Blood & Gold

by Leo Kanaris

  ‘I’ve never had a problem with the tax authorities. Or the police.’

  ‘I forgot something else,’ said George. ‘Bribing public officials. They’re getting tough on that now. You’re probably looking at ten years in prison. Plus confiscation of property.’

  George was bluffing, but decided to risk it. No Greek feels immune from prosecution. Everyone is in tax jeopardy. What is untaxed today may be taxed tomorrow. What is legal today may be illegal tomorrow.

  If Kokoras was vulnerable, though, he never showed it. George needed to work harder.

  ‘All I have to do,’ he said, ‘is say the word. In fact, I don’t even need to do that. This process is ready to start. And it will start unless I put the brakes on.’

  Kokoras remained unperturbed. ‘Leave out the bullshit. What do you want?’

  ‘I repeat. The names of your fellow investors in the hospital.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘In return for protection. A word you understand.’

  ‘No tax investigation?’

  ‘That can be arranged.’

  ‘If you’re spinning me a line, Zafiris, you’re dead.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I will find out.’

  ‘It doesn’t worry me.’

  Kokoras took a phone from his pocket and called a number.

  ‘Stavro? Just check something for me. I’ve got a private dick from Athens trying to threaten me with tax and police trouble. Can you just run a check for me? See if there’s anything pending on my name?’

  He listened to the reply, his face unchanging.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ve got that.’

  Again he listened.

  ‘Right, thank you, Stavro. This guy’s name is Zafiris. He claims to have high-level contacts in Athens. Sounds like grade one bullshit to me. Let me know as soon as you find out for sure.’

  He put away the phone, resting pitiless eyes on George.

  ‘He doesn’t know of any such plans. And if he doesn’t, no one does.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Never mind who he is. Who are you?’

  ‘I’ve told you who I am.’

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  Kokoras waved a hand above his head. His lieutenants approached. Behind them came the waiter.

  ‘When I’ve checked you out one hundred per cent, then we’ll talk.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Who knows? A few hours? A few days? I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘But I am.’

  ‘Hurry kills.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Whatever you like.’

  ‘I need to get back to Athens tonight.’

  ‘Go.’

  ‘I need results now.’

  ‘No you don’t, Mr Detective! All you need is life insurance. Now piss off.’

  ‘You don’t even have my number.’

  ‘I’ll find you.’

  The waiter, sensing the tension, hung back. Kokoras stood up and threw a twenty-euro note disdainfully on the table. ‘That’s for the beer.’

  ‘It’s too much,’ said the waiter.

  ‘Then bring him another one! Bring him ten. Let him drown in it.’

  Kokoras moved off into the darkness, his lieutenants ambling after him as if every step was an effort.

  26 Unexpected Quarter

  As the waiter levered the top off the beer bottle, George said, ‘You can keep the change.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the waiter. ‘Give it to a beggar.’

  ‘Really?’ said George, surprised. ‘Are you paid so well?’

  ‘This is dirty money.’

  ‘In what way?’

  The waiter moved closer, lowering his voice.

  ‘I don’t know what your business is with that man, but be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful,’ said George.

  ‘You’re from out of town, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Can I ask what you want from him?’

  ‘I can’t see how that’s any business of yours.’

  ‘None at all. But I have some pride in this town and I don’t want you to think that everyone here is crooked.’

  ‘I promise you I don’t.’

  ‘I was Mayor here once.’

  George was suddenly more attentive. ‘Really? Mayor? And now…?’

  ‘I know,’ said the waiter. ‘It’s a long way down. But it’s a job.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’

  ‘Does it involve Kokoras?’

  ‘Partly. But that’s all in the past now. The point is, if you want to do business here I can tell you who to go to and who to avoid.’

  ‘That could be useful.’

  ‘What business are you in?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘I’m an investigator.’

  ‘Oh.’ This did not seem to be welcome news. ‘What kind of investigator?’

  ‘Private.’

  ‘What are you investigating?’

  ‘I can’t tell you the specific case. But I suspect some irregularity.’

  ‘That’s a sure bet. But if you gave me some indication, I might be able to help.’

  George thought for a moment. This might be a trap or a golden opportunity. ‘I’m interested in his building projects, particularly the hospital.’

  ‘I see,’ said the waiter. ‘You’ve got plenty to investigate there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That was big money. From public funds, Europe, charities. All into his pocket.’

  ‘His pocket? No one else’s?’

  ‘Of course there were others. The politicians who did the deal, the lawyers who fixed the paperwork, the businessmen who funnelled the bribes to foreign accounts… He was the front man. It’s what they call teamwork.’

  ‘If you’re prepared to give me the names of those associates I will make it worth your while.’

  ‘I have to be sure the information can’t be traced back to me.’

  ‘Your name will not be mentioned.’

