The Facts Of Death

by Raymond Benson

  Sambrakos, a tall young man of twenty-five, enjoyed his role as an MP. It gave him an elite status that allowed him and his fellow policemen access to any area on the island. The opportunity for meeting women was also a perk that he didn’t ignore. Most of the time, though, he used his position to exert authority over common soldiers. It gave him a feeling of power to put on the uniform and assume a different, authoritative persona. He enjoyed strutting down the streets and writing citations as the servicemen cowered in front of him. He had originally dreaded his compulsory military service, but after landing a position with the Military Police, Sambrakos had come to the conclusion that he was having the time of his life.

  He also felt important because he was working on top-secret projects for one of the commanding officers on Chios, Brigadier General Dimitris Georgiou.

  The general had approached him two months ago, requesting someone to replace a recently deceased officer, a man who had been the general’s personal assistant for twelve years. The officer had died tragically in an automobile accident. The general asked Sambrakos if he would like to be considered for the job. The duties would involve highly classified material, and everything they discussed would be privileged information. Sambrakos was surprised, flattered, and intrigued by what General Georgiou had said. He readily agreed to perform clandestine duties for the general as some kind of test.

  One of these duties turned out to be a simple, mundane chore. Sambrakos had to inspect the several weapons bunkers scattered over the island which the general had personally shown to him. Large caches of weapons and equipment were hidden in these bunkers, all camouflaged so that they couldn’t be seen from above. The areas were blocked from the public by barbed-wire fences and intimidating signs forbidding the use of cameras. Sergeant Major Sambrakos’s job was merely to drive a jeep alone to each storehouse and make sure everything was safe and secure. The monthly inspection took him an entire morning, since he had to travel all over the island.

  Tonight was different. The general had asked him to perform an inspection beginning at sundown. This was Sambrakos’s third inspection and he was eager to do well. Unfortunately, he also had a terrible headache. On the previous day, he had drunk a little too much ouzo in the afternoon, then attended a dinner party that lasted until three o’clock in the morning. With no sleep, the sergeant major had reported for regular M.P. duty at four o’clock in the morning.

  Sambrakos climbed into the 240GD Mercedes military jeep, still half asleep, and drove away from his encampment. He would begin with a base located at the northern end of the island and work his way down. The storehouse there, near the small village of Viki, was different from the others for two reasons. For one thing, it was not marked like the other supply posts. From the outside it appeared to be an abandoned barn. Secondly, it contained an old Pershing 1a missile that was missing a warhead. General Georgiou had told Sambrakos personally that the Greek military had acquired the missile from NATO in the early eighties. It was delivered with the understanding that if there was ever a need to arm it, NATO would supply the warhead. General Georgiou convinced Sambrakos that because of Greece’s vulnerable geographic position with enemies on three fronts, he had managed to get the missile “on loan” from NATO. The Pershing even came with its own Ford M656 transport truck, from which it could be launched. One day Sambrakos had to familiarize himself with the truck so that he could drive it if necessary. Georgiou told Sambrakos that he was one of the handful of men who knew of its existence. Sambrakos was sworn to secrecy, for it was essential that Turkey never learn that Greece had a Pershing on an island so close to its shores.

  That was the story the general told Sambrakos, and the sergeant major naively believed him.

  The jeep moved over the rolling hills of the island toward the north shore. At one point, he drove along the coast. He admired the silhouettes of the hollow stones that had been placed at intervals along the shore by the ancient Greeks. They looked like rooks on a chessboard and had been used to warn villagers of approaching pirate ships. Firewood was permanently kept inside the stones so that a blaze could be lit when an enemy ship was sighted. The smoke signal could be seen by others along the line, and the people were thus ready to repel the pirates.

  The sky was black when Sambrakos eventually stopped the jeep on the road a hundred meters from the dilapidated old barn. He jumped out and unlocked the two padlocks that secured the gate.

  Sambrakos approached the barn and noted that the padlocks on the double doors were unlocked. Feeling a rush of adrenaline, the sergeant major swung the doors open.

