by Leo Kanaris
‘I say again, Haris, take care! I don’t want to lose you like I lost your brother.’
‘Message understood. See you in Markopoulo.’
George took a deep breath and crossed the road. In the glass doors of the airport entrance he saw the bald man following him. George prayed that Haris knew what he was doing.
He took the lift up to Departures and looked around for an airline ticketing desk. Air France was the nearest, but there was no one near it. Stick to the crowd, he told himself. He joined a stream of people and wheeled suitcases drifting through the immense hall. There was some bland jazz playing on the public address system. A man selling lottery tickets crossed his path. George waved him aside and spotted the Aeroflot desk. An aircrew with Asiatic faces stood by it, waiting. There was one customer at the desk. George stood behind him, close to the aircrew.
The man was speaking in Russian. George heard the strange liquid syllables flowing between him and a fiercely impolite girl at the desk. They were arguing about something, the man in a surprisingly high musical voice, the girl periodically repeating ‘Nyet!’ The man swore in Greek and turned away. Then, seeing George waiting behind him, said, ‘Please! Go ahead. Maybe you can get some sense out of her.’
George realised as the man turned that he had seen him somewhere before. Forty-five or fifty, strongly built, well dressed, in a suit and plain silk tie. A round, well-fed, pleasant face. Where had they met? Did he recognise George?
‘Yes?’ said the girl in heavily accented Greek.
George turned to her. ‘Can you get me on a flight to Moscow?’ he asked.
‘Economy or business?’
‘Economy.’
‘Next flight 6.40 pm.’
‘Cost?’
‘Three hundred and forty-five euros one way.’
‘Return?’
‘Six hundred and fifty euros.’
‘Try Aegean,’ said the man. ‘You’ll find them cheaper.’
‘Mr Merkulov!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘You are not very patriotic!’
George tensed at the name. Merkulov. The underground spring that supplies the wells, banker to white-collar criminals…
‘Thank you,’ said George. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ said Merkulov. Then, to the girl, in Greek: ‘When you learn about helping your customers instead of treating them as an irritation, I’ll be more patriotic.’
She scowled at him and said something in Russian, which made Merkulov laugh.
George decided to take a chance. ‘Vladimir Antonovich Merkulov?’
‘Do we know each other?’
‘George Zafiris.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Courtesy of Aeroflot…’
‘Ah.’
George pushed a little harder. ‘You knew Keti Kenteri?’
Merkulov’s face became solemn. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t put my finger on it. Keti’s funeral.’
‘You’re right.’
‘What a terrible day!’ said Merkulov. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
‘No…’
‘Just one small step separates life from death. And then the door is closed forever. You must have known her?’
‘Only the family. Her husband Paris, sister Anna…’
‘Keti was beyond them all. A fine musician, a genius. Lovely in her thinking, her feelings, her movements…’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘She performed at one of my parties. Several parties in fact. And we became friends.’
‘Did I hear someone call you Andonis?’ asked George.
‘Not me!’
‘I was sure I heard that.’
‘No. You’re mixing me up with someone else.’
‘So who is Andonis?’
‘It could be many people. It’s a common name.’
George’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Haris.
‘I’m having a conversation.’
‘I can see that. It’s not in the plan.’
‘I know.’
‘You need to get moving.’
‘Why?’
‘Baldy’s getting restless. He’s talking to someone on his wire. Something’s up.’
‘OK. I’ll get on with it.’
George turned back to Merkulov, who was checking something on his phone.
‘You have business in Moscow?’ asked the Russian.
‘Possibly.’
‘If you do, give me a call.’ Merkulov handed him a business card. ‘You need allies there. It’s a tough environment. Even tougher than Athens.’
‘Thank you,’ said George.
He was surprised by Merkulov’s manner. He seemed mild, positively friendly. Normally these people bristled with menace. Still, George hesitated to give him a card with Private Investigator on it.
‘What’s your line of business?’ asked Merkulov.
‘Research,’ George replied. ‘I’m sorry I don’t have a card on me.’
‘No problem. I’ll remember the name. George Zafiris.’
They shook hands.
‘See you in Moscow!’ said Merkulov.
As the Russian turned away, he was joined by a man with a wrestler’s physique crammed into a badly cut black suit.
The bodyguard.
That was more like it.
He put his mind to Haris’s plan. Taking the lift down to Arrivals, he walked out of the airport building to the taxi rank. There were four people ahead of him in the queue, but plenty of taxis in a steadily moving line. He could not see the bald man, but thirty metres away, on the parallel road, just by the entrance to the car park, the black Mercedes was waiting. One word from ‘Baldy’, the taxi number plate, and the Mercedes would be after him.
He looked around for Haris. No sign of him. Should he go or not?
He was now at the front of the queue. The taxi rolled forward and stopped. The driver got out, asking, ‘Where to?’
Not knowing if the plan was working or not, George muttered, ‘Markopoulo.’
‘Address?’
