“We were so involved in our own lives we left Lena to raise her.”
“Your housekeeper?”
The Brigadier nodded. “Lena made her breakfast, took her to the playground, made sure she did her homework, and tucked her in at night.”
“If that’s your definition of lousy, there are an awful lot of lousy parents out there. I don’t see that as generating bad press.”
“The lousy part was how Lena was treated.” He stared back down at the floor. “My wife yelled at her constantly. Nothing she did was ever right. She would scream for Lena to walk up three flights of stairs just to hand her something sitting on a table right next to her. And she’d do it front of everyone, including our daughter.”
“And you let her?” said Yianni.
“I wasn’t home much, and when I was, I took the path of least resistance. I didn’t want to fight with her.”
“Why didn’t your wife fire her if she was so unhappy with her?”
“She wasn’t unhappy, just threatened by Lena’s relationship with Penelope. I took it all as a power play to show who was in charge. If Lena had quit, my wife would have been utterly lost. Lena knew that too.”
“Then why did she stay?”
“Because she loved our daughter. She had no children of her own. She just tuned out my wife’s screaming and went about her business.”
“Frankly, Brigadier, beyond your wife coming across as—if you’ll excuse the expression—a bitch, I still don’t see any story angle to this that makes it a can of worms.”
The Brigadier audibly sighed. “It was my wife’s constant hounding of Lena in front of our daughter that fueled Penelope’s attraction to radical politics. If my wife hadn’t treated Lena as badly as I allowed her to, I’m certain Penelope would never have rallied to the cause of ‘the exploited workers tormented by the monied classes.’” He emphasized his final phrase with finger quotes.
“How’s that all tie into your not telling us about Prada?” said Yianni.
“Prada? Oh, that’s your nickname for him.” The Brigadier smiled. “It fits his style these days.” He stretched and shook his wrist. “You’ve got a pretty strong grip there, Chief Inspector.”
“Just tell us how it all ties into Prada,” repeated Andreas.
The Brigadier shifted in his chair. “He was a regular in our home, dropping by all the time for dinner and to rage on in debates with me over politics. It was a routine we’d followed since childhood. He always took the side of workers uniting against oppressive bosses, leaving me to play the right wing bad guy. I saw our arguments as fun, a link back to our days as kids. Neither of us ever took it seriously or expected to change the other’s views.”
He shook his head. “I never realized how the combination of our tabletop debates and my wife’s treatment of Lena had radicalized our daughter until it was too late. She saw her mother’s relentless hounding of Lena as proof positive of the validity of Prada’s arguments.”
“And when was ‘too late’?” said Andreas.
“When Penelope went off to university and joined the far left radical crowd that got her killed. I tried to get him to talk sense into her, to get her to back away from the rock- and bomb-throwers, but he refused. He said it’s up to her to make her own decisions, lead her own life. Then he had the balls to tell me, ‘Don’t be so worried. It’s just a phase kids go through in university. When she gets older and wiser, she’ll come back around to your right wing way of thinking. They always do.’
“I thought he was joking but he assured me he wasn’t. He gave me a speech. He said he’d been around long enough to know ideals didn’t matter. All politicians, whether left or right, shared the same stage, bit players directed in their roles by global forces. The costumes might be different, but they shared the same dressing room, took bows before the same audience, wooed the same critics, and dined at the same trough. Speeches were just that—wave the flag, blame the immigrants, promise the masses what they wanted, do whatever it took to keep moving the sheep toward the pen. The far left was in power now, but on a course likely to banish it from power for generations.”
The Brigadier clenched his fists. “The callous bastard didn’t believe his own rhetoric. He was a fraud who’d radicalized my daughter, his godchild, and then refused to help her get her head back on straight.”
“That’s when you stopped talking to him?”
The Brigadier nodded, his face coloring. “And never will again. He cost my daughter her life.”
“Why do you say he’s a fraud?” said Yianni. “It sounds as though he was just making an observation and trying to comfort you as a father.”
“It’s more than that. He could have talked to her. She’d have listened to him. But he didn’t want to risk his leftist credentials by getting her to turn her back on his radical cronies. I watched him grow up. Saw him make whatever alliances it took to get what he wanted. Yes, he’s made his mark espousing leftist causes, but I’ve no doubt he’d move to the right in a heartbeat if he thought it benefited him. He’s a practical man. He keeps his options open. I’m sure even his friendship with me was purposeful. I served as his link to the military right.”
“Why would he want a link to the right?” said Andreas.
“For the same reason I imagine he went to Santorini. He’s always believed that once the far left attained power, if it faltered, the far right would be the next to rule. He sees them as two sides of the same coin, equally appealing to voters so easily seduced by radical promises of better lives once the party’s targets of blame are eliminated.”
“You’re saying he’s a hypocrite?” said Andreas.
“No, I’m saying he’s a ruthless opportunist utterly devoid of ethics. He’ll do whatever it takes to benefit himself.”
