by Tony Kaplan
Across the bay I see Antonis sitting on the balcony of his cousin’s kafenion, taking in the last of the afternoon’s rays. I could ask him what to do. Maybe he can investigate. I trudge around the arc of white sand of the beach, my steps in the soft sand fast and determined, then alight the gravel path to the kafenion. Antonis is looking perturbed, reading some papers intently. He does not greet me in his usual friendly way – he just gives a tip of his head and a grunt. Is he annoyed that the afternoon with Agapi hadn’t worked out the way he’d wanted. She’d remained polite to him, while giving me the amused affectionate glances he’d craved. Even the little girl, Agapi’s daughter, had rebuffed him and had sought me out instead, intuiting her mother’s preference in the way only small children can.
But I can’t let this deter me. I sit down opposite Antonis. “I’ve got a problem, Antonis,” I tell him. “This is serious.”
“You have a problem? I too have a problem,” he says still perusing his documents. For a moment I think he is going to tell me what a cunt I am for stealing the girl of his dreams. “The body in the bridge… it is not Mavros Epistemos,” he says, frowning. He looks up, and waits for me to take this in.
“And it’s not Lambros, the communist leader either. He was even more old. The body is the body of a young man, or a teenager. They can tell this from the bones. The Pathologist is very sure of this. The body has all his teeth – rotten, but all present. We checked with the families – Mavros and Aris, they both have some teeth missing. So who was this in the bridge we cannot say. The Police Chief has checked the records – no missing teenagers from those times. And why the badge in the hand?” He shakes his head. “Maybe not political. But the badge…?” He looks downcast. “Maybe we don’ find who this body is. This I don’ like.” He pauses. “You will still write about my investigation for your newspaper in London?”
What can I say? Probably not. Shame, the poor guy is not going to get the fame he was hoping for. I prevaricate, not wanting to bring him down too quickly. He looks grateful.
"So, you have problems too?" he asks
I tell him I am worried about Lucy. I explain to him the conundrum about Lucy’s missing computer and the incongruous and almost definitely bogus e-mails. I tell him about my conversations with the doctor and before that with Christos Papademos. He ponders this. “Maybe if she is not well in her mind, this changes her writing. Maybe she was confused when she was writing the reply to you. Maybe she cannot remember and is embarrassed. So she says she can remember this. What you say in English?”
“Suggestible?” I offer.
“Yes, maybe she is suggestible?”
Could it be? Have I convinced myself that the respondent isn’t Lucy to prove how clever I am? But if she has my e-mails, she will have had Irini’s too. Why has she not got in touch with Irini? – especially if she is having a breakdown. She’d know Irini would help her. But manic people don’t think they need help, isn’t that right? Is she perhaps worried that Irini will find out that she isn’t as robust as Irini needs her to be to continue to hero-worship her? Fuck, I’d almost convinced myself she was dead. Now I don’t know.
“You should talk to Panagiotis,” Antonis says.
I tell him I can’t trust his colleagues – until I have evidence to the contrary, the “Thomas” suggests they might be involved in Lucy’s disappearance, or at least are trying to fool me into leaving. It’s all I’ve got. I can’t assume Lucy was confused. It doesn’t add up. I can see Antonis thinks I am being paranoid. “My friend, this is not in my jurisdiction” (he pronounces it ‘jurisdishiyon’). He shrugs. “So what I can do?”
I look out at the vanishing light on the distant mountains. I am on my own. Lucy, where are you? Please be alive.
25
The Mayor. I shall have to see the Mayor. What did Christos say? – the Mayor will know the name of the NGO Lucy was involved with. Does the NGO know where she is? Or are they, Christos and the Mayor, somehow connected to her disappearance? Convenient for them if she is now out of the picture, if Christos fabricated the story of her offering to write a favourable report on the resort development. That doesn’t sound like Lucy. If Christos and the Mayor did want her out of the picture, how far were they prepared to go? But what if she did change her tune, if she was manic, how would her commissioning NGO have reacted to that?
