The Greek Wall

by Nicolas Verdan

  Now the thing is to get hold of this Nikolaus Strom as soon as possible. ‘Nikos, as his lady friend calls him.’ Agent Evangelos smiles, thinking back. ‘And closing the case is out of the question. My directorate will get quite a jolt when they learn that the suspect in the Evros murder case was trying to sell a barbed-wire wall to the Greek army.’

  Outside, darkness has enveloped the deserted garden. Behind Agent Evangelos someone has opened the door and he can feel the draught accompanying the unfriendly presence of the driver, who is watching him call headquarters on his mobile. Buzzing gently, a distraught fly circles the ceiling light, which flashes intermittently. Without turning around, but looking up at the insect, Evangelos says, “You can go, I don’t need you any more. I’m going to stay on for a while, and I’ve got a phone call to make, as you can see.” He hears the front door close, rattling the glass panel. He opens the window and switches off the light. He only gets a continuous ring tone from the other end. The fly has finally settled. From outside comes the sound of a departing vehicle.

  ‘That driver, what a moron,’ thinks Agent Evangelos. ‘He reminds me of those hatchet men under the dictatorship.’

  “Hello?”

  “Ah, about time! I have some news —”

  “So have we, Agent Evangelos; there’s been a missing person reported in the Evros region.”

  “Who?”

  “Batsis, Andreas Batsis. He may well be your headless corpse.”

  “Our corpse, you mean! Did his family call to say they hadn’t heard from him?”

  “No, there’s no family, no use looking in that direction.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All you need to do is check his DNA with the forensic pathologist in Alexandroupolis. We just have to make sure that the dead man is really Batsis, and then leave everything just the way it is – and make sure this business doesn’t get out.”

  “If you say so. But now listen to me, I have some information.”

  “You’re talking about Strom?”

  “Yes. He runs a company that sells security fences. He was hoping to sell us his material to build the wall.”

  “We know all about that.”

  “What? But who told you?”

  “Don’t ask pointless questions, Agent Evangelos!”

  “Oh, come on, what kind of game are you playing with me? Are you also aware that he was in contact with an army colonel?”

  “We know all about that. Just forget about it. The important thing now is to get our hands on Strom. But be careful, he’s no longer wanted for murder. You understand, he’s no longer wanted for murder!”

  “What?”

  “Strom is guilty of illegally entering a military zone. That’s the only thing of interest to us. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “For God’s sake —”

  “Agent Evangelos! Not for murder. We are trying to get our hands on a German national who ignored the perfectly visible signs identifying a military zone situated on our strategic frontier with Turkey. We have to catch this individual immediately. There’s not a moment to lose!”

  “What is this crap?”

  “Evangelos, just do what you’re asked.”

  “What about the minister? Does he know?”

  “Don’t worry about that, the minister has enough on his plate with Berlin and the Troika.”

  “Oh, go to hell!”

  “Don’t swear like that, Agent Evangelos. Forget this decapitation business once for all. Just verify Batsis’s DNA.”

  Agent Evangelos hangs up. A gust of humid air enters the room, along with the cool smell of the pines. Standing in front of the window, he reviews everything he knows. ‘Someone has decapitated a man possibly named Batsis, a person known to the security services. Anyway, that’s the version provided by a Russian escort, Polina Zubov, who ran away from a brothel called the Eros, the scene of the crime, less than three kilometres from the Turkish border. This individual, the prime suspect for this murder by decapitation, is named Nikolaus Strom. A German national, of Greek origin on his mother’s side, he apparently owns a small company specializing in the sale of security fences. According to his former lady friend, Christina Lazaridou, a resident of Athens, Strom was visiting the Evros region in his attempt to win a large contract, namely for the construction of a twelve-and-a-half-kilometre barbed-wire barrier on the Greco-Turkish frontier – a fence which the Greek government hopes will put an end to illegal migrants crossing onto its territory. It seems that Strom was in touch with a colonel in the Greek army.’

  Once again, Agent Evangelos searches through his pockets for his cigarettes, an old reflex that returns when he is under stress. ‘So far it all seems pretty clear,’ he tells himself. ‘The bits of the puzzle fit together perfectly. But then why is the directorate asking me to drop the murder charge? Who is this Batsis, whose horrible death doesn’t seem to bother anyone? The victim is known to our services… so…?

