“Everyone looks to be okay in here,” said Yianni. “The explosion came from next door.”
“Call it in as a possible bomb.” Andreas picked his way over broken glass and out through an opening that a minute before had been the gelato place’s front window.
A young, dark skinned woman in a hijab headscarf stood screaming in front of the grocery store next door.
Instinctively, Andreas scanned the street before approaching the woman. “Miss, are you okay?”
She cringed and backed away.
“Miss, I’m here to help you, I’m with the police.” He pulled out his ID with his left hand, his right still firmly holding his gun.
Her eyes fixed on the gun.
“Do you know if anyone is inside the store?”
She didn’t speak.
“If you want me to help, you have to tell me. Do you know if anyone is inside?”
She mumbled something in a language Andreas did not understand.
“You’ll have to tell me in Greek. Or English.”
The woman hesitated, then said in Greek, “My husband and my daughter. It is our shop.”
“Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, “No. I was there.” She pointed at a kiosk twenty meters up the street.
“Stay here.” Andreas turned to head into the store just as Yianni came out of the gelato place.
“Where are you going?”
“Inside,” said Andreas. “There are at least two people still in there.”
“Chief, our homegrown anarchists give advance warning of bombings. But there wasn’t any, so this could be foreign terrorists, and that means there might be a second bomb rigged to kill first-responders. Like us.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“We should wait for the bomb squad. They’re trained for this. They’ll be here any minute.”
A cry came from inside the store.
“That sounds like a little girl,” said Andreas.
“I know,” said Yianni.
Both men turned and entered the store through what was left of the front doorway. Inside lay a jumble of broken glass, shattered cans, exploded cartons, and splintered wood. The distinctive odor of C-4 hung over all others scents.
“Let’s find them and get the hell out of here, Yianni. It was definitely a bomb.”
Another cry came up from the same voice.
“It’s coming from behind that counter,” said Yianni pointing toward the rear of the store at a metal display case filled with meats and shattered glass.
They found a girl who looked about six, sitting on the floor next to a prostrate, unmoving man, eyes open but fixed straight ahead on the ceiling, blood seeping out of one ear.
Andreas felt for a pulse. “He’s alive, but we don’t dare move him. Get the girl out of here. I’ll stay with him until the medics arrive.”
“Are you nuts?”
“Just get her out of here.”
Yianni reached for the girl and she screamed. He took her by her arms to lift her up and she started kicking him.
“Take her to her mother.”
Yianni clutched her to his chest with one arm and carried her away, holding her kicking legs tight to his body with the other.
Andreas crouched down by the man’s head. “Everything’s going to be okay. Your daughter is safe and an ambulance is on the way. Just hold on, buddy. You’ll be fine.”
Andreas looked up to where the man’s eyes stayed focused. Nothing but an ugly, peeling yellow ceiling. I wonder if he’s thinking that might be the last thing he sees on Earth? All cops wondered what their last thoughts might be, even if they didn’t admit to it. Most imagined it would be their lives passing by them in a blur, but on the thankfully few occasions Andreas had come close to a life-ending experience, it wasn’t anything like that. He’d thought only of how lucky he was to have friends and family to take care of his loved ones.
Andreas’ eyes moved from the ceiling back onto the man. He reached out and stroked the side of the man’s face. I wonder if he’s finding peace in similar thoughts.
Andreas shook his head. Hard to imagine how he could with so many Greeks vilifying dark-skinned immigrants as scapegoats for the nation’s hard times, and treating them as threats to what those same bigots believed to be Greek values. Now they’re being bombed. A tear came to Andreas’ eye. I pray his last thoughts will not be of despair.
Andreas sat in silence, his hand resting on the man’s forehead, losing track of time. He listened for the sound of the ambulance. It should have been here by now; the hospital was practically next door.
What’s taking so long?
Finally, a siren. It had probably been only a couple of minutes since Yianni called it in, but waiting with someone holding on for life makes time drag on. He heard Yianni shouting outside, and a moment later the sound of someone cursing as he drew closer to Andreas.
“What’s going on?” said Andreas.
“He didn’t want to come inside until the bomb squad gave the all clear. But I convinced him it was safe.”
“I was just following procedures.”
“You two can take this up later. But for now, take care of him.” Andreas stood up and stepped back so the medic could get to the man.
He crouched down by the man’s head. “Help is here, sir, you’ll be fine.” He turned to Yianni. “Tell my buddy to get in here with the bag. STAT.”
Andreas’ phone rang, causing the medic to duck away from his patient. “Are you crazy bringing a cellphone into a possible bomb site? Get out of here, now. PLEASE.”
Andreas headed for the front door, his phone still ringing. He pressed answer. “Hello.”
“It damn well took you long enough to answer. Are you still fighting with Yianni over claims to your ice cream?”
“Sadly, no. Things have got a little dicey since we last spoke. To be specific, we’re now in the middle of recently detonated bomb site.”
“What?”