I get into town by ten a.m. The town is busy with Greek women with stocky legs and shopping bags, getting in their supplies for the week, handfuls of onions casually tossed into their carriers, each tomato turned to the light for any blemishes. The women seem to be of two types – jowly and taciturn, or garrulous, loudly chattering like geese. Delivery vans park in traffic and set off a chain reaction of indignant hooting from the cars behind. Drivers lean out their windows and shout and gesticulate, but know the way of the world and the delivery men offload without undue haste. I am now used to my motorbike and weave like a local.
I get to the Town Hall just as Calliope, with her husband, the world-weary Nektarios, emerge. She recognises me immediately. “Mr. Journalist,” she says. “You have heard? – they say the body in the bridge is not political. The fucking Mayor has now the opinion that now is not the right time for a statue to our heroes. Fucking neo-liberal stooges! No balls! We will not stand for this. You will see. The people will rise up!” She raises her fist and her husband half-heartedly does the same. Then she pats me on the shoulder, smiles and walks off.
The Mayor’s secretary tells me the Mayor only sees people by appointment, but when I tell her that I have been sent by Christos Papademos, she takes my card and goes to ask the Mayor whether he will make an exception. Moments later she shows me into his office. Nikos Angelopolis gets up to greet me, hand outstretched. “Come in, come in, Mr Pickering,” he says, his voice booming, the kind of deep bass that has grown up on brandy and cigarettes. He is a broad-shouldered man with a very firm bony hand grip and a wide well-practiced smile. Popular no doubt with women voters and their inferior husbands. He exudes patrimony.
“You have come about your friend, Miss Discombe? Christos told me you had been to see him. An exceptional woman,” he says, “Yes, an exceptional woman. We agreed on all matters concerning the environment. She was interested in the wildlife of the lagoon with the building of the Christos’s hotel. But I assured her everything was in order. We did the environmental impact report ourselves – we have to; since last year we are responsible for administering the EU regulations – devolved to Municipalities, you see. It’s not the central government any more that takes care of our protected areas. We are in a better position. We know the land, we know the people and what the people want. What they want most of all on the islands is jobs, not only jobs in the summer, but all through the year. So, infrastructure – roads, bridges, water supply, harbours. Environmental tourism – tourists who will come not just in the summer but come for the migrating birds in the winter. So, it is important for us to protect our wildlife,” he says, smiling benevolently. He gets up and takes a framed picture off the wall behind and hands it to me. “Konstantinos Simitis. He was our Prime Minister until last year. PASOK. A very good man. He brought in all new protection for the environment. Natura 2000. Simitis did very well in negotiations with the EU. We got lots of money for developing the island. All friendly to the environment. With EU behind us, the banks have been very generous. We are a good investment,” he says proudly. Then he looks more sombre. “Last year unfortunately we lost the elections and I’m not so sure about the new Prime Minister, Karamanlis – also Konstantinos. From one Konstantinos to another Konstantinos – they should change the name of Athens to Konstantinople!” He laughs heartily at his joke which is fraying at the edges from over-use.
I don’t want to piss on his parade, but I mention the slick out to sea near the lagoon. “Temporary,” he says emphatically. “This is only while they are still building at the Poseidon. It is of no danger to the birds. I showed all the documents to your Miss Discombe. She will tell you.
” He sits back and waits for my response, fingers entwined on his lap.
“Who was she working for? Do you know? Christos may have told you that Miss Discombe has gone missing. We are quite worried about her,” I tell him.
“Yes, I heard this. I hope you will find her in good health,” the Mayor says sincerely.
“She was working for an NGO?”
“Yes, but not one of the usual ones.” He presses a button on his desk and the secretary comes in. A button on his desk – old-school. He says something to her and she goes out. He sits back and regards me. “So, how do you like our island?”
I am about to reply when the secretary comes back in and hands him a document. He puts on his designer-framed glasses, has a brief look at it and then hands it to me. The letterhead says in bold type, “Radagast Environmental Action”. It is a letter from Lucy, handwritten, introducing herself and her NGO, dated some months previous. Printed in small lettering at the bottom are the contact details of the organisation – their website, e-mail address, and address in Lower Saxony, and a German telephone number.
