He peeked into the bedroom. The drapes were open to a view of a brightly lit Acropolis, and Lila was sitting up in bed. ‘Guess who?’
‘Daddy’s home.’ She patted her belly.
Andreas walked to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her; then kissed her belly.
‘Daddy’s going to take you out to play soon,’ she said.
He rubbed her belly, and winked. ‘Too bad I can’t stop up for a visit.’
Lila smacked his arm. ‘Don’t even joke about sex. Rent movies.’ She smiled.
He kissed her belly again, and then her forehead. ‘See, I made it home before midnight.’
She looked at the clock on her bedside table. ‘Wow, ten-thirty, you’re a man of your word! Do you want something to eat? I couldn’t wait for you.’
‘No problem, I didn’t expect you to. I’ll make something later in the kitchen.’
Lila shook her head and picked up the intercom handset. ‘Marietta, would you please prepare a plate for Mr Kaldis and bring it into our bedroom. Thank you.’ She put it down and said, ‘When are you going to get used to having help around the house?’
Andreas shrugged, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the bed beside her. ‘I feel more at home among the monks. Doing things for myself.’
‘Let’s not go there. I said no more talk about sex.’
He laughed. ‘But I really admire someone who finds a life so rewarding and purposeful that he willingly gives up what so much of the rest of the world considers so damn important.’
‘Moderation, I’m afraid, is a thing of the past, even among churchmen. There are very few I know who have given up much of the material world in the pursuit of their faith.’
‘But there still are some who believe “nothing in excess” is the right way to live.’
Lila turned and stared at him. He’d just quoted from one of her lectures. ‘That was carved in Delphi by Athenians 2,500 years ago. It’s Apollo’s Creed.’
‘And a favorite of a scholar I much admire.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘But I’m talking about monks, not all churchmen, and one monk in particular.’
‘The murdered one?’
‘Yes. He must have been a rare soul. Amazing how no one had a cross word to say about him.’ Andreas pushed up on his elbows and stared out the window at the Parthenon. ‘Imagine feeling so much a part of something, a part of something so much bigger than yourself that when your time has come you’re totally at peace.’ He smiled and took her hand. ‘I guess it’s sort of how I feel at this moment.’
Andreas stared at her hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. ‘He died at peace … embracing his past … clutching his cross.’ He let the thought drift off.
Lila spread her arms. ‘Come here with …’ she looked down at her belly ‘… us.’
Andreas smiled and lay down next to her. Lila rested her head against his chest. Neither said a word.
Andreas drifted off into that state just before sleep when the senses recede and thoughts become meditative. He pictured the cross in the monk’s hand. The cross of his grandfather, the cross with which he might well have shared virtually every day of his life. Andreas’ eyes popped open. He felt as if a silent bomb had gone off in the room.
‘His cross,’ Andreas cried out and jumped out of the bed, almost sending Lila tumbling off onto the floor. ‘It wasn’t his cross he was holding when he died. His cross, the one he treasured from his grandfather, was left dangling openly around his neck, free for anyone to take. The one he chose to grip, to guard when he knew he was dying, was a cheap, ten euro piece of junk he’d bought only hours before! How could it possibly have meant so much to him that his last act on earth was to protect it?’
Andreas paced back and forth in front of the window. Lila said nothing, just watched him.
‘He didn’t die accepting the end of his life. He died sending a message. But what message?’ He turned to Lila, ‘I’ve got to get back to Patmos, right away.’
‘“Right away?”’
He didn’t miss the disappointment in her voice. Andreas drew in and let out a breath. ‘“Right away,” as in “first thing tomorrow morning.”’ He sat next to her on the bed, took her hand, and kissed it. ‘Tonight I’m spending with my baby.’ He patted her belly. ‘Both my babies.’
Tears started forming in Lila’s eyes. She dabbed at them with her fingertips. ‘Sorry, pregnant women get this way at times.’
‘No need to say more.’ A knock at the door signaled it was time for dinner with his family. ‘I belong here.’ He doubted any soul would disagree, certainly none like Vassilis.
