Santorini Caesars

by Jeffrey Siger

The Prime Minister smiled. “I like your way of putting things.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Prime Minister nodded. “I understand there’s a question you wanted to ask me in person.”

  “Yes.”

  What is it?”

  Andreas swallowed hard. “Is it true what he said about your strategy?”

  “You’re asking me whether I plan on instituting a revolutionary shift in Greece’s military policy? That strikes me as a subject far above your security clearance.”

  “With all respect, sir, I have the clearances. Besides, if what he said is true, it’s no longer a secret. Someone claiming to be authorized to speak on your behalf broadcast your alleged plan to two dozen hard-drinking military men. The real question is, who doesn’t know about it by now? In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t had the press at your throat about this already.”

  The Prime Minister fixed his eyes on Andreas. Andreas stared back, saying nothing.

  “If that were my plan, revealing it as he did could be seen as an effort to fire up the military against it before I’ve had the chance to put it in place, and my instinctive reaction would be to consider his behavior a political betrayal.” He picked up his mug. “If that weren’t my plan, but he said that it was, a sinister plot comes to mind, one on the order of an effort to turn the military against me and remove me from office. That I’d call treason.”

  The Prime Minister took a sip. “But in either case, if confronted, he’d likely say it was a trial balloon floated out there by him, not me, to test the chances of such a dramatic policy change actually surviving the military’s ire. He’d call that an act of loyalty, attempting to spare me a political disaster.”

  He put down his mug. “So what is it, Andreas, political betrayal, treason, or loyalty?”

  Andreas hesitated for an instant at the use of his first name. “I hardly know the man. I can only pass along the facts. It’s up to you to interpret them.”

  “I want your instinct.”

  “You already have someone for that sort of advice.”

  He smiled. “I see why our minister of public order is always screaming for me to get rid of you. You’re far better at this political fencing than he is.” After a momentary pause, the Prime Minister slapped his hands on his thighs. “Okay, here’s what we do. This conversation never happened. You continue with your investigation, following it wherever it takes you. And once you have an ‘instinct born of facts,’” he used finger quotes, “I want you to tell me right away. I’ll take it from there.” He stood and extended his hand. “Okay?”

  Andreas stood and shook the Prime Minister’s hand. “You still haven’t answered my question. Is that your new strategy?”

  He put his hand on Andreas’ shoulder and led him to the door. “Let’s just call our little political fencing match a draw on that subject.”

  “Whatever you say, sir.”

  But be ready when the boys with the real swords come after you.

  ***

  Andreas sat in his car, staring up at the Prime Minister’s apartment building. This time the soldier ignored him.

  Andreas had never been a fan of the PM, but for that matter he’d not been a fan of any Prime Minister in recent memory. None ever did what he promised. This one most of all. A declared Marxist-Leninist practically since birth, he was elected on promises of standing up to Greece’s European creditors and restoring jobs and social programs amid a catastrophic financial meltdown. An impossibility, his right wing rivals said.

  Once elected, he staged a dramatic show of resistance to his nation’s creditors but ultimately capitulated to all their demands and implemented societal changes far more severe and conservative than any right wing leader ever imagined could pass through Parliament. Yet his left wing supporters still loved him enough to elect him again.

  The man was a political magician.

  And Andreas could see why. You couldn’t help but like the guy on a personal level, even though you knew you couldn’t believe a word that he said. Not that he was a liar…no he was the consummate political animal. He existed to be elected and remain in power. For successful politicians, Andreas supposed political philosophies must give way to that principle. Politics was all about being practical, and Andreas would have bet this guy didn’t even own a pair of nonsensible shoes.

  Though the Prime Minister had carefully avoided giving Andreas an answer for why Prada had said what he did on Santorini, he’d indirectly told him plenty. He’d neither embraced nor rejected Prada, admitted nor denied Prada had spoken the truth to the military, but he’d given Andreas the green light to go forward with his investigation. Something the Prime Minister never would’ve done had Prada been acting on his behalf in delivering that message to the military.

  Andreas nibbled at his lower lip. On the other hand, if the PM had told Andreas to stop the investigation, it would be a direct confirmation of Prada acting on his behalf. With all the subtle ways the Prime Minister had at his disposal to prevent Andreas from ever learning the truth, it made no sense for him to say anything to make Andreas think Prada didn’t have the full backing of the Prime Minister’s office.

  He rubbed at his right temple. The Prime Minister had taken great care to mention that Babis wanted Andreas’ head. He’d said it in a way that suggested the Prime Minister had Andreas’ back. Still, all it would take was a “Do what you think is best for your ministry,” phone call from the Prime Minister to Andreas’ boss and Andreas would be history.

  I’ll know soon enough, thought Andreas, shaking his head as he started the car. Politics. Andreas hated the process. He glanced up and down the street, still not believing this was where the Prime Minister of Greece lived. His eye caught a street sign and he smiled. Perhaps that explained it. This had to be the only place in Greece where the Prime Minister could find what the name on that street sign promised. Andreas pulled away and drove off, leaving Harmony Street behind.

