Codename Xenophon

by Leo Kanaris

‘What paperwork do you want?’

  ‘Everything. I wish to weigh up all the evidence you have gathered and think it through for myself.’

  ‘My office has been ransacked. I don’t know what I’ll find.’

  ‘Just send me what you’ve got.’

  ‘If the job’s closed, I may as well send you my invoice too.’

  ‘Very well. My office will deal with it.’

  George sat at his strangely uncluttered desk and stared at the list of things he had lost.

  Having stared for a while, he decided he had better do something about it. He telephoned the local police station. The duty officer must have been in a good mood, because rather than giving him the usual brush-off he promised to send someone round.

  When Nick appeared for breakfast, George asked his advice on finding a new mobile phone and computer. Nick said he was happy to look into it. That was two things done, or at least started. Progress.

  The telephone rang.

  ‘Good morning,’ said an energetic voice. ‘Colonel Sotiriou here.’

  George told him about the burglary, the lost files and equipment.

  ‘I wish they’d visit my office,’ said Sotiriou.

  ‘If I see them again I’ll tell them.’

  ‘OK, listen, Zafiris, I have a favour to ask you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’re aware of the death of a member of parliament last week?’

  ‘Boiatzis.’

  ‘Correct. Did you know him?’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘I understand there was some kind of ménage à quatre going on with his wife and another politician, whose name I shan’t mention.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘Never mind where I heard it. Your name has also come up in relation to this. What can you tell me?’

  ‘It sounds as if you know as much as I do. Who’s your source?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that, so stop asking.’

  ‘Was it Pezas?’

  ‘You didn’t hear what I said.’

  ‘What exactly do you want to know, Colonel?’

  ‘I want to know what you know. How long these affairs went on. How serious they were. Whether there could be any connection between them and the death of Boiatzis, or whether there was some other motive, financial, political, personal, which led him to shoot himself or to…’ Sotiriou stopped abruptly.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or not.’

  ‘Is there any doubt about it?’

  ‘There’s no doubt that he died.’

  ‘Is there any doubt that he shot himself?’

  ‘Stop asking me questions. I’m asking you! And by the way, you’re obliged to answer. I can charge you for withholding evidence.’

  George described his dealings with ‘the other politician’, not mentioning his name, trying hard to be dispassionate. This was tricky.

  Sotiriou at once said, ‘He sounds like a monster.’

  George refrained from comment. Instead he asked, ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘I’m not telling you my plans.’

  ‘No of course not. How foolish of me to ask.’

  Sotiriou thanked him brusquely for his help and rang off. The next thing George should have done, he later realised, was call Kakridis. But that was something he never did willingly. Instead, he calculated his bill for Petrakis.

  It was simple enough. Seven days at 320 euros: 2,240. Six return trips to Aegina: 120. Taxi and metro fares: 30. All his receipts had gone, so he had to guess these. He would not charge for telephone calls or extra hours.

  He wrote out a fair copy, folded it into an envelope, and was about to call Petrakis for his office address when the telephone rang again. It was then he realised he should have called Kakridis. The minister was already shouting before George had raised the instrument to his ear.

  ‘First I get some shitty message about men in motorcycle helmets, as if I’m a bloody gangster. Then it’s the police asking me about my love life! And all of this can only have come from one person: you! If this is your way of blackmailing me for a fee that you are now in no position to claim, I have just two words to say: fuck off!’

  ‘I’m not blackmailing you, Mr Kakridis.’

  ‘Oh no? That’s funny because it feels just like being blackmailed, and you’d better be aware, Mr Detective, that what I do to blackmailers makes them regret the day they met me.’

  ‘I am not blackmailing you, sir. There’s no connection between any of this and your failure to pay me.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Bullshit to you!’

  ‘You messed up the job and now you’re trying to force me to pay.’

  ‘I gave you the information you asked for.’

  ‘And then you gave it to the fucking police!’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘How did the police find out?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘It had to be you!’

  ‘It was not.’

  ‘Who else then?’

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know. It could be anyone. A journalist? Maybe your wife herself? Wives know a great deal more than…’

  ‘Don’t lecture me on what wives know! Someone talked to the police. I gave you clear orders to keep this thing quiet…’

  George felt his temper flaring. He struggled to control himself.

  Kakridis roared on, ‘Today the police, tomorrow the press!’

  ‘I’m not your public relations manager, Mr Kakridis.’

  ‘You can say that again! You’re a fucking blackmailer!’

  George was ready to slam down the phone. But Kakridis would be hoping for that.

  ‘I’ve sent you my invoice,’ he said calmly. ‘You have thirty days to pay it, then my lawyer takes over.’

  ‘You’re going to need a damn good one!’

  ‘I pay my bills, Mr Kakridis. It saves me a lot of trouble. I suggest you do the same.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Have a nice day,’ said George, and replaced the receiver.

  Horrible as that last call had been, he now had to pick up the phone again and speak to Pezas. If his friend was leaking stories to the police, he might also be leaking them to the press, either directly or indirectly.