Patmos was a place of rich beauty, deep conviction, and pious tradition. It also was an island, and island people were different from mainland folk. Separated from the rest of the world, they grew up facing dangers without expecting help from the outside. Instead, they relied upon each other and learned to honor their neighbors’ families by attending their baptisms, weddings, and funerals. During Easter Week there would be no baptisms or weddings, but funerals were different. They were prohibited only on Good Friday.
Vassilis was not from Patmos and had no surviving family to honor him, but from the crowd overflowing his funeral that morning you’d think Kalogeros Vassilis was the father of each soul on the island. Virtually every Patmian-owned business closed for the funeral. It was an unimaginable honor, paid by a business-savvy people during one of their busiest weeks of the year.
Andreas arrived in Skala while the funeral was underway in Chora. That made it hard for him to shop for what he wanted. But, finally, he found it in a store run by an Athenian. From there he went directly to the police station. No one was expecting him and that was how he wanted it. Two young cops seemed to be the only people in the place. Everyone else must be at the funeral, he thought.
Andreas identified himself and told the cop sitting at the front desk that he was there ‘to review the physical evidence in the Kalogeros Vassilis case.’
The cop turned his head toward the other cop standing by the hallway to the captain’s office. From their exchange of looks it was obvious neither knew what to do.
‘I’m sorry sir, I’m not authorized to allow you access,’ said the cop behind the desk.
‘Who is?’ Andreas was crisp and formal.
‘The captain, sir.’
‘Then call him.’
‘I can’t, sir, he’s at the funeral.’
‘Then open the door to his office.’
‘I said I’m not allowed, sir.’ There was a slightly testy edge to his voice.
Andreas leaned over and stared. ‘That’s Chief Inspector Kaldis, Special Crimes GADA, to you, rookie.’ He paused. ‘Now, open the goddamned door before I kick it in.’
The two Patmos cops looked at each other as if each hoped the other would do something. Andreas waited five seconds, then walked around the desk and headed toward the captain’s office. The cop by the hallway stepped in front of him and held up his hand.
‘Stop!’ He paused. ‘I’ll get the key.’
‘Wise decision, officer.’
Three minutes later Andreas and the cop with the key were in the captain’s office standing around the evidence table. Neither said a word to the other. Andreas wanted the cop there; that way there’d be no charge of tampering with evidence.
Carefully, Andreas laid out every piece of evidence in front of him: the robe, the hat, the undergarments, the sandals, a cross.
‘Where’s the other cross?’
The cop shrugged. ‘I guess they took it for the funeral service.’
‘Who authorized its removal?’
He shrugged again. ‘The captain?’
Hope the idiot doesn’t bury it with him, thought Andreas. Thank God he took the silver one.
Slowly, Andreas began examining every stitch of every garment, as if a Rosetta stone-type secret were woven into the fabric. After twenty-five minutes of this, Andreas noticed the cop was getting antsy. He’d stopped watching every move Andreas made and began
glancing around the room. Five minutes later Andreas said, ‘Officer, would you do me a favor and open the shutters, I need a bit more light in here if I’m ever going to finish.’
The cop seemed excited at the chance of finally getting to do something besides watching Andreas’ hands. He stepped behind the captain’s desk, popped open the shutters and returned to the table. By then Andreas had moved on to the cross. He was holding it up to the new light. ‘Thanks, that helped a lot.’
The rookie nodded.
Ten minutes later Andreas said he was finished. He told the two how much he appreciated their cooperation and said, if they preferred, he’d not mention his visit to their captain. They looked at each other and, in Greek chorus fashion, nodded and said, ‘Thank you.’
Andreas walked back to his car imagining what he’d do to anyone under his command that let himself be bullied into opening up his office. No telling what could happen. He touched the item in his pant pocket that he’d purchased less than an hour before in the shop. Well, not really the same item, but one just like it. Someone might even switch crosses on you, he thought.
The first thing Maggie saw on her desk that morning was a sealed envelope wrapped in red ribbon with a scribbled note:
Please transcribe ASAP. Only you are to do it, and only you are to know. There are two voices on the tape, one is still unidentified and the other belongs to the person who made me do this to you. xox, Yianni.