  ***

  Andreas marched into his office carrying a box of pastries and a bottle of tsipouro.

  Yianni stared at him from a chair in front of a row of empty coffee cups aligned along Andreas’ desk.

  “Glad to see one of us is in a party mood. For the last four hours I’ve been sitting here listening to our military’s best and brightest engage in a marathon booze and bitching session over their rapidly fading futures, only to have you show up with this.” He pointed at the bottle of tsipouro in Andreas’ hand.

  “What can I say? After my meeting with the Prime Minister and your time here, I figured we could both use a drink.”

  “But this stuff is like gasoline.”

  “No, gasoline would be its Italian cousin, grappa. This one has just enough anise to make it pleasant. Besides, we’re civilized…we mix it with water.”

  “Spoken like a true Greek.”

  Andreas put the bottle and pastry box on his desk and sat down in the chair next to Yianni.

  “Went that badly, huh?”

  Andreas shrugged, opened the box, and took out a cookie. “Either the Prime Minister is with us or against us. No telling. But I’m going to act as if we have his full support and plunge ahead on that assumption.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “You and I will have a lot more time for tsipouro.”

  “Great. Did he tell you if what Prada told the military was true?”

  Andreas gestured no. “But my instinct is it wasn’t.”

  “Instinct? Maybe I’ll have that tsipouro, after all.”

  “Any news from our boys on Santorini?”

  “They’re just as bored as I am. As for the two-dozen military men on whose every word we’re hanging, they’ve been drinking for hours. The more they drink, the more the younger ones urge the older to pressure Prada.”

  “And the top brass?”

  “They jus
t listen to the younger ones vent. It’s as if they don’t want to be quoted.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful time is being had by all.” Andreas bit into the cookie.

  “Prada’s little speech put a real damper on the weekend.”

  Andreas nodded. “Just like he intended.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He had to know the effect his words would have on that group. And assuming he knew what he said wasn’t true, he also knew that sooner or later the whole episode would get back to the PM. That adds up to Prada having had one hell of a powerful reason for taking such a risk.” Andreas drummed the fingers of his right hand on the desktop. “All we have to do now is figure out his motivation, determine who else is involved, and how it all ties into the murder of Penelope Sigounas.”

  Yianni opened the box and took out a galaktoboureko custard pastry roll. “Oh, that’s all? I feel so much more relaxed now.”

  Andreas ignored him. “His purpose in going to Santorini had to be to get a rise out of that group. But why?”

  “If that was his goal, as I said, he certainly succeeded in pissing off the younger officers.”

  “But you’re sure none of the general officers jumped in on the bitching or at least encouraged it?”

  “Not as far as I heard. The closest any big brass came to what I’d call encouragement was when one said, ‘If you feel that strongly, why don’t you go talk to him directly?’ ‘Him’ being Prada.”

  “Who said that?”

  “The air marshal.”

  “Sounds a bit out of the usual chain of command, wouldn’t you say? An air marshal telling lower-ranking officers to take their gripes directly to the Prime Minister’s right-hand man?”

  Yianni yawned. “It came after a long, droning diatribe by one officer in particular. To me it seemed Air Marshal said what he did more out of frustration with the officer’s yammering than anything else.”

  “Who was the complainer?”

  “A Colonel Retsos.”

  “A colonel? Well, that certainly raises warm memories.”

  Say the word “colonel” and Greece’s junta dictatorship years immediately popped into the minds of those who lived though them.

  “I told the Prime Minister there’s been a lot of bitching but no mention of any use of force. Is that still true?”

  Yianni nodded.

  “Good.”

  Yianni took a bite of the pastry, and a sip of coffee. “So, let me get this straight. If you’re right about the Prime Minister not authorizing Prada’s little speech last night, aren’t we back to square one as far as figuring out how any of this makes sense?”

  “You could say that, but I have an idea.”

  “Should I be afraid?”

  “Not yet, but don’t worry, there’s still time. There just might be a party I want Petro to crash later.”

  “Sounds like you’re about to make his day.”

  Andreas reached for the tsipouro. “Let’s drink to Petro and good luck.”

  Yianni slid two empty coffee cups toward Andreas. “How about good luck for us all?”

  ***

  “Let me see if I understand you correctly,” Petro told Andreas. “You want me to find out where Colonel Retsos plans on having dinner tonight, go there, make friends with him, and learn all that I can about what he plans on doing to get our Prime Minister to change his mind on our nation’s military policy?”

  “Yep, that about sums it up,” said Andreas.

  Petro pulled the phone away from his ear, stared at it, and shook his head.

  “Petro, are you there?”

  “Yeah,” he said bringing the phone back to his ear. “I’m just wondering how the hell I’m supposed to do any of that, let alone all of it in one night.”

  “It’s not as difficult as it sounds. I doubt the colonel and his buddies will stay cooped up in the hotel, so just listen to where they plan on going.”