  ‘Hector? Listen, I want you to be straight with me. Did you talk to the police about Boiatzis and Kakridis?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘They’re onto it.’

  ‘Which section?’

  ‘Violent Crimes.’

  ‘For a suicide?’

  ‘There’s a hint it may not have been suicide.’

  ‘Who called you?’

  ‘Sotiriou.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘He’s an old friend.’

  ‘He knew about the love affairs. I thought you might have told him.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Do you swear that, Hector?’

  ‘On my life.’

  ‘OK. I’m going to believe you. New question. Have you found that name for me?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The man married to the sister of Simeon Yerakas.’

  ‘Shit, I forgot.’

  ‘Too busy with your lady friend?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Is your brain now permanently located between your legs?’

  ‘I’m sorry, George. I’ll make this a priority.’

  ‘Do that, because I’ve got something else for you.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘I want you to watch my back for a few days.’

  ‘That’s an expensive job.’

  ‘I know. Have you got anything else on?’

  ‘Nothing pressing. What’s up?’

  ‘You’ll give me a good rate?’

  ‘The best.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘I need to know. Kakridis isn’t paying me and Petrakis has pulled the plug on
the Aegina job. So things are tight.’

  ‘Just pay me what you want.’

  OK.’

  ‘George, why do you need me to watch your back?’

  ‘I’ve been threatened.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘That’s how I’m taking it. I’ll explain when I see you. I want to nail these guys, but I can’t do it on my own. One more thing. I need a good pistol. Compact and reliable. Do you have a spare?’

  ‘What do you normally use?’

  ‘Beretta 950.’

  ‘I’ve got one. When do you want me to come over? Today? Tomorrow?’

  ‘Any time. I’m not going out.’

  In the afternoon, Zoe telephoned to ask how he was feeling. He told her he was fine.

  ‘Nick’s worried,’ she said.

  ‘I know. He doesn’t need to be.’

  ‘I want you to come to Andros.’

  ‘Maybe at the weekend.’

  ‘I want to know you’re safe.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘How can I not worry?’

  ‘Hector’s going to watch the place.’

  ‘That’s not enough.’

  ‘Listen, Zoe, they took what they wanted. They won’t be back.’

  ‘But you’re having the place watched.’

  ‘It’s just a precaution.’

  ‘I don’t know how you can be so calm.’

  ‘I have to be, that’s all. ‘

  She said no more. She seemed frustrated and hurt.

  ‘There’s something else,’ she said. ‘I’ve spoken to Anastasia’s family.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The fire in the bank.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘They’re willing to pay for a private investigation.’

  ‘Why not wait for the police?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Why not, George? The money’s there!’

  ‘They’ll want it done cheaply.’

  ‘Just tell them what you charge.’

  ‘They’ll still want a discount. It’ll get messy, believe me.’

  ‘They’ll be offended.’

  ‘That’s how the mess begins. Just say I’m too busy.’

  ‘It’s not an answer, George! They’re desperate!’

  ‘I’ll ask Hector.’

  ‘They’ll still wonder why you won’t do it.’

  ‘Zoe, please respect my judgement. I’m telling you this is best kept outside the family!’

  Angrily, she hung up.

  20

  Pezas arrived at nine the next morning. He snapped open his briefcase, took out a Beretta 950B and a box of ammunition and set them down on the desk.

  ‘Same model as mine,’ said George. ‘Only in better condition.’

  ‘It’s a spare.’

  ‘Can I buy it from you?’

  ‘No. I want it back.’

  George pushed the gun to one side.

  ‘What else, Hector?’

  ‘I’ve got that name for you.’

  ‘Which name?’

  ‘Yerakas’s daughter married a man called Tasakos.’

  Tasakos. The name rang a bell, although he couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Isn’t the case closed now?’ asked Pezas.

  ‘I have a feeling it’s going to open up again.’

  A hard look from Pezas. ‘Is anyone paying you?’

  ‘Not right now. I’m hoping Petrakis will think again.’

  ‘If he doesn’t?’

  ‘Then I’ll have to think again.’

  ‘What about Kakridis?’

  George threw up his hands. ‘He’s gone crazy. But he’ll have to pay me at some point.’

  ‘I meant, what about him and Boiatzis?’

  ‘Sotiriou thinks there’s something going on.’

  ‘Then there probably is.’

  ‘Who’s paying for your time on that one?’ asked Pezas.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Then do yourself a favour, George, and stay out of it!’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Pezas was restless, ready to leave. George asked him if he would be interested in the bank job. Pezas said sure, if they could pay. Then he said, ‘I should get to work. What do you want?’

  ‘Check if I’m being followed. Look out for danger.’

  ‘Who’s after you?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll tell me that.’

  Pezas glanced out of the window, at the church garden opposite, the street climbing the hill.

  ‘I’ll take a walk around. What are you doing today?’

  ‘Phone calls, a little shopping, putting my life back together.’

