by Leo Kanaris
George asked him what his next move would be.
‘We are in touch with the Romanian police. They are already searching for him.’
His mind buzzing from Sotiriou’s news, George took a seat in the public gardens and ordered a soda. As he watched the river flow through its concrete gully, hurrying towards the precipice, he asked himself how he could possibly put this matter to Paris’s mother and father. Their son was a killer. There was little they could do to help, except persuade Paris to turn himself in, co-operate with the police, and hope to get a verdict of a crime of passion or – with medical help – a plea of insanity. It was not much of a prospect, but better than a life sentence for murder.
He had almost finished the soda when an old gentleman in a baggy brown suit approached his table. George stood up and shook hands.
The old man ordered lemonade – ‘Loux if you have it, with two ice cubes in the glass’ – smiled kindly at George and asked how he could help.
George fumbled his way into the conversation. He tried to keep things general at first: Paris’s character, his hopes and ambitions. The old man talked freely. He was a retired professor of music, mild in his manners, amusing, articulate, sensitive. ‘For a nation that loves music, we are quite exceptionally cruel to our musicians,’ he said. ‘Very few can make a living. They must either teach, go commercial, or emigrate.’ His description of his son, even allowing for a father’s subjective view, was hard to square with the angry man he had met in Filothei, someone guilty of jealousy and murder. All his life until this tragedy, he had been admired and liked. Hard-working, helpful, magnanimous – ‘animated by a profound Christian belief tempered by studies in Buddhism. He is very interested in the monastic tradition and its links with the east, through meditation and prayer…’ George listened, neither believing nor disbelieving, finding here two different people. But he had seen photographs of Keti and met her sister. There flowed in those girls an electric charge of sexuality that could destroy a man’s peace of mind and divide him from his better self, no matter how much he prayed and meditated.
He could not bring himself to tell the old man the truth. His pride, his happiness, his whole existence would be shattered.
George said, ‘If Paris phones, you must ask him to contact me.’ He handed over a card. ‘He may be unwilling, but you should tell him it’s for his own good.’
The old man suddenly stiffened. ‘You have not said so explicitly, but is Paris a suspect?’
George replied carefully. ‘As you know, the police always go first to the family. Then to friends. Very few people murder strangers. In any case running away is not a good plan. It’s invariably taken as a sign of guilt.’
‘He could be away on business.’
‘Quite so,’ said George. ‘But in any case he should call me. The worst thing he can do is hide.’
‘I will pass on the message,’ said his father, a little sadly. ‘If he calls.’
20 Alexander’s Gold
The next morning, as he enjoyed a pot of black coffee and Gavrilis’s fig jam on fresh bread, he studied the map of the region. If he set out soon he could get to both Vergina and Pella in one day. These were places he had long wanted to visit, but had never found the time. At Vergina a series of Macedonian tombs had been found in the 1970s. They included the probable tomb of King Philip II, father of Alexander the Great. Nearby at Pella stood the capital city of Alexander’s empire. It was from a workshop near there that those exquisite gold wreaths had come. Whoever tried to export them to America in a coffin must have had access to those finds.
It occurred to him that he could approach the problem from the top or the bottom of the hierarchy. Usually the higher the functionary the more forked the tongue. With knowledge and position came suspicion and a taste for intrigue. Whereas from the workers and assistants you got something closer to the truth – if they knew it.
Gavrilis was interested in his plans and advised him to visit his Uncle Thanasi, who ran a taverna in Pella. ‘He knows everyone.’
George set off, full of hope. The Alfa was running well, the day was warm, and he drove with the hood down. He reached Vergina after an hour, parked in the empty car park, and walked over to the archaeological site.
