Marios put up his hand. “Stop. No need to placate me. I’m not crazy.” His voice was firmer than before, but not strident or angry. “This involves far more than just the Kostopoulos boy’s death. His is not an isolated event. It is perhaps the most dramatic in recent memory, but it is
not
something new. This has been going on in our country for years.”
Crazy or not, Andreas had no choice but to hear him out. “Okay, so tell me what you know. But I want specifics.” He paused as if wondering if he should say more. “Based on evidence, not some conspiracy theory woven by a TV producer looking for ratings.”
Kouros’ face jerked toward Andreas, and both cops braced for an explosion.
Instead, there was a very long, noticeable silence. Marios kept staring into the row between them. “Our Greece is a land steeped in history, a country that long ago learned how to survive its people. The question is, in these modern times, does our country require some help, or shall we leave it to the fates to decide its future?” He stopped and looked into the eyes of each man. “Do you really want to hear this? Because once you do and come to see that what I tell you is true, you will face two choices: accept what you cannot change and live within a system antithetical to your core principles, or endure lifelong, merciless frustration battling against choice number one.”
Andreas smiled. “You sure know how to set the hook.”
“Millions think so.” Marios forced a smile. It was his last of any sort for more than an hour.
***
Marios’ reputation for telling terrific stories without allowing anything as pesky as the whole truth to interfere with his tales made Andreas wonder how much of what he was saying was true and how much was his form of “journalistic interpretation” or, as the less sophisticated would call it,
bullshit
.
Marios believed in a world run by bargains and distractions. Bargains by the all-powerful to stay that way; distractions for the masses to keep them that way. It was not a very optimistic view of man. He believed those hungry for power did whatever necessary to achieve it and expended ruthlessly higher quantum levels of effort to keep it.
All of that required distracting the masses from their plight or, where life was not so bad, from the disparity of so much power in the hands of so few. Hate and fear always seemed to work. “Just find the right scapegoat…and run with it.” Different ethnicities—“find a way to justify to Greeks that it’s bad for the Turks and you’re home free;” different styles of worship, even within the same faith—“look a few countries east of here for daily, bloody examples of that;” race—“name a Western country, make that any racially or tribally mixed place in the world, free of those tensions;” political differences—“though significant ones are hard to find today among organized parties;” class distinctions—“my family is better than yours because…fill in the blank;” and, in a pinch, fans of a rival sports team—“no example necessary,
(.+)
or
(.+)
. The bottom line goal: keep the focus off of us. Whoever
us
may be.”
Andreas had seen Marios perform enough times on TV to know he was building up to his point and that there’d be no hurrying him along.
“Hitler’s rise to power in the 1930s should leave no doubt in anyone’s mind that even the world’s most advanced civilization can, under the right circumstances, allow a mind-boggling many to suffer for the goals of a few…and a miserable few at that.
“Since 9/11 much of the world’s focus has been on threats of foreign terror, but in the long term what we face from within is likely to be far more menacing and difficult to control, absent a Stalinist-like will.” He paused and looked at Andreas. “I’m not suggesting a return to the Regime of the Colonels, or anything of the sort. I’m just making my point.”
Andreas took that as Marios’ way of saying he knew all about his father’s service to the dictatorship and what followed. What Andreas couldn’t tell was whether the remark was intended as some sort of threat or just to show that he knew his facts.
“The United States will never forget 9/11 or Pearl Harbor. And it better never forget Oklahoma City—Americans killing Americans for the sake of terror.”
Andreas adjusted his position in his seat.
Marios gave him a quick, sharp look. “Am I losing my audience?” He paused, no doubt for effect, then continued. “Okay, here’s my point. We all know about 17 November.”
What Greek didn’t? It was the name taken by Greece’s most notorious homegrown terrorist organization from the final day of the 1973 student uprising at the Athens Polytechnic University credited with launching Greece’s return to democracy in 1974.
