Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery

by Jeffrey Siger

  Kharon hadn’t mentioned anything about his conversation with Jacobi to Teacher. Not out of concern that if she knew he’d been warned she might think him less of a magician in neutralizing his assassins, but he had a nagging suspicion that if she thought Jacobi had talked to cops, she’d want his friend dead. Maybe even order Kharon to do it as another of her tests.

  Kharon knew that would be the sensible thing to do. Jacobi wasn’t the sharpest blade in the drawer and that, coupled with his loose lips, made him a risk. Then again, if Jacobi hadn’t done something to attract the cops, they wouldn’t have known to come to Jacobi with information that helped save Kharon’s life. As Kharon scored it, one canceled out the other. Teacher wouldn’t see it that way. She always favored elimination.

  Besides, Jacobi was the closest thing Kharon had to anything resembling family, and when it came down to family, one must learn to live with their faults.

  Perhaps my moral center isn’t yet lost?

  He watched Tank’s frantic face looking back at him in the mirror.

  For sure he hopes not.

  Kharon kept his gun aimed at Tank’s head with his right hand as he pecked out a message with his left on his phone, ON OUR WAY, and hit send.

  Thirty seconds later came the reply announced by a ping:

  GOOD. IT IS TIME TO SEND THE OTHER MESSAGE.

  And so he did.

  ***

  Tank’s father loved his early mornings in Sithonia. The birds sounded more alive, the sky a bit rosier, the sea air fresher. His home didn’t offer a good view of the sun rising out of the Aegean, gilding sapphire blue in gold, but that never mattered much to him for he thought of early mornings as more like nine o’clock anyway.

  And this was a fine morning. Word from his son had put his mind at ease after a most restless night.

  Now he sat on his bougainvillea-covered veranda, staring out above the pines and olive trees across the bright blue bay toward Mount Athos fifteen miles away. Artists and architects had struggled for centuries to capture the essence of the Church’s spiritual power in temporal expression. For him, only Mount Athos achieved that goal, perhaps because it represented God’s own handiwork on earth, his gift to the Virgin Mary as her Garden of the Mother of God, a place forbidden to any other woman. Or so went the legend.

  Living so close to a place of such reverential holy power, Tank’s father thought of himself as the first to touch the same sea as edged upon that holy land, the first to breathe the same air as passed over from that blessed place, the first to see eagles, kestrels and gulls stray across the sky from their holy mountain roosts, the first to hear what sounds might carry from so far across the sea. He built a little church down by the edge of the water in honor of the Virgin Mary to honor the spiritual markings of such holy power on earth.

  To his way of thinking, all of that could not but help cleanse him of his sins, bring redemption to his soul. A lot of his neighbors along the shoreline must have thought the same way if the prices they’d paid for the opportunity of such proximity were any measure.

  The father was on his second cup of coffee when the phone rang inside the house. He yelled for his assistant to answer it.

  “It’s the minister of public order calling, sir.”

  The malaka must be calling to beg me to let up on him. “Tell him to go fuck himself.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard what I said, tell him precisely that.” He smiled and went back to staring at Mount Athos.

  “Sir.”

  The father jumped slightly in his chair. He hadn’t noticed his assistant coming up behind him. “What is it?”

  “The minister told me to give you a message.”

  “What? Did he threaten me? Did he beg for me to call him back?”

  “No, as a matter of fact he laughed.”

  “Laughed?”

  “Yes, and said to please tell you, ‘Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.’”

  “Warn me? Warn me of what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  He waved his assistant away and went back to sipping his coffee.

  A few minutes later he heard the sound of a helicopter coming in from the east. For a country supposedly in crisis, an awful lot of people had their own helicopters. This one was a two-engine job, though. Very fast, very expensive. It hovered out to sea about two hundred yards from shore, then made toward his Russian neighbor’s helicopter pad. Just what we need, more Russian visitors.

  He looked at his watch. It was after ten. His son should be here any minute. Things hadn’t gone quite as planned, what with two of the assassins getting killed and the third fleeing from the police, but their goal was achieved. The killer of his daughter had been eliminated and Teacher had agreed to accept twenty million euros as compensation.

  He’d tried calling Tank for more details but he didn’t answer. At least his son had the presence of mind to send that text message telling him what happened and that he was on his way here.

  He’s finally showing indications of not being a total fuckup.

  His mobile rang. It was the front gate. “Why aren’t you using the walkie-talkie?”

  “Sorry, sir, your son is here and told me to call you at this number. He has guests with him.”

  “Guests.”

  “Yes, a lady and three men.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They said you know them.”

  “Put my son on the phone.”

  Pause.

  “Father.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Sorry, but he was going to kill me.”

  The father’s heart skipped three beats. “He?”

  “Yes, the one sent by Teacher to meet me at the monastery.”

  “You fool! You—”

  Another voice came on the phone. A female voice. “I have no more time for games. Tell your man to open the gate and let us in or that helicopter you saw hovering above your property will give you a demonstration of its military capabilities.”

