A Deadly Twist

by Jeffrey Siger

  Directions to the home of Lila’s friend had Andreas turning left out of the hospital parking lot and following signs to the village of Vivlos. From there he made a right at a “big church” onto a paved road running toward Plaka Beach and a house identified by a white gate that opened by punching 1821# into an adjacent keypad.

  With only a few brief wrong turns, they’d made it to the gate in less than twenty-five minutes.

  Beyond the gate and a wide stone parking area lay an all-white stucco house set high above patches of pasture and farmland running out to the beach. The home paid clear homage to the traditional Cycladic cubist style, but with a modern flair most noticeably reflected in its oversized windows and broad terrace facing west toward the sea.

  A housekeeper stood waiting for them at the front door. She explained the layout of the house, pointed out their respective bedrooms, and emphasized that at her employer’s instructions the refrigerator had been fully stocked in anticipation of their arrival.

  After offering many “thank yous” and “not necessaries” to the housekeeper, they went to their rooms to unpack. Lila took the opportunity to call her mother and check in on the children. That led to Tassaki taking the phone from his grandmother and describing in great detail, first to his mother and then to his father, all of the wonderful things he’d been doing with his yiayia and pappou.

  By the time Andreas and Lila came out of their room, Maggie and Tassos were sitting on the main terrace reading the reporter’s notebooks.

  “How’s the reading going?” said Andreas.

  “This is interesting stuff,” said Maggie. “The reporter’s good at what she does.”

  “Which notebook are you reading?”

  “The one covering her interview with the hacker.”

  “Anything jump out at you?”

  “So far, based on the level of detail, only that he’s likely telling the truth. Hard to imagine how he’d know all this if he hadn’t planned the hits.”

  “So, if you’d paid him to do a hit, I assume you wouldn’t be happy with all the publicity he’s drawn?”

  “For sure.”

  Andreas looked at Tassos. “Which one did you pick?”

  “I passed on reading her interviews with politicians and hotel guys. I’m sure it’s all politically correct bullshit. I took notebook number three, which includes her interview with the farmers Yianni and Popi met with before getting run off the road. Nothing exciting yet, but I just started reading.”

  Andreas looked at the remaining three notebooks. “Eenie, meenie, miney—”

  “Here you are, folks,” said Lila, carrying a tray of snacks out to the terrace.

  The housekeeper followed with glasses and two large bottles of water.

  “What do we have here?” asked Tassos.

  “Only good things. Crudité, fruit, low-fat Naxos anthotiro cheese, and pita bread.”

  “Same food, different island,” said Tassos, grabbing a carrot stick.

  “Shut up and read,” said Andreas, picking a notebook. “I’ll take number five, her final day before disappearing.”

  Andreas handed another notebook to Lila. “Since you’re here, come join in on the group read. Here’s notebook number four, covering her time with the activists.”

  Lila took the notebook and a glass of water, found a comfortable chair, and sat down. “The housekeeper is preparing lunch, so happy reading.”

  Once settled in, each read silently, moving about only to get something to eat or drink from the table between them.

  A half hour into their reading Tassos blurted, “Oh, my God.”

  “What is it?” said Andreas.

  “I can’t believe this guy is still alive.”

  “What guy?”

  “The grandfather of the trio in Siphones.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “It’s a very long story.”

  Andreas rolled his eyes. “Is there any other kind of story you tell?”

  “Do you want me to tell it or not?”

  Andreas waved his hand at Tassos. “You’ve primed your audience, so just get on with it.”

  “I met him here during the Junta Years. He’d been shaped by an unimaginably hard life trying to survive World War II as a young boy in one of Naxos’s poorest mountain villages. Starvation plagued those places, and you survived by doing whatever you had to do to feed your family. In his case, he became legend for his talent at finding ways to steal food and livestock from farmers and herders on the plains below.” Tassos took a sip of water. “After the war he honed his foraging skills in a different direction, the artifacts market. Naxos was filled with unexcavated ancient sites, and he had a gift for finding them and their treasures.”

  “He must have made a fortune,” said Lila.

  Tassos gestured no. “He wasn’t a businessman, just a thief. He’d find the treasures but sell them off to middlemen for virtually nothing compared to their true value to collectors.”

  “Dare I ask how you got to know him?”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking, wiseass. When I worked as a prison guard for the Junta on Giaros, I’d sometimes be detailed to another island, and when the Junta decided to build a major highway on Naxos running from Chora to Alyko, I spent a lot of time down in Alyko assigned to keep an eye on things.”

  “Where’s Alyko?” said Lila.

  “About a half hour south of Chora.”

  “What sort of ‘things’?” said Andreas.

  “They built the road to connect Chora and a big hotel project in Alyko overlooking the sea.”

  “The Junta was building a hotel?” said Lila.

  “They encouraged a lot of hotel construction, but this was a foreign corporation’s project. Anyway, I was there to make sure it wasn’t disturbed.”

  “Disturbed how?”

