Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery

by Jeffrey Siger

  Kharon turned to Jacobi. “What do you mean? He tried to cheat me.”

  Jacobi nodded. “Yeah, I know. But maybe he can make it up to you.”

  “He’s right,” Panos said quickly. “I definitely can.”

  Kharon shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  “Give him a chance. I’m sure he can get you your money, and probably even a little more for your trouble.”

  “Yeah, sure I can.”

  “Say, like a hundred thousand of the real stuff,” said Jacobi.

  “That’s crazy!” Panos looked back and forth between them. “Where can I get that sort of money?”

  Jacobi shrugged. “Hey, I’m trying to help you out here. If you can’t, you can’t.”

  Panos ran the fingers of both hands through his hair. “Okay, okay, a hundred thousand.”

  “And your superior comes to Athens for our meeting,” said Kharon.

  “I can’t make that happen.”

  “After this double cross you really don’t expect me to get on a private plane with you? I’m not willing to risk having to suddenly sprout wings.”

  The man shook his head. “I really can’t, I don’t call the shots at all.”

  Kharon put his hand on Panos’ shoulder. “Tell your boss anything you want, and your boss can even pick the spot for us to meet in Athens. But that’s my final offer. Take it, or leave me alone.”

  “No need to rush your decision,” said Jacobi. “Take until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. But if it’s a go, show up here with the cash.”

  Panos nodded. “By tomorrow.”

  “Morning,” said Jacobi.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll get back to you by tomorrow morning.” Panos reached for the backpack.

  “Uh-uh,” said Jacobi, putting his hand on the bag, “my commission for negotiating the settlement. Besides, we wouldn’t want you getting mugged in this neighborhood.”

  Panos glared at Jacobi, but drew his hand back from the bag. He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket, pressed a speed dial button, and muttered something in a language not Greek. He finished his call. “Fine, tomorrow morning here.”

  A black Chevrolet Suburban appeared at the curb, Panos jumped into the front passenger seat, and the SUV sped away.

  Jacobi put his arm around Kharon’s waist. “Just like the old days. Mr. Good Cop and Mr. Bad Cop out-hustling deliverymen hustlers.”

  “Stealing from orphans…It sounded so easy until they tried it.”

  “Yeah, but in those days, it was spoiled milk and threadbare clothes they tried passing off as the real stuff. Now it’s this.” Jacobi pointed at the bag of cash.

  “Some things never change,” said Kharon. “It’s the same shitty people, just doing different things.”

  “But with bigger paydays. Which I’ll take as a definite improvement.” Jacobi reached into the bag and pulled out a fistful of phony euro notes. “I can fence this paper tonight for enough real stuff to get you a killer BMW bike by tomorrow.”

  Kharon shrugged. “Not interested. You keep it.”

  “Are you nuts?” Jacobi picked the backpack off the table and headed toward the kitchen. “Never mind,” he called over his back. “I already know the answer to that question.”

  “Like I said,” Kharon said quietly, “some things never change.”

  Chapter Six

  Kharon spent the night in a nondescript hotel just off Omonia Square. He preferred staying in that part of Athens. It was once Athens’ most prominent square, filled with fine hotels, restaurants, and residences. Not anymore. Today it served as home to an around-the-clock drug and hooker trade, with Greek not the primary language of its residents. Most people living there possessed the good sense to mind their own business. Kharon liked that. It lent him anonymity, invaluable in his line of work.

  His mobile rang. It could only be one person, but he wasn’t calling from the secure landline. Kharon answered and waited to hear the voice on the other end.

  “Kharon?”

  “Did he show?”

  “Yes, and with all the money.”

  Silence.

  “Kharon, did you hear me? He showed with a hundred thousand euros!”

  “Yes, I heard. So did all the world by now.”

  “Come on, this isn’t the United States, no one’s listening in on calls from my shitty little taverna in Athens.”

  “Where is the meeting?”

