Codename Xenophon

by Leo Kanaris

The colonel stood up smartly. ‘Come on, Abbas, let’s show him. He won’t rest easy until we do.’

  The colonel led the way across the yard to the back door, where they met Kyra Sophia on her way out with a tray of drinks.

  ‘We’re going to the library,’ said the colonel. ‘Bring the drinks up there please.’

  ‘Certainly, Colonel.’

  They entered a hall paved with chessboard squares of polished marble. A Murano chandelier threw dappled light on a pair of oil portraits from the 1920s: a pin-stripe-suited entrepreneur smiling prosperously from his desk with a cigar in one hand, and a hollow-eyed beauty in pale silk with a gardenia in her hair.

  ‘My wife’s family,’ said the colonel.

  They climbed a marble staircase, passing a series of coloured engravings of Egypt.

  At the head of the stairs the colonel led them through a heavy double door into a room with tall windows shuttered against the summer light. He switched on a lamp. Bookshelves with glazed doors lined the walls. To the right, one bay of shelves was replaced by a gun rack.

  The colonel moved towards a table in the centre of the room, where a glass display case held an array of medals, sporting and military, the four Olympic golds in a prominent position. The atmosphere was hushed, opulent. A gentleman’s club-room, transplanted from London.

  George strolled along the shelves, noting the colonel’s interests: military history, archaeology, art, antiques. He came to the gun rack.

  ‘These look like collector’s items,’ he said.

  ‘Correct,’ said the colonel. He produced a small bunch of keys on a silver chain. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  The doors swung open. With swift hands the colonel lifted a shotgun from the rack. He broke it open, checked the barrels, snapped it shut and handed it to George. ‘Put that to your shoulder.’

  George tried it, aiming the gun at a corner of the ceiling. He was amazed by its lightness, the way it flew to the shoulder, resting comfortably in his hands.

  ‘That’s not a gun, it’s a violin,’ he said, handing it back.

  ‘It’s all in the balance,’ said the colonel. ‘This shotgun weighs just under three kilograms. If the weight were not so beautifully distributed it would feel like thirty.’

  He slotted it back in the rack, moved along a few, and took down a military rifle.

  ‘Try this.’

  George shouldered it with difficulty. It was all hard edges and lumpy weight. The wood of the butt felt like granite.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pattern 1914 Enfield. Made in the US by Remington under contract, used by Greek forces in the Albanian campaign of 1940–41. This rifle sent the Italians weeping back to their mothers that winter. It was still in use when I joined up in 1953. I did all my training with it. A rough old weapon, but a trusted friend!’

  ‘That first one, the shotgun, what was that?’

  ‘A Purdey.’

  ‘Any good for shooting?’

  ‘Oh yes. A lovely thing all round.’

  ‘What about your Olympic shooting? What did you use for that?’

  The colonel lifted another rifle from the rack. Slim, smooth, snake-like in its elegance. George raised it to his shoulder. It was even lighter than the Purdey, the barrel a thin dark shaft ending in a tiny fin.

  ‘What’s this one?’

  ‘A Hämmerli.’

  ‘Can you still use it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’d love to see you shoot something.’

  ‘Not in here!’

  ‘We could open the windows?’

  ‘All right. Would you mind, Abbas?’

  As Abbas unfastened the windows, Kyra Sophia appeared with the tray of drinks.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the colonel. ‘There on the table, please.’

  ‘Can I bring anything else for you?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t shoot any more, sir.’

  ‘I know, Sophia, thank you. It’s quite safe.’

  ‘Watch what he does, Mr Abbas,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it.’ She left the room, pulling the double doors after her.

  Abbas swung the shutters open to a sky full of swallows, wheeling and twittering in the fading light. George rested his hands on the windowsill. About thirty metres away stood the two-storey house with Madame Corneille’s bathroom window clearly visible. George glanced at the colonel. The old man was looking up at the sky, which had turned scarlet in the evening sun, alive and swirling with wings.

