Codename Xenophon

by Leo Kanaris

  A radio journalist, Sophocles Ghiotis, had asserted that Boiatzis was murdered. He had privileged information, he said, which he was prepared under certain conditions to share with the police. The motive for the killing was discoveries made by Boiatzis about “dirty dollars in the construction industry – bribes, sweeteners, hush money paid to politicians, civil servants, planning officers, building inspectors and auditors.” Boiatzis had been preparing a dossier on the subject for personal submission to the Prime Minister. The article did not say what had happened to the dossier, but Ghiotis promised to reveal more in the coming days.

  He turned to the next page. There was a photo of the bearded Ghiotis, headphones on a balding head, a sharp, pale, humourless face. Ghiotis ran a radio station, Paranoia FM, which had a cult following. It specialised in irreverent, hard-hitting exposes of scandal in politics, sport, business and the media. George did not care for the face of the man, but he warmed at once to the project.

  Dimitri brought his coffee.

  ‘Have you heard of Paranoia FM, Dimitri?’

  ‘No. What is it? A comedy show?’

  ‘Radio station.’

  ‘Never. Ask your son. He’ll know.’

  George returned to the paper. The other big story was a strike by dock workers that had stopped passengers on cruise ships disembarking in Piraeus. The cruise companies were now threatening to cease visiting Greece. An editorial ranted at the folly of strikes that endangered tourism, ‘our country’s lifeblood’.

  A movement caught his eye. Pezas had appeared.

  ‘How’s it looking?’ asked George.

  ‘Clear so far.’

  ‘Have you seen the paper?’

  ‘Only the headline. What’s the story?’

  ‘A radio journalist says Boiatzis was killed.’

  ‘What’s his evidence?’

  ‘He hasn’t said yet. I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘And who’s paying you to do that?’

  ‘No one,’ said George.

  ‘Forget it.’

  Pezas ordered coffee. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘why were you so keen to get hold of the name of Yerakas’ son-in-law?’

  ‘Just being thorough.’

  ‘Did it ring any bells?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard the name before but now I’ve lost my files I can’t remember where the hell I met or heard of the man.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Aegina or Athens?’

  ‘If I knew that it would help.’

  ‘Are you on the case again?’

  ‘Emotionally yes. Financially no. Colonel Varzalis has been arrested, probably on a false confession. It’s just possible he shot the professor but my guts tell me he didn’t.’

  Pezas was thoughtful, his blue eyes looking hard into George’s. ‘You want to help Colonel Varzalis?’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘Get him to pay you.’

  ‘While he’s in prison?’

  ‘That’s the best time! He’ll be keen to get out.’

  ‘Remember,’ said George, ‘he and Petrakis dislike each other. I can’t see him paying good money to look into the death of his enemy’s brother.’

  ‘He needs to clear his name.’

  ‘Why the hell should the innocent pay to clear their names?’

  ‘I agree,’ said Pezas. ‘It’s a crime. But what choice does he have?’

  ‘I’m not going to suggest it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Come on, Hector! It makes me look like a bloody vulture.’

  ‘Get your friend Abbas to suggest it.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Varzalis has money, right?’

  ‘Seems to.’

  ‘There you are. You’ll be doing him a favour. Go for it and stop worrying.’

  Dimitri brought coffee for Pezas, who leaned back in his chair and surveyed the street with a critical air.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ asked George.

  ‘Go back to the office,’ said Pezas, ‘deal with some paperwork. There’s nothing happening here. Dimitri will keep an eye out. I’ve briefed him. He’s got my number.’

  ‘Can you come back later? After dark?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Your lady isn’t making demands?’

  ‘No. She’s off to Milan this evening.’

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Shopping.’

  ‘Sounds like an expensive woman.’

  ‘Prices are twenty percent lower there. She says we’re being robbed over here. For everything. Food, clothes, household goods. So much for the benefits of a European currency!’

  ‘Still, add the air fares and the hotel…’

  ‘She stays with friends, and the air fare is peanuts.’

  George raised his hands. ‘She’s obviously a model of thrift and globalisation.’

  ‘That’s what I like about her,’ said Pezas. He drained his coffee. ‘And the fact that she goes like a train…’

  He stood up. ‘I’ll come over at ten tonight.’

  ‘Fine. By the way, did my wife’s cousin call you?’

  ‘She did. That’s what I’m going to make a start on now. Strike while the iron’s hot.’

  He waved and was off down the hill.

  21

  That afternoon, as he was opening the day’s post, a call came through from Colonel Sotiriou.

  ‘I’ve just heard from your friend Mr Kakridis,’ he said.

  ‘A great honour,’ said George flatly.

  ‘An honour maybe,’ said Sotiriou, ‘but not a pleasant experience.’

  ‘It rarely is. What was the subject of your conversation?’

  Choosing his words with care, Sotiriou replied: ‘Kakridis has accused me of political motivation… and taking bribes from his enemies.’

  ‘Is any of that true?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Then forget about it.’

  ‘I find that difficult.’

