CIA Love Story in Crete

By Roger Olivares

Includes 87 stunning pictures of Crete embedded in the text. You see the pictures as the story unfolds, bringing you right in the scene of action. You'd love to visit Crete after reading this book.
This is the story of Michael, a CIA agent assigned to stop the terrorists in Crete during the Kosovo War in 1999. His wife Joann, a Greek-American DC lobbyist and disgruntled over her life as a CIA wife, comes along to discover her Greek heritage and to find a new meaning in her life.
The story brings to light the plight of CIA and military wives and families who suffer tremendous pressure due to long absence of their husbands and the damage on their psyche due to wartime experiences.
In Crete, they encountered a fiery terrorist and a woman of extreme beauty and courage. Their paths and lives collided in a sacrilegeous holocaust of passions, love, heroism, deceit,and vengeance that kept their lives moving... and the pages of this book turning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Olivares
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452468150

Roger Olivares

Roger Olivares lived in Crete for two years between 1999 and 2002. This is his fourth novel. The first two are: "Teresa of Avila", and "How Granada Was Won". The third novel is "Noli Me Tangere 2" a modern sequel to Dr. Jose Rizal's novel, a Philippine national hero. Roger was born in Manila, Philippines, and was a graduate of the Ateneo de Manila University and was a Fulbright scholar at the University of Illinois (MS in Communications).

Book preview

Acknowledgement

I would like to thank the following for supplying me information and insight into the Cretan culture: Ms. Vace Maladraki, Ms. Emily Aretaki, Ms. Effie Papadakis, Ms. Jill Wanecke, Ms. Julia Papagrigorakis, and Mr. Jean Bienvenue.

For their patience in reading through my manuscript, I am indebted to Dr. Anne Jones, Bill McNew, James Conley, Prof. James Wooten, Prof. Rudy Ordonez, Prof. Nile Stanton, Ms. Blanche Babcock, and my sister Bel Olivares Cunanan.

For his encouragement, I thank Mr. Richard Hendricks of Tallyshooter.

For their support, I acknowledge the members of the Fayette Writers Guild, and Ms. Chris Snell, directress of the Fayetteville Library.

I acknowledge the assistance and guidance of my editors, Ms. Peggy Renfroe, my dear friend Mr. Jesus Gonzales, and Ms. Evangeline Correa.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wife, Helena, and to my children: Louise, Elaine, Rochelle, and Rodger. When they were young, they did not want me to read bedtime stories from library books. They insisted that I dream up my own stories and tell them with all the dramatic effects I could muster at ten at night. My writing is an extension of that happy but formidable task.

Anthony Quinn Letter

This book has a scene where the movie Zorba the Greek was filmed at Stavros Beach in Crete, in the 1960’s.

In this scene, Joann was sunbathing topless and imagined herself dancing the torrid Greek dance, Sirtaki, with Anthony Quinn and Alan Bates.

I wrote Anthony Quinn a letter in 2001 inviting him to do the same torrid dance again, in case this book became a movie.

He wrote back by fax. His letter follows. A few months after, he passed away.

CHAPTER ONE

Crete

ISLAND OF CRETE, GREECE

March 10, 1999

The Olympic Airways jet touched down on the airport runway, as darkness was beginning to creep across the island of Crete.

Michael and Joann felt the cool air blowing from the snow-covered mountains looming over the airport and dwarfing everything on the ground.

The white mountains of Crete

Michael was anxious to get started on this latest CIA assignment. He knew there was not much time to stop the terrorists in Crete who wanted to stop the US and NATO allies from staging air strikes to Belgrade where Milosevic was pursuing his ethnic cleansing of the Albanians. The Kosovo War had been raging for a while. Atrocities were going out of control. The Canadian military attaché was assassinated in the streets of Athens just a week ago.

Joann was excited for she had not had a real vacation with Michael since he joined the CIA more than ten years ago. Against CIA policies, she insisted in joining Michael to act as informal interpreter and to meet her relatives in Crete.

She read that only Cyprus had fields of flowers as colorful, as brilliant, and as lush as Crete.