  ‘Could you hit a swallow?’ asked George.

  ‘I would never wish to.’

  ‘How about a seagull?’ He pointed to a trio of seabirds patrolling above the rooftops.

  ‘They would be an easy target,’ said the colonel, ‘but why take a life?’

  George pointed to a small patch of discoloured plaster on the wall beside the bathroom window.

  ‘There’s a target. Try that.’

  The colonel turned his steely eyes on him.

  ‘Only a delinquent would shoot at a point so near a window.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Suppose I miss?’

  ‘I don’t expect you to miss.’

  ‘I shan’t, but still! Safety first!’

  ‘Look up there,’ said Abbas. ‘There’s a child’s balloon, making a break for freedom.’

  George watched the coloured speck rising slowly above the roofs of the upper town. He heard the mechanical click of the rifle opening, a rattle of ammunition in a tin. The colonel stepped forward, alert as a cocker spaniel, the rifle held lightly in his hands. There was a sharp crack and the balloon vanished.

  The colonel stood still for a moment, as if he planned a second shot. Then, with a nod, brought the rifle down from his shoulder.

  ‘That must have been a good 300 metres,’ said Abbas.

  ‘I’m still capable,’ said the colonel.

  George thanked him for the demonstration. The colonel passed the Hämmerli to Abbas and asked him to hang it in the gun rack.

  ‘It’s strange,’ said George, ‘but Professor Petrakis was shot from a position very similar to this.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ said the colonel.

  ‘John Petrakis. We were talking about him earlier.’

  ‘I knew another Petrakis.’

  ‘Constantine. His brother.’

  ‘That’s right! Why do you mention him?’

  ‘He was shot. Through that window, right there!’

  ‘I told you, guns are dangerous things!’

  ‘He would have been clearly visible. Framed in that window. A very tempting target.’

  The colonel pulled a face. ‘You have some strange ideas!’

  George continued to press him. ‘This professor was a controversial figure. He published books on what he called the dark side of ancient Greece.’

  ‘What dark side?’

  ‘Crime, slavery, sex with teenagers, child sacrifice…’

  ‘Oh, that old stuff!’

  ‘He was widely respected. Taught at Princeton, London…’

  ‘Mad! Totally mad! Everyone wants to hear about the vices of the giants who built our civilisation. Instead of studying their achievements, learning from them. It’s the triumph of small-mindedness!’

  ‘What is curious, Colonel, is that this man was shot on March 25th.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It suggests a motive.’

  The colonel seemed puzzled.

  ‘For a patriot, the professor’s books can be seen as an insult to Greece.’

  The colonel looked unimpressed. ‘It would have to be a patriot of somewhat defective intellect!’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Ancient and modern. Separate things.’

  ‘Maybe in your mind, Colonel, but not in others! And maybe in yours, even, the power of emotion, of anger at this cheapening of the nation’s past, the concentration on homosexuality, prostitution, drunken orgies…’

  The colonel placed a hand
on George’s arm. ‘I can see this offends you,’ he said. ‘It offends every Greek. But it’s not important. Like a shower of rain on the marble of our temples! A shadow from a passing cloud! Let the pedants of Princeton have their say. Those temples will be admired and studied long after their books have crumbled to dust!’

  ‘Someone was offended enough by those books to shoot the author in the head. Someone standing in a window like this one, with a gun like this. Someone who knew how to shoot!’

  The colonel shook his head sadly. ‘What a terrible story! Was he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I feel as if he was. I’m investigating his death.’

  Varzalis nodded sympathetically.

  George pressed him. ‘I need samples of your ammunition, Colonel.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To compare them with the bullet that killed the professor.’

  ‘Of course. But look here, I don’t want you loading them in any guns!’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then take whatever you need.’

  Abbas helped provide a sample of ammunition from each of the colonel’s six rifles. Six heavy little brass cylinders, tipped with a rounded cone of lead. George held them in the palm of his right hand, let them roll and knock together. Six capsules of death. He slipped them into his trouser pocket.

