Bloodstained Triangles

By Athanassios KOSMOPOULOS

"An Evzon is murdered by an unknown sniper at Syntagma Square during the changing of the guard ...

Who is trying to derail the country? Who is trying to create chaos?

A strange series of events unfolds as the National Intelligence Agency attempts to identify the perpetrators.

What is the rivalry about that has been playing out in Athens for decades between certain Brotherhoods and Orders? 

Germany, Antarctica, Greece, Israel ... what is their involvement and what are they looking for? … What's the secret?

What heritage are the Greek Brothers presiding over and defending? The eternal fight of good with evil returns ... once more on the Greek battlefield ...

A week in June 2009, a crucial week, where the "good" rises up to meet the "evil" in a battle of dominance… in Greece ... However, this time they are coordinated. This is a battle that is constantly being conducted on a political, economic and cultural level.

Bloodstained Triangles ... many times you will pause reading, as faces and events will remind you "coincidentally" of something you have already seen or heard .. Is this Imagination or is it Reality? True facts or fiction? You are the judge, by reading Kosmas’ story, a Major General of the National Intelligence Service (NIS) who undertakes an extraordinary mission during this particularly important week.

For every name, event, historical reference and place mentioned herein, we invite you to use modern search engines on the web. You will be surprised by what you discover about the past ... and more so about the present …

The "plan" is still out there, centuries now, waiting provocatively for the reader to discover... if he, or she, succeeds ...

Nothing is perchance ... nothing is by conjuncture ... the apex of the triangle is not coincidental ...

From Chaos to Order ... »

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781547532674

Book preview

Tuesday 16/6/2009, 12:50, Parliament

The three soldiers of the Presidential Guard had just turned left at Vassilisis Sofias Avenue. They marched downhill in perfect pace, one behind the other on the pavement towards the monument of the Unknown Soldier for the changing of the guard. Their tsarouchia¹ hit the ground rhythmically and their arms swung up and down like a well-tuned clock on the burning pavement, as if trying to provide some rhythm to an uncoordinated and chaotic city.

A short distance behind them their escort followed wearing his regular combats and blue beret, without the brown foustanela² skirt of the Evzones³ who preceded him, tall and wiry like the other three. As the Evzones approached, pigeons fluttered away from the white line on the red pavement that marked the official route of the guard. Kosmas bought cigarettes under the shade of the first kiosk’s canopy on the descent immediately preceding the entrance to Parliament. He opened the pack withdrawing the first Marlboro and mechanically stuffed the crushed cellophane into his pocket.

As an experienced member of Greek counterintelligence, he had acquired the habit of never tossing his belongings (used or not) in case of any fingerprints and traces of DNA they may retain. He searched for his Porsche lighter, a gift from Eva. He had an appointment with her at precisely one o’clock just outside Parliament. He lit up and drew on his smoke, exhaling loudly, as if trying to eliminate the heavy thoughts that had been weighing him down the past forty-eight hours as well as the cigarette smoke. It had been a long time since he’d seen Eva. On the one hand, he missed her… but on the other, he did not allow himself to get any closer to her. It had cost him dearly in the past.

An agent has no heart, no feelings, is not allowed to love, and should have no weaknesses. He repeated these rules to himself often, more so lately, in an attempt to exorcise his thoughts.

The Director had already entered the Parliament Building to inform the Prime Minister, and Kosmas had invited Eva to come for lunch with him later in Kolonaki. As usual, the journalists had gathered outside the Parliament entrance. They waited for the politicians entering and exiting in the hope of extracting a statement, exerting pressure with the perseverance of an Egyptian outdoor vendor in Cairo’s Khan El Khalili market. The topic of discussion today in Parliament's Summer Session was the prevailing question on Agricultural Policy.

The sun, together with the stillness of the air, irritated him as he sweated in his suit and LV tie, which had begun to suffocate him. He walked slowly towards the Parliament entrance twenty meters behind the Presidential Guard. The Director had already been working with the premier for quite some time and would soon be finished.