  When he stepped inside, his heart nearly stopped.

  General Georgiou was standing there, waiting for him. He held a flashlight and a briefcase.

  The missile and its truck sat in the barn behind the general, gleaming in the work lights. The American-made Pershing 1a, or MGM-31A, is nearly thirty-five feet long with a three-and-a-half-foot diameter. It has a range of 100 to 460 miles, and is one of the most successful mobile nuclear missiles ever created. Its support equipment includes an automatic azimuth reference system which allows the Pershing to be launched from unsurveyed locations, and a sequential launch adapter which reduces the response time in a quick-reaction role.

  “Ah, you’re here,” the general said. “Get in the truck. We’re taking the missile somewhere. We’re on a classified mission.”

  Sambrakos was surprised. “Sir?”

  “You heard me, let’s go,” Georgiou said, pulling the sergeant major inside.

  Sambrakos didn’t feel right about it. There was something about the general’s behavior that bothered him.

  Two other men dressed in Greek MP uniforms stepped out from behind the truck. Sambrakos didn’t recognize them, and he thought he knew all of the other MPs on the island.

  “Oh, this is Sergeant Kandarakis and Sergeant Grammos. They’ll be coming along,” the general said, turning to walk toward the truck.

  Sambrakos stood his ground. It wasn’t right, whatever was happening. He didn’t know exactly why he felt that way, but he instinctively rebelled against the order.

  “Sir, I need to have a little more information about this,” Sambrakos said. “Who are these men? I’ve never seen them before.”

  The general turned to his aide and said, “I gave you an order, Sergeant Major. Do not question it. Let’s go.”

  Now Sambrakos knew something was terribly wrong. The general sounded scared himself. It was obvious that he was doing something wrong and he didn’t want to be challenged.

  The general turned back to him again and said, “Sambrakos? Are you coming?”

  “No, sir,” Sambrakos said.

  The general narrowed his eyes at the young man. He shook his head and said, “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you in on such short notice. I had no time to see if you would really work out. Well, it looks like this isn’t going to work out.”

  The general turned and walked away, nodding to the two other men.

  Sambrakos was too stunned to react when one of them raised a handgun and shot him in the chest. The MP crashed backward to the floor as blackness overtook him.

  The assassin looked outside to make sure no one had heard the shot; then he pulled the body over to the side.

  “You’ll have to drive instead,” the general told the other man. “I hope you can do it. Let’s go.”

  The three of them boarded the M656 and drove out of the barn. Brigadier General Dimitris Georgiou, Number Five of the Decada, was angry about his choice for a new recruit. The sergeant major had been useful for a while as a buffer between him and the rest of the Chios military administration, but the test of loyalty came too soon. At least the boy wouldn’t talk. Now the general was the only one in the Greek military left alive who knew about the Pershing missile he had stolen from a NATO base in France twelve years ago.

  James Bond arrived in Athens mid-morning. There was a time when Ellinikon International Airport’s security record was considered poor. Its re
putation had improved after the terrorist-plagued eighties, but Bond never felt completely comfortable there. It was a place where he felt compelled to keep looking over his shoulder.

  He entered the country under the name “John Bryce,” an alias he had not used for many years. He carried the two Walthers—the PPK and the P99—in a specially lined security briefcase that prevented Xray penetration. The gruff customs agent sent him through quickly, and Bond stepped into the arrivals terminal. His eyes scanned the faces for the agent from the Greek National Intelligence Service who was supposedly meeting him. Even though he didn’t know who it would be, Bond was trained to recognize fellow agents simply by their posture, clothing, or accessories. There was no one who caught his eye.

  He was walking through the crowd toward the exit when Niki Mirakos stepped up to him from nowhere and said, “The guided tour of Greece begins in five minutes. Do you have your ticket?”

  Bond smiled broadly and responded, “Yes, and it’s been punched twice.”

  “Then hold on to it and follow me,” she said with a smile.