  The three men stood in silence by the open window.

  ‘The drinks!’ said Abbas suddenly.

  ‘Ah, of course. Please, gentlemen… Your good health!’ He turned to George. ‘Tell me, sir, what is your business in Aegina?’

  9

  The police station of Aegina occupied two low, poor buildings in an unpaved courtyard. Motorbikes, jeeps and squad cars were parked at odd angles among lemon trees. A concrete path, weed-cracked and littered with cigarette ends, led to a pair of shadowy doorways, one marked “Tourist Police”, the other “Officers Room”. The signs were painted by a wavering amateur hand in the national colours, blue and white. From the roofs of the buildings a jumble of antennae sprouted like cacti.

  George chose the Officers Room. A desk sergeant sat staring at a computer screen while a slender column of cigarette smoke floated up from an ashtray at his elbow. A telephone jangled, unanswered, in a back room.

  ‘I’ve come to see Captain Bagatzounis,’ said George.

  ‘Name?’ said the sergeant, eyes still on the screen.

  ‘Zafiris. My appointment is for eight o’clock.’

  The sergeant glanced at a clock on the wall and wearily picked up the telephone. He raised the half-finished cigarette to his lips and muttered a few words. The reply seemed excessively long. He stubbed out his cigarette, nodding and saying mechanically, ‘Yes, sir. We’ve done that. Has he not replied yet? Yes, it’s in hand… No not yet… We’re still waiting…’ The sergeant lit another cigarette, nodded, spun the packet to the left, then to the right.. He inhaled and exhaled, listening half-heartedly, returning bland replies. Not once did he make a note, or display a flicker of energy. He sat in his cloud of smoke, frowning, stifling yawns. Having reached the end of the cigarette, he squashed it into the ashtray, and stared at the ceiling while he listened to more instructions. At last he put the telephone down.

  ‘Door on the left,’ he said.

  George knocked and received a brisk ‘Come in!’

  Captain Bagatzounis sat behind a rampart of papers at a tiny desk. His face was round and boyish, with plump, pale cheeks, thinning brown hair and a florid moustache. His eyes were persecuted and melancholy. George knew at once it would be a difficult interview.

  ‘I’m here on the recommendation of Colonel Sotiriou,’ he said by way of reminder.

  Bagatzounis puckered his lips and moved a pile of papers a few centimetres to his left.

  ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘How is Colonel Sotiriou?’

  ‘He’s well. He told me you would be willing to help.’

  ‘Of course.’ There was anything but willingness in the voice.

  ‘I’ve been retained by Mr Constantine Petrakis.’

  A frown immediately pinched the smooth brow.

  ‘You know who I mean?’ asked George.

  ‘I know only too well!’

  ‘He’s lost a brother, so one can understand that he wants results.’

  Bagatzounis interrupted him. ‘Of course. It’s natural. But let me tell you right away, he goes too far. He wants instant results. That’s his problem. If only he would let the authorities deal with these matters in the correct way we would all be able to get on with our work more effectively!’

  ‘I have a certain sympathy with that view,’ said George, ‘but I also have a job to do.’

  ‘Mr Petrakis with his endless questions prevents me doing mine!’

  ‘How is the investigation going, Captain?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Have you had the forensic results?’

  Bagatzounis stared at him gravely. ‘These are police matters.’

  ‘Can you at least give me a general idea?’

  ‘We’re not in charge of this investigation.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘GADA.’

  ‘What’s your role?’

  ‘Local knowledge and support.’

  ‘Do you have a register of local gun owners?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not a public document.’

  ‘I’m not the public.’

  ‘The rules are the rules.’

  ‘And this is Greece.’

  Bagatzounis stiffened. ‘Where the laws of civilisation were first written!’

  ‘That may be true,’ said George, ‘but it hasn’t stopped us breaking them on a daily basis ever since.’

  ‘Our nation needs respect for the law, Mr Zafiris!’

  ‘There’s a difference between the spirit and the letter.’

