by Alex A King
“These have Internet, right?” I said, referring to the computers.
“Of course. Down here the connection is private, so that nobody can monitor traffic.”
In Grandma’s case she wasn’t paranoid—they really were out to get her.
“That’s great,” I said. “Thanks.”
She put her arm around me, kissed my forehead. “You want company?”
“Thanks, but I could use some alone time.”
“You need anything, you call me, okay?” She pointed out the complicated phone system. “Press number 2 and it will connect to my cell phone.”
Then she patted me on the shoulder and went back out the way we had come in. Obviously the exit that led to Xander’s room wasn’t for everyone. Or maybe she respected his privacy while he wasn’t around. For all I knew, the trapdoor locked somehow from the other side. The meathead cops hadn’t found either of the entrances; I suspected there were other ways in around the property. Maybe one even led to the far side of the wall. It would be like Grandma to stash an extra contingency plan in her pocket.
I sat in the front row, where I had an excellent view of everything the cameras picked up. Life seemed calm in the compound. Everyone was picking up the pieces of their freshly tossed lives, but that was window dressing. Beneath the surface, they were tense. Their boss was gone—temporarily, I hoped—and some chit they barely knew was fumbling with the wheel. I was nobody. A mere twist of DNA was responsible for my current position. I hadn’t done a thing to earn my place as second-in-command while Grandma was battling the forces of …
Argh. Well, the forces of good.
Funny how the good guys didn’t seem so good from this side of the fence. What Grandma and Xander had done was monumentally wrong, but somehow in my head I felt like the police should at least have had the decency to knock on the door and ask politely if Rabbit was around, and could they maybe have a word with him if he was.
Without my phone I was dead in the water. I had no way to text Xander and ask where he was, and if Papou and Dogas were with him. Until the lawyers called all I could do was ferment.
I pulled up a browser window in private mode and surfed to the Crooked Noses forum, where news had already broken about Grandma’s departure from the compound in police custody. They had gone out on several limbs, some of them surprisingly stable. They’d surmised that the police were hunting for Dogas and they believed Grandma had not only broken him out, but that she was also harboring a fugitive. Which was true—or had been. They’d analyzed the prison break footage, breaking it down frame by frame.
Someone else had jumped in with the information that Dogas and Grandma’s advisor—Papou—were brothers. Then several other posters slapped him or her down for dishing up what was common knowledge.
Not so common; I hadn’t known until tonight.
Greece was one giant Christmas tree with a bunch of boxes underneath, all wrapped with high quality paper and plush bows. Occasionally I was allowed to open one, but the rest were off limits. When I managed to snatch up one of the forbidden boxes and rattle the contents, it always sounded like rocks.
I planned my question carefully. Typed it in two-fingered.
If the police didn’t find Dogas at the compound, where else could he be?
A smattering of replies came back almost instantly. Dead. Alive, but in Turkey. Bulgaria. In Albania, disguised as a woman. Someone made a crack about Aunt Rita and a handful of the chuckleheads joined in.
BangBang had something to say, but he or she did it in private.
He’s probably close to the compound somewhere. If it were me looking I’d start in the village.
Makria?
The people there would do anything for Baboulas.
Including harboring a fugitive?
Which part of ‘anything’ is giving you a problem?
Ooooh, sarcasm, I typed.
Wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. It’s a real question. Something tells me you don’t know how deep the ties go between Baboulas and Makria.
How deep?
Like I said: They would do anything for her.
Why? Because of the Regime of the Colonels?
In the late sixties a group of right-wing colonels staged a coup and seized control of Greece. When Greece emerged from the dark tunnel in 1974, they were missing a king and thousands of their own citizens. Grandma, the story goes, worked tirelessly to save the people of Makria—and the surrounding villages—from persecution and execution.
Because of that, because of a lot of things.
I typed: They know she’s a crime lord, right?
Maybe they think there are worse things a person can be. Never underestimate the blindness that comes with loyalty.
Can I ask you something?
You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.
Are you Yoda?
Xaxaxaxa! Not that green, short, or old.
(‘Xaxaxaxa!’ is Greek for ‘Hahahaha!’)
So you’re bigger than a breadbox?
What?
It’s an American thing. A game. Twenty Questions.
I froze.
Holy cow. What had I done? I quickly clicked the X in the corner, closing the browser window. With an open palm I slapped my forehead, hoping to shake out the stupidity.
This is what I got for being tired and stressed. Now if I went back to the board I’d have to open a new account under a different name, and maybe try to not mess up by telling people I was American. God knows how much damage I had already done, all but revealing my identity to an avatar of a smoking gun.
I clonked my head on the table.
When I was done berating myself I pulled up a map of Makria. On the screen it looked even tinier, a lopsided spider’s web radiating out from the crossroad.
Was BangBang right, had someone—or several someones—in Makria stashed Dogas away for safekeeping at Grandma’s behest? If so, would I find Xander and Papou with him?
My mind traveled back to last night, to Xander and the moment we shared in the park. What if that ID card wasn’t fake?
What if Xander really was the Greek equivalent of CIA?
