Things had taken a downturn with the negative report on the handwriting, and he was weighing how he was going to deal with it. "Leave it to me," he said eventually. "I'll sort it out and I'll let you know. Meanwhile, find out all you can about Pylarinos."
"I'm like a cat on hot bricks, that's why I'm moving slowly," I said, to show him that I was following his advice. "In a couple of days, I'll have something."
I wasn't at all surprised that the usual throng wasn't in the hall. They were all at their studios, editing their videocassettes and sound recordings for the day's big story. The same story all around and each of them with an exclusive report.
On my desk I found the photographs from Karayoryi's film.
In the first one, Pylarinos was holding up his drink, smiling, as if wanting to toast me. It was only natural that he was in good spirits, as he was partying in a nightclub with three others. Two of them were obviously foreigners, Germans, Belgians, Dutch, I'd no way of knowing-at any rate, they looked like northern Europeans. The other one was lank and surly. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, his hair was brushed back and stuck down. He didn't look to me like a businessman. More like the director of a ministerial department or of some public organization. While Pylarinos and the man next to him were plainly enjoying themselves, this one had a constipated smile, as if he were smiling out of obligation. There was something about his face that was familiar to me, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before. Sitting beside him was the last member of the group, a hefty, round-faced man with swollen cheeks. His hair was combed over his forehead. It seemed as if they'd put him beside the other one because he had the same reluctant smile. I'd bet money that those two weren't having any fun at all. Below right, the camera had recorded the date: 11/ 14/1990. Fine, so on November 14, 1990, four men were partying at the Diogenes Club. One of them was Pylarinos, the second one reminded me of some one, and the other two were foreign and unknown to me. What was special about it? Was it the photograph, or the date, or a combination of the two? I couldn't come up with an answer and I continued.
In the next photograph, the two with the sour smiles were in a cafeteria at a table beside the window. The photograph was taken from outside in the street and I couldn't make out their expressions because the glass was reflecting the light. The date at the bottom right was 11 / 17/1990. Three days after the Diogenes picture, the odd couple from the group had met to talk without the others. Why were these two meetings so important that Karayoryi had gone to the trouble of getting them on film?
It seemed that at some stage she'd grown tired of photographing people and had decided to focus on vehicles. Because the next four pictures were refrigerator trucks and coaches belonging to Pylarinos's company. The trucks bore the company name Transpilar, with the address and the telephone and fax numbers. On the left side of the coaches were the words "Prespes Travel," again with the company address, telephone, and fax numbers. Photographing people was one thing. Obviously, she had her reasons. But why was she photographing Pylarinos's fleet of vehicles? I couldn't understand it.
I heard the door open and looked up. Sotiris came cantering in.
"What is it?"
"I sent the written requests to the airport and customs. I'm waiting for a reply. They promised to phone me from customs as soon as they come up with anything, but as it's been two years all the documents have been filed away."
"What about the names I gave you?"
"I located all of them. Two of them came back dead. Fotiou died six months after returning. Petassi lived a bit longer. For a year. Died of AIDS. The only one still alive is Spyros Gonatas. I've got him outside waiting for you."
Of the five on Karayoryi's list, four were dead. We were off to a good start. "Bring him in," I said impatiently.
I opened the drawer and took out Karayoryi's file. I found the list. Gonatas was the one who'd traveled by bus to Budapest on March 3, 1992.
The door opened and Sotiris ushered in a couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Gonatas," he said, as he showed them where to sit.
Gonatas looked to be in his sixties, nearly bald, with just a few tufts of hair left around his temples. His jacket was a different color from his trousers. It wasn't a sports jacket and flannels, just the halves of two different suits. He was wearing a crewneck pullover, which left just enough room for the knot of his tie to stick out. His appearance suggested a small-time shop owner-haberdasher, stationer, milliner, something like that. The woman with him was a bit younger. She was wearing a loose, gray overcoat. Her hair was jet black, flecked with a few white hairs. Two ordinary people, who were now sitting opposite me, nervous and worried.
