"And what do you bring when you come back?"
"Nothing. I come back empty."
"On August 8 last year, on April 22, July 18, and November 5 of this year, you crossed from Albania into Greece."
"Maybe. How should I remember with all the trips I make?"
"What cargo did you have when you came back?"
"I told you. I was empty."
"I know otherwise. I know that you were illegally carrying Albanians and young children."
He gave me an inquiring look, then laughed at me. "Since when have we been bringing frozen Albanians into Greece?"
I leapt to my feet and put my face up close to his. "Don't be a wise ass, Milionis, because you'll find yourself laughing on the other side of your face," I said. "I know that on all four trips you went to Albania loaded with frozen goods and came back loaded with Albanian kids! We're holding Eleni Dourou and she spilled everything!"
"Who's she?"
"Does The Foxes mean anything to you?"
"No."
"The Foxes is a nursery in Gizi, belonging to Mrs. Dourou. It was to her that you handed over your load of Albanian kids."
"I don't know any Mrs. Dourou and I've never seen a nursery. I grew up in the streets, getting beaten by my mother every day of my life."
"That may serve you in good stead, now that you're on your way to prison."
"Let's wait till I get there first," he said calmly.
"You're going, all right, because we've also picked up Hourdakis."
"And who's he?"
"The customs officer who turned a blind eye so you could pass untroubled with your illegal cargo."
He shrugged. "No one ever turned a blind eye to me. They kept me waiting there for hours."
"You're a blockhead, Milionis. Go on playing the tough guy and we'll hang everything on you, and those who feathered their nests will be rubbing their hands together because they'll have you to take the rap. Talk if you want to make things easier for yourself. Did you take your orders from Sovatzis?"
"I've never spoken to Sovatzis in my life. I saw him once, that's all, from a distance, when I went to the garage. He was speaking to the freight manager and didn't even turn his head to look at us"
"Where were you on November 27?" The day that Karayoryi was murdered.
"Let me think ... On the twentieth I left for Italy, Germany. On the twenty-seventh, I took on a load in Munich."
He had to have been telling the truth, because he knew I could easily check. "And on the thirtieth?" The day that Kostarakou was murdered.
"Here, in Athens."
I could have checked him when it came to Kostarakou's death, but since he had an alibi for Karayoryi, it was pointless.
The interrogation went on till seven in the morning. We kept recycling the same questions and the same answers, sometimes with more aggression on my part, sometimes with more irritability on his. But it didn't get us anywhere. Milionis was a young truck driver, used to being at the wheel all night, and at seven he was as fresh as he'd been when we'd begun at ten the night before. He was relying on his endurance and was trying to exhaust me. I sussed him out and changed tactics. I went at him for thirty or forty-five minutes and then I sent him to Thanassis. I had a coffee, relaxed, and then took my shift again right from the beginning, as if nothing had gone before, for another thirty minutes or so. I thought that in this way I'd both break him down and keep myself awake through all the coffees, because after about three in the morning, my eyes had begun to get heavy with sleep.
I was on my fifth coffee, leaning back in my desk chair, and I closed my eyes to rest them, when the phone rang.
"Inspector, they've brought us someone by the name of Papadopoulos. He's for you," said the officer on cell duty.
"Get Milionis out of the interrogation room and take in Papadopoulos. I want you to isolate those two. There mustn't be any communication between them."
I picked up what information we had about Papadopoulos and tried to concentrate to read it. He had a wife and two kids. He was in his fifties. His daughter was married and had a one-year-old boy. His son was doing his military service.
I let another half hour go by and went back into the interrogation room. I found myself facing a bald-headed man with a potbelly that swooped over his belt. He obviously turned the steering wheel with his stomach, and, if he didn't wear moccasins, his wife must have to tie his shoelaces. As soon as he saw me, he propped himself up with his hands on the tabletop in order to support his weight.
"Why have you brought me here? What have I done? I haven't had any trouble on the roads or been involved in any accidents, nothing! I asked your people where they were taking me and no one has told me!"
He fell silent, thinking that I would tell him, but when he saw that he wasn't going to get any answer, he began shouting: "I've left my truck with a full load in Patras, at the mercy of all and sundry! If any thieves get wind of it and empty it, the company will be on my neck!"
He tried to pass this off as an outburst, but most probably he only wanted to quench his anxiety with his shouting.
"Sit down," I told him quietly. He obeyed immediately.
I began just as with Milionis. I received the same answers, but in a different tone of voice. He always came back empty and he knew nothing of any illegal children, what was all this that we were trying to pin on him, thirty years behind the wheel and he'd never had a single accident. Whereas Milionis was calm and above it all, Papadopoulos shouted and yelled, and deep down was scared. Things changed when we got on to Hourdakis.
"Do you know Hourdakis?"
"I don't know any Hourdakis."
"Hourdakis is the customs officer at the border, who stuck his head in the clouds while you crossed unchecked."
"I don't know customs officers by their names. Do you know how many customs officers I've seen in my time as a driver?"
"This one knows you at any rate. He was in on it. He was on the take in return for letting you through. He's the one who gave us your name.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He looked at me, trying to guess whether I was telling him the truth or not. There was no way he could know that Hourdakis had slipped the net and that we were still looking for him.
