Codename Xenophon

by Leo Kanaris

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘He might have been trying to buy the man’s car.’

  ‘Late at night? I don’t think so.’

  ‘You realise we’re talking about a government minister? With parliamentary immunity and the power to do some extremely nasty things to us?’

  ‘I do. But so far he knows nothing of this. We have the advantage.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Sotiriou.

  ‘You mean he knows he’s being watched?’

  Instead of answering, Sotiriou asked, ‘Who’s the source of information about the car and the telephone numbers?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Who supplied you?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that.’

  ‘It would help me greatly if I knew.’

  ‘I’ve promised confidentiality.’

  ‘How do I know it’s reliable?’

  ‘The source is guaranteed.’

  ‘In other words it’s his wife.’

  George said nothing. He was glad not to be having this conversation face to face.

  ‘If it was his wife,’ said Sotiriou, ‘she might well be suspected of seeking revenge on her husband for his affair with Mrs Boiatzis.’

  George did not reply.

  ‘I have no doubt that it is his wife,’ Sotiriou continued. ‘Who else would have access to his phone, who else would witness private visits late at night? Who else in the house would dare?’

  George was damned if he would give the man the certainty he wanted. In any case he didn’t like the question. Why did Sotiriou want to know the source? Was he really interested in checking its reliability? Or was he too in the pay of Kakridis?

  ‘If I find you’ve been withholding evidence, Zafiris, you’re going to be in trouble.’

  ‘I’ve given you all the evidence.’

  ‘But not the source!’

  ‘You’re not getting the source, and you know why.’

  ‘If this goes wrong I’ll lose my job, pension, everything.’

  ‘You’ll deserve to.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Anyone in your position who fails to make use of this evidence deserves to be fired. You’ve got an open goal in front of you. Put the ball in the fucking net!’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘If you want further evidence, tap Kakridis’ phone.’

  ‘Nice idea. I need permission from the Public Prosecutor for a phone tap, and I won’t get that for a member of parliament without special permission from the minister responsible. Guess who that is.’

  ‘Kakridis?’

  ‘Correct!’

  This was bad news. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sotiriou waited a few seconds before replying. Then, in a weary, demoralised tone, he said, ‘I’ll look into it.’

  Down at the Café Agamemnon Dimitri fixed him a fresh orange juice instead of his usual coffee. He wanted change in everything. The old routines felt like death. He flicked through the newspaper as he waited. A report on ‘the new homeless’ announced a twenty percent increase in people sleeping rough in Athens, many of them technical or professional people who had lost their jobs in the crisis. On another page, a group of the city’s Muslims were pictured outside their improvised mosque – a basement near Omonia, where they prayed on a stained, damp carpet in an area cleared of packing cases and broken furniture. The doorway had been daubed with racist slogans. Their leader asked, ‘When will the authorities let us build a proper mosque? We have the money, all we need is permission.’ A local shopkeeper said, ‘Let them go back to their own countries and pray. We had enough of Islam with four hundred years of the Turks.’

  George turned to the sports pages and tried to read an article about the owners of Greek football teams. But his mind was soon back on his work.

  He was uncertain about his next move. That was a blow about permission for the phone taps. Observing Kakridis any other way would be a nightmare.

  He decided to call Pezas.

  ‘Hector, I know you’re a gadget man… I need some advice.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Is there any way of bugging someone’s mobile phone? Unofficially?’

  Pezas hesitated. ‘Unofficially, there is,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You need to get hold of the target phone for a few minutes and load some software.’

  ‘Is that easy to do?

  ‘If you know how.’

  ‘Invisible?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘What exactly does it do?’

  ‘It makes the target phone transmit all conversations to another phone of your choice.’

  ‘Every call, incoming and out?’

  ‘Every call. It can also act as a room bug.’

  ‘Without the user realising?’

  ‘What the hell would be the point if the user realised?’

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘Is it legal?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘It costs around 800 euros to buy.’

  ‘Do you have one?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘For hire?’

  ‘250 a week, plus 600 deposit, returnable.’

  ‘Nice return on investment.’

  ‘We have to live.’

  ‘Could you install it on Kakridis’ phone?’

  ‘He might have some kind of suppression or monitoring device.’

  ‘And if he does?’

  ‘It won’t work. Quite apart from that it sounds risky.’

  ‘Is it worth a try?’

  ‘Possibly. How do we get to his phone?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘She’ll have to install the software.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Women tend to be frightened of these things.’

  ‘She’s pretty sharp.’

  Pezas seemed doubtful.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said George. ‘You can show her how, presumably?’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She mustn’t get caught, that’s all.’

  ‘You say some very obvious things, Hector.’

