by D C Macey
‘It is still on the map,’ said Sam, waving his map.
‘Oh, you can’t go by that, Greek tourist maps! It was full of errors fifty years ago and it’s just been reproduced in fancy wrapping.’
‘But the church was there once?’
‘Oh yes, it was there. But it’s gone now. Poor Father Andreas, such a good man.’
‘Father Andreas? Was he the priest? Did he die in the earthquake?’
The old lady looked at Sam, tears forming in her eyes. ‘Back then Father Andreas was such fun. He was my priest but we were also friends. He was my age and from here. I had known him all my life, so we had plenty in common.’ Her voice was tinged with the deep sadness of age looking back at what might have been.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Sam. ‘It’s just I was keen to trace the priest. Certainly didn’t mean to drag up painful memories.’
The old lady was nodding, but only half-acknowledging Sam’s words. She had slipped back to her prime, remembering fun and friendships all broken suddenly and forever in a torrent of falling buildings.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ said Sam, making to stand.
She raised a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t go. Tell me more. Perhaps I can help.’
‘Is Father Andreas still alive? Can you tell me where to find him?’
‘Well I’m not sure how to answer you; it’s some time since I have spoken to him. But he didn’t die in the earthquake. He was badly hurt, rushed headlong into a building to save others. He was very brave and got some people out of a house, just round the corner, off the square. A mother and her children, two boys and a girl. When he went back in for the husband there was an aftershock. They never got the husband out but they did find Father Andreas in time, he made it, but his body was broken. It was awful.’
‘So he is alive. Can you give me his address?’
‘As I said, it was a long time ago. Leave it with me; I will see what can be done, if anything.’
‘Of course, but I’m not here for long, just another day. Will you be able to organise anything in that time?’
The old lady smiled at him. She waved a hand out towards the square. ‘You go out, relax, visit the harbour. Enjoy yourself and for lunch eat in the open-air café directly across the square from here - Dimitris’. Take your time, enjoy. I can recommend the food, I hear our guests talk of it from time to time. If I can make an arrangement for you Dimitris will let you know after lunch.’
‘Dimitris? Is he reliable?’
The old lady gave a hollow laugh. ‘Reliable? Why would he not be? And why would a tourist worry about such a thing?’
Sam gave a resigned shrug. ‘Lunch then, at Dimitris’. But how will I know who Dimitris is and how will he know me?’
‘Stop worrying young Briton. I told you, I like the British. You helped us. It was the British sailors who pulled Father Andreas from the rubble. There are no tricks, we are just private people, we like the shade, not the glare of the sun. As for Dimitris, his father ran a restaurant right there, across the square. He’s one of the little boys Father Andreas pulled from the rubble. Though, of course, he’s as old as my own son is now. Now go.’ She waved him away with a parting smile and leant her head back into the seat’s headrest, closing her eyes. The interview was over.
Sam stepped out into the warm sunlight and felt the heat envelop him. The cool of the morning was already gone. This was going to be a scorcher. He wandered across the square to reconnoitre Dimitris’ restaurant and then headed down the street towards the harbour. He’d some time to fill.
A car nosed its way round the square, keeping Sam in view. The occupants were two men in smart but casual dress. The car registration confirmed what their dress said - visitors from the mainland. The men watched Sam carefully. As he left the square, the passenger jumped out of the car and followed him at a discreet distance. The driver drove the car calmly on, made for the harbour side where he would link up with his partner again.
It didn’t take Sam long to rumble his tail. It was a few years since he had put aside his security training but during the past two or three months it had come back in a rush, and once again, the skills were serving him well. His tail did not know he had been rumbled, nor did the driver. Sam did not know who they were. In the mad world he found himself in, his tails could be anybody: the police, security, perhaps the usual madmen or even friends of Father Andreas. He didn’t even try to guess, time would tell. In the meantime, he’d just wander around a little, take in the sights and keep them busy.
