Santorini Caesars

by Jeffrey Siger

  Halfway through the mayor’s speech, all but one TV crew had turned from filming the mayor to catch the sunset. Now all cameras swung back to focus on the Prime Minister.

  The bit of tension in the Prime Minister’s voice might have been taken by some to be displeasure at the little time the mayor had left for him to speak. Andreas saw it differently. Bravado was fine until you’re in the actual line of fire. Then you sweat.

  The Prime Minister’s speech lasted less than three minutes, consisting mostly of thank-yous to local dignitaries, but even that took longer than he seemed to want. He finished with a grand flourish of his arm toward the tree, “Santorini, let there be light.”

  All but the same lone camera swung around to catch the moment the tree would burst into light. The blond male reporter’s camera remained fixed on the Prime Minister.

  It flashed across Andreas’ mind in a blur: the cameras, the reporters, the vans, all expected, all wanted, all invisible. He screamed into his wrist mike. “It’s the TV crew. The blond and his cameraman.”

  Andreas leaped forward, seized the Prime Minister by the back of his collar, and yanked him back into the crowd behind them just as a blinding array of colored lights exploded from the tree in all directions. He’d pulled the PM to the bottom of the castle wall when Andreas heard the first sharp crack of pistol rounds, followed by screaming people. More pistol shots. More screaming. Andreas realized the assassins were firing in the air, trying to scatter the crowd away from the Prime Minister. He pushed a now-sprinting Prime Minister along the base of the castle wall toward its western end. They’d have to jump off the hilltop edge of the square. And they did, an instant before the first shots whizzed over their heads.

  ***

  Yianni and Petro, with guns drawn, rushed west toward the sound of gunfire through a panicked crowd pressing at them in the opposite direction. As they neared the northwest corner of the square, the crowd opened up and Yianni saw the reporter crouched by the end of the castle wall, taking aim downward off the edge of the square at a wide ledge running three meters or so below that part of the square. Andreas and the Prime Minister must have fled there. Petro fired first, but missed. The reporter swung around, fired, and did not miss, catching Petro in the middle of his chest, then fired an immediate second round hitting Yianni squarely in a similar fatal spot. The reporter calmly returned his aim to what lay below as a distinctly higher-pitched crack came ringing down from above.

  The bullet caught the side of the reporter’s head, driving him sideways into the castle wall, bouncing him off the rock, and over the edge.

  ***

  Andreas heard the body crash onto the ledge. He peeked out from behind the mess of building materials he and the Prime Minster huddled behind on the far north end of the same ledge. Andreas kept his gun focused on the downed assassin as he shouted into his wrist mike. “Yianni, Petro, where are you?”

  No answer.

  “Yianni, Petro,” he screamed.

  Still no answer.

  He pulled the Prime Minister closer. “There’s still at least one assassin out there. And I can’t reach my men.”

  Out the corner of his eye, Andreas caught two men staring down at them from where the reporter’s body had fallen. He raised his gun and fixed his aim on them.

  “Prime Minister, are you okay?” yelled one of the men.

  The Prime Minister touched Andreas’ arm. “It’s okay, they’re from my security detail.” He stood up and yelled back, “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Andreas stood, holstered his pistol, led the PM to the three-meter high cliff-face directly below the agents, and boosted him up into their waiting arms. Andreas backed up to the edge of the ledge, then ran for the cliff-face, vaulting himself high enough up the rock face to grab its top edge. The PM’s agents took hold of Andreas’ arms and pulled him up.

  “Thanks. Have you seen—?” Andreas didn’t move, just stared at the two bodies lying by the base of the castle wall. “Get an ambulance!” he shouted to the agents and ran to his men. He dropped to his knees, saw the bullet holes, and felt for a pulse.

  He found one. Then he felt for another. Found that one too. They’d both been knocked out, either by the impact of the bullets or by striking their heads on the ground. No matter, they were alive.

  Andreas shut his eyes, said a prayer, and crossed himself. “And thank you, too, Dear Lord, for ballistic vests.”

  “Chief.”

  Andreas looked up. It was the agent from the bell tower. “I got one of them, but the other one took off before I could get a bead on him.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “Down toward where the vans are parked.”

  “Do me a favor and stay with my men until the medics get here.”

  “Will do.”

  Andreas turned to leave, but stopped and looked at the agent. “That was great shooting. I owe you one. A big one.” And Andreas was off and running.

  Andreas didn’t have to know the way down; all he had to do was follow the stream of people still racing down the hill. When he came to the first of the media vans, he saw someone in the driver seat.

  “Hey, buddy, did anyone from a media crew just go by here?”

  “You mean leaving? Are you kidding me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for every reporter up there. I don’t know if they’ll ever leave.”

  Andreas showed him his ID. “Think harder.”

  “Well, come to think of it, a cameraman from an independent went by here in a hurry a few minutes ago.”

  “Independent?”

  “Yeah, they’re the sort that do freelance work trying to sell whatever they come up with to anybody who’ll take it. He might have left. They parked a rented green-and-white van by the main road. Never even tried to cut some distance off their hike to the top.”