She had been dreaming of the beautiful beaches Crete is famous for. Those isolated beaches where she and Michael could be alone…away from her Washington lobby office, away from the CIA tensions.

As in any other airport, they followed the signs that led them to the immigration office. Michael presented his passport to the Greek immigration officer, a man with an oversized head and a big nose in an impressive navy blue uniform. He opened the passport and read his name in a big booming voice, Robert Johnson?

Yes. It is Michael’s fake name in the passport. He looked them over carefully and asked:

Americani, ha? Turista?

Michael smiled and said, Yes.

First time to Crete?

Yes.

The Immigration officer ran his fingers over the front page as if trying to feel something. Michael held his breath.

The immigration officer thumbed through the pages stamped in other countries he had visited.

"You’ve been to Rome, Paris, London?

Yes.

‘The TSD at the CIA office did it again,’ he thought. The artists there did a good job faking those entry stamps within a few hours’ notice. Rome, Paris, London were the main cities favored by tourists. He could not show entry stamps in Ethiopia, or Moscow, or Kenya in a previous passport. These would be certain giveaways.

Travel a lot?

Yes, my wife likes to travel and take pictures.

What do you do?

I’m a writer. Novels.

Good. You write about Crete?

Yes.

Beautiful here. Plenty of writers and artists come here.

How long will you stay?

Maybe a week or two.

Where you stay?

Hotel Kydon.

Beautiful hotel. Welcome. You like it here, the officer boomed with the usual Greek exuberance. He looked for an empty page and stamped the passport with gusto.

Michael stepped aside and motioned to Joann to come forward. My wife. She is Greek-American, Michael proudly added.

Joann stepped forward sporting a dark brown tailored suit with a matching scarf and a suede overcoat. Her sun-streaked blonde shaggy hair tumbled in a mass of curls over her shoulder. Her fine lips flashed a smile. Her charm and her Chanel 21 perfume intoxicated the officer, even before she spoke.

She presented her passport, also with fake name and fake entry stamps to other countries. She greeted him, "Kalispera! Good afternoon. Te kanete? How are you?"

The immigration officer beamed with pleasure at an American speaking Greek.

Elaine Johnson?

Joann nodded. "Ne."

He asked in Greek, First time, also?

"Ne and I’m excited. I know I’ll love it here."

Bravo! Enjoy yourselves! He stamped her passport with an enthusiastic thump. He extended his hairy hand to Joann and shook her hand, giving it a little flirty squeeze with a wink in his eyes. Greek men never passed up a chance to flirt.

Michael and Joann went to the baggage claim carousel, picked up their small suitcases and walked briskly through the airport lobby.

People were sitting in rows of cushioned benches in the middle of the lobby, looking at people as they passed by, maybe waiting for their friends or relatives to arrive, or maybe just passing the time away. Joann noticed some men were twirling a string of plastic beads around their fingers, creating clicking sounds. ‘Interesting,’ she thought. ‘Keeps them occupied maybe relaxes them too.’

Twirling worry beads

Michael was not expecting anyone to meet him. For security reasons, they headed straight for the gate and hailed a parked taxi, a black Mercedes-Benz sedan maybe two years old.

To Hania. Hotel Kydon. Trying to sound like he knew where it was.

The cab driver was twirling a string of beads, too. He set it aside and went down to help them with the suitcases, then pushed down the taxi meter. He was silent. It seemed that the airport was far out in the country as there were few street lights and fewer houses.

As they turned to the main road, the driver turned his head to the back and asked, "Germani?"

Joann answered, "O-hee. No. Americani."

Bravo! Speak Greek well?

Enough. My mother is from here in Crete.

Bravo!

How far is Hotel Kydon?

Near only. He shrugged his shoulders. Twitched his lips and said, About twenty kilometers.

The driver had a mound of black curly hair, and a substantial nose over a heavy moustache covering the contour of his mouth. ‘Must have some Moorish blood in him,’ Joann thought.

What town…your mother?

I was told Hora Sfakion. Did I say it right?

Yes. Good. Good enough. He nodded his head and seemed amused.

Is that near Hotel Kydon?

