Black Sand

by William Caunitz

  Thanos stole a look at his brother.

  “We wouldn’t know anything about their finances,” Kostas said.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Pappas said, sipping ouzo, checking his notes. He read aloud. “Thanos Koukoudeas, worked as a waiter in Pappa Spiros until November of ’eighty-four. Kostas Koukoudeas, worked as a tour guide for Atlas Tours until December of ’eighty-four. Both brothers left good-paying jobs to open the Taverna Apollo on Tripodon Street in Plaka.” He watched the brothers closely. “It takes considerable money to open a taverna in Plaka. I have to assume that you both had the good fortune to marry financial wizards.”

  “We saved our money,” Thanos insisted, taking a long sip of ouzo. Drink your courage, my friend, Pappas thought, you’re going to need it.

  The dirge from inside the apartment grew more intense. The widow ran screaming out onto the terrace and threw herself across Thanos’s lap.

  “Lakis! They murdered my Lakis!” she wailed.

  Both brothers comforted her, helping her up onto her feet and escorting her into the waiting arms of several women. The brothers walked back out onto the terrace. Kostas slid the glass door shut. “I don’t know why you’re standing on our balls, Colonel. Our sister’s husband has been killed in the line of duty, and you’re treating us like we’re criminals.”

  “Criminals?” Pappas said with a mock amiability. “You’re not criminals, you’re businessmen who’ve had a sudden windfall; unfortunately you’ve neglected to pay any taxes on that windfall. I believe that you owe our government some money.” He sipped his drink, his stare fixed on the two brothers. “And then, of course, there’s the small matter of your brother-in-law’s pension. I hope that your sister gets it.” He drank some more ouzo.

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded Kostas.

  “Well, you see, police regulations prohibit policemen from engaging in outside occupations or from having a proprietary interest in any business.” A frown, a slight shrug of the shoulders. “We know, of course, that many policemen do work on the side and have businesses in their wives’ names, or in the name of a family member, such as a brother-in-law.”

  Beads of sweat suddenly popped out at Thanos’s hairline.

  “Most of the time,” Pappas continued, “the department looks the other way, but when there is a problem, then we must investigate. I believe that Lakis Rekor and Tasos Lefas came into a lot of money while they were assigned to Thíra. And I also think that they used their families to invest that money in businesses. It was Lakis’s money that opened the Taverna Apollo.” Pappas reached out and pushed aside some of the bottles so that he could have an unrestricted view of the brothers. “We have evidence that shows us that the policemen were the intended victims of the Voúla massacre. And I think that you both know why and who is responsible.”

  “We don’t,” Thanos blurted. Even in the half-light, his nervous pallor was obvious.

  “Withholding evidence and hindering a police investigation is a very serious matter. Compounded with your tax problems and the loss of your sister’s pension, I’d say that you had a few problems that you had better resolve.”

  The Koukoudeas brothers exchanged nervous looks.

  Kostas asked, “Have you spoken to anyone in the Lefas family?”

  “Not yet,” answered the colonel.

  “And if we do tell you what we know?” Thanos asked, a deep flush reddening his ears.

  “Then I think it would be safe to assume that some accommodation would be reached that would protect your sister’s pension and save your business from the greedy tax collectors.”

  Kostas wiped his damp hands on his trousers. “It all began …”

  3

  The measured treads of the evzones echoed over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Clusters of tourists kept a respectable distance, watching the tall soldiers, resplendent in their white tunics, white skirts, white stockings, and heavy, tassled shoes, stride with military precision across the marble pavement of the national monument.

  Colonel Pappas had directed his driver to let him out at Syntagma Square so that he might watch the Sunday morning changing of the guard. The Minister of Public Order had called an emergency meeting for 10:00; he had a half hour to spare. The last five days had been hectic ones. The massacre continued to dominate the media. A brutal act of terrorism had been the official lie. Unconfirmed reports hinted that Turks or Cypriot nationals might have been behind the massacre. Disinformation goes a long way in helping to keep the lid on things so that the police can devote their energies to solving the case – or so Pappas had argued.

