by Leo Kanaris
He clicked on Banquet of the Death Merchants.
‘Typical cheap shot,’ said Pezas. ‘These bastards never stop to think what would happen to our country if we didn’t have properly equipped armed forces! Or what would happen to their precious freedom of speech!’
‘He doesn’t seem to be against proper equipment. He’s against officials taking bribes. Look! “Members of the past and present governments are named in a secret report into corruption and ‘sweeteners’ over the supply of German submarines to the Greek navy at grossly inflated prices. Investigations continue into purchase deals for other big-budget items: tanks, helicopters, armoured cars, fighter aircraft and radar systems. While we tighten our belts, the statesmen who rule us are stuffing their foreign bank accounts with black money.” You think that’s all right, do you?’
‘No of course I don’t! But who are these people? He names no one.’
‘OK, here it is. “Who’s responsible? Over the next few weeks, Paranoia FM will tell the full story. Be ready to tune in to Sophocles Ghiotis on Sunday evening.” ’
‘There you are! He’s self-righteous about other people earning money, but he’s perfectly happy to earn it himself.’
‘He’s got to live.’
‘Bah! He disgusts me. We’ll never have a mature democracy while political debate stays at that infantile level.’
‘Next you’ll be saying “bring back the colonels”.’
‘I do say that! At least they did what a government is supposed to do. Ensure law and order. Build roads. Defend us against enemies at home and abroad.’
George yawned. He had never suspected Pezas of being so ferociously right-wing.
29
The next day the breeze died and an Athenian heatwave began. Leaves hung limply from the trees, dry and papery. Air was in short supply. Cars and buses sloshed along the streets on melting tyres through clouds of black exhaust. When the temperature hit 40 degrees, people started talking about káfsonas – a state of burning.
George loathed this heat. Everything seemed stuck, drained of energy – out in the city and inside his head. His investigations were getting nowhere. It was the end of the week, the end of his patience.
He picked up the phone and called Zoe.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely fucking awful,’ he said. ‘I need a break.’
‘Come to Andros!’
‘What are you up to?’ he asked.
‘Swimming twice a day, meals on the terrace with Nick. Peaches on the tree.’
‘I’m coming.’
He packed a bag and looked up the times of the ferries. He tidied his desk and checked his watch. It was just before noon. An hour to drive to Rafina, then onto the ship at one thirty. And bugger everything else.
As he picked up his car keys, the telephone rang.
‘Mr Zafiris? This is Colonel Sotiriou.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘We followed your suggestion about the guns your visitors were carrying.’
‘And?’
‘Makarov pistols, Soviet army issue, 9 millimetre.’
‘Illegally imported?’
‘Correct.’
George wondered where this was leading.
‘I’m calling you,’ said Sotiriou, ‘totally off the record. This conversation is not taking place.’
‘I understand.’
‘One of those pistols fired the bullet that killed Boiatzis.’
George felt his chest tighten.
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘We are.’
‘It makes suicide look unlikely,’ said George.
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘So you’re detaining them?’
‘Of course. They’ll be questioned, and with luck we’ll find out who sent them.’
‘Thank you for keeping me informed. I was beginning to lose hope.’
‘I must thank you, Zafiris. It was your suggestion. Made somewhat aggressively, I have to say, but when I thought it over I decided you were right.’
‘Does this mean the charges against me will be dropped?’
‘Which ones?’
‘For so-called assault on the bikers.’
‘That I can’t tell you. But at least they won’t be calling on you again.’
He was at the door when his phone rang again. He cursed.
‘Hello, Mr Zafiris. This is Margarita Kakridis. I’ve done as you asked.’
‘What exactly have you done?’
‘I’ve made a list of calls from and to my husband’s phone, and I have the registration number of a car.’
‘That was very quick.’
‘He had a visit last night. A short one, but it was enough. I got the phone numbers while he was sleeping. What shall I do with them?’
George hesitated. He wanted to get away.
‘I’m on my way out of town,’ he said. ‘Can I come to you?’
‘That’s fine. Call when you get here. Don’t ring the bell.’
He drove north along Leoforos Kifissias, past Halandri, Psychiko, Maroussi, the sun glaring viciously off windscreens and empty roadside showrooms – concrete and glass hangars with ‘To Rent’ notices stuck on their windows. After Syngrou Park he turned off, weaving through a labyrinth of narrow streets to the cemetery at Kefalari. He skirted the walls of the dark, cypress-filled plot, a silent reminder of death in this manic ant-hill of a city. He followed Trikoupi Street for a few hundred metres, then turned right. The Kakridis mansion stood well back from the road, behind high walls with security cameras. An enormous grey steel gate blocked the entrance, guarded by a man in a tiny glass cabin. George called Mrs Kakridis from his car.
After a minute the gate slid open. With a nod to the guard he drove through. At the end of the drive, among olive and fig trees, stood a vast plate-glass and concrete palace.
