by Phil Swann
“You were activists,” Ben said.
Timon shook his head. “Remember, I said that your father and I were young military officers? In truth, we were military intelligence officers.”
“You mean spies?” Ban asked, slightly raising his voice.
Timon smiled. “Spies sounds a bit glamorous. No, in truth, your father and I were mere low-level analysts, and barely that. Our job was to identify anti-government groups intent on toppling the regime. Largely, that entailed intercepting correspondence and infiltrating anti-government rallies.”
“Doesn’t sound that low level.”
“Believe me, it was. Most of the time we were little more than police informants telling on young rabble-rousers. Then, by complete accident, we began uncovering information that was never supposed to be uncovered.”
“Like what?”
“Names suspiciously appearing on official itineraries, bank accounts of foreign investments that should not have been allowed. I could go on, but you get the picture, as they say. When your father and I brought these anomalies to the attention of our commanders, their response was often laughable, other times frightening in their ignorance. Ultimately, it led us to learning the truth of what was really going on.”
“Which was?”
“Oligarchs whose interest in Greece’s future had nothing to do with the country or its people and everything to do with their own self-interests. We learned who was really in charge of our beloved land, and it sickened us. Furthermore, we came to understand that keeping an eye on youthful malcontents was nothing but a ruse. The real danger to our country was being perpetrated by men of great wealth and power right under our noses within the capital itself.”
“What did you do?” Ben asked.
“We did nothing. We didn’t have to. The coup happened, and the government fell. The Regime of the Colonels, as it’s now known, took over. For a brief while, your father and I believed the junta was justified and things would get better. It didn’t. The corruption only escalated, except now we couldn’t tell anybody. If they learned what we knew, it would have meant certain death. The new regime was more brutal than the last, the corruption more insidious. So, your mother and father fled to America.”
Timon got up from his chair and walked across the room again. “Your father was a true patriot. He hated the government that was toppled but hated the dictatorship that followed even more. Learning what was being done to his country broke his heart. He didn’t know with whom to align himself. None of us did.” Timon turned back to Ben. “When he and your mother reached America, Nikolai took what he knew to your State Department, with documentation. He believed as an ex-intelligence officer they’d listen to him. He gave them everything we had collected about two corrupt regimes.”
“What happened?”
“They thanked him for his information and offered him a job with the Department of Agriculture. But as far as dealing with the information he brought them, they did absolutely nothing. It wasn’t until years later, when it was revealed the Greek Intelligence Service had been on the CIA payroll all along, that he realized the truth.”
“What truth?”
“The truth that his job with the Department of Agriculture was nothing more than a bone—the CIA’s way of placating a troublemaking expatriate. If they helped him build a life here in America, in time his angry young man ways would wane. It would all just fade away like paint on an American white picket fence, as Nikolai used to say.”
“But that’s not what happened,” Ben stated.
“No. This was your father, he was not a man easily placated. He contacted me.”
“What did he want?”
“To go to war.”
“Against who?”
“Against those he believed had raped and pillaged his country, of course. It became his life’s mission, Benjamin. It became our mission.”
Timon stopped talking, sat down, and looked hard into Ben’s eyes. He lowered his voice again. “Benjamin, I don’t mean to be dramatic, and I know this sounds terribly cliché, but what I’m about to tell you can never leave this room. Is that understood?”
“Seriously?” Ben answered, almost wanting to smile at the absurdity of it all.
“Most seriously,” Timon said back, his eyes never leaving Ben’s.
Ben didn’t know if it was the man’s tone or just the look in his eyes, but Ben was certain he’d just learned the true meaning of the phrase dead serious. “Of course.”
The old man said nothing for a long moment, and his eyes never left Ben’s. Even taking into consideration the hours of interrogation he went through with the FBI, Ben was certain he’d never been looked at in quite this way. Ben surmised if surgery could be performed on another person with just a stare, then that was what Timon Baros was doing to him at this moment.
“Very well,” Timon finally said. “Nikolai asked me if I had saved copies of the intelligence he had given to the U.S. State Department. I said I had, and that was the beginning. We reestablished relationships we’d developed when we were in the military and rekindled alliances with individuals who had fled the homeland like your mother and father. We made friends, exchanged information, fostered goodwill, and before we knew it, we had a worldwide network of like-minded crusaders working toward the same end: to expose corruption wherever we found it. We, in effect, had created our own private clandestine intelligence service.”
Suddenly, a light went off in Ben’s head. “Oh my God. You think Tom was killed because of something you and my father did?”
“No,” Timon replied. “I know he was. Benjamin, by the time your father died, our organization had become a thorn in the side of some very powerful people. I cannot stress enough how powerful. We actually accomplished what we set out to do. Tyrants and thieves were being exposed all over the world. And they were being brought to justice.”
“How?”