“I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on the news. There looks to be one critically injured man, but no other casualties, and my guess at who’s behind it is some slime-bucket anti-immigrant group screaming ‘Greece is for Greeks.’”
“Never fails to amaze me how little they know about the genetic makeup of most they call Greeks,” said Tassos.
“If they’re bombing with an intention to kill, they’re really stepping up their game,” said Andreas. “It’s as if they’re taking hints from the more insane of our Mediterranean neighbors on that score.”
“Let me change the topic for a moment,” said Tassos. “I’m calling about Mayroon.”
The subject had completely dropped from Andreas’ mind. “That was quick.”
“I called the one person I knew who would definitely know about Mayroon if what you’d been told was true, and who would want to talk about it if he did.”
“Who was that?”
“A longtime, dyed-in-the-red-wool communist I knew from my days watching over him in a Junta prison. He’d been with the Prime Minister since the very beginning, a member of his inner sanctum. But when the PM went back on his promises and did precisely what he’d been elected to change, he spoke out against the PM, who promptly purged him from the party in the next election.”
“Hell hath no fury like an old-time communist purged.”
“You have the picture.”
“So what did he say?” asked Andreas.
“You were right about Mayroon. It’s been in the Prime Minister’s corner for about a decade. The rich socialite who’s been backing him since those days introduced him to Mayroon’s chairman. She likely paid Mayroon’s charges, too, at least early on. They’ve done everything from teach him English to writing his speeches and outlining his policies.”
“How’s Prada fit in?”<
br />
“Back then the PM didn’t speak much English so Prada acted as his interpreter. He used that opportunity to get in tight with the Mayroon boys, and now he’s the primary link in Greece between Mayroon and the Prime Minister.”
“That’s terrific. You’ve been a big help. The bomb squad just arrived, I better go talk to them.”
“I know you’re pressed, but don’t you want to hear the best part?”
“There’s more?”
“According to my guy, Mayroon expects those it assists in gaining power to acknowledge that support by assisting other Mayroon clients looking to do business in the victor’s country.”
“What sort of assistance?”
“Cutting through red tape, getting an inside track on privatization opportunities like shipyards, airports, railroads, utilities, real estate…you get the picture.”
“Yeah, the quid pro quo for gaining power is giving his benefactors a great deal on the nation’s crown jewels. Sounds like the more things change—”
“Not really,” interrupted Tassos. “Apparently the PM isn’t following through on what he promised Mayroon he’d do once elected. Said it’s not politically feasible.”
“At least he’s consistent in not treating Mayroon any differently than he has the two million Greeks who elected him.”
“But Mayroon isn’t as accepting as the Greek people are of ill treatment. At least that’s what my communist friend told me. He said Mayroon’s Chairman is very, very angry. And get this, Prada’s been trying to get the PM to cooperate with Mayroon. It’s Prada who convinced Mayroon that the group’s long patience and deep-pocketed support would be rewarded once his friend was prime minister. Now he’s the one set up to suffer for the Prime Minister’s new agenda, new friends, and new promises. Prada’s relationship with the Prime Minister has been badly strained over this.”
“Very, very interesting. Sounds like Prada’s thinking Mayroon won’t take kindly to him if he can’t get his principal to stick to his word. Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” said Tassos.
“Did he have anything on why Mayroon’s interested in Santorini?”
“Not a clue. But from what I can tell, Mayroon was expecting to own Greece, and that’s not happening.”
“Well, thank you, you master wizard, you.”
“You’re welcome. I doubt there’s anyone else I know who’d know more about Mayroon than he did, but I’ll check around to see if there is anything else I might be able to come up with.”
“Just be careful. We don’t want Mayroon wondering what we’re up to.”
“Do we know what we’re up to?”
“Good point,” said Andreas. “Later, I’ve got to run. Thanks, buddy.”
“Bye.”
Andreas stood at the edge of the street and turned off his phone. Ambulances, fire trucks, police, news crews, and simply the curious all about him. Everywhere. Disasters drew attention.
The storekeeper’s wife stood five meters away clutching her daughter tightly against her side, both staring unblinking into the shop. Disasters scar far more than just those attacked.
Terrorists knew all about that.
The sky had turned an ugly ominous gray. He drew in and let out a deep breath, hoping to change his mood with a whiff of fresh air, but too much C-4 still lingered to give him any relief.
He waved to the head of the bomb squad. The man must be busy these days. And likely to be busier. Had the country gone mad? He knew the world had…but Greece?
And if his country had, what could Andreas do about it? What could a lone soul railing against the madness expect to accomplish?
He watched the mother and daughter grip each other as the medics wheeled their husband and father out the doorway on a stretcher, Yianni holding an IV above the comatose man’s body.
Andreas shut his eyes. That was the answer: Just do your job, whatever it is, the best that you can, and don’t let the bastards get you down.
Andreas bit at his lower lip and opened his eyes. Prada and Mayroon, I think it’s time I welcomed you to my world.
