“I’m sure it won’t be anything quite that simple to achieve,” said Tassos.
“Get me the details on what you’re looking for,” said Maggie, “and I’ll see what I can do about getting it for you.”
Andreas felt certain his jaw had dropped. “How the hell do you expect to accomplish that?”
“The way I always do. I’ll ask my friend who works for one of the higher-ups in the Turkish police to get it for me, the same as she asks me to use my connections here to get Greek TV footage for her. If it’s been playing over there or available, she’ll get it for me.” She tilted her head to the side. “Unless, of course, there’s a formal embargo on it, because, let’s say, some Greek police official made a formal request of the Turkish police.”
“Ouch,” said Tassos.
Maggie shrugged. “I’ll just ask for it. No official reason, just curiosity. Low-key trumps official every time.” She slid open the door. “Now, get back to work, cookie. Time’s a wasting.” She stuck her tongue out at them before stepping back inside and shutting the door.
“We deserved that,” said Andreas.
“Nope,” said Tassos, reaching for a dripping piece of lamb. “Just you.”
l l l l l
Dana had eaten more than she thought possible, but there was little choice. It seemed as if Philipos’ entire family kept piling food on her plate, prodding, “Try this, it’s the best you’ll ever taste.” And they were right, though at times only because she doubted she’d ever again eat such a thing as a goat’s eyeball.
As she struggled to resist her fifth proffered dessert, she wondered whether the tiny bikini she’d brought to Mykonos but not yet worn would ever fit her again. Perhaps, if she didn’t eat again until July.
Still, she was having a blast.
Philipos waved for her to join him and his two sons in the living room. She said she preferred to stay with their wives to help with the dishes, but the women insisted she sit with the men. Philipos pointed her to a chair facing a pair of French doors opening out onto a terrace. The house stood on a treeless hilltop a half-mile northeast of the old town, looking down upon the old port. Its waning crescent-shaped sapphire-blue harbor curved away from a tangle of cloud-white centuries-old buildings set beneath a row of a sixteenth-century windmills capped in straw, running along a ridge south of the town.
“Wow, what a view,” she said.
Philipos nodded. “Yes, it’s hard to sit here without contemplating the fate of the universe.”
Dana smiled. “You sound like an incurable romantic.” Just like Mr. Volandes.
“For sure,” said his older son.
“How can you ever find meaning to life if you don’t take time to dream?” said Philipos.
“It is hard to dream when you’re struggling just to survive to the end of the day,” she said.
“I assume you’re talking about the experiences of those in your care on Lesvos.”
“As well as those fleeing Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Somalia, sub-Saharan Africa.”
Philipos shook a finger at her. “But they wouldn’t have fled those lands if they did not dream. Those without dreams are the ones who stay behind.”
This time Dana laughed. “So, you’re a philosopher, too.”
“Right again,” said the younger son.
“I am a dreamer,” Philipos said, “but also a realist. And, as both, I dread the direction our world has taken, catapulted by a crisis more capable of rapidly transforming our world than any natural disaster or war. And by transforming, I mean not just the ethnic or religious makeup of Western societies, but their moral underpinnings.”
She wondered where Philipos planned on going with this. For sure, his bottom-line crisis had to be the refugee crisis, but she hoped it wouldn’t be as part of an anti-Muslim rant. He didn’t strike her as the sort, but she’d been surprised far too many times on that subject to assume anything.
“For decades I’ve watched as our world permitted disease and civil wars to cull away masses of Third World souls, ignoring pleas for humanitarian intervention of the minimal sort necessary to save those only wishing to live with their families in peace. Instead, the West found an out-of-sight/out-of-mind approach far more suited to its citizens’ sensibilities and politicians’ careers.”
He paused to take a sip of wine. “Even now, long after it’s become obvious that shutting your eyes to reality does not change the scene in front of you, the West still refuses to confront the refugee crisis in a way that might actually make the world a better place.”
“I’m wide open to any suggestions on how to change things,” said Dana.
Philipos pointed at his chest. “From me? I’m just a simple museum watchman. But those capable of making things happen ought to open their eyes and do something before it’s too late.” He shook his head. “Though at times I think it’s already too late.” He took another sip of wine. “We’ve spawned haters of the West among generations, even among descendants of those who fled misery for hope, only to find ghettos and bigotry. Yes, part of that surely was self-imposed by some of them only wanting to live with their own kind, or unwilling to fit into new cultures. But rather than finding rational solutions, we allow haters on both sides to set the agenda. Now there are far too many people simmering, longing to strike back.”
“You’re forgetting about the millions still in transit,” said his younger son.
Philipos shook his head. “Not at all. Though, for them, what hope is there, beyond the obvious? Like treating them as human beings, not penned or herded animals. As long as the West prefers funding detention camps and hoping that the trapped magically disappear, in lieu of finding ways to assuage the horrors refugees face in their homelands….” His voice trailed off and he shook his head.
“Or just give up and stop coming,” said his older son.