The tombs lay under a low hill. In a dark, theatrical atmosphere the treasures were exhibited in isolated pools of light. Bronze weapons, chariots, drinking bowls, tripods, lamps and figurines. In one cabinet were the grave goods of Philip: a golden chest for his bones, with a sixteen pointed star on its lid. An iron breastplate banded with gold. An ivory head, with that bearded warrior face, one-eyed, crafty, forceful, weary. Beside it a golden wreath bristling with oak leaves and acorns, delicate as new blossom. A miracle of craftsmanship. According to the catalogue this wreath, the heaviest and most elaborate ever found from the ancient world, had slight scorch marks, with acorns and leaves missing. ‘It was evidently on the head of the king as the flames began to lick around his bier, hastily snatched off by the priest before it could be destroyed, to be buried with the ashes of his bones washed with wine and wrapped in a rich purple cloth, exactly following the rituals of burial described in Homer’s Iliad.’
Intrigued by the place, George bought a book by its excavator, Manolis Andronicos. A legendary figure now, who twenty years ago had joined the unseen world that he spent his life investigating. His photo on the inner cover – goatee beard, heavy black glasses, pensive gaze – seemed to defy death, or look beyond it.
As he bought the book George tried to engage the museum guardian in conversation. The man was polite but said little. George learned that visitor numbers were down this year, and that pay for museum staff had been cut by sixty per cent in the past seven years, all thanks to ‘the never-ending crisis’. His attitude, however, was calm and resigned: ‘We got ourselves into this fix and we have to get ourselves out of it. A solution will be found. We can’t let ten million people starve.’
Returning to his car, George noticed a black Skoda on the far side of the car park. Two men sat inside, their windows rolled down, smoking and chatting. They had not come into the archaeological site and George wondered what they were doing there. Perhaps waiting for someone? It was an odd place to wait. But they showed no interest in him, and he drove off.
At Pella he found another site, as deserted and extraordinary as Vergina. Here was a recently built museum, spacious, elegant, with arrays of objects from everyday life: furniture, tools, pottery, mosaics, laid out as if in a private home. The guardians were a pair of young mothers, deeply absorbed in a conversation about their problems. ‘Something’s wrong,’ said one, a big girl with a mass of black hair, heavy eye make-up and pale skin. ‘We work, cook, clean the house, do the shopping, take care of the children, deal with our crazy mothers-in-law, then we have to look great on Saturday night and be ready for sex. Any time, day or night, no matter how we feel – tired, worried or depressed – and enjoy it! Be inventive! But where did the liberated woman go? What happened to her? Are we liberated or just worse enslaved?’
The other one, blonde and petite, with sharp dark eyes, maintained quietly and insistently that at least with a university degree and a job she felt able to stand up for herself. ‘In the old days we had no such rights.’
George interrupted to ask about the people in charge of finds.
‘Thessaloniki,’ said the blonde one. ‘The Inspectorate. It’s all controlled from there.’
He bought a few postcards, asked for directions to Thanasi’s taverna and drove to the nearby village. The taverna was on the square, its owner was expecting him.
Over lunch he was treated to the local gossip. Thanasi enjoyed telling stories. The news about the missing gold was well known here, even though it was supposed to be restricted information. No one could say who was responsible or how the gold had been smuggled out, but a new Inspector of Antiquities had been appointed in Thessaloniki and had promised to get to the bottom of it. In Thanasi’s view this was unlikely to happen, as the
Inspector was a political appointment ‘with no idea of anything except the Party and the socialist paradise it was supposed to be creating’. Unfortunately, he added, the Greek people had been stupid enough to give these charlatans their vote and so they were now setting about the destruction of the country. ‘The socialist paradise,’ he added, ‘is nothing but jobs for the Party members and a general obliteration of the economy.’
‘Do these people come and eat here?’ asked George.
‘Who?’
‘Inspectors of Antiquities, Party officials?’
‘Of course! Everyone comes here.’
George considered this.
‘When I think about that gold,’ he said, ‘the way it was stacked in the coffin, probably for export…’
‘Definitely for export!’
‘…it seems to me that an archaeologist in Pella, or a store-man with a key, or whoever it was on the spot, cannot possibly have organised all this in isolation. There must be an art dealer, a high-class smuggler, a middleman of some kind with international contacts who knows where to sell these things. Which can’t be easy, because we’re talking about stolen goods.’
‘That’s true,’ said Thanasi. ‘There’s always a middleman.’
‘Any idea who that might be?’