Margarita Kakridis was at the front door. She wore cream linen trousers, a pale green shirt, sleeves half-rolled, a gold necklace at her throat.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, the tension lines around her mouth even more marked than yesterday.
She led him through a shady hallway, paved in slate and hung with expensive-looking art.
They walked out of the far side of the house, into the heat and glare. Past a 25-metre swimming pool with barbecue and changing rooms, to a circular terrace under an olive tree. Four grey metal chairs were arranged around a table. An immense view of Athens spread out below them. George took a seat, noticing only then that a Filippino manservant in a steward’s uniform had followed them out.
‘What will you have to drink?’ asked Mrs Kakridis.
‘Something cold, please.’
‘Strawberry juice? I often have one at this time of day.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Bring two, Simon,’ she said.
‘Yes, madam.’
Once Simon had vanished into the house she took a wad of folded notepaper from her back pocket and handed it quickly to George. He began to open it but she stopped him.
‘Later,’ she said.
He folded it away.
‘Simon?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘How will you explain my visit?’
‘You’re a client of my gallery.’
‘You have a gallery? I didn’t know.’
‘Why should you? When Simon comes back we’ll talk about art.’
‘In that case you’d better do the talking.’
‘I’ll keep it simple.’
‘How many numbers have you given me?’ asked George.
‘I didn’t count.’
‘And the car?’
‘Black Mercedes. The number’s there too.’
‘Any photos?’
‘No. It was dark. Here come the drinks… I advise against Impressionists. They’re overpriced now, even the minor ones. You’d be better going for early 20th century, including certain war artists. Is it landscapes y
ou particularly like?’
He was not quite sure how to reply. Simon stood between them, pouring the bright red juice from a tall jug.
‘I like portraits too,’ said George. ‘I’m interested in faces, in physiognomy.’
‘Excellent. Nice contrast. Normally what I do in these circumstances is visit the house you’re hoping to decorate, then put together a list of suitable works for each room.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Anything else, madam?’ asked Simon.
‘No thank you. I’ll call if we need anything.’
Simon made a little bow and returned slowly to the house.
She continued to talk art until he was out of earshot. Switching abruptly, she said, ‘I’m very nervous.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel I’m betraying my husband.’
‘You’re not betraying him at all. You’re trying to protect him.’
‘But at what cost?’
‘So far no cost at all, at least from my point of view.’
‘I meant emotional cost.’
‘That’s a different matter,’ said George. ‘I have no way of helping you with that. But don’t forget, he put you in this position.’
She nodded, anxious again. ‘I was brought up to believe in a wife’s duty to her husband.’
‘You mean, the man is always right?’
She shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘It’s rubbish,’ said George. ‘Old Greek macho bullshit. A formula for misery. Forget it. This is for his own good. For the family too.’
‘So I try to tell myself.’
She sipped her drink. George watched her mask-like face, the slow, tense movement of the throat muscles as she swallowed.
‘You seem to be afraid of your husband,’ he said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘A feeling, that’s all.’
‘It’s probably true.’
‘Is the telephone bugged?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Cameras in the rooms?’
She nodded.
‘Out here?’
‘There are cameras everywhere. My husband is very security-conscious.’
‘He’ll recognise me, won’t he?’
‘He won’t watch the footage. Only if there’s an incident.’
‘Has he ever been violent?’
‘No!’
She spoke too quickly.
‘I’m not sure I believe you.’
She glared at him. ‘Stick to your business, Mr Zafiris!’
‘I’m sorry. I want to help, that’s all.’
‘You can find better ways!’
‘All right.’
He drained his glass. ‘That’s good juice,’ he commented. ‘Tastes fresh.’
‘It is fresh,’ she said coldly.
He stood up. ‘I’ll go now. I have a ferry to catch. I’ll check the papers this weekend. Please call me or Mr Pezas if you feel yourself to be in danger. At any time.’
‘Thank you.’
On the road to Rafina he thought about her as he listened distractedly to the radio news. A woman in a miserable situation, struggling to keep up appearances, to keep her family safe, while her husband behaved like an idiot. Like thousands of others. All over the country. All over the world.
The newsreader babbled on about a strike by civil servants, protesting at cuts in their salaries and reductions in their numbers. They planned, a spokesman said, to paralyse the country. George felt no sympathy. Although many provided essential services, and were already poorly paid, a significant proportion were parasites and bureaucrats who did nothing for their fellow citizens but obstruct them with futile procedures and take bribes to circumvent them. They had paralysed the country for decades. He was reaching to turn off the radio when a newsflash came up.
George was suddenly focussed, listening intently. Sophocles Ghiotis had been shot. Two men dressed as security guards had called at his house early this morning and lured him into the street, claiming that someone was stealing his car. He had been found, badly injured and unconscious, by a neighbour walking his dog. He was now in intensive care, condition critical. Police were hoping he would recover consciousness and identify his attackers.
George considered driving back to Athens. But was there anything useful he could do? Ghiotis had refused to have dealings with him. If he recovered it would be days before he could talk to the police. It might never happen. Ghiotis might die, taking his revelations with him. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by going back. He drove on.
