An Aegean April

by Jeffrey Siger

  Refugees arriving on Lesvos always described the same faces organizing their crossings and launching their boats. Chios and Samos refugees had similar experiences. Specific people worked in trafficking to specific islands, with little or no crossover. Those involved in trafficking to one island did not get involved in trafficking to another island. Each had its own territory.

  It’s a franchise operation. Dana opened her eyes, stared at the lighthouse, and spoke aloud:

  “All centered within a hundred miles of Izmir.”

  Chapter Six

  Why did I listen to my father? Aleka kept looking over her shoulder at the door to the lab. She sensed her boss would walk through it any minute.

  “What are you doing here on a Saturday morning?” was the question she expected, but she’d yet to come up with an answer. And if he looked at the files she’d been copying, or the bits of physical evidence she’d carefully siphoned off from original samples…she didn’t want to think about the trouble she’d be in. Good-bye career, for starters.

  But she had to admit, the Athens cop was right. The physical evidence didn’t add up to charging Ali Sera with murder. Still, her boss trusted her, and here she was betraying him. Her conscience might drive her to tell him what she was doing—leaving out the part about her father. No reason to draw him into this. Her boss’ ally, the prosecutor, would love the opportunity to bring down her father. And using her to do it would only make it all the sweeter for him.

  She needed only a little more time to finish copying the reports. Extracting the samples had been the tricky part, taking well over an hour. She looked for her boss’ notes, which he’d had her verify at the crime scene, but they weren’t where they should be in the file folder. She went through every piece of paper but found no notes.

  She looked in unrelated case folders, in front of and behind the Volandes file, on the chance they’d been misfiled. No luck. Then she checked the secretary’s desk to see if the notes might be there waiting to be filed. Nope.

  She could think of only one other place to look: her boss’ office. But that opened her to a charge of breaking-and-entering and bye-bye career, for sure. No way was she going to risk that, even for her father.

  She gathered up what she had, stuffed it into her backpack, turned off the copying machine, and took one last look around the lab to make sure everything looked as when she’d entered. Satisfied, she turned off the lights and left.

  On her way to the front door, she passed her boss’ office.

  Something the Athens cop had said made her pause. She’d not read her boss’ notes before signing them. And now they weren’t where they should be. She drew in a deep breath and let it out.

  If his door’s unlocked, I’ll take it as a sign to go in.

  She turned the knob and the door swung open. “Damn,” she said aloud.

  She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Where to begin? No way could she rifle through all his files. Too much of a risk she’d disturb something that he’d notice. She took a wild guess of a chance, and tried his top center desk drawer.

  Locked.

  She tried the other desk drawers. All locked. Then she tried the file cabinets along the wall. Everything locked. He was a careful one. And with good reason, considering what she was doing at that very moment.

  The only option she saw had her going through the clutter on the top of his desk. But that presented a dangerous risk. Cluttered-desk types almost always knew the precise location of every piece of paper. Her boss would likely notice a single Post-it note out of place.

  She stared at what she could see without touching anything. Every folder bore a neatly labeled tag. Except for one thin folder sitting alone on the edge of his desk in a spot closest to the door. A Post-it note on the outside of the folder, addressed to his secretary, read, “Please add the language we discussed, log it in as received, and return to me.”

  His secretary must have returned it after he’d left for the holiday.

  She used the eraser end of a pencil to flip opened the folder. There they were, the missing notes on the Volandes murder. On the first page, her boss’ name appeared as the person in charge, but typed next to it was, “See last page.” She used the eraser to quickly shuffle to the final page. Above her signature someone had typed, “I hereby certify that all data and evidence recorded or described herein was gathered personally by me and is true and correct.”

  That miserable bastard.

  She grabbed the folder, stuffed it into her backpack, and stormed out of the office. No reason to make a copy. Let him and his secretary blame each other for what happened to it.

  She hoped it was their only copy.

  l l l l l

  Aryan told Malik he wasn’t one to hold a grudge, so once Malik had given him the money, there was no need to sweeten the offer by giving him the keys to his Range Rover. Malik said his wife wanted Aryan to take it and leave. She worried how the children would react to a stranger in their home.

  Aryan said he understood Malik’s wife’s concern for her children, but he simply couldn’t leave until they’d worked out the details of their partnership. Malik said he’d need time to think that through. Aryan said that was fine with him but, as he hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours, they’d have to discuss it after he took a nap.

  Malik quickly agreed and offered him their palatial guest room.

  Aryan thanked him, but said sleeping in the home of someone who’d just tried to kill him required special accommodations. He took great pains to explain in detail to Malik and his wife what would happen should someone try to surprise him while he slept on the floor of their children’s bedroom, between their beds.

  Three hours into Aryan’s sleep, the older boy awoke, followed soon by his younger brother. Aryan managed to negotiate more hours of sleep by promising the boys their father would buy them a pony if they lay in bed quietly for a few more hours.