  ‘Kakridis specialises in unjust accusations, close to the bone. This puts you on the defensive, and distracts you from your purpose.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s right…’

  Sotiriou was silent again. Uneasy. George wondered what was on his mind.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Sotiriou. ‘I just wanted to know your thoughts.’

  ‘Have you heard about Paranoia FM?’

  ‘Only what I read in the paper this morning.’

  ‘Have you had any contact with this Sophocles Ghiotis?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘You don’t have any files on him?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘He’s a leftie.’

  ‘That’s not a crime.’

  ‘I thought the police liked to watch people of alternative political persuasions.’

  ‘I certainly don’t.’

  George wondered whether to believe him.

  ‘I have news from Aegina,’ said Sotiriou. ‘Colonel Varzalis has been arrested.’

  ‘I heard,’ said George.

  ‘We have a confession. It’s a big step forward.’

  ‘I believe the confession to be false.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I said I believe. The reason is simple. There is absolutely no motive.’

  ‘I understand that he and the Petrakis family have had conflicts in the past.’

  ‘The colonel with Constantine Petrakis. Not with John.’

  ‘That’s still a motive.’

  ‘Not in my book. Varzalis doesn’t hate Petrakis. He doesn’t give a damn about him.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘He told me himself.’

  ‘Colonel Varzalis is also mentally unstable.’

  ‘He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s. He is not mentally unstable.’

  ‘His brain is diseased.’

  ‘You’re being very
crude, Colonel. The main symptom of Alzheimer’s is memory loss. Not mental instability.’

  ‘Some patients show both. I’ve done my reading, Zafiris!’

  ‘Some patients, yes. Not all. Colonel Varzalis is perfectly stable. He’s not violent or moody.’

  ‘Psychiatric tests will reveal the truth.’

  ‘I hope so. And I hope the psychiatrists will talk to his housekeeper, who lives with him and sees the situation from day to day.’

  ‘No doubt they will.’

  ‘But the inescapable fact in all this,’ said George, ‘is his failing memory.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘He can’t remember what happened five minutes ago! How the hell can he remember what he did on 25th March? Can you explain that?’

  Sotiriou took his time to reply. ‘I understand your frustration,’ he said, ‘but the due processes must be allowed to take their course.’

  ‘The forensic report and weapons register are stuck in the middle of an office move in Kalamata! Is that part of the due processes?’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’

  ‘And why is Colonel Varzalis under arrest? He’s not going to run away! Why has Bagatzounis accepted the authenticity of this confession without asking the most obvious question about it? Why does the convenience of the police prevail over a man’s rights? A sick man at that! Where are the due processes there?’

  ‘I’m sure Colonel Varzalis has a lawyer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’ll get bail.’

  ‘I hope for the sake of your conscience he does!’

  ‘Be patient, Mr Zafiris. Take it easy.’

  ‘That’s a phrase I particularly dislike. It’s the motto of every lousy waster in this country who can’t be bothered to do his job properly, or consider the rights of another human being. Taking it easy is the national disease!’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more. But in your case, a bit of relaxation wouldn’t hurt. I’ve learned the hard way what happens to people who don’t know how to let go. Heart problems are just the beginning!’

  ‘All right, Colonel. Fair point. But you need to know the police are committing an injustice here. A terrible injustice. And I’m not going to let you get away with it.’

  ‘We’ll see who gets away with what,’ said Sotiriou with an air of menace, and ended the call.

  22

  Aristotle Street lay on a fault-line in Athenian society, which George crossed several times each week. To the west, Exarchia, the university district, its shabby, once elegant buildings sprayed with black graffiti promising death to bankers and politicians. Men with pony-tails and beards, girls in pre-ripped jeans and Indian blouses. Cannabis and alternative cafés, with stencilled heads of Marx, Lenin and Che Guevara adorning walls and doorways. To the east, separated by an invisible barrier, a line in the air, lay Kolonaki, with its luxury apartments and shops, where the debt crisis was still something people read about in the newspaper over a five-euro cappuccino. Here lived the old moneyed families of Athens – the lawyers, professors and technocrats, the financiers and politicians denounced on the streets of Exarchia. Rivers of kinship and money ran between the two districts, deep underground. On the surface they were as different as could be. Walking between them, George sometimes wondered how they could exist side by side.

  He and Zoe had studied abroad, and they feared for their son’s future if he joined Exarchia’s festival of unreality, so they had sent him to university in England. He would have a shock if he ever returned to work in Greece, but the way things were looking, with half the country’s youth unemployed, that was unlikely. At least he would absorb some of the civic ideals of northern Europe. Fairness, transparency, equality of opportunity, consonance of word and deed, impartial enforcement of the law – these to Nick would be realities, not fairy tales for the ignorant, to be aired at election time then cynically set aside.

  George worried about the future of his country. With its corrupted institutions, its confused habits of thought, its cynicism and despair, it needed a great statesman to lead it out of its trouble. A Lincoln, a Churchill, a Mandela. Failing that a Venizelos, or even a Trikoupis. There was no such character in sight. Only equivocators in suits.