* * *
MORNING HAPPENED. When it came it was sudden, like the smashing of a plate on a hard, marble floor.
Officially, I hadn’t slept. Unofficially, I was sporting an interesting drool stain on my chin.
When I returned to Grandma’s kitchen, my new phone was on the table. It was the newest incarnation of my old phone, and a few quick swipes showed that someone had taken the time to set everything up as it had been. Perks of the job?
Whatever. I didn’t want them. What I wanted was Grandma back in her kitchen, baking Greek cookies. What I also wanted was my father.
I wanted a lot of things I couldn’t have right now.
First thing’s first: Text Xander. I shot off a message, asking where they were, if they were okay, when they’d be back.
When I was done the new phone chirped. Aunt Rita.
“The lawyers are here,” she said.
“At the compound? I thought they were going to call.”
“Mama pays them enough to make house calls.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be waiting.”
I ran into the bathroom, splashed water into my face until I resembled the newly undead, which was a major improvement. My hair I coiled into a neat bun on top of my head. Clothes ... ugh. Could I pass the wrinkles off as ironic? In Portland—probably. Grandma was loaded, so maybe the lawyers would consider me eccentric instead of a slob.
The gate squealed. Company was here. I smoothed down my shirt and hoped for the best.
There were two people on Grandma’s doorstep, both men. One was a suit; the other was a rumpled suit. He hadn’t mastered the difficult art of wearing too many clothes during a Greek summer. They both carried briefcases. They asked if I was Katerina, and when I confirmed that I was they said they had news and asked if they could come in.
I opened the door
wide. “Be my guest.”
If they thought someone of Grandma’s position in life required a fancier abode it didn’t show on their faces. They struck me as cardboard cutouts of real people—no expressions except the ones they came with straight out of the box.
They were, they told me, partners at Samaras, Samaras, and Samaras. I offered coffee but that seemed to make them uncomfortable so I didn’t push the issue.
No Wrinkles said, “The police aren’t holding Kyria Makri because she’s guilty of a crime, but because they think she’s guilty of a crime. They believe she’s responsible for a prison break in Larissa. The prisoner is one Stelios Dogas.”
“Let me guess, they can hold her for twenty-four hours unless they file charges?”
Disclaimer: All my knowledge about the law came from television.
They swapped glances.
“No …”
Also, all my knowledge about the law was American, and sometimes British, and not even remotely Greek, on account of how there’s no CSI: Athens. Yet.
“… They can hold her until they are tired of holding her. The crime is serious, and Kyria Makri is …”
“The head of a criminal organization?” I offered, thinking I should probably save them from having to say it.
“A businesswoman,” Wrinkles said.
“A businesswoman,” No Wrinkles agreed.
“Since when is it a crime to be in business?” Wrinkles asked. The question had a rhetorical hook, so I shut up.
They looked at me, two unblinking sets of eyes.
No Wrinkles moved the conversation onward. “In the event that Kyria Makri does not return home, she has requested that you replace her as the head of her business.”
“No.”
No Wrinkles blinked. “It wasn’t a question.”
“Doesn’t matter. My ‘No’ stands.”
He sat his briefcase on the table, flipped its lid, dumped a stack of paperwork on the kitchen table.
Grandma’s kitchen was tiny at the best of times, but the walls suddenly jumped another foot closer. They wouldn’t stop until I was squeezed into the captain’s chair. Next thing I knew, I’d be wearing black and hobbling around in my garden, listening to people whine about their cheating husbands. I’d be the one baking baklava in this cloying kitchen, while my friends back home lived lives of not-crime.
How many ways were there to tell everyone I didn’t want the job? Two languages—I spoke two languages and neither was delivering the message.
“That is not an option. Even when Kyria Makri is released …”
“I know she’s sick,” I said.
No Wrinkles exchanged glances with Wrinkles. “We weren’t aware Kyria Makri had shared her health status with you,” Wrinkles said.
“She didn’t. A serial killer told me.” I pushed back my chair and hoped they’d get the message. They didn’t. I knew this because they stayed seated, when what I really wanted was for them to, as the British put it, bugger off.
Forget what Jesus would do; these bespoke clowns were used to Grandma, so the question was: What would Grandma do?
She wouldn’t let them stomp her like ripe grapes, that’s what.
“I need you both to leave. Call me when there’s news. No news? Don’t call.”
I held the screen door open. As far as hints went it was a big one. Lucky for them they snatched up the opportunity to exit gracefully. The papers vanished into the leather case. The lawyers stood. They shuffled to the open door, stooping slightly to duck beneath it. The house was built back in the day when tall was something they did in other countries.
“Don’t worry,” I told Wrinkles, “I wasn’t judging you on the suit.”
He looked bewildered. “What’s wrong with my suit?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
He fidgeted all the way to the arch. Last I saw of him he was tugging at his tie, trying to figure out if the suit was a problem he needed to solve.
What they had told me was basically nothing I didn’t already know, but they’d bill Grandma anyway. At least I’d saved her some money by booting them out the door as quickly as possible.
There was no way around it: I needed to find Rabbit. If I turned him in then maybe they’d let Grandma go, putting an end to this nonsense about me taking over.
