“Boy, take my bag.”
The man froze. He turned his head and glared at Sergey. “I’m not your boy.”
Sergey walked over, wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, and smiled. “If you prefer being called my ‘bitch,’ that’s okay with me, too. But start showing some respect to your boss.” With that he swung the backpack off his shoulder and whipped it around into the man’s belly. “Your choice.”
The man caught the backpack before it fell to the ground. “I take my orders from Teacher.”
“On this island I’m your boss, and if you don’t like it, I suggest you leave it now. On that boat.” Sergey nodded toward the catamaran.
The rodent’s eyelids twitched wildly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” He held the backpack in his left hand and put out his right to shake Sergey’s hand. “The name is Wacki.”
“Wacki?”
“Yes, I know, sounds strange but it’s a nickname I’ve had all my life. I think it suits me.”
“I’m sure,” said Sergey reaching out to shake Wacki’s hand. “Speak Greek. I need the practice.”
“Fine. I understand you speak some English.”
“I speak a lot of English, plus Russian and Polish.”
“Good, the English will come in handy until your Greek improves. But, of course, I will always be there if you need me.”
“Of course.”
“Do you prefer that I call you Sergey or something else?” He gave another toothy smile.
“‘Boss’ will be fine.”
Wacki looked surprised, but quickly walked to the taxi, opened the rear door and motioned to Sergey. “If you please, Boss.”
As Sergey got into the taxi he said, “I assume you prefer I call you Wacki.”
As opposed to bitch, boy.
***
A big attraction of Mykonos for the monied crowd was that with the right connections you could achieve virtually anything. But money alone wouldn’t get you what you wanted. You needed juice. The island’s powers-that-be could shut down anything and anyone if they weren’t pleased. Courts offered little help if you hoped for relief within a decade, and even a judicial victory was likely only the first of many battles. The island powers had voting constituencies to satisfy, many of whom were members of large families whose support they needed to stay in power. If you didn’t know whose toes you were stepping on––or how to dance around them––you were in for a nightmare of promises, compromising payments, and disappointments.
Those looking for a welcoming, good time experience in paradise should stay tourists. For those hoping to make money, the gloves came off the locals.
To most, Wacki would be an unlikely choice for doing knightly battle of the Camelot sort, but he was perfect for the rough and tumble world of Mykonos club-scene politics. He knew its dark side well, having spent half his life catering to the illegal and illicit wants and desires of visitors and islanders alike.
Wacki also knew the times were changing. Mykonos had been through more than a decade of extraordinary good fortune, with everyone profiting off high spending Athenian, American, and European tourists willing to pay whatever it took for a fun time. Those days were over, at least for this generation. But unlike virtually anywhere else in Greece, Mykonos’ international reputation meant that some could still make a lot of money on the island. And Wacki had a pretty good idea where the new cash was coming from.
Russians were buying up the best seafront properties on the mainland. Prime homes near Athens in elegant areas on the way to ancient Sounion, some of the most desirable places along the Peloponnese coastline, and parts of the Halkidiki Aegean shore in northeastern Greece, close by the holy peninsula of Mount Athos sacred to Russian and Greek Orthodox alike, had experienced a land rush of Russian investors.
Unlike British and Germans waiting for a “better price,” Russians didn’t care to wait. And Greeks welcomed them with open arms. Many Greeks had soured on the euro zone, and saw financial salvation in the arms of economic alliances with Russia. History had often shown the error of such thinking, but memories were short, especially for those in financial crisis.
With the introduction of direct flights between Moscow and Athens, it was only a matter of time until Russians fixed their eyes on Mykonos. Arabs were coming too, but Wacki’s money was on Russians for the long term play, if only for their common Eastern Orthodox roots. Two hundred fifty thousand of the wealthiest Russians had already discovered and made Cyprus home.
Wacki didn’t give a damn about the implications for Mykonos, his only interest was in getting a shot at Russians flush with cash. For that he needed a backer. Someone with money to lure more money. But bad times had eliminated the usual Mykonian suspects for such a venture. Wacki had even turned to lighting candles in church, hoping that would change his luck.
The answer to Wacki’s prayers came in the form of a phone call on the day of Christos’ funeral.
He’d heard rumors from Eastern European sex traffickers supplying girls to a dance club he once managed of a woman called “Teacher.” As tough as those motherfuckers were, they spoke in reverential tones of a mysterious bankroller of some of the biggest criminal enterprises in Eastern Europe; ones that didn’t have the good fortune of ex-KGB connections. Some said Teacher was ex-KGB, but that sort of thing was said about virtually everyone who made it big coming out of the former USSR. Besides, Wacki didn’t care. He’d worked with that sort before.
The caller said Teacher needed a contact on Mykonos to help establish a “business presence” there, and he’d been recommended by “mutual acquaintances.” Wacki jumped at the chance almost before it was offered.
