Marios shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t want to be here telling you any of this. And, on a personal level, I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you think I’m crazy or not. But when you leave here and check out what I told you,…” he allowed his words to drift off. He turned away from them and pressed a button. The lights faded down and images began filling the dome. The journey to Athens of another time had begun.
It was a fascinating experience, with great special effects, but what held Andreas’ interest was one simple question: What the fuck was going on? Kouros kept giving him looks along the same line. They were up to 416 BC, in the time of the Athenian democracy, and thirty-five minutes into the forty-minute presentation.
“This is the part for you to concentrate on.” They were the first words Marios had said since the show began.
The presenter’s voice picked up with, “Ostrakizmos was a procedure conducted by secret ballot for the protection of Athenian democracy. Once a year, citizens of Athens decided whether to hold a vote ostracizing one of their fellow citizens. If a sufficient number of Athenians wanted to conduct an ostracism, the person banished could be anyone the voters agreed was dangerous to Athens and democracy. Reasons for ostracizing were
the citizen had conservative views characteristic of dictatorship ideas;
the citizen was dishonest in business dealings;
the citizen misled people for personal purposes; or
the citizen was rich and bragged.
“Anyone determined to be such a danger was banished from Athens for ten years and required to leave the city within ten days.”
Marios pressed a button, the presentation stopped, and the lights went on. “So, what do you think?”
Lunatic was the first thing that came to mind. “Interesting,” was the word Andreas uttered.
“I see, you don’t agree. But I’m sure you understand the point and, yes, there could be other explanations for why the family left so quickly.”
Like simple, unmitigated grief, thought Andreas.
“Of course, in those times it was only a ten-year banishment of the individual from Athens, not his entire family from Greece for life.” He waved his hand in the air. “But, times change, procedures evolve, and everything in life can’t be a perfect fit.”
Andreas hoped his loss of patience wasn’t showing. “Sir, you’re a smart guy; we all know that. You’re also damn good at what you do; we all know that, too. What we don’t know is, where the hell you’re headed with this?”
Marios was unfazed. “For those who didn’t accept the ostracism, the penalty was death.”
Andreas already guessed that. The founders of democracy were notoriously direct in their punishments, even among peers. “But, with all due respect, sir, it’s one hell of a stretch to suggest that this…this ‘ostracism,’” he pointed at the screen, “was behind the boy’s murder.” He knew his frustration was showing.
“What if there were proof linking what you just saw to the death of the Kostopoulos boy?”
Andreas wondered if his minister had any idea how off-the-wall this guy was. “I don’t know what to say, sir. If you have evidence, of course we’ll look into it and—”
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 At
hens?
“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.
CHAPTER 8
“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 countr
y. 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.
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