“Like seeing your daughter dead if it might have benefited him?”
The Brigadier shut his eyes for a moment, opened them, and stared straight at Andreas. “From the bottom of my heart, as much as I’d like to say yes, I have to say no.”
Yianni coughed. “Excuse me, but let me run something by you, Brigadier. Prada claimed to be on Santorini at the request of the Prime Minister for the purpose of delivering a very unwelcome message to some high-ranking military. The sort of a message that some might say inspires coups. Does that sound like your buddy’s style?”
“If you mean benefiting by fomenting discord, absolutely. But why would he want a coup? His party is already in power.”
“But it’s moved rather briskly from its classic, far left communist roots toward the center,” said Yianni.
“That’s consistent with Prada’s vision of politics as a process of moving to the right with maturity. Besides, the Prime Minister booted out the party’s most extreme leftist members in the last election, and its ruling coalition partner is a party of right-wingers with its head serving as minister of defense. The Prime Minister’s party is on an obvious march to the right, so I don’t see why he would be trying to provoke a conflict with the military.”
“Are you suggesting Prada lied when he said he was delivering a message from the Prime Minister?” said Andreas.
“Hard to see why he’d deliver such a message, because you’d think it’s the sort of thing that would get back to the Prime Minister, making Prada look, at best, a fool if what he said wasn’t true. And if there’s one thing he’s not, it’s a fool.”
“But he did deliver that message,” said Andreas. “No doubt about it.”
The Brigadier shook his head. “Then I suggest you find out whether what you overheard actually came from the Prime Minister. And if not, who’s the powerful son of a bitch that convinced Prada to deliver it. One thing I can tell you for sure is that’s not the sort of wild-ass political risk he would take on his own. He likes his power, but only takes chances when he’s certain he has political cover from above.”
Th
e Brigadier swallowed. “For the same reason that he wouldn’t risk his political future by telling my daughter she was in with the wrong crowd, he wouldn’t dare cross the Prime Minister unless he thought he was covered by the right crowd.”
“So the question is, why did Prada do it?” said Andreas.
“Where the hell do we start to figure that out?” said Yianni.
Andreas sat back in his chair, closed and opened his eyes. “By asking the Prime Minister.”
Chapter Fourteen
Andreas did not know the Prime Minister personally, and knew it would be impossible to expect his boss, the minister of public order, to arrange a private meeting between Andreas and the Prime Minister, even if Andreas were prepared to trust him with his reason for the meeting. Nor could Tassos convince one of his contacts to set up such a meeting without confiding its purpose to the intermediary in advance. Heads of state did not like surprises.
Andreas had to find another way. He doubted that becoming Facebook friends with the Prime Minister would work, so he settled on an old-fashioned method: He asked Lila to do it for him—a wise decision that yielded immediate results.
Though the Prime Minister had risen to power as a symbol of the exploited masses, his mentor in all of that was one of the most socially prominent and wealthiest women in Greece. It took Andreas’ wife only a brief telephone call peppered with catty gossip and well-placed flattery to get Greece’s Lady Rasputin, as some called her, to assure Lila that the Prime Minister would see her darling husband at once.
And so he did, that very afternoon.
The Prime Minister’s offices were in the Maximos Mansion at 19 Irodou Attikou, an extraordinarily convenient meeting place for Andreas because it stood just up the block from where Andreas lived. But there was a snag. The Prime Minister scheduled their meeting for his home: a modest apartment in a seven-story building amid a sea of unattractive concrete apartment buildings jammed into the staunchly working class Athens neighborhood of Kypseli. About one mile roughly due north of GADA headquarters, and a world away from the Maximos Mansion, this once elegant neighborhood had seen ill-conceived construction and an ever-expanding immigrant population turn it into what’s said to be among the most densely populated neighborhoods on the planet.
Andreas parked his unmarked car directly across from the Prime Minister’s building in a spot marked NO PARKING. Two marked police cars sat in the street on either side of the entrance to the apartment building. He’d been surprised by the graffiti-covered walls up the block, rubbish-littered empty lots, and abandoned properties, but not by the black-clad soldier wearing a combat headset and carrying a H&K MP5K submachine gun stepping briskly toward his open window.
Andreas held up his ID and said he had an appointment with the Prime Minister. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel while the soldier relayed the message and waited for instructions.
“Okay, sir, you’re cleared to go up.”
“Thank you,” said Andreas, opening the door and getting out.
The soldier pointed at a burly, bald man in civilian clothes standing by the front door to the building. “He will take you up, sir.”
As much as Andreas wanted to joke about the fortune in euros all this security must be costing the nation simply to demonstrate that the Prime Minister remained a commoner, he doubted that would get a smile out of the Prime Minister’s security detail. Besides, this long neglected neighborhood could use the additional police attention.
The burly man met him just inside the front door. “May I have your weapon please, Chief Inspector?”
Andreas handed over his nine millimeter.
