Jacobi stared at Andreas. “How about I say I’ll see what I can do? When’s this maybe hit supposed to take place?”
Andreas looked at his watch. “Anytime from five minutes ago to who-the-fuck-knows. I’m here at four fucking o’clock in the morning dodging lead pipes, and you’re asking me for an appointment time on a hit.” Andreas shook his head. “If I were you, I’d be on the phone the moment you see me waving good-bye.”
Andreas stood, nodded to Tassos, and the two cops headed toward the front door. Andreas stopped at the doorway, waited until he caught Jacobi’s eye in the mirror, and waved.
***
The pain where the bastard cop hit him with the pipe still throbbed, but at least he could breathe. Jacobi stared in the mirror at the spot where the asshole had stood and waved to him.
“Malaka,” he said aloud, still looking in the mirror. He noticed the bartender and his girlfriend hunched over the table against the wall. There’s a real malaka. Can’t even swing a lead pipe.
“Close up the place and get the hell out of here,” shouted Jacobi. He bent his head over the table and shut his eyes.
How can I get to Teacher?
She didn’t know him from Adam. And if he figured out how to reach her, it wasn’t likely to end well for him, no matter how important she found the cop’s message. The odds were she’d assume him an informant carrying messages for cops, an informant who knew how to find her. What reason would someone like Teacher have for keeping someone like him breathing?
No, he’d go directly to Kharon and warn him. The idiot cops didn’t realize Kharon was the likely target. It all must tie into that job he did for Teacher up in Thessaloniki. No doubt in his mind Kharon had done it. And probably Tank’s family had ordered the hit. Stupid cops. They couldn’t find their dicks in the dark. All they knew was their hardball, beat-the-proletariat-with-lead-pipes routine. No brains in those fascists.
Yes, he’d call Kharon and avoid the whole Teacher play.
He opened his eyes. But what would he say if Kharon asked how the cops knew to come to him to get to Teacher? Not if he asked that question, when he asked it.
Jacobi shuddered so hard he had to shake the table to steady himself. He could hear the cold, flat tone of Kharon’s voice as he asked that question. Like a hangman inquiring of the soon to be deceased’s weight as he tied the noose around the subject’s throat.
If he told Kharon the truth, that the cops came to Jacobi already knowing both Kharon’s name and that he’d killed Tank’s sister, and that he gave the cops Teacher’s name to take the heat off himself, Kharon would say, “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
Or maybe he’d say nothing at all, for once Kharon doubted his loyalty, Jacobi knew he’d be just as dead as if Teacher wanted him that way.
I’m boxed in.
He saw three choices. Reach out to Teacher as the cops wanted, warn Kharon, or simply ignore everything and pray nothing happened. The first two choices put him in direct, immediate grave danger. The third presented the least risk to his life, but the greatest to his childhood friend’s.
Fuck.
***
Too wound up to go back to sleep, and too wired to jump straight into an evaluation of their confrontation with Jacobi, Andreas and Tassos stopped at an all-night bar close to Maggie’s apartment. It had the sort of subdued, working class crowd feel perfect for bringing adrenaline levels back down to normal.
Each man ordered a beer and a shot of vodka. They clinked shot glasses and chugged their sfinakis, and slowly sipped their beers.
“I was worried when I saw the gorilla bartender coming at you with the pipe,” said Tassos.
“So was I.”
“You had to know things might get rough, so why didn’t you yank one of your young tough guys out of bed in the middle of the night instead of me?”
“I thought of that, but Jacobi would recognize Yianni and Petro, and I needed someone he didn’t know who could slip in ahead of me to watch my back.”
“I thought of shooting the gorilla with the lead pipe but figured your head was hard enough to take the hit.”
Andreas lifted his bottle and clinked it against Tassos’ glass. “Good thing he was about as coordinated as Tassaki’s Slinky.”
“Slinky?”
“It’s a toy. Hard to find in Greece, but a friend of Lila’s sent us one for Tassaki from America. It’s a flexible spring you can get to walk down steps, all in very predictable movements.” He took a chug of his beer. “Thank God.”
Tassos laughed. “It really was a funny scene. I mean Little Miss Spitter and her boyfriend made quite a team.”
Andreas grinned. “Yeah, they did.”
The two men clinked again.
“So, do you think he’ll run to Kharon?” said Tassos.
“That’s a better bet for him than getting Teacher’s attention. But who knows? He might decide to do nothing.”
“That’s probably his safest play.”
“Is that how you’d play it if I were the target?” said Andreas
“You mean not tell you? Hell, I’ve done that a hundred times already. Maggie threatens to kill you almost every day.” Tassos took a sip of his beer.
Andreas smiled. “Jacobi not telling Kharon could most definitely get Kharon killed.”
“Who cares? They’re all bad guys.”
Andreas drained his bottle and placed ten euros on the bar. “Let’s go, I’m exhausted.”
Tassos finished his beer, tipped his hat to the barman, and said to Andreas as they slid off their bar stools. “It’s always nice to know what’s waiting for you at home.”
