“Can’t say, but what he did in there made me feel I owed him big-time. So much so that, one cup of coffee later, here I am committed to going after his Caesars. If they’re truly as right wing and fanatic an organization as the Brigadier suggests, they’re obviously also a serious threat to the current government. And Prada likely knows that too. Prada also undoubtedly knows that for his leftist government to take the Caesars on openly would only more deeply divide our seriously polarized population along left-right lines.”
Andreas shook his head. “Wouldn’t it be nice for the government if it could get me, a one-time minister in the former conservative government, to spearhead an investigation that brings down the Caesars, or at least fatally brands the group as terrorist?”
“Sounds rather devious, don’t you think?”
“On all levels, by everyone involved. Prada and the Brigadier could be playing together or have separate games all aimed at getting us to focus on the Caesars. I know it sounds crazy, but from his performance back in Babis’ office, Prada might have been betting that the Brigadier wouldn’t bury me and that he could push him into doing something that made me feel indebted to him. After all, no one tried to stop us from leaving the ministry, and Prada and Babis had to know going into the meeting there wasn’t the slightest possibility of my standing up before the press and taking the blame for their screw-up.”
Yianni glanced at Andreas. “And you say I’m the one who’s hooked on conspiracy theories.”
Andreas smiled. “With what we’ve been through over the last couple of years, is there anyone left in Greece who doesn’t think that way?”
“Sure,” said Yianni. “But I wouldn’t trust them. They’ve sold out.”
Andreas stared at the side of Yianni’s face. “Just drive.”
Chapter Seven
For centuries after its hellfire volcanic eruption in the mid-sixteenth century BCE, Santorini remained deserted, but its critical location, fertile soil, and awe-inspiring beauty ultimately drew new settlers and conquerors. Phoenicians, Franks, rulers from other parts of Greece, Persians, Romans, Venetians, and Turks laid claim, virtually all enduring earthquakes or volcanic eruptions of varying degrees during their occupation.
Today, the main island of Santorini constitutes the eastern crescent—and by far largest—of five volcanic islands comprising a small circular archipelago. Three of those islands, Santorini (or Thera), Thirasia, and Aspronisi, are all that remain of the original island of Atlantis legend, with Palea Kameni and Nea Kameni born as new islands out of that and other eruptions, including more than two dozen in the Common Era alone.
It seemed only fitting that an archipelago born out of ancient cataclysmic events, would be transformed by a modern catastrophe into the tourist paradise it is today, rivaled in reputation only by its Cycladic cousin Mykonos. On July 9, 1956, a 7.8-magnitude earthquake struck Santorini in what was recorded as the largest to hit Greece in the twentieth century, severely damaging if not collapsing practically every building on the island. But much as with the mythical Phoenix, out of its destruction Santorini rose to what today is a place of fifteen thousand year-round residents drawing 1.7 million tourists annually—nine hundred thousand to its hotels and rooms, eight hundred thousand more from cruise ships.
With forty-three miles of coastline, an east-to-west breadth of between one and four miles, and an overall north-to-south length of eleven miles, Santorini resembles a seahorse standing on its head and staring west—in the same direction as do most tourists.
As reflected in its hotel prices, the island’s primary attraction is its view looking west from atop the rim of the volcano’s caldera. Away from the caldera Santorini seems much like many other parts of Greece, and its beaches alone are not a draw. But standing on the caldera’s nine-hundred-foot red-black-brown cliffs, looking across the seemingly bottomless quarter-mile depths of the crater’s sapphire blue lagoon, one faces a true wonder of the natural world.
Few braved that view in winter, though—a time of rain, chill, and fierce winds, a far different experience from what tourists came to expect from glorious springtime through late-autumn weather.
It was a little after eleven in the morning when the rented white Nissan Micra turned left out of the airport and hurried west toward Santorini’s central crossroads at Mesaria, a mile away. The roads were dry, but heavily overcast skies threatened to change that at any moment. The car passed shops offering goods and services suited more to locals than tourists, but that was to be expected in Santorini’s inland regions.
Locals lived in areas like this, many growing wine grapes cultivated in the unique, tightly coiled, ground-hugging fashion that in winter resembled rows of dull baskets, but in growing season sheltered the enclosed clusters from the wind. Tiny cherry tomatoes, capers, fava beans, barley, and a unique white eggplant were other island growing favorites, with plantings filling practically every arable spot of land.
Although everyone on the island paid homage to some extent to the tourist, most Santorinian hearts still beat as farmers and muleteers. But not so much as fishermen. From ancient times, the island had great merchant trading fleets, and its ships performed heroically in Greece’s 1821 War of Independence, but Santorinians generally preferred to live far away from the sea in places where they could raise their crops and mules. It was tourists who changed all that, starting, it’s said, with teaching many a Santorinian how to swim.
At Mesaria, the car turned right onto a road dotted with small tourist hotels, bars, and restaurants, and continued north for another mile or so onto a eucalyptus-lined road into Santorini’s capital of Fira. Here the island became a different sort of place. Stretching north six miles along the caldera’s western rim—from Fira through Firostefani and Imerovigli into Oia at the island’s northern tip—tourists paid hefty premiums for the breathtaking views and promise of romance symbolized by Oia’s emblematic blue-domed, bright-white, cliffside churches at sunset.