Most disturbing of all in this whole situation was the voices of the journalists who, whenever a well-known politician approached the entrance, would gesture like uncontrolled, delusional mental patients. They yelled into the air. Their conscience is guiding them, he thought and smiled as he flicked away his ash. Air it, air it, yes, put me on air they screamed at the Master Controller. The Evzones yelled for air in 1940 in Pindos, he thought and smiled weakly. People passed  before the cameras which were poised like ravenous mouths waiting for scraps of news. The journalists were entangled by the transparent plastic spiral wire in their ears. Some young women held the microphone in front of them as though it represented a scepter of power. Perhaps it was all about this…. power…. the Press, Mass Media, communications…. no matter if most of them couldn't chew gum and walk at the same time.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth and he couldn’t tell if it was just the cigarette or the whole situation.  He remembered the words of the General, A police officer or journalist will never be your friend, but at least most police officers have a conscience, son. He raised his eyebrow at the thought… there were, of course, some notable journalists, albeit only a handful (most of them insignificant and unknown) just as there were, of course, the rogues of the police force, unscrupulous police officers who, as a member of the Agency, he had often had reason to arrest of late. Recently, the National Intelligence Service had acquired the power to arrest anyone they deemed suspicious, police officers, army officers, citizens, everyone, even government officials, according to international practice. Furthermore, they could detain them for as long as they needed, up to a week at most, and wherever, for the purpose of forceful or not, debriefing. This is how the manuals described interrogation, with or without a beating. In the past, if the NIS needed to make an arrest they had to call the police. He sniggered at the recollection.

The General had been the one to support Kosmas. He owed it to him that he had been placed on the front line and he had always respected his experience... He had taught him that you don't have friends: people were sources or targets - one or the other, never something else - and to recognize which of the two quickly. He owed him a lot as an officer of the counterintelligence corps. He was like a father to him...

The Guard had arrived directly in front of the entrance to Parliament when the long black tassels of the first Evzone's cap shot up into the air. It flew off his head as if an invisible whip had struck it. The young man bent over as if tripping on an unexpected obstacle falling face down in front of the Parliament guard-post blocking the small pedestrian entrance. The M1 rifle he had been holding to his shoulder slid off his lifeless arm crashing down to the pavement with an incredible clatter after first balancing upside down on its bayonet as if trying to nail itself into the burning stone.

He immediately recalled his Captain's voice many years ago, at the academy, whenever the same characteristic sound was heard of a rifle falling to the cement, slipping off the careless hand of some student. Four-days detention! Step forward cadet. An Evzone does not drop his rifle he thought and immediately said to himself: 5-days minimum incarceration for the imbecile. Everyone stopped talking and turned towards the sound holding their breath. A red stain began to spread and grow around the Evzone's head, painting the pavement the colour of his cap. For one moment he thought that the traffic had stopped too. No one even dared swallow their own saliva. At once the other two guards fell on top of the injured one and his partner, the other Evzone, ran and held his blood-stained head in his hands. Evzone partners are like brothers. More than brothers.

The cameramen tore their cameras from their tripods and pushed towards the spot like mosquitoes to a lamp at night. They rushed to film the scene while the police officers instinctively formed a temporary security barrier obstructing the curious and indiscreet, blood-thirsty media's eyes from violating the personal boundaries of the drama. Kosmas walked swiftly towards the spot and heard the Evzone's partner say into his mobile phone: Colonel Sir, I'm afraid he's dead. He felt his pulse race in his tight shirt-collar. Kosmas' experienced eye identified an entrance wound on the unfortunate young man's head just above his right eyebrow. Reporters and cameramen now buzzed like flies over dung in the summer.

He quickly looked around him, towards the windows above and the road. His watch showed the time to be 12:58, thank goodness Eva hadn’t arrived yet. This can’t be possible, he thought. This time they hit next to and almost directly inside Parliament! Bloody terrorists! He looked across to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. And then he saw him. In front of the French Embassy, right behind the green, metal traffic lights control box. Something didn’t look right. His heart beat faster and his hands tightened. He flung his cigarette and at once went into operational mode. It was very strange. The tall guy with the beard and the jockey cap on the sidewalk across the road had taken his camera off the tripod and, instead of running towards the spot like all the others, collected his tripod and left casually, descending towards the Grande Bretagne.

He locked onto his target and, passing the flower shops, followed him, staying level with him on the opposite pavement, careful that he went unnoticed. It didn’t make sense, he thought, that all the other cameramen were running towards the dead Evzone for their exclusive coverage while the guy on the other side of the street was leaving calmly. The target hooked the strap of his tripod over his shoulder already talking into his cell phone with his right hand while holding his camera with his left. Kosmas noticed that the target was now moving in front of the Egyptian Embassy and looking scrupulously behind him was taking measures to avoid being followed. He also got his phone out and pretended that he was talking into it. In that way, the moment the target looked towards him, on the opposite sidewalk, he would not seem suspicious to him. Kosmas crossed the red pedestrian traffic light, pushing an old lady who stood before him and followed at a distance of twenty meters. He moved towards the entrance to the Grande Bretagne and, leaving the stairs to the metro behind him to the right, paused and then moved slowly and deliberately towards the marble ramp to the revolving door of the hotel.