  ‘Fine. Let me know when you’re going out. I’ll be down in the café for the next half hour if you think of anything else.’

  The day had grown hot and he wanted to sleep. He lay down in the bedroom, gazed at the bars of light that filtered through the shutters, heard the canary next door singing, the distant traffic sounds, and let himself drift away.

  Next thing he knew the telephone was ringing.

  ‘Hello, George! Abbas calling.’

  He mumbled a sleepy greeting.

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you up. I have some bad news about my friend Colonel Varzalis.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘He’s been arrested. For the murder of John Petrakis.’

  ‘On what evidence?’

  ‘I don’t know. Kyra Sophia has just come round to tell me. She’s in a dreadful state.’

  ‘You know I’m no longer on the case?’

  There was a pause. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Constantine pulled the plug.’

  ‘Did you send in a report?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘May I ask what you said about the colonel?’

  ‘I said I believed him to be innocent.’

  ‘Can you come over and talk to the police?’

  ‘What good will it do?’

  ‘They might release him.’

  ‘On my word? No way.’

  ‘His health is not great, you know. Greek police cells are nasty places.’

  ‘Listen, Abbas, I’m in a tricky position. Unpaid. And I don’t do voluntary work.’

  ‘I understand. Would you be prepared at least to telephone the police?’

  George considered it. He could not very well refuse. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m going to see the colonel now,’ said Abbas. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’

  He rang off.

  George made a cup of coffee and steeled himself to call the police in Aegina. This was not going to be pleasant. He was put through to Captain Bagatzounis.

  ‘Are you acting as attorney for Colonel Varzalis?’ asked the captain.

  ‘No, I’m acting as…’

  ‘I can only speak to his legal representative!’

  ‘I’m speaking to you as a concerned citizen.’

  ‘I can only speak to his legal representative.’

  ‘You’ve arrested the wrong man.’

  ‘I repeat: I can only speak to a legal representative.’

  ‘OK, if you can’t speak, you can listen. There is no way Colonel Varzalis committed that crime. You’ve been fed false evidence by people who want to damage him.’

  ‘I have his confession in front of me.’

  ‘His what?!’

  ‘I have a confession, signed by Colonel Varzalis.’

  George attempted to take this in.

  ‘Are you satisfied, Mr Zafiris?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’

  He rang Abbas and told him the news.

  ‘That’s preposterous,’ said Abbas. ‘He would never have written such a thing.’

  ‘Ask him when you see him. If it’s genuine we might as well give up hope.’

  ‘Of course it’s not genuine!’

  ‘Then we have to find the person who faked it.’

  ‘The old man won’t know if he
wrote it or not.’

  ‘Ask him anyway. And find his lawyer, so you can get him out on bail.’

  ‘I’ll do that. Stay in touch.’

  The news about Varzalis distressed him. The missing information from the firearms register and the forensic report were now more necessary than ever. No one could bring John Petrakis back to life, but every day the colonel spent in prison, or under the shadow of arrest and trial, would undermine his health, adding fresh injustice to old.

  He telephoned police headquarters in Kalamata.

  ‘Forensic department please. Takis Mitropoulos.’

  Takis came straight onto the line. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Somehow, please, get your hands on the forensic report on the Petrakis shooting, and let me know what it says.’

  ‘It should be in Athens.’

  ‘No. It’s somewhere there, in your department. Sotiriou sent it over.’

  ‘Funny place to send it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re moving into new offices. Everything is in packing cases.’

  ‘I don’t believe it! How long can a removal take?’

  ‘Weeks, apparently. The new building isn’t ready, and the contractors haven’t been paid so they’re going slowly. Meanwhile this building has been sold for development and the new owners are pressing for completion before the tax increases on property purchases come into force next month. So half our stuff is in boxes, the other half in a warehouse somewhere.’

  ‘How do you get any work done?’

  ‘With difficulty.’

  ‘Can you have a look for that report?’

  ‘I’ll try, but no promises.’

  George put down the phone. His head was buzzing. There were obstructions everywhere. And questions. Why had Sotiriou sent the files to an office that was moving? Had he known that, or was it an unlucky accident? And why had Varzalis ‘confessed’ to the shooting? Had someone fooled him into signing it? Or forged his signature? Or was it genuine? And why the hell was he thinking about all this anyway – unpaid?

  It was time for coffee at the Agamemnon. If not the cure for all ills, at least it reduced the pain. He sat in his usual place and nodded to Dimitri. He reached for the newspaper.

  The headline shook him. “MURDER!”

  Underneath was a photograph of Boiatzis.

  A smaller headline elaborated: “Boiatzis did not take his own life”. The caption under the photo read, “Murder victim or suicide? The death of MP Angelos Boiatzis is the subject of frenzied speculation. Full story, page 3.”

  Curious, thought George, how this startling claim of murder was quickly watered down to “speculation”. The headline was there to sell the paper, the caption to prepare the reader for the more subtle truth, which was. what? He turned to the article on page 3.