Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  Heeding him, the other man raised his weapon and turned to run for the car.

  Vassos fired two more rounds double action. The thin man stumbled into the Citroën and slumped to the ground, blood staining the back of his shirt. The other, furious at the sight of his wounded friend, ran back, firing bursts of parabellum bullets into the helpless victims lying on the terrace of the café. Hysterical people leaped up off the ground and made desperate dashes for safety only to be cut down by the lethal spray of bullets.

  The wounded gunman propped himself up against the Citroën’s front wheel. The fat killer ran back to him and, clutching him under the shoulders, helped him up off the ground.

  Vassos, crouched behind the table, opened the cylinder of the revolver to check on how many rounds he had fired; two live ones were left. He closed the cylinder.

  The fat one held his partner in one arm as the two men backed away together toward their car, their weapons pointed in the direction of the carnage. Vassos popped out from behind the table and fired his last two rounds at the retreating killers. The wounded man sagged in the other man’s embrace. The fat man, with his wounded friend in tow, continued to back up toward the car while responding with a deadly burst of fire.

  Vassos picked the table up by its metal leg; using it as a shield, he charged the killers. The fat killer fired at him. Bullets impacted on the table, striking the metal base and hurling the shield up into Vassos’s face, knocking him unconscious.

  The still-untouched gunman pushed his badly wounded partner into the front seat of the Ford and ran around to the driver’s side. He had just gotten behind the wheel when George Sanida rammed the car broadside with his bus, wrapping the Ford’s frame around the rear of the police car. A burst of gunfire from inside the Ford hurled the blond tourist up out of the door well, splaying her body over the dirty floor.

  “Murderers!” Sanida screamed as he ground the transmission into reverse and then roared back, aiming the shattered grill of his bus at the smoldering Ford. The bus shot forward, crashing into the Ford. Metal twisted. Glass shattered. The force of the impact pushed the scraping mass up onto the sidewalk. Bodies lay among the upturned tables and chairs. Bewildered people tottered from doorways. And a young woman in a beach sarong lay limp over a dead child inside a toy spacecraft while her unconscious husband lay in a pool of blood.

  Sirens screamed in the distance.

  George Sanida was sprawled across the steering wheel, listening to the steam billowing from the mangled grill. His body was soaked in sweat and a stream of hot urine coursed down his leg. He struggled up out of the jump seat and stumbled over to the dead tourist. He knelt beside her, crying silently. He brushed her hair from her face, mouthed the words “thank you,” then bent and kissed her stilled lips. Her lifeless legs were spread in an unladylike way, so he reached out under the driver’s seat, pulled out an oil-soaked blanket, and covered her. He became conscious of people outside the bus screaming curses. Pushing himself up off the floor, he looked out the window and saw an angry crowd hurling maledictions at the wreckage.

  A thin man, covered in blood, was struggling out of the car’s shattered window. A large flap of skin hung down over his jawbone.

  The crowd watched. Waited.

  Sanida found himself cheering the man’s efforts. He watched as he wiggled his way on top of the wreckage and fell to the ground. The wounded man tried to get up, only to fall backward onto his haunches. He looked up, his hard eyes glaring at the crowd, a strange expression of contempt curling his lips. Sanida grabbed a wrench from the emergency tool chest under the driver’s seat and leaped down off the bus. Plunging through the crowd, he pushed his way up to the killer and began beating him with the tool.

  The crowd surged forward.

  Takis Milaraki lay on his back, his hands feebly pressing a slimy mass back into his stomach. Dimly aware of the noise around him, he blinked several times in an effort to make out what it was that he saw in the sky. A vaguely familiar form was floating down toward him. He squeezed his lids tightly closed to clear his vision. Now he could see clearly. Drifting in the sky were his beloved islands. They were silhouetted against a blue canvas, beckoning him. “I’m coming,” he moaned, and then he died.

