Shadows of Conspiracy

By Eleftherios Thermos

Based on the “Operation Gladio”. A political thriller novel, a case of terrorism, an absolutely fantastic story. But it draws on aspects of journalistic research that have seen the light of day at times. An intelligence agent, a Rat, a Terrorist, a dreamy Adventurer and a fatal Woman. Everyone is intertwined with yarn, like puppets. Nobody knows its own future. Everybody dreams, every one of them, each one from his position.
Travels to Italy for arms transfer, links to agents there, agents ‘withdrawals’, street killings, business interests, terrorist attacks. A literary script that the reader will rather see than read…

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728398594

Eleftherios Thermos

I had born in Solingen, Germany, from immigrants parents, workers at iron factories. After the fall of military government in Greece in ’74 we came back in Thessaloniki where I grow up from my 3 y.o until today. I had finished high school and the superior school of Pasteur as a Radiologist’s Assistant. With writing I guess, I am connected with a magical way; from my early teenage-12 or13 y.o-I was writing almost every day, small stories, or poems. One of my biggest problems is to set up my mind in the ordinary reality. Mostly I ‘m lost in my thoughts. Today I’m dedicating with script writing and keep working in my book concepts. Basically I am working with screen stories about film, TV show, documentaries. My first book was A Blind’s Man Quest a surreal small novel, this is my second one. This book it’s actually a screen play which had wrote it when the occasion “Gladio” was on News Number One Theme. I was surprised how easily was caught them all! So I inspired this story, completely from my head. The dates are fictional and the Names and People are completely fantastic persons, only some details which are drawing the whole image of how the things could working… After a few years I have made it as a book novel and I present it to you!

Book preview

JANUARY 6TH, 1970. ATHENS -

SQUARE OF THE AMERICANS, 18:00

A pigeon is picking on a crust of muddy soaked bread by the side of the street. While tossing it around, the crust comes to land on a public drain lid, inches from falling into the gap; the bird goes right after it. Startled at the sudden crackle of a gunshot, the bird lets the bread go off its beak; it drops back onto the lid. A man falls flat on his face right next to it. The pigeon takes off with bullets razing past it; scared and jumpy, it reaches the cornice of a nearby apartment block.

Back down in the middle of the street, three men armed with revolvers have taken cover behind a hastily braked down car and they are shooting at a couple of others who are running towards the corner of the street. One of them is wearing a construction worker’s outfit, while the other, in a costume, apparently shot in the thigh, is evidently in pain. Behind them there are two bodies lying next to the parked cars by the side of the street. One of them cars bears several bullet holes with smoke plumes emitting from its engine.

We need to pull back. Keep moving; go to extrication point. I’ll come by and pick you up in 10’; I’ll get you to a medic. Go, now! the man in the laborer’s outfit barks.

Forget it, I’ll stay behind and provide you with cover for as long as I’ able, the wounded man replays back moaning.

Don’t be a fool. That will get us both killed. You must leave first, it’s our only chance; I’ll dodge them far more easily alone. Can’t carry you along with me, you’ll burden me down. That’s why you must leave now! he tells him in a commanding tone of voice.

The wounded man stumbles to the back of the street grunting in pain. He’s in need of medical attention the sooner; albeit, this sooner might be hours away. Ache will keep on climaxing and he’ll have to keep silent in order not to attract attention. Extrication point is six blocks away from the gunfire scene. Yet, it is a residential area of narrow, randomly mapped out streets and towering apartment blocks built shoulder to shoulder with each other, forming a maze that easily leads astray those not familiar with the grounds.

He enters an apartment building and takes the elevator to the top floor. Agonizing pain gets a firm hold of him by now. No matter what he presses himself to think of, pain is ever-present, like a pesky friend imposing his annoying presence over his intellect, his senses, his reality. He even thinks of striking a murmuring conversation with pain, so that they get to know and come to terms with each other; to show his distaste for the unwelcomed company and thus drive the pain away. Still, the only thing he can do is to take off his belt and turn it into an improvised tourniquet tied tight above the wound.