She smiled. They were good kids. Dedicated cops, too. Not many like them. She put aside the things on her desk, opened the envelope, and took out the tape. There wasn’t a decent software program for converting Greek speech into the written word, so she did it the old fashioned way: she put the tape into her transcription machine, adjusted her headphones to minimize damage to her permanent, and hit the foot pedal to start things off.
Maggie could type as fast as they spoke, and once she caught the rhythm of their voices it was easy. She was breezing along listening to the other man’s scholarly description of ancient church intrigues and enjoying every minute of it. She was deeply religious and more aware than most of church history. She quickly realized that the other man was someone who truly knew what he was talking about. She also noticed something familiar about his voice. Probably, she thought, because she’d heard the subject discussed many times before.
The man was five minutes or so into his thinking on modern theological problems confronting the church when she screamed, ‘Kalogeros Giorgos! I can’t believe it’s you.’
Maggie transcribed the rest of the tape in rigid, concentrated silence. Nothing in life surprised her anymore, but she prayed he wasn’t involved. Not all sacred cows should fall to slaughter. Certainly not this one, she prayed.
Kouros looked at what the abbot had e-mailed as being all his information on the three unaccounted-for monks. It was about as helpful as saying, ‘Huey, Dewey, and Louie live in Disney World.’ Maybe less so. All were from a monastery on Mount Athos that was among the poorest, least developed, and strictest there. Its monks prided themselves on rigorous discipline and endless prayer. They slept on wooden plank benches without mattresses, and regarded as far too liberal a neighbor monastery well known for its strict interpretation of all things and the inscription ‘Orthodoxy or Death’ over its entranceway.
They had no television, no Internet, no telephone, and barely communicated with the outside world. The only way to make contact was by mail or to show up on their doorstep and literally pray for them to let you in. Kouros sighed. He saw a pilgrimage in his future.
Kouros decided to take a crack at something more within his control and ran a check on the Patmos police captain. It came back clean except for a number of citizen complaints that his personality bordered on asshole – coming from the dark side. No surprise there. But an otherwise clean record didn’t necessarily mean anything more than he was careful. Some of the dirtiest cops he knew looked terrific on paper. They’d pull more quality arrests than any other cops in their jurisdiction. Of course they did, because they were paid by their bad-guy partners not just to protect them, but to shut down their competitors through tip-offs. It was a double hit for crooked cops: glory for the collar, cash for the protection. Still, there was nothing to suggest this Patmos cop was dirty. It would require an undercover operation in the middle of nowhere. He’d leave that call to his chief.
8
Stealing evidence wasn’t his proudest moment, but Andreas saw no choice. He had to study it in detail, and if he did so in front of Patmos cops there was no doubt his interest in the cross would get back to anyone on the island with an interest in his investigation. Vassilis died protecting whatever secret it held and Andreas wasn’t about to help give it away.
Switching crosses wasn’t all that difficult, even though he’d relied more on improvisation and luck than practised skill. He’d casually slid his left hand into his left front pant pocket and gripped the duplicate cross as the cop went behind the captain’s desk. The instant the cop turned to open the shutters, Andreas grabbed the evidence from the table with his right hand, and with his left, yanked the replacement out of his pocket and thrust it up in front of him. By the time the cop looked back, Andreas was slowly twisting the duplicate in the light, drawing the cop’s eyes to it while slipping the original into his right front pant pocket.
The only real downside he saw to what he’d done was that unless something truly nasty turned up in the Patmos captain’s file that Andreas could not overlook, a potentially crooked cop was home free. Andreas knew if he pushed for an investigation that ultimately led to prosecution the rookies would tell their captain everything, and his visit would become a key element in any defense. That one incontrovertible fact would be partnered with a lot of made-up ones to yield stories and headlines along the lines of ‘Chief Cop Plants Evidence on Local Cop.’ It was just that sort of take-no-prisoners media approach that broke his father. He wouldn’t risk subjecting Lila and the baby to the craziness. No reason to revive the bad memories for his mother either. No smoke, no investigation. Make that no roaring fire, no investigation.