Starting point: Makria. I had BangBang to thank for that flash of inspiration. He—or she—had said the roots were deep, which I interpreted to mean someone in the village knew something useful.
All I needed was a metaphorical shovel.
Okay, and an X. I really needed an X. You can’t go digging without an X marking the spot. Ask any pirate—except those Somali guys. Everyone knows you can’t be a real pirate without a parrot. Without a parrot you’re a garden-variety terrorist and thief. I needed that X. And if I looked at a map of Makria carefully, it was shaped like one.
* * *
THE CROWD HAD GROWN by two outside the gates. Only one of the faces was unfamiliar—a thin, pale man with an achromatic goatee and eyes the color of blue Gatorade. He was leaning against a grubby white car from a cold war spy movie.
“Who are you?”
He said nothing, pulled out a knife, ran his thumb over the bright edge.
Elias rolled his eyes. “That’s Vlad. He is a Russian poser.”
The knife’s tip pointed at Elias. “I have cut hundreds of men with blade.”
“It does not count when they’re already dead,” Elias said.
“They were not dead until I kill them.”
Okay, so another assassin. Great. “Who do you work for?”
“Boris the Bear.”
“A bear hired you?” Even the wildlife wanted me dead. Fabulous.
“Boris the Bear imports heroin,” Elias told me.
“The best,” Vlad said.
Mo made a face. “The best. Ha!”
Vlad turned those cold eyes of his on the Persian. “Where is camel? Did you fuck camel to death?”
“Your sister is unclean. I threw her out after she asked for money. Did you know she is a Russian whore? Like your mother, I bet.”
This was going to end in a disemboweling, or worse, so I stomped over to the other new arrival.
“Why didn’t you come in?” I asked Melas. He was in plainclothes, which amounted to shorts and a T-shirt. By the looks of it he didn’t skip leg day at the gym. That or he ran. Probably away from women like me.
“Can’t,” he said. “I’m supposed to be following you.”
“You’re not going to assassinate me, are you?”
“And ruin the view?” He grinned. “Wherever you go, those pinheads from Thessaloniki want me to go.”
“Well, that’s great.”
“Where are you going?”
The idea came to me like an unexpected flash of lightning. “To visit your mother.”
“Jesus,” he said.
“I have a feeling she’d scare Him, too.”
Cleopatra poked her head out the Renault’s window. “I can’t stay. Can one of you guys text me if anything exciting happens before I get back?”
Ugh.
“Sure,” Lefty said.
“Katerina!”
I turned around, spotted Marika waving. She was hurrying over in a pair of sneakers and loose gym wear. Draped over her shoulder was her oversized bag, carrying, no doubt, her insurance collection.
“Wait for me,” she said and picked up the pace. When she reached me she said, “Look, I dressed for adventure today. If we have to run, I can run.” She looked me up and down. “Why the dress and sandals? Can you run in those?”
“I’m not planning on running today.” Although the way my days went that could change at any moment. “I’m going visiting.”
“Who are we visiting?”
“Kyria Mela.”
She made a face. “Yeesh. That woman scares me.” She looked at Melas. “I am not even sorry for saying that.”
Melas’s mother scared me, too. “May
be you can wait outside? Someone has to keep an eye on the goons.”
She scanned the newest arrival, made a small sniffing sound. “Who is the new guy?”
“Vlad. He’s Russian. Apparently he likes stabbing dead people.”
Hands on hips she fixed her attention on Vlad. “What is wrong with you, eh? What did the dead do to you?” She turned back to me. “Sick. I remember when Greece used to be civilized.”
My car took a hit when she vaulted over the side, no door required. She slapped on a pair of dark sunglasses. “I am ready for anything. Let’s ride.”
“Okay, so maybe I am not ready for this. You said I could wait outside, yes?”
Kyria Mela was in her front yard, dousing the entire place with water. If it could stand still it was getting the hose. I jiggled in case she didn’t realize I wasn’t inanimate. The day was already hot—surprise, surprise—but the water sucked out of Pelion’s springs was icy even in mid-summer.
Kyria Mela looked me over. “You are back.”
“You asked me to come for coffee.”
“I remember now. Who are these people?”
I lobbed out the introductions. “And you know Marika and your son.”
“What are they doing here?”
“Marika’s my friend.”
“And sidekick,” Marika said. “We go on adventures together.”
Kyria Mela gave her the hairy eyeball. “Hmm,” she said.
“And your son is following me because the policemen from Thessaloniki, who took away my grandmother, gave him orders.” I laid it on thick, with a trowel.
Mama Mela wasn’t impressed. “What is wrong with all of you? And you, Nikos? You follow this poor girl, too?”
“Orders, Mama.”
“Orders! Did I give you orders? Did God give you orders? Did your father?”
I grinned at him behind her back. I would be dead meat when he got me alone, but it was so worth the minor gloat.
“Mama,” he said in a quiet voice. “Police orders. It’s my job.”
“Always I am very proud of you, Nikos. But not today.” She grabbed my hand, pulled me into the shade of her hallway. “All of you stay out there.”