I put on my kindest expression to make them feel at ease. "Don't worry, it's not about anything serious," I said. "I just need to ask you a few questions." I saw them relax, but at that moment the phone rang.
"Haritos."
"Haritou." It was the voice of Katerina, who always laughed at her little joke.
"Hello. How's things?"
She immediately understood my tone, because usually I'm full of sweet talk. "Is someone with you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Okay. I won't keep you. I just phoned to say that you're the best daddy in the world."
"Why?" I asked like a moron, as I felt a smile spread from one ear to the other.
"You know why. Because you're sending Mom up to me for the holidays."
"Are you pleased?"
"Yes, but only half pleased."
"Why only half?"
"Because the other half would be if you came. And you'll be all alone in Athens."
"You want everything," I said, teasing her to hide my emotion.
"No. You've always taught me to make do with a little." I knew why she said that. Because I was stingy with her allowance so that she wouldn't take everything for granted.
"I love you."
"And I love you, dear." I'd forgotten the couple and it slipped out. I heard her hang up and I put the phone down.
"My daughter," I said to the couple. "She's studying in Thessaloniki and called to say hello." So that they wouldn't think I was talking to my mistress, and also to break the ice. Evidently I succeeded in the latter because they smiled sympathetically.
"Mr. Gonatas. On March 15, 1992, you went on a journey to Budapest."
"That's right."
"Can you tell me the purpose of your journey? Was it for pleasure, business, or what?"
"I went for treatment, Inspector. I had a kidney transplant."
So that was it. They'd all gone abroad for organ transplants. That might explain Petassi's AIDS. Perhaps he'd got it from a blood transfusion.
"You can get a transplant in Greece. Why did you go to Budapest?"
"Because we'd been on the waiting list for seven years and we were desperate, Inspector," his wife said, intervening. "Seven years of hell. Going twice a week for dialysis and with no light at the end of the tunnel. God bless that woman-she saved us."
"What woman?"
"One afternoon, as I was coming out of dialysis, a woman came up to us," said Gonatas. "It was November 'ninety-one."
"No, it was October. I remember it well," his wife said, correcting him.
"Anyway. She asked me if I was interested in a transplant abroad. In Budapest, Warsaw, or Prague. Three million drachmas. Opera tion, hospital, hotel, tickets, all included, and paid for in Greece. Yitsa and I sat down and thought about it. We might have been waiting for another seven years here. We didn't have the money for Paris or London. So we took a chance, agreed to the deal, and I was saved."
"What was the name of this woman?"
Gonatas glanced briefly at his wife. Then they both looked at me, once again nervous and perplexed.
"Do you think there was anything illegal in what you did?" I asked innocently.
"Heavens, no!" the woman cried. "My Spyros got his health back, that's all!" She didn't know that the other four had died and that only a miracle had saved her husband.
"Then why won't you tell me her name? You've nothing to fear, and neither does she."
"Her name was Dourou," Gonatas said with resolve. "Eleni Dourou."
Where had I seen that name? I couldn't recall. "Do you have an address for her? Phone number?"
"We don't have anything," his wife answered. "She had our number and she was always the one who communicated with us. She brought us the tickets, together with the voucher for the hotel and a paper for the hospital saying we'd been accepted, and the date that we had to be in Budapest. We arranged everything else through the travel agency."
"Which agency was it?" I asked, although I knew the answer already.
"Prespes. We went there by coach and came back by plane. It was cheaper that way."
I remained silent and looked at the couple across from me. They'd gone to Budapest, the man had regained his health, and they'd found peace. Now I'd come along, opening up old wounds, and had planted in them the worm of disquiet.
"All right. That's all. You can go home now. I don't have any reason to question you again."
This reassured them and they got up to leave. As soon as they'd gone, I called Sotiris in.
"Note down the name Eleni Dourou. Find her for me."