He set his cell phone to silent and decided to leave Eva waiting. He would explain later. The target entered the luxurious hotel and turned left inside the lobby. Still outside, he watched as he saw him walk further into the hotel. Before passing the door, Spiros, the commissionaire with the green uniform on reception, wished him a good morning. At the newspaper shop the target paused and checked his surroundings. Now Kosmas was sure that he wasn’t just an ordinary cameraman. He was taking professional countersurveillance measures. He touched his jacket over his pistol in his belt. Inside his suit, in its holster, his HK P2000 SK was a constant companion. An invisible, small but amazing 9mm pistol he called Apostolis. (On missions, before engagement, when running a Service’s weapons and ammunitions check, his partners in the Hellenic Police never asked him in public if he had his pistol with him.  Major, Sir, have you brought Apostoli with you or would you like us to provide you with one? they asked, and no-one else understood). The only place he never carried it was in planes. He would leave it, disassembled, in his suitcase in Cargo, or he would hand it over to the pilots before the flight.

Trust your intuition. It may be a coincidence, it may be insignificant. But something inside him pushed him forwards.

The target descended the stairs towards the toilets, sure that no-one was following him. He pushed the revolving door hurriedly and entered. He followed from above and also descended half-way down the stars waiting at the turn, directly above the ATM, retaining a visual with the door.

Good morning, the chambermaid greeted him as she came up the stairs holding a basket with cleaning materials and smiling at him.

Morning young lady, he whistled between his teeth, his eyes nailed to the door further down.

As he waited he could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took it out. Eva’s name appeared on the screen. He ignored the call and wrote her a rushed SMS: Delayed. Wait for me at the spot. With one eye he looked at the door. It was an indescribably long wait. The waiting part of any operation annoyed him. It seemed unbearable to him. Minutes felt like hours. The old guys of the NIS had told him that stakeouts in counterintelligence were interminably long. Patience was a requirement. One thing you could be 100% certain of was that while you may have been lying in wait for five hours, your target would pass by and you’d lose him in the one minute it took for you to go for a pee or buy cigarettes from the kiosk. Murphy’s Law, Major, Sir, sit here with your eyes open and never ever leave. How many times had he urinated in a bottle in his car, he wondered? At least here, he thought, the target was in the toilet and a wry smile appeared on his face.

He looked around…. total silence. A slim, blonde, heavily endowed, interesting face, wearing a tracksuit descended towards the gym. Air stewardess, he thought noticing her pale, dry complexion and immediately noticed her bag with KLM written on it. If he had had the time he would definitely have spoken to her. Air stewardesses were the best of all women. Messy schedules, as in his own life, they were the perfect girls for casual relationships and occasional experiences with no demands. He pushed the blonde out of his mind. He had already thought of what he would do when the target came out. He would pretend that he was withdrawing money from the ATM and would discreetly become his shadow.

He may, of course, be wrong and just be an insignificant person.

Instinct always….instinct…

Although the air conditioning was powerful, drops of sweat ran down the back of his head. After six minutes waiting that seemed to him like two hours, he decided to go in himself. He pushed the door and entered, carefully scanning the space as he had been trained to, his eyes moving without turning his head. Knee level ahead - to the right - to the left, eye level to the left - ahead - to the right, ceiling level to the right - ahead - to the left. Complete silence… The only sound coming from the speakers in the plush space was Mozart’s 40th symphony. Damn it, all the toilet doors were open, the target nowhere. Where the hell did he go? he asked himself. Did the ground swallow him up? He entered a toilet and looked for windows… there were none. He started washing his hands with the expensive Gilchrist & Soames liquid soap. He wiped them on a white velvety hand towel as he looked around. The guy had vanished. Just as he started to leave he noticed that the velvet stool to the left of the entrance had been slightly moved. On the marble wall, immediately above the stool, was a fan within a frame depicting two pretty girls in Victorian dress sitting in a boat. But this too was crooked as if there had been an earthquake.