"Listen to me, Papadopoulos," I said softly, in an almost friendly way. "I know that you're the last spoke in the wheel and that it was others who got the lion's share. They're the ones I'm after, not you. If you cooperate, I give you my word that you'll get off lightly. I'll talk to the public prosecutor and most likely you'll be able to buy off your sentence. But if you play tough with me, I'll send you down for five years minimum. Think of the effect that would have on your son, on his spell in the army. And on your daughter, who might lose her family. And you'll be stuck in prison, getting slapped around from morning to night."
I fell silent. He said nothing either. We just stared at each other. And then suddenly I saw this great lump of a man break into sobs. His stomach heaved and kept catching on the edge of the table, like a truck's tire scraping up against the curb. His tears found it difficult to roll down his fat cheeks, but then acquired momentum and ended up on the table. He let them fall unchecked. The spectacle was so sad that I wanted to turn my face away so as not to see.
"I did it all for my daughter," he said through his sobbing. "I'd promised her a flat for her dowry and I couldn't make ends meet with the payments. All the money I took went to my daughter's flat"
"Slow down, let's take it from the beginning. Who got you into the racket? Sovatzis?"
His sobbing was instantly arrested and he looked at me in astonishment. "Which Sovatzis? Ours? What did Sovatzis have to do with all this?"
It was my turn to be surprised. I stared at him without speaking and bit my tongue so as not to betray myself.
"Who then? Mrs. Dourou?"
"No. A foreigner."
"What kind of foreigner?"
"Around the middle of June in 1991, I'd
gone with a cargo to Tirane. A foreigner approached me. He was with a northern Epirot Greek. The foreigner spoke Italian to the northern Epirot, and he relayed it to me in Greek. They knew that I was going home empty, and they asked me if I wanted to transport a load for them on the quiet and make half a million for myself every month. I told them I didn't get involved in things like that, but the foreigner persisted. He told me that everything had been taken care of at the border and that I wasn't running any risk."
"And you believed him?"
"Not just like that. He offered to come with me on the first trip so that I could see for myself that everything had been arranged. And that's what happened. He came with me and we crossed the border at night without any check. From then on, on every trip, I took a cargo plus the 500,000 for myself."
"And the cargo was Albanians and Albanian kids."
"Only kids. Apart from an Albanian couple who took care of the kids. It was the same each time."
I'd begun to catch on, but I didn't want to interrupt him now that he'd gathered momentum. "And where did you deliver them to in Athens?"
"I didn't deliver them in Athens."
"So where to?"
"Ten kilometers outside Kastoria, I left the motorway and turned onto a side road. There, a closed van was waiting for me. The kids and the couple transferred to the van and I returned empty to Athens."
So that's why neither he nor Milionis had known Dourou. Krenek arranged everything from Albania. Sovatzis appeared nowhere. Krenek was in charge of the supply department, Sovatzis was in charge of the sales department, and Dourou of the warehouse. The only connecting link was the brother and sister: Sovatzis and Dourou. All the others vanished somewhere in between. I called Thanassis and told him to bring me the photographs of the couple murdered by Ramiz Seki and the photographs of Seki himself taken by forensics.
"Where were you on November 27?"
The date didn't appear to ring any bells for him. He answered quite spontaneously. "Here, in Athens."
"What were you doing on that night between eleven and one? Do you remember?"
"Till twelve I was at my daughter's house. We were celebrating my grandson's birthday. Then I went home with the missus." Bringing his grandson to mind made him well up with tears again.
"Who else was there?"
"My daughter's in-laws and my son-in-law's sister with her husband. Why are you asking?"
"Because that was the night a journalist connected with this business was murdered."
"I'm no murderer!" he shouted in terror. "Okay, my daughter was going to lose her flat and I got involved, but I'm no murderer!"
"Calm down. No one's accusing you of murder."
Thanassis brought the photographs. First, I showed him the photograph of the couple. He glanced at it and turned his head so as not to see.
"Do you know them?"
"That's them," he mumbled. "The ones who accompanied the kids."
I moved the photograph away from him before he puked on the table. "And what about this man? Do you know him?"
"Yes. He's the driver of the van that waited for me outside Kastoria."
So that was it. The three of them had been stealing kids and selling them to feather their own nests. Seki had murdered the couple because they hadn't given him his cut. That's why we found the 500,000 hidden in the cistern in the hovel. Then others had put another Albanian to murder Seki because he was the only path that led to Dourou.
CHAPTER 40
"So, where does all this lead us?" Ghikas asked me. On his desk was the statement that Papadopoulos had just signed.
It was noon and my eyes were aching. "There are both good and bad points."
"Tell me the good ones."
"We know that the operation was organized by Krenek in Albania. We've got the two drivers. We know that Seki took charge of the kids just outside Kastoria and handed them over to Dourou. So far, it all fits, but then we come to the gaps. I can't find any link with Sovatzis. Krenek may have organized all this with Dourou without Sovatzis being in on it. Our only hope is Hourdakis. Unless, of course, we can prove that it was Sovatzis who murdered Karayoryi and Kostarakou."
