by Ben Pastor
“Don’t underestimate me.” Bora feared losing his temper to the same extent as Sinclair had regained his composure. He knocked on the door to be let out of the room.
Sinclair’s tranquil voice followed him past the threshold. “Don’t underestimate me, Captain. Tomorrow I’ll be beyond reach of your malicious impostures, and you had better find your culprit somewhere else.”
Bora walked out of the building, angry with himself. He resented having wasted time not understanding earlier, being unable to snap the last link of the chain, and now having the Red Cross against him to boot. The still-bright afternoon sun engulfed him, with the wearying impression this day would never come to an end. He went next door to the next hurdle, securing from his Air Force colleagues an outgoing flight and access to a telegraph. Busch’s clearance obtained both.
The coded exchange with Bruno Lattmann in Athens had the quality of urgent familiarity between them. Lattmann had “some material” for Bora, and Bora asked him to be on the Dekeleia runway at 1.30 in the morning. In comparison, asking about “Soviet operatives in 1928–30 Shanghai, better if English-speaking” seemed a tame request.
Lattmann was famous for his unmilitary retorts, coded or clear. “Don’t get greedy.”
It was nearly six o’clock before Bora looked for Kostaridis’ car outside the gate. Kostaridis, however, had been ordered by the guards to park at a distance, at the end of an oven-hot strip of tarmac that melted under the studded soles of the mountain boots.
The inspector drove back without asking questions. At one point, he said, “I’ll have your things and papers returned to Ithaca Street this evening,” and, “There’s some bottled water in the back. You had better drink.”
Bora automatically reached for the bottle, uncapped it, and swigged it dry. “There’s another.”
Bora drained that, too. “Thank you.”
Suddenly fatigue threatened to overwhelm him. Only a word, knocking about in his head, made him restless enough not to fall asleep during the ride. Privilege. Privilege. Sinclair is right; it’s about privilege. With me, and him, and Waldo Preger, each in our way. It was privilege fifteen years ago at Trakehnen, that summer day.
Privilege is the key to remembering.
Yes. Yes, of course. It comes to me now, that row behind the abandoned factory, where Pastor Wüsteritz hanged himself.
I am twelve, and have a row with Waldo Preger behind the abandoned factory because of the book. The book. How could I forget? It’s because – although I don’t believe a word of what I’m saying – on principle and out of family obedience I defend my stepfather’s prohibition to read Mein Kampf, Herr Hitler’s book. The one I saved money to buy, and read before it was taken from me, for which I was punished. Doggedly, blindly I stand for the prohibition, so much so that finally Waldo punches me in the face.
The blow brings me to my senses. I strike back with both fists, in my heart wishing Herr Hitler could see me now because, even though I outwardly justify my stepfather’s action, I believe I’m the sort of young German the Fatherland is looking for. My own divided loyalties enrage me, while my playmate has no doubts and newly sees me as the enemy.
Why did I imagine him as a monarchist? I may be the master’s son, but he belongs to the master race.
Peter steps in just as we roll furiously on the ground and blood has started to flow.
I am twelve, and am dragged in a sorry state by my stepfather to apologize to the Pregers: old privilege demands it. Thankfully, Waldo isn’t there (he’s licking his wounds), but he’ll hear about it and gloat. That’s new privilege.
I am twelve and I know absolutely nothing about the world.
12
“Is there a place to eat in Iraklion where there are no Germans?”
They were close to the turn-off for Ithaca Street when Bora asked. Kostaridis looked over as if he were confronted with a rhetorical question. “None where a German would eat.”
“Epitropos, I’m tired. Is there such a place, or not?”
“It’s not even six-thirty; Greeks dine much later.” Bora’s insistence must appear odd to him, but aggressive enough to require a solution. “We could go to my house,” Kostaridis suggested. And immediately, to prevent objections to his offer, he hastened to add, “You know how it is with us bachelors. I never married. The absence of a woman in the house…”
Bora was well past being finicky. He’d eat anything set in front of him at this point. “I accept. Can we go immediately? I need to talk to you.”