“Ever wonder how 17 November managed to operate undetected for almost thirty years, assassinating over twenty prominent people in more than one hundred attacks—starting with the assassination of the CIA’s section chief in Athens?
“And I’m not just talking about their attacks on US military personnel, Turkish and British diplomats. Their primary targets were prominent members of Greece’s establishment. A member of parliament, a publisher, a banker, a businessman, a ship owner, a prosecutor, police. The list goes on and on. And they got away with it
for almost thirty years
.”
He paused, and spread his arms. “That is, until June 2002, when a miracle happened and a botched bombing unraveled the entire organization. By December 2003, 17 November’s leadership was captured, convicted, and sentenced away. Just in time for Greece’s hosting of the 2004 Olympics.”
Greeks see a conspiracy in the number of raisins in a cereal box, Andreas thought.
“I know, you probably heard that before, but that doesn’t mean you should dismiss it. As much as we would like to forget our past, in it there is a basis for true concern as to the lengths some might go to retain or
regain
power.”
Another reference to the regime his father served.
“And there are signs of new, at least seemingly new, groups trying to pick up where 17 November left off—” he rolled his left hand out in front of him to finish his sentence without saying the obvious words aloud,
now that the Olympics are over
.
He was right about new groups forming. Isolated bombings with manifestoes were back. Hopefully not for long.
“The trouble with groups on the fringe is you’re never quite sure which fringe they’re on. You may think you do by their targets and words, but not always. For example, the declared aim of 17 November was to discredit and humiliate the establishment and the US government, not to disrupt Greek society as a whole. At least that’s what they said. Yet in the thirty years of 17 November terror, Greece’s establishment not only expanded, it thrived. And with every death came a profit of some sort to someone.”
Andreas had enough. “Okay, I get it, we’ve got a great left-wing, or is it right-wing, conspiracy going on out there. Carrying out clandestine acts on behalf of unnamed powers. Assuming there’s any truth to all this, what does it have to do with the Kostopoulos kid ending up in a dumpster?” He probably could have been more diplomatic.
“I don’t know.”
Is this guy jerking my chain?
Marios continued. “Over the past several years quite a few foreign-born but Greek families who achieved great wealth in Greece suddenly moved away, selling everything.”
Andreas’ patience was nearly at its end. “So?”
“And none would ever say why they left so suddenly.”
Andreas drummed his fingers on the seat between them.
“But there was a pattern to three of those families, one I admit I never saw until the Kostopoulos boy’s death.”
Finally, something relevant. Please.
“In each case a family member died unexpectedly.”
This time Andreas gestured, so?
“And within a day after each death, the rest of the family left Greece. Never to return.”
The thought sat in the air, as if no one dared go after it.
The first thing Andreas could think of to say was, “Why did you decide to tell me this?”
“I was told to. But I only agreed after I was convinced you’re a man to be trusted. And the one man in Greece possibly dumb enough to risk doing something about it.”
He wasn’t sure if that was meant as a threat or a compliment. “Who told you that?”
“A friend.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Does it matter?”
Andreas couldn’t imagine what sort of friend would drop him into the middle of such a goddamned mess. Then again, he’d already waded in on his own; so possibly it was a warning to watch where he stepped. Or to back off. Either way, he was better off knowing.
“Any suggestions on where to go from here?”
Marios handed him an envelope that was sitting on the seat next to him. “Inside is all the information I have on the other three families. I also included the name and phone number of a friend who’s tied into Athens society. I think she might be able to help you.”
“Does she know about this?”
Marios gestured no. “But she’s smart, so be careful what you say if you don’t want her to figure it out.”
They shook hands, exchanged perfunctory smiles, and said goodbye in the theater. Marios didn’t walk them out, probably to avoid being seen with Andreas any more than he already had been. Andreas couldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t want to be seen with himself, knowing what he knew now.
“Ever see any of those old-time American Laurel and Hardy movies?”
“You mean the ones with the tall, skinny guy and the short, fat one?”