  31

  The next morning’s papers carried the story that Sophocles Ghiotis had recovered consciousness and dictated a message for his blog: ‘They have not silenced me. Keep listening, keep talking, my friends. Never be afraid to speak the truth.’ Apart from these stirring words, there was a brief announcement that he had been shot by unknown gunmen on Friday morning, but was now in a stable condition. Messages of support from listeners had been flooding in for the past three days.

  George wondered who all these supporters might be. Ghiotis must be a hell of a performer. He did not seem the type to have ‘friends’ in the usual sense. On the other hand the city was full of people who felt cheated by the state, out of place in a culture of self-interest, people who longed for a society they could play a part in. These people existed in large numbers, but they were atomised, set against one another in futile antagonism. Ghiotis, rough-mannered as he was, offered them a community. Not a complete community, but better than none at all. In some ways it replicated the functions of the church, but without the physical contact, the traditions, the participation. Could Ghiotis heal injured spirits? Would he one day be enclosed in a silver casket and visited by pilgrims? Friend of the friendless, shepherd of lost souls?

  George turned the pages of the newspaper. Queues at petrol stations around the country. A new strike by state employees. Papaconstantinou, the Minister of Finance, visiting Brussels and telling the world that Greece’s economic reforms were on track. Papandreou, the Prime Minister, speaking on the island of Kastellorizo, asking the Greek people to be patient and resolute, not to fight against the inevitable. ‘Our programme of change is necessary and non-negotiable. We cannot afford to fail.’ Pensioners, students, workers saying, ‘You’ve failed already!
Stop punishing us for other people’s dishonesty. Go to the rich for cash.’

  George finished his coffee and climbed the stairs to his apartment. He rang Pezas to find out if Mrs Kakridis had managed to install the surveillance software in her husband’s phone.

  ‘She’s done it,’ said Hector. ‘A model student.’

  ‘Results?’

  ‘Technically, good. We’re hearing him loud and clear. But nothing interesting so far.’

  ‘We must be patient.’

  ‘Patient and resolute, as Papandreou says.’

  He checked his laptop for emails. His inbox was the usual rubbish tip of bad jokes, investment ideas and offers of savings on fake Rolex watches and genital enhancements. In amongst them was a note from Abbas:

  Strange happenings! The unpredictable nature of this country never fails to surprise me. Yesterday the colonel kindly offered me one of his rifles as a gift – to thank me for looking after him in prison: the lovely sporting Hämmerli that he used in the Olympics. An honour for me, which I am far from deserving. But here’s the strange part: I’ve just been down to the police station to report the change of ownership. I expected this to be recorded in temporary form, given the absence of the firearms register. But no, the desk sergeant very calmly produced the old register! It’s back! How or why I have no idea. I hid my astonishment as best I could. Somehow we must get our hands on it. I await your reply with barely suppressed impatience. Abbas.

  George telephoned him at once.

  ‘These people devote their lives to denying people’s requests,’ he said, ‘so we’ll have to be cunning. I’ll come over to the island, and we’ll go in to the police station together. I can be there at three. Will that suit you?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Abbas. ‘I’ll meet you off the ship.’

  George shoved a few things into his briefcase and prepared to leave. His phone rang. He thought of ignoring it, then gave in. He could spare five minutes. It was Pezas.

  ‘Listen to this,’ he said.

  Kakridis was talking to another man. Kakridis spoke first:

  – You must have reserves.

  – They’re very low.

  – You promised liquidity.

  – Up to ten percent of invested funds. Conditional on…

  – Don’t give me that technical crap.

  –… the state of the market. There was flow then. Now it’s all dried up.

  – Impossible!

  – The season has barely started. Give it a chance.

  – I have creditors. They don’t have seasons.

  – Tell them to wait.

  – They don’t do “wait”.

  – They’re going to have to.

  – How long?

  – September, October.

  – Impossible!

  – You must have other sources.

  – Not right now. This crisis is really fucking things up.

  – We’re all in it together.

  – Look, are you sure you can’t do two hundred?

  – I can do fifty.

  – Two hundred is the minimum.

  – I can’t.

  – There’s no such thing as can’t.

  – Oh yes there is.

  – I’ve invested heavily with you.

  – You’re not the only one.

  – Maybe not, but I’m a fucking big one!

  – Listen, Byron, your friends must be patient. They know there’s a crisis. The subsidies are drying up. We have to earn this money. Offer them a little extra in October. Explain about the season. Add three percent. That’s not a bad rate of interest over a year.

  – They’re illiterates. Cash is paid on time and in full.

  – Then you must borrow.

  – Where?

  – There’s always someone with money to lend.

  – God damn you!

  The line went silent for a few moments. Then Pezas was asking him, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Mildly squalid,’ said George, ‘but not incriminating. Who was he talking to?’

  ‘Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Was that a call or a live conversation?’

  ‘A call.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No idea. Could be anywhere.’

  ‘Have you asked his wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Try her. You might get something.’

