Petro gestured no. “I couldn’t pull them off the recording.”
Andreas kept his eyes fixed on Petro but out the corner of one he saw Kouros grimace.
“So, I brought the whole thing. It’s on this.” Petro handed Andreas a DVD.
Kouros smiled.
“Let’s see what we have here.” Andreas slid the disc into his computer as the other cops came behind his desk and crowded around the screen.
“It covers everyone coming into the club last night,” said Petro.
Andreas stood up. “Sit here, Petro, and get us to where the three guys we’re interested in show up.”
Andreas, Tassos, and Kouros huddled around Petro as he scanned through the recording. A minute or so into the search he froze the video. “Here’s where they got out of the limo.”
The first one out looked the size of a giant. “That’s the bodyguard.”
“Anyone recognize him?” said Andreas.
“No,” said Tassos and Kouros together.
“Probably not from around here. I’ll get Maggie to pull a photo off the DVD and see what our records boys and Europol can come up with.”
Petro pointed to the screen. “This one’s ‘Ugly Guy.’ He’s the boss.”
“Sort of built like you, Tassos,” said Kouros.
Tassos gently smacked Kouros on the back of his head. “Thank God he has your looks. Otherwise the ladies would never leave him alone.”
“Enough already. Does anyone recognize him?” said Andreas.
“No,” said Kouros.
Tassos leaned in and studied the image. “There’s something about this guy that seems vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Another one for Maggie and Europol. So who’s next?”
“It’s the Greek. He’s getting out of the limo now.” Petro froze the image.
“Nope,” said Tassos.
“Me either,” said Andreas.
Kouros didn’t speak.
“Yianni?” said Andreas.
Kouros leaned in closer to the screen, leaned back, and nodded. “Yes, I know him. He was one of my uncle’s morning coffee buddies. His name is Alexander, he’s a politician.”
“Holy shit,” said Tassos.
“No, more like ‘holy war’ if any of this ties into my uncle’s murder and my cousins find out about it,” said Kouros.
“But the girl didn’t hear anything to suggest that any of the people at Orestes’ table had something to do with murdering your uncle.” Tassos looked at Petro. “Or did she?”
“No.”
“Just the opposite,” said Andreas. “It sounded to me like they were hustling to hold things together because of his death.”
“So, where do we go from here?” said Kouros.
Andreas pointed at the screen. “If anyone knows whether someone other than the dead taverna owner was involved in your uncle’s murder, it’s likely one of these guys.”
“I guess that means it’s time to pay Alexander a visit,” said Kouros.
Andreas gestured no. “Not yet. He’s not going anywhere. Especially if he doesn’t know we’re on to him. I want IDs on the other two guys first, because as soon as they know we’re interested in them they’ll disappear from Greece.”
“I assume asking Orestes for his buddies’ names is out of the question for the same reason?” said Tassos.
Andreas nodded. “Let’s get photos of the two we don’t know out for a priority ID and see what comes back.”
“Make a copy of Ugly Guy for me,” said Tassos. “It might help jog my memory.”
“While doing windows?” smiled Kouros.
Tassos shrugged. “One must do whatever it takes to make things clearer.”
Kouros smacked his forehead and shook his head.
Tassos patted Kouros on the shoulder. “No need to say it, my boy. I know. You’ve missed me.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tassos left Andreas’ office with Ugly Guy’s photograph and an idea. If Ugly Guy had a criminal record, sooner or later Europol would identify him. But Tassos had another, more expeditious sort of international information clearinghouse in mind.
The Kolonaki area of downtown Athens was as chic as you’d find in Greece. Just west of the main boulevard leading north toward the city’s more affluent northern suburbs, its fancy shops, restaurants, and residences lay at the heart of official Athens. Parliament, its members, and anyone dependent upon government largesse knew it well, for in Kolonaki much of the government’s business—both official and otherwise—took place. Some met in offices, but it was in tavernas and cafés alongside park-like Kolonaki Square that a grand measure of the country’s past had come to be.
Tassos parked in a no-parking zone and walked along the northern border of the small park surrounding an ancient column from which the area drew its name. He stopped in front of a large taverna at the intersection of Tsakalof and Patriarchou Ioakeim streets. Customers at its sidewalk tables sat checking out every passerby as if hoping to spot a celebrity, but it was well past morning coffee time for Greece’s movers and shakers. By now they sat in their offices doing whatever the important and powerful did.
No matter, Tassos was hunting different game: old lions who still came out for early morning coffee, but lingered on into the afternoon talking among themselves of the good old days when they ruled the universe. He crossed the street toward a storefront of broad glass, polished natural wood, green marble, and Parisian green trim. A long row of green-top café tables and matching beige and green chairs sat next to the building and continued on alongside an awning-covered abutting patio, all part of the same self-service cafenion.
He walked into the shop though a break in the line of sidewalk tables and stopped in front of a row of glass display cases filled with pastries, assorted sandwiches, and brioches. An array of liquor bottles adorned the wall behind the counter, and brightly polished chrome and brass coffee machines dominated the space between.