"Ohee. Maybe sixty or seventy kilometers. Plenty of mountains. Beautiful town by beach. Very brave people there. They love to fight there…" His voice was gruff but enthusiastic with the usual Greek exuberance.

With whom do they fight?

Sometimes with themselves. The Turks and Germans were afraid to go to Hora Sfakion. When the Germans invaded Crete, the Australians, British, and New Zealand soldiers escaped through Hora Sfakion because Germans were scared to follow.

Oh! That’s interesting!

I take you there.

Oh! No, thank you. Maybe one day.

Michael was enjoying the Greek conversation which he could barely understand. He was proud of Joann and was glad that he had brought her along…or rather that she had forced herself into the trip. She seemed to be paving the way for better interaction with the Greeks.

Along the way, they saw some people holding placards standing in front of a fenced compound. Michael, who had been silent, perked up and asked the driver, Who are these people?

The driver had a habit of tilting his head and looking back whenever he spoke. This scared Joann as his big nose might block his eyes. The roads were narrow and she noticed dark ravines on the side.

Oh, they protest the American and NATO plan to bomb Yugoslavia. The NATO headquarters there, pointing to a number of low buildings in a walled compound. Over there. The American navy base, pointing towards the back of the airport.

The driver added, Real bad. Should keep away from Yugoslavia. This afternoon, a big protest in Hania. Some people got hurt. The police used tear gas to drive away the protesters. But don't worry. They no harm tourists. We love tourists. He blew a kiss with his right palm.

‘This driver might be leading me on, might be a government informer,’ Michael thought.

After a long silence, the driver asked, "Turista?"

"Ne," Joann nodded.

She noticed some small altars perched on wooden poles--by the road. Just bigger than shoeboxes with small crosses on top and glass panels around.

Roadside altar

She saw a woman, with a badly bent back, dressed in black with a black shawl over her head and shoulders and long black stockings. She opened the glass panel of one of the altars and lighted an oil lamp inside. In the dark, the little flame grew and then began to glow fiercely. Then she made the Sign of the Cross with three fingers. ‘What a powerful sight. What a beautiful tradition,’ Joann thought.

Many of the altars had oil lamps already burning inside. In the dark they glowed like beacons from ancient times never to be extinguished. To Joann, they betrayed some mystical powers and energy that pervaded in this fabled land of mystery and mythology. They portended something fateful, a strange anticipation of what this trip would bring to them.

The driver wanted to act as a tour guide, and be good at it. This way, he might receive some generous tips too. He certainly could use some during these hard times in Greece.

That bay left … Souda Bay. American and NATO ships go there. Plenty big ships. Some with missiles and bombs. Some with airplanes on top.

Michael made a mental note of its location. In the dark, he could see the lights of the ships. The driver was right. They were of different sizes. And it was surrounded by mountains with an opening in the far end, making it safe from killer typhoons.

Long silence. After about ten minutes, there was another bay, on the right side this time. Around it was a myriad of lights of different colors. That is city of Hania. Going there. Big city. Plenty tourists, the driver added. You like it there.

Chania’s Venetian harbor at night

(Photo courtesy of Greeka.com)

The taxi pulled up in front of Hotel Kydon. It was a four-star hotel with a spacious and well-lighted lobby that was just a few steps away from the street. The hotel seemed to be located in the heart of the city. ‘There could be a lot of action here,’ Michael thought.

Hotel Kydon

Michael handed the taxi driver a generous tip for a good job as driver and tour guide. At that, the driver exclaimed, "Ehfaristo! Thank you. Me…Kostas. If you need me, I always park there," pointing to a taxi stand across the street.

CHAPTER TWO

Black Bag

They could still smell the lingering whiff of the tear gas used earlier by the police to disperse the street protesters. They saw the litter left by the protesters--empty cans, bottles, paper, and even syringes. ‘There’s no time to waste for this mission,’ Michael thought.

Suddenly, a short stocky man came from behind and tapped Michael on the back. Michael?

Michael immediately moved into a defensive posture with his hands and turned. Joann was startled and stepped forward, away from the voice. The man repeated, Michael?

Yes… He turned.