“Can I have a copy of this?” I ask.
“That is a copy,” the Mayor says with satisfaction that he had anticipated my needs. He is a politician after all. “Call them. But I don’t know how helpful they will be. Your Miss Discombe had come to see things our way. I think her boss was not pleased with this. I imagined, from what Miss Discombe told me, that her boss was one of those women who prefer to oppose than to accept change. Someone who enjoys to fight. Maybe someone also who prefers the company of other women.” He smirks as he looks to see that I have understood his typology.
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes. Of course. I did my research. The CEO is a woman called Erika von Strondheim. She is an heiress – very rich. She likes to get what she wants. Good luck!” he says and chuckles. Then as he gets up to see me out he says, “But I recommend you are careful. She works with a man called Jurgen Preissler. He is what the Americans call the Enforcer. He was here with your friend. He is not a nice man. If you meet him, you will see what I mean.”
26
I google Radagast online when I get back. I get numerous references to Radagast, the Brown Wizard, from The Lord of the Rings, friend of the animals and the birds. That must be the origin. Not one of the wizards I am familiar with, but the job description fits. After further impatient scrolling, I get an article referencing Radagast Environmental Action. It’s about the trial of members of the organisation and their direct-action campaign against vivisection in some German medical school, the freeing of imprisoned animals and the blowing up of the laboratory wing, with the consequent fatal wounding of a technician working late and a cleaner. The ring leader, Jurgen Preissler, was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to seven years in prison. The report is from 1994. So, he’s been out for at least four years. I search Jurgen Preissler and get the same article. I search Erika von Strondheim and get a publicity shot of a handsome, well-coifed woman wearing a cravat, looking just like the German aristocrat she is. Her age is not mentioned but she looks to be about fifty, although if the photo is touched up, which it looks to be, she could be as old as seventy. There is a haughty tightness at the corners of her thin lips and an elevation to the chin which allows a better view of her nostrils. I bet she loves her horses. Her money comes from her mother’s family – they cornered the market in plastic containers and vacuum packing. The article underneath the picture, in what I assume is the German equivalent of Tatler’s from the look of it, says craftily that all she got from her father was his aristocratic name. The implication is that he was penniless.
There are articles further down the search which reference Erika von Strondheim’s more recent environmental activity and her involvement with Radagast. She has been the CEO for four years. She is quoted as saying that the organisation is a “lean” organisation, which is well-funded and achieves, due to the devotion of its staff and members, much more than its relatively small size would predict. There is no mention of illegal activity, nor the jailing of its members in the past. Maybe that’s history. Maybe now they are legit. I should call Erika.
****
Erika has a PA. The PA’s name is Gunhilda. Gunhilda politely and definitely tells me that Frau von Strondheim will call me back presently but she cannot tell me when this will be. Gunhilda cannot tell me anything about Lucy because she does not work for the organisation – she works for the Baroness, sorry, please excuse me, Frau von Strondheim exclusively.
As it happens I don’t have to wait long. German efficiency. Have no doubts - it’s hardwired.
Erika von Strondheim’s voice is well-crafted, the syllables punctilious, precise, the tone measured, the Germanic accent almost imperceptible. “So, you are a friend of Lucy Discombe.” This is a statement, not a question. “She is no longer contracted to our organisation. We had an irreconcilable difference of… perspective,” (she chooses her words carefully) “and we terminated our agreement a few weeks ago. What has happened to her? Not that that is any concern of mine.”
I tell her Lucy is missing. She may be unwell.
“As I said, Mr. Pickering, that is not my concern. Lucy Discombe is no longer associated with our organisation, and as such we bear no responsibility for her actions or whatever she writes. This is the legal position. We have disowned her.”
Her coldness inflames me. “Well, maybe she got it right. Did you consider that? Or did you want her to write only what benefitted you and your ‘organisation’?” I spit out.