“Yeah, but I’d sure like to know what’s out there waiting for Kharon.”
Tassos patted him on the shoulder. “Soon, my friend, soon.”
***
Kharon’s phone rang. “Hello.”
“I have the money.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“Good, because your two days end today. Do you have a pencil?”
“For what?”
“The wire transfer instructions.”
“No way,” said Tank’s father.
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t expect me to simply wire transfer fifty million euros.”
“That much in cash would amount to one hell of a heavy suitcase, even in five-hundred euro notes.”
“I’m not talking about giving you cash.”
“Then precisely what are you talking about?”
“My son is worried.”
“He should be.”
“This money is his inheritance.”
“Either way, by the end of today it will be someone else’s inheritance. But with my alternative he’ll at least have the chance to build up a new one.”
“He’s not concerned about the money, just that you may not be telling him the truth. He trusts Teacher, but doesn’t know you. He’s afraid the money will never get to Teacher, or that Teacher hasn’t agreed to let him live even if he pays.”
“Are you suggesting—?”
“That he needs the personal assurance of Teacher that payment of the money will end this once and for all.”
Kharon paused. “You want a meeting between your son and Teacher?”
“No, Tank realizes she’d never agree to that. He just wants to call her in your presence so she can vouch for you and tell him that all is forgiven once he pays.”
Kharon paused again. “And when will the payment be made?”
“The moment Teacher gives him those assurances, the funds will be transferred into her account.”
“Where are you proposing that we hold this meeting?”
“I thought the monastery would be an appropriate neutral venue.”
Kharon paused for a third tim
e. “Do you have that pencil yet?”
“Why?”
“For the same reason I said before, to mark down the wire transfer instructions.”
“So we have a deal?”
“Yes.”
“Terrific. Okay, give me the instructions.”
Kharon gave them.
“So, when should I tell my son to expect you?”
“Just say ‘anytime.’ I assume his schedule is open.”
The father paused. “Yes, certainly. I’ll just tell him to expect you sometime today.” He told Kharon where Tank would be in the monastery.
“For sure. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“I do not like being surprised.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will, if I am.” He hung up the phone.
It all sounded reasonable, yet something about the conversation bothered Kharon. Tank’s father agreed to the fifty million far too quickly, without so much as a hint of negotiation. That didn’t sound like the father’s business style. Then again, it might have been Tank’s call if it truly were his inheritance. And Tank was probably literally scared to death at the possibility of losing this opportunity to save his life.
Yes, that sounded like something Tank would do. Kharon could hear him now: Daddy, save me!
Those were words Kharon never had the opportunity to utter in his life. Nor had most of his friends. Which reminded him, I better call Jacobi.
He hadn’t heard from Jacobi in days, not since he asked him to make some decision about what Kharon should do about the motorcycle he’d borrowed from him. With all the heat connected to that bike, Kharon suggested he make it disappear. Jacobi hemmed and hawed about wasting such a beautiful BMW.
In their last conversation Kharon told him to make a simple yes or no decision. That was three days ago and still no word from him. He’d call him tomorrow, after he’d finished up this thing with Tank. It would be one glorious, fifty-million-euro, final run for the BMW, no matter what Jacobi decided.
“Just like him,” Kharon said aloud. “The poor guy can’t make a decision to save his life.”
He shook his head. “Sure glad mine isn’t in his hands.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“It’s Spiros, Chief.”
Andreas looked at the intercom. “My God, Maggie, that’s the third time he’s called today and it’s not even noon. What’s with him?”
“Do I really have to tell you?”
“No.”
“Did I detect a sigh?”
“Just put him through.”
Andreas forced himself to laugh before picking up the phone. It was Lila’s trick for making herself sound absolutely cheery whenever she had to speak with someone she dreaded.
“Spiros, how are you? Long time no talkie.”
“Why are you so happy? I’m being crucified in the press, you have me in constant fear for my life, my home’s a virtual prison, and you sound like you just won the lottery.”
“Look, I’ve told you twice already today that we don’t think you’re the target, but we also don’t want to take any chances.”
“Well, the press is killing me in any case. That damned father of Tank’s won’t let up. He’s making up stories about me tied into international crime rings, and demanding a Parliamentary investigation of me and the prime minister. I thought the son was bad. The father’s worse. And all you ever say to the press as my spokesman is, ‘Sorry, but we can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, no matter how unfounded the allegations you raise for comment.’ You’re just tightening the noose around my neck.”
“Let’s not lose sight of where this is headed. Media wounds heal; bullet wounds in the middle of the forehead do not.”
“How’s that supposed to comfort me? I thought you said I’m not a target.”
“I’m talking about the risks to Tank and his father.”
“And how are we going to know if your plan works?”
Good question, thought Andreas. “When Tank turns up, dead or alive.”
“Alive won’t help me. Neither will dead as long as the father is still breathing.”
“Uh, Spiros, I know you didn’t mean what you just seemed to have said.”
“What?”
“That you wanted Tank and his father dead.”