  “You don’t frighten me.”

  “Watch me.”

  He heard the crackle of a communicator through the phone and her voice saying something in an Eastern European language. Next he heard the roar of twin turboshaft engines coming to life and saw a modified Russian-made Mi-24 attack helicopter swing around to within thirty yards of his property, camouflage on either side of the cockpit removed to reveal twin Yakushev-Borzov 12.7x108mm caliber four-barrel Gatling guns capable of delivering up to 1,470 rounds each—aimed straight at him.

  “Okay!” he cried into the phone. “Okay, okay! Let them in!”

  “Thank you, but could you please say that slightly louder and more clearly so that your man on the gate understands you?” said the woman.

  “LET THEM IN,” he screamed.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The road from the gate passed through a hundred yards of pine trees and offered random glimpses of the sea. But Kharon’s eyes stayed focused on the men in the woods. He’d counted six, plus the one now tied up at the gate, and if his last visit served as any indication, at least two more in the house. “Figure on eight armed men, plus another six cooks, housekeepers, gardeners, and assistants.”

  The two men next to him in the backseat of Tank’s Range Rover nodded.

  “Your father must be a very nervous man,” said Teacher from her seat up front next to Tank.

  Tank didn’t speak, just kept glancing in the rearview mirror at the two men behind him wearing ballistic vests, carrying Russian-made A-91 assault rifles, and wired for sound with combat-style headsets.

  “I guess you’re a bit anxious too, partner. How are your grand political plans holding up? You remember them, don’t you? All the big ones you told me about. The ones you said justified doing business your way instead of mine?�
� Teacher looked out the side window next to her. “You do remember what I told you back then?”

  Silence.

  “Don’t you?”

  Kharon nudged the back of Tank’s head with a pistol barrel.

  “No, I don’t.”

  Teacher shook her head without looking at him. “What can I say? You’re incorrigible. You’ll never learn. I’ll never be able to work with you.”

  She turned to face Tank and leaned in close to his right ear. “I said, ‘My bottom line is simple: I don’t care what sort of little masturbation games you want to play with yourself, but if you ever even think of screwing with me or our arrangement again, I promise to cut your balls off. Literally. Slowly. Painfully.’”

  Tank’s body trembled and he bit fiercely at his lower lip.

  Teacher patted Tank’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you want to cry, Tank. It beats shitting your pants.” She took her hand away. “That will come later.”

  By the time Tank reached the front of his father’s house, he looked less like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights and more like one laid out in the taillights of the truck that had pancaked it.

  “Nice house your father has here. I particularly like how the terra cotta roof tiles, and all those marble inlays around the windows add a nice touch to the white stucco. Sure hope this isn’t the last time you guys get to see it.”

  Tank stopped the car. Teacher reached across and took the keys. “Just in case you think of trying to run off again.”

  Teacher’s two men in headsets jumped out of the backseat and opened her door while the chopper hovered overhead. Tank’s father stood by the front door of his house.

  Teacher stepped out carrying a black crocodile Hermes Birkin bag. She pulled a headset out of the bag and fitted it on her head as she walked over to the father. Kharon remained inside the car with Tank.

  “Thank you for inviting us to your lovely home,” she said, not extending her hand.

  The father stood with one eye twitching uncontrollably and both fists tightly clenched. Still, his voice stayed flat. “Welcome. Please, let us go inside where we can talk in peace and quiet.” He turned toward the front door.

  “No, thank you,” Teacher said. “I prefer to conduct our meeting here, where my friends above can keep an eye on me,” she nodded up to the sky, “even from a distance of, say, three hundred yards.”

  Instantly the helicopter moved up and away to what seemed three hundred yards.

  She smiled. “Don’t you just love it when you have employees who do precisely what you want the moment you ask them to do it?”

  She reached out and touched the father’s arm. “Oh, forgive me. I forgot. You’re not used to working with those sorts of people.”

  The father forced a smile. He motioned for Teacher to follow him around the side of the house and waved for his men in the woods to do the same.

  “Yes, that’s a very good idea,” she said. “Let’s have all your armed men and all my armed men together in one spot. That way they can keep an eye on each other and not become nervous while we talk.”

  The father’s face tightened. That obviously had not been his intention, but he nodded. “Yes.” He yelled to his men, “Stay here all together in front.”

  “And the ones inside?” she said.

  He exhaled and yelled, “And get the ones in the house out here with you.”

  Teacher nodded to the two men with her, and they moved over to stand by the father’s men.

  Teacher waved to Kharon.

  “Okay, Tank, it’s time to move,” said Kharon opening the rear door behind Tank still sitting in the driver seat.

  “That guy stays here with the rest of your men,” said the father.

  Teacher gestured no. “Not possible. He’s the equivalent of your son for purposes of these negotiations. You need Tank, I need him.”

  It was hard to hear the father through his clenched teeth. “Okay, as long as he doesn’t have a gun.”

  “Of course,” smiled Teacher. “Leave your gun in the car,” she told Kharon. “I’m sure you won’t need it.” She nodded toward the rear of the house. “After you.”