“Information would mysteriously come to light within intelligence communities like Interpol, MI-5, your FBI, even the CIA. No one knew how or where the information came from, it just appeared. We used the overwhelming bureaucracies of those organizations to our own benefit. Before long, we were bringing down leaders of nations as well as exposing corruption and collusion within huge multinational corporations.”
“How? I mean, how did you get the information?”
“That’s not important. We just did.” Timon said, leaving no room for further explanation. “All that’s important is that over the years our organization acquired and disseminated information from inside the most respected boardrooms to the highest levels of governments. And we did it all in complete anonymity.”
“And Tom?” Ben asked, knowing the answer to the question before he asked.
“Yes. After your father died, your brother joined us. He took up the cause with a zeal equal to your father’s.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Tom,” Ben said, shaking his head.
“Benjamin, your brother contacted me days before his death, which was highly unusual. Our organization has very specific communication protocols, and direct contact isn’t one of them. It’s how we’ve remained anonymous all these years. But he told me the information he had was too important and time sensitive for conventional protocol.”
“What did he have?”
“He didn’t tell me specifically. Only that he’d come across startling revelations pertaining to our group’s original charter.”
“Original charter?”
“Those responsible for the last half century of corruption in Greece. He said he wanted me to see it before he brought it to his intelligence community.”
“What information?”
“He couldn’t be specific on our call, for obvious reasons. He only referred to it as a document. One that would prove the international corruption and collusion that has spread throughout the western world since World War II. He said it was as incendiary as anything our organization had ever uncovered. He said it was everything your father
had devoted his life to. He said it was…what were his words, I’m sorry, it was an American colloquialism…a game…”
“Game changer?” Ben said.
“Yes. That was it. He said it was a game changer.”
Ben picked up the flask and took another drink. “Timon, why are you telling me any of this? What do you want from me? Hell, Tom and I had barely spoken in recent years.”
“Because of something else he said to me, Benjamin.”
“What?”
“He said if anything should happen to him, I should contact you.”
“What?” Ben whispered, almost inaudibly. “But I don’t know anything about—”
“I understand, Benjamin.” Timon interrupted. “But that is what he said.”
Ben’s mind was reeling. “Tom died a year and a half ago. If he told you that, and I swear to God I don’t know why he would, why are you coming to me with this now?”
“Two reasons,” Timon replied. “First, I was trying to honor a promise I made years ago to your father, and most emphatically to your mother.”
“What promise?”
“To keep you out of all of this. I swore a solemn oath to both of them you would never know about the organization. Your mother was never happy about what your father and I were doing, but she accepted it.”
“And Tom? Did she approve of Tom being involved? I assume she knew.”
“She did know. And she accepted it. But you were different.”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like Mom. And the second reason?”
“That one’s a bit more complicated. Despite what your brother said to me, I still wasn’t sure his death had anything to do with the organization or what he had discovered. I—or rather we—suspected it was the case but couldn’t be sure. He was the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth and as such was always in danger.”
“What changed your mind?
“This.” Timon reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a list of names, very important names.”
Ben took the paper from Timon. Other than Tom’s, Ben didn’t recognize any of the other names. “Who are these people?”
“Gustav Brahe was managing director of the International Money Fund. The IMF is one of the most powerful post-World War II international organizations in the world. Fifteen months ago, three months after your brother was killed, Gustav was found dead in his car on an isolated road outside Washington, DC. The cause of death was suicide. He’d been diagnosed with a rare and quickly advancing brain tumor days earlier. He would have died in weeks regardless. Gustav was a dear friend and a valuable ally to our organization.
“Alberto Polomo was director-general of the World Trade Organization. A little over a year ago Alberto was arrested in Paris for solicitation of a child prostitute. I have known Alberto for over thirty years. Yes, he was known to enjoy the company of ladies of the evening from time to time, but a pedophile? Unthinkable! He was killed in prison while awaiting trial. No one’s ever been charged. He too was an ally to our cause.
“Then there’s Isabella Fran. Isabella was the president of counsel for the European Union. Her private jet went down over the North Atlantic a few months ago.
“Benjamin, all the people on that list, including your brother, have died over the last eighteen months. Four extremely powerful people who were allies to the organization your father and I built. That means two very disturbing things: one, whatever your brother found, those who would be harmed by it learned of its discovery. And two, our clandestine organization is no longer so clandestine.”
Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, to Timon’s surprise, Ben smiled.
“Benjamin, may I ask why are you smiling?”
Ben opened his eyes; they were moist. “I’m smiling because at least now something makes sense.” Ben got up and walked across the kitchen with his hands on his head. “No matter how unbelievable the story you’re telling me is, at least it’s an explanation. And that’s something I’ve never had since this whole nightmare began. D.J.—Dwayne Jackson—the man who killed Tom, he was a friend of mine. He was not a killer. If these people are as powerful as you say they are, then they must have somehow forced D.J. to do what he did, just like your friends on that list. They set him up, and they killed him and my brother. That’s why I’m smiling. It’s a crazy story, but at least it’s a reason. Finally, a reason. Can you understand that?”