  ‘The most surprising thing,’ Agent Evangelos tells himself, ‘is this business about the military zone. It’s true, Strom was wrong to go wandering along the banks of that damned river Evros. A fat lot of good it did him anyway. But why is the entire Greek police hunting for him because he has set foot on that blasted no man’s land when he’s really the prime suspect in the murder of a Greek citizen?’

  Agent Evangelos isn’t going to let the matter drop. ‘I’ll get hold of this Strom, and worm out of him whether he was really the one who decapitated that individual on the banks of the Evros. It’s purely for my own interest, because I want to discover that tiny fragment of the truth; a truth being treated as that insignificant must be upsetting for a lot of people. After that, we’ll see what the directorate wants.’

  It is almost eleven. Evangelos must phone his daughter. This will be a special Christmas: his first Christmas as a grandfather. He’ll call his daughter, and then… No, first he’ll call Lieutenant Anastasis and tell him he’ll be back in the Evros region tomorrow, he’ll tell him they’ll spend the holiday together touring the zone along the river in his jeep. ‘But no,’ decides Agent Evangelos. ‘First I have to eat something. But not just anywhere.’

  Agent Evangelos knows where to find Sokratis Retzeptis. At this late hour, Christmas celebrations or no, street demonstrations or no, his old friend generally takes refuge in a tavern on Mavromichali Street, in Pinaleon. Sokratis used to be a judge in the Athens Court of Appeal, and his close links with the political class have often overstepped the strict boundaries of judicial independence. Evangelos has never known whose side Sokratis is really on. But he is sure of one thing: Sokratis has never done anything damaging to him, Agent Evangelos, and his advice has always proved valuable. When he was twenty, in 1974, Sokratis fell madly in love with a dark-haired young girl who wore her hair very short, in defiance of her family. One evening in August, on the way to Sounion, at the Varkiza crossroads, a car cut off Sokratis’s motorbike. He got off with lying immobilized in a hospital bed for six months. His passenger with the tomboy haircut wasn’t wearing a helmet. She died on the spot. She was eighteen; her name was Fotini, and she was Agent Evangelos’s sister. ‘She was my little sister.’

  Evangelos has arrived in front of a house straight from the time when shepherds grazed their sheep on rocky Mount Lycabettos. He picks his way along a narrow corridor cluttered with a pile of large fig-tree logs and enters a room resembling the storeroom of some eccentric second-hand dealer.

  Sokratis is there, surrounded by his usual band of comrades from PASOK. No ministers or civil servants, just 1974 intellectuals, as Evangelos calls them, men of his generation, born in the 1940s and 1950s: university professors, journalists, architects – his contemporaries, men who aren’t deceived by the great shadow play being acted out in Greece. They are corrupt to varying degrees, more or less fortunate scions suckled at the breast of the state, but not yet infected by the terrible disgrace which little by little is dulling our gaze.

  This evening,
as always, the familiar smell of cooking, the twanging of the baglamas and the smoke of cigarettes that they persist in smoking indoors in futile revolt against the diktats from Brussels, succeed in dissipating a vague sense of guilt, for outside, down in the streets of Exarcheia, devastated a few hours before by yet another riot, Agent Evangelos had told himself, ‘Our children are hurting themselves.’

  “Our children are hurting themselves,” Agent Evangelos shouts to make himself heard, resting a hand on the shoulder of Sokratis, who smiles back at him from a murky mirror.

  “You’re right,” yells Sokratis. “It’s as if they were cutting themselves, like kids punishing themselves for the suffering inflicted by their parents. But sit down, and don’t cry, Evangelos!”

  “I’m not crying, it’s the tear gas, foul stuff! Hours after the demonstration it’s still lingering in the streets nearby.”

  “You’re right to say they’re only hurting themselves.”

  Around the table, the conversation is becoming heated. Mouths open and shut like clappers in faces too fleshy or too bony; moustaches quiver, bald pates glow like light bulbs.

