Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  Pappas noticed that his ears were small and clove-shaped; he watched the waves of fat roll over Cuttler’s hairless body every time he breathed. He looks more like a circus freak than a professional killer, Pappas thought, moving up to the hospital trolley. “How do you feel?”

  Cuttler’s eyes fluttered open, focusing on the stranger.

  “How do you feel?” Pappas repeated in flawless English while his eyes surveyed the tiny, bare cubicle.

  “They gave me a shot for the fucking pain, but it’s wearin’ off,” Cuttler groaned.

  Pappas moved up to the cream-colored medical cabinet that was against the wall. “I’d give you some more, George, but unfortunately, we’re running somewhat short this morning.”

  “Where’d you learn your English?” Cuttler asked as his fat face grimaced in pain.

  Studying the contents of the cabinet, Pappas said, “When I was a young man I worked as a waiter on cruise ships. I learned to speak English, French, and German.” He opened the cabinet door and, reaching inside, removed two plastic bottles of peroxide. He put the bottles down and lightly touched Cuttler’s leg.

  Cuttler let out an anguished howl.

  Pappas snatched his hand back. “Oh, I’m sorry, George. I didn’t realize that you hurt there.”

  Wincing, Cuttler said, “Don’t touch, okay? That painkiller is wearing off.” His eyes widened with suspicion. “Who are you anyway?”

  Pappas picked up one of the bottles and unscrewed the cap. “I’m Colonel Dimitri Pappas, Security Division, Athens Station, Hellenic Police.” Tossing the cap aside, he leaned over the American. “George, I’ve been a policeman for most of my adult life. And during that time I’ve seen a lot of people do a lot of stupid things. But what you and Frank Simmons did this morning is memorable in its imbecility.” He shoved his face close. “Did you really think that you could slaughter our people and then calmly waltz your ass onto the next flight back to the States?”

  Cuttler turned his head away. “I wanna see someone from the American embassy. I got my fucking rights.”

  Pappas smiled. “Ah, yes, your famous American rights. Well, I really don’t have the time to discuss them with you. So, I’m going to ask you a few simple questions, and you will give me a few simple answers. Who paid you to kill the two policemen? Why did that person want them killed? Who was your contact in Greece? And anything else that you might want to tell me.”

  “Fuck you. I wanna see –”

  Pappas calmly poured peroxide over the shard of bone protruding from Cuttler’s left leg.

  A piercing shriek exploded from the prisoner. Waves of fat heaved over his body as it levitated up off the gurney and cartwheeled onto the cold floor. Screaming, Cuttler rolled from side to side, shards of bone hitting against the floor, the wheels of the gurney.

  Two policemen rushed into the room. Pappas calmly shooed them back outside. Grabbing the other bottle, Pappas knelt down beside the writhing prisoner and began to unscrew the cap. “Are you going to tell me, George?”

  Pappas then appeared to have second thoughts; he reached under his shirt jacket and slid out his revolver. Gripping the weapon by its barrel, the colonel slammed the butt of the weapon against the bone jutting from the prisoner’s left leg.

  Thirty-seven minutes later, Pappas stuck his face out of the cubicle and motioned the policemen back. “See to our guest. He slipped off the trolley.”

  The green unmarked police car turned onto Cathedral Square. The five-kilometer trip along the coast road from Glifádha to Athens had taken a bit over a half hour, with the blue roof light on.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” the corporal asked Pappas.

  “I want you to stay with the car and radio Lieutenant Sokos to meet me here with those folders. I’m anxious to see what we can find out about our two dead heroes.”

  The corporal reached out for the handset. Pappas shoved open the door and squeezed out of the car. Walking across the tiled square, he came to the twelfth-century Byzantine Church of Aghios Eleutherios, which nestled in the shadow of the cathedral. He stopped and examined the old marble walls and the frieze of the Attic festal calendar, the bas-reliefs of symbolic beasts and heraldic designs, wondering as his eyes ran over them if life was any simpler then.