Timon nodded and offered a smile as well. “Yes, I can, and you’re right. I suspect your friend was not acting on his own volition. And if we can find what your brother had discovered, why I believe he was killed, we can prove it. I also believe it would restore your good name, Benjamin. A name that should’ve never been tarnished to begin with.”
For some reason that thought hadn’t occurred to Ben. “Timon, the people responsible for all of this, I want them. They murdered Tom, and he deserves justice, he’s never gotten it, I don’t care what anyone says. Look, I’m not my father, or my brother, but I will do anything—”
“You are a Lambros,” Timon said. “I’ve known your family for over sixty-five years. I know that inherent in your DNA is a strength and decency few people have. I would trust a Lambros with my life, and there is no one I’d rather face this challenge with than you.”
Ben was completely taken aback by Timon’s words. He’d been called many things over the years, but decent and strong weren’t among them. He lowered his head. “That’s very nice, I’m…well, that’s very nice.” Ben returned to the table and sat. “But, Timon, I don’t know what I can do. I swear, I know nothing about—”
“Did your brother tell you anything?” Timon interrupted.
“No. Like I said, we’d barely spoken. When I saw him at the hotel that day, we talked about me coming up to Camp David for Thanksgiving. We argued about…you know, I don’t even remember what now. But he said nothing of—”
“It could be anything, something you considered unimportant and meaningless. What else happened in that room?”
Ben shook his head. “We talked, took some verbal swipes at each other, then D.J. came in and things went nuts. Tom was shot, he fell back, I went to him and—” Ben suddenly stopped.
“What? You’re remembering something, aren’t you?” Timon said, more animated than he’d been all evening.
“He was bleeding. I was trying to stop it. He said…it didn’t make sense, though.”
“What did he say, Benjamin?”
“Numbers. He said random numbers.”
“What were the numbers? Close your eyes. Go back. Remember the numbers.”
Ben closed his eyes. “I was holding Tom’s hand. He was moving his mouth.” It's okay, Tom. Don't try and speak. You're going to be fine. “He squeezed my hand. He was trying to say something.” Fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven. “He said ‘fifteen, forty-five, fifty-five, eleven.’ He squeezed my hand and said them again. Then he died.”
Ben opened his eyes. They were red. He put his head down on the table.
“Do you know what they mean?”
Ben lifted his head. “I thought maybe they were a combination to something.”
“Did your brother keep a safe?”
“You mean at the White House?”
“No, that would be unlikely. If it is a combination, it’d be to something you could easily access. Is there someplace in Nashville he could have kept something like a safe?”
Ben thought for a moment and then dropped his head again. “Oh God. I don’t know, but I do know two people who would. Unfortunately, neither of them have the slightest desire to ever lay eyes on me again.” Ben released a sigh. “But that’s just too bad, we’ll go see them tomorrow.”
“It’s not in our best interest to be seen together. Benjamin, remember, you must not tell anyone about this conversation. No one can know about the organization or what your brother told me. It would put many lives, including your own
, in great peril.”
“I understand.”
Timon nodded. “I’m staying at a hotel downtown. How can I reach you?”
“My cell.” Ben picked up a piece of paper and pen from the table, wrote down his number, and handed it to Timon. “You’re sure about this?”
“Aren’t you?” Timon replied.
Ben shrugged. “If those numbers are a combination to some kind of safe, then it’s probably where he’d keep an important document. Nothing else makes sense.”
Timon stood. “Then we should call it a night. You have quite a day tomorrow.”
“You can say that again,” Ben replied, standing as well.
“Would you mind calling me a taxi? I find myself without transportation.”
Ben smiled. “Yeah, I guess you are, aren’t you? I’ll drive you to your hotel, just let me get my keys.” Ben headed into the foyer. “By the way,” he said over his shoulder, “this organization of do-gooders you and my dad started, does it have a name?”
“We call ourselves the SOE,” Timon answered. “It’s a reference to a very old order in ancient Greece. They sought enlightenment and believed in doing so they would receive favor from the gods. Quite ancient, but your father and I thought quite appropriate.”
“The SOE, huh? Catchy. What does it stand for?”
“The ‘Song of Eleusis.’”
»»•««
Ben dropped Timon off at his hotel on West End Avenue. Once in his room, the elderly man retrieved a satellite phone from his suitcase. He undid his tie and sat on the bed. The call was answered immediately. “It is done.” He listened, and then replied, “I told him everything and absolutely nothing at all. Let us pray that will suffice. Carry on as instructed, we must hurry. Boedromion draws near. We’ll speak soon.”