I picked up the two lists and looked at them. On June 25, 1991, a coach left Tirane for Prague. On June 30, 1991, Yannis Emiroglou left Athens for Prague. On October 20, 1991, a bus left Bucharest for Budapest. On November 5, 1991, Alexandros Fotiou left for Budapest. Spyros Gonatas, who left Athens on March 15, 1992, was linked with a bus that left Bucharest on March 6, 1992. It didn't take much to realize what was going on. They found various poor wretches, Albanians, Romanians, or Bulgarians, and bought one of their kidneys. They took the Albanians to Prague, the Romanians to Budapest, and the Bulgarians to Warsaw. Then they notified the patient in Greece, telling him where to go. There, they took the kidney from the donor and transplanted it in the patient. The Greeks returned home cured, and the Albanians and Romanians were left with one less kidney and a few banknotes in their pockets. Okay, four of the five had died, but we were talking about transplants and they were no joke. And, after all, anyone who had an objection could go and file a lawsuit in Prague, Budapest, or Warsaw. He could do absolutely nothing in Greece. There wasn't even an illegal export of currency involved.
This was all very well, but why would they murder Karayoryi and Kostarakou, supposing it was they who'd killed them? And why hadn't Dourou given out her address or number? Possibly so that she wouldn't get into any mess with the relatives if the patients died. But why had Karayoryi paid someone to supply her with the case records of the trade in children from the files of security headquarters? What connection was there between the transplants and the children? I was missing a piece of the puzzle.
Then I suddenly remembered where I'd seen Dourou's name. I again took out Karayoryi's file from the drawer and began searching through the photocopies. In one of these, Karayoryi had noted in the margin the name Eleni Dourou.
I called Mrs. Antonakaki and told her I wanted to see her.
"All right, but don't come before seven because I'll be out."
Outside, a north wind was howling. It had knocked two plant pots over on the balcony opposite. The old woman came out to pick them up. The cat was inside the house watching her through the open door. She must be mad to go out into the freezing cold for the sake of two wretched potted plants!
CHAPTER 31
She opened the door to me dressed in black.
"I'd gone to see about Yanna's headstone," she said, as if feeling the need to justify her going out while she was in mourning.
I sat on the sofa, in the same spot where I'd sat the first time. I was tired and was in no mood for chitchat.
"Mrs. Antonakaki, did you ever hear your sister mention anyone by the name of Pylarinos? Christos Pylarinos?"
"Isn't he the one who has the travel agencies? We went on a trip organized by his agency."
"When was that?"
"End of August, beginning of September, 1990."
"Was your sister with you?"
"Yes. There was Yanna, me, and Anna. Yanna had promised Anna that if she got into medical school, she'd take her on a trip as a present. We went to Vienna, Budapest, and Prague. For ten days." The memory upset her. She sniffed and her lip began to tremble. "I'll never forget that trip. It wasn't enough that we had guided tours all day long; Yanna wanted us to go out in the evenings too. I tried to restrain her, partly because I was tired and partly because I saw her spending money right and left. But my sister always did whatever she wanted"
"Apart from that trip, did you ever hear your sister mention Pylarinos?"
"No, never. Though I know she went twice more, after the trip we took together."
"When would those journeys have been?"
"The first time was in the winter. February, I think. And the sec and one was in May. But I couldn't tell you whether she went through Pylarinos's agency."
"On the trip that you went on together, did anything out of the ordinary occur? Anything that might have attracted your attention."
"Nothing. We were together all the time and had a lot of fun." She stopped, as if remembering something. "Apart from two mornings in Prague, when she went off to do her own work."
"What work was that?"
"I don't know. She didn't tell me"
"And she never said anything to you about Pylarinos?"
"No, never."
"Okay, Mrs. Antonakaki. That's all I needed to know."
As I was starting up the Mirafiori, it occurred to me that I should have another look through the folder with Karayoryi's receipts. To see if there were any clues about those trips. It wasn't unlikely that she'd discovered something on her first trip, quite by chance, and had started investigating. In 1990, she'd stumbled on the relationship between Pylarinos and the two foreigners in the photograph and then had made two other trips to get more information. Dourou was the key. If I could only find her, I might start getting somewhere with Pylarinos.