‘I’ll tell you in a while.’
The driver opened a door for him.
During the journey George checked behind him several times for the black Mercedes. He was surprised not to see it. Haris must have done something – he wondered what. Still he felt uneasy as the taxi driver deposited him at the butcher’s shop on Trikoupi Street. He hurried in, not wanting to be spotted in the street.
George told the girl at the counter that he was looking for Haris Pezas.
‘Mr Pezas?’ She gave him a special look. ‘Of course.’
She turned to a dark doorway at the back of the shop and said a few words. A square-headed man came out to meet him. ‘I’m Margaritis,’ he said. ‘Haris told me you were on your way. Everything’s ready. Come with me.’
Margaritis was built like a bull, filling his blood-speckled white jacket with a bulging mass of muscles. He led George through the back room, past giant refrigerators, into a yard where a big Nissan pick-up was parked. It had heavy chrome roll bars and a radiator grille that looked ready to chew granite. It bulged in all directions, like its owner.
‘In you get,’ said Margaritis.
George opened the door. The smell of blood inside was intense.
Margaritis said, ‘We clean it every day, but the smell lingers. You can’t get rid of it.’
‘It always leaves a trace…’ said George.
His comment was drowned in the roar of the starting engine.
‘Haris told me you’re employing him,’ said the butcher as they moved off. ‘That’s a kind thing to do.’
‘Really? Why do you say that?’
‘Business not going well, wife complaining. He needed a break. You gave it to him.’
‘He’s a decent man,’ said George vaguely. He was searching along the street as he spoke, half afraid he would see the black Mercedes.
‘Not just a decent man. One in a million.’
The Mercedes was nowhere in sight, but George now began wondering where Haris had got to. He thought of calling him. Then thought again. Give it a few more minutes.
‘How do you know Haris?’ asked George.
‘From the Navy.’
‘Special forces?’
‘Correct. Started together, ended together.’ He held up a pair of crossed fingers. ‘We’re like that.’
‘I had that with his brother Hector.’
‘It’s rare. Not just in Greece. Anywhere. I’m sure you help your friends in trouble, your family, but it goes beyond that with us. Something you can’t even speak about. In the heart.’
‘I sometimes wonder about how they train you in that section.’
‘The training is good. But Haris goes beyond it. He thinks fast. Thinks ahead.’
He slowed down. ‘We’ve arrived.’
George saw a taxi parked in the road ahead. ‘Would you mind driving on?’ he asked.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Go slowly past that cab, then round the block.’
‘OK.’
Margaritis picked up speed a little. George peered into the cab as they passed, saw Haris in the back seat and said, ‘It’s OK. We can stop.’
Margaritis parked the pick-up and climbed out. At the same time Haris emerged from the cab. The two men hugged each other. Margaritis beckoned to George and they hurried into the house.
Once inside, Margaritis led them into the kitchen and said, ‘You know where everything is, Haris. The place is yours. Help yourself to anything you find. I need to get back to the shop, but I’ll see you this evening.’
George thanked him for his help. He waved away the thanks.
Left alone, they heard the Nissan growl away into the distance. As the silence settled around them Haris said, ‘I need a coffee. Want one?’
‘I’d rather have a beer,’ said George. ‘I need to calm down.’
Haris opened the fridge. ‘Relax. You’re safe here.’
‘I hope so. I was getting panicky. Couldn’t form a plan.’
Haris pushed a bottle of Amstel towards him. ‘It’s OK. That’s what I’m here for.’
‘How did you get rid of Baldy?’
‘I distracted him.’
‘How?’
‘Banknote.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I dropped a fifty-euro note on the pavement behind him. Asked him if it was his.’
‘He fell for that?’
‘He was focussed on you. Wasn’t expecting anyone to talk to him. By the time he’d dealt with me, you were off. He didn’t even get the number plate of your taxi.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He went crazy. Sprinted across the road to the Merc. They went shooting off, then stopped at the first junction and started arguing.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I was following in a taxi. I saw them sitting at the place where the road divides, Markopoulo–Athens. They didn’t know which way to go.’
‘They didn’t follow you?’
‘No. Why should they?’
‘Where did they go?’
‘Who knows? Probably back to Athens. Anyway they’re off our backs, and you’re in the clear. For a few days at least. After that… Do you want a glass for that beer?’
‘Please.’
34 Catch-Up
They spent the next two hours comparing notes. In Astypalea Haris had come across more material about the medical school. A long letter from Dr Skouras to a certain Professor Harrison in London was particularly revealing:
‘For some reason this medical school offends a group of powerful people who in a neighbouring country we would not hesitate to call “the mafia”. Their identity in Greece is more obscure, although I believe it must be an alliance of doctors, property speculators and financiers who have made fortunes out of private hospitals. For them social medicine is anathema. You are right, of course, in asking if we are a genuine threat to them. After all it will take years to educate a new generation of doctors, and all but the most dedicated of these will quickly be demoralised by working for the Greek state. But the “mafia”, if that is who they are, are apparently not very subtle in their thinking. We are their rivals for business. We stand in their way.’