  For an easy getaway. “Thanks.” Andreas ran down the hill to the main road. No green-and-white van.

  The survivor had escaped.

  He called Santorini’s police chief, who was still up at the site of the ceremony, and told him about the van. The police chief said he’d already shut every road leading out of Pyrgos toward the ports and airport, and with Andreas’ description of the van, they should have no trouble finding it, hopefully with the would-be assassin still in it.

  Andreas had a gnawing feeling, though, that catching the suspect wouldn’t be that easy. “How are my men?”

  “A little groggy, but they’ll be okay. They got hit with some powerful loads for a nine millimeter. You guys ought to get better vests. Those shooters came loaded for bear. Literally.”

  “Thanks.” Andreas hung up, shut his eyes, and said another prayer.

  A mustached old man in a Greek fisherman’s hat and frayed denim work shirt sat smoking a cigarette in the doorway of a tiny white house across from where Andreas stood praying. “The missus doesn’t let me smoke inside.”

  Andreas nodded, forced a smile.

  “Say, aren’t you Sappho’s friend?”

  Andreas nodded again.

  “I thought I recognized you. I watched you and two other guys walking up and down here with her most of the day.”

  The last thing Andreas wanted now was to chit-chat. He had to figure out the assassin’s next move.

  “If it’s Sappho you’re looking for, she’s in that taverna over there.” He pointed across the road.

  “Thanks, but I’m looking for a green-and-white van.”

  “Oh, that guy. He took off. Almost ran over my neighbor he was in such a hurry. Crazy driver. Doesn’t even know where he’s going.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because unless he’s interested in checking out our southern beaches in December in the dark, or in some moonlight sightseeing down in the village of Emborio, he should have turned right. That’s what gets you to the ports and airp
ort. But he went left.”

  “What’s to the left?”

  “The Monastery of Profitis Ilias.”

  Andreas nodded.

  The old man puffed on his cigarette. “And that military radar station the monks keep praying for God to kick off their mountaintop.”

  Andreas’ mouth dropped open. “Did you say a military radar station? Are you sure?”

  Nod. “Lived here all my life—”

  “Thank you.” Andreas sprinted across the road and into the taverna. Sappho sat with a group of men huddle around a table staring up at TV coverage of what had just gone down at the top of the village.

  He grabbed Sappho by her arm. “Is your car here?”

  “What’s going on? Is Petro okay?” The news says people have been shot, but they’re not giving details beyond saying the Prime Minister is safe and unharmed.”

  “Yes, he’s fine. I’ll tell you everything on the way. Let’s go.”

  She stumbled out behind him, as he led her by her arm. “Go where?”

  “The radar station up by the monastery.”

  Sappho drove as Andreas called the Santorini police chief and every ministry official he could think of who could alert the radar station that an assassin was headed their way. But no one could get through.

  That’s when he called for backup.

  ***

  The first minutes of the usual nine-minute drive from Pyrgos to the monastery ran through the village’s modern outskirts along a broad two-lane road passing by closely spaced one- and two-story traditional homes. That abruptly changed when the road turned serpentine climbing up the mountain toward the monastery. The two lanes shrank to barely more than one, presenting only a bit of dirt shoulder to the side of the road pressed against the mountain, while the opposite side offered a cliffside drop. But traffic still buzzed along in both directions.

  The sky held enough light for Andreas to make out the broad details of the mountain. Gray, beige, and green splotches of unrecognizable vegetation along the hillsides, wind-battered slim green trees clinging haphazardly to the edges of the road, the odd stone wall holding back erosion, and a rare building strategically placed to take advantage of the stunning views.

  He kept assuring Sappho that Petro was fine, and asked what she knew about the radar station.

  “There’s an entrance close to the one for the monastery. It has an up-and-down, single-pole gate, sliding metal gates, and a guard posted twenty-four/seven. A road leads around from there to radio towers and dishes twenty meters or so from some monastery buildings. It was built in the 1960s and the Greek military operates it for NATO. The monks hate it, but can’t get the Greek government to remove it. They like NATO money too much.”

  “What’s the layout past the front gate?”

  “I haven’t been in there since my father took me when I was a kid. He had a friend who worked there and he wanted me to see what it was like so I wouldn’t be curious and go exploring on my own. He said it’s dangerous up there. Too much radiation.”

  “Do you remember anything about what you saw?”

  “Just look at the mountain and you’ll see the towers. They’re the island’s biggest eyesore.”

  Andreas waved his hand. “Anything more than that?”

  “Square, concrete buildings, some painted in camouflage, some not. They looked like bunkers from old war movies.”

  “What about an airstrip?”

  “On the top of that mountain? Not a chance.” She turned to him for a moment then looked ahead.

  “What is it?”

  “I remember seeing a helicopter pad on top of one of the bunker buildings. I’ve never seen anyone actually use it, but it’s there.”

  “That’s it.” He slammed his hand on the dashboard.

