Codename Xenophon

by Leo Kanaris

  ‘This number is for your use only. Is that understood?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t even write my name next to it in your book!’

  ‘As you wish.’

  He began spelling out the digits with terrible solemnity, as if they were nuclear codes.

  12

  George left the Violent Crimes Unit just after seven and walked slowly towards Leoforos Alexandras. The day’s heat had faded, giving way to the voluptuous warmth of an early summer evening. Despite the obstructed pavements, the overflowing rubbish bins, the hooting cars, the sense of a city collapsing under its own bloated weight, he enjoyed the walk. Offices were closing, the bars and cafés filling up. He crossed Alexandras and headed towards Lykavittos up narrow streets scented with orange blossom. Something remained here of the old Athens, a grace that had been crushed out of the rest of the city by a fifty-year frenzy of building. He skirted the hill and cut through to Kolonaki. At Philippos, a restaurant he had not been to for years, he ordered a plate of roasted aubergines and a half litre of retsina.

  He took The Darkness of Ancient Greece from his briefcase. Sipping the wine, he began to read. After a few uncontroversial remarks about classical Greek culture and its influence on the modern world, the first chapter described Plato’s Symposium:

  This conversation among friends is one of the founding documents of our civilisation – a debate about love and its place in human experience, set out in terms which have never been surpassed for drama, clarity and insight. No one disputes the status of this text as a masterpiece of Greek thought. At the same time, in a strange and disturbing case of attentional blindness, almost every reader ignores the true character of the society it represents – a society in which political repression, paedophilia, child labour, slavery, prostitution, and brutal wars of conquest are regarded as perfectly normal and acceptable; a society in which an intellectual giant – Socrates – could be forced to take poison for challenging the values of the ruling élite. As a Greek, I find it impossible to read this extraordinary dialogue without a pang of shame at the shallowness of our ancient ‘democracy’, and an even sharper stab of incredulity that it should have been so ignorantly worshipped, in Greece and elsewhere, for more than two thousand years. It is time we woke up from this irresponsible romantic dream…

  George felt his anger rising. Like all Greeks he believed that somewhere in his nation’s soul lay a deposit of ancient magnificence, a vein of gold that could mysteriously be mined, in moments of need, by every citizen of Greece. This was not “ignorant worship”! It was a certainty, based on facts! And there, to prove that greatness, was the Parthenon, just a few hundred metres from here, the world’s most perfect structure, at the heart of Athens. That wasn’t built on political repression and child labour! On paedophilia and slavery! Quite the opposite! It was the fruit of a vast community effort, a public subscription, in a city recovering from destruction by the Persian army. Not to mention the genius of its architect and sculptors, the skills of its stonemasons, its carpenters, its painters and labourers. It was rightly held sacred as a symbol of civilisation. Only a Greek who had abandoned his country could write such nonsense! If John Petrakis had stayed in Athens, the daily sight of the Acropolis would have kept him wise and proportionate in his thinking.

  Yet George found himself reading on, wondering what further outrages this iconoclast would commit.

  He was interrupted in his reading by a call from Abbas asking if he planned to go to the memorial service for Petrakis. George hadn’t been invited, didn’t even know it was taking place.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Abbas. ‘Just be there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Panagitsa Church, Aegina.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Noon. Tomorrow.’

  13

  Next day at ten, he was on the ferry again, in a ragged, distracted state.

  After the call from Abbas he couldn’t sleep, so he stayed up late, drinking whisky, reading the professor’s book. His mind was haunted by images of slaves digging out tunnels in the silver mines, women smeared with the blood of wild animals, boys and girls running naked under the Spartan sun, every face streaked with dust, sweat, and oil…

  He bought a cup of coffee to combat his doziness and sat on the deck in bright sunshine as the sea breeze played about him. He watched an officer from the ship’s crew make a crude attempt to pick up a blonde Scandinavian girl half his age. She was telling him to get lost, with little effect. George wondered if a couple of millennia ago the officer would have chosen a beardless boy.

  When they reached Aegina, George hurried along the waterfront to the church of the Panagitsa. He lit a candle for the soul of the dead professor and took a seat at the back. The place soon filled up. Under the immense brass candelabra hanging from the dome, the memorial service began, the priests in their gold-embroidered robes swinging censers of fragrant smoke and chanting the liturgy with expressionless eyes. The friends and family of John Petrakis heard the tale of Lazarus raised from the dead and listened indifferently to the assurance that all humanity would put away corruption and rise in the love of Christ.

  The service done, the congregation walked in pensive groups to Hippokampos, the little restaurant attached to the Hotel Brown. Trays of drinks and food were offered. George accepted a glass of cold white wine, and observed the people in the room. They were talking eagerly, like guests at a cocktail party. By the bar he spotted Abbas, who came over at once and asked him if there was anyone he would like to meet.

  ‘You know them all?’