Thanasi frowned. ‘Local? Or national?’
‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
‘I don’t mix with people like that.’
‘You said everybody comes here. I thought this would be an ideal place – out of the way, plenty of good material…’
Thanasi was distracted. Two men had come in and sat down at the far side of the taverna.
‘Hold on. I have customers.’
Thanasi went over to take their order, which was briskly given, without any conversational preamble. They obviously knew each other, but there was no friendliness. Thanasi hurried through to the kitchen looking preoccupied. The two men lit cigarettes.
George observed them quietly. They looked like provincial businessmen, cynical and complacent. They were not talking. He glanced away down the street and was surprised to see the black Skoda, parked right behind his Alfa.
‘What were we saying?’
Thanasi was back.
‘The middleman.’
He smirked. ‘You could start with those two.’
‘Really? Who are they?’
‘They work for a big local boss.’
‘Name?’
‘He’s known as O Kokoras.’
‘The Cock? What’s that about?’
‘I don’t know. Status I expect.’
‘Real name?’
‘Not spoken aloud.’
‘But you know it?’
‘If I do I won’t say.’
‘Is he independent or part of a network?’
‘Who knows?’
‘What about these two? What do they do?’
‘Business.’ He spoke the word contemptuously.
‘Is there any chance they’re following me?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I saw them at Vergina, in the car park. It seems a strange coincidence.’
‘How would they know about you?’
‘That’s it…’
‘It depends what your business is. What is it, by the way?’
‘Not really business,’ said George. ‘My friend Mario Filiotis was Mayor of Astypalea. It was his coffin that was found to be filled with gold from Pella. His family want to know where his body went.’
‘And you came here to find out?’
George nodded.
‘Bravo…’ Thanasi seemed impressed. ‘It’s one hell of a long way from Astypalea.’
‘I’ve come from Athens.’
‘Still a long way. How’s it going?’
‘This is my first day.’
Thanasi nodded thoughtfully. ‘Gavrilis somehow got the idea you were a salesman.’
‘Really? How did he work that out?’
‘Used to be in sales himself. Anyone he likes, he thinks they’re in sales.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘So what is your business?’
‘I’m an investigator.’
Thanasi’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Insurance, police, private?’
‘Private.’
‘Oh… That explains your interest in the gold.’
‘I told you. Mario was my friend. My dear friend.’
‘I understand.’
But Thanasi seemed troubled and distracted. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Give me a few minutes. I need to give those guys their food.’
‘Why are they here?’
‘I’ll tell you in a while.’
George waited. Thanasi hurried into the kitchen, came out with glasses, wine and food on a tray, and, with a glance in George’s direction, sat down to talk to the two men. They spoke in undertones but the body language was clear. They were putting Thanasi under pressure. He gesticulated. They stared at him coldly. He talked rapidly. They looked bored. At last, with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders, Thanasi stood up and walked into the kitchen. The two men began picking at their food.
George waited a while longer. He checked his watch. Four o’clock. Time to go. Thanasi had not reappeared, so he went to the kitchen to find him.
An argument was raging. A woman, presumably Thanasi’s wife, was saying, ‘I’ll put poison in their food!’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ said Thanasi.
‘I’ll do it. You watch me.’
George said, ‘Excuse me, Thanasi, I’d like to pay the bill.’
Thanasi turned, his cheeks flushed with anger.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Just give me two minutes.’
Thanasi’s wife slipped past him, muttering, ‘I’m going to talk to those bastards.’
‘No, Rena, don’t do that!’
She was already out of the door.
‘I’ve got to stop her,’ he said and hurried past.
George followed them. Rena had already started giving the men a verbal savaging. They tried to maintain a look of indifference, but they were clearly alarmed.
‘You two are a disgrace! You know what business is like these days. How many customers do you see here? One? Two? So what the hell do you want? Go and do some honest work! We have nothing more to give! Nothing, do you hear? You can tell Kokoras from me that if he comes here again, or sends you, I’m going to kill him. Do you understand? I’ll tear his eyes out and then I’ll kill him!’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ said one of the men. ‘The boss…’
‘The boss! I know where he lives and I’ll go there personally with a knife and stick it in his heart. Just watch me.’
