Retribution

by Nicholas Gill

  ~~*~~

  Mike Edge was still thinking about the report he would have to make when he arrived at the State Department in Washington. Looking across at the row of seats facing him, he saw a strikingly beautiful girl sitting opposite him. As he looked a young man sitting next to her turned and spoke to her in an obvious chat-up attempt.

  The girl’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘Got your brains in your scrotum? Get lost you slime ball!’

  The guy shrank visibly before her level stare, turned away and began to color bright red.

  Mike had difficulty in not laughing out loud. The girl had turned the whole incident from an unwelcome embarrassment into high farce in seconds. Still highly amused, Mike was quite unprepared as the girl’s eyes locked with his. Her eyes were twinkling with barely suppressed laughter too. Without intending to, he winked. To his surprise she gave him a wicked grin, followed by an interested lift of the eyebrows. Mike’s stomach flipped, his pulse began to race, he started to get up then he froze. Another man had crossed his line of vision and, sitting down in an empty seat on the other side of the girl, began to speak to her. The man was his brother.

  September 22nd. Athens.

  Dimitris left the airport as the morning began to heat up. He did not notice the rising temperature, but he was acutely aware of the car following him home. He had felt a momentary relief when he had successfully completed the instructions he had been given, but now with time to think, he was desperately worried. Roula and the children were still hostages, the terrorists might keep their promise to leave them unharmed or they might not. He shuddered; the second option didn’t bear thinking about. The leader of the two men was constantly behind him, and he could see no way out of his predicament. The problem was that these men were playing for different stakes. Dimitris was shrewd enough to know that he had served his purpose. Even if he had money to offer them they would not be interested; and what if they did go away as promised, leaving him and his family unharmed? The items he had placed on the plane would be traced back to him, his name was on the loading documents, his name was on the work rota, and his fingerprints were all over the substituted meal containers.

  Dimitris racked his brains. He had to do something to try to protect his family whatever happened. An idea began to form in his mind. He remembered having an unused brown envelope somewhere in the cab of his van. As he was stopped in the traffic, he rummaged quickly through the accumulated stuff in the shelf on the passenger side. Yes, there it was. He took a ball point pen from his overall pocket and wrote the address of the main Athens Police station on the envelope as the traffic crawled along.

  Taking a dog-eared notebook from his overall pocket he quickly wrote his address on the centre pages, then; ‘My name is Dimitris Kosovos. I work for Olympic Catering. Two men using this Mercedes car took my family hostage.’ He wrote down the number of the car following him. ‘They forced me to put substitute meal trays onto flight OA 269 today. They are Turks. They are armed and dangerous, please help us!’

  The traffic was starting to move again. Dimitris moved on, he didn’t want to arouse the suspicions of the man following him by having horns blown at him for not moving with the traffic flow. At the next halt he quickly tore the centre page from his notebook, put it into the envelope and sealed it, and waited for an opportunity. To his relief one soon came. A large van pulled over, cutting in between Dimitris and the car following him. Dimitris eased over towards the centre line of the road and stopped in the traffic queue, his open window opposite the open window of a car going the other way. Checking in his wing mirror to ensure that the man following could not observe him, Dimitris flicked the envelope through the open window into the lap of a young lady. She looked at him startled.

  ‘Please help me!’ Dimitris begged, ‘please, this is life or death matter, please deliver this for me!’

  The traffic moved off and the young lady, too startled to reply, was gone. Dimitris was forced to move on as well. ‘Please God,’ he prayed, ‘please make her do as I asked. Please.’ He prayed the rest of the way home.

  The young lady in the car was nonplussed. ‘How strange, that poor man, he looked as if he was on the edge of a breakdown.’ She looked at the hastily scrawled address on the envelope. The main Athens Police Headquarters. ‘Oh well,’ she thought, ‘it isn’t a million miles out of my way, but it’ll have to wait until after my interview.’

  September 22nd. Departure lounge, Hellenikon Airport.

  ‘Damn,’ Mike swore under his breath, ‘what on earth is Alan doing here?’ Mike was traveling on an Irish E.U. passport under the name of Mike Kelly and didn’t want his cover blown. After a few moments Mike began to think that maybe his brother would not notice him. He was deep in conversation with the girl opposite, maybe she would keep his attention and Mike could avoid recognition. Wishing he had bought a newspaper to hide behind, Mike decided to move quietly to the other side of the departure lounge where he could sit with his back towards Alan. Choosing his moment as carefully as possible, he stood up. Several pairs of eyes, including those of his brother, flicked towards him attracted by the movement. Mike saw recognition dawn on his brother’s face, saw him say excuse me to his lovely companion and stand up. He walked over.