  ‘Aegina’s a small place.’

  ‘OK,’ said George. ‘Start by the door. The lady with blonde hair and diamond earrings.’

  ‘That’s Regina Petrakis, wife of Constantine.’

  ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Too much. Only ten percent of his misery is innate, the rest is caused directly by her. How he sleeps at night is beyond me. She’s a one-woman poison factory. The man she’s talking to is Simeon Yerakas, with the silver hair and Italian suit.’

  ‘What’s his connection?’

  ‘First cousin of Constantine. Behind him is…’

  ‘I’ve heard the name before.’

  ‘He’s a property developer. Extremely well-connected.’

  ‘Behind him?’

  ‘Colleagues from various universities.’

  ‘Any rivals there?’

  ‘Every one of them!’

  ‘I mean jealous rivals.’

  ‘Mad enough to kill?’ Abbas eyed him humorously.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘OK. Who else?’

  ‘There’s the Mayor of Aegina, and next to him, in that appalling blue suit, is the president of the shopkeepers’ union, Mr Kalamaras. Talking to him is the head of the secondary school, Mrs Frangopoulou. Then the man who runs the internet place by the school, Tzonis the butcher, Titina who owns the cinema, Costas the poet, Maria the herbalist…’

  ‘Were they friends of John’s?’

  ‘They’re all members of the Historical Society.’

  ‘Unlikely to have murdered the man who was coming to lecture.’

  ‘It would be a bizarre thing to do. Especially before the talk.’

  George helped himself to another glass of wine from a passing waiter.

  ‘Tell me, Abbas, have you read The Darkness of Ancient Greece?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I enjoyed it. It’s not quite the pioneering work that people claim – that was done years ago by scholars like Kenneth Dover – but it’s a good synthesis of all that’s known on the subject. And sharply written! That counts for a lot.’

  ‘Who’s Kenneth Dover?’

  ‘He wrote the first modern investigation of homosexuality in ancient Greece. Speaking of which, here comes Bill.’

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘John’s partner.’
<
br />   George turned to see a muscular dark-haired man, forty-five years old, in a well-cut black suit. Abbas introduced them.

  ‘I’ve been hoping to meet you,’ said George.

  ‘Why?’ said Preston coldly.

  ‘I’m trying to make sense of John’s murder.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘I know,’ said George, ‘but it’s my job.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Private.’

  Preston eyed him sceptically. ‘Who’s paying you?’

  ‘Constantine.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I was on the plane home when it happened.’

  ‘You’re not a suspect.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope not! You never know in this lunatic asylum…’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘About rivals, enemies, any possible leads.’

  ‘I won’t be much help.’

  ‘Maybe more than you think. Can we meet after this is over?’

  ‘I’ll look out for you.’

  Preston moved away, stony-faced.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ asked George.

  ‘No idea,’ said Abbas.

  George surveyed the room, wishing he was anywhere but there.

  ‘Who do you want to talk to now?’ asked Abbas.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘How about Yerakas?’

  ‘He’ll do.’

  Abbas led him over. Yerakas was listening with a bored expression to a university professor who was machine-gunning him with words. The property developer saw them coming and turned away from the professor without a hint of apology. The professor stopped in mid-sentence, insulted and astonished.

  Yerakas was cool and formal. They small-talked. George said he was surprised by the number of people at the memorial.

  ‘John Petrakis was a famous man,’ said Yerakas. ‘There should be more people here. Where are the press when you want them?’

  ‘Did you know him personally?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why “of course”?’

  ‘He was my cousin.’

  ‘Mother’s side? Father’s?’

  ‘Mother’s.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  Yerakas gave him a puzzled look. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Were you friends as well as cousins?’

  ‘We played together as children. Then we led different lives.’

  ‘So you’re closer to Constantine?’

  Yerakas did not answer the question directly. His eyes became noticeably colder.

  ‘We’ve done business together.’

  ‘Do you still do business together?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was talking to Colonel Varzalis the other day.’

  Yerakas nodded, an expression of boredom already veiling his face. ‘I know who you mean.’

  ‘I understand there has been conflict between you and the colonel.’

  Yerakas grimaced slightly. ‘That was years ago. Forgotten.’

  ‘Not by the colonel.’

  ‘I have no grudge against the colonel.’

  ‘He stopped you building a hotel, is that right?’

  ‘Temporarily.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We found another site and built the hotel there. End of story.’

  ‘On the island?’

  ‘On many islands! Now you must excuse me, I was in the middle of a conversation with Professor Dimitriou…’

  Yerakas turned back to the professor. ‘You were saying?’

  The professor continued smoothly, with a gratified expression, from the point where he had left off.

  George found Abbas smoking a cigarette outside.

  ‘Enjoy that?’ asked Abbas.

  ‘Oh yes. A beautiful conversation.’