  “You’re to be at the foot of the Acropolis at two. At the start of the path up to the top.”

  “Who am I looking for?”

  “He said they’d initiate contact.”

  “Bye.”

  “Wait a minute. What about all this money?”

  “Hang on to it for me.”

  “Until when?”

  “Until I ask for it.”

  “You definitely are nuts.”

  Kharon hung up. Jacobi was too cavalier about surveillance. These days everybody listened in on mobile phone calls. The only privacy you could hope to find was in the wilderness. Assuming no satellite or drone happened to be watching you.

  With his friend broadcasting one hundred thousand euros to the Exarchia world, he’d better be ready for uninvited guests showing up at the meeting. That kind of money made Kharon a kidnapping target, a rising business among enterprising bad guys in Greece. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. The Acropolis was only a couple of Metro stops away from his hotel, but he needed to get moving. He had a lot to do before two.

  Hoping for the best was fine, as long as you prepared for the worst.

  ***

  “What’s this?” said Andreas staring at the large box Tassos had dropped on his desk. It bore the name of Syros’ most famous pastry shop.

  “What’s it look like?” Tassos, dressed in his customary dark suit, white shirt, and bland tie, dropped into the leather chair in front of Andreas’ desk.

  “Hey, easy on my furniture, I’m not sure that chair’s rated to handle the extra weight you’re carrying.”

  Tassos waved his hand in front of his face. “It’s an old suit. It makes me look heavier than I am.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll have to remember to try that line on Lila. At least unbutton the jacket. It looks like it’s going to explode wide open any second.”

  Tassos waved him off. “I’m fine, it fits perfectly.”

  Kouros, sitting next to Petro on the couch beneath the windows, pointed at the box. “Speaking of Lila, you’re going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble with her when she finds out what you brought the chief.”

  “He’s right. She’ll kill you.” Andreas lifted the lid and peeked inside the box. He looked up at Tassos and laughed. “Bastard,” and turned the box upside down, spilling the contents on his desk.

  “Carrots?” said a disappointed looking Kouros.

  “Syros’ best. I may have been willing to risk Lila’s ire, but not that of my beloved Maggie.”

  Andreas picked up a carrot and pointed it at Tassos. “They’re in cahoots?”

  “Of course.”

  “How come they haven’t teamed up on you yet?” asked Andreas.

  “Because they undoubtedly recognize that with age comes plumpness. It is nature’s way of compensating the body for the thinning of other parts.” He patted the top of his head with one hand.

  “Can’t wait to see what you pat with the other hand,” smiled Kouros.

  “Yianni, stop encouraging him.” Andreas bit into the carrot. “Hey, this is good.” He looked at Kouros and Petro. “Have one.”

  “I prefer mine in cake form,” said Kouros, gesturing no.

  Andreas picked up a carrot and tossed it at Petro. “Don’t listen to him, eat your vitamins.”

  Petro caught it and dropped it onto his lap.

  “Gr
eat, now I’ve got all my wacky wabbits together in one place—”

  “I just bet you’re dying for me to say, ‘What’s up, Doc?’” said Tassos.

  Andreas aimed his carrot at Tassos. “That’s a good one. Now can we get to work?”

  Andreas described his conversation and a brief follow-up call that morning with the winemaker, and Kouros brought Tassos up to date on the details of his and Petro’s investigation.

  “Anything to add?” said Andreas to Petro.

  “Just that tomorrow’s Thursday, so we’re hoping to start moving up the supply chain once we get a bead on the new guy supplying bomba to Aleko’s club in Vouliagmeni.”

  Tassos nodded. “My guess is you’ll dead end at the same place the winemaker did, with an Eastern European name heading up a foreign crime family, but this time in Greece.”

  “Why do you say that?” said Andreas.

  “Because the three names the winemaker got for you through his lawyers are all Eastern European mobsters. Not a single one native to the country they’re working in. That sounds like a pattern.”

  Andreas nodded. “Could be.”