“Are you nuts? Of course not. Do you think someone’s recording this call? Great, more anxieties! Now I have to worry that everything I say in my own office will be playing on the evening news.”
“Get a grip. This is going to come to a head in a matter of days, not weeks. Trust me on that.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m the only one you can.”
Silence.
“Now, just relax. I can’t guarantee the outcome, but I can guarantee we’re trying our best.”
Spiros cleared his throat and spoke softly, just above a whisper. “I really can’t take much more of this. Honestly, Andreas, I can’t.”
“I know. Just try your best to hold on a bit longer. Something’s going to break. I just feel it.”
“Okay. But you’ll let me know as soon as something happens, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you. Bye.”
Andreas blew through his lips as he hung up the phone. What he didn’t tell Spiros was how really bad things would get for him if Tank’s father succeeded in getting to Kharon. If he killed him, both the father and the son would think themselves invincible and do whatever it took to destroy Spiros and resurrect Tank’s public image.
Andreas had no doubt that Teacher ultimately would find some way to end both their lives, but by then Spiros would be long gone.
Andreas winced at his thought. He’d meant Spiros would be driven from office, but he’d had the more morbid thought, and couldn’t unthink it.
Andreas crossed himself. Poor soul.
***
Eight miles east of Arachova, Kharon turned south off the main road out of Delphi toward the village of Distomo, where he would turn east toward the neighboring village of Steiri.
Distomo, thought Kharon. A place of execution, of massacre, where for two hours on June 10, 1944, Nazi SS troops went door-to-door, murdering two hundred fourteen civilians, bayonetting babies in their cribs, beheading the local priest. Slaughter haunted this place to its very bones.
A mile beyond Steiri, the road took a sharp left, but Kharon continued straight onto a well-paved two-lane road. The BMW wound along hillsides covered in fir, cedar, myrtle, arbutus, and pine, high above a broad green valley filled with cultivated olives, almonds, and patches of grape, all running off toward distant limestone mountain slopes. It was a far different world from the struggling, melancholy farm communities he’d just passed through. Here, not a hint of modern times was to be seen anywhere along the mile-and-a-half run up to Monastery Hosios Loukas’ hillside perch on a western slope of Mount Helicon.
Kharon loved coming here at sunset as just another anonymous pilgrim, when shadows were long and light practiced its magic upon the monastery’s rusty earth tone architectural jags and juts, contours and edges. Out here, at this time of day, he’d lose track not only of time, but of centuries.
But not this sunset. This was not a time for dreaming. The great beauty of hallowed places such as this did not cleanse them of their haunting secret intrigues, betrayals, and bloodshed; accommodations to the times through which they passed that allowed them to flourish while others vanished from the earth. He would not allow himself to become part of that history. At least not tonight. Or so he hoped.
***
Tank sat alone beneath the Katholicon in the Crypt of Saint Barbara, the monastery’s oldest church, a place of peace, quiet, and massive stone pillars supporting the dome of the Katholikon above it. The tomb of Saint
Loukas lay against the crypt’s northern wall beneath an oil lamp kept burning for ten centuries by monks devoted to his memory. Soon the lamp’s faint glimmer would be Tank’s only light, but he’d find no comfort in the remains of Saint Loukas. They were removed in 1011 and now resided beneath their own perpetually burning oil lamp in a glass-enclosed casket off the passageway between the church and Katholikon.
The monastery had closed at six to tourists and no monks would be coming down to the crypt tonight. His father had made sure of that. Nor would Kharon expect to find Tank there. It was the perfect place to wait out the next step in his father’s plan, safely away from what was about to happen. Tank smiled as he crossed himself.
His father was right. The plan depended on Kharon dying before Tank spoke to Teacher. Tank could not ask for Teacher’s word, then betray her by killing her messenger. That would dishonor her in a way she would never forgive. No, Kharon must die before the call.
Then it would be Tank’s turn to get in the game. He’d call her, being sure to sound mournful and sad over what just happened. He’d explain how her messenger turned into a raging madman, demanding more than they’d agreed to pay, drawing a weapon in a place of God, and forcing Tank’s people to defend his life in self-defense.
Tank thought the story a bit weak, but his father assured him a hard-headed businesswoman like Teacher need not be convinced, only sufficiently appeased to justify taking the money they’d offer her to allow them to go in peace. Of course, the money would now be substantially less, but that was only fair, seeing as her messenger had just tried to kill the very basis of their bargain.
Yes, his father had no doubt that once Kharon was eliminated, and a face-saving excuse offered to Teacher, all would be resolved through a simple, straightforward financial negotiation for a far less costly sum than what the bitch had been demanding.
***
Kharon faced a path he’d walked many times before, one leading down from the visitors’ parking lot to the monastery’s south entrance. He’d always found purpose in his few minutes’ stroll along the broad, terraced steps of marble blocks set as randomly as tiles, gazing out upon the peaceful valley and hillsides, and inhaling scents of wild lavender, clematis, and daffodils. It served as a passage from the isolated reality of his life to a place of tranquility shared with souls from a thousand years past.
Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 22