  Most of all he worried about the next generation. Fodder for the advertisers, the propagandists, the exploiters. And no jobs for them! No hope! He was haunted by that computer game parlour in Aegina, where the present as well as the future was dark.

  As soon as he got in, the telephone rang. It was Takis from Kalamata. He had found the forensic report.

  ‘What gun was used, what ammunition?’ asked George.

  ‘Heckler & Koch G3. Israeli bullet, 12 millimetre.’

  ‘Israeli? What’s that about?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean much. They’re big manufacturers.’

  ‘How many shots?’

  ‘Just one, through the window. Sniper’s accuracy. They give an angle of entry: 25 degrees left of centre lateral anterior, 15 degrees vertical.’

  ‘What does “left of centre” mean? Centre of what?’

  ‘It doesn’t say. Presumably the mid-line of the skull.’

  ‘OK, I’m writing all this down.’

  ‘Find the gun and you’re in business.’

  ‘Without the firearms register that’s going to be hard.’

  ‘I’m looking for it.’

  ‘Can you put this information in writing for me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m dealing with some awkward people here. I want to have something official to show them.’

  ‘You want me to lose my job?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This is all unofficial. I’m not supposed to see these reports. Certainly not reveal their contents to outsiders.’

  ‘I understand. You’ve been very kind.’

  ‘Don’t mention it. And I mean that literally.’

  ‘Of course. Stay well, Taki. See you soon.’

  At once he called Abbas.

  ‘Ask the colonel if he’s ever owned a Heckler & Koch G3.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you why. Please just ask him.’

  ‘You can speak to him yourself.’

  ‘Are you with him?’

  ‘In the prison. What a shit-hole! Waiting for his lawyer to show up.’

  ‘OK. I’ll talk to him.’

  George put the question directly to the colonel.

  ‘No,’ came the reply. ‘It’s an effective weapon, no doubt about that, but not my kind of thing at all.’

  ‘Why would anyone in Greece use Israeli bullets?’

  ‘Why not? They have to be made somewhere.’

  ‘Could the gun be ex-army?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean ex-Israeli army.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you know anyone in Aegina with a G3?’

  ‘There was one, I believe. But who?’

  ‘Maybe one of your volunteer force?’

  ‘Could be. I don’t remember.’

  ‘It could help you get out of prison if you remembered.’

  ‘My forgetfulness is the worst prison there could be.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Colonel. Thank you.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I don’t know who you are, but you’re welcome.’

  Abbas came back on the line.

  ‘Helpful?’ he asked.

  ‘Possibly. It’s still the word of a man with a failing memory.’

  ‘I asked him about employing you. He wants to know how much you charge per day.’

  ‘Three hundred.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  A few moments later he came back.

  ‘He offers two.’

  ‘Tell him no.’

  ‘What’s the minimum you’ll take?’

  ‘Three. A week in advance. And it’s not negotiable.’

  ‘Tough terms of business!’

  ‘There are reasons for that.’

  ‘Obviously. Give me a moment.’<
br />
  He could hear them discussing the matter in low voices.

  ‘George? The colonel finds your price very high, and prefers to handle this matter himself.’

  ‘That’s fine. Wish him luck. He’ll spend ten times that amount on his lawyer.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  George rang off with a pang of regret. They were just starting to get somewhere now, but, unless he was paid, every minute he spent on this was lost time.

  23

  Pezas had been watching his place since ten that evening. At a quarter to eleven he called.

  ‘A motorbike has just pulled up,’ he said. ‘Two riders, in leathers and helmets, and they’re letting themselves into your building. Do you have any bikers living there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Is the Beretta loaded?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Let them in, but plan it. Take no chances. Show them who’s boss. We need to talk to them.’

  ‘Are you coming up?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  George picked up the Beretta. He did not want to let these people in, and wondered if Pezas was right about talking to them. They did not sound like talking types.

  He stood by the door, rapidly thinking out how this should go. He needed to surprise them, get the upper hand at once. But he needed to get behind them, and he didn’t want shooting. Before he was ready, the doorbell rang. He put his eye to the spyhole, just before a gloved hand flew up to cover it. The bell rang again. George waited. He wanted Hector there. Even with a Beretta in his hand, it was two against one.

  He heard voices on the landing. Pezas had appeared. He was challenging them. One of the men spoke back angrily. Pezas insisted. Again the angry reply, and a shout of alarm.

  George pulled the door open. One of the men had pushed Pezas against the far wall and was going at him with a heavy stick. Pezas was crowding him, denying him room, but he took some hefty blows to his arms and shoulders. The other man, hearing the door open, wheeled round to face him.

  ‘Drop the stick!’ said George.

  The attacker didn’t move.

  ‘Drop the stick, I said! Or I shoot!’

  A sudden movement to his left made George switch his attention. He caught sight of a knife blade moving swiftly towards him, and twisted to his left to see his shirt sliced open, quickly followed by a line of blood. The hand and blade flashed past, halted for an instant, and quickly swung back for a second stab. George pulled the trigger. The gunshot rang explosively in the confined space. The man sank with a groan.