Strange… stand there before the unfamiliar, notice what is strange, different and out of place. He straightened the frame and noticing the long stick that the two girls held in the painting, was guided by divine intuition to look in the direction it pointed, towards the wall. He gave the marble wall a strong push. Click…and the wall moved outwards about a centimeter, suspended on invisible hinges. It looked like a secret service door. He pulled it with his fingernails, opened it and saw… the first steps of a cement staircase descending, swallowed by darkness. Probably a service exit for personnel, he thought. He stroked Apostoli over his jacket and with quick steps started going down the stairs. The door behind him closed automatically with a loud click. 20 steps veering to the right, 20 steps veering to the right again and then 20, 40, 45, 50, 55, 60 steps straight down. How deep are we? he wondered. Surely a service exit would be lit.

What's going on here…? The darkness was thick and the atmosphere cold and wet like a cloudy morning on the beach at Platy Gialos in Sifnos Island. The smell of mold in the enclosed space was intense. He felt himself sweating even more. He disliked basements… He was sure he had gone well past the foundations of the hotel. He had heard others talk of tunnels that connected Athens by underground but considered it to be some ridiculous urban myth. He prepared to switch on his iPhone’s torch to dissolve the darkness and his anxiety. The dark was always dangerous. He despised basements, they bothered him. His thoughts were interrupted by a distant noise of receding footsteps… someone was running quickly.

The Parliament

Evzones

Monday 15/6/2009, 08:00, in the NIS Director's office

One day earlier

He opened the door abruptly and stole a glance at his watch…08:55. Entering the foyer to the office he winked cheekily at Sofia, the Director's head secretary. Before he could even tell her the reason of his visit, she said to him:

He's waiting for you, he’s on the phone, wait here for a bit Kosmas, and then closed a large red leather For Signature file with the label: TOP SECRET - SPECIAL OPERATIONS on it.

She looked at him with a penetrating glare for a while as if measuring his height.

Can you tell me your secret for looking ten years younger? she asked him smiling. And how you always manage to look so refined? she continued.

Sofia admired him. Perhaps she even fancied him a little. At forty years of age, he was a tall 1.80 with looks that were not typical of a Major of the NIS. He was always dressed in a tailored suit and shirt, well groomed, with his light, titanium glasses. His background in the Special Forces had gifted him with a well-toned physique.

He ran his fingers through his chestnut hair and looked at her intensely.

I'll tell you my secret if you let me loosen your hair… and he threateningly stretched out his hand to her hair.

Don't you dare, she shrieked and lifted her arms over her head in defense as she moved back. Don't even think about it.

At least take off these thick glasses a little for me to see your eyes and then… perhaps I will tell you my secret. This last sentence was delivered as he bent very close to her ear, almost in a whisper.

Sofia shivered as he touched her glasses and her cheeks colored with a light pink blush. She gave the indiscreet hand holding her glasses a light slap. She was an elegant, quite slender, slightly lined but well-kept fifty-year-old woman with a chestnut colored hair bun and thick glasses for short-sightedness, officially single but ultimately married to the Agency. Her black two-piece suit constituted her uniform. A faithful dog to the Directors, she was reserved. She monitored every file that came in and out of the Director's office. She knew everything about everyone. Maybe more than everything, she even knew more than people knew about themselves. The Directors changed once every three to four years, but she was a permanent fixture, valuable and irreplaceable in her position…. even he did not remember how many years she had been there. He had found her here seven years ago, monitoring whatever files came and went. Her knowledge of undisclosed secrets was vast.

Bastard. You really are a bastard, what do they all see in you, tell me! she looked at him irritated, spitting as she said the words "all see" with such disdain as if she were talking about cheap whores from Thailand.

Listen here Sofia, my dear, if you ever fall into the hands of the enemy do you realize that I will have to find you and kill you because you know too much?

He had in mind her summer trips to exotic, faraway destinations like Bali, Phuket, the Maldives and other earthly paradises. Her only enjoyment in life was a ten-day summer trip that she took every year. This year she was going to the Bahamas. All the other days from at least 08:00 to 18:00, as well as Saturdays and Sundays, she would be here… at the Agency. As a young twenty-year-old assistant, she had worked at the 3rd Directorate, in counterintelligence where she was put through the Agency's hoops and took part in tough missions during the cold war. It was said that she had once fallen in love, a long time ago, with some Captain who had finally betrayed her. The young officers, not excluding Kosmas, believed that this Captain must have fought with Alexander the Great in the battle of Gaugamela! That’s how old.

Careful you don’t fall in love with some young stud out there this year, Sofia, for no doubt he will be a commissioned member of the enemy on a mission to extract information out of you, he warned her.