Andreas nodded yes. They were standing outside Tholos next to their car, engaged in the ubiquitous self-destructive Greek ritual of cigarette smoking. Andreas knew it was bad for him, but he only smoked when stressed. Or so he told himself. “One always was complaining about the messes the other kept getting them into.”
Kouros smiled and nodded.
Andreas stretched and yawned. “Marios really was unhappy about talking to us.”
“What do you think it was that had the all-powerful Marios doing something he didn’t want to do?”
Andreas shrugged. “I’m more interested in
who
got him to do it.” He stared at the ground and thought,
beware of Greeks bearing gifts
. “How much of what he said do you think is true?”
“No, idea. But I’ll start checking out those three families as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Have Maggie help you. If anyone knows the gossip or where to find it, she does.” Andreas drew in on his cigarette and exhaled. “I wonder how long Marios has known what he told us and what his reasons were for not doing something about it sooner?”
“Maybe somebody just told him, someone with enough influence to keep him from breaking the story on TV?”
“More likely someone who pointed out that running it meant his probable immediate and painful demise.”
“Who?”
“Wish I knew.”
“But why come to us now? I mean to you, Chief.”
“Don’t know, and until we do, let’s assume the worst possible motive. But, my guess is because
we
,” he pointed to Kouros and back at himself, “already were on to something.” Andreas finished his cigarette and crushed it out on the ground instead of the flick-it-away-burning-live method used by so many others. “Let’s get back to the office. I want to check out this woman Marios wants us to meet before calling her. We already have too many intrigues and big-time players’ fingerprints all over this investigation. All I know for sure is we better watch each other’s back, assume nothing, and tell
no one
what we learned today.”
Kouros pursed his lips and nodded. His look was serious. “Can I say it now, Chief?”
“Say what?”
“‘
Here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.
’”
***
Maggie delivered what she had to say to Andreas leaning over his desk and waving her finger. She ended with, “So, if you’re going to leave me to run all the other cases we have in this office while you’re off at the movies with big-time celebrities, fine, but at least answer your phone when I’m trying to reach you. I can’t make
every
decision. Not at my pay grade.” She had a gift for putting just the right amount of humor into her assaults on her boss.
“I get your point.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, what do you have on the Kostopoulos family?”
“Like Marios said, their plane left first thing this morning. The flight plan said Rome. Not sure who was on it, though.”
“Why’s that?” Andreas sounded puzzled.
“It was a flight within the European Union, and being a private plane…” she shrugged.
Andreas nodded. “Anyone back at the Kostopoulos’ house?”
“I had a cruiser stop by, and they were told the family had left the country. No idea when they’re coming back.”
Andreas exhaled. “Christ.” He looked at Kouros standing next to Maggie. “Could he be right about all this?”
“About what?” asked Maggie.
“Nothing. Yianni, start going over those files with Maggie, I’m going to see what I can find out about Lila Vardi.”
“
The
Lila Vardi?”
Andreas stared at Maggie, shook his head, and smiled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Okay, tell me what you know.”
“She comes from one of the oldest families in Greece. Vardi is her married name. You’ll find her maiden name on at least one product on practically every dinner table in Greece.”
He knew the name; everyone who ate did.
“Her husband died in a car crash about three years ago. She kept her husband’s name. The papers said as a memorial to him.”
“What does she do?”
“Not much. She has her family money, and her husband was a successful ship owner, not one of the biggies or from one of the old families, but successful.”
Andreas rolled his eyes. “You mean annual income only in the mega-millions as opposed to multi-mega millions?”
She smiled. “Stop with the stereotypes, I’m sure they’re just like you and me.”
“Yeah, right.” It was Kouros.
Maggie shook her head. “Okay, guys, enough with the revolution.”
“What else do you know about her?” asked Andreas.
“She’s around thirty, attractive, educated in the US, involved in a lot of charity and museum work, with a reputation as a real lady.”
“Too bad, Chief.” Kouros spoke with a lilt of humor to his voice. Andreas shot him a look that was anything but humorous. The blood drained from Kouros’ face; he stared down at the floor.
