviet Republics.

  They drove in silence for a mile, and then the driver stopped on a street of three-story row houses. Bob left the car and went inside.

  “Ah, Robert,” one of three men inside the front room said.

  “Jean Paul, it’s been a long time.”

  “Oui, mon ami. Too long.”

  The Frenchman turned around and walked toward the rear of the house. Bob followed. He was surprised to find Stanton Markeson standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

  “Stanton, you’re looking well,” Bob said.

  Markeson patted his stomach. “One good thing came out of my being shot,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve lost fifty pounds and gone on an exercise program.”

  “Good for you,” Bob said. The two men shook hands, then Markeson backed into the kitchen, giving Bob a clear view of the room. A chair in the middle of the kitchen floor held a man whose head lolled to one side. From the man’s color, Bob thought he was dead. He looked as though he’d been worked over by professionals.

  “Robert, meet Giorgos Photos,” Jean Paul said, with a flourish of his hand.

  Bob stared at the man. Then he looked at Jean Paul Durand, a thirty-year veteran of the Securite. “Est-il mort?”

  “No, no, mon ami, he is not dead, he is very much alive. It’s the drugs that make him look dead.” Durand made a clucking sound and added, “A quick death is not punishment enough for this monster.”

  “Did you learn much?” Bob asked.

  Durand snapped his fingers and smiled. “Oh, Robert, c’etait tres magnifique. Monsieur Photos sang like a bird.” The Frenchman blew air over his teeth, making it come out in a whistle. “This Greek has one incredible memory. Do you know how many Swiss bank account numbers he has memorized? Seventeen.” He clapped his hands in glee. “We will track down the owners of the accounts through these numbers; and even if the names on the accounts are false, we will still be able to confiscate the funds because of the account owners’ ties to terrorism.” Durand looked over at Markeson for a moment, and then said to Bob, “Monsieur Markeson, as well as your people from Washington, were a big help.”

  Markeson’s features went rigid for a moment. “This bastard identified the assassin who took down the Lambrakis Building.” He seemed to need a few seconds to catch his breath before continuing. “He told us the guy, name of Musa Sulaiman, had settled in Brazil. He gave us Sulaiman�
��s bank account number.”

  “He won’t have much fun down there once you cut off his funds,” Bob said.

  “Oh, we’re not going to do that until I make a quick visit to Rio,” Markeson said, his eyes blazing with the fires of hatred and revenge. “No point in warning him.”

  Bob nodded. “What are you going to do with Photos?” Bob said to Durand.

  The Frenchman smiled. “My good friend in Athens, Constantine Angelou, wants Photos in Greece. And, of course, England and the United States have reason to want him, as well. But the Greeks are still too soft on these bastards. And, in my opinion, sending him to England or the United States will only bring unwanted attention to those countries.”

  A sudden groan from Photos caused the men in the room to look in his direction. The terrorist was regaining consciousness, although his eyes were barely open, and his head still hung to one side. Bob watched Photos until Durand began speaking again.

  “The Turks have also expressed an interest in getting their hands on Photos, to try him for the murders of Turkish diplomats in Greece. I think they should be allowed to deal with Photos first.”

  “There won’t be anything left of him after the Turks finish with him,” Markeson said.

  Durand bent over and grasped Photos’ chin. “What do you think, Monsieur Photos? Do you want us to send you to the Turks?”

  Photos still appeared groggy, but he was apparently lucid enough to understand Durand. His eyes popped open as though he’d seen someone rise from the dead. “No, no Turks.”

  Durand released Photos and turned toward the group of men. “Well, I think we have our answer. Monsieur Photos will be sent to Turkey.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  DECEMBER 10, 2004

  Bob left Durand and the others and returned to the hotel. He was already seated in the hotel dining room when Liz came down from their room. He stood as she reached the table and hugged her.

  “How was your walk?” she said, giving him a narrow-eyed look.

  He pulled out her chair and waited until she was seated. “It was great,” he said. “But, you know something? I didn’t see one woman half as beautiful as you.”

  Liz narrowed her eyes again. “What are you so happy about?” she asked. A fearful expression crossed her face and she said, “You’ve got that look you always get when you’re about to go out on some mission.”

  Bob met her eyes and said, “I can’t lie to you, Liz. I’m about to start the most important mission of my life. I don’t know if you’re going to be able to handle it.”

  Liz’s expression went from fearful to angry. “Don’t you dare—”

  Bob interrupted her. “I just got off the phone with Jack Cole. As of five minutes ago, I became a retired government employee. Do you think you can deal with me being around all the time?”

  Liz formed an “O” with her mouth, but made no sound.

  “How do feel about extending our trip over here,” Bob said, “now that I’m a man of leisure?”

  Tears streaked Liz’s cheeks.

  Bob handed her his handkerchief. “I hope those are tears of joy,” he said.

  “Oh, shut up,” she said, and then stood and moved to him. She sat in his lap and buried her head in his neck. “I love you, Bob Danforth.”

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Prior to a long finance career, including serving as a senior executive and board member of a NYSE-listed company, Joseph Badal served for six years as a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army in critical, highly classified positions in the U.S. and overseas, including tours of duty in Greece and Vietnam. He earned numerous military decorations.

  He holds undergraduate and graduate degrees in International Finance (Temple University) and Business Administration (University of New Mexico). He graduated from the Defense Language Institute, West Coast, and from Stanford University Law School’s Director College.

  Joe now serves on the boards of several companies.

  He has had seven suspense novels published, including “Ultimate Betrayal,” which was released in April 2014. “The Lone Wolf Agenda,” which was released in 2013, was named the top Mystery/Thriller novel in the 2013 New Mexico/Arizona Book Awards competition. He also writes a monthly blog titled Everyday Heroes, and has written short stories published in the “Uncommon Assassins” and “Someone Wicked” anthologies.

  Joe has written dozens of articles that have been published in various business and trade journals and is a frequent speaker at business, civic, and writers’ events.