The man smiled to disarm Michael. His body exuded the scent of an expensive body talcum elderly and accomplished men use, maybe a Ralph Lauren. Elderly men used this to show their status and to soften the old man scent. Maybe to attract women too, as they do in the jungle. He introduced himself, I’m Willie. I brought this for you. He handed Michael a heavy black bag.

Oh, thank you! Michael had been expecting him but not this soon and not in this manner. Tom had told him about this man.

He took the bag. Just as suddenly. Willie said, I’ll call you later. And he turned, crossed the street, and vanished into a dark parking lot across. He did not seem to be eager to be seen with Michael.

Who was that? Joann asked.

Oh, someone I was told would contact me here. He is one of our assets here.

The tourist season was just starting and the hotel lobby, though spacious, was crowded. Among such a crowd, people could come and go unnoticed. Probably the reason why Langley chose it for him.

Michael noticed some men and women sitting on the lounging chairs, some talking, a few looking at people as they went by while twirling their beads in their hands. He noticed surveillance cameras by the door and the front desk. ‘This is good,’ he thought. The hotel knew how to run its business and Joann should be safe here.

They walked to the front desk, and Michael said, We have a reservation. Robert Johnson.

The receptionist, a bespectacled lady in a beige dress uniform with hair tied to a bun at the back, greeted them, "Kalispera. Robert Johnson, she repeated, then went through her records and smiled, Yes! I have your reservation for a suite, Mr. Johnson. Her voice was musical and her smile enthusiastic. May I have your passports, please?"

How many nights are you staying? Her British accent was prominent.

We don’t know yet. Maybe two weeks? My wife wants to meet her Greek relatives. Michael was careful not to name too long a time as it might arouse suspicion. Tourists normally stayed for one week only.

The receptionist smiled again, lightly touched her hair bun, and said, Oh, that’s nice. Okay. The tourist season is just starting and we’ll be fully booked soon. Many tourists from Germany, France, and Scandinavia. So you’ll not have any problem, I’ll put one month, okay? You can cancel anytime. You’ll like it here. Her English was near perfect. She must have studied abroad or must have good English schools here.

Good idea! Thank you. I’m sure we’ll enjoy it here, Michael said with a twinkle in his eyes, appreciating the receptionist's charm and helpfulness.

What credit card are you using?

Here’s my Mastercard. The receptionist took the card, examined the name on it and ran it through the machine. So far, all the papers Langley prepared for him were flawless.

Here’s your passport, Mrs. Johnson. But we will keep Mr. Johnson’s passport until you leave. That’s our regulation here. She waved to a bellboy to take their suitcases to the room.

Once in their suite, Michael quickly checked every nook for any bugging devices. Joann went to the bedroom, unpacked their luggage and hanged their clothes. She headed for the shower to get ready for dinner.

Satisfied that there were no bugging devices, Michael opened the black leather bag carefully. He pulled out two bullet proof vests, a cell phone, two .45 caliber handguns, a shoulder holster, four extra clips of bullets and even a wad of drachmas. He turned the handguns around, opened the chambers, smelled the barrel, and nodded in approval. They seemed to have been fired not too long ago. He thought of the .45’s used to assassinate Doug Murphy. He cocked the guns and pressed the triggers making familiar clicking sounds. He was happy Joann was in the bathroom taking a shower and did not hear the clicking sound. That would have scared her. Satisfied, he set them aside by the side table.

CHAPTER THREE

Protests

The Greek television station was showing a replay of the protest march that happened right in front of Hotel Kydon. He could even see their suite on the third floor as the camera panned on the surrounding areas.

Michael noticed several groups of protesters waving different flags, red, black, white, striped. The camera kept zooming on a man who was apparently one of the leaders. He was not tall but looked powerful with a fierce moustache, bushy eyebrows, and a wild shock of curly hair like that of Kostas, the driver. He kept on yelling slogans and egging his men on with the wave of his arms, baring his strong even teeth. Sweat glistened on his face, and as he tossed his head, beads spurt from his face and hair. To Michael, there was something raging, wild, unbridled about this person. His image loomed huge on the television screen, seeming to leap out.