Eventually, Sam settled down beneath a parasol outside a little roadside café. He enjoyed the shade it afforded him as he drank a cold drink. He scanned his phone messages and texts, nothing urgent. Then he sent Helen a text message - reporting in. All the while, he kept an eye on his watchers; they were now clearly feeling uncomfortable in their sun-baked car. Sam gave a little smile to himself. Time for lunch he decided; he stood, put some cash on the table to cover the drink bill and then darted up the street, heading back towards the square and Dimitris’ restaurant. He had shaken his tail off almost before they had realised he was on the move.
Sam had finished his lunch and sat alone wondering if the old lady had failed to make a link for him. He filled his time by idly watching the cook at work in the open fronted café. The vertical rotisserie turned endlessly, its dripping meat juices trickling down as great slices of meat were carved away to fill Doner kebab orders. The cook pierced a variety of meats and vegetables with fierce skewers, filling the metal rods till they could take no more. Then, knowing the customers’ eyes were on him, he wielded the loaded skewers, expertly, theatrically, like some medieval swordsman, lifting and swirling and effortlessly slotting each one in turn into a grid beneath the grill where they were held tight in the heat. A little while later he would return and, with a further flourish, pull out the kebabs, turn the skewers and slot them back in beneath the heat.
Most of the other diners had now left the open-air tables of the square. A few tables had been reoccupied by other tourists seeking a late bite to eat or a cool afternoon drink. Sam had spotted his tail of the morning return to the square. He was unconcerned. In such a small place, they were bound to track him down again, especially as he was not hiding. There was nothing he could do about them, so he chose not to worry.
Just as Sam was about to give up on any contact, the short plump man who had spent the whole lunchtime buzzing around the front of the restaurant, directing the waiters and shaking hands with passing locals, came towards him. White shirted, sleeves turned up to the elbow, black trousers. His gait was almost sailor-like as he deftly rolled amongst the crowd of tables and chairs, never quite touching any. He exuded the confidence of command, this must be his restaurant, and so this must be Dimitris, thought Sam.
Dimitris paused to laugh and chat with two middle-aged ladies, tourists who were happy to take a few moments of his time. Leaving them with a little plate to which their bill was fixed, he continued his meander between the tables. Sam watched him approach. The man appeared just a friendly restaurateur. Finally, he reached Sam.
‘Your bill, sir. You liked the food, I hope?’ said Dimitris.
Sam nodded an acknowledgement, and glanced at the bill. He pulled some Euros from his pocket to settle up. ‘Are you Dimitris?’
‘I am, sir. And I have a message for you. Look over there, in the corner of the square. See the Peugeot 205? It’s waiting for you. Go now, it won’t wait for long.’
Sam did not bother looking. He had noted the worn and dusty old Peugeot arrive a minute or two before. Its young driver had been staring at Dimitris from the moment he had pulled on the handbrake - willing the restaurateur into some action.
It was immediately clear to Sam that the Peugeot driver was an amateur - a local? By extension, he was not linked with the two men sitting in the other car, currently parked on the far side of the square. They were tailing him and while Sam did not rate their skills too highly, they were c
ertainly persistent.
‘Thanks,’ said Sam. He didn’t wait to pass the time of day with Dimitris, just stood and walked quickly off in the direction of the waiting Peugeot.
As Sam reached the car, he noted the change in engine revs as the young man behind the wheel played nervously with the accelerator. He got into the front passenger seat and smiled at the driver before buckling his seatbelt. ‘Shall we go?’
The driver smiled in response but did not reply. Sam assumed he did not speak English, then he registered that the driver wore the black of a priest’s robe. As the Peugeot pulled into the traffic, Sam noted that the car carrying his tails was drawing away from the kerb. He reached out his hand to adjust the passenger door’s mirror; he could monitor his tail easily enough. The young priest either didn’t notice or didn’t care that the mirror was moved; he was focused only on getting Sam to his destination, wherever that was.