  Damn cloud, Pappas thought, wiping his eyes as he glared at Athens’ perpetual shroud of pollution. Making his way along one side of the National Gardens toward the Presidential Palace, Pappas checked his sleeve to make sure that the stain was gone. When Anna, his wife, had pressed his uniform that morning, she’d discovered the spot. “It won’t do, Dimitri,” she announced, wiping it with a wet rag. “You must look your best when you are with Vitos. Especially when the rest of the wolf pack is going to be there too.”

  The evzone guards presented arms as Pappas passed them. The colonel returned their salute and hurried into the cream-colored palace. Pappas paused outside the first-floor conference room to tug down the front of his uniform blouse and smooth his thick white hair. He opened the double doors and entered a large room filled with the haze of cigarette smoke. Middle-aged men sat around a polished oval table; a manila folder was in front of each one, as was a silver tray with a glass and a bottle of mineral water. The crystal ashtrays were already filled.

  Antonis Vitos, the chief of the Public Order Ministry, chaired the conference; he was at the head of the table. On his right sat Lieutenant General Constantinos Politopoulos, the commanding officer of the Hellenic Police. Politopoulos had a peasant’s strong, squat frame and a warm, heavily lined, and intelligent face. His olive drab uniform was exquisitely tailored; the thick wrists and stubby hands sticking out of its sleeves seemed incongruous. The tall, thin older man who sat on the minister’s left seemed to carry his own chill with him. His unblinking, reptilian eyes watched everything that was going on without betraying the slightest hint of emotion. This was the mysterious Major General Philippos Tsimas, the head of the Central Information Service, Greece’s unpublicized but quite effective intelligence organization. The one man who seemed definitely the odd man out in this gathering was a frail, elderly, and distinguished-looking man with snow-white hair who rested his hands on the curved top of a cane and gave Pappas a single, dignified nod of greeting.

  “Talk to me, General Politopoulos,” beseeched Vitos. “Tell me what our excellent police have discovered. Prime Minister Papandreou is crawling over my ass for answers, and I’m about to climb over yours, General.”

  The general clasped his hands in front of him. “Minister, I would prefer to have Colonel Pappas of the Athens Security Prefecture make the report. The investigation is his direct responsibility.” You socialist goat fucker, Pappas thought. You’re always looking to crawl out from under.

  Antonis Vitos looked down the table at his old classmate. “Dimitri, let’s hear your report.”

  CIS smiled. Vitos’s use of Pappas’s first name did not go unnoticed.

  Pappas glanced surreptitiously at his sleeve and began his report, beginning with the when, where, who, what, how, and why of police work used the world over. Cuttler had confessed to participating in the massacre along with his dead accomplice, Frank Simmons. Both men had been approached in New York City by a man known to them as Denny McKay who frequented a bar in New York City called The Den. McKay had offered them fifty thousand dollars each to come to Greece and kill two policemen, then fly out the same day. They were each to be paid another fifty thousand dollars upon their return to New York.

  Cuttler told Pappas that Orhan Iskur had met them at the airport, provided them with the weapons, and given them the photographs of their intended victims. Orhan also provided them with the pol
icemen’s addresses and work schedules. “When I asked Cuttler who wanted the policemen killed and why, he told me that he did not know. He and Simmons had never bothered to ask,” Pappas said.

  “And you believed him?” Vitos asked, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

  “Yes, I did,” Pappas answered. “Professional killers do not ask why, they only want to know who and how much.”

  “Do you think that this Denny McKay could have been the source of the money?” Vitos asked, lighting up another cigarette.

  “I don’t think so,” Pappas answered. “I believe that McKay was the contact man. Cuttler told me that McKay, to the best of his knowledge, had never traveled outside the United States. I had our records checked and discovered that the two policemen had never been to the United States. In fact, Lakis Rekor had never left Greece.”

  “Why did they kill all those people?” Professor Pericles Levi asked softly.

  Pappas focused his attention on the professor. “Cuttler told me that once Major Vassos fired at them, they couldn’t stop. You see, Professor, there are some people who enjoy killing.”