The road north of Fira yielded no views of the caldera. That property was far too valuable for roadways. Instead, the road ran below and to the east of the towns’ perches on the rim, but as if in compensation for that shortcoming, the two-lane road offered unobstructed views of broad green plains running down to deep blue Aegean waters and a panoramic array of neighboring Cycladic islands. But not today. The clouds had darkened, and the horizon faded to where only a shadow of the island of Anafi lingered in the haze.
North of Imerovigli the volcanic rim narrowed to a sliver of privately owned land straddling the caldera’s cliffside drop into Mouzaki Bay on the west and a steep, mountainside falloff to the east where a ledge barely accommodated the road. Even the caldera rim’s celebrated gray lava and taupe dirt footpath linking Fira to Oia—edged much of the way in smoke-colored volcanic rock and abloom with wildflowers in season—had to merge with the asphalt road for a quarter-mile to get around this pinch point.
A hundred meters past the merge with the footpath, a tiny sign on the left read: SEA AND SKY SUITES. The car sliced across the road and up onto a steep concrete hillside driveway running almost parallel to the road. At a switchback turn leading further up the hill, the driveway opened onto a small parking area close by a two-story white stucco and gray fieldstone building. The car stopped there, next to a door marked RECEPTION.
Two middle-aged men, a younger man, and a woman not older than thirty got out of the car. The youngest man, slim, with flowing light-brown hair, walked up the hill to a bar and infinity pool area just beyond the end of the building. He stood by the edge of the pool for a moment and waved for his companions to join him.
The woman was the first to reach him. “Wow, Christos. I’ve never seen a view like this anywhere on Santorini.”
Less than a mile across the lagoon loomed the neighboring island of Thirasia, a geological chubby mirror image of Santorini but just one-sixth its size, and with only two hundred fifty residents, fo
urteen churches, and four inhabited settlements, it remained undiscovered by tourism. Directly below the hotel, ultramarine seas touched upon billiard table-green waters lapping against deep brown and black volcanic rocks appearing more as dark shadows than substance.
Christos spread his arms wide and spun around in a circle on one foot. “The caldera lagoon before us, the Aegean laid out behind, how else could you describe this scene but magical?”
“Even in this lousy weather,” nodded the woman.
A door slammed shut in the bar area.
“Excuse me. May I help you?” shouted a lanky, dark haired man of about Christos’ age. He stepped briskly across the bar area toward the group.
“Why, yes, I think you can.” Christos dangled his right hand in the air until the lanky man reached for it and shook it.
“I’m Christos Vlachos, and this is Anna Katsanis.” He did not introduce his older two companions. “I’m with GNTO.”
“The Greek National Tourist Organization?”
“Yes. And you are?”
“Vladimir Kostikyan. I manage this property.”
“I thought I detected a bit of a Russian accent. It’s becoming rather commonplace to hear Russian on Santorini.”
Vladimir smiled. “I’ve lived here eleven years. I like to think of myself as one of the pioneers. So, what can I do for you?”
“We’re here on an inspection.”
“I don’t recognize you,” said Vladimir. “Where is Mihali from the Syros office?”
“Syros is our regional office for the Cyclades. We’re from Athens. I’m sure you’re aware of our government’s determined efforts at assuring that our precious tourism industry is safeguarded.”
“What’s that have to do with your being here?”
“We’re part of a joint task force with the finance ministry charged with conducting random checks on high-end tourism properties for purposes of confirming compliance with GNTO and revenue-reporting requirements.”
“Sounds like a highly profitable line of work.”
Christo glanced over at the two men standing by the edge of the pool. “Vladimir, I strongly suggest you don’t pursue that line. My two colleagues back there have authority to arrest you on the spot for that sort of talk.”
Vladimir pointed at his chest. “Me? I wasn’t suggesting anything. I’m just wondering why you picked our dozen villas, with so many larger and far better known hotels to choose from.”
“Well, one reason is that you’re open.”
“Yes, but only for a few days for a private gathering. We’ve been closed for over a month and didn’t plan on reopening until Easter.”
“Must be important people if you reopened just for them.”
Vladimir shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. They’re friends of the owner.”
“Friends or no friends, they must be paying a lot to get you to reopen.”
“Look,” said Vladimir. “Let’s drop the act. I know why you’re here.”
Christos stared at Vladimir.
“It’s that B & B up the hill,” shouted Vladimir waving his finger to the south.
“There’s no bed and breakfast around here,” said Christos.
“I meant the ‘bitch and bastard’ couple who own that shit hole of a hotel south of here. They’re jealous of what we’ve done to turn this into a luxury property, but rather than fixing up their hell hole operation, they prefer thinking up ways of getting authorities like you to bust our balls. They must have noticed we’re reopening and called you in to screw us up.”