The Peugeot had left town in minutes. Its old engine struggled against the incline as the car continued along the road and up into the mountainous interior of the island. As they wound round hairpin bends, Sam would notice the following car, maintaining a discreet distance; it would pop into sight then vanish again as the Peugeot took the next bend. With each passing kilometre, the landscape became more remote, more isolated. He got regular glimpses of the sea shining blue in the distance below. Nearer to hand, they occasionally passed little clusters of mostly whitewashed houses, hunched barns and stores, a little chapel, and always the bleached white bedrock breaking through the vivid greens of scrub and trees that nowhere quite managed to maintain a complete blanket of cover.
Eventually, the car turned off the road and on to what seemed an impossibly narrow and steep track that climbed up to a ridge running parallel to the road they had just left. The engine laboured valiantly as the car strove towards the top, but finally, with what Sam imagined might have been a groan of relief, the car rolled over the crest and cruised the short distance down into the little mountain valley below.
At first, it seemed the car was carrying him into an empty place. Then he noticed a building, old and weathered but strong. Almost hidden in the landscape, it was built of the same stone as the hills that surrounded it. As they continued down the slope, he started to get a feel for the building’s shape and scale. It was built around an enclosed courtyard. Almost like a fort, two storeys he guessed, three at most. He could not make out any windows in the outside walls, just a shadowy gap where large double gates were swung inwards to reveal a deep archway leading into the courtyard beyond.
As the Peugeot drove under the archway, Sam glanced into the wing mirror, no sign of the following car. Had they given it the slip at the turning off the main road, or was it just holding back? The Peugeot drove straight across the courtyard and parked directly in front of the main entrance. A pattern of black iron studs reinforced its wooden double doors. Each door was fitted with a heavy ring handle of black iron. They hung hot in the sun.
Stepping out of the car, Sam glanced about. Even the inner walls of the courtyard contained no ground floor windows at all. Security conscious, he thought. But there were windows at first floor level, placed evenly round all four sides of the courtyard. And the main part of the building in front of him included a further row of yet higher windows, a second floor.
At the midpoint in the courtyard wall to his left was another set of identical wooden doors. Directly above, a little tower emerged from the roof; he could see a black bell hung within. It must be a chapel.
The young priest got out of the car and beckoned Sam to follow him up the steps and into the building. Sam noted he had left the car keys in the ignition, obviously not too worried about security and access today. After allowing the priest a couple of paces’ space, he followed, noting the cement ramp that had been built to one side of the steps - access for a trolley or perhaps a wheelchair. It was a relief to enter the cool shade of the hall and he pressed the door closed behind him, keeping the heat out.
Long shadowy corridors ran away to left and right but the young priest beckoned again and walked straight ahead, leading Sam towards the back of the building to reach the stairway up, passing what Sam reckoned was a particularly modern passenger lift. As they climbed the stair, natural light from the windows above provided better illumination. He began to notice the heavy wooden panelling and the regularly spaced display of religious icons.
Having reached the first floor, he was led a little way along a corridor and into a long room whose windows looked out over the courtyard. Sam stepped inside and the door shut behind him. He was alone in a reception room: calm, unthreatening. Here, close to the door were a scattering of reception chairs and occasional tables, old but not well worn. Clearly, this place did not receive many visitors.
A little further along stood a broad table surrounded by high backed wooden chairs. A boardroom table or a dining table? At the far end of the room was a desk and the entire wall behind it was occupied by a bookcase, full of what were mostly very old books. Sam found himself drawn toward the books. Perhaps he could get a feel for the place from its reading material. Just as he reached them, the sound of a door opening stopped him and he turned towards the sound. It was a panelled door, set in the room’s long wall at the corner adjacent to the bookcase. He had not noticed it during his initial scan of the room, then he realised why; it was panelled in exactly the same wood as the walls.
An old priest entered through the opened doorway, his electric wheelchair rolling almost silently across the wooden floorboards. He looked up and smiled, stretching out a hand.
‘Welcome, Mr Cameron.’
Sam took the priest’s hand and shook. Looking the old man in the eye, he could sense an unflinching determination in the man. ‘Thank you. And I’m assuming you are Father Andreas.’
