Andreas spun the whiskey bottle around and looked at the label. “Thanks, but for that sort of experience, I prefer our cafeteria.” He pushed the bottle back at Kouros.
“Which reminds me…” Andreas stood from his desk. “Time for lunch.”
***
GADA sat near the heart of central Athens, across from the stadium of one of the country’s most popular soccer teams and close by Greece’s Supreme Court. The neighborhood offered many places to eat, but convenience made GADA’s cafeteria the most popular venue for those working in the building. Like every office eatery, it had its share of legendary items to avoid. On some days that meant the entire menu.
From the crowd inside, this did not look to be one of those days.
Andreas chose his food as wisely as he could, knowing he’d be cross-examined by Lila when he got home. His wife’s last words that morning were, “Forget the potatoes.” He’d only gained five pounds since their son was born and that was four years ago. Okay, ten pounds.
He went with the salad and a piece of broiled fish. At least it looked like fish.
“Chief, over here,” shouted a sturdy, red-haired woman waving from a table shared with Petro.
Kouros followed Andreas to Maggie Sikestis’ table.
“What’s the matter? You don’t see enough of your boss upstairs?” said Kouros.
“Watch your tongue, young man, or I’ll boot you off my favorites list.”
Petro smiled.
No one wanted that fate. Maggie was GADA’s mother superior, keeper of its secrets, and master of its support staff intrigues. She also was Andreas’ secretary and had been since his return to head up Special Crimes after a brief stint as police chief for the Aegean Cycladic island of Mykonos. On Mykonos he’d first met Kouros, who was then a rookie cop.
“Ease up on him, Maggie,” said Andreas sliding onto a chair next to her. “He’s been hitting the booze this morning.”
“So I noticed. He had Petro lugging cartons of liquor into his office.”
Andreas looked at Kouros. “You mean there’s more of what you dumped on my desk in your office?”
Kouros picked up a french fry with his fingers, waved it in front of Andreas, and popped it into his mouth. “Yep, eight more cases.”
“Stop teasing him with french fries,” Maggie snapped, “or I’ll tell Lila.”
Kouros jerked back in mock fear.
Andreas picked up his fork and took a tentative taste of the fish. “Not bad.” He forked up another bite. “Why’d you put them all in your office?”
“Because if I left them in the property room some asshole down there would likely drink it. Or sell it.”
“Might do the force a service,” smiled Petro across a tray laden with just about one of everything on the menu.
“Glad to hear you share my high regard for many of our brethren,” said Kouros.
“Why shouldn’t I? If the chief hadn’t brought me into the unit, those assholes would still have me standing in front of GADA directing tourists to the nearest toilet.”
“That’s the price you chose to pay when you refused the vice boys’ kind offer of participating in their share-the-wealth outreach program to local businessmen,” said Kouros.
“I never quite heard it put that way before,” said Maggie.
Andreas raised his hands. “Are you guys done, or would you prefer I put this conversation on loudspeaker so that every cop in this room who doesn’t already hate us has a chance to reconsider?”
“Seriously, though…” Petro dropped his deep voice almost to a whisper. “I don’t think this counterfeit booze business could be as big as it is without police protection.”
“You could say that about most things in this country,” said Kouros.
Andreas took a bite of the salad. “Gentlemen…” He finished chewing. “Illegal booze is not a problem unique to Greece, and it’s not one that exists solely because of official corruption. What drives it is a very simple concept—greed. Taxes on spirits have gone up a hundred and fifty percent in three years. We’re at the point where sixty percent of the price of every legitimate bottle of spirits in this country goes to taxes. That means those who can smuggle in untaxed liquor from the Balkans or the Turkish part of Cyprus through Rhodes, or wherever else they find it, will do so. Or they’ll buy it from those who can.”
“But that’s the real thing smuggled in to avoid taxes,” said Kouros. “What I’m talking about are counterfeiters who make their own stuff and pass it off as real, using whatever they can find to make it work.”
Petro nodded. “Some of them don’t care if it’s antifreeze, nail polish, rubbing alcohol, bleach, or whatever else makes the color look right. They target those who can’t afford to pay much and couldn’t care less about a brand, just about getting high.”
“Yes, that’s all true,” said Andreas. “But the big international liquor companies have done a pretty good job of protecting their own brands. Some even compete directly with the bomba boys by selling their own low-end booze under labels they don’t advertise publicly.”
Kouros tapped his index finger on the tabletop. “And I’m willing to bet a month’s pay that as we sit around this table talking about it, someone’s out there rebottling those cheap brands as their much more expensive cousins.”
Petro paused a keftedes on a fork six inches from his mouth. “The question is who?” The meatball disappeared.
“For which we have no answer,” said Kouros, “and won’t, unless we start looking for one. Counterfeit booze is a mega, worldwide problem. The Russians seized a quarter of a million bottles of phony vodka in just one raid. The British shut down an international organized crime ring operating in the middle of the English countryside, producing one hundred sixty-five thousand bottles of fake vodka labeled as a popular brand but spiked with bleach and methanol. And in Kazakhstan, over a two-year period, more than two million liters of the shit were seized.”