Another group of protesters was mostly women wearing white shirts. A tall woman, with black hair swept back and tied into a ponytail, was in front. She obviously was one of the leaders. She was calm and moved gracefully. She looked more like a fashion model than a protester or a terrorist. The camera zoomed in on her. ‘She’s beautiful but there’s something steely about her,’ Michael thought. ‘What’s she doing out there?’

He then flipped back the television to CNN to get an English program. He opened the small refrigerator-bar and took a can of Mythos, the premiere Greek beer. He then pushed the sliding glass door to the veranda and looked up and down the main street. From there, he could see everything in the heart of Hania. The hotel was so close to the street that his suite was practically on top of the sidewalk. He could see people's faces distinctly. He was sure that from the street, he could also be recognized. He could see the taxi stand where Kostas parked. But Kostas was not there anymore. He must have gone home with the big tip he gave him. He noticed a blue-uniformed policeman below with broad shoulders. He wore a matching blue hat with wide black brims. He looked up but Michael did not make eye contact.

CHAPTER FOUR

Willie

Exactly ten minutes after they got to the room, the cell phone Willie had included in the black bag rang, and a deep gruff voice with an American accent said, Hi, Michael. This is Willie. Welcome to Crete. Did you have a good flight?

Hi, Willie. Yes. It was long but everything went well. Michael felt sure the cell phone was secured against bugging. Thanks for the souvenirs. I could not have brought them with me on the plane.

Michael, did you check them?

Yes. They look good.

They are not registered just like most guns in Greece. I hope you do not have to use them. But if you have to, do it quick and finish the job. Don’t leave behind a man half alive who’ll be able to talk. This is the rule here. Don't look back. Try not to leave any traces. His instructions were clear and cryptic.

Listen, Michael. You’re on your own when you’re here. The US navy base, the NATO and the American embassy in Athens do not know of you, not officially anyway. I can call the base commander anytime if you need anything. He’s a friend of mine.

A certain Andoni will be calling you. He’s our inside man among the protesters. He speaks enough English. If you want to contact me for any urgent reason, ask Andoni. He’s a good man. You can trust him. Jobs are not easy these days, so I give him something once in a while. Good luck, my friend. Any questions?

Just who are you, Willie?

Just a friend, Michael. You take care and good luck! Willie put down the phone gently.

***

Michael called out to Joann, Joann, how about some dinner?

Will be ready soon, honey. The lilt in her voice hinted of a surprise for Michael. She put on the last touches of her make-up.

CHAPTER FIVE

Venetian Harbor

You look gorgeous, honey. Ready for a holiday, huh? She smiled and gave Michael a light kiss, and rubbed his cheek lightly making sure her subtle red lipstick did not smear on his face.

Like it?

Joann twirled around like a fashion model, stunning in her silky black palazzo pants, a sleeveless yellow blouse and a black suede jacket strung on her arm. Her shaggy blonde hair touched her shoulders. The scent of a fresh dab of Shalimar floated in the room driving Michael ecstatic.

I heard the phone ring. Who was that?

That’s Willie. He was the one who gave me the black leather bag, pointing to the bag and the guns beside it on the table.

Joann looked at them and deep furrows formed on her forehead, breaking her serenity. She knew why they were there. They looked dreadful and ominous. She was never used to them even though Michael had one tucked under his belt all the time.

Please put these away in the safe, Michael. He picked them up and went inside the bedroom. She was relieved when she heard Michael open the safe and then shut it.

Let’s go and see what’s in town, Joann.

***

The hotel lobby was still bustling with tourists checking in and men sitting around twirling their worry beads with clicking sounds, like ticking time bombs.

They crossed the street and approached a big darkened building across the hotel. Joann read the sign on the building.

This is the agora, the public market. Actually the center of the city. Should be interesting during the day.

The Agora, a community marketplace

They went around the building. The walls were filled with graffiti and all kinds of political slogans. Stop NATO Bombs! Yankees, Go Home!

"Hmmm. Here is a disturbing graffiti, Michael.

…First gain respect. Then, take revenge."

I wonder what they mean, Michael mused.

Quite disturbing, isn’t it?

They followed the brightly lighted main road, and then turned right at Halydon, a small street lined with