  ‘Mike,’ he said quietly, ‘what a pleasant surprise, what brings you here?’

  Mike gave him a blank look. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know you,’ and before his brother could say anything more he strode off to the far side of the departure lounge, choosing a seat where he could sit with his back to most of the passengers.

  Anna’s curiosity was aroused; it sharpened her interest to an acute degree. ‘Who is that man,’ she thought, ‘what’s happening here?’

  Alan was puzzled; he knew his brother worked in the intelligence community, although he didn’t know the exact nature of his work. He sat back next to Anna his brow furrowed in thought. If Mike was denying his identity he must have a good reason.

  ‘Who was that?’ Anna asked as he sat down.

  ‘Oh, I thought I knew him but I must have made a mistake,’ Alan said lamely.

  ‘That’s not like you; you have a good memory for faces.’

  Alan didn’t meet her eyes.

  Anna sensed a mystery, something she should get to the bottom of. ‘Come off it,’ she said, ‘I know you better than that, who did you think it was?’

  Alan, determined to get off the hook, and a little more composed by now, looked her in the eye. ‘No-one you know,’ he said, telling the literal truth, for Anna had never met his brother although she knew of him. Anna opened her mouth to speak. Alan pre-empted her. ‘I don’t want to discuss the matter any further, just forget it,’ he said firmly. He had a stubborn set to his jaw that Anna recognized from previous experience. She knew that nothing would drag information out of him now or in the future if she pressed the matter. She backed off.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘sorry I asked.’ Even more intrigued, she looked speculatively at the mystery man now sitting at the far end of the room. Taking a pencil and a small pad of plain white paper from her purse, she began idly to sketch his profile.

  The public address system gave its warning tone and the flight boarding announcement was made. As always there was a stampede for the boarding gate and to get away from his brother’s scrutiny Mike made sure that he was at the head of the queue.

  Anna casually watched the cabin crew making their final checks and taking up their positions for the statutory safety demonstration. The aircraft began its taxi out to the runway; the cabin staff made a final check on seat belts and took their places for take-off.

  Anna worked on her sketch.

  Mike worked on his notes.

  Alan was deep in thought about the new contract.

  September 22nd. Athens.

  George Liani missed the passing of the envelope. He had been using the mobile ’phone to talk to his compatriot at Dimitris’s home and had allowed a gap
to develop between himself and Dimitris’s vehicle. It was this gap that the van driver had slipped into, blocking off his view. He cursed the van driver in Turkish.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked his number two, in the same language, from the Kosovos living room.

  ‘A van has cut me off from the target, deal with the woman and kids as discussed; we have no time to waste. I need to get past this van, just do it.’

  Moments later he overtook the offending van and with relief saw Dimitris’s old vehicle chugging along just in front. He wouldn’t lose sight of him again.

  September 22nd. Departure Lounge, Hellenikon Airport.

  Abu Asifah and part of his team were amongst the press of people who stood up and headed for the exit gate as soon as the boarding announcement was made. The instructions were to merge with the crowd, and the team carried them out religiously. They had carefully chosen their seats when checking in for the flight. Each man had chosen an aisle seat. Two were at the rear, two in the centre and two at the front. Abu Asifah was one of the pair at the front. Each pair sat quietly, aware of the location of their colleagues, each carefully ignoring the existence of the others, each with their own thoughts and anxieties as they waited for the moment of action to arrive. They were attentive as the cabin staff went through the safety instructions but they were attentive for different reasons. They noted the senior stewardess, and which stewardesses were responsible for which sections of the aircraft.

  As the safety instructions were completed the aircraft began its taxi to the end of the runway. A few minutes later the pilots built up the engine thrust against the brakes and then the aircraft surged forward with impressive power down the runway. A few moments of acceleration and vibration followed and then the nose lifted, the vibrations stopped and the aircraft powered up into the sky.

  Flight OA 269, with all its conflicting interests was on its way.

  September 22nd. Koropi.

  The man at the farm put down his cell phone. He stepped quickly across the living room, picking up the electrician’s snips as he passed the table. He cut the nylon ties holding the children to their chairs one at a time and carried each of them through to their bedroom. They were exhausted and terrified. He put each of them into their beds, hands and feet still bound and mouths still gagged, and covered them with a blanket each.