Why don’t you come with me and protect me then? she retorted raising her left eyebrow, but I know, I know…. you only go with blondes. Don’t worry though, all these years I’ve learned to look after myself. I don’t need you, she answered him with irony overflowing like the froth of Greek coffee forgotten in the embers.

If I come with you, my sweet girl, I’ll keep you up all night and you will lose at least ten kilos, he snapped back at her roguishly.

She looked at her papers blushing again. "Rascal," she muttered under her breath, momentarily losing her composure.

He enjoyed teasing her with vulgar suggestions that lightened the severity and criticality of the issues that they were handling. And she only allowed Kosmas such familiarity that overstepped the strict code of the Agency because he was indeed the best of the Agency's officers, one who had no trouble executing the most daring of missions, and at the same time playing with whichever female's heart he desired.

Between us, Sofia was so frigid you could cut two of her fingers off and put them in your whiskey for ice cubes. But she was the heart of the Agency, honest, reliable, helping everyone in difficulty, working hard when needed and everyone owed her a favor. She was respected, perhaps they even feared her a little, but she was generally accepted in the labyrinthine people’s system of the NIS.

Go in Kosmas, the Boss has finished on the phone, she said as she pointed to the door.

He pulled the door open revealing a second, inner door. He knocked on the door frame with his knuckles as both doors were lined on the inside with red, textured, insulating leather as thick as a quilt. There was no way he could have heard the words come in. He pushed the door in and saw the Director sitting at the back of his office talking on his cell phone. He started to retreat so as not to interrupt him but the General signaled to him to sit in the armchair in front of his desk. He closed the double door behind him and entered slowly. The office was spacious, as befits a Director. Thick, dark blue carpeting covered the floor. However, there was nothing hanging on the walls nor any trinket, ashtray or any other object on the conference table or on the small table in front of the desk. Empty, bare, almost poor. The first time he’d seen it he had wondered about it. He knew the Director was a fanatical anti-smoker, but no decorative objects? Sofia had then explained to him that transmitters or other devices could be planted on paintings and small objects and so, for this reason, a minimalist attitude had been adopted in the Director's office where only the bare essentials were used. There was only a large painting behind the Director's desk depicting a man in traditional uniform, decorated with medals. On a small gold plate beneath it was the inscription: Demetrios Rodokanakis. This painting was the only object the Director had brought to the office.

From the stereo player behind him, Mozart’s The Abduction from the Seraglio could be heard playing faintly.

The Director spoke softly into his cell phone. Kosmas could not hear or discern his words. He was about sixty years old, thin to the point of asceticism, of medium height with short, white, perfectly cut hair. He exuded an air of aristocracy and dignity in his dark grey suit and burgundy tie.  This was probably due to the fact that up until a few years ago, when he took on the position of Director, he had been Ambassador to Greece in several countries. An experienced diplomat in the best and most demanding Agency of the Country, the newspapers had written when he was hired. Today he seemed a little more restless and stressed and his usually expressionless face had a nervous twitch.

Please sit down, Major, he smiled closing his cell phone. Sofia, coffee, he ordered through the intercom, pausing to look at him a little… one for the Major as well please, he continued with a questioning look at Kosmas, who nodded at him affirmatively.

He sat down, unbuttoning his jacket. Coffee for the Major? The Director didn’t usually offer coffee to members of the agency because the pace was such that time did not allow it. Meetings were brief where reports and orders were quickly exchanged as others waited in line for their turn. What was going on?

The Director silently began reading some documents on his desk. Minutes passed slowly and agonizingly for Kosmas, which was always the case when he was puzzled and curious. At some point, the Director lifted his eyes as he finished writing a note.

Major, I called you because, as usual, there is a confidential mission you must take on. At dawn today….

Knocking on the door, Sofia entered with the coffees and put them down in front of them…

The Chief of Police will come to see you at 10:00, as you requested.

The Ambassador (as he liked to be called), nodded to her in accord, took a sip of his plain black coffee at the same time as Kosmas was stirring sugar into his and continued when Sofia left.

So, today at dawn, at about six o’clock, the security guard at the archaeological site of Dion in Pieria discovered a dead body as he began his shift. Do you know where Dion is, Major?

Of course, Mr. Ambassador, it’s close to Katerini. I visited the site as a young student in the Corps Officers Military Academy of Thessalonica and I had even spoken to the Professor there, Pandermali, if I recall correctly, who was in charge of the excavations there. Is that right?

"Correct…. Pandermalis has worked hard and with much success on the site.|

"What has the Agency got to