An Aegean April

by Jeffrey