“Thank you. I’ll give it back when you leave.”
“Don’t you want to search me?”
The man smiled as he pointed toward the elevator. “No need, the doorway you just passed through did a full body scan.”
Oh yeah, he’s living just like the common folk.
Andreas and the man stepped inside the elevator. The man pressed 4. Andreas wondered whether the building’s tenants had come to accept their working elevator as just another perk of their illustrious neighbor’s presence in the building.
The elevator door opened and the burly man pointed left at two more men in civilian clothes, one standing on either side of an apartment door no different from any of the floor’s other beige metal doors. The burly man nodded and one of the two men leaned over and opened the door.
Andreas went through the doorway not knowing what to expect on the other side. He found a living room reminiscent of the one he’d grown up in, furnished on about the same budget as his father’s cop salary. Nothing of great monetary value jumped out at him, and family hand-me-downs seemed everywhere. Conspicuously absent were photos of powerful or celebrated friends. The only photographs were of the Prime Minister and his family. It was the perfect setting for his just-like-us public persona.
There was no way of telling what might lie in the other rooms, but no matter what the actual truth might be about the PM’s rumored family wealth, Andreas had to admit he knew how to project an image.
As if on cue, a man about the same age as Andreas burst into the room carrying a tray laden with two large mugs, a carafe of coffee, milk, sugar, two spoons, and a plate of cookies. In rolled-up shirtsleeves and no tie, the Prime Minister smiled. “Welcome, Chief Inspector Kaldis.”
“May I help you, Prime Minister?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you.” He gestured with his head toward a sturdy, wood-framed sofa done in heavily varnished dark floral carvings and a nondescript, faded-beige chenille upholstery. “Please, sit there.”
Andreas sat on the sofa as the Prime Minister placed the tray on a coffee table in front of him.
“Sorry, about the informality of all this, but the kids’ mom had to work today and I had to get them started on their homework for Monday. I barely had time to boil water for the coffee. I hope that’s okay.”
Andreas smiled. “More than okay, sir. Thank you.”
This guy really knows how to play the role.
Still standing, the Prime Minister picked up a mug, poured in the coffee, and looked down at Andreas. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Just black, thank you.”
The Prime Minister handed him the mug, poured one for himself, and sat across from Andreas on a chair matching the sofa. “That’s something else we seem to have in common.”
“Pardon?”
“Black coffee.” The Prime Minister smiled. “And a deep appreciation of the value of the mothers of our children.”
Andreas laughed. “Yes, it’s because of the latter that I have this chance to try the former.”
The Prime Minister’s smile relaxed into something more genuine. “Well put.” He leaned forward and picked up the plate of cookies. “Here, try these koulourakia. I get them from a bakery around the corner. Best in Athens.”
Andreas took a butter cookie. “Thank you.”
The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair. “So, what is this urgent matter threatening my government that my good friend told me I must hear from your lips in person?”
“Your friend is very insightful. My wife never said that to her, but it’s true.”
He nodded. “She is one of the most intuitive people I know. She senses the unsaid.”
“A valuable skill.”
“And one whose advice I’ve learned not to follow at my peril.” He sipped his coffee.
“Do you have other advisors you value for the same reason?”
The Prime Minister paused in mid-sip. “My turn to say, ‘pardon’?”
“To get straight to the point, sir, I’m here because in the course of a homicide investigation we picked up a conversation involving one of your senior advisors.”
“Involved in a murder?”
“No. He turned up unexpectedly at a dinner arranged
by top military personnel, and it’s what he said to those attending the dinner that brings me here.”
“What did he say?”
“He described what he characterized as your new defense policy.”
The Prime Minister seemed to squeeze his coffee mug before putting it down on the table. “Who said that?”
Andreas told him.
“And what precisely did he say?”
Andreas told him.
The Prime Minister sat quietly for a moment. “Do I understand you to be telling me you have incontrovertible proof of top members of our nation’s armed forces being told by one of my most trusted advisors that I plan on Greece no longer employing a strong military to facedown its historic enemies, but rather will rely upon NATO and Europe to defend our homeland?”
Andreas nodded. “That sums it up.”
The Prime Minister smiled. “That must have ruined the military folks’ evening.”
The smile surprised Andreas, but he played along. “It did add to their bar bill.”
“What was their reaction to what they heard?”
“Once your advisor left, they openly disagreed with what they understood to be your position, and talked a lot about finding some way of getting you to change your mind.”
“What sort of way?”
“Finding someone capable of persuading your advisor to convince you to change your position.”
“I’m getting the impression my advisor made it appear he didn’t agree with what he’d described as my strategy.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“Was there any talk of more aggressive means for getting me to change my mind?”
“There was some talk of convincing your advisor to form his own party to run against you.”
The Prime Minister laughed. “Anything a bit more realistic?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re certain of that?”
Andreas nodded. “I am. They only talked about using their influence to change your mind, not their might to change the government.”
Santorini Caesars Page 15