‘I am. Please, won’t you take a seat? Let’s talk.’ Father Andreas pointed back along the room towards the occasional chairs and then motored towards them. Sam followed.
Father Andreas paused near the window, pointing Sam towards a seat with a view out across the courtyard. Without hesitation, Sam sat and briefly glanced outside. There the stillness of the afternoon was dictated by the burning sun. Anything that lived was sheltering, waiting for the cool of evening to seep in with the shadows - there was a while to wait. He turned his attention back into the room, where Father Andreas had now manoeuvred his wheelchair closer.
‘Perhaps I can offer you some refreshment, Mr Cameron? A cool drink, perhaps?’
Sam was happy to accept and, as if by magic, a middle-aged priest appeared carrying a tray with glasses and a jug of iced water. He placed it on the table between Sam and Father Andreas, then poured iced water into the glasses and left without a word.
Father Andreas lent forward, lifted his glass and drank. He smiled at Sam. ‘Please drink the water, Mr Cameron. It has lemon juice added, the fruit picked fresh from our orchard this morning.’
Sam took a sip, enjoyed the refreshing taste. He complemented Father Andreas on it and then placed the glass back on the table. ‘Please, call me Sam and thank you for seeing me. Though it’s all a bit mysterious. You could have just passed on the address and I would have come by taxi.’
Father Andreas nodded acknowledgement of Sam’s comment and took a sip of water himself. Then he gave a wry smile. ‘We live a quiet life here, out of the way; not secret, just very quiet. We find it easier to bring guests when we want them. I think open invitations might set a precedent that could prove unwelcome one day, don’t you?’ Father Andreas’ voice was gentle yet still conveyed a sense of unwavering firmness.
‘And yet here I am. You were happy enough to see me. I wonder what criteria I met,’ said Sam.
Father Andreas chuckled to himself. ‘We have no criteria, but you are certainly interesting. You come from Edinburgh, seeking St Athanasius’ church, yet you are not a priest; I understand you are a university lecturer. I wonder what might have triggered your interest in such a thing.’
‘You know who I am and where I’m from. You’ve certainly done some homework.’
‘Yes, we have. And having seen press reports over the past months it seems your name has appeared more than once. What should I make of that? Have you stories to tell?’
Sam fixed Father Andreas with a steady gaze. ‘Not quite sure where you’re going with that question.’
‘Come now, Sam. We live in a backwater. We are not backward. Why are you looking for us? And why did you organise a tail? Oh yes, Father Christos spotted your friends and their car from the moment they started to follow back in the square. Who are your friends? Why do you feel the need to have an escort?’
Sam was impressed. Clearly, his driver had been alert after all - though he had misread the signs. ‘They’re no friends of mine. Only came across them myself today.’
‘It seems they are interested in you. I wonder why. So many people, so many interests. You say they are not your friends so why would they be waiting in their car just over the ridge? They are dedicated; it must be very uncomfortable in the afternoon heat.’
‘No good asking me. Why not ask them? I’d be more than happy to learn what they’re about.’
Father Andreas gave a little shrug and glanced briefly out of the window towards the ridge. He raised his hand and pointed gently towards the window, then let it fall into his lap again. Instantly, beyond the door there was the faint sound of footsteps hurrying along the corridor, then receding to silence as they descended the stair.
‘Perhaps we will,’ said Father Andreas. ‘But why do you want to speak with me?’ What brings a university lecturer more than 2000 kilometres with little more than an overnight bag? That’s not holiday travel is it?’
‘Well, I always like to mix a bit of business with pleasure,’ said Sam.
Suddenly his attention was caught by sounds from outside the window; car doors slammed, the Peugeot engine coughed into life then roared under the pressure of a hard pressed accelerator pedal. The car appeared rushing across the courtyard, two priests on board. He guessed they were going to challenge the men parked in their car. He had not recognised either of the priests and wondered how many people were in the building. For all its outward quiet and stillness, it seemed a busy place.