Philipos shrugged. “But they won’t stop coming, will they?” He looked to Dana. “Because they’re all dreamers.”
She smiled. “Just like us.”
Chapter Nine
“Why do you choose to remain in my home? The police are looking for you everywhere. They have a picture of you now. It is only a matter of time until they find you.”
Aryan reached for a bowl of fruit on the small wooden table between Malik and himself. “Your dear brother-in-law must be terribly anxious. After all, any photograph they have of me only shows me as a potential victim escaping a dreadful massacre. Should they find and question me, he’s undoubtedly worried I might say I caught a glimpse of the shooter. And if they show me a photograph of Jamal…” He selected an orange and began to peel it. “By the way, has your government re-imposed the death penalty for the sort of thing Jamal did?”
“Don’t be so confident. They may already know who you are…even what you did on Lesvos.”
Aryan tore the orange in half and put one half on the highly polished tabletop. “I doubt that. I have no record, no agency possesses my photograph, and anyone who might recognize me knows better than to identify me. As for Lesvos, only you and Jamal know of my ties to that affair. I doubt you’d turn me in and implicate yourself as my employer.” He shrugged. “If I had the slightest suspicion you might, neither you, nor anyone in your family, would still be alive.”
Malik slid a napkin under the half-orange on the tabletop. “You know I would never do such a thing. But if the police find you, what will you tell them? How will you explain being at the café, staying in my home?”
“By telling the truth. I was in that café waiting to be met by your brother-in-law.” He tore off a segment of the orange held in his hand and stuck it in his mouth.
“I don’t understand,” said Malik.
“It’s simple,” said Aryan. “I am your children’s new language tutor. I was at the café waiting for transport to my new accommodations in your home.”
“The police will never b
elieve it.”
“Of course they will. I am fluent in Turkish, Greek, French, German, Russian, and English. My luggage is in transit, and I get along famously with your children. What is there not to believe?” He tore off another orange segment. “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but unlike that poor unfortunate family, I survived and got away from the scene as quickly as possible after the attack. We all know from television that terrorists sometimes launch a second attack as soon as first responders arrive. I’m a teacher, I abhor violence, and so I ran away.” He ate the bit of orange. “As for my face being known to the Turkish authorities, I no longer care. I am living a legitimate life here, with nothing to hide.” Aryan smiled. “And they have no history to associate with it.”
Malik sat staring at Aryan’s face. “You really don’t intend to leave, do you?”
“Why should I? I like it here.” He popped the rest of the orange from his hand into his mouth, and reached over for the half on the tabletop, but instead of eating it, he carefully wrapped it in the napkin. “This half I’ll share with your children.” He stood up. “It’s time to start their lessons,” he said and walked out of the room.
Malik might think him insane, but Aryan knew better. At least he didn’t think of himself as insane by any measure that mattered to him. He meant what he said about remaining in Malik’s home. It stood as the safest place for him. The old adage about holding your friends close but your enemies closer applied tenfold to this situation.
If he didn’t live literally on top of Malik’s family, the bastard would dispatch a thousand men to kill him, blow up an entire hotel to destroy him. But here, in his home, he dared not even try to poison him, for fear his own children might fall victim…to a poisoned orange, perhaps.
Of course, he could leave Turkey, and Malik would no longer have a reason to pursue him, but Aryan saw a great deal of money to be made in Turkey, a golden opportunity.
Ultimately, his plans turned on convincing Malik’s boss that he had nothing to fear from Aryan. As much as Malik might like to present himself to everyone as the big boss, he was neither smart nor efficient enough to be running more than a local organization. Nor would Malik have dared hire Aryan on his own, assuming Malik had even known of Aryan’s existence. No, that required the participation of Malik’s higher-up, whoever that might be. And that higher-up could not justifiably accuse Aryan of betraying his employer, for, after all, Malik tried to kill him rather than pay him what he’d agreed. That was the sort of ill-thought-out decision someone like Malik would make on his own, then try to cover up from his boss. Aryan might even be praised as charitable for only muscling in on Malik’s business, rather than killing him in rightful revenge.
Somehow, Aryan had to connect with the boss at the top of the organization, and convince him that he possessed no grandiose visions of being anything more than a loyal lieutenant. After all, how could Aryan hope to amass the connections necessary to control such a vast enterprise in a foreign land? It would be insane for him to think that he could.
Aryan smiled. Yes, surely insane.
Aryan simply needed the opportunity of meeting with Malik’s boss to make all his plans come to pass. At the moment, though, he faced a far more pressing concern. Staying alive. Obviously, Malik would kill him at his first opportunity. He was likely plotting it now. Aryan needed an ally. But who? The brother-in-law? Never. He was far too weak, too afraid, too untrustworthy.
He heard the children singing with their mother in the playroom down the hall. He smiled. He’d found the perfect ally. Now, to recruit her.
l l l l l
Andreas’ Monday holiday had passed peacefully at home, capped by a leisurely afternoon family stroll through the National Gardens, one of the many serendipitous advantages of staying in Athens for Easter, and avoiding the rush back into town for the resumption of business as usual on Tuesday.