Between there and Kostaridis’ house they stopped by the depot long enough for Bora to pick up a few additional supplies for dinner, and also for the air journey.
The house front was unassuming, squeezed between centuries-old massive buildings of the Venetian type. Once inside, it was like turning off the heat of day. The twilit interior was several degrees cooler than the street, and once the shutters yawned open, the spotless picture of order.
Regardless of whether or not Bora seemed surprised, Kostaridis explained, “This is actually my brother’s house. He’s a civil servant presently in the mainland. I room upstairs.” His scruffiness, the way the hair sat on his head pasted down by sweat and brilliantine, looked out of place on the dignified ground floor. And if he indirectly apologized for them, Bora was torn between regretting his dirty boots and thinking, I can’t imagine what his rooms look like upstairs.
Pointing to a flight of steps, Kostaridis said, “I’m going to my studio to phone the office and let them know I’ll be back later. Feel free to freshen up and make yourself comfortable, capitano.”
Bora took the invitation literally. His old habit of checking the premises led him to glance discreetly into middle-class spaces where family photos shared the walls with watercolours, and inherited furniture had glassed-in shelves with embroidered doilies under stacks of plates. In an oval frame there was a photo portrait of a couple, certainly the Kostaridis elders. A grumpy, faded pair sitting next to each other, a moustached old man (the Smyrna hotel employee) and a woman with a sad and forceful look about her. And everything impeccably clean, cool, due to those thick walls and louvred shutters. When he glanced into the bedroom, the door of the wardrobe, partly open, offered a view of neatly hung suits, ties, summer and winter shoes.
A fastidious brother assigned to a government post justified the spotlessness; the only concession to Vairon was the encased Olympics pistol on a table, and his bronze medal under glass. In the immaculate bathroom, where Bora went to wash and quickly pass the razor blade over his face, the mirror above the basin returned a pitiless, sunburnt image of dust and strain. Dining took a matter of minutes. Kostaridis wanted to set the table, but Bora was anxious to summarize his findings, so they ate as single men ever did, standing in the kitchen.
“Epitropos, do you recall when we discussed the weapons used at Ampelokastro, and we resolved that two men were involved? You said something to the effect that one of the two shooters might have hesitated to open fire on defenceless civilians.”
“Judging from the evidence on the back wall, yes. It looked as though one of the two submachine guns struck mostly the wall.”
“I say there was only one shooter, who used two submachine guns so that a commando action would be hypothesized. The ammunition used, 9×19 mm, matches the Italian-made MAB 38s, which our paratroopers carry along with the Schmeisser, as the witness photos clearly show. Well, I thought, what are the alternatives? We have to exclude Italian troops, nowhere around Iraklion. After the first week of battle, those effective Breda guns might have been easy to come by: dead Germans were stripped of more than just their weapons. Even a hothead like Sidheraki managed to swipe a few.”
“Yes, but —”
Bora interrupted him. “Bear with me, Epitropos. The only flight out I could find between now and the day after tomorrow leaves at midnight, and there’s still much I must do before I leave. I’ll make it short. The photos of the paratroopers kept me thinking ‘MAB 38’, while I knew very w
ell that other machine guns take the same calibre, including our enemies’ favourite Sten. But why would British troops kill harmless locals?”
Kostaridis listened silently, with a glass of wine and water in his hand that would remain half full throughout, and a pained look of attention on his face. “Well, one of them was not local, capitano. And since, shall we say, he worked for Germany – I don’t know, the money, the deposit box under another name – perhaps not even harmless.”
“True. Which is why a Briton might open fire on him.” The inspector leaned against the wall circling the glass in his pale hands, staring at Bora with his bulging eyes. No mention of espionage was made, although it stood to reason that it might be involved. He heard the summary of the past three days without interrupting. All he then said was, “But short of a clear motive you have to be able to prove that the relationship between killer and intended victim was the motive.”
“Right.” It was the hurdle, undeniably.