The other man said, ‘Stop it, Rena. This is not a joke. You know how it works.’
‘It doesn’t work any more! Can’t you see that? Everything’s going to pieces. Even your shitty business.’
‘Let’s go,’ said the other, pushing back his chair.
‘I’ll kill you too! Both of you!’
Ignoring her, they made for the street.
Thanasis watched them go, his face pale with worry.
‘You shouldn’t talk to them like that,’ he said.
‘They can go to hell and so can you! They can’t do anything to us.’
‘They can close us down just like that.’
‘Then where do they get their payments? Wake up, Thanasi! They’re not stupid.’
‘You shouldn’t threaten them.’
‘They don’t frighten me. I’ll kill them if they come back.’
Thanasis turned to George. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is a very difficult time for us.’
‘I can see that,’ said George.
‘Rena gets upset…’
‘Rightly.’
‘But it’s not a solution.’
‘Don’t be so sure,’ said George.
‘These guys are trouble.’
‘They only exist because we allow them to,’ said Rena furiously.
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Thanasis shook his head. ‘If you saw what they’ve done to others. Restaurants burnt down, windows smashed, robberies. It’s not as easy as that.’
‘They need us, Thanasi! If we die, they die! Get that into your head!’
It was dark by the time he left the taverna. The three of them sat, drinking coffee and tsipouro, lamenting the state of the country. George learned how Kokoras operated, lending money, calling in favours, threatening, corrupting, destroying. His two enforcers were feared and hated across the region.
George wondered if there were connections to his cousins and their hotel. The couple knew of no such schemes, but it would not be surprising. Anything to do with building and property was up his street.
And archaeology? Selling stolen goods?
‘Why not?’ said Rena. ‘Property is dead, let’s face it. He has to find new ways to make money. Drugs, arms dealing, he probably does the lot. Refugees will be his next thing. You watch.’
George drove back to the hotel and made phone calls to Zoe and Dimitri in Athens. All seemed to be well there. Then he rang Haris and asked him to find out what he could about the illegal trade in antiquities. See if someone called Kokoras was ever mentioned. He could almost hear Haris rubbing his hands.
‘With pleasure!’ he said.
George went downstairs to the bar. Gavrilis was deep in a telephone conversation, which he interrupted for George to order a bottle of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and smoked sausage.
‘Here or in your room?’ asked Gavrilis.
‘My room,’ said George.
‘I’ll send it right up.’
George left him to his call, and went back up the stairs. The place was silent, and he could hear Gavrilis’s voice, though he spoke softly, over the sound of his footsteps.
Five minutes later there was a knock on the door. An elderly lady stood with a tray on the threshold.
‘Thank you,’ said George. ‘Where is Gavrilis?’
‘He’s gone out.’
He poured a glass of beer and settled down to read his new book.
He was soon absorbed in the drama of the Vergina excavations. A young French archaeologist, Léon Heuzey, had first found the palace at Vergina while wandering in northern Greece in 1855. He had returned to dig there for six weeks with a gang of sailors in 1861 and written a book about his discoveries, Mission Archéologique de Macédoine, published in Paris in 1876. This contained prophetic words: ‘Whatever the name of this unknown city, the importance of its ruins for Macedonia will be comparable to those of Pompeii.’ The site was ignored by archaeologists and continued to be used as a source of building materials by local villagers for the next sixty years. Subsequent excavations were slow and intermittent. In the early 1950s, Andronicos had started working there alone, acting as ‘draughtsman, photographer, accountant and foreman’ as well as archaeologist. In 1957 he brought along students and university staff as volunteers. They explored the city, its temples and cemetery, sensing its grandeur but unable to get a historical fix. Then in 1976 the site yielded a spectacular find: the tomb of a king – almost certainly that of Philip II of Macedonia, father of Alexander the Great. The city must surely be his capital, Aegae. Andronicos, a scholar of the highest order, permitted himself a moment of speculation: he was sure that some obscure force, beyond rational understanding, had guided him.