  2

  Colonel Dimitri Pappas sat behind his spindle-legged desk on the fifth floor of 173 Leoforos Alexandras, studying field reports on the recent consolidation of the gendarmerie and the city police into one national department, the Hellenic Police. Each report stated that the unification was an unqualified success. Pappas knew better; it was cover-your-ass time in the department. The politicians wanted one national police force and the officer corps was not about to go against the politicians who had the power to approve or disapprove their promotions. It was incredible to Pappas that, under the new system, the mayor of Athens – or the mayor of any city or village – would no longer have any say in the running of their local police. A bad omen. It reminded Pappas of the days of the junta; the dark, bloody days of the colonels.

  Dimitri Pappas commanded the Athens and Salonica Security Prefecture, which encompassed the plainclothes and intelligence forces of Athens, Voúla, and Glifádha. He had begun his career in the gendarmerie thirty-two years ago. At that time the city police force was responsible for Athens, Patras, and Corfu; the gendarmerie policed the rest of the country.

  Pappas had broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a mane of silver hair. His chin had long ago merged with his neck, leaving his chin with no definition. He loved wearing jacketlike Greek shirts but, when forced to by the occasion, he would don his uniform. This morning he wore a light blue shirt with gray slacks and brown shoes.

  Pappas had just reached for another report when his door burst open and his adjutant, Lieutenant Sokos, blurted, “There’s been a massacre in Voúla.”

  The wop-wop-wop sound of the helicopter’s main rotors became Voúla’s death dirge as Pappas and his adjutant left the craft and ran through a whirlwind of dirt and paper toward the waiting police car. The sergeant who met Pappas delivered his report as they drove to the scene. The initial investigation showed eleven dead, eighteen wounded. Two of the dead had been policemen; they died with their guns drawn.

  A cordon of police had sealed off the village from the rest of the world; all domestic and international flights out of Athens had been grounded; ferries and hydrofoils leaving Piraeus had been ordered to remain at their docks. Security Division investigators had been rushed to Voúla and a temporary headquarters had been established in the Ionian and Popular Bank of Greece across the street from the Elite Café.

  Looking out the window of the car, Pappas could see policemen struggling to restrain grieving relatives and friends. The crime scene had been roped off, a frozen zone established. A shaken driver sat on the ground next to his bus answering investigators’ questions, still unsure of exactly what had happened. Lieutenant Sokos rushed up to Pappas. Looking at his adjutant’s ashen face, Pappas thought: he does not function well under pressure. “Well, are you going to tell me the result of the preliminary or do I have to drag it out of you?” Pappas growled.

  Sokos’s head made small nervous shakes. “Most of the witnesses confirm that the two killers stood on the curb and without warning fired into the crowd. They used Ingram model two submachine guns equipped with sound suppressors.”

  “What have we found out about these brave killers?” Pappas asked, staring grimly at the café’s pockmarked facade.

  “They’re Americans.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Americans,” repeated the adjutant, handing the colonel two passports.

  Pappas examined the photographs pasted inside the official documents. Frank Simmons, age 32, born New York City. George Cuttler, age 34, born New York City. Both passports had been stamped by Athens customs control. The killers had entered Greece five days ago. He noted that both passports had been recently issued and that they bore no other country’s admittance stamp. They came here to kill, Pappas thou
ght, looking over at the body bags awaiting transport. At that moment Pappas knew that the reason for the massacre would be found only in New York.

  Sokos was talking. “… Simmons tried to escape. The people ran after him, there was a struggle, and Simmons was killed.”

  Pappas gave his adjutant a long, hard look. He’s learning how to lie, maybe there’s some hope for him. “And this George Cuttler?”

  “He was rushed alive to the hospital in Glifádha.”

  “Where are the rest of the wounded?”

  “Some are here in the hospital, and some went to Glifádha, and the rest to Vouliagméni.”

  The adjutant stopped and swallowed nervously. “We also found four thousand dollars U.S. and two first-class tickets on Olympic Flight 411 leaving Athens at twelve fifty-five today.”

  Tapping the passports against his palm, Pappas said, “I don’t think our American friends are going to make their flight.”

  The lieutenant handed Pappas four grainy photographs. “These were taken from Simmons’s body.”