  Walking across the plaza toward Plaka, the old city of Athens, which was tucked away on the northern and southern slopes of the Acropolis, he spied the huge red-and-white banner stretched across the street, proclaiming in English: WELCOME TO FLEA MARKET OF PANDROSSOU STREET. We’ve become the damn flea market of the tourist world, he thought, moving into the narrow streets lined with shops. The windows of jewelry stores sparkled with gold trinkets. Shills beckoned from doorways.

  When he reached the corner of Kapnikareas Street, Pappas turned left and stopped in front of number Forty-three. The peeling gold letters on the glass door spelled: ORHAN ISKUR, OBJETS D’ART. A dirty shade covered the other side of the door. Pappas checked the time. 2:11. Siesta time throughout Greece. But not here in Plaka. Here the rhythm of life was determined by the ebb and flow of the tourists. Pappas tried the door and was surprised to find it was open. The overhead bells tinkled as he slipped inside. The store was empty; quiet save for the monotonous hum of three ceiling fans. Horse-shoe-shaped display cases filled with copies of antiquities lined the walls of the shop. Rugs and kilims covered the wood floors.

  There was a door behind the display case. Pappas went behind the counter, reached out, turned the doorknob, and pushed the door open. He stepped into a cluttered storage area. There were boxes of calyx kraters and wine jugs, racks of silver-plated bowls with handles in the form of human heads, and there were funeral stelae, ranks of amphorae, and rows of Euphronios kraters. It was a junkyard of obvious and rather crude imitations.

  Two cats darted out from behind the amphorae and disappeared behind cartons overflowing with plumed helmets. Cats, used before refrigeration to protect the meat from rats, now overran Greece. There was a short hallway that led from the storage area to a door. Pappas moved cautiously along the passage, sliding his revolver out from under his shirt jacket. He reached the door and stopped; listening as he quietly worked the knob. Finding it unlocked, he hurled the door open and fell into a combat stance. “Shit!”

  The body lay on its back with the feet protruding from behind an ornate desk. A high-backed chair lay on its side close to the head. A trickle of dried blood ran from the small hole in the dead man’s eyebrow. The mouth was open, revealing many gold teeth; one eye was open, one closed. A shocked expression had congealed on the dead man’s face. An armchair stood in front of the desk. The killer must have been sitting there when he shot him, Pappas reasoned.

  Orhan Iskur knew his murderer, trusted him; Orhan Iskur did not trust many people.

  Pappas knelt next to the body and placed his hand on the forehead. It was cold, clammy. The beginning contractions of rigor mortis had stiffened the head and neck. You made one deal too many, Pappas thought, lifting up the right hand, examining the inch-long pinkie nail. A Turkish affectation, a man wore that nail long to demonstrate that he made his living by using his brain rather than his hands. He dropped the wrist.

  Pappas’s first contact with Orhan Iskur had been in October of ’71. Rubens’ Christ on the Cross had been stolen that past September in Liege, Belgium. Interpol had sent an all-stations flash to Athens advising that they had confidential information that Iskur was negotiating for the sale of the stolen Rubens with a German collector. Pappas did a fast check on Iskur and discovered that he was a man of Turkish origins who had acquired Greek citizenship and presently lived and worked in Athens. Iskur had been one of the many former Allied operatives who after World War II used their “old boy” intelligence network to deal in stolen and plundered art works.

  When Pappas questioned the Turk, Iskur denied any knowledge of the stolen painting. He was a mere dealer in tourist trinkets, he had reassured Pappas. Iskur was put under tight surveillance for several months. No illeg
al activities were observed and the stakeout was terminated.

  Pappas had concealed his surprise when George Cuttler told him that he and Frank Simmons had been met at the airport by a Turk named Orhan who had gold teeth and a long pinkie nail on his right hand.

  It had been Orhan, Cuttler told Pappas, who supplied them with the weapons, and it had been Orhan who got them the rooms in the Orion Hotel in Athens; Orhan who gave them the photographs of the policemen and got them the black Ford and gave them the emergency telephone number that turned out to be the one at his own store. Iskur had also set up a very clever escape route for them.

  Pappas removed his handkerchief and carefully put it over the billfold lying next to the body. It contained sixteen thousand drachmas and a great many credit cards. Jade worry beads strung on a gold strand lay next to the body. Pappas picked them up and fingered them. He liked the way they felt; he dropped them into his shirt pocket. The appointment book on top of the desk contained only blank pages; Iskur obviously carried his schedule in his head. The desk drawers were stuffed with invoices and worthless artifacts.