“The lieutenant could have mistaken the sergeant’s name in good faith, and one dead dog may resemble another. The photos tell a credible story. Where would the killer come from, and how could he not have run into the paratroopers or his compatriot, already hiding near the villa?”
Behind Kostaridis, above the tiled half of the wall hung a colourful calendar, showing a photograph of the Parthenon. Bora looked at it as he spoke. “I recalled your telling me, as we approached Ampelokastro from the high ground, that by another trail you could rejoin the road to Skala and enter Villiger’s garden through the rear gate. That’s what the killer did, as a precaution, and incidentally why he and Sergeant Cowell, who stumbled on his own to the property from the north, missed each other. Both had to lie low when German paratroopers unexpectedly approached from across the brook. The soldiers were due elsewhere and uninterested in wasting time with civilians. Seeing the bad state of the road along the brook, they took the shortcut through the garden, proceeding in silence as we generally do on patrol. The household probably never even noticed their passage. I learnt in Poland that, at war, often civilians leave gates and doors open: soldiers won’t hesitate to break them down, and you might as well not bother with locks.”
“The island was swarming with troops those first few days.”
“Precisely. From his vantage point above the villa, Sinclair watched the Germans come and go. As soon as they were out of earshot, he entered the garden. In true army fashion, he did in minutes all he had to do. On the front steps his dog might have grown nervous, so he shot it point-blank, kicked the door in, and opened fire.” The wall calendar hung slightly crooked; one could imagine the Parthenon sliding from its podium like a cake from a platter. “I’ve seen it done, Epitropos. It’s really very easy with petrified civilians. He surprised his victims from the doorstep and missed none of them. Still, he crossed the floor and fired from the opposite side of the room, so we’d imagine the presence of an accomplice. He exhausted both cartridge belts, which is why later he had to use his handgun against the photographer.”
“And where did the Sten guns end up?”
“Open-ended question. He surely rid himself of them: but if you can – your words – drop 10,000 men on this island and lose track of them, you can lose track of two rifles. The Turk could have found them, or they may lie smashed into pieces somewhere.” Bora looked at his watch, as if looking at it could slow down the passing of time. “First, however, whether or not Sinclair was looking for someone else – or something – in the house, I believe he went upstairs, and was still there ten or fifteen minutes later, when the unwary Sergeant Cowell stumbled in and photographed the scene. Remember, you and I never heard Savelli above us until he dropped a book on the floor. Naturally, Sinclair meant to head back north and give himself a credible alibi by ‘falling into enemy hands’. His intention was from the start to make the killing seem like a military action, possibly our doing – we Germans certainly haven’t been above suspicion, even in Crete. But if he spied unseen his compatriot taking pictures, he realized that under certain circumstances photographic proof could be useful. Cowell unwittingly obliged him by photographing Breda-toting German troops entering the garden!”
Kostaridis put away the glass without drinking. A frown made his forehead into a criss-cross of folds, his mouth stayed half-open and a bit slack in contemplation before he said, “Clear enough. The ammunition calibre was consistent with German weapons. So you say the killer crept after the photographer out of the house, and both headed north. But why shoot him a few minutes later – and not kill him?”
Bora looked away from the calendar. “Actually, he did kill him in the end: the man died of his wound. Sinclair had to intervene when Cowell stopped to photograph the two dead Britons on the side of the road. Should the roll of film end up in British hands, the dead soldiers could be identified and traced to his delaying action, and he didn’t want the two to be in any way connected to what happened at the villa. I doubt, Epitropos, that he knew the dead mascot had been photographed, because – even without a collar – it might be recognized, and in fact was. Had Sinclair known, he’d have made sure Cowell did not survive. All the more, it was remarkable how he didn’t bat an eyelid when I showed him Raj’s image, by which time he could only pretend he wasn’t familiar with the dog. He also had to take a risk and assume he hadn’t been photographed. If he didn’t kill Cowell, it’s because he thought he’d be useful. Remember, the photos ‘proved’ a German war crime and had to reach a recipient.”