  Pappas opened the evidence bag and took out the pictures. They showed two men relaxing in a taverna. “Who are they?”

  “The one on the right is Tasos Lefas, and the one on the left is Lakis Rekor. They’re the two policemen who were killed here this morning.”

  Pappas looked at his adjutant. “What else?”

  The lieutenant paled. His eyes fell to the roadway. “Sir, Major Vassos was on the scene when the shooting began. He picked up one of the dead policemen’s guns and shot Frank Simmons. The major was hurt, but …”

  “But what, Lieutenant?”

  “Major Vassos’s wife and son were killed, sir.”

  Pappas gasped, his face sagging in anguish. He sucked his lower lip into his mouth and dug his teeth into it.

  The rotors were winding down when the door opened and a tall man rushed down the large helicopter’s steps into Voúla’s main square. Colonel Pappas waited outside the blades’ arc. Antonis Vitos, the Minister of Public Order, walked over quickly to meet his old friend.

  “It looks like we have a bad one on our hands,” Vitos said, shaking the colonel’s hand.

  “Yes, it does,” Pappas agreed, leading the minister away from the aircraft, noting the black pouches under his eyes and the disturbing raspiness in his voice. Vitos had aged a lot since they joined the gendarmerie together so many years ago. But then, I guess I’ve changed too, Pappas conceded.

  “What facts can you give me, Dimitri?”

  “I’m afraid that we don’t have very much to go on, yet, Minister.”

  “I have to tell Papandreou something,” Vitos said, walking beside the colonel.

  “You can tell the prime minister that there were two of them, and that they were both Americans.”

  A mask of disbelief froze on the minister’s face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We found their passports.”

  “Were they terrorists?”

  “I don’t believe so. The evidence so far suggests that they came here for the sole purpose of killing two policemen.”

  “Bastards,” Vitos said, lighting up a cigarette. “What do we know about the policemen?”

  “I’ve sent to Athens for their folders.” The minister watched three policemen struggle to restrain a hysterical woman. His thoughts seemed to wander.

  Pappas waited.

  Suddenly Vitos was roused from his lethargy. “What have you told the press?”

  “Only the barest of facts. And nothing about the Americans or the two dead policemen.”

  “Good. Don’t tell them anything.”

  “I’ve taken it upon myself to have telephone service in and out of Voúla cut off, except for to and from the bank that we’re using as our headquarters.”

  “A wise precaution, Dimitri.”

  “Do you want to inform the American embassy?”

  “Not yet. Wait until we know more.” Vitos softened. “What about the woman who was killed helping the bus driver?”

  “Her name was Debra Wright. A schoolteacher from Vancouver. She was twenty-four years old.”

  Vitos threw his cigarette down and ground it out with his heel. “Bastards. Have you notified the Canadians?”

  “Yes.”

  “See to it that her body is sent home as quickly as possible. Cut all the red tape. And Dimitri, I want an honor guard of evzones to accompany her body home.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  They moved over to the crime scene and watched in silence as body bags were solemnly lifted into the back of an ambulance.

  “It is unbelievable that such a thing could happen here,” Vitos said.

  Pappas sighed and said quietly, “With all the terrorist attacks and the assassination of ten PLO members in Athens over the past six years, our people are learning to live with violence.”

  “Every one of the incidents you’ve just mentioned was directed against foreign nationals. But this?” He swept his hand across the crime scene. “This was aimed at Greeks. Why, Dimitri? Why?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Pappas answered, the cries of wailing women catching his attention. His fists clenched tightly. “But I promise you that we will know and that the people responsible will be made to pay dearly.” His face clouded. “Major Vassos was here in Voúla with his family on vacation. The major’s wife and son were killed.”

  Vitos grabbed his friend’s arm and spoke in a low tone of warning: “Be careful how you handle this case, Dimitri. There are foreign nationals involved. We don’t want any problems with the Americans.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Has anyone questioned the injured American?”