*
At the sight of the sea, George felt a release of tension in his heart. He parked the car and walked over to the ticket agencies, where girls in T-shirts and miniskirts were tempting customers in with strange mechanical cries: Ya Androtinomykono! Androtinomykono! ‘Tickets to Andros, Tinos, Mykonos!’
He chose the plainest-looking girl, who welcomed him with a happy smile and led him to the counter, where her grim controller, a man in his fifties who had not shaved or changed his shirt for several days, issued a ticket while smoking a cigarette, never once meeting his eyes.
On board he bought an iced coffee and began reading through the telephone numbers, his diary open on the page for June 22nd, where he had written down the number of the Georgians’ boss. Three hundred numbers to check. This could be a long job. On a computer it would take a couple of seconds, but this had to be done by hand.
He shut his mind to all else – the television blathering at a row of empty seats, the bar with its hissing coffee machines, the bleeping of the till, the safety announcements, the rambling banalities of people on mobile phones. He focussed on the last four numbers: 4605. He was soon asleep.
He woke up with the announcement on the ship’s public address system that they were entering the harbour of Gavrio. Rapidly draining his coffee, now watery with melted ice cubes, he gathered up his things as the anchors rattled down and the ship juddered towards the jetty.
He drove south along the coast road. At Batsi he turned up into the hills, a lush valley leading to limestone country, the route twisting up a bare mountainside towards the sky. He came at last to the village of Arni: a scattering of houses and trees among the rocks. The air was cool and clear, the silence immense.
Zoe’s house stood next to a spring on the far side of the village, a white cube among green foliage. The sight of it made him feel good.
At the sound of the car, Zoe came out of the house to meet him, in shorts and an old shirt splashed with fruit stains.
‘At last,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.
‘I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here,’ he said.
He gave no thought to work for twenty-four hours. He helped his wife peel, slice and cook the first peaches in sugar and water, then pour them hot into jars with their syrup. At eight they went out for a walk, high into the herb-scented crags. The sun’s heat was fading, the fierce white light turning yellow, gold, then coppery-crimson as the day ripened and died. At nine they came home and found Nick on the verandah, sitting quietly with a can of cold beer.
He greeted his father and at once asked how long till supper. Zoe said it would be ready in half an hour.
‘Great,’ said Nick. ‘I’m ravenous.’
He followed her into the kitchen, and came out a few moments later with a beer and a glass, which he placed in front of George. He asked how things were going in Athens.
George grimaced.
‘Any more trouble?’
‘A little. But it’s fixed now.’
Nick looked relieved.
‘I came here to clear my head,’ said George.
‘You’re in the right place.’
George took a sip of beer.
‘Stay as long as you can,’ said Nick. ‘We miss you.’
That night, after supper, with a pale half-moon hovering in the southern sky, Zoe and George sat out on the roof and drank wine, held by the silence of the mountains. They remembered
happy times – their first meeting in London, holidays as students, their wedding, the early years with Nick.
‘It makes me sad to think how all that’s gone,’ he said. ‘I’d give anything to have it back.’
‘It doesn’t have to be gone.’
‘No, but it is.’
‘No, but it doesn’t have to be.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You know what I’m saying… We don’t have to be strangers, George.’
‘Really?’
She offered her hand. He took it.
30
The weekend was over too quickly. By eight on Monday morning he was down at Gavrio again, waiting for the ferry to come in. Gradually his mind adjusted, from dinner on the terrace and the candle-lit bedroom to the tangled web of lies, obstructions and suppositions that lay across his horizon like smog over Athens, a toxic cloud of uncertainty that he must enter and pass through. Could anything in that vast mess be ‘solved’? Any questions be properly answered? Would he ever be able to say There, that’s dealt with? It seemed a luxury beyond imagining.
In the ship’s bar he ordered a filter coffee and sat down with Mrs Kakridis’s list of phone numbers. He soon felt sleepy again, hypnotised by the lines of figures and the rhythmic throbbing of the engines. He shook himself awake, took a brisk walk around the deck, and returned to the task.
Suddenly he saw it: 4605. He checked with his diary. All ten numbers matched. On the list, this number appeared as ‘Thanasis, Dentist’, but that scarcely mattered. It was unlikely that Kakridis and the Georgian biker used the same dentist. They had business together. This was evidence.
For a moment George felt guilty. He should have done this two days ago. Then he stopped himself. Two days ago he had been a wreck. He wouldn’t have done anything useful with the information. Now he was ready for action.
Back at his desk at noon, he rang Sotiriou.
‘This is potentially a very serious allegation,’ said the colonel. ‘How many conversations did they have?’
‘The number appears six times altogether.’
‘Of course it’s not proof.’
‘No. Just run a check on the number, and on a black Mercedes, registration TMY 7582. You’ll find out what kind of people Kakridis has been consorting with.’
‘It could be perfectly innocent.’