Kostaridis seemed restless. But he was only looking for cigarettes, which he found next to the gas stove. “It was a big risk.”
“But worth it. The only thing Sinclair did not plan on was finding himself elbow to elbow with the wounded sergeant in the same queue at Kato Kalesia. But he readily went along when Cowell confided to him he’d photographed German paratroopers entering the garden before the shooting. An excellent addition to his scenario. And no mention whatever of British officers or dead dogs! Still, with Cowell alive matters could become sticky eventually, so – once he had secured the camera – Sinclair encouraged him and a few others to make a run for it. Some were killed right off. As for Cowell, who escaped the bullets this time, stumbling away with an untreated arm wound could and did result in death.”
Kostaridis took out an Italian coffee maker and heaped it with enough fine grounds for six people. “Part of this you reconstructed from what Rifat Bey told you. Will he confirm it before the authorities? He’s not to be trusted.”
“I gather as much.” It was all Bora said about the Turk’s parting quip about his dead wives. “My task was to clear German soldiers of the accusation, which I think I did. I placed Sinclair at Ampelokastro at the time of Villiger’s death. The War Crimes Bureau or the IRC would be able to prove that the men in his detail and the unit’s mascot were killed by his pistol, if a full investigation were launched.”
Kostaridis used his cigarette to light the gas under the coffee maker. “And you think it will?” Above the gas stove, he noticed the crooked calendar and raised his arm to right it. “As a policeman I see total lack of a motive, shall we say, and only circumstantial evidence. Once your paratroopers are cleared, with all that’s going on…”
“That’s what frustrates me most. I can’t prove Sinclair’s guilt before he’s removed to the mainland. I leave from the airfield in the middle of the night; he sails on a hospital ship at seven-thirty from Iraklion’s harbour. There’s nothing I can do about it; the Red Cross has taken an interest in him and might even see that he is handed to the soft-hearted Italians.” Bora shook his head in disgust. He ached all over, and refused to sit down only because it would be painful to have to get up again. When Kostaridis nodded with his head toward the coffee maker, Bora took a Thermos flask out of his rucksack and handed it to him. “By the way, Andonis Sidheraki is alive and well in the interior; you won’t shake him – or his wife – off any time soon. And if Signora Cordoval isn’t the only one of her kind in Crete, Epitropos, do me
the favour of telling me nothing. I don’t want to know. It’s clear you’re an old hand at keeping quiet about things.” The inspector’s look of dumb innocence unexpectedly amused him. “When you dropped in uninvited at the cobbler’s, I meant it when I accused you of conniving to stop me. But you have to forgive me; I have a German’s prejudice against southern Europeans. The truth is that you didn’t need to lead me by the nose; I did it very well by myself.” Bora glanced around the well-kept kitchen. “Your self-effacing act, so down at heel… I should have known when you wouldn’t even drop a spent match on the floor of Villiger’s library. A man who sets straight a crooked calendar while murder is being discussed. There’s no civil servant brother, is there? And I wager that in peacetime, when there are no Germans around, your elegance is a small legend in Iraklion.”
Kostaridis looked down, very pleased, but he didn’t say yes or no.
“It confirms what I thought, Epitropos – that you and Rifat Bey were in touch regarding Signora: otherwise when we climbed to his terrace he’d have remarked on your unprecedented shabbiness.” Bora swallowed a yawn. “I really should go; it’s just over four hours to my flight. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll put it to good use. Won’t you have any?”
“I never drink coffee at night. It’s off to Ithaca Street, then. Your things are back there, and the door to the apartment was repaired.”
“Yes. I do need to change before I see my colleague in the Airborne. I’ll walk to the Megaron from the lodgings. I need to stay awake.”
When they left the house, a pastel tinge in the sky softened all colours, and would turn to shadow before long. A nearly full moon had risen. The transient quality of the hour, between day and night, made the indifferent street view memorable somehow, as the mind at times ascribes value to plain images and stores them away for later. Bora’s discontent must have been palpable, because Kostaridis paused after taking the car keys out of his pocket.