“Vodka’s always drawn a lot of counterfeiters. Mainly Russian.” Andreas took a sip of water from his glass. “I can see you’re wound up over this, Yianni.”
“Me, too,” said Petro.
Andreas held the glass in one hand as he spread his arms. “Fine, you’re both wound up. But we’re up to our eyeballs in serious, ongoing corruption investigations, and let’s face it, counterfeiting is a plague upon virtually everything in our life that’s expensive, from pharmaceuticals to industrial ball bearings. We’re talking about a worldwide counterfeit market amounting to hundreds of billions of euros a year in lost tax revenues and legitimate sales. How can we expect to make a meaningful dent in that global problem with our limited resources?”
“I’m not talking about changing the world,” said Kouros. “But everyone knows there’s a huge tourist market for alcohol in Greece and that sort of money attracts a lot of serious opportunists. Those are the bad guys I want to go after.”
Maggie shook her head. “I never knew that my grandfather cooking up his homemade batches of tsipouro was part of such a big thing.”
Kouros pointed a french fry at Maggie. “I know you’re joking, but that’s precisely the sort of attitude that gets counterfeiters off the hook. No one realizes how extensive the problem is. They think of them as guys like your uncle—romantic characters churning out homemade grappa, or whatever, as they merrily evade the tax boys—not as organized crime, willing to blind, maim, and kill to make a profit. And the global financial crisis has made things even worse.”
“Everybody wants things cheaper,” said Petro.
“Even if it means going blind?” said Maggie.
Petro nodded. “A lot of kids go for bomba. They think nothing can harm them and all it will cost them is a worse headache than if they drank the real thing. I see it all the time.”
“Some very bad characters must be involved in the bomba business i
f they’re willing to blind children,” said Maggie.
“They rank right up there with the drug trade,” said Kouros. “Big profits mean big risks.”
Maggie looked at Andreas. “There must be something you can do about this.”
Andreas pointed at his chest. “Me? No, I think you’re talking to those two.” He pointed at Kouros and Petro. “They’re the hotshots all pumped up to get out there and kick bomba butt.”
Petro looked at Kouros. “Does that mean we have the okay to go after them?”
Andreas answered for Kouros. “Yes, it does. I know when to surrender to superior numbers massed against me. Just be careful, because with all the big money to be made there’s no telling who’s involved. You can’t trust anyone. And keep in mind that bad guys in this line of business are used to leaving bodies in their wake. Understand?”
Both men nodded as Maggie smiled and patted Andreas on the arm.
“Good.” Andreas raised his glass. “To bye-bye, bomba.”
Chapter Three
Finding a place to ditch the car was easy. Kharon parked it in one of Athens’ worst neighborhoods. It would be gone by morning, even if he hadn’t left the keys in it. By the time the rental car company or its insurance carrier got around to chasing whoever rented it, the car and any link to Kharon would have long faded away into the opaque Athens air.
He took the Metro and got off at the stop closest to Exarchia Square, Athens’ central gathering place for revolutionaries of all persuasions. He wasn’t a revolutionary and couldn’t care less who ran the government as long as whoever did stayed away from him. And in Exarchia Square the cops stayed away from everybody. They weren’t welcome there and knew it.
That’s what attracted many of his old buddies to the neighborhood; that and the living they made feeding off the children of the rich who came there to repent for their families’ wealth by showing solidarity with the “cause of the people.” At least until it was their turn to sit atop society’s pyramid.
He walked east along Stournari Street, past the National Technical University and along the northern edge of wedge-shaped Exarchia Square. Banners and placards proclaiming all sorts of grievances and threats seemed to hang on the square’s every available bit of fence and tree.
He headed for a taverna directly across from its northeast corner. Inside he chose a table with a clear view of the entrance and ordered chicken souvlaki on a bed of rice, Greek salad, and Alpha beer.
A group of six college-age men, all sporting beards in the Spartan warrior fashion of the day, sat at the next table huddled in conversation.
The waiter brought him a small plate, a glass, silverware, paper napkins, and a basket filled with bread. He placed a napkin on his lap, carefully arranged the silverware to position the fork to his left and the spoon and knife to his right, moved the glass to his right just beyond the spoon and knife, and slid the bread plate to the left of his fork.
He sat quietly waiting for his food, alert to the six men studying him from the next table. The waiter placed the souvlaki neatly between the silverware, and the salad and beer to his right.
Kharon moved the salad to his left and poured the beer into the glass. He picked up the fork with his left hand, the knife with his right, and began carefully separating the chicken from its wooden skewer.
He took a bite of the chicken, chewed it slowly, swallowed, put down his utensils, picked up the beer, and took a sip. He put down the beer, picked up his fork and carefully transferred a few pieces of cucumber and tomato onto his bread plate. Using the knife, he cut each piece of cucumber and tomato into quarters before slowly eating them one piece at a time.