Minutes go by and the quarter turns into an hour. With each passing minute, the pain reasserts its presence with sharp blows and irritating constant burning sensation. The Layman is horribly late for their rendezvous, so there is nothing he could do other than sustain the pain and pant as mutely as possible.

Time! What a sham! Its relentless flow inadvertently leads one to lose count of days stashed in memory, only to wonder where have all these years been gone, while on occasion each minute passes excruciatingly slow with each moment lasting a tormenting eternity.

Yorgis is by nature a harsh judge of himself. He stoically accepts it all as yet another trial of character. Still, what he presently goes through is singularly unique. As singularly unique was the pain he had experienced when he was subjected to fierce feet whipping torturing. On that occasion, too, he felt the dominant element of pain intensifying the passage of time, drilling hole after hole through one’s brain. The only difference, the opponent was seated right across him back then, and that boosted his conviction. Now he is stranded all alone, wounded, waiting on his comrade at a top stairs floor. Sneaking out equals risking arrest. Staying there, either he’ll be found or his wound will be infected. Agony besets itself as the constant companion of every single thought crossing his mind. The paranoia of lucidity…

At the far side of the block, Layman is keeping their pursuers at a distance, in order to provide Yorgis with sufficient time to make it. Things take a turn for the worse when he is cornered by a couple of new cars arriving with men getting off and taking cover behind them.

Layman realizes his only option is to scram, detracting their attention from the point of extrication and Yorgis. No matter what, he needs to get back and pick him up. All that remained of their organisation was just them and the kid. Motherfucker, he murmurs as he reaches a yard and dives in it. He lays there hidden behind the flowerpots between the fence and the street, with his head down to the ground, desperately timing each passing minute. After what seemed like an hour to him, just as he was about to raise his head and take a look around, some guys came and stood panting by the fence…

He must have taken that narrow lane. The man peeked around. There are lots of getaway passages; he must be miles away by now. There’s no point to it, let’s split he shouts to the rest, while at the same time gesturing to them to stay put.

Layman remains flat on the ground, as if postponing an inevitable gruesome future. The longer he stays like that, the more he thinks of abstract shapes, spinning wheels, kid toys, traffic signs. He remembers of Chara, a girl classmate of his in elementary school, on that secret strolling date they went together; the other boys used to make fun of him for hanging around with girls. Once again he’s with her, hidden behind the far corner of the schoolyard; he almost tastes this long forgotten flavour with eyes tightly closed. It all drifts away into the vastness of time and darkness.

By the time he snaps out of it, hours have gone by. It is high afternoon by now with the locals still taking their midday Mediterranean siesta. Sort of disoriented, Layman makes his way through the streets and reaches extrication point. He sees Yorgis sweating in pain and bewildered whether to swear at him in anger or kiss him in gratitude. He puts his arm around him and helps him stand up. Then he takes him up on his shoulder like a sack and carries him down the stairs. He opens the elevator door and helps him in, then enters himself.

Hang in here, I’ll go get a taxi and pick you up, will you?

Sure, he’s given a short anguished reply.

I’ll take you straight to the doctor. Don’t worry, it hasn’t been that long. Things will be just fine.

The pain is killing me. Let’s get over and done with it.

JANUARY 6TH, 1970. ATHENS -

AMERICAN EMBASSY, 22:00

In the presence of his handler, the Embassy Attaché, Akis, the American, is pacing up and down the office puffing on a cigar and occasionally taking a sip of whiskey. Evidently lost in his thoughts, he’s about to raise the glass to his mouth while still biting on the cigar. Seated behind the desk, the Attaché takes notice of it and breaks a smile. That catches the attention of Akis, snapping him out of his pondering.