  “Yes, it’s true! Why don’t they set fire to Kifissia? Talk about a revolution! They’re destroying for the sake of destruction, smashing bus shelters, little stores; hooligans, the lot of them.”

  Sokratis leans towards Agent Evangelos. “You haven’t come to see me to express your astonishment at the sight of our children destroying their own neighbourhood instead of taking it out on the wealthy suburbs where we all live, we, their unworthy parents. Why are you here, for God’s sake?”

  “Because I’m hungry and thirsty, and I’m travelling tomorrow,” replies Agent Evangelos, ordering a plate of beef and vegetable soup.

  “You’re wise to eat something, my old friend, you’re not looking so great. Worries?”

  “No, it’s because I’m a grandfather now. It ages me!”

  “Andromeda had her baby? Boss, a jug of raki here! Evangelos is a grandfather! It’s a boy?”

  “A girl.”

  “Never mind, that’s good too!”

  Agent Evangelos is a grandfather, and the others call out, “So you’re a granddad?” And he repeats, “Yes, I’m a granddad!” And he tells himself it’s time he retired, but he’s not going to come drinking raki every evening with Sokratis and his gang, he’d rather go to his own bar, the Batman. On his own, the way he likes to go jogging on the flanks of Mount Hymettus, around the monastery, where there was the big fire in the summer of 2007.

  Sokratis lays his hand on Agent Evangelos’s arm, squeezes it hard, and says, “Now tell me what has brought you into my den on Christmas Eve, tell me what brought you here, for God’s sake, you know how impatient I am!”

  Agent Evangelos smiles at his old friend, looking him straight in the eye, and when Sokratis finally lowers his gaze, he whispers in his ear, “The wall!”

  “What about the wall?”

  “That’s what I’d like you to find out for me: about the wall, you know, the wall!”

  “No, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Don’t take me for a fool. It’s the only thing that matters to the higher-ups right now. The wall.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “I need to know who was awarded the contract to build the wall.”

  “Now, there you go, suddenly spoiling my dinner! You’re asking too much.”

  “Find out for me!”

  “But you’re the one who works for our National Intelligence Service, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and that’s exactly why I don’t know who I can ask to get the right answers.”

  “I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, and let the phone ring, don’t worry if I don’t pick it up right away. Where I’ll be, up north, the network doesn’t always work too well.”

  “You’re off to do some hunting, then?”

  “Yes, along the Evros.”

  “Take care, then; it’s a nature reserve, with protected species.”

  “I know! The bird I’m after has the advantage of some very special cover. He’s a killer, yet the directorate wants him arrested for something else.”

  “Now you’re talking in riddles!”

  “You’ve trained me well, haven’t you?”

  Agent Evangelos swallows his raki in a single gulp, gets up, and says goodbye all around. His old friend holds his jacket for him.

  “Evangelos, take care you don’t come a cropper.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Take care not to come a cropper against that wall. It would be too stupid. You’re a granddad now.”

  Episode V

  Nikolaus Strom sometimes feels that everything is within: the lantern suspended from the ceiling, creaking in the icy wind, his shadow shifting to and fro on the parapet, and the snowflakes drifting down in front of the walls of the old Koranic school.

  Snow is lying on the quay where the ferries dock. From above, he can see the dark tracks left by two police cars. He senses that they will return, yet he doesn’t take cover in the inside courtyard of the luxury hotel. Until this evening he had thought no one would come looking for him here. He has restored his energy in the Imaret Hotel, whose majestic shape dominates the harbour of Kavala. But the nightmare still haunts him. Reclining on the wide bed strewn with kilim cushions, he has revisited everything that occurred in the unremembering space of the river. Earlier that afternoon he had barely closed his eyes in the scalding hot bath when he had the vision of the man’s face. But he can’t recall anything more; the same dark scene is repeated, nothing more.

  ‘When did it all begin?’ he wonders. When did his world begin to fall apart? For a few days now, he has felt as if borne along on a dark, tumultuous current. And then there’s Christina. He tells himself he must stop thinking about her. He must abandon everything and escape from Greece as quickly as possible.