  It was mid-morning when Aryan led the children from their bedroom toward the sound of their parents’ voices. He walked with his sword over his right shoulder and his left arm around the younger child.

  “Don’t forget to say thank you to your daddy,” Aryan said, once they reached the room with the voices.

  Their mother jumped up from between Malik and Jamal on the far side of a dining room size mahogany table, and ran to hug her children. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for a month.

  “Are you all right?” Her eyes jumped from one child to the other.

  “Yes,” said the older boy.

  “Daddy, when do we get the pony?” said the younger.

  “Run along with your mother,” said Aryan. “I’ll speak to your father about the pony.”

  She looked at Malik, he nodded, and she hurried them out of the room.

  Aryan sat across the table from Malik and Jamal. He looked at Jamal. “I see you survived the airbag.”

  “Fuck—”

  Malik quickly raised his hand to silence his brother-in-law.

  Aryan smiled, and fixed his eyes on Malik. “And I see you’ve taken to heart our conversation about your colleagues.”

  “What’s past is past,” said Malik. “It’s time to talk about our new relationship.”

  Aryan nodded. “It will prove very profitable for you.”

  “I would hope for us all.” Malik looked at Jamal. “Do you understand?”

  “He crippled me.”

  “You tried to kill him. That seems a small payback.” Malik paused. “You know how much my wife and I value you, dear brother-in-law, but with the discourtesy you insist on showing our guest, I think it’s best you not be here when he is present.”

  Jamal opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.

  “In fact, I think you should return to your home now.”

  With a brief glare at Aryan, Jamal left.

 
Malik turned his attention back to Aryan. “What are your plans?”

  “To broaden your reach and increase your profits.”

  “Admirable goals, but there are others who will resist them.”

  “There are always those who cannot accept progress.”

  “But I’m speaking of very powerful, ruthless people. And there are many.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with them. I just need you to tell me the details of your organization.”

  “How will you deal with them?” Malik pointed at the sword resting on Aryan’s shoulder. “With that?”

  “This?” said Aryan lifting it off his shoulder. “No, that alone would never work. I plan on using a much sharper, more lethal weapon.”

  “And what is that?” asked Malik.

  “This.” He smiled and touched the sword to the top of his head. “The same one I’ve used with you.”

  l l l l l

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You sound like a five-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  “It’s not a cookie jar, it’s a pan of your galaktoboureko, my love,” said Tassos. “And there will be plenty left for tomorrow.”

  “Only if I lock the refrigerator.”

  “What can I say? I’m a sucker for custard in filo pastry, and yours is the best.”

  “Flattery isn’t going to make that any smaller.” Maggie pointed at his belly.

  “All the more for you to love.”

  “More for me to worry about, you mean.”

  “My health is fine.”

  “When’s the last time you saw a doctor?”

  “I don’t like doctors, they’re––”

  “For sick people,” said Maggie shaking her head. “Get a new line. That one’s older than the last time you exercised.”

  “Hey, lay off.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “I’m out of here, then.”

  “Fine. The walk will do you good. Just be back in time for church.”

  Tassos grabbed his sport jacket and headed out the door. There wasn’t anything else to say. She was right. But he didn’t want to admit it. He’d been attributing his pains to overeating. Maybe that’s why he kept eating, to excuse the pain. He ought to see a doctor. Maybe after Easter. He didn’t dare tell Maggie. She’d have him handcuffed and dragged off to a hospital.

  He looked at his watch. Not even eleven yet. Maybe he’d walk to that new taverna with the outdoor terrace and lovely wrought-iron café chairs. Just for a coffee. Yes, that would work nicely. The taverna sat just around the corner from that bakery he liked. But he’d better not stop there. After all, he did just have that galaktoboureko.

  A few paces before he reached the bakery, an old woman in black trundled out of the bakery loaded down with blue plastic grocery bags in each hand. He slowed to let her pass ahead of him. She reached the corner at the same time as a shiny motorcycle roared over the curb and shot across the sidewalk, missing the old woman by less than a step. She staggered backwards, dropping two of the bags as Tassos jumped forward to steady her.

  “Are you all right, keria?” he asked, using the respectful title for a woman.

  “O, Blessed Mother,” she crossed herself. “He came so close.”

  Tassos bent down and picked up the dropped bags. “I know.” He handed her the bags. “As long as you’re okay.”

  “Look at him. He never even apologized.”

  The helmetless driver had stopped his motorcycle next to a metal post anchored to the sidewalk in front of the taverna’s blue-awninged terrace. He stood about a half a head taller and forty years younger than Tassos. The driver paid them no attention, finished chaining up his cycle, walked into the taverna, and sat at a table on the terrace.

  “Yes, I noticed, keria. Why don’t you go home and forget about this? It’s better to let it go. Kalo Paska.”

  “You’re right. It is a time of forgiveness. Bless you.”