“Who, may I ask, have you been talking to, Mr Pickering?” Her tone is imperious and disdainful.
I tell her I have spoken to both the Mayor and to Christos Papademos.
“Ah,” she says, “Did the Mayor tell you he was a... what do you call it? - a sleeping partner with the Papademos’ construction company?” She can tell from my silence that they did not.
A barely discernible, “Hmph” before she goes on. “The EU only releases regional development funds if the region is environmentally compliant. The Mayor signs off on the compliance report and the money flows like magic into the Papademos coffers. Did they tell you about the re-zoning of the National park? - about how they burned down pristine forest on the mountain next to the lagoon, so the land would show up as barren, so that they could move the boundary of the protected area to the other side of the hotel? It used to be a nature reserve. The fire was accidental of course.” The sarcasm in her voice is corrosive. “Those fires always are. Your Mr. Papademos will tell you there are lots of wild fires on the island. But somehow, very conveniently, this one occurred immediately before the determination of the boundaries for the re-zoning.
“No? They didn’t tell you this? And did they tell you how they have diverted the run-off of mountain water for use by the hotel instead of feeding the lagoon? No? How the salts in the lagoon are becoming more concentrated and that in ten years’ time or maybe less, the lagoon will dry up? Already the population of fresh water fish in the lagoon is degraded. The fire they set killed off the wild boar population that had taken decades to re-establish on the island? You know how long it took us to re-establish the native boar population on the island? And now, not one boar alive. And did they tell you how the fires they set drove the rats down to the lagoon edge and increased the rat population there catastrophically for the birds? - the rats eat the eggs of bird species which have used the lagoon as their breeding ground for centuries. Both the Audouin’s gull and the Yelkouan Shearwater are approaching extinction. But I suppose they didn’t tell you that.” I feel myself reddening.
“And the overgrowth of algae from their effluent system? Have you seen the colour of the sea off shore of the lagoon? All it will take will be one storm surge at the right time and that poisonous water will flow into the lagoon and the birds will die.
“And the rabbit fish? You know about rabbit fish? They come from the Red Sea. But their eggs are also in the bilge of the boats which deliver the fine
Egyptian sand for the plaster on the walls of the glorious Poseidon. It gives the plaster a pink hue. Very popular. Very tasteful, ja?” She is getting angry now and in trying to suppress this, her German accent is escaping its lair. “The rabbit fish eat all the coral, so all the indigenous fish which live off the coral can’t survive. The rabbit fish grow and grow. It can’t be eaten – it is bitter, not nize.
“But somehow your friend could not see all zis. Your friend, Mr Papademos, is very persuasive is he not? Mr Papademos was good enough to warn us that Lucy, whom I used to respect enormously, would be writing instead about the benefits of tourism to the local economy.”
“You heard that from Lucy herself?” I ask.
“No, but we wrote to her and she did not bother to get back to us. She did not pick up her phone. So we terminated her… contract. Our lawyer wrote to warn her not to write anything adverse about us or we would take the necessary action to prevent zis. Radagast is my life’s work, Mr Pickering. I vill allow nussing vich vill jeopardise zis.”
I don’t know how to counter this. She has told me lots of stuff I didn’t know and I feel I have been naïve and gullible. But still I need to find Lucy.
“Okay, but have you heard from Lucy? Do you know where she is?”
“Lucy Discombe is no longer my affair, Mr Pickering. Thank you for your time.” She hangs up.
27
I swim to clear my head and wash away my annoyance at Frau von Strondheim and her shadowy, pretentious NGO. I am annoyed at myself for being gullible, not checking facts, getting caught up in a rich businessman’s PR seduction. Fuck, I’m getting flabby. Not like me. I’m usually more on the ball, more incisive and critical, trust me. I swim harder and let my frustration out in hard decisive strokes. Dip, pull… dip, pull… glide…. The water opens up to me, let’s me pass, easing a furrow of silver in the blue. Kick, kick. Dip, pull… dip, pull…