The men at the next table now openly stared at him. Kharon waved for the waiter.
“Yes, sir?”
“May I have a sharper knife for the chicken?”
“Certainly.”
The waiter left and returned quickly with a steak knife.
Kharon used it to cut a piece of chicken. Two men in their early twenties got up from the next table and stood directly across from Kharon. They were tall, but not as tall as Kharon.
Kharon kept on eating, as if oblivious to their presence. Two other men got up from the table and stood behind him.
One of the men in front of him, wearing a Che Guevara tee-shirt, said, “What are you doing here?”
Kharon ignored him and reached for a piece of cucumber with his fork.
The man stepped forward, leaned in across the table, and growled, “I’m talking to you.”
Kharon lifted the cucumber to the man’s mouth. The man swatted it away with his hand.
“Would you prefer the chicken?” asked Kharon.
The man reached across the table and grabbed the front of Kharon’s shirt. “Malaka, you’re fucking with the wrong people.”
Kharon didn’t move or say a word. He waited until the man let go of his shirt, took his fork and knife, picked up another piece of chicken with the fork, put it to his mouth, stared at the man, and said, “I think not.”
The man paused and looked at the two men still sitting at the next table.
“Who are you?” said the older looking of the two at the table.
“A customer.”
“I think you’re a cop.”
“I think you’re a fool.”
The older one glared and said to his colleagues. “Bust the asshole’s head.”
As the words left the man’s mouth, Kharon drove the steak knife into the thigh of the man behind him and to his right. At the same time he rammed the table forward into the knees of the two in front of him, pivoted out of the chair to his right, and in a single swift, fluid stroke drew the blade out of the screaming man’s thigh and sliced it through the older man’s beard until the tip of the blade pressed hard against his throat.
“As I said, you’re a fool. The question is, do you want to be a dead fool?”
The man stammered his answer. Kharon leaned harder on the blade.
“No, no!”
Kharon looked from the man to his hesitant buddies. “Then I think you know what to say.”
“Get out of here. Everybody. Now!”
Five men hurried toward the entrance, one limping badly, and out onto the street. Kharon kept the blade pressed to the sixth man’s throat.
“Someone has to pay for my ruined meal and I’m sure you don’t want this poor workingman to suffer because of your bad manners.”
The man fumbled his right hand through his pants pocket and came out with a thick wad of euros.
“I see the revolution pays well.” Kharon plucked a hundred-euro note from the man’s hand. “That should cover my meal and provide a generous tip.”
He drew the knife away from the man’s throat. “I suggest you leave here and not consider coming back until I’ve left.” He looked straight into the frightened man’s eyes. “Understand?”
The man rubbed his throat and glanced at the blade. “Yes.”
“Good, consider yourself, and anyone you might think of sending in here, warned.”
The man backed away from the table and ran out the door.
Kharon waved to the waiter who was peeking out from the safety of the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess. This is for you,” holding out the hundred euros. “Could you please bring me a coffee?”
The waiter nodded and hurried back into the kitchen.
Five minutes later, as Kharon sipped his coffee, a swarthy, bearded fellow, almost as tall as he was wide, waddled into the taverna, headed straight to Kharon’s table, and sat down. “I heard you were in the neighborhood.”
“How’d you hear that?”
“From the six you ran out of here. They came to my place, raging about what they were going to do to this asshole that dared violate their turf. When I heard what happened I figured it must be you.”
&
nbsp; “From the knife work?”
“No, from the way they talked about how you ate. The same as you’ve always done since we left the orphanage.”
Kharon shrugged. “It’s my way of paying respect to the plentiful food I now have to eat. I never forget that we didn’t always have it that way, back in our orphanage days.”
The man smiled and rubbed his belly. “I remember by eating as much as I can every chance I get.”
Kharon smiled. “Are they coming back?”
“I told them only if they were interested in committing suicide.”
“Thanks, Jacobi.”
“So, why are you here, and not in my place?”
“I planned on coming to see you later, but the food is better here.”
Jacobi laughed. “What’s up, my friend?”
“I was in town for a few hours and thought I’d check in with you to see if there’s any work out there you thought might interest me.”
“Nothing requiring your sophisticated talents. These days it’s rather rough and direct. The fiscal crisis makes subtlety less of a concern to folks in need of attitude-adjustment specialists.”
“Interesting euphemism, but there’s no need for one. I can be rough and direct if necessary.”
“I’m sure the waiter will attest to that.”
Kharon smiled again. “You’re the only one who ever makes me smile for real.”
“I’ll remember that. And I’ll keep you in mind if I hear anything. Can I reach you at the same number?”
“Yes, I’ll be heading back later tonight, tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Want to crash at my place?”
Kharon gestured no. “I think I best leave this neighborhood for now, just in case those new customers I sent you rally up some courage off your booze.”
“Don’t worry, I only serve assholes like that the stuff that’ll blind them.”
Kharon smiled. The men shook hands and left.
***
Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 2