  “Easy, Chief, the car’s not paid for yet.”

  “Remind me to tell Petro he owes you a big kiss from me.”

  Andreas called the Santorini police chief and told him that their suspect was trying to escape by helicopter from the radar base. The chief said he’d alert the Air Force and warned Andreas to be careful, because still no one had been able to contact anyone at the radar station.

  “When we see the guard,” he told Sappho, “I want you to tell me if you recognize him. Something’s not right. No one can get through to the station.”

  “That’s convenient if you’re trying to make the military look like it’s behind the operation.”

  The entrance appeared just as Sappho had described, plus a whole lot of signs making it clear this was not a place that welcomed tourists. The pole gate was up, so Sappho pulled her neon green car right up to the sliding metal gates.

  A soldier stepped toward her window.

  “I don’t know him,” she whispered to Andreas.

  “May I help you, Miss? This is a restricted area, only authorized personnel are allowed in.”

  Andreas leaned over so he could see the soldier’s face. “Soldier, are you aware that an assassination attempt on our Prime Minister’s life just took place in Pyrgos?”

  The soldier put his hand on his sidearm. “No, and who are you, sir?”

  “Let’s all stay calm, soldier. I’m going to reach inside my shirt and pull out my ID.” Andreas reached for his ID with his left hand as the soldier squeezed the grip on his sidearm. Andreas held his ID out for the soldier.

  “Sorry, sir, but this is a military installation.”

  “I’m Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis, head of the Greek police’s Special Crimes Unit, and we have reason to believe one of the suspects has escaped onto this installation.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I can’t allow anyone in without military permission.”

  Andreas smiled. “That’s a little difficult to arrange when no one answers your phone.”

  “I know, sir. All communications have been shut down for repairs, but only for an hour. It should be up and running by eighteen-hundred hours.”

  “And the cellphones?”

  “Everything here is shut down.”

  “That sounds strange don’t you think? A radar base without communication to the outside world?” said Andreas.

  “All I know is we’ve had nothing but grief with our communications systems for about a week, and orders came down from the Ministry of Defense to do what the telecom folks told us to do. They promised they’d figure out the problem and fix it within an hour.”

  “By then the assassin will have escaped. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t.” His hand still gripped his sidearm.

  “The fellow in that green-and-white van you just let in here.”

  The soldier’s expression lost its military starch. “But he had written permission from the Ministry of Defense to be here. Some sort of filming.”

  “Soldier, can you see down the hill from here to the road back to Pyrgos?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, how about if you take a look down that way, and tell me whether you see a hell of a long line of red and blue lights screaming along in this direction. Because when they get here, and see you haven’t let me in, I can assure you that you’ll be arrested as an accessory to the attempted murder of our Prime Minister. After all, if you’re going to let the real bad guy get away, they’re going to have to nail somebody to make the press happy.”

  The soldier took a step back.

  “Go ahead, walk over, take a look.”

  He hesitated but backed away farther to get a line of sight down the mountain to Pyrgos.

  “Oh shit,” was what Andreas heard as the soldier came running up past the front of the car and yanked open the gates. “Come on, come on,” he yelled waving for Sappho to drive ahead.

  “Thank you.” She smiled to the soldier as she drove through, then gave Andreas a glance. “Always pays to
be nice. He might just turn out to be a customer.”

  Andreas lifted his right hand from the side of the seat and placed his gun in his lap.

  “You had that in your hand the whole time?”

  “Yep, always pays to be prepared. He might just turn out to be a bad guy. Now, please just get me to that helipad.”

  “It’s back around over there.”

  Fifty meters farther in, they found the green-and-white van. It sat diagonally across the road making it impossible for them to pass.

  Andreas opened his door. “You stay here and when the cavalry gets here tell them to get as much light as possible on the building with the helipad and to cover it from every angle they can.” He swung his legs out the door, and turned his head to Sappho just before getting out. “Thanks.”

  He’d not gone five meters when he heard the helicopter coming in from the south. He started running along the rough road but had to concentrate more than he liked on not tripping in the dark. By the time he reached the first set of structures the helicopter was only a hundred meters away and beginning its approach to the rooftop. He couldn’t make out the markings but it looked like a military-style AB-205 copter. Another nice touch.

  He made it to the near corner of the building adjacent to the one with the helipad without seeing or hearing a soul, then crept along the side of the building, looking for any sign of the cameraman. He had to be nearby, most likely already up on the rooftop. Probably expecting company. That meant a likely sniper rifle, possibly with a night-vision scope. And these guys didn’t miss.

  Andreas’ thoughts ran to his wife, his son, and his soon-to-be born second child. He hadn’t thought about any of that up until now. Only his duty to protect the Prime Minister and catch the would-be assassin. But now the Prime Minister was safe, and if Andreas tried to storm the building to capture the man on the roof, the most likely outcome would be Andreas’ death.

  Cornered rats were dangerous, and this one most definitely was cornered. The cameraman’s only escape was from that roof, a position he’d protect at all costs.