The TV was on in the living room and the picture showed the back of someone's head. The voice coming out was that of a young girl. Her words were confused, faltering, and came out sharply, as though someone was forcing them out, one by one:
"He used to buy me clothes ..:'
"What sort of clothes?"
"Blouses ... skirts ..."
"And then?"
"He'd take me to his home. . ."
"What did you do there?"
"He'd dress me in the new clothes ..."
"Did he do anything else to you?"
"He would look at me."
"Only that?"
"He told me that I was a pretty little girl ... and he touched me. . ."
"Where did he touch you?"
"On my hair ... my arms ... my legs, sometimes, not always ..."
"Just that?"
"Yes."
The back of the girl's head vanished from the screen and in its place appeared Sotiropoulos's face, grave, expressionless. His eyes, however, had a glint in them. Two fireflies, behind round glasses.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a man was sentenced to six years in prison on the basis of only a journalist's report and the allegations made by two sets of parents," he said with the look of someone unraveling a massive travesty of justice. "I'm not saying that he was convicted unjustly, but without doubt the charge of indecent assault of a juvenile is open to question. The fact that Kolakoglou's tax consultancy firm passed into the hands of the parents of the two alleged victims also leaves questions to be asked. I couldn't say whether that is of any significance in the case. Maybe yes, maybe no. At any rate, today Kolakoglou is a wanted man. If he weren't living under the burden of his conviction, it is almost certain that no one would be seeking to arrest him." He allowed a moment to pass, then added in a meaningful tone: "We reporters are sometimes prey to excessive zeal and are sometimes blind to its consequences."
Catalytic, that's what Robespierre was. Adrian
i could bear it no more and pressed the remote control. "What's he up to? Is he trying to pretend Kolakoglou is an innocent lamb?" She was furious.
"No. He's simply trying to discredit Petratos and the rival Hellas Channel."
"And is that the right way to do it?"
I wanted to change the subject. I was in no mood to discuss Kolakoglou, Petratos, or Sotiropoulos in my own home. "I spoke to Katerina," I told her.
"Well, you should have heard her on the phone when I told her that I was going up to Thessaloniki. Just like a baby girl." She looked at me furtively. "Couldn't you come too for Christmas? It falls on a weekend this year."
I bit my lip to stop myself from saying yes. "It's impossible. I can't leave while this case is still open. Something might come up and I'd have to run back." It wasn't only the case. It was the cost of the trip and the hotel because we couldn't all stay at Katerina's place. Then I'd have to borrow money to send her in January.
Fortunately, my tone was categorical and Adriani didn't persist. Before we sat down to eat, the phone rang. Adriani answered. "Someone called Zissis," she whispered, and handed me the receiver.
"Greetings, Lambros:"
"I have to see you. You know Hara's, the confectioner's that sells homemade ice cream at the end of Patission Street?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting for you there in half an hour and you can buy me an ice cream," he said and hung up.
I told Adriani I wouldn't have anything to eat as I had to go out again. In any case, my stomach still hadn't settled.
"Who is Zissis?"
"A colleague," I said, as vaguely as possible.
CHAPTER 32
We sat at a table by the window that looked onto Patission Street. Zissis was eating his parfait ice cream, while I made do with soda water. He was scraping the glass so clean with his spoon that it wouldn't need washing.
"Christos Pylarinos," he said eventually, sounding like a civil servant. "Son of political refugees. Born in Prague. Grew up there and studied economics there. Kept well away from party politics. As soon as he'd finished his studies, he entered a state-owned company. I think it was Czechoslovakian Airlines, but I was unable to verify that. He was competent and soon rose from the middle to the higher echelons of the company. He was unable to get to the top because only party members were appointed to the higher positions. At the beginning of the eighties, he suddenly appeared in Greece and opened a tourist business. The question is: Where did a company employee working in a socialist country get the money to open his own business in Greece?"
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