Tassos placed his order, and while waiting, looked out at the patio. In its prime only tourists stared out at passersby from this place, for regulars knew that anyone who mattered already sat inside. This was Dal Segno Caffe, the once inner sanctum to all things Greek politics. But that was back in the days when sitting members of Parliament dared venture out in public. These days Greek politicians rarely appeared in the wild, no doubt fearing who might be hunting for their heads.
Tassos studied the faces at the tables. Mostly tourists, plus a few local businessmen out on a coffee break. Off to the right, away from the main street and tucked away at a corner table partially hidden behind the trunk of the patio’s lone tree, a stocky, pasty, bald Greek sat engrossed in conversation with tall, trim, tanned silver-haired foreigner. The men looked at least a decade apart in age, but Tassos knew each was in his early eighties. He carried his coffee over to their table.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Neither man looked up.
Tassos put his coffee down on their table. “What’s the matter, have you two old farts lost your hearing?”
“We were hoping you wouldn’t see us,” said the bald guy.
“Not with old Strip over here still working so hard at dazzling all the broads with his tan.”
The tanned guy smiled. “Nice to see you, too, Tassos.”
“What has you in town, Strip? I thought you’d lost interest in this part of the world once the Balkans settled down. Went back to America, I heard.”
“I’m out of that business. Left it to the young guys. The world’s too nuts these days for a legitimate businessman.”
“In the arms business?” said Tassos.
Strip smiled. “In any business.”
“So what has you in Athens?”
He nodded toward the bald man. “Dimitri’s granddaughte
r is getting married this weekend. I’m in for the wedding.”
Tassos picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee. “How nice that our former minister of defense has kept up with his old friends from the arms industry even after all these years.”
“Some things never change,” said Dimitri.
Tassos smiled and put down his coffee. “For sure. Congratulations on your granddaughter’s wedding, Dimitri.”
Dimitri nodded. “Thank you. So what brings you to Dal Segno?”
Tassos laughed. “Don’t worry, it isn’t you. I’m trying to get a line on a businessman from the Balkans and I was hoping to bump into someone here who might know him.”
“Why here?” said Dimitri.
“He’s dealing with our government.”
Dimitri nodded. “So, how can I help?”
Tassos pulled the photo of Ugly Guy out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Dimitri. Dimitri stared at it and handed it back to Tassos.
“Sorry, I don’t recognize him.”
Tassos handed the photo to Strip. “What about you?”
Strip took the photo and squinted at it.
Dimitri smiled. “If you’re really going to look at it, Strip, put on your glasses. Don’t worry, there aren’t any women watching.”
“Asshole.” Strip pulled a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses out of the inside jacket pocket of his very expensive blue blazer.
“So, where’s the wedding, Dimitri?” said Tassos.
“Grande Bretagne.”
“The best place in Athens for a wedding. On the roof I assume?”
“No, weather’s too iffy. Using the hotel’s main ballroom.”
“Hey,” said Strip. “I know this guy. A real lowlife. Mean, dark, dirty, and ruthless. Which is probably why he’s so rich.”
“What’s he do?”
“Whatever makes him money. Big money. Drugs, arms smuggling, probably human trafficking, too. I knew him from the arms business. He’s the sort that made me realize it was time to get out.”
“Does he have a name?”
“It’s one of those all-consonants Ukrainian ones.”
“Is that your way of saying you don’t remember it? Come on, Strip, you haven’t forgotten the name on your first baby bottle,” said Tassos.
“With age there are some things you forget. And some things you better forget. My friend, I’ve spent a decade getting my name off of ‘we don’t want him around anymore’ lists. I’m not about to do anything to get myself back on one. Especially this guy’s.”
Tassos nodded. “Okay, but what can you tell me about him?”
“He works out of the Balkans. That’s where most gunrunners operate these days. North Africa is the big market.”
“Where in North Africa?”
“You name it. Sudan, Somalia, Mauritania, Algeria, Morocco, Libya, Tunisia, possibly even Yemen.”
“Why would he be interested in doing business in Greece?”
“No idea, and before you say it…no, I’m not going to ask around.”
“How about a guess?”
“Ask Dimitri. He knows more about that sort of thing in Greece.”
Dimitri shook his head. “If this guy’s a big-time illegal arms smuggler, he’s probably interested in running ships out of ports like Piraeus and Patras. Boats are what arms and drug smugglers prefer these days. They’re harder to detect than planes, as long as your paperwork is in order.”
Strip shook his head. “This guy runs his business primarily through the air. At least he always did.”
“Well, that sort doesn’t operate in Greece,” said Dimitri. “They need an airstrip. And airstrips get noticed in the parts of Greece they’d be interested in.”
“What ‘parts’ would that be?”
“Places closer to Africa than their operations in the Balkans. A location that increases their range.”
“For a quick in and out with less time in the air to attract attention,” said Strip. “Crete would be perfect for them.”
“Yes, but Crete comes with several serious downside factors,” said Dimitri.