  George took a pen and notebook from his briefcase. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  ‘OK. Give me your card. I will check that you are who you say you are, and then I’ll contact you with the names.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me now,’ said George.

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said the waiter, ‘but what little I have I want to protect. You can understand that.’

  ‘I can, but I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s a mistake.’

  ‘It’s not my choice.’

  ‘Make it your choice. Enjoy your beer.’

  George did his best to relax for a few minutes even while a time bomb was ticking in his head. He tried closing his eyes and listening to the sounds that marked the distances around him: a pair of boys kicking a football, a motorbike roaring away into the night, people talking, glasses clinking, traffic rumbling, the river swirling towards its death-leap over the cliff. His mind refused to settle. Everything pressed in on him. Thoughts of home, the monastery, the chanting by candlelight… He needed to call Sotiriou, get a police file going on Kokoras. If not, his bluff would be exposed. And he needed to set off for Athens before the night got much older. He had been up since 3.00 am and waves of fatigue had started to wash over him.

  He pulled out his phone, called Sotiriou first, and cut through the Colonel’s customary objections with a sharp demand: ‘Do this for me or I’m off the job.’

  Sotiriou tried to salvage a little self-esteem by informing him that public denunciations took time to be registered on the system, were subject to verification, witness interviews and other processes, and that all this could take several weeks. George stopped him. ‘You’ve got to short-cut all that. He’s threatened to kill me. I believe he means it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sotiriou. ‘If it’s so urgent…’

  ‘Right now,’ said George. ‘Or you and I have had our last conversation.’<
br />
  ‘How peaceful that would be!’

  ‘I’ll leave a note in my pocket saying you sent me,’ said George. ‘So if he kills me, you’ll be next.’

  Sotiriou laughed drily.

  27 Anna II

  George slept for a couple of hours parked on a farm track in Thessaly, never finding a comfortable position, woken periodically by animal shrieks and the distant thunder of trucks. He crawled into Athens at dawn, longing for his bed.

  Waking at noon, he made a pot of coffee and padded around the apartment in his shorts, trying to get into focus. He watered the plants, checked phone messages, opened his mail. Zoe was in Andros wanting to fix a date for the olive harvest, his son Nick in England saying winter was late this year. ‘If you’re not wearing a coat in Newcastle by the first of October,’ he wrote, ‘global warming has definitely reached danger level.’ Meanwhile Haris Pezas had called to check that he was back safely. Anna Kenteri had phoned twice, leaving no message.

  He contacted Anna first, telling her he had seen Paris Aliveris on Mount Athos. She was excited to hear it, and asked if George had confronted him with the recording.

  George was taken aback at the question.

  ‘How the hell do you know about the recording?’

  ‘I gave it to the police,’ she said.

  ‘You? But how did you get it?’

  ‘Someone put Keti’s phone through my letterbox.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Four or five days ago.’

  ‘You don’t know who?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘That is strange,’ said George.

  ‘I assume it was one of Keti’s friends, who doesn’t want all the fuss of going to the police.’

  George thought about this. It was almost plausible, but something jarred.

  ‘According to the police the phone was found in the bushes at the quarry. Near her body.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How do they know that?’

  ‘There was a note with the phone.’

  ‘That’s the only evidence?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘So it could have been found somewhere else?’

  ‘Could it?’ She seemed nonplussed.

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘If it was really in the bushes, the police would have found it.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘I’m sure they would. This doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Yet the police accepted it.’

  ‘Supposedly.’

  ‘Why would anyone lie about it?’

  ‘Good question,’ said George. ‘Spot the lies and they lead you to the truth.’

  ‘You’re being enigmatic,’ she said irritably.

  ‘People are enigmatic,’ he replied. ‘But everything has a meaning. Especially lies. They tell you a great deal.’

  She said nothing for a while. Then, ‘How did Paris react?’

  ‘He was appalled,’ said George.

  ‘I should think so! Did he confess?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He denied it.’

  Anna reacted angrily. ‘How the hell could he do that? With the evidence in front of him!’

  ‘I gave him every opportunity,’ said George. ‘He was in a place of sanctuary. He had his confessor with him. But he claimed he was innocent.’

  ‘He’s got a nerve.’

  ‘You could say that. Unless he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Really? So she fell by accident?’

  ‘He doesn’t even say that.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He says he wasn’t at the quarry.’

  ‘Then who the hell was?’

  ‘That’s the big question.’

  A note of bitterness entered Anna’s voice. ‘Mr Zafiris, I think you’ve got this wrong. Paris is an extremely persuasive man. I think he’s fooled you with his charm.’

  ‘I promise you he has not.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. He’s sly. And he was watching her like a hawk. Don’t forget that! He could tell you exactly where she was at any time of day. And he says he doesn’t know who was with her at the quarry! Bullshit!’

  George decided to move the conversation on. ‘OK, Anna, I take that point. But I need to look at other possibilities.’