  “How are you, Niki?” he asked.

  Her brown eyes sparkled. “I’m fine. It’s good to see you, James … er, John.”

  “I must say this is a surprise and a pleasure.”

  She led him outside to the parking lot. “They came to me and said that you would be in Athens. Since we had worked together briefly in Cyprus, I got the job.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Niki looked at him warmly. “You’re the lucky one—you just don’t know it yet.”

  They eventually found a white 1995 Toyota Camry. Niki opened the passenger door for Bond, then went around and sat behind the wheel. As they drove away, she said, “Sorry I have to use this old thing. You’re probably used to something better.”

  “You’re the second person in a week that has apologized to me about their car,” Bond said. “If it gets you where you need to go on time, then it will do.”

  “I just wondered, because your company car arrived late last night from London. It’s parked in your hotel lot.”

  So the XK8 had arrived ahead of him. That was something.

  “Yes, well, the Service was a bit extravagant with the Jaguar, mostly due to my insistence.”

  The sun was shining brightly. Compared to London’s dreadful weather, Bond thought, Athens was a tropical paradise.

  “It’s still very pretty,” Niki said, reading his thoughts. “You know, Hellas has the best three hundred and sixty-five days a year of any country on the face of the earth. I think the climate had a lot to do with the evolution of society. People migrated to ancient Athens because the sun was always shining.” She had used Hellas, the Greek word for “Greece.” Bond was not fluent in Greek. He could read it, but he couldn’t speak it, except for a few common words and expressions.

  Bond had been to Greece on a number of occasions. He always found it to be a warm, friendly country. The people are hard workers, but they play even harder. The afternoon ritual of drinking ouzo, eating mezedes, and discussing the meaning of life is standard procedure in Greece. He particularly liked the fact that nearly everyone smoked and he had no problem lighting a cigarette in a public place. Greece has the dubious distinction of having the highest number of smokers per capita in Europe.

  “I’m glad you flew to Greece on Thursday, and not Tuesday,” she said.

  “Oh, why?”

  “Don’t you know Tuesdays are bad luck in Greece?”

  “How come?”

  “It was a Tuesday when the Byzantine Empire fell to the Ottomans. Many Greeks won’t do anything important on a Tuesday, like have a wedding, or start a journey, or sign a contract.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very superstitious.”

  “That’s all right. We Greeks tend to be overly so.” She fondled the chain around her neck. It contained a blue glass stone resembling an eye. Bond knew that it was a charm to ward off the evil eye.

  Niki drove Bond to the Plateia Syntagmatos, the heart of the modern city of Athens. A large, paved square is at its center, just across from the old royal palace. It was from the palace balcony that the syntagma, or constitution, was declared in 1843. The building now houses the Greek parliament. Bond’s hotel was directly across from the palace, to the northwest. The Hotel Grande Bretagne at Constitution Square is arguably Athens’s grandest hotel, built in 1862 as a mansion to accommodate visiting dignitaries. It was converted into a hotel in 1872 and became the preferred destination for royalty. The Nazis occupied it as their headquarters during World War II, and it was the scene of an attempted assassination of Winston Churchill on Christmas Eve in 1944. The hotel is still aptly referred to as “the Royal Box of Athens.”

  “Are you hungry?” Niki asked.

  “Famished,” Bond said. It was time for lunch.

  “Why don’t you check in and I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant in half an hour? I’ll go park the car.”

  “Fine.”

  Bond hadn’t stayed at the Grande Bretagne since the Colonel Sun affair, many years ago. Memories of the hotel came back to him as he walked into the lobby. It has a large and lofty foyer with stained glass, green marble pillars, and a good copy of a Gobelin tapestry featuring Alexander the Great entering Babylon. Bond was given a corner suite on the eighth floor. It had a sitting room with a window overlooking the parliament building. The bedroom contained a king-sized bed and a terrace with a magnificent view of the Acropolis.