  Roula’s face was a mask of terror as he returned. He ignored her, taking Dimitris’s old single barreled shotgun and some cartridges he went through to the children’s room. Exhausted, they were asleep. Quickly he shot the first child through the chest with one cartridge where he lay. The first child knew nothing about it. The second heard the bang and awoke with a start, confused and afraid. Before he was aware what was happening he too was shot. Roula’s eyes were starting from her head as the man came back into the room, the muscles and tendons of her face and neck were straining to breaking point as she tried to scream through the choking gag. He shot her at point blank range in the neck. The shot almost severed her head from her body. Unmoved, the man walked outside to the two dead dogs. Quickly he blasted a cartridge into each dog’s head obliterating his earlier pistol shots. Walking back to the house he reloaded the shotgun and stood it by the door. Then, taking his snips, he cut away the nylon ties, leaving Roula slumped dead in the chair. In the same way he removed the ties from the children, rearranging the still warm and flexible limbs into a more natural position under the bloody and shredded blankets. Carefully he pocketed the five empty cartridge cases and put the snipped nylon ties into a plastic supermarket bag ready for removal. Dimitris’s old single barrel shotgun had no ejection mechanism; empty cartridge cases had to be removed from the breech by hand. In his hurry to get the job finished and away George Liani’s helper overlooked the cartridge now in the shotgun breech. It carried a perfect finger and thumb print.

  September 22nd. Central Police Station, Athens.

  The young lady into whose car Dimitris had flicked his envelope was on her way to a job interview. Already running late because of the heavy traffic she hadn’t had the time or inclination to act immediately on Dimitris’s strange request. Now, the interview over, she was in two minds as to what she should do. Standing on the pavement outside the office block where her interview had taken place she held the grubby brown envelope in her hand. She wanted to throw it in the litter bin and forget all about it, she wanted to go shopping in the big stores but something stopped her doing this; deep inside her there was a nagging doubt. The man’s face was clear in her mind’s eye, she remembered how haggard he had looked, the desperation in his eyes and voice. She shrugged and set off on foot to the police headquarters; it was close by.

  She entered the building with some apprehension; in her short experience officialdom was not always helpful to its public. She approached the sergeant at the desk. He gave her an appreciative glance, she was attractive and looking her best from the interview. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘this may sound a little strange, but a man thrust this envelope into my car this morning and asked me to bring it here.’

  She handed the envelope over to the sergeant. He took it and examined it.

  ‘Well, miss, let’s have a look and see what’s inside.’ The sergeant opened the envelope and, taking out the page from Dimitris’s notebook scanned it briefly. His brow furrowed into a frown. ‘Would you tell me exactly how you came by this,’ he asked.

  The young lady explained the unusual circumstance.

  ‘Hmmm,’ the sergeant made a non-committal noise. He thought for a few moments. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a short while,’ he said, ‘I’m going to pass this to a senior officer.’

  ‘Oh great,’ the girl said, ‘just what I need.’ She flounced over to a bench seat and sat down.

  The sergeant, totally unaffected, picked up the ’phone and rang through to the investigation department to speak to the police lieutenant on duty.

  ‘I’ve got an unusual one down here at the desk,’ he said, ‘it may be something, it may be nothing, but I think you should look at it.’

  ‘Can’t you deal with it? I’m up to my ears in paperwork.’

  This was a lie and the sergeant knew it; he wanted to pass this on to the investigation branch and then, duty done, he was in the clear. He knew what would get the young lieutenant moving. ‘There’s a young girl down here, she’s bright and very attractive. I think you should hear what she has to say.’

  The lieutenant’s disinterest vanished, as the sergeant knew it would. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘show her to an interview room; get one of your men to provide some coffee. I’ll come down as soon as I can.’ He hung up.

  The sergeant looked cynically at the ’phone in his hand. Mention a good looking woman or money and those lazy sods in investigation would be crawling all over it in minutes he thought. He yelled for a constable to come to the desk. ‘Show that young lady into interview room number two,’ he said, ‘give this back to her,’ handing over the note, ‘and get some coffee organized.’ The constable nodded and went off to do the sergeant’s bidding. The young lady went into the interview room and was soon joined by the lieutenant. The sergeant, duty done, recorded the incident together with the lieutenant’s name and number and went in search of some coffee for himself.

  The lieutenant, whose name was Georgiou, made the girl tell the story again. When she had finished he looked thoughtful.

  ‘What time was it when this note was passed to you?’

  ‘Mid-morning, I was on my way to a job interview at eleven.’

  The lieutenant thought hard. This might be nothing at all, but on the other hand if there was anything in it and he did nothing it could cost him promotion. For the sake of a phone call it would be silly to risk his chances of advancement. He went to the phone and picked up the receiver. He spoke to the girl on the switchboard. ‘Get me the number of Olympic Catering out at the airport,’ he said. When they came on the line he asked for the personnel department. He was put through. He gave his rank and name and ask
ed for the personnel director. The director came on the line. ‘Yes, lieutenant, what can I do for you?’