  Kharon left his gun and backpack in the car, pushing Tank ahead of him as the father led them along a marble walkway lined with palm and fig trees to the patio abutting the infinity pool. He pointed to the table where he’d been sitting. “Is that acceptable?”

  Teacher nodded. “Yes, and no need to offer us any refreshment. We won’t be staying long.”

  The father stood while Teacher, Tank, and Kharon chose where to sit. They left him the chair in front of his coffee cup and mobile phone. Tank sat to his father’s right, and Kharon sat between Tank and Teacher.

  The father sat, picked up the cup, and took a sip of what now had to be cold coffee. “Since there’s no reason for me to make on as if I don’t know why you’re here, I guess you should begin.”

  Teacher nodded. “I admire your candor. It doesn’t forgive your treachery, but I admire it nonetheless.”

  The father nodded and put down the cup.

  “So, permit me to tell you exactly what I want. I’m prepared to forgive the past for a price, a very steep price. Consider it a ‘buyout’ of all my past, present, and future interests in the wine and spirits industry in Greece, one that will allow you to live and carry on your business here in peace.”

  “I created the business, not you,” said Tank.

  The father wheeled around and slapped Tank hard across the face. “Shut up and don’t open your mouth again unless I tell you to.”

  Teacher nodded. “An appropriate reaction and sage advice. Too bad it took you until now to render it.”

  “Just tell me what you want.” The father’s anger at his son still tinged his voice.

  “Two hundred million euros.”

  “You must be crazy?”

  “Crazy, no. Angry, yes.”

  “I don’t have that sort of money.”

  Teacher shook her head. “Tsk, tsk. Now you’re shaking my confidence in you. I’m starting to see the son in the father.”

  The father banged his hands on the table. “Look, if you want to make a deal, I’ll make a deal. But I can’t make a deal with money I don’t have. Period. End of story.”

  “Not quite ‘end of story.’” Teacher reached into her bag, pulled out a sheet of paper, and slid it across the table. “On this you’ll see a list of your Swiss and Luxembourg Bank accounts containing more than the amount I’ve just asked for. Additionally you’ll find instructions for wiring the requested sums into the indicated accounts using that phone in front of you.”

  The father’s face turned bright red. Veins popped out in his neck.

  “Don’t have a stroke over this. It would be a shame to pay my price, then die. That would defeat the purpose, no?”

  Tank’s father clenched his fists and rubbed them on his thighs.

  “After all,” she said, “it’s not as if I’m asking you to turn over money you earned. It’s all tax money stolen from the Greek people.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Teacher sighed. “God, so many have tried.”

  He pounded his fists on the table and shouted, “I don’t care what you do to this poor excuse for a son. He’s been nothing but a fuckup his entire life, living off my name and reputation and protection, never standing on his own two feet. And now he’s cost my daughter her life to protect his own. I’m through with him. Do with him as you wish.” The father sat back in his chair and threw up his hands.

  “You can’t mean that,” said Tank, reaching across the table and grabbing his father’s forearm.

  The father sat grim-faced in his chair, staring off toward Mount Athos.

  Teacher clapped. “Nice performance. I’m sure it will lead to some wonderful family reunion moments, assuming of cour
se there’s any family left to get together.”

  The father shifted his stare to Teacher. “What are you saying?”

  “You raised him, you tolerated his bad behavior, you enabled him. But I’m not blaming you for how he’s turned out.” She leaned forward. “Then you decided to protect him, to go after my people. To go after me. You chose to be your son’s savior and failed. That’s why you’re responsible for his obligations to me. All two hundred million of them.”

  He glared. “You think killing me will get you your money?”

  Teacher turned to Kharon. “Do you still have the photos?”

  “Not with me.”

  “No matter, I’m certain he remembers what his grandchildren and children—make that surviving children, sorry for your loss—look like.” Teacher turned to Kharon. “Why don’t you explain to the gentleman the alternative to not making this deal on these terms, on this day, at this moment.”

  “It’s simple,” said Kharon. “Everyone dies. In random order. I shuffle the photographs and whomever’s photo come up dies. The next shuffle determines the next one to die, and so on. Until only one remains alive.” He pointed his finger at the father. “You.”

  “You’re a sick bastard.” Spittle came out of his mouth as he trembled with rage. “You’re both sick bastards.”

  Kharon shrugged. “And if you’re not permanently crippled in mind from witnessing all your progeny disappear off the face of the earth, one funeral at a time, once the last of your seed dies, you’ll suffer a beating so crippling to your body that you’ll never again know a moment of joy.” Kharon reached over and tapped on the father’s phone. “Or.”

  The father stared at the phone.

  Teacher said, “To quote your son’s eloquent speech at your daughter’s memorial service, ‘Give us what we want or watch your family die.’”

  Tank’s father shut his eyes and drew in a breath. “Damn you. Damn you all to hell!” he yelled. He opened his eyes and glared at his son. “Most of all, you.”