Andreas sat in his rented car outside the police station and pressed his hand against his pocket. Still there, he thought. He didn’t dare take it out here; one of the cops inside might get suspicious. After all, why would he leave their captain’s office to sit in the parking lot staring at something unless he’d taken evidence? No, he’d find some other place to study it.
This must be what it felt like to be a thief, he thought. No, make that a novice thief who thinks everyone is watching him. Truth was, no one probably cared, but he couldn’t take the chance. He had to find the right place to study the cross and think. But where? He drove up the mountain toward Chora.
The Patmian School was halfway between Skala and Chora. Begun in 1713, it was among the world’s most renowned schools of Greek language and Orthodox theology, and now served as a seminary. Surely, a man sitting outside contemplating a cross would not be out of place.
He was almost at the school when he noticed a long line of buses idling along the roadside. They were just sitting there; doors closed, passengers inside, waiting for something. Then Andreas realized where he was, made a quick U-turn, and pulled up next to a pair of black wrought-iron gates hung on broad stone walls. This was the place to do his thinking. He got out and walked toward the entrance. A handwritten sign in five languages casually hung by a string tied to one of the gates, and two boys in the uniform of the Patmian School sat next to it. They were courteously telling the more aggressive visitors that the sign meant what it said: CLOSED FOR FUNERAL UNTIL 11 A.M. It seemed every place and person that mattered to Vassilis in life was honoring his funeral.
Andreas stopped in front of the boys, and one of them said, ‘Sorry, sir, we’re closed for another half hour.’
Andreas showed them his badge. ‘Official business.’
The boys jumped up and opened the gate. ‘Yes, sir,’ said one.
‘God bless you, and we
lcome to the Holy Cave of the Apocalypse,’ said the other.
It was the abbot’s duty to say the words that must be said when a monk goes to sleep with the Lord. But it was not his duty to prepare him. That was a job for others: to sponge – not bathe – him with warm water in the sign of the cross upon his forehead, chest, hands, knees, and feet; dress him without gazing upon his nakedness in socks, pants, and necessary vestments; cross and tie his hands, and place a prayer rope within them as his spiritual sword for defeating the devil; cover his head with his cap and his face with his hood formed in the shape of a cross; put on his shoes and belt; place him on a bed of straw; cover him with his cassock and sew it closed about his body with black thread, and with white thread sew three crosses, one at his head, one at his breast, and one at his feet; and as he was a priest, not just a monk, place the stole showing his rank upon him.
Kalogeros Vassilis’ body had rested on a wooden bier in the entrance to the main church, beside a burning candle, in the continuing presence of those with whom he’d shared his life who were now taking turns reciting from the Book of Psalms. The monk lay in the middle of the church, his icon on his chest, his fellows holding candles. This service would be a long one, in keeping with a departed monk’s long service to God. When it was over, his body and a procession led by acolytes bearing lanterns would follow on a journey, filled with prayers and stops along the way, to his final resting place within the monastery’s walls. Only his body, no casket or bier, would go into his grave, and once his body was blessed by a priest with the sign of the cross made by thrown earth and holy oil, the gathered monks would complete their thousand prayers for his soul and the Thrice Holy Hymn recited.
Only then it would be the abbot’s time to speak: to praise the virtues and spiritual struggles of the monk who had died.
The abbot was wrestling throughout the service with how to describe Vassilis’ struggles without addressing those tempests of the church that haunted every moment of his final days. They might even hold the answer to the reason for his death. How could he not speak out? But would it truly honor one who had built such a magnificent and meaningful life on earth to point out imperfections in the material he’d chosen for its construction? No, that would honor neither the man nor his life’s work. He would speak only of how Kalogeros Vassilis honored his church, how he labored to make life better for so many in keeping with its teachings, and how his reward was now to be with God in heaven. After all, why should my words praising the man do less for his church?
An Aegean Prophecy: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery: Book 3 Page 8