Pretty close to make a botch of it, wasn’t I? he says and takes his turn laughing at himself. You know, sometimes I wonder whether this whole deal is real or just a figment of our imagination… he adds, still pacing up and down the office.

The Attaché peers at him somehow intrigued and bewildered; existential reflection is the last thing he’d expect in the embassy grounds. It’s not meant to be shelter for academics. All over the world, embassies are primarily reserved for diplomacy and trade growth - no place for moralities. Moreover, out of the mouth of a foot soldier.

Did anything out of the ordinary occur today, giving rise to such thoughts? the Attaché asks him inquisitively.

No, business as usual. A gunfire exchange, two dead, none of them ours, thank God, a run of the mill day… Jesus, a run of the mill day!

So, what’s wrong with that?

Nothing at all. I just wonder if all these plots and machinations we weave are of any interest to the everyday people. Or of any practical use. I am worried the whole matter is nothing but self-significance pipe dreams among useful idiots. Don’t you ever wonder how come this military dictatorship deems so appealing to the average citizen of this country? Conforming everybody into waking up at the same time each and every day, wearing more or less the very same dress up and doing the very same thing behind different machines. Getting off work all at the very same time, return home and indulge in the very same things. And this is a repetitive pattern, from Alaska to Johannesburg, the same fucked up reality. And we delve among them in ever entwining conspiracies, grinding ourselves to pulp, he concluded and gulped down his whiskey.

The distorted image of the Attaché through the bottom of his glass made him laugh. In reverse, his blown up eye drew the Attaché’s scoff.

Huh! Do you think we are the only ones dancing to this tune? Do you think we wouldn’t be in place albeit for the Bolsheviks?

Let’s be candid. I was under the impression attaches are meant to be smarter than that. We’d be in place no matter what; it’s grand strategy determining our being into place, not the Bolsheviks. The rest of it all is just hot air indoctrination. Be truthful and your armies will be of steel, be sincere and they’ll trust you; otherwise it will be forever pilling lies upon lies. That makes me ponder whether we matter in real life or do we just serve as models for cartoonists. Most probably than not, society would be a lot better off without us.

This went on into the night, with Akis’ ranting coming to an end shortly after the whiskey bottle was emptied.

SEPTEMBER 3RD, 1969.

ATHENS, 08:00

The alarm clock is wrecking havoc for what seems an eternity before Constantine gets himself to emerge from the slumber after a wearisome night of cigarette smoking, drinking and debating over a subject he deemed as absurd; what’s the point of talking about events abroad, and why should his opinion as regards the current government matter? After all, it was imposed by might of force, utterly disregarding the will of the people.

Naturally, Constantine would not bother himself hard thinking who’s to blame or whether the government is fascist, callous or unjust. His own personal mantra called for survival by flying under the radar as slickly as the wind, with the bare minimum of compassion towards his fellow man. One might say that Constantine is an adventurer who might offer a helping hand to thy neighbour, conditionally. Any further hints of higher philosophy were to be swiftly brushed out of the picture.

It is 7:30 in the morning and he is suffering a splitting headache, yet he has to meet with Yiorgis and that other guy from overseas, Akis, in half an hour. Christine is still sound asleep and, oddly enough, her perfume incites him, despite the dizziness he’s experiencing after last night binge drinking. Constantine steals an investigative look under the sheets, first at his erected member and then at Kristine’s popping butt. That’s all I needed, he thinks; then his appointment sobers him up. Damn your hook-ups, Yiorgi, I’m a fool for taking you seriously, he half-thinks, half-murmurs while getting up.

Ever yawning, he finally makes it to the kitchen. He measures some water in a cup and then empties it into the coffee-pot. He lights up a petrol smelter, puts the coffee-pot on it, adds some grained coffee and then goes to the bathroom to take a shower. I am just the idiot following him around. Why do I do it? Still, the money is good; otherwise he’d sent both Yiogis and the American fellow to hell. He hears the coffee bloating up, spilling over the pot and quenching the open flame. He runs hurriedly to the kitchen. Damn it, he murmurs as he’s pouring the coffee into his mug. Ever after high-school, Constantine had to have a cup of coffee before stepping out; without it, something wasn’t quite right, he had trouble blending in with his environment.