“Such as?” said Tassos.
“A NATO airbase, missile-testing range, gunnery range, and bombing range. Plus, the United States Navy provisions its Sixth Fleet out of there. Air traffic in and out of Crete is closely monitored.”
“That makes Crete a no go?” asked Tassos.
Strip smiled. “Except for those who’d like an up-close and personal firsthand experience as a target.”
“So where else might he be looking?”
“Somewhere customs can be greased not to look too closely at the cargo. And with a runway long enough to accommodate the planes they’d need,” said Strip.
“How long would that be?” asked Tassos.
“Seven thousand feet,” said Dimitri.
Strip gestured no. “You’re thinking of a C-5. That sort of runway attracts way too much attention for an arms smuggler. Guys like this use Ukrainian-made Antonov birds that can land on short, uneven runways. An AN-70 can land on two thousand feet and the bigger ones on five thousand.”
“So where would he want his runway?”
“As close to his customers as possible,” said Strip. “It’s the same principle small-time smugglers on the Peloponnese follow with their gunrunning boats.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They run boats out of Kalamata with enough range to reach Africa. Can’t get to every market they’d like, but it’s still profitable.”
“Why don’t they use planes?”
“Because they’d need an airstrip, and the only ones in the southern Peloponnese capable of handling even short-runway Anatovs are Kalamata International, a military base in Sparta, and a closed airport at Triodos. No way they could operate out of any of those without being noticed.”
“What if they built their own runway?” asked Tassos.
“It would cost a fortune,” said Dimitri.
“Depends,” said Strip, “if they wanted to build a half-mile runway the right way, using big name contractors, it would cost five or six million. But if the land doesn’t require much preparation and you don’t have to worry about complying with environmental and other legal niceties, you could build one in six months for around a million. And arms dealers can make that much on one delivery to the right buyer.
“But even assuming money’s not a problem, building a private runway of that size screams, ‘Arms smugglers here.’”
Dimitri nodded. “Even in Greece, one can’t just build an airstrip in the middle of nowhere and expect it to go unnoticed.”
“Hard to imagine the cover story they’d need to come up with to mask that sort of operation,” said Strip.
“Hard to imagine indeed,” said Tassos. He couldn’t wait to get back to Andreas’ office.
***
Twenty minutes after making a hasty good-bye to his coffee mates, Tassos burst into Andreas’ office.
“I’ve got news.” Tassos looked around the office. “Where’s Yianni?”
Andreas leaned back in his chair. “For the sake of appearances we maintain separate offices. Though you might not think that. Shall I call him?”
Tassos nodded.
“Mag—”
The door swung open and in walked Kouros. “Maggie said you wanted to see me ASAP.”
“How the hell did she know that?”
“She said if you asked that question it’s because her boyfriend didn’t even say hello to her, just rushed right into your office. She figured it must be important.”
“I’m in trouble,” said Tassos.
“She also said, ‘Tell Tassos flowers will work.’” Kouros dropped onto the couch. “‘Roses.’”
“I’m glad she’s on our side,” said Andreas.
“Enough with the flowers. I caught up with an old friend who knows just about everything nasty that’s gone on in our part of the world since Vietnam, and he recognized Ugly Guy.”
“You got a name?” said Andreas.
“He wouldn’t say, but from all the deep shit he’s involved in, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting an ID from Europol. But that’s not the big story.”
Tassos turned to Kouros. “That hotel project you mentioned your uncle was setting up…Did I hear you right about it including an airstrip?”
Kouros nodded. “Yes. Without direct air access, the developer didn’t think he could lure high-roller Russian and Middle Eastern tourists into the Mani. It’s too hard for them to get there any other way.”
“What’s the land like for the project?”
“A relatively level plateau set back away from the mountains.”
Tassos nodded. “What if I told you the only reason for the deal was that airstrip? I bet the plans called for the runway to be built first. The hotel and golf course later.”
“I wouldn’t know. But what are you getting at?”
Tassos sat down in a chair in front of Andreas’ desk. “The Ukrainian is an arms and drug dealer, possibly into human trafficking, too. He needs the airstrip to expand his operations. Or maybe as a hedge against things getting worse with the Russians in the Ukraine than they already have.”
“How the hell did you come up with that?” said Andreas.
Tassos repeated the substance of his conversation with Strip and Dimitri. “It all fits.”
“But why the hell is Orestes involved?” said Andreas.
“My guess is Yianni’s uncle’s death cost the Ukrainian not only the deal, but the political grease he needed to make certain things happen.”
“Like cooperative customs folk?” said Kouros.
“Precisely. And until he knew for sure that he had the political cover he needed, he wasn’t about to try and resurrect the deal.”
Kouros sat up. “That might explain why my uncle’s friend is involved. Alexander is trying to make the right political connections to keep the Ukrainian interested, and if he still is, try and sell the deal to the family. My cousins probably don’t even know what Alexander’s doing. I sure as hell didn’t.”
Sons of Sparta: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery Page 15