  Pappas stood in the center of the room staring at the cartons of swords and helmets stacked on the leather sofa. A painting on silk of a fish hung on the wall. Pappas recognized Dvogvos’s bold signature. He searched the closet and looked behind paintings and under rugs. He rummaged through cartons. Finding nothing, he stared down at the body. Gray nylon socks had collapsed around the corpse’s marble white ankles. Damn, Dimitri, do this the right way. He covered the handset of the telephone with his handkerchief, lifted it, and dialed Athens headquarters.

  Lieutenant Kanakis, a tall gangling cop with a boyish face, led the search team that screeched to a stop ten minutes later in front of 43 Kapnikareas Street. Orhan Iskur’s store was methodically taken apart by the Security Division’s special team. Electrical fixtures and plates were removed from walls and ceilings; moldings were pried from baseboards; floor coverings were taken up; rugs and furniture were vacuumed, the fibers carefully deposited into plastic evidence bags. All the papers were removed from drawers and cabinets and then indexed and cross-referenced. Photographs were taken; fingerprints were lifted.

  Pappas moved about, supervising the operations, his hands behind his back, fingering his newly acquired worry beads. He watched as plastic bags were placed over the hands and tied around the wrists of the corpse in order to preserve any scrapings that might be wedged under the nails or in the crevices of the hand.

  Outside, Security Division investigators moved up and down the street, canvassing for witnesses. Uniformed officers maintained a security zone in front of the shop, chasing away the curious. Shopkeepers grumbled; they were losing business. Lieutenant Sokos appeared in the doorway with two folders tucked under his arm. He looked a bit like a very worried accountant, an impression reinforced by his prematurely graying hair. “Here are the files on the dead officers,” he said, handing them to Pappas.

  Looking around the store for some quiet place and finding none, Pappas went out into the street, using the folders to shield his face from the sunlight, and crossed the street to his adjutant’s official car. It was parked half up on the narrow sidewalk, blocking the front of a clothing store whose owner was locked in argument with a nearby policeman. Pappas slid into the rear of the car; Sokos got into the front. The lieutenant told his driver to go grab a smoke; draping one arm over the seat, he turned and watched the colonel study the files on the two murdered policemen.

  Fifteen minutes later, Pappas looked up into his adjutant’s blank face. “Have you studied these?”

  “Yes, sir, on the way here.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  Sokos hesitated. “Well, I’m not really sure. I …”

  “Damn it, Spiro,” Pappas said, using the adjutant’s first name in order to take some of the sting out of the admonition. “You must learn to make judgments on the given facts. You read their folders. Now tell me what you think.”

  “I think that both officers lived above their means. They both recently bought apartments in an expensive neighborhood, and–”

  A knock on the car’s roof interrupted them.

  “Yes?” Pappas said to the sergeant who was staring into the car.

  “Lieutenant Kanakis sent me to get you, sir. He’s found something.”

  Pappas got out of the car and returned to the cool, dark interior of the shop. Kanakis’s head and shoulders were visible above the amphorae. He was kneeling before a row of the tall, two-handled storage jars, examining one.

  “What have you found?” Pappas asked, edging carefully along the row. Kanakis looked past the colonel and nodded hello to Lieutenant Sokos. “I think this amphora might be real, Colonel.”

  Pappas looked at the storage vessel and made a dismissive grunt. “Junk, the same as the rest of them.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Kanakis insisted.

  Pappas’s face showed impatience. He knelt next to the lieutenant. There was a spirited freshness about this amphora. The oranges were bright; the blacks were the pitch-black of night, and the blues, the blue of a Greek morning. The scenes depicted were alive, real. Ancient times were reborn.

  “I studied art history, Colonel,” Kanakis said in a low voice. “I’m no expert, but I think that this piece might be the real thing.”

  There was a strangely regal quality about it, Pappas admitted to himself as he slid his hand over the side and up to the rim. Kneeling upright, he stretched his arm down into the vessel. His fingers encountered a cold, granulated substance. Scooping up a handful, he held his palm up to show the lieutenant.