“That’s a pretty fair description of the Greek definition for ‘neighborly,’” said Christos. “But not this time. I’m afraid, my friend, you were just plain lucky. Your name was simply one of several selected at random by our computer for a surprise inspection, and while we were on our way to Oia we noticed that your gate was open, and voila, here we are.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Christos waved one hand in the air. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is whether we believe your books and records.”
Vladimir ran his fingers through his hair. “Look. I’ve got a very important group of people arriving early tomorrow afternoon, and a lot of work to do between now and then. Can’t you come back in a few days, after they’re gone? I’ll give you all the time you need then.”
Christos patted Vladimir’s arm. “I understand completely. The only problem is that our unit is charged with making random surprise audits. If we wait ’til later it won’t be a surprise. Worse still, we’ve already notified our office we’re at your place, so if we leave without doing the audit…well, like you said before…some may start to think we’ve found ‘a highly profitable line of work.’ Don’t worry, we’ll work as quickly as we can. Assuming your records are organized and you cooperate, we should be able to finish up by…” he looked at Anna.
“Early evening,” she said.
“What? That means we’ll have to work through the night to be ready for our guests. My boss will kill me.”
Christos shook his head. “At least you’re working for only one boss. Think of us poor public servants who must justify ourselves to an entire nation of bosses.”
Vladimir’s back stiffened. “I want to see identification.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Christos displayed a card identifying himself as Deputy Inspector General of GNTO, and Anna’s ID showed her to be the Finance Ministry’s Field Audit Compliance Chief for the Southern Aegean.
Vladimir bit at his lower lip. “What about them?” pointing at the two other men.
“They’re the ones with guns and badges who make sure we stay safe.”
Vladimir threw up his hands. “All right, okay. Just tell me what you want to see and let’s get started.”
“A good attitude, Vladimir. Why don’t you, Anna, and I go back to your office and begin with your books. If you’d like to save a lot of time, give me the keys to the villas and I’ll have my colleagues get their equipment out of the car and confirm that the villas’ measurements and appointments are as represented in the hotel’s GNTO filings.”
“All the villas are unlocked, open, and airing out.”
“Great.”
Vladimir stared at Christos. “But I want you to know I don’t believe you. I still think the bitch and bastard up the hill are behind this.”
Christos smiled. “Some bitch or bastard perhaps, but I can assure you, not them. At least not this time.”
***
Each villa was of new construction with essentially the same two-story layout. The front door opened into a large L-shape living-dining-kitchen area decorated in traditional Santorini blues and white, and a similarly toned separate master bedroom and bath took up the remaining floor space. A narrow spiral staircase at the rear of the living area led to a second-floor bedroom, bathroom, and outside roof deck, complete with a Jacuzzi overlooking the caldera.
The two men worked quickly, burying listening devices in wall plates in every room and a repeater transmitter on each roof tied into the Jacuzzi’s electrical system. They passed on installing video, considering it too tricky to pull off in the time available if they wanted to cover all twelve villas for sound.
They did manage to hide one camera and mike behind the bar adjacent to the main building, piggybacking on a camera already in place to keep the bartender honest.
At twenty minutes per villa, plus another thirty at the bar, nearly five hours had passed when they walked into Vladimir’s office.
“Where the hell have you been?” said Christos, his sleeves rolled up and his elbows planted on a desk covered in open accounting books and binders filled with invoices and receipts.
Vladimir sat next to him, looking as if he’d been dragged behind a bus for eternity.
“You told us to be thorough,” sa
id the shorter of the two men. “Those are big rooms, with a lot of things to verify. We had to measure the rooms and the closets, check to make sure that everything worked. Every light switch, every outlet, every faucet, every—”
Christos raised one hand. “Okay, Francesco, I get it.”
Francesco nodded. “Unless you have something else for us to do, Dimos and I will wait outside.”
“How about reading some invoices?”
“Not our job.”
Christos looked at Vladimir. “This is the sort that the old administration left for us to work with. No willingness to help out their comrades.”
Francesco shrugged and looked at Vladimir. “Do you mind if we wait at the bar?”
Vladamir sighed. “No. Feel free to help yourself to a beer.”
“That’s one beer,” said Christos. “We don’t want any misunderstandings here.”
The two men left.
“How much longer will we be at this?” said Vladimir.
Christos looked at Anna, “What would you say, another thirty minutes or so?”
She nodded. “That sounds about right.”
Vladimir looked relieved. “Terrific.”
Christos smiled. “Assuming, of course, that our colleagues at the bar did everything I wanted.”
“They better have after I just bought them a beer.”
“Stay here. I’ll go check.”
Christos caught up with them standing by the bar talking about soccer. As soon as Christos joined them, Francesco pushed a speed-dial button on his mobile.
A loud “Hello” came through the phone.
Francesco held the phone up to his ear. “Could you hear us?”
“You mean all your wishful thinking about the chances of your football team doing well this year?”
Francesco smiled and nodded to Dimos.
“Perfect,” said the voice on the phone. “Just as clear as you came through from the villas. Good work, guys.”
Santorini Caesars Page 7