While drinking his coffee and smoking the first cigarette for the day, he blew his mind out through the window and had a vision of his future with Kristine - the way it suited him and his imagination, obviously - the happiest times of our lives come about while visualising the immediate future in the most fitting mould of dreams.

The phone ring cuts all his daydreaming short. Momentarily perplexed, Constantine picks it up.

Hello?

…

Hi there. What is it this time?

…

Can’t he wait a bit? We said by 8 o’clock. Spare me; I had a bad night’s sleep.

…

Fine. Why should we postpone it? Are you meshing up with me?

…

Who? I thought that… At the embassy? His guys are not helping him out, so we have to take the risk and ferry the cargo all the way to Italy? Wise up, Yorgis, these are grave matters. You are tossing me into the fire…

…

Captain or no captain, the cops would pin it on me, asshole. Are you kidding me?

…

Fine, fine, the money… Bullshit. Don’t you ever irk me like that. Let me tell you now. Unless you’ve got something positive, don’t you ever bother me again.

He slams the receiver down, picks up his mug from the nightstand next to the phone and leans next to the window gazing down at the traffic. Christine, still half-dozing under the sheets, tries to bring herself up. She stayed up late waiting on Constantine…

Rise and shine, he tells her impishly, in an effort to avoid arguing over his belated return the night before.

No, she replies back and turns her back on him.

He gets back to his coffee and to the window. There are three policemen standing at the entrance of the opposite apartment block that is occupied mostly by college students. They seem edgy and keep on ringing on the bells till, finally, the door is buzzed open and they enter hastily. Hardly a minute later, they make their exit with two long haired and bearded students. One of them is handcuffed; the other is dragged by the hair. The spectacle annoys Constantine. : Motherfucking students. They grow their hair long targeting themselves. Get a haircut, you bozos, and do your stuff subtly. Can’t you start a revolution without the long hair? Let alone the sarcasm that the ones fiery professing and viciously implementing revolution are the shortcut haired army brass and law enforcement agents currently in power. And these students are all up for their own longhaired revolution? People are downright stupid. He finishes up his coffee and draws the last puff on his cigarette, as if a joint toke, like it’s the last one on earth.

With the patrol cars carrying the young students pulling away, he turns from the window and comes face to face with Christine, starring at him with a cold eye. Startled, he nearly drops his mug.

Did you have a good time last night, Mr. Constantine? she gave him no respite, determined to find out about his belated return.

Gimme a break, Christine. After all this time we’ve been together, you’re still jealous of me? Let me be.

"Like you let me waiting on you all night long?

Nonsense. You were sound asleep by the time I got back. He cuts her short and goes to the kitchen to put down the mag.

And what time was that? she presses on asking him wryly in a stressed voice.

Four, four-thirty, can’t recall. Did you notice the youngsters next door? They just got picked up. Students, assholes, longhaired rebel instigators, they presume all military rulers are dimwits.

Stop fooling about dimwit freaks and answer me.

Who’s fooling around, Christine? You’re making a stormy scene out of it. Why should I chat with you about my being late? I was busy over…

Some cheap whore?

You are perfectly right. If the American is a cheap whore, yes, we were together last night talking about the Stowaway. She’s been moored idle rusting for so long, and now there’s a job coming up, I should drop it? That is what kept me. We were talking about sailing some fruit cargo to Italy. Load up at Preveza and ferry it to Bari. We’re talking big monay. Hailstorms have ruined their crops over there. American is sort of a racketeer, but this will be a legit business with licences et all.

And all the sea-worthy maritime certificates required for the Stowaway?