  ‘Why? When the facts are so obvious!’

  ‘I need to know more about this new career she was planning. Who she was seeing, how often…’

  Anna struck back fiercely. ‘You even sound like him now! What the hell do you need to know that for? You’re just creating more work for yourself, more hours, more business.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I’ve found the piece of shit that did this horrible thing, but that’s too quick for you, too easy.’

  ‘Fine,’ said George. ‘Let’s stop the investigation. It’s no problem for me.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ asked Anna indignantly.

  ‘It’s up to the police.’

  ‘The police?’ She seemed to consider this for a few moments, then switched tack again. ‘Why this sudden interest in Keti’s career?’

  ‘That’s where the answer might lie.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘She was seeing night-club people, media, show-business agents…’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Not the most reputable characters on earth.’

  ‘That’s a hell of a presumption!’

  ‘I know. But one of these presumptions will turn out to be right.’

  ‘It’s just what Paris would say. Such a bloody snob! The people in classical music are no better, I can tell you! There are plenty of self-serving shits among them! Don’t think that because they dress up in –’

  George interrupted. ‘Listen, Anna, just decide. Do I go on with this investigation, or stop? It makes no difference to me.’

  ‘How can I decide just like that?’

  ‘Take your time,’ said George. ‘You know where I am.’

  George put the phone down and closed his eyes. The accusation of ‘creating work’ was a familiar one; a certain type of client made it regularly. The impatient, the self-centred, the neurotic. He remembered her first phone message, how her voice had put him off, some hidden tone alerting him to unseen problems in the future. And then Paris’s words – how had he described her? ‘A snake.’ Was that the word?

  Or was she right? Had he fallen under Paris’s spell?

  Thinking back to the monastery, that weird suspended state he had been in, hungry and sleepless, cut off from the world, among monks who spent their days and nights fasting and praying, a place where justice could be obscured by mysterious concepts like divine grace – his judgement could very easily have been impaired.

  Yet there was one fact that could not be twisted or changed. If he could get hold of it. The date of the recording on Keti’s phone.

  It was time to see Colonel Sotiriou again.

  28 The Diarist

  At the Colonel’s insistence they met in a different place, the ground-floor bar at the Hilton Hotel. Spacious, cool, well-lit, a place where the optimism of the 1960s had been preserved miraculously intact. You would not be surprised to see Audrey Hepburn or Jacqueline Kennedy walk in and order a dry martini from the bow-tied barman.

  Sotiriou was already there, at a corner table, writing thoughtfully in a small, elegant notebook which he put away the moment he saw George.

  ‘Your private journal?’ George enquired.

  ‘Private yes, journal no.’

  This was an unusually informative statement.

  ‘Tell me,’ said George.

  ‘It’s nothing special.’ The Colonel took the notebook from his inner pocket and showed it, without opening it, to George. It had a floral silk cover with a Chinese symbol in the centre.

  ‘From the east?’ said George.

  ‘In every way. Open it.’

  George did so. He found page after page co
vered in three-line sequences of characters, written in a script he did not recognise.

  ‘What language is this?’ he asked.

  ‘Greek, although you may not recognise it.’

  ‘I sure as hell don’t.’

  ‘It’s Linear B.’

  ‘Which is ancient Minoan? Mycenaean?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And you know how to write it?’

  ‘As you can see.’

  ‘That’s quite something.’

  ‘It’s no big deal. Just a different alphabet.’

  ‘And these are what? Notes, ideas, epigrams?’

  ‘Haiku. A short Japanese verse form which I find particularly congenial.’

  George flicked through the pages, spikily adorned with the archaic script.

  ‘It’s an exercise in brevity,’ said the Colonel. ‘One has to concentrate everything into seventeen syllables distributed over three lines.’

  ‘Does it help with your work?’

  ‘Not at all!’

  ‘Why do it?’

  ‘To relax. To observe. To reflect. The last five years of my life are in this book. Coded, distilled, bottled like summer fruit.’

  George handed the notebook back. ‘I wish I could read it,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing of interest. I do it for myself. Possibly my grandchildren.’ He slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Tell me how I can help.’

  George was struck again by the gulf between the man’s vile telephone manner and his far more congenial presence. They were two different people.

  ‘First the Kenteri death,’ George began. ‘You need to verify the time and date settings on Keti’s phone.’

  Sotiriou nodded. ‘That’s done. It’s all consistent.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘What we suspected – an attempt to plant evidence.’

  ‘Really? You suspected that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Nothing. It was wiped clean.’

  ‘Which is also consistent.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How about the contacts list?’

  ‘We have the names and we’re checking them.’

  ‘Was anything deleted from that?’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Check the phone’s memory. Failing that go to the phone company.’

  ‘I don’t see the point.’

  ‘It would be the first thing to do,’ said George. ‘If you were on the contacts list and you tampered with the phone, you would delete yourself from the list.’