“Got it,” said Maggie, bursting through the doorway of his office.
“Got what?”
“That footage you wanted from Turkey. I downloaded a copy for you.” She stuck a USB stick into a slot on the back of Andreas’ computer screen.
“Amazing.”
“And way underpaid.”
Andreas clicked on the USB icon, and a black-and-white image slowly moved across the screen.
“It came from a camera mounted on the corner of a bank across from the café. The recording runs from about two minutes before the shooting starts, up until the cops get there.”
Maggie walked behind Andreas’ desk and watched from over his shoulder. She pointed at the screen. “That’s the couple and their baby. It gets pretty gruesome.” She crossed herself.
They watched it three times in silence.
“Bastards,” said Maggie.
“I think we have our man,” said Andreas.
“The one who walked away after the shooting?”
Andreas nodded. “He anticipated what happened. From the number of times he looked at his watch, he was expecting someone. The logical place for him to sit in the café would have been where the family sat, but he chose a place that offered cover. And when the van eased up in front of the café, he slid his chair toward those large pots and dived behind them right before the first shots came. Then he walked away, didn’t run. A real professional.”
“So, we finally got a break.”
“Thanks to you.” Andreas froze the screen on a close-up of a light-haired, light-eyed, chiseled featured male as tall as Andreas but built as broadly as Yianni.
“Good-looking man. Looks fit too,” said Maggie. “How nice of him to have walked straight at the camera when he left the café.”
Andreas nodded. “As if he had nothing to hide. The picture of innocence. So, let’s find out who Mister Calm-Cool-and-Collected really is. Send this to Europol and any other agency you think might have a shot at identifying him. Who knows, we’ve got a clear enough image that even our outdated facial recognition software might turn up something.”
“One can hope.”
l l l l l
Dana’s return to Lesvos on Monday began with an early morning fast boat to Athens’ port of Rafina, a hurried taxi ride to the airport, and a bumpy flight to Chios to attend Mihalis Volandes’ funeral on the island of his birth. From there she managed to hitchhike a boat ride back to Lesvos with one of the many from Lesvos who’d come to pay their respects.
She’d spent most of her travel time tossing ideas around in her head for drawing those behind Mihalis’ murder out into the open. She felt strongly that her idea would attract the sort of attention Mihalis’ killers wouldn’t want, but wasn’t nearly as certain how they’d react, beyond making her their bull’s-eye.
By the time she reached her apartment near Mytilini’s old harbor, she’d reached a decision to sleep on her admittedly not fully thought-through plan. She hoped to wake up clear-headed, with a less risky strategy.
Instead, she awoke more determined than ever to launch Operation Squeaky Wheel. First stop, Mytilini Police Headquarters.
The Mytilini police station sat approximately a half-kilometer due west of the Mytilini marina, close by a five-way intersection near the outskirts of the city. A strange complex of nine low buildings running up a hillside between two largely residential streets, the complex took up nearly a full city block. Yet, their uniform beige exterior walls, identical multi-paned windows trimmed in white and formed of black iron muntins, matching doors, and terra-cotta tile roofs, tied everything together nicely. For a police station.
“I’m here to see the commander,” Dana announced in English.
“Do you have an appointment?” said the young cop sitting at the front desk.
“No.”
“What’s it about?”
“An employee of mine you’re holding in custody.”
“Your employee’s name?”
“Ali Sera.”
The cop shook his head. “Sorry, he’s not allowed visitors.”
“On whose orders?”
The cop stared at her. “For your purposes, take them as mine.”
Dana stared back. “For your purposes, take that as a bad career move. Now get me your boss or tell me how to spell your name.”
“Am I supposed to take that as some sort of threat?”
“Threat? Who’s threatening? Take it any way you wish. I just want to make sure I spell your name correctly at my press conference tomorrow when I list you among the Turkish refugee smugglers and Greek government officials involved in covering up the truth about the murder of Mihalis Volandes. I’m sure they’ll want to take a hard look into the background of the cop on whose orders visitors are denied to the man set up to take the fall for the real murderer.” She set her jaw and waited.
It didn’t take long. The cop glared at her for a moment, then stood, turned, and disappeared around a corner.
Three minutes later he returned, pointing in the direction from which he’d come. “Last door on the right.”
At the end of the hall, Dana knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
The commander stood behind his desk. She assumed the photographs on his desk were of family, but they sat turned away from her. She didn’t see any of the sort of photographs that customarily adorned the office walls of government officials, posing its occupant with political leaders and celebrities. Perhaps they also were on his desk.
“Well, Ms. McLaughlin, how nice to see you again,” he said in English.
She nodded. “Commander.”
He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit.”
She sat and crossed her legs.
He sat. “So, what is it you’re here to see me about?”
“I want to see Ali Sera.”
An Aegean April Page 11