  “By trespassers intruding on the property while construction was underway. Mostly, we chased away herders with their animals and locals walking dogs.”

  “Why do I have the feeling this story has a lot more to go?”

  “The farmer was working there, and he seemed at first like any other manual laborer, digging holes. He’d dig in one place, leave it open for a couple of days, and then cover it up and dig another hole somewhere else.”

  “Why?”

  “Whenever I asked him that question, he always gave me the same answer. ‘Keep your nose out of other people’s business.’”

  “Something we all know you can’t do.”

  “Back then I wasn’t as aggressive. Besides, I was a young man with a sweet Junta job and didn’t need to risk pissing off someone who was doing something my superiors must have known about. No way he could be digging all those holes and not be noticed.”

  “Did you ever find out why he dug the holes?”

  “I have a pretty good idea. Every night the same old man would walk his dog onto the edge of the property and I’d have to shoo him away. It became a ritual, and we’d talk for a bit before he’d head back home. One night he asked me why the caïques came in so late at night to the concrete pier just below the hotel construction. I said I didn’t know anything about those boats, but they were probably there to unload supplies. He said, no, they were loading, not unloading, and always gone before dawn.” Tassos reached for another carrot stick. “Years later, after the project had gone bankrupt and the Junta’d been overthrown, I heard from someone in the artifacts business that Naxos was filled with ancient burial sites—”

  “Antiquities smuggling,” said Lila.

  “You win the prize,” said Tassos. “The ancients buried their dead with whatever they’d need in their next life. Many of the treasures in the island’s Archaeological Museum came from gravesites. Though it hadn’t registered with me at the time, locals used to call the construction ‘the gravesite project.’”


  “So the holes the grandfather dug were on ancient gravesites?” said Andreas.

  “Based on his history, I’ve no doubt that’s true. But there’s a lot more to the story. In later years he went back to farming. He’d done what he’d had to do to keep his family alive, but he didn’t want his children and grandchildren following his ways. He became active in the conservation resistance to preserve the beauty and history of Naxos. He galvanized village opposition to expanding the airport, rallied locals to successfully challenge efforts to resurrect the failed Alyko hotel project, and openly supported the Case of the 33.”

  “Then the reporter was right about the old man, his son, and grandson being activists, and what Yianni was told about the grandfather was bullshit,” said Andreas.

  “I don’t know about the other two, but it’s sure BS about the grandfather.”

  “Why would they lie?” asked Maggie.

  “That’s something to ask them.”

  The housekeeper stepped out onto the terrace. “Lunch is ready. Shall I serve it out here?”

  Lila and Maggie jumped up. “We’ll help you,” said Lila.

  “Not necessary,” said the housekeeper.

  “We need a break,” said Maggie, following Lila and the housekeeper inside.

  “From what?” said Tassos.

  “Don’t worry about them. I’m still listening. Is there anything more you have to tell me?” said Andreas.

  “Nope.” Tassos jerked in his seat and reached into his pants pocket. “My mobile’s on vibrate.” He looked at the phone screen. “Perhaps I do. The call’s from my friend who’s trying to set up the meeting for tomorrow.”

  Tassos held the phone against his cheek with his shoulder, crossed his fingers on one hand, and reached for a pita with the other.

  “A true multitasker,” smiled Andreas.

  Tassos nodded yes as he said into his phone, “Make me smile, my friend.”

  * * *

  Tassos listened patiently as his friend described what he’d gone through to arrange the meeting. Apparently, word was out to many that the reporter had disappeared, and some of those that Tassos’s friend had contacted now worried for their safety and that of their families.

  “Who has them worried?”

  “They’re too worried to tell me,” said Tassos’s friend.

  “Jesus.”

  “No need for you to worry, though. I convinced them they’d be much worse off if they didn’t speak to you.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “By playing on their natural fears that the government is a police state capable of all kinds of merciless deeds.”

  “And they believed you?”

  “Why not? I believe it. After all, do you forget where we met? I was a political prisoner under a fascist regime.”

  “But times are different now?”

  “Are they?”

  Tassos had been down this road before with his friend. “Okay, I get your point. Let’s move on. What—not who—has them worried?”

  “It’s conjecture based upon gossip, but when you toss in an element of truth, even lies gain credibility. Here we have an Athenian journalist writing about big money angling to slice up the island for private gain, and Naxians remember how Athens media helped the thirty-three defeat a public benefit project backed by the local government to expand the port. The last thing modern-day privateers want is the national press focusing on what they have in mind for Naxos and its treasures.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Even among opponents and supporters of the port project, there were violent skirmishes. Passions run high in disputes over development.”

  “But we’re talking about kidnappers and potential murderers?”

  “I’m not suggesting there was anyone like that involved in the port dispute, but now we’re talking about private projects capable of generating at least as much passionate resistance. You’re a cop, do you have any doubt that among all the private projects percolating around here there aren’t bad actors from dangerous places around the world looking to launder money made in the most mercenary of ways? For them to do physical harm in pursuit of monetary gain is not a reach at all.”