‘If he thinks like that he should have talked to us,’ said George.
‘He’s scared.’
‘No doubt. But what he says is significant.’
‘How does that lead to murder?’
‘That’s what I don’t understand. OK, the fact is Mario was getting somewhere at last. On Astypalea, his own island, it looks as if he’s finally going to win. His enemies need to stop him. They’ve tried everything else. So they decide to kill him.’
‘It’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’
‘Definitely. There must have been another reason. Something that pushed them over the edge.’
They were silent for a while, thinking it over.
‘But we still don’t know who they are!’ said Haris.
‘We start with the photographer called Stelios. Also known as Andonis.’
‘What has a photographer got to do with the medical school?’
‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘But the trail leads to him.’
‘Which trail?’
‘The trail of blood. And the trail of gold.’
‘Kenteri or Filiotis?’
‘That’s a big question! The two trails cross. After a certain point you can’t tell which is which.’
‘But who is he? How do we find him? All we have is two first names, and they could be false.’
‘Two first names is better than none. Let’s talk to Karás.’
George opened his laptop and searched for the young policeman’s number. He found a note made after rugby training a few weeks ago. ‘Mother’s flat. Visits her twice a day.’
The phone was answered by a female voice. He asked if Nikos was there. She enquired cautiously who was calling. When he gave his name she said, ‘Here he is.’
After a brief exchange of news George asked Karás what he knew about ‘Andonis’ or ‘Stelios’.
‘They’re the same person.’
‘OK. I was starting to work that out for myself. You’re sure?’
‘Completely. Stelios is his professional name, as a film director and photographer.’
‘Did you find out where he lives? Where he works?’
‘No. We met in one of his nightclubs.’
‘Name?’
‘Black Velvet Privé.’
‘The name alone…’
‘Exactly. It gets worse.’
‘Address?’
‘Leoforos Poseidonos, 180. Glyfada.’
‘Is that his main office?’ ‘It’s not an office. It’s a hangar. A big black room smelling of sweat and last night’s beer.’
‘OK. I get the picture.’
Haris asked, ‘Can I talk to him?’
George put the call on loudspeaker.
‘What’s the set-up down there?’ asked Haris. ‘Lots of security?’
‘Two men on the door,’ said Karás. ‘Plus personal bodyguards.’
‘How many of them?’
‘Three.’
‘Armed?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Describe them to me.’
‘Ex-army. Big guys, plenty of muscle.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Russian.’
‘Interesting,’ said Haris. ‘But the man himself is Greek, not Russian?’
‘Totally.’
‘Where from? Any idea?’
‘The north.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked George.
‘I come from there myself. There are certain words, and the way they say them…’
‘Did you pick up anything else about him?’
‘He’s a porno king and a pimp, and he dresses the part. Full length l
eather. Stench of cologne. Jewellery. And he makes nasty films.’
‘Any family?’
‘We didn’t go into that.’
‘No hints at all?’
‘He has a brother. In fact more than one.’
‘How did you pick that up?’
‘He had a phone call while I was there. A girl brought him the phone saying, “It’s your brother.” And he asked, “Which one?” ’
‘What was the answer?’
‘Mr Efstathios. Or Mr Efthimios. I forget which.’
‘Any sign of a woman in his life?’
‘Plenty! All sex-objects.’
‘I don’t mean strippers and prostitutes. I mean a wife, a girlfriend.’
‘No sign.’
‘You mention his films,’ said Haris. ‘How do you know they’re nasty?’
‘I watched one. On his website.’
‘Free to watch?’
‘No. You have to pay.’
‘And you paid!?’
‘I did.’
Haris laughed lewdly. ‘Hot stuff, eh?’
Karás sounded offended. ‘I did it for professional reasons. It’s not to my taste. Eastern European girls being screwed indiscriminately by some fat guy in a mask – almost certainly him. It’s a big turn-off.’
‘Can you arrange another meeting with him?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s already filed a complaint for harassment about the last visit. And he’s got you down for arrest, Mr Zafiris, as I think you may be aware.’
‘Well aware,’ said George. ‘I’m an exile in my own city.’
‘Colonel Sotiriou is working on that.’
‘So he tells me. I can’t go home till this ends. But maybe we can use this to our advantage.’
‘How?’
‘Tell him you know where to find me.’
‘You mean tempt him to a meeting?’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s in it for him?’
‘Silence. Discretion.’
‘He has that already.’
‘Only up to a point. We’re on his case. He knows that. He may be protected by a minister, but this government could fall any day. Try telling him he can buy us off.’
‘I don’t understand why you want to meet this guy,’ said Karás. ‘He’s a pig with a persecution complex.’
‘I suspect he’s involved with the death of Mario Filiotis.’
‘Really?’ Karás was astonished.
‘In fact I’m sure of it.’