  George put down the phone, his mind unsettled by this conversation. Kakridis needed cash. Why? Who were these illiterate creditors? Were they the ones that worried his wife, or others? And who was this man who invested millions for him but could not advance two hundred thousand?

  Kakridis was a powerful figure, immune from prosecution. Once a man like that knew where the evidence against him was collected, he could simply move in and have it destroyed: documents, recordings, photographs, computer files. Witnesses could be bribed or threatened. If George managed to get proof of any criminal activity, he would be at risk from the moment he tried to go public. Even if he went to the police he couldn’t be sure of the consequences. Sotiriou seemed less and less to be trusted. The only policeman he knew he could rely on was Takis Mitropoulos, but he was out in the provinces, in a technical department, with no firepower against the establishment.

  The press and media were the only other possibility, but few had the courage or energy of Ghiotis. Most of them were lapdogs, serving interests they didn’t even understand.

  George sat for a few minutes, his mind jammed with difficulties. Then he heard the church clock strike half past twelve. He snatched up his briefcase. He would miss the ferry if he didn’t go.

  *

  Abbas was waiting on the quay: his tall, stooping figure clearly visible from the deck of the ship. He was shading himself from the sun with a newspaper, which he held above his head like a roof. They walked towards the police station, while George proposed his plan.

  ‘I’ll go in and say I’ve just had my pockets picked by a couple of Georgians. I’ll keep the desk sergeant talking. Meanwhile you come in with a request to check the colonel’s guns in the register. That will give you a pretext to go through and find the others on the list.’

  ‘Identify them by their guns?’

  ‘Exactly. My bet is that the Heckler & Koch will be missing. But you may as well get all the others. Or most of them. Do you have the two lists?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right, let’s do it. Give me a couple of minutes’ start.’

  They parted at the end of the street that led to the police station. George walked through the doorway into the courtyard, along the flagstoned path beside the lemon trees and parked police cars. He entered the Officers’ Room.

  The desk sergeant was deeply absorbed in events on his computer screen, which may have been police business but sounded very like motor racing.

  ‘I’d like to report a theft,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said the sergeant, turning down the angry insect sound of roaring engines but not taking his eyes off the screen.

  ‘A couple of Georgians spotted me on the ship from Piraeus. They picked my pocket in the crowd as we came ashore.’

  The sergeant did not appear to be listening.

  ‘They stole three hundred and fifty euros. I want you to record this and give me a crime number.’

  The sergeant reluctantly turned his attention to what George was saying.

  ‘How many euros?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty.’

  The policeman grimaced slightly, clicked a few times with his mouse, and said, ‘Right. Theft report. Wednesday, thirtieth day of the sixth month. Year, 2010. Name and address?’

  George answered all the questions, including his father’s Christian name, his mother’s maiden name, his date and place of birth, his marital status, occupation, tax number, and other irrelevant details. They moved on to the crime itself and a description of the perpetrators.

  ‘Medium height,’ said George. ‘One ginger-haired, the other dark. Muscular
, about thirty-five years old. Dressed in jeans and sports shirts.’

  ‘Any beards, moustaches or side whiskers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any scars or other distinguishing marks?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You said they were Albanian?’

  ‘Georgian.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I recognise the language.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I’ve had dealings with them before.’

  ‘These particular men?’

  ‘No. Other Georgians.’

  Abbas walked in as the sergeant was noting down this information in slow and careful longhand. Speaking his odd, semi-grammatical Greek, Abbas explained what he was after. The sergeant, distracted by George, handed over the register and gestured for him to consult it on top of the counter where he could be clearly seen. Abbas opened the book, took some sheets of folded paper from his pocket and settled down to the job. George went steadily on with his story, describing the imaginary theft. From the corner of his eye he saw Abbas note down a name from time to time. He was working quickly, but there were still plenty of pages to go. The tale of the Georgians was almost done.

  ‘Have you had problems with these people before?’ asked George.

  ‘No,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘You’ve heard about them, though?’

  ‘I know they cause trouble in the cities.’

  ‘Trouble? It’s worse than that! No one’s safe. They start protection rackets, backed up by a full programme of breakins, arson and general intimidation. They have no scruples about killing. They have nothing to lose and plenty to gain.’

  George watched the sergeant grow more alarmed as he laid on the detail.

  ‘In Nea Smyrni they offered protection to the owner of a grocer’s shop, one of those nice old-fashioned ones with barrels of feta and sacks of rice. The owner said no, I’m poor, I can’t afford it. They took no notice. Burnt the place down within a week.’

  ‘Mafia,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘What the hell do they want here?’

  ‘They smell money. All those yachts in the harbour, the nice cafés. It’s not a good sign when the Georgians appear.’

  ‘This is a peaceful place.’

  ‘It won’t be much longer if they move in. You’ll get protection rackets, gangs, drugs, the whole package.’