  Lieutenant Georgiou asked if one Dimitris Kosovos worked for them and if he had been responsible for servicing flight number OA 269 with meals that day.

  The personnel director was cagey. ‘We don’t normally disclose personnel information like that, especially over the phone. Can you tell me what it’s all about?’

  ‘We’re checking on information received. It’s urgent, I don’t have time to come out and flash my badge at you. My inquiry may be of vital concern to your company, please check the information I’ve asked for and ring back to Police Headquarters. Ask for me by name.’

  ‘Very well,’ the personnel director agreed, and rang off.

  The lieutenant came back over to the girl. ‘Right, we’ll soon have a better idea of whether this is a genuine emergency or not. In the meantime I’d better take down your name, address and phone number then you can go.’ The girl gave him the information.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘thanks very much, we’ll let you know if there are any developments.’

  The young girl looked at her watch. Mid-day. She still had time to do some shops before everything closed for the afternoon break. Lieutenant Georgiou went back to his office and sat at his desk. As he sat down the ’phone rang. It was the personnel director of Olympic Catering.

  ‘Your information seems to be accurate,’ he said, ‘we do have a Dimitris Kosovos in our employ, and he did service flight number OA 269 with meals this morning. What is this all about?’

  The young Lieutenant ignored the question. ‘I need to confirm his address immediately, have you got it there?’

  ‘Yes, he lives out in the country at a small place near Koropi.’ He gave the address, and then asked again, ‘look, can you please tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘We’ll be in touch later, oh, one other thing, is this Dimitris still at work?’

  ‘No, he went home at around ten, he was on the early shift, but it seems he was sick.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ The lieutenant rang off. He thought hard. He didn’t want to go off half cocked. Not with the promotion board sitting next week. But the information did fit with what the girl had said. This Dimitris character would have been on his way home, on that road, and at about the time the girl said she had received the note. Should he pass this to a superior, or to the anti terrorist branch? Not yet he reasoned, for if it were true they would take the credit, and if not true he would look stupid. With his eye on his own promotion, Lieutenant Georgiou decided to go out to the Kosovos home and ask a few questions.

  September 22nd. Koropi.

  Dimitris drove into the sunny yard of his little farm closely followed by George Liani in his Mercedes saloon. He got out of his van. There was an unnatural silence about the place. Half stumbling, half running, desperate with anxiety, he made for the door of the house, only to be stopped in his tracks by George Liani’s helper who appeared in the doorway, pointing Dimitris’s own single barrel shotgun at his chest.

  ‘Get back,’ the man commanded.

  ‘My family, are they all right?’ Dimitris blurted out the question. He was desperate.

  The man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they’re okay, now step back.’ Dimitris took a pace backwards.

  George Liani stood behind him and his silenced pistol pointed at the small of Dimitris’s back. He pointed with his left hand. ‘Over there.’

  ‘Why, what’s happening?’ Dimitris demanded his fear for his family forcing the words out.

  ‘You’ve done as we asked. Now we are going to tie you all up in that outbuilding in case anyone comes to the house,’ George Liani explained. ‘We need time to get clear. Now move; we’ll tie you first and then bring your family.’

  Relief flooded through Dimitris; it would be all right. Soon the nightmare would be over, someone would find them or perhaps they might escape. One way or another, the worst was over. He went into the whitewashed outbuilding.

  ‘Sit down over there,’ George Liani, pointed to a box in the corner.

  Dimitris sat down.

  Swiftly George Liani’s helper stepped forward and jammed the muzzle of the shotgun under Dimitris’s chin. Ducking his head away he pulled the trigger. The back of Dimitris’s head exploded outwards in a spray of pink. He fell back into the corner of the room. The man with the shotgun stepped back. Using a rag from his pocket, he wiped the gun clean of fingerprints. Taking Dimitris’s dead hands, one at a time, he closed the fingers around the cartridge cases used on the Kosovos family and dropped them into Dimitris’ jacket pocket. Then he put the gun itself into Dimitris’s hands, smothering it with the dead man’s prints.

  While he was doing this, George Liani went outside and cut a branch from a nearby bush. He trimmed it down leaving a three-inch piece of side branch sticking out at the one end. Going back inside he went over to where his helper had dropped the shotgun next to Dimitris’s body. He pushed the branch end through the trigger guard and against the trigger and let it fall alongside the gun. He stepped back and carefully surveyed their handiwork. He nodded with satisfaction and went to check the house.

  ‘A good job done,’ he said to his accomplice.

  They left the farm, leaving the doors wide open.