  He dressed quickly in a sharp Nassau Silk Noile outfit of tan trousers, a white mesh crew knit shirt, and a tan waistcoat. The Walther PPK fitted snugly in the chamois shoulder holster underneath a white, fully lined silk jacket. Normally the Walther wouldn’t have fitted into the Berns-Martin holster, but Q Branch had commissioned the company to make one specially for Bond.

  The two-story GB Corner Restaurant was decorated just as elegantly as the hotel it served. The booths, benches, and chairs were covered in maroon leather, and frosted glass lamps at each table cast cool light around the room.

  Niki was waiting for him in a booth. She had already ordered a bottle of Chatzimichali red wine.

  “Welcome to Athens, Mr. Bryce,” she said conspiratorially. “Everything on the menu is quite good.”

  “I was here several years ago. I remember the food. I take it you live in Athens?”

  “Yes, I live west of the tourist areas. I’ve been here most of my life. I spent some time in the country when I was a girl.”

  “How long have you been with the service?”

  “Would you believe ten years?”

  “You’ve kept your youth remarkably well,” Bond said. He guessed that she was in her mid-thirties. Her tan skin glowed in the soft light. Bond found Mediterranean women exotic. She was a delight to look at and talk to. Besides being extremely attractive, Niki was also very professional. He normally preferred working alone or with other men, but this time he looked upon the prospect with a positive attitude. He had a sudden recall of how soft the inside of her thighs had been, and forced the memory out of his head for the moment.

  “Thank you. As I said before, it’s probably the climate here. Let’s order, then we’ll talk.”

  They both started with traditional dishes of moussaka, which was similar to lasagne but made with ground beef, fried eggplant, onions, and béchamel cream and baked. For a main course, they each had souvlaki with rice. Bond knew he was really in Greece when he tasted the succulent beef grilled on a skewer with peppers and onions.

  They ordered coffee and she said, “Since we’re officially working together, I can now share information with you. I can, how do you say in English, ‘feel you in’?”

  Bond smiled. “That expression, ‘fill you in,’ is more American than English, I believe. Yes, it’s good to be working with your service. Station G, I’m afraid, was a casualty of one of SIS’s administrative changes made during the last several years. Budget cuts eliminated the entire operation, save for a token agent. Old Stuart Thoma
s is still the head, but he only works twenty hours a week and uses a temporary secretary. Needless to say, the London office was disappointed with what little intelligence Station G had provided on the case. The late Christopher Whitten was a field agent working in Athens temporarily. But never mind that. Feel me in.”

  She laughed and lit a cigarette.

  “As you know, the Greeks are very concerned about the Cyprus situation. The people do not tolerate the Turkish presence in the north. Many feel very passionate about it. Greece is in a constant state of readiness in case a war ever broke out with Turkey. Naturally, no one wants that to happen. Except for the joy of kicking some Turkish butts, a war would be very foolish.”

  “I understand.”

  “We believe the Number Killer is attempting to provoke a conflict between Greece and Turkey over Cyprus.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Before it all started, the secret service received a letter from someone who called himself the Monad. It was untraceable. The letter said that a group called the Decada would commit ten acts of violence over the next two months. When the tenth act was completed, war would break out between Turkey and Greece. The southern Cypriots would be reunited with the north under a Greek flag. It was written in a flowery, poetic style, much like ancient Greek verse. It ended by saying that the gods would be watching and waiting, for this was their wish.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. It went into the prank pile until the two incidents in Cyprus occurred. I mean, we get a lot of stuff like that. There are so many ‘groups’ out there and a lot of them claim to be militant ones with violent intentions but they turn out to be harmless. It’s not the first time someone has threatened to start a conflict at the Green Line in Cyprus just to break the stalemate. There are a lot of people who might do something crazy. It isn’t something to take lightly. Anyway, someone remembered the letter and pulled it out. We now believe the letter was not a hoax. The Decada, whatever it is, exists. We don’t know a thing about them. We don’t know who they are or where they’re based.”