  Tassos waited until the woman had crossed the street before he moved toward the taverna. He stopped by the motorcycle and stood perfectly still, staring at it.

  After about a minute of his vigil, he heard the driver yell, “Hey, fat man, what are you looking at?”

  Tassos didn’t look up. “Nice bike.”

  “Yeah, now move on.”

  “Bet you paid a lot for it. Even more for the flames and demons paint job.”

  “I said move along.”

  Tassos raised his hands in a peaceful way. “No problem.”

  He turned and took two steps into the taverna.

  “Don’t come in here,” said the driver. “I don’t like your looks.”

  Tassos smiled. “Funny you should say that. I’m in the mood to change looks.” He picked up one of the iron chairs, stepped outside, and began beating on the motorcycle.

  The driver jumped up from his table screaming and charged straight for Tassos. He reached him as Tassos completed disassembling the bike’s rear lights and carrier assembly.

  The driver swung for Tassos’ head, but before he could land a punch, Tassos had swung the chair around legs first, pinning two legs above the driver’s shoulders and two under his armpits. With a forward thrust of the chair and his left leg planted behind the driver’s left, Tassos sent him stumbling down just inside the taverna entrance. The horizontal reinforcing metal cross-bars of the chair legs pinned the driver across his throat and chest. Tassos dropped down onto the chair, straddling it backwards, his feet firmly planted on the man’s elbows, watching the man flail wildly about, trying to free himself.

  “I’m going to kill you, fat man,” the driver yelled.

  Tassos leaned forward over the back of the chair and looked down at the driver’s face. “Right now, I’d say your chances of pulling that off are pretty slim.”

  “You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

  “Well, you sure as hell aren’t a tough guy.”

  “Tough enough to mess you up bad.”

  “Since you’ve gone from threatening to kill me to threatening to mess me up bad, I guess you’re beginning to appreciate your situation.”

  The driver started kicking, then tried rolling from side to side.

  Tassos didn’t budge. “Remember what you called me? Well, fat man ain’t moving.”

  A waiter stood in the doorway, unsure what to do.

  “Do you know this guy?” Tassos yelled over to him.

  He gestured no.

  “So, he doesn’t work here?”

  Again, he gestured no.

  “Do me a favor. Bring me a Greek coffee, medium sweet.”

  Tassos looked down at the driver. “Would you like one?”

  “Asshole.”

  “You really don’t have any manners.” Tassos crossed his forearms over the back of the chair and leaned his chin down on top of them. “Tell you what. I’m going to give you a fair chance.”

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, we’re back to that.” Tassos stood up, driving his full weight onto the man’s pinned elbows, and plopped back down hard onto the chair.

  The man screamed.

  “As I was saying, I’m going to give you a fair chance.”

  Pause.

  “Good. You’re learning manners. Here’s the deal. I’m going to tell the waiter to call the cops and you can file a complaint against me. How’s that sound?”

  “I don’t need any cops to deal with you.”

  “I know, but I feel bad after all I did to your bike. At least let me call them so you can file a claim with your insurance company. I mean, without a police report about a mad, fat man beating up on your bike, who’s going to believe you?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You’re probably right.”<
br />
  The waiter arrived with the coffee.

  “Hand it to me. I’ll hold it,” said Tasso. “And by the way, please call the police.”

  “No,” shouted the driver. “No cops.” He wrestled against the chair.

  “Careful, I have hot coffee in my hands, right above your face.”

  Tassos looked at the waiter and silently mouthed, “Call the police.”

  Tassos took a sip of coffee. “Somehow it doesn’t surprise me that you don’t want me calling the cops.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Tassos leaned forward and stared at the driver’s eyes. “I guessed right about you, didn’t I?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You guys just can’t help yourselves. You make some money dealing in drugs, prostitution, refugee smuggling, whatever, and the first thing you do is go for the gold chains, the glitzy watch, the high-roller routine in clubs. All the sort of shit that hangs a sign around your neck telling every cop to keep an eye on you.” Tassos jerked his head toward the motorcycle. “Do you know what cops call that little rocket of yours?”

  No answer.

  “I guess if you knew, then you wouldn’t be riding it. A perp-mobile. I can’t remember the last time I saw a guy who makes an honest living riding one of those.”

  “I ain’t done anything wrong.”

  “Of course not. All the pills and other shit in your busted open cargo carrier are for your aging mother in Kipseli.”

  The driver suddenly went still. “Who are you?”

  “Just consider me a defender of old ladies with grocery bags.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Do you want to make a deal?”

  “Sure, let me go and you can keep the stuff.”

  Tassos shook his head. “No, not that kind of deal. Just tell me who you work for.”

  “No chance. Never.”

  “Suit yourself.” Tassos cocked his head toward the street. “Hey, do you hear that?” He looked down at the driver. “It’s the sound of a siren announcing your Easter’s about to get royally fucked.” He waved for the waiter. “May I please see a menu? I’ve worked up a bit of an appetite.”