"Do you rule out the possibility of Dourou having killed them?"
"At best, we can get her for being an accessory before the act. But too much points to the likelihood that the murderer was a man."
He looked at me pensively. I had ruined his good mood. "Let's not despair," he said, more to give himself encouragement. "We might get some light shed on it from elsewhere."
"From where?"
"From Dourou. With the case we can make against her, she's not going to get off. When her lawyer explains this to her, she may at last get scared and talk."
The telephone interrupted our conversation. Ghikas picked up the receiver. "Superintendent Ghikas." He always prefixed his name with his rank, whereas, being modest myself, I always said "Haritos" on its own and the other person might or might not take me for a police officer. "All right, I'll be right there." He hung up and smiled at me. "Things are looking up already. Hourdakis is downstairs waiting for you."
I ran down the stairs three at a time. The usual coven was outside my office, Sotiropoulos at their head.
"Have you got Hourdakis?" they all wanted to know.
"Later," I told them and tried to break gently through the ring. The questions rained down-had he talked, what had he said, did he really have any involvement in the case-but I paid no attention. I got into my office and shut the door.
Standing in the center of the room were two men. One was medium height, medium build, and medium hair. His coat was open and he was wearing a suit with a shirt buttoned to the neck, no tie. This had to be Hourdakis. The other was roughly the same age, fifties, thin, with a department-store suit and a tie so worn that it must have been dying of loneliness because there was certainly no other of its kind anywhere in his wardrobe.
"Where have you been, Mr. Hourdakis? We've been looking for you everywhere. We even had to put your wife and son to some inconvenience," I said.
"I've been on a trip."
"Christodoulou, Inspector, Mr. Hourdakis's lawyer," the thin one chipped in. "I would ask that it be taken into consideration that my client presented himself of his own free will as soon as he heard that you were anxious to speak with him."
"A warrant has been issued and we would have found him in any case.
"Nevertheless, it's not the same."
I didn't have time to waste on the lawyer and I turned to Hourdakis. "Do you know why we have been looking for you?" I said. "We want to know who was giving you the occasional million that you spread out over your family's accounts-payments for turning a blind eye to the Transpilar refrigerator trucks."
Hourdakis turned to look to his lawyer.
"I want you to know that my client came here to offer every help to the police, Inspector."
"Fine. We'll take that into consideration if his answers are satisfactory." Back to Hourdakis. "Well then, get on with it! Who was giving you the money?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Listen, Hourdakis. I've spent too much time on you already. Don't make me lose my temper. We've got the two drivers, Milionis and Papadopoulos. We've also got Eleni Dourou, who took charge of the children. We know everything. Tell us who was paying you so we can put an end to it."
"My client is telling you the truth," the solicitor interrupted again. "He doesn't know."
I stared at them and I felt something wasn't right. "How did you get the money?" I asked Hourdakis.
"Let me go back to the beginning. One evening, when I came home from work, I found a package waiting for me. It was an ordinary box, like those used for packing glasses. When I opened it, I found 500,000 drachmas inside. I thought there had been some mistake, but the package had my name and address on it. I was racking my brain trying to think who might have sent it when the phone rang and a man asked me if I'd received the 500,000. I asked his name, of course, but he wouldn't te
ll me. All he told me was that on the following night a Transpilar refrigerator truck would be crossing the border. If I let it through without inspecting it, he'd send me another 500,000."
"When did all this happen?"
"I don't remember the date exactly, but it must have been sometime in May of 1991."
"And so you let it through."
"Yes. Three days later, I received the other 500,000. After that, he'd phone me and give me the number of the refrigerator truck, I'd let it through without any inspection, and he'd send me the million."
It was that simple. The first refrigerator truck that had gone through in May'91 was almost certainly empty. If Hourdakis hadn't taken the bait and had inspected it, he wouldn't have found anything. What, after all, was Sovatzis risking in order to test him? A salary, perhaps not even. When he saw that Hourdakis had taken the bait, he began his operation.
"How was the money sent to you?"
"In a package, always. Brought by courier."
"And who was the sender?"
"It had a different name each time."
"And why did you stop, given that everything was going like clockwork?"
"The trucks always came at night. I had to change shifts in order to make sure I was there. At first it was easy, because no one wants to work at night. But eventually, they got suspicious because I kept asking to work nights. And then I got wind of the fact that someone had begun asking questions about the trucks."
"Who was asking questions?"
"Someone from Athens, I don't know who. I never found out."
I knew. It was Karayoryi.
"As I was eligible for early retirement, I applied and my application was accepted."
Now someone else was getting money in a package. We'd find him too, but I still had nothing on Sovatzis. Only if we got our hands on Krenek, but he'd be in South America by now.
I took out the famous photograph of the two of them, anyhow, and showed it to Hourdakis. "Do you recognize either of these men?"
He looked at it and shook his head. Then we went, together with his solicitor, to the photography records. I showed him the photographs of Milionis, Papadopoulos, Dourou, and Seki. He immediately recognized the first two, but Dourou and Seki he said he did not know, had never met. I sent him to make a written statement and then to the cells.
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