I’d arrange for those. But it all went south. There were certain issues with the regime and now he’s hiding scared in the embassy. Some shadows were following after him and the moment he took wind of it, the American wisely went astray. Let me make you a coffee, my girl, I’ll make another one for me, the first was over-boiled. Then we can sit together and enjoy it.

He heads towards the kitchen, mimicking a woman’s swinging hips sway, in order to pique Christine. She watches him and breaks a smile. After a while, he comes back carrying a serving dish with the coffees and sits right next to her.

Can’t you see, baby? Is there anyone more open-minded than me? Even the communists who speak for equality, they won’t make coffee for their spouse, but not me… There’s hardly any reason for you to complain.

Christine throws her arms around him and kisses him passionately. She sits on his lap. He stands up holding her in his arms and takes her to bed. Although he’s exhausted, he wants to please her – he’s fond of her and he hates it when she’s making some ugly scene out of sheer jealousy.

SEPTEMBER 18TH, 1969.

ATHENS, 06:45

The telephone is ringing incessantly. Constantine tosses and turns around in the bed ignoring it. But the caller seems determined to get him up and presses on relentlessly.

Who can be it, Constantine? Pick it up.

Whoever it might be, can go to hell. So early in the morning, I wouldn’t get up even for my mother’s funeral. They can go stuff themselves, we’re sleeping. Fuck you, he shouts to the telephone, while it keeps ringing in and on in nerve-wrecking defiance.

Finally, it stops and things go back to normal. But the lull does not last long before it starts ringing once again. The caller is dead set on reaching Constantine, no matter what.

I’m gonna chew the ears off this bastard ringing us at sunrise.

He gets up hurriedly and makes his way to the telephone.

"Speak up, scumbag, what is it?

…

Who is it? Panos?

…

Fuck you, Panos, that early in the morning. And tell Yorgis to beware, I’m to tear him a new one and angrily puts down the receiver.

He returns to bed and lays down to sleep some more, but he barely covers himself with the sheet before the phone starts ringing again. I won’t pick you up, he murmurs and turns to his side, resting his hand on Christine’s butt. Soon enough, the telephone stops ringing, and, soon after that, once again it commences. He springs out of bed and grabs the receiver.

Listen up, you little piece of shit, don’t you ever again hang up on me, I’ll fuck the shit out of both you and Christine, right after I’d had fucked your mother along with that shithole of a village she lives in Meritsa. The voice over the line was loud enough to reach the half-awake Christine still lying on the bed.

The no-nonsense tone of voice and the fact that this fucker knew of his mother in their ancestral village has Constantine left at a loss. With improvised calm hardly cloaking his scare, he attempts to find out who he’s talking with.

Now, what is the big deal for all this fuss that early in the morning?

Listen up, Yorgis had a near fatal encounter with police, he’s presently holed up somewhere, while some days previously he’d met with you and a guy called Akis the American, a shoddy character we know little about. So, you need to come clean what he’s up to.

Yorgis is a dear friend, and I had no idea about his trouble with the police. As for that meeting, we talked about shipping a cargo of fruit from Preveza to Italy. And Yorgis did not come. That’s about all I know.

Really? What sort of fruit? Explosive ones? Listen up, dude, I think you missed the part about old Vasilo living right next to Mr. Sotiris convenience shop, you know, just round the corner of the main square, in that little house with the small garden and the fine rose plants she keeps…

A chill run down Constantine’s spine. His own mother was put on the line. He remained speechless.

Hello there, do I have to send you that in writing?

No, no, I’m al ears, he answers back nervously and meekly.

That’s more like it. Let’s start over again. I’ve got all day to listen up to you, so start talking.

"Listen, Yorgis had phoned me some three weeks ago, late August, early this month. Anyway, about meeting up with him and Akis, an American-born Greek, to discuss over some business. The meeting point was a coffee-shop at Vathis Sq. It was there I first met with the American. Yorgis was not present; he did not make it to that meeting. So we sat there, had a coffee and the we went in search of some