  “Merciful God. All those poor people,” groaned Pericles Levi, sinking further into his seat.

  “Continue, Dimitri,” Vitos said, ignoring Levi’s distress.

  Pappas went on to tell the group about his first meeting with the Turk, the theft of the Rubens, and the old boy intelligence network that Iskur used to move his stolen art. Pappas noted that when he mentioned the intelligence background, General Tsimas, the head of CIS, was suddenly busy studying the tabletop. Pappas wondered if CIS had used Iskur in some fashion. That could be trouble.

  When Pappas finished giving his report, the minister asked, “What do we know of the three Americans, Cuttler, Simmons, and this Denny McKay?”

  “Nothing,” Pappas answered.

  “What?” Vitos shouted. “You did not request a background check from the FBI? Why, Dimitri?”

  “Because both Simmons and Cuttler are dead, and –”

  “Cuttler died?” Vitos said in a surprized tone.

  “Yes, several days ago,” Pappas said, shuffling papers inside the folder. “An unfortunate accident. It appears that he fell off his bed and several ribs punctured his lungs. Internal bleeding, I’m afraid. I took it upon myself to have the Americans notified that Cuttler and Simmons were innocent tourists killed in the terrorist attack. I explained away the delay in notifying the American authorities by saying that they were unidentified; they did not have their means of identification on them. I’ve arranged for our government to extend condolences to the Americans.”

  “Why, Colonel?” General Tsimas asked slyly.

  “Because I think it is safe to assume that both Cuttler and Simmons have extensive criminal records, as does their New York contact, Denny McKay. I do not believe knowing the details of those records would be of any help to us now. And since McKay is the only surviving link to the people responsible for the massacre, I think it wise that we do not let anyone outside this room know that we know about McKay. I’d like very much to keep Denny McKay alive.”

  “Why?” General Tsimas asked, looking at the colonel with open suspicion.

  Pappas looked down the table to the professor and said, deadpan, “While we were searching Orhan Iskur’s shop, one of my lieutenants discovered an amphora that was half-filled with black sand. It appeared to be genuine, not one of Iskur’s fakes, so I had it delivered to Professor Levi at the museum.”

  Heads turned toward the elderly professor.

  Pericles Levi stirred. With his right hand he reached into the folder, took out a glossy nine-by-ten color photograph of the amphora, and held it up so that all the men could see it. The others reached into their folders and removed their copies of the photograph. Colonel Pappas extracted a mechanical pencil from the breast pocket of his uniform blouse and began to sketch the mourning Athena on the cover of his folder.

  “If you will look at the scene that is painted on the amphora,” Levi began, “you will see that it depicts the struggle of Herakles and the centaur Nessos.” Pointing, he continued, “You can also see that the three Gorgons and the Medusa have already been beheaded by Perseus.” He sighed. “This amphora, gentlemen, is genuine. We know from original sources that two amphorae were made in Athens in 600 B.C. by the painter Demaratus. The sister of this amphora is on display in the museum. The one in the photograph had been considered lost. We know that a silk merchant from Luxor bought it for his mistress and brought it back to Egypt around 400 B.C.” His lips trembled. “I suspect this amphora was used to store an irreplaceable part of our heritage, something that has now been stolen from us.”

  The sound of tires crunching over gravel outside broke the heavy silence.

  Pappas drew pleats into the mourning Athena’s chiton.

  With a weary sigh, Minister of Public Order Vitos asked, “What has been stolen from us?”

  Professor Levi studied his audience, his eyes going from man to man.

  Pappas Sketched the temple of Poseidon next to his other drawing.

  Professor Levi slowly clasped his hands in front of him, and began to talk about Alexander the Great. He lectured on how Alexander’s father, Philip, had sent to the island of Lesbos for Aristotle, son of Nicomachus, to teach his son. Aristotle taught the prince about the stars and about navigation. He also taught him many languages and explained the truths of justice, rhetoric, and philosophy.