In the Silicon Valley world of United States business,Teacher would be called an “angel investor” by the companies she helped. But in Teacher’s world no one would couple that word with her name. Doing business with Teacher involved a lifetime commitment. There was no way out unless she ended it.
The story indelibly linked to the loyalty Teacher demanded involved an Albanian mafia chieftain who built a hugely successful digital pirating network using Teacher’s money and contacts. One day he decided he’d shared enough of his profits and, relying on the protection of his small army of muscle, told her to go fuck herself. Less than a month later he watched as his wife and three children were doused with gasoline and burned to death. One by one. But he wasn’t killed. Instead, his every other toe and finger were snipped off with pruning shears and his penis and tongue burned with a blowtorch.
The man now paid on time. And no one had crossed Teacher since.
Wacki wasn’t worried about Sergey. He’d seen his kind before. Pretty boy tough guys who came to Mykonos thinking they’d show the island hicks how business was done in the big city. The lucky ones might get to open a small place, one that largely supported the landlord and a host of politicos with fingers up to their elbows in pretty boys’ pockets. But the big clubs, the ones capable of pulling in 100,000 euros a night just to get in the door during peak season, were an off limits business to all but select locals and their political protectors.
How Teacher expected to get a foothold in that closed market was a mystery to Wacki. He’d just have to take care that whatever blame there was for failure––and he had no doubt there would be failure––fell on Sergey. He’d enjoy watching the arrogant prick get his balls fried.
The thought gave Wacki pause. He decided he better call Teacher and put some distance between himself and Sergey in her mind. Just to be sure she knew whom to blame when nut-frying time came to Mykonos.
Chapter Nine
Teacher stared at the computer screen as she listened to Wacki complain about the “asshole” she’d sent to replace him as “her man” on Mykonos.
They’d spoken only twice before. Once to satisfy herself that Wacki was the right person for what she had in mind and, later, to confirm the
terms of their arrangement. Her conversations always used a secure teleconferencing hookup that allowed her to see the caller, but not the other way around.
It was obvious to Teacher that Wacki did more than dress the part of a pimp, he was one in every sense of the word. Pimps were quite useful in a world filled with johns, and for what she had in mind on Mykonos, an absolute necessity. But Wacki was no leader. For that role she had her Sergey. Wacki’s part was as a humbled number two itching to report on number one’s failings.
“So sorry to hear of your stumble on first meeting Sergey. I’m sure the two of you will soon be on fine terms.”
“But why do you need him when you have me? He doesn’t even speak Greek and knows nothing of how things are done on the island.”
“If I recall, you are not native to Mykonos and had to learn its ways. I hired you to help Sergey learn what you know. Not to question my judgments.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dare question your judgment. I was just curious.” There was a decided quaver to Wacki’s voice.
“Good. Because I’m relying on both of you for the success of the project.”
“Thank you for your confidence in me.”
“Just understand that Sergey is your boss.”
There was a momentary pause before Teacher heard, “Yes, absolutely, I understand.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I certainly wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings that might jeopardize my plans. And if you ever feel the need to contact me again, you know how to reach me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Good day.”
The screen went blank. Teacher stared at it for a moment before looking at a photograph on her desk of a young girl in a first communion dress wearing spring flowers in her hair. Everyone who saw it on her desk thought it was of Teacher. But she knew better. She had no idea who the little girl was. Nor did she care. It served only as the symbol of a life she never lived.
Whenever she thought her life was good and she could relax, she’d look at that photograph and remembered the truth.
Teacher picked up the photograph.
***
She hadn’t chosen her life. Even now, when she was free to do as she wished, it was not hers. She was on a course set long before she had any say. No matter how she looked, no matter what or whom she knew, indeed no matter how eloquent her words, she would always be that Eastern European child stolen away from parents of whom she retained not a single memory. She’d been very young and whoever that child was or might have become died that day.
She was reborn to a different life, where no one cared if she lived or died as long as she produced. Her first memories were of her tiny hands making knots for rugs, her body serving the much larger hands of others. It did not matter if she were three or four or five––and to this day she did not know her age––she was touched by so many she no longer cared or noticed. Unless there was pain. But that was not often. As long as she did as she was told.
Teacher shut her eyes and squeezed the photograph.
She was a trafficked slave and learned as a child to avoid beatings by understanding orders in whatever language they were given. She could not read more than a few hundred words, and not all in the same language, but she could do her sort of commerce in a dozen languages. She was the interpreter for those who did not understand the requests, the demands, the orders of their owners and customers.
But she became more than that. She grew to be ruler of her peers. Her slight, incorrect translation of a requested act would lead to a beating. A more serious error on a vital direction could lead to death. It did not take many such mistakes for the others to realize she must be obeyed. And those who understood that her words were wrong dared not intervene to correct. They appreciated her power and the simple principle by which she ruled: Do as she said or surely die.