“What else, Maggie?” Andreas’ voice was tight, but if Maggie wondered what was going on, she didn’t show it.
“No kids, no steady boyfriend, no scandals, a dog, six cats, and a parrot.”
“Blood type?”
“Probably.” She always was quicker than he.
Andreas smiled. “Okay, so where can I find her?”
“I’ll get it for you.” She turned and left the office.
“Sorry, Chief.” Kouros was looking at Andreas as he spoke.
Andreas stared at him. “You got the point?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Andreas paused. “Do you have someone watching Anna?”
“Yes, a team’s been watching her building since first thing this morning.”
Andreas nodded. “Now, find out what the hell has happened to those three families and where the Kostopoulos family is now. We’ve got to start talking to people. Maybe we should chase down that Demosthenes guy?”
Kouros shook his head. “The prints came back. Clean as a whistle. Not even an unpaid parking ticket.”
“Damn, I’d have sworn he was involved in this somehow. Run him by Interpol, just in case.”
“Already did, Chief. Nothing on him.”
Andreas jerked his head to the side as he swore again.
Kouros said, “Do you think we should start talking to members of the Linardos family? I mean, if all this banishment stuff is true, they’d sure seem likely to be part of it.”
Andreas buzzed Maggie. “Any word on Sarantis Linardos?”
“His secretary said he’s still out of town. She’s not sure when he’ll be back.”
Andreas looked at Kouros. “I wish we had something more to go on than a hunch. But until we speak to him,” Andreas pointed at the intercom, “I don’t see us getting anywhere banging away on garbage cans in the middle of every Linardos family member’s living room.”
Kouros said nothing.
“Yianni, I made my point before about the…” he rolled his hand in the air, “other thing. That’s done and finished, you can return to your normal self.”
“Yes, sir, I understand. No garbage in the living room.”
“Or the bedroom, please.” Andreas grinned.
Maggie knocked before opening the door. “Here’s her home address. She lives next to the Palace at 30 Irodou Attikou.” Perhaps the most exclusive street in Athens; only a few blocks long and filled with money.
“Guess it’s time to shine my shoes.”
***
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. For many it’s blond hair, sparkling (capped) teeth, an overworked gym membership, and of course, big tits. On the other side, it often seems to be his gold Rolex, endless ego, and full-term-pregnant size belly—with the relevance of all else measured inversely against the depth of his financial statement.
Lila Vardi fit no one’s mold. Practically every big-time Lothario,
kamaki
, social climber, and fortune-hunter in Athens, plus a few visiting players, took a shot at her. She had heard the same lines so many times she feared her eyes bore a permanent glaze. As if that weren’t bad enough, only respect for her mother’s incessant good intentions kept Lila from cutting her veins rather than enduring another tortured moment in the presence of one of her mother’s “finds” for her.
Lila kept her jet-black hair short, her almond-shaped brown eyes bright, her well-toned skin tanned, her figure trim, and her lovely-to-look-at breasts unhampered by a bra. When she felt like it, nothing stood between her body and what the rest of the world saw her wear. She liked it that way. A little sensual secret she kept to herself, for no man had been with her since her husband died. She liked that, too. His memory was the only man she wanted in her life. She was thirty-five and satisfied herself in other ways.
Her current passion was volunteer public relations on behalf the Museum of Hellenic Art. Virtually single-handedly, she kept its world-renowned collection in the public eye. Through her society friends and media connections, rarely a week passed without some story, or at least a few photographs, appearing in one of Greece’s most popular celebrity magazines or tabloids. It wasn’t an ego trip; it was what kept the museum alive. There might be smiles on their faces and dignity in their voices, but among most museum boards fundraising was a relentless battle against fickle giving habits and opportunistic competitors. In keeping with the fundraising truism that “donors like being part of something important, visible, and sexy,” Lila was as priceless to the museum as anything in its collection. And since the museum paid only her expenses, she truly was priceless.