  “I’m going to Glifádha now,” Pappas said. “I’ve already sent a man ahead to ask the hospital to keep him conscious. I’m anxious to have a chat with our Mr. Cuttler.”

  Vitos placed a hand on his classmate’s shoulder. “Dimitri, please remember what I told you; no problems with the Americans. Be discreet when you question Cuttler.”

  “I’m always discreet, Antonis.”

  Pappas sat in the passenger seat of the small, unmarked police car. His driver, a corporal, was a skinny man with a thick nose that had been broken in three places when a husband had unexpectedly returned home and the corporal found it necessary to dive out of an upstairs bedroom window. Pappas told his driver not to park on the hospital grounds. There was a lot of traffic inside; the colonel did not want to have his official car boxed in as a result of the Greek penchant for parking anywhere and then taking the keys with them. He might have to leave in a hurry.

  The Asklipeion Hospital in Glifádha was on Miramare Street, just off the coastal road, on the same corner where the No. 122 bus made a left hand turn into the village of Voúla. The main building had two wings coming out at forty-five-degree angles from the central structure and was partially hidden behind a screen of cypress and eucalyptus trees.

  Pappas got out of the car. Turning around, he stretched his arms out over the car’s roof, gazing across the road at the sea. A cruise ship glided across the horizon; a barkentine followed in her wake, its sails billowing. The beach was crowded. Yachts tugged gently at their anchors and the masts of boats swayed to the lap of the waves. Sucking in a mouthful of sea air, he turned and hurried past the hospital gate onto the grounds.

  A detail of one sergeant and five policemen had been rushed to the hospital to maintain order and to guard the prisoner, Cuttler. Much to his annoyance, Pappas discovered the sergeant, a fat, slovenly man about forty, standing outside the emergency room entrance smoking a cigarette.

  The sergeant saw Pappas hurrying up the path and quickly tossed the butt away.

  “Where is your prisoner, Sergeant?” Pappas asked, looking down at the burning cigarette.

  “He’s in examining room D, Colonel.”

  “And am I safe in assuming that someone is guarding him, or have your men also abandoned their posts?”

  Flustered, the sergeant answer
ed, “He’s guarded, sir. I only stepped outside for a minute or two.”

  “A minute or two is all it takes, Sergeant. If anything has happened to that prisoner, I’ll personally see to it that you end your career teaching the Syrtaki to Albanian tourists.”

  “It won’t happen again, sir,” the sergeant said, rushing to open the door.

  Doctors rushed up and down the corridors examining charts, holding hurried consultations. Walking into the emergency room, Pappas told the sergeant that he wanted to speak to the doctor who had treated the American. The sergeant hurried off, returning within a matter of minutes with the doctor.

  “I’m Dr. Christopoulos. As you can see, Colonel, I’m a bit busy this morning.”

  “I only need a few seconds of your time, Doctor.” Pappas said, slipping his arm through the doctor’s and leading him off to the side. “How is this Cuttler?”

  “He has compound fractures of both arms and both legs. His right shoulder is crushed, as are most of his ribs. Several of his ribs have punctured his lungs and there is internal bleeding.”

  “Has he been operated on yet?”

  “As you requested, we waited until you got here. And, he has been given only mild sedation.”

  “When do you expect to operate on him?”

  “There are only four operating rooms in this hospital – they are all full of Greek citizens. There are many who are more seriously wounded than the American. But, he should be under the knife in about forty minutes or so.”

  Pappas leaned in close to the medical man and whispered, “There is no rush, my friend. Take care of our people first.”

  The doctor wiped his arm across his brow. “I agree,” he said, and walked away.

  Colonel Pappas pushed the curtain aside and motioned the policeman from the room.

  “See that I’m not disturbed,” Pappas commanded the departing officer.

  George Cuttler lay naked on a gurney, a sheet neatly folded across his groin. A tube ran from his arm up to a bottle that hung from a steel pole. His head was propped on a small rubber pillow. Both his knees were skewed over the sides of the gurney: shards of bone protruded from scarlet fissures on his arms and legs. His shoulders were awkwardly positioned and his eyes were closed.