It was no different a rule than all enslaved lived by. It was as she was taught, and she followed that teaching by whatever means required to better her horrible life. She became the unquestioned leader of her tiny captives’ universe, but never allowed a hint of her power to reach those who truly ruled her life, for they would have ended hers at once. She ordered others to abuse her in the presence of her captors, so they thought her weak and bullied. It was a dangerous game she played, but it was how she survived––and thrived.
Still, she knew it wouldn’t last, it never did. She was a chattel, no more no less, and all that would keep her safe was her own power. She could not let that fade. She found lieutenants with no desire to command but who relished executing their master’s orders as ruthlessly as necessary to maintain power.
From those she controlled who knew how to read, and magazines left by those they served, she learned to read French, Italian, German, Russian, and English.
And she was lucky, too, for she was not one of those girls forced to lie upon a cot in a shantytown taking on all comers until she died, or lost her value as a whore and ended up a laborer in some other’s hands, until she died.
Yes, lucky because she was attractive and desirable to men of great wealth and power. She knew how to communicate with them, to be obeyed, and to please them. She earned large sums and favors for her captors. And they let her travel to places she knew existed only from the magazines. They never feared her return because if she ran away she knew they would find her, and death would be the most merciful end she could expect for such a foolish act. But as long as she pleased her clients she lived a life beyond her dreams.
She had another bit of luck. She did not menstruate until almost seventeen. Otherwise she’d have been a mother by no later than fourteen. She remembered the moment she first bled. She cried, for she knew what it meant. It was the first sign of her imminent fall from grace. She’d seen so many children birthing children in captivity lose whatever vestige of unreasoned hope they still held for their lives.
The fate of a child was a particularly effective means for controlling the mother. Many, certainly all who cared, soon turned into old women, not so much at first in their bodies but most definitely in their souls, watching helplessly as their captors plucked and priced their children for market as any commodity. But she was free of that manipulation, at least until then.
Teacher opened her eyes and put the photograph back on the desk.
I knew what I had to do, I had no choice.
He was a policeman. A widower. He said he was in his forties, but she knew he was older. He protected the men who owned her and many of those who paid for her company. She knew he liked her. She let him think that she liked him too. Nothing sexual, that would have been too easy and ended his attraction to her with an orgasm. No, she interested him with her mind, listening to every word he said, commenting on his every thought in the most flattering of ways, and making sure to refer back to other things he’d said in other conversations.
Three months of this led to a weekend away together. Three more weekends led to a marriage proposal. She told him there was no way her captors would let her go. He told her not to worry.
The wedding was private but her captors attended, smiling as if they’d been family. She had escaped. She was free.
He was a kind man. He encouraged her to learn. She went to school, and she graduated. She attended college. Never did she look at another man. She was committed to her husband and their two children. Yes, she’d become the mother of two beautiful sons.
Teacher closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against them.
Vladimir. And his rambunctious, mischievous brother.
She pressed harder.
My lovely Sergey.
She was in a class when they came to her home. Her husband had many enemies. They cut his throat, severed his genitals, and stuck them in his mouth. They did the same to her two beautiful boys. She did not know who did it. It could have been any of many.
She f
ound them when she came home. She sat among them only for minutes, then packed her bag and left. There was nothing more she could do for them. She did not attend their funerals, for by then she was no longer in that city or that country.
She fled to lose herself, leaving behind all her papers and whatever else she thought could be used to trace her.
She became a nameless refugee in a foreign land. And, in time, experienced a revolutionary new emotion. Freedom. She no longer feared death, and with that discovered liberty, took absolute control over her life for the very first time.
She dropped her hands to her lap and looked again at the photograph.
She made friends among the many like her that she met in shelters and on the streets. She’d lived their lives, spoke their languages, and they bonded. They shared their pasts, spoke of future hopes, and did what they could to protect themselves in the present. They stood shoulder to shoulder. They spoke up. They organized against those who would harm them. They made things happen.
She taught them how to overcome and unite, weaned their fears into strength and their innocence into power. In return they called her “Teacher.” That was far more than this once stolen child ever dreamed of achieving.
Then came the money.
Chapter Ten
Wacki would have chosen any number of hotels on the island over the one Teacher picked for Sergey. There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the place; it just seemed out of touch with the vibe Wacki saw as Mykonos.
The Asteria was among the first hotels built on Mykonos after World War II and one of many across the country financed by public funds in an effort to promote Greece’s tourist economy. It remained government owned but operated under a lease between a Mykonian and the ministry of tourism. The building was of Greek government design not traditional to Mykonos, most notably in its balconies and three-story height. But the hotel sat at the rear of the property and, painted all white with traditional Mykonian blue trim, blended in relatively well with its surroundings.
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