Chapter Twenty
The storm pummeling Santorini broke early enough that morning to allow a few boats to dock. Tassos’ nephew Christos arrived on one of them and Dimos and Petro picked him up at the port. In the first moments of their serpentine drive along the road up from the harbor, Christos asked that they please do their absolute best to quickly finish up whatever they had to do at the hotel in order to get him to the airport in time to beat the predicted arrival of more bad weather that afternoon.
As hoped, the hotel manager turned ecstatic at the news of his property’s status upgrade and gave Dimos and Petro undisturbed access to confirm the original findings. They finished in less than two hours and Tassos’ nephew caught his flight back to Athens.
It took another couple of hours for Dimos and Petro to pack up and haul the equipment down from the church to the van. They planned on returning together in the vehicle on the next ferry back to Athens. Depending on the weather, that would likely be the following afternoon.
Dimos was tying down the equipment in the back of the van when Petro’s mobile rang. He walked away from the van to answer it.
“Hi, Chief.”
“Petro. So, how did it go with Tassos’ nephew? Is everything out of the hotel?”
“Everything’s cool. Dimos and I were just talking about catching the ferry tomorrow back to Athens. It all depends on the weather.”
“Good, because I need you here right away.”
“What’s up?”
“Not sure yet, but more than just the military appear interested in changing the Prime Minister’s mind about things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Don’t know yet, but something called the Mayroon Group helped get him elected and isn’t happy at how he’s treating them now that he’s in power.”
“Can’t say I’ve heard of it, but how does it plan to change his mind?”
“That’s what I need you here to help figure out. All we have so far is a rumor that Mayroon is angry with him, but my instincts are it ties into whatever Prada’s up to.”
“If all you want to know is what Mayroon’s doing to try and change the Prime Minister’s mind, I could simply stay here until tomorrow night and ask him.”
Silence.
“What are you talking about?” said Andreas.
“The Prime Minister is coming here for a tree-lighting ceremony tomorrow night. Santorini’s mayor has made it into quite a big deal. The PM’s appearance is the centerpiece of the show.”
“Petro, hold on. I’m putting you on the speaker so Yianni can hear this. We’re in a car headed back to GADA. We just met with the Brigadier. He’s who told us about Mayroom. He also said Mayroon’s all wound up over something having to do with Santorini. They’re studying maps of the island.”
“Maps,” said Petro. “Why maps?”
“I wondered that too.” Andreas paused. “Can you possibly find out from your connections on Santorini when the Prime Minister committed to coming there, and whether Prada was involved in getting him the invitation?”
“I can try, but why?” said Petro.
“We’ve got a Greek general’s daughter murdered for no apparent reason, her killers made to look like police or military specialists, a confidant of the Prime Minister winding up the military to come out hard against his boss’ policies, and a powerful international organization very angry at their ungrateful Prime Minister protégé.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Yianni.
“Something that’s happened before.”
“Kapodistrias?” said Yianni.
“Yes.”
Kapodistrias was Greece’s first elected head of state after its 1821 War of Independence. The equivalent of America’s Ge
orge Washington, the rule of Ioannis Kapodistrias came to a tragic end.
“Assassinated,” Petro murmured.
“Do you remember why?” said Andreas. “And what happened next?”
“I get your point, Chief,” said Petro. “Kapodistrias went against a proud and powerful family that helped him gain power. The family had controlled patronage in their region of Greece, but Kapodistrias refused to allow them to continue conducting their business as usual. He said there was a new national political order that everyone had to follow if the bankrupt, sharply divided country were to heal. To make his point, Kapodistrias put the leader of the family in jail, and the man’s brother and son assassinated him for the insult. The country went into chaos, ultimately leading foreign powers to install Bavarian Prince Otto as King, a ruler who deferred to the assassins’ family’s preferences.”
“You got it,” said Andreas.
“But do you actually think there’s a plan to assassinate the Prime Minister?” said Yianni.
“I think there’s enough to set off alarms, and I sure as hell don’t want to be the one who ignored them.”
“When are you going to tell the Prime Minister?” said Petro.
“Good question. No good answer. We’ve no hard facts to go on, only pure conjecture easily explained away by longstanding trusted friends and advisors of the PM. With what we have, they’ll make mincemeat of us. Worse still, if there is a plot, telling the PM will likely tip off whoever’s behind it to abandon this plan. They’ll come up with something different, a plot we’ll never know about until it succeeds. Our only chance of protecting the Prime Minister is if we don’t tell him and catch the bastards in the act.”
“And how do you propose we pull that off?” said Yianni.
“Let’s get the PM’s schedule and see where he’s most likely to be targeted.”
“That could be anywhere,” said Petro.
“Theoretically, yes. But Prada’s put a lot of effort into laying the groundwork for blaming whatever happens on the military. That makes me think it’ll be done somewhere and somehow in a manner that screams ‘military operation’ to the public.” Andreas paused for a moment. “Again.”
Santorini Caesars Page 23