  The last ferry of the year should have sailed by now. But the door of the ship’s hold is closed only halfway. Two large forklift trucks are blocking the loading ramp. The Thassos Express won’t be putting to sea this evening, and it has nothing to do with the bad weather or the New Year celebrations.

  A hubbub suddenly rises from the port, a din of horns, voices, with blue revolving lights flashing on the white hull of the ferry.

  The snow is still falling. He still doesn’t understand what is happening to him. He tells himself there must be an explanation. He reassures himself with the idea that the police aren’t there because of him, but to breach the picket lines of the striking dockers.

  ‘How did I get mixed up in all this?’ he wonders. He still can’t understand how it all went wrong. There are police everywhere. When he came ashore from the Samothrace ferry around ten o’clock, shortly before the dockers’ strike began, he understood why he felt afraid on noticing those two men. What if they were looking for him as he disembarked? He had seen them, and told himself, ‘It’s for me, it’s the police. Maybe they’ve arrested the girl? Maybe she’s talked?’ He wonders why she didn’t wait for him. She was gone. He had told her to wait for him. And what if she’d blamed him for killing that man? No, that wasn’t possible.

  Nikolaus was still on the deck when he felt the panic rising. He had just noticed the two men and seen them scrutinizing the faces of all the passengers as they disembarked. He didn’t know if they were police or the other ones, the ones he has never seen but whose presence he has sensed over the past few weeks.

  Someone was following him, spying on him. Until the evening when the meeting was supposed to take place in that damned brothel, he had thought that his life was following a rational pattern. ‘My name is Nikolaus Strom, but I prefer to be called Nikos. That’s what Christina calls me, “Nikos, my Nikos,” she’d say, for it’s all over between us now, and that’s the way it had to be. My name is Nikos; I left Christina and travelled to the Evros region on business. I was offering them a wall for half the c
ost: two rows of barbed wire, identical to the set-up proposed by the government but for half the cost.’

  That was how things stood, Nikos saw it clearly, he accepted it. But everything had gone wrong. The first alarm coincided with his arrival in Alexandroupolis. Everywhere he went, someone was watching him, like when he was waiting for the Greek army colonel supposed to drive him again over the twelve and a half kilometres of the floodplain along which the fence is to be erected. The time they made their initial survey of the area he had felt he could trust the colonel, but then the man failed to turn up for their second rendezvous. Nikos sensed at the time that he wasn’t alone in that restaurant on the port where they had arranged to meet. He knew very well that the waitress and he were alone in the place, but when he thought back on it he was ready to swear he was being watched. He waited, consulted his watch, and wondered, ‘Why is the colonel so late?’ The hours went by, but still no one came. The waitress yawned; Nikos consulted his mobile: no call, nothing apart from his feeling of being watched. And then everything went haywire.

  It really was the police waiting at the exit from the ferry that morning. But they weren’t there on his account. They were in plain clothes, looking for that poor lad he’d seen on the dock in Alexandroupolis: a youngster, no more than a teenager, a migrant, one among the hundreds every year who try to leave Thrace, reach Thessalonica, and then travel on to Athens. Like Nikolaus, the boy had told himself that the railway station wasn’t safe because of the ticket inspections. Like Nikolaus, he had taken the ferry to the island of Samothrace. They had both waited a day before taking another ferry to Kavala, covering their tracks and already a little farther along their way, not taking the train and avoiding the roads, which were all too closely watched.

  Nikos had been hoping to sell his wall to Greece, but now he talks about it in the past tense. Now everything has changed. He should have listened to Christina; the match was too unequal. His competition was too powerful. He must have greased a few palms. Otherwise, how could it be explained that Nikos’s offer, the offer made by Nikolaus Strom, his offer, wasn’t accepted? ‘Half the cost, my wall! Why did the army and the frontier people take me for a ride like that?’ All his contacts, like Colonel Papadopoulos, had dropped him. When you consider that he was offering them a wall identical with his competitor’s – but at half the cost… And then there’s the political context: the German government is opposed to the wall, and Brussels doesn’t want to pay for it. But that has nothing to do with Nikos. And in any case the colonel had arranged to meet him in that brothel on the frontier. He’d told him that it was an ideal spot to talk “business”. It was an ambush, he sees that now, a trap he fell into blindly.