  Bagatzounis raised a hand, as if he were stopping traffic. ‘Distinctions of that kind are the domain of judges and priests. They’re too subtle for me. My job is to uphold the law exactly as it is written.’

  George felt his frustration rising. He switched the line of argument.

  ‘Have you seen the forensic report?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you provided a list of possible suspects?’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘GADA, the DAEEB, or anyone else?’

  Bagatzounis hesitated before replying: ‘I have had several conversations with the investigating authorities.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about the leads they might be following, or anyone you think might be involved?’

  ‘All that is strictly confidential.’

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘But with respect, Captain, you’re taking this the wrong way.’

  ‘I’ll take it any way I want!’

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You have all my knowledge at your disposal.’

  Bagatzounis drew himself up to his full unimpressive height. ‘Are you telling me that you have information material to this investigation?’

  ‘Let me pursue my inquiries,’ said George, ‘give me some help, and there’s a good chance I’ll get a result.’

  Bagatzounis seemed annoyed. ‘Either you have information or you don’t!’

  ‘At this stage I do have some information. Some, I repeat. Not enough. But I need your co-operation.’

  ‘I can take a statement any time.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m offering.’

  ‘Then I suggest you continue your investigation until you can offer it.’

  ‘There’s no point in my duplicating your work!’

  ‘That’s not my problem.’

  ‘Isn’t the murder your problem? Doesn’t it look bad on your record? Doesn’t it look bad for Aegina?’

  ‘I’ve told you, we’re not handling the case.’

  ‘OK! It’s Athens. But the mur
der happened here! How about getting hold of a progress report?’

  Bagatzounis was uninterested.

  ‘Why not telephone GADA and ask?’ said George.

  ‘I can do whatever I think fit. But they are not accountable to me, and I am certainly not accountable to you!’

  ‘I’m just asking for co-operation.’

  ‘I know exactly what you’re asking for! A short cut. But there are no short cuts. Not through this office!’

  George took a deep breath.

  ‘I’d like you to consider my proposition,’ he said. ‘If you think I can help you, or you can help me, give me a call.’

  He placed his business card on the policeman’s desk. Bagatzounis ignored it.

  ‘One more thing,’ said George. ‘I need a list of residents in the area to the south of Aghios Nektarios Street.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I want to check them for gun licences.’

  ‘The list of residents won’t tell you that.’

  ‘I know. But if I can compare the two lists, residents and gun owners, I’ll have some names to work on. If I had the forensic report I could narrow the list down, possibly even pinpoint the killer.’

  Bagatzounis nodded wearily. ‘That is what we’re all trying to do.’

  ‘Do you think they’ve done that in Athens?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to say any more.’

  ‘May I see the list of residents?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that’s confidential!’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘But why? I could just walk round and read the names off the doorbells.’

  ‘I suggest you do that.’

  ‘I’m trying to save time.’

  ‘By taking up mine!’

  George stood up. ‘This is ridiculous. I shall tell Colonel Sotiriou that you’ve obstructed me in every possible way.’

  Bagatzounis sighed self-righteously. ‘I’m sure the colonel understands the situation a great deal better than you do.’

  10

  Raw with anger, George walked quickly along the waterfront. He wanted to drive his fists into something, smash it to bits. Bagatzounis was an imbecile. Obstructive, pompous, narrow-minded. He presumed to lecture others on Greek civilisation! The stupidity of the man seemed, in George’s mind, to infect the whole of his nation – a nation of compulsive law-breakers. The laws were ever more elaborate in their complexity, the people ever more ingenious in their evasions. Each tormented the other. A ludicrous chain of official documents had become necessary to carry out the simplest transactions: buy a car, sell a house, open a shop. Ministries to visit, stamps and signatures to obtain from self-important officials who rarely bothered to show up for work, resented it on the few days when they did, and often demanded bribes to do anything at all. In the midst of this swamp of hatred, laziness and corruption sat these misguided and ridiculous upholders of the law, who blocked up the whole system with their sermons and delusions…