  “What do you mean ‘could be’? It’s a sure thing. I’ll bet you your carrots.”

  “No deal.” Andreas bit off another chunk. “If you’re right, what’s the common connection back to whoever’s behind it all?”

  “Could be the packaging,” said Kouros.

  “Maybe,” said Tassos, “but if the brains behind all this is taking such care to avoid any direct link to the people running all those separate EU country operations, I doubt you’ll find a visible hand in the packaging side of the business.”

  “But it is a place to look,” said Andreas.

  “I agree,” said Tassos,. “And we shouldn’t assume perfection on the part of the bad guys. I’ll see if I have any friends in the paperhanging business who might be able to give us a lead.”

  “Paperhanging business?” said Petro.

  “Counterfeiters. It all involves putting ink on paper to make the phony look real. It’s a small community, so maybe I’ll get lucky and come up with something.”

  Andreas smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint us. No one knows the sordid underbelly of our country better than you.”

  Tassos shifted in his chair and his jacket rose higher up on his belly, threatening to launch a button across the room. “I think you’re trying to compliment me, though it’s not quite coming across that way.” Tassos undid the button. “I’ve spent a career showing respect to people on all sides of the law and I’m very proud of that accomplishment.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful. Almost as much as I am that…” Andreas pointed at Tassos with the carrot stub, “you unbuttoned your jacket.”

  Tassos threw Andreas a lazy, open palm equivalent of the middle finger.

  “What do you want us to do?” said Kouros.

  “For now, precisely as you’ve planned.” said Andreas. “That Thursday bomba guy is our only potential link back to whoever’s running things in Greece. If we find out who that is, we might be able to sweat him into giving us the big boss.”

  “Once we find him, I think putting his balls in a wine press will likely get us faster results,” said Tassos.

  “Or,” said Petro, picking the carrot up from his lap, lifting it above his head, and snapping it loudly in half.

  Tassos shifted his eyes from Petro’s broken carrot to Andreas. “I really like the new kid.”

  ***

  Two o’clock on a sunny summer day in Athens drew only the hardiest or most foolish to trek from Dionysiou Areopagitou pedestrian promenade at the base of the Acropolis up to the Parthenon at the top. A half-dozen or so young men straddled bicycles as they talked among themselves in the shade of a large plane tree, by the entrance to the path to the Parthenon.

  The bicyclists wore the bright yellow tee-shirts of a messenger company, matching racing caps, and all black Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses. All but one carried messenger bags slung across their backs. The lone holdout wore his bag resting on his right hip. Kharon could reach his weapons quicker that way.

  He’d paid the others double their normal hourly earnings and given them the sunglasses in exchange for their hanging out with him for a couple of hours, saying he needed them as cover to catch his cheating wife and her boyfriend strolling the promenade at lunchtime. They’d leisurely pedaled back and forth along the promenade for nearly an hour when Kharon told them to stop under the plane tree and take a break. That had been at five minutes before two.

  When they’d last passed that same spot, Kharon noticed that a black Mercedes G-class SUV with heavily tinted windows had driven onto the pedestrian way and parked directly across from the entrance to the path up to the Acropolis. The SUV hadn’t moved.

  Kharon sat on his bike, sipping from a water bottle, scanning every face he could see. None seemed the sort interested in conducting an interview. At precisely two o’clock a bearded derelict dozing under folded cardboard by the path entrance jumped to his feet, startling three tourists into abandoning a nearby bench. He waved his hands and began a dance of what looked to be his own improvised creation. But Kharon did not see it, for he was searching for anyone not distracted by the performance. He found no one.

  As abruptly as he’d started, the derelict ended his dance, went back to the bench, and picked up his cardboard. He shuffled to the edge of the path, carefully unfolded the cardboard, held it up above his head, and slowly turned so that everyone in the area could read, KHARON IS HERE, WHERE ARE YOU?

  A few tourists laughed. One yelled out, “Do you take silver coins?”