She planned to meet friends for lunch at Egli in the park across from her apartment, but Marios asked her to meet some pushy policeman who insisted on seeing her immediately. She couldn’t refuse Marios; he was far too influential, but she scheduled the meeting for her home. She was certain her place would make the policeman uncomfortable enough to leave quickly. She was used to keeping the who-do-they-think-they-are at bay, especially men.
***
Andreas wasn’t looking forward to this meeting. He’d called the Vardi home, said Mrs. Vardi was expecting his call and that he would like to meet with her this afternoon. He was put on hold for five minutes before being told, “Mrs. Vardi is busy this afternoon. Perhaps you could call back tomorrow?”
When he asked if she would be available to meet tomorrow the response was, “She will let you know then.”
It took a typically Greek, high-decibel level call from Andreas to Marios to arrange a meeting for that afternoon. How Marios ever thought this woman would be helpful was beyond him. She wouldn’t even agree to meet until squeezed. Andreas decided to have a quick, courteous meeting and be done with her. What a waste of time.
Mrs. Vardi’s apartment building was at the old Olympic Stadium end of the street, facing the park. The lobby showed impeccable old-world taste, and the doormen behaved as expected in such a place: courteous to the point of obsequious while they determined where you fit into the pecking order of things. With cops, doormen could go either way, depending on how many favors they might need. Andreas gave just his name, not title, and waited while he was announced.
“Mrs. Vardi’s maid said you will have to wait until she’s finished with her trainer.”
Andreas smiled. The doorman shrugged and pointed him toward an equivalently elegant sitting room. Andreas walked in, sat down, crossed his legs and gazed nowhere in particular. If anyone were watching, he looked as much at ease with the world as a tourist in a deckchair on a Mediterranean cruise.
Was this woman as self-absorbed as she appeared or just playing games? This was an old interviewing ploy: keep someone waiting to put them under stress and establish who was in charge. Andreas wondered if the camera inconspicuously mounted in the far corner of the room was connected to monitors in the apartments.
Ten minutes passed before the doorman came in and said, “You may go up to Mrs. Vardi’s apartment now.”
Andreas smiled and walked toward the elevator as if all were perfect with the world.
It’s going to be tough being nice to this bitch
.
Lila’s apartment was on the sixth floor, about as high as any old residential building was built in earthquake-conscious Athens. In fact, it was the entire sixth floor with a view of both the Acropolis and Lykavittos.
The elevator opened directly into a large, welcoming entry foyer, decorated in the French neoclassical style of Louis XVI. But the openness, of course, was an illusion, because these days no one in their right mind left an apartment accessible to the outside world, with or without the most cautious of elevator operators and doormen.
Andreas stepped into the foyer, and the elevator operator pointed to a pair of French doors at the far end. “There’s a bell to the right.”
Andreas pressed the bell. He noticed that the curtains hanging on each door did not cover windows, but painted images of windows. And the doors weren’t made of wood, but of high security steel finished in the same style. More illusion.
The doors opened and a woman dressed in a black maid’s uniform—starched white lace apron and all—told him to follow her. She led him through room after room filled with antiques and paintings, none of which he recognized nor expected to. It wasn’t his thing, even if he could afford them. Strange, he thought, with all the dead bodies he’d seen in his life, he still wasn’t used to them; but his brief time in the Kostopoulos home made this seem just another rich person’s house.
She led him into a room with a breathtaking view of the Acropolis and told him to make himself comfortable. He expected another let’s-make-him-wait experience. He didn’t mind, the view kept him occupied. He stood by the windows, looked out at the city, and wondered whether those who had such glorious views took them for granted.
“Mr. Kaldis? Or is there a title I should be using?”
He turned away from the window to face the woman standing in the doorway, smiled, and said, “Whatever makes you comfortable, Mrs. Vardi.”
“Then, what exactly
is
your title?” She did not move. Her arms were crossed and her voice coldly professional.