  Levi’s frail body produced a surprizingly forceful voice as he told how Aristotle and his pupil spent hours reading the epic poems of Homer, poems called the Iliad and the Odyssey, poems that were at least three hundred years older than Alexander. Levi spoke about Alexander’s belief that the blood of Achilles coursed through his own veins, and how Alexander had implored his teacher to make him a copy of the Iliad. And this Aristotle did for the young prince. Aristotle did not employ scribes; he wrote the text out himself and personally presented it to the prince on his birthday. This gift Alexander valued above all his other possessions. Years later, when Alexander had taken the field against his enemies, it was said that he used to sleep with his Iliad and a dagger under his pillow, calling the Iliad his journey-book of excellence in war.

  During the second year of the Persian War, at the battle of Issus, the most precious of the great King Darius’s treasure chests or caskets was captured and brought to Alexander. The king decided that he would store his precious Iliad in the chest, and from that moment Alexander’s Iliad became known as the “casket-copy.”

  “We know this from the writings of Callisthenes, Aristotle’s nephew, who was with Alexander in Persia. And from Eumenes and Ptolemy, who were also there and served as Alexander’s chroniclers,” Levi said, “and from other surviving sources. And secondary sources such as Plutarch.”

  Levi reached out and poured water into his glass. Using both his hands to steady it, he drank slowly. He put the glass down on the silver tray, looked up at his audience, and said, “On May twenty-ninth, 323 B.C., outside Babylon, Alexander gave a party for Medius, his friend from Thessaly. The king stood before twenty or so guests and recited extracts from Euripides’ play Andromeda. He drank wine to his guests’ health and fell to his knees, ill.” It soon became clear that Alexander the Great was dying. Levi told them how Alexander had written his will, given his ring to his friend, Perdiccas, and designated him Successor. In the throes of death Alexander placed the hand of his wife, Roxane, in Perdiccas’s, and with a nod and a final smile, commended him to her.

  The Great King was dead.

  Pericles Levi sat forward, his elbows on the table, palms up. “Alexander lay in a golden coffin on a golden bed, covered with purple embroidery on which rested his armor and a Trojan shield.”

  Levi told how a weeping queen had placed Darius’s treasure chest containing her husband’s beloved Iliad at the foot of the coffin. He paused to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Pappas thought, the old bastard is good. He has them hooked.r />
  Ptolemy, Alexander’s boyhood friend and now pharoah, intercepted the funeral chariot on the road outside of Babylon, Levi recounted. “He secretly set off to Egypt with the chariot. Ptolemy had it put on display in Memphis and later had it moved to Alexandria.”

  “What happened to the chariot?” asked General Politopoulos, stroking his thick, bushy peasant’s mustache.

  Levi’s face crinkled in an expression that seemed to say: who knows? “We do know that Augustus saw the chariot when he visited Egypt three hundred years later. Most scholars assume that the chariot was destroyed in the city riots of the late third century.”

  “But not you,” said General Tsimas, his cold eyes fixed on the professor. Levi ignored the interruption. “Apollonius of Rhodes was the chief librarian in Alexandria in A.D. 246. One of the few items to survive the fire that destroyed the library was one of Apollonius’s records of library holdings wherein he described removing the casket-copy from Darius’s treasure chest and storing it inside an amphora. He described the storage jar in great detail. There is no question in my mind that the amphora found in Orhan Iskur’s shop is the same one that Apollonius of Rhodes used to store the casket-copy.”

  “And the Iliad, what happened to it?” asked General Tsimas.

  “Nothing was heard of the funeral chariot and its contents for more than twenty-one hundred years,” Levi responded, reaching out for a bottle of mineral water, pouring, and drinking a glass before going on. “Until the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. By the early twenties refugees were streaming out of Egypt and the rest of the empire. They came carrying family treasures on their backs. Treasures that had been in their families for centuries; treasures they hoped would buy them a new, secure life.

  “And the vultures came too. Collectors and art dealers from around the world flocked to the Mediterranean ports with one purpose uppermost in their minds; to cheat these desperate people out of their possessions. Most of the antiquities proved to be of minor importance. But some were priceless. And many of the collectors made fortunes.”