  “Do you have any particular projects or bad guys in mind?”

  “Nope. For that you’ll have to speak to the people I’ve pulled together for your meeting.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “They’re from different parts of the island. Some are native to Naxos, others expats, but all vigorously oppose unrestrained development.”

  “Who ever admits to being in favor of unrestrained development?”

  “Good point. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard a politician say anything remotely like that, even those who love pouring concrete over any open space they can find. But the ones coming to your meeting actually live their lives keeping that commitment.”

  “I assume you know them all.”

  “Yes, and if they’re locals, most of their parents and grandparents as well. The bookseller’s late grandfather and I were together in resisting the Junta, though he never got arrested.”

  “Poor guy, he never got to meet me.”

  “I’m sure he regretted that. He was a lawyer, and his son followed in his footsteps, but the grandson opted for bookselling as a better life choice.”

  “Hard way to make a euro.”

  “He has the benefit of a grandfather who left him several rent-producing properties to subsidize his lifestyle.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “In Chora, above his bookshop. The others all live in villages out of town. The farmer raises olives in Eggares and runs an olive-press museum in the center of the village.”

  “What’s his family tree?”

  “Hers. She’s a sixth-generation Naxian farmer. There’s another woman in the group. She’s an artist who lives in Halki and runs a very successful art gallery called Alex’s Fishbowl. She’s an expat. Been here for thirty years. One of the most articulate of those seeking to market the preservation of Naxos as a selling point for tourism.”

  “Interesting crew.”

  “It gets better. The chef-restaurateur has one of the best places on the island. It’s less than a half hour out of Chora, down toward Alyko. We’ve set up the meeting in his taverna. He was a driving force behind the Case of the 33 and is still a strong voice among conservationists opposing the windmills and private exploitation of public lands.”

  “And the shepherd?”

  “He’s perhaps the most interesting. He’s of one hundred percent Cretan blood, born and raised in the mountain village of Apeiranthos but married an American girl and now lives in Sangri by the Temple of Demeter.”

  “Why do you say he’s the most interesting?”

  “The list of names you gave me included his wife, not him, but when I called her she said she’d have to speak to her husband. He called me back to say he wanted to come instead of her. I was surprised because his roots and village aren’t known for friendly cooperation with authorities.”

  “Do you think he’s coming to cause trouble?”

  “That’s what I thought at first, too, so I asked him that straight out. He said he’s coming because he’s a close friend of the husband of the cop who was hurt in that pickup rollover outside of Koronos. He said he wants to do what he can to help find whoever’s responsible.”

  “Sounds like he’s suggesting what happened to the reporter and his friend’s wife are related. Did he say why he thought that?”

  “We’re in Greece, friend. People see conspiracies in the number of raisins in a cereal box. Who knows what he thinks or the basis for his thoughts. That’s why I set up your meeting, so you can be the super detective who ferrets out the answers.”

  “Just for the record,” said Tassos, “I
want you to know that you’re just as ornery as ever.”

  “I think you mean we’re just as ornery.”

  “I know.”

  “But I still love you.”

  “Me too,” said Tassos. “Thanks for all your help, and stay well, old friend.”

  Tassos hung up but didn’t move. He sat staring out to sea. Where had all the years gone? Each time he said goodbye to an old friend, his thoughts ran to whether that might be the last time they spoke. Snap out of it, Stamatos. You’ve got a great woman, great friends, and a great life left to lead.

  “Would you please come back to planet earth and tell me what he had to say?” said Andreas.

  Tassos rose from his chair. “Let’s have lunch while I tell you.”

  * * *

  Over a lunch of chicken kalamakia, beef keftedes, fried zucchini, graviera cheese, fresh bread, and a large Greek salad, Tassos shared what he’d heard from his friend.

  “Sounds like an interesting group of people,” said Lila.

  “With strong opinions,” said Maggie.

  “And some real leads,” added Andreas. “We’re meeting at three, so we should plan to leave here by no later than two thirty.”

  Tassos motioned to the housekeeper. “May I have another kalamaki, please?”

  The housekeeper paused as if confused, nodded, and went into the kitchen.

  “Why don’t we visit Yianni and leave for the meeting straight from the hospital?” said Lila.

  “Good idea.”

  The housekeeper returned with a plate bearing a single straw and placed the plate in front of Tassos.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your kalamaki, sir.”

  Andreas burst out laughing and said to the housekeeper, “I bet you’re from Thessaloniki.”

  She nodded yes.

  Andreas laughed again. “In Thessaloniki, if you ask for a kalamaki you get a straw. Down here you’ll get chicken or pork on a skewer.”

  “Then what do they call meat on a skewer?”

  “Souvlaki, which means the same thing to everyone.”

  “Just ask for souvlaki and avoid the problem,” said Maggie.

  Tassos shook his head. “I guess I’m still not too old to learn something new.”