  “That’ll be the easy part. How am I supposed to make friends with the guy? For sure he’ll recognize me from the restaurant, and I doubt some hotshot colonel will be interested in making friends with his busboy from the night before.”

  “Don’t be so negative. See, you’ve already hit upon common ground for striking up a conversation. Just let your natural charm carry you from there.”

  Petro closed his eyes. “Why do I sense Yianni is in the background hooting and hollering while you’re telling me all this?”

  Andreas laughed. “What can I say, that’s Yianni. But we both have faith in you to pull this off.”

  Petro heard Yianni shout in the background, “All you’ll need is a little luck. We’re rooting for you.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re drinking for me too.”

  “Pardon?” said Andreas.

  “Not you, Chief, I’m talking about my cheering section in the background.”

  “He means well,” said Andreas.

  “So, what precisely are you hoping for me to get from this colonel?”

  “I want to know whether he plans on hooking up with Prada and who, if anyone, is encouraging or assisting him to do that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “If the subject comes up, what he plans on doing if he can’t get the Prime Minister to change his mind.”

  “I can’t imagine him telling those things to a complete stranger.”

  “Just go in confident and play it by ear. No telling what you might learn.”

  “Do you want me to wear a wire?” Petro glanced at Dimos.

  “No need to risk them finding out they’re under surveillance,” said Andreas. “We have days of them talking the subject to death. Just find out what you can about any plans for getting to Prada.”

  “I’ll try. No promises.”

  “None expected. Just try your best. Bye.”

  “Good luck,” shouted Yianni.

  Petro shut the phone in one hand and smacked his forehead three times with his other.

  “Sounds like you have a busy night ahead of you,” said Dimos.

  ‘You heard?”

  “Of course I heard, I’m a professional eavesdropper, with the equipment to prove it. Besides, I’m standing right here and your phone volume’s too loud.”

  “How am I ever going to get close to that guy? He’ll shoo me away like a cockroach.”

  “You mean like a cat. A cockroach he’d probably step on.”

  Petro raised his hands. “Okay, a cat. It’s still the same problem.”

  “You need a distraction, something that will make him want to hang out with you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sappho.”

  “What are you talking about? She’s not that kind of girl.”

  “Malaka, I’m not saying set him up with her, I’m saying that she’s fun and everyone on this island knows her. All you have to do is show up with her, and before you know it she’ll be in conversation with them. It’s the way she is. You’ll just have to take it from there.”

  “She’s a bit of an unguided missile on the conversation front.”

  “As long as you don’t tell her what you’re up to, who cares how outrageous she gets? It will only charm the colonel and his buddies more. Guys like hanging out with funny, fast-talking women. She’ll be the hit of the night.”

  Petro shook his head. “I don’t know—”

  “Let me stop you right there. What you don’t know is whether you want to get her involved in this. That I can understand. But don’t say it’s because it wouldn’t work. It will work, or at least has a better chance of working than you showing up solo.”

  Petro sighed. “Maybe Retsos will decide to stay in tonight and this whole scheme will just fade away.”

  Dimos held up a piece of paper. “Sorry to break the news to you, but while you w
ere on the phone with the chief, Colonel Retsos made reservations for twelve at twenty-two-hundred hours at a restaurant called Alexi’s on the main road to the airport in the town before Mesaria. It ain’t romantic, but it makes you feel right at home. The perfect place for making new friends.”

  Petro glared at the piece of paper before snatching it out of Dimos’ hand.

  “Enjoy your evening.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Petro and Sappho sat at a table close by the kitchen. There were only a half-dozen tables in the place and they wouldn’t have had a table at all if the owner’s son hadn’t offered them the one he sat at to serenade customers with his bouzouki playing. He said that was the least he could do for his grade school sweetheart and promptly hugged and kissed Sappho hello far more vigorously than one would expect in casually greeting an old friend.

  Sappho shrugged off his enthusiasm with a comment about how she hoped he played the bouzouki with a more sophisticated touch than the one he’d just applied to her backside. He laughed and walked away, leaving Sappho and Petro to their table.

  “Quite a fan you have there.”

  “He’s stoned all the time,” said Sappho. “It’s the curse of our island. Drugs. They’re everywhere.”

  “At least he gave us the table.”

  “His mother would have killed him if he hadn’t. We’re in the same business. You take care of each other.”

  “Was he really your boyfriend?”

  “Ah, you’re jealous.”

  “Just curious.”

  “I let him feel me up once in eighth grade. The poor guy’s never forgotten it. Probably the last female breast he ever touched. Other than on a chicken.”

  “Too much information.”

  “You asked. But while we’re on the subject of information, why did you pick this place?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not known to many tourists.”

  “One of my buddies that you met the other night suggested we come here.”

  “I guess he didn’t want to expose you to a romantic setting.”

  Petro smiled. “Any place with you is candlelight and roses.”

  “I see you’re still reading that what-to-say-to-a-woman book.”