  “Black sand,” Pappas said.

  A priest chanted the litany of prayers for the dead. Women clustered in front of the grocery store making keening, howling cries, crossing themselves. The sounds were as ancient as the chorus from Agamemnon. The stairway was crowded with milling people; the elevator was stuck on the fifth floor.

  Pappas shouldered his way up to the third floor. As he pushed his way into the dead policeman’s apartment on Euphorinos Street, the air pressed in on him. He glanced at the time. Five P.M. Had it all begun a bare six hours ago? He thought of the fishing boats returning to their berths at Piraeus. He was going to miss the peripato, the habitual evening stroll around the harbor. There would be no cold demestica to wash down the eels and crayfish. Not this evening; this evening Pappas would be looking for the truth.

  A dazed woman was slumped into an armchair in the living room. Other women stood around her trying to comfort and console her.

  Lakis Rekor’s widow, he concluded, knowing that there was no way that he would be able to question the distraught woman, at least not for a while. He noticed the doilies on the backs and arms of the furniture and wondered why women loved to crochet them. He moved unnoticed through the crowded apartment to the open door that led out onto the terrace. Two men were sitting at a table, drinking, smoking, picking at the plates of snacks, seemingly oblivious to the commotion going on around them.

  Stepping outside, Pappas lowered himself into a chair, saying, “I’m looking for Thanos and Kostas Koukoudeas.”

  “And who are you?” one man asked abruptly. His hair was black, and he had thick, dark eyebrows over deep-set, somber brown eyes.

  Pappas introduced himself. “I’ve come to offer my condolences.”

  “I’m Thanos,” the one with the brown eyes said. “This is my brother, Kostas.”

  Pappas figured Thanos to be the younger of the two brothers. Kostas, his heavily jowled face and gleaming, shaven head supported by a thick neck, was a man in his middle forties. The colonel poured ouzo into a glass and added water, watching as the clear liquid turned milky. “Your brother-in-law was Lakis Rekor?”

  Both brothers wore open-collared shirts and were watching the policeman with troubled expressions.

  “Yes. He was married to our sister,” Kostas Koukoudeas said.

  Pappas ripped off a piece of bread and swept it across the taramosa
lata.

  “Your brother-in-law was a good policeman. A brave man,” Pappas said, and tossed the bread into his mouth.

  Kostas’s worried eyes fixed on Pappas. “Lakis always wanted to be a policeman.”

  “Yes, most of us do,” Pappas said, digging a chunk of bread into a bowl of gigantes, pushing the huge kidney-shaped beans onto the bread. “We know that we’ll never be rich, but it’s a way of getting out of the village and securing a steady job with a pension. And, of course” – he stopped and ate the gigantes – “there is always the chance of making some fast money.”

  The brothers shifted uneasily in their seats.

  “I have to ask you a few questions,” Pappas said.

  “Of course, we’ll do anything to help,” Thanos said.

  “I thought you might,” Pappas replied, taking out his notepad and flipping it open. He read aloud the dead policemen’s official biographies. Both of them had come from the island of Kos. They were appointed to the gendarmarie together on June 1, 1979. They went through recruit school together; they did their probation together on the island of Crete, after which they were assigned together to the duty station on the island of Thíra. On October 9, 1984, both officers submitted form E 6c Request For Transfer. When the police force was consolidated they were reassigned to the Athens patrol district. “From the record they appear to have been close friends,” Pappas said, looking up from his notes.

  “They grew up together,” Kostas said. “Both were best man at the other’s wedding.”

  Pappas scooped up some mezedakia. “Yes. I’ve noticed many similarities between them.” He ate. “And their families.”

  The Koukoudeas brothers became guarded.

  “How’s that?” asked Thanos.

  “Well,” Pappas said, carefully wiping his fingers on a paper napkin, “it appears that there was a sudden infusion of money into the Koukoudeas and the Lefas families. And this sudden good fortune took place around the same time that Lakis and Tasos requested transfer off of Thíra. Both officers bought expensive apartments in Athens. And all on a salary of fifty thousand drachmas a month. Their wives must be wonderful managers.”