  ‘He and Constantine are great buddies.’

  ‘Where’s the hotel? The one they didn’t build at the end of the colonel’s garden?’

  Abbas seemed unsure. ‘They’ve built quite a few. Ever been to Perdika?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Along the coast road, a mile or two before…’

  George heard his phone ring. As he took it from his pocket Abbas spotted a friend and moved away.

  ‘Hello? Zafiris here.’

  ‘This is Colonel Sotiriou.’

  George hurried out of the restaurant.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Good and bad.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve located the firearms register for Aegina, and the forensic report.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll come over tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Unfortunately there’s an irregularity.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘The numbers in the register are not continuous.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘A page has been removed. Neatly cut out. Approximately fifty weapons are unaccounted for.’

  ‘It might still be useful.’

  ‘Perhaps. But this constitutes a new crime. A second inquiry has been opened.’

  ‘Is this related to the murder of Professor Petrakis?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Is there a copy of the register?’

  ‘No. One day it will be computerised, but so far…’

  ‘Can I come over and see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It has already gone to Kalamata, for analysis.’

  ‘Kalamata, for heaven’s sake! Why there?’

  ‘I prefer someone outside Athens.’

  George understood. It was a sensible precaution.

  ‘How about the forensic report? Can I see that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that in Kalamata too?’

  ‘It is.’

  George thanked him and hung up.

  This development was not good. Tracks were being covered, evidence destroyed.

  He heard his name spoken sharply. Looking round, he saw Constantine Petrakis bearing down on him, his face furious.

  ‘What the hell are you doing questioning Mr Yerakas like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’

  ‘Not at present.’

  ‘So why embarrass him?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of any embarrassment.’

  ‘Mr Zafiris, I hired you to investigate my brother’s murder. You’ve come to a private memorial service, uninvited…’

  ‘I was invited.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Abbas.’

  Petrakis dismissed this contemptuously.

  ‘I’m the one who invites you or does not invite you!’

  ‘I don’t see the problem.’

  ‘You were not hired to pursue irrelevant inquiries at my expense! And certainly not to embarrass my guests at a private function!’

  ‘I asked Yerakas about a hotel. He declined to discuss it. That’s all.’

  ‘Why did you ask Mr Yerakas about the hotel? What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Perhaps you might tell me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know the story. I don’t.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  ‘It seems to cause a lot of anger.’

  ‘Who told you about it?’

  ‘Colonel Varzalis.’

  ‘So you’ve seen him? Did you question him?’ ‘I did.’

  ‘Did he make any sense?’

  ‘A certain amount. His memory is patchy.’

  ‘Conveniently patchy, I would say!’

  ‘It seemed to cause him some distress.’

  Petrakis nodded. ‘He is a very skilful operator. Don’t be fooled! Have you asked him what he was doing on March 25th?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I suggest you do. And forget the hotel!’

  �
��You think he shot your brother?’

  ‘I’m not going to say what I think. But the man is a well known fascist. And a crack shot. I’m surprised you haven’t confronted him.’

  ‘He can’t plan, he can’t remember…’

  ‘Who else have you talked to?’

  ‘Abbas, Bagatzounis, Bill Preston, the head of the Violent Crimes Unit.’

  ‘Four people? In a week?’

  ‘I told you, there’s no way of knowing how long this will take. I have other cases on the go. And the police are not being helpful.’

  ‘That’s why I hired you! To put a bomb under their arses! Now you need a bomb under yours!’

  ‘The firearms register has been tampered with. Pages have been removed.’

  ‘You know what? I don’t give a damn! Either you have the balls for this job or you don’t. I suspect you don’t. I’m giving you three more days, then it’s results or you’re fired.’

  ‘You’re changing the parameters of the case.’

  ‘To hell with the parameters of the case!’

  Petrakis turned to leave, then swung back.

  ‘And don’t you dare talk to any more of my guests!’

  Shaking with anger, George watched him go. He breathed deeply, struggling to stay calm. He was ready to walk away from this job. But not until he’d been paid.

  14

  Bill Preston found him still smouldering. ‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ said the Englishman. ‘I can’t take any more of these idiots.’

  They found a café on the waterfront. Preston ordered a beer, George a coffee.

  Preston rolled a cigarette. He was flushed and angry, unsteady with emotion.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked George.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Something’s upset you.’

  ‘It’s personal.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘So I’m not going to talk about it, all right? Just ask about John and leave all the rest.’

  George let him simmer for a few moments.

  ‘Would you roll me one of your cigarettes?’

  Without a word Preston pushed his tobacco pouch across the table.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ said George.

  Preston shook his head disgustedly. He laid a cigarette paper on the table, lifted a pinch of tobacco from his pouch, began shaping and rolling. He licked the edge of the paper, smoothed it down, tucked in the strands of tobacco hanging from the ends with a match, and presented the sleek little tube to George.