  Someone knows his Greek mythology, thought Kharon. Be sure to have coins for the ferryman. But the tourist walked away. That was not his contact. No one approached the derelict. After five minutes he carried his cardboard sign to the bench and sat down. It was now two-fifteen. Still no interviewer.

  “Hey, are we done yet?” asked one of the bicyclists.

  “Almost,” said Kharon. “Just one more thing. Follow me.”

  He put the water bottle back on the bike, pushed off, and pedaled thirty yards past the rear of the black SUV before turning and coming back at it from behind. He skirted in between the passenger side and the edge of the road, burst out in front of the SUV, and pointed at a sign marked NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES.

  He pedaled ahead toward the elegant pre-war homes that distinguished Dionysiou Areopagitou from virtually everywhere else in Athens, but turned and circled back before reaching Herodes Atticus theater, pointing again at the sign as he passed close alongside the driver’s door. His identically dressed companions followed him, making identical gestures toward the sign. The bicyclists looped slowly around the SUV, like Indians from an American Western film surrounding a wagon train wrongly cutting through their territory.

  A few minutes into this routine, as Kharon’s bike came head-on past the SUV’s front bumper on the driver’s side, the driver’s door flew open—wedged in place by the driver’s left foot—smashed into the bike’s front wheel and catapulted Kharon over the handlebars. But, as if he were a gymnast going from one uneven bar to the next, Kharon grabbed ahold of the outside edge of the open door, swung his body around it, and drove his feet squarely into the face of a surprised and instantly unconscious driver.

  The big man next to the driver struggled to pull a gun from his right hip, but before he could free it Kharon had pushed the driver across the seat into him, drawn a switchblade from his bag with his right hand, and driven the tip hard up against the big man’s throat.

  “Uh, uh, Panos,” said Kharon as he edged across the seat closer to the ex-soldier. “Play nice, now.”

  Panos slowly raised his hands. “No problem. Didn’t know it was you.”

  “Then please tell your friend in the backseat to put down the Uzi.” Kharon kept the blade presse
d against Panos’ throat.

  “That was a very bold move, young man,” said a voice from the backseat. “But foolish, because you would be dead if I wanted you that way.”

  “Wrong on the last point. You’d be dead by now, and still may be if you don’t put that thing down.”

  “Foolish and brazen,” said the person in the backseat. “Some might say arrogant.”

  “Panos, take a look at my left hand and tell your friend what you see.”

  Panos slowly lowered his head to where he could see Kharon’s left hand. “He’s got a pistol grip sawed-off shotgun sticking out of a messenger bag pointed at you through the seat.”

  “You forgot to mention it’s a twelve gauge.”

  “Well done,” said the one in the backseat. “My compliments.”

  “Spare me and drop the Uzi, butt-first, onto the front seat where I can see it.”

  The gun dropped on the seat between Kharon and Panos.

  “Thank you.”

  “Young man, I think it might be a good idea if we got out of here. Your cycling colleagues have fled, perhaps to get the police. Why don’t you come back here with me? Bring your toys with you, and Panos, switch with your unconscious friend and get us out of here before Athens’ finest shows up.”

  Kharon took the gun from Panos’ hip, another from the driver, and put them, the knife, and the Uzi in the messenger bag. He slid over the front seat into the backseat on the driver’s side, still holding the shotgun. “So, is our interview finished, madame?”

  The trim woman adjusted the jacket of her black pantsuit and brushed a stray strand of dark hair away from her sunglasses back toward the tight bun that held the rest of her hair in place. “How did you ever get the derelict to perform precisely at two?”

  “I gave him fifty euros and an alarm clock set to go off at two to remind him that if he danced and held up the sign when the alarm went off, he’d get another hundred.”

  The woman nodded. “You’re very good.”

  Kharon showed no expression. “You knew all you wanted to know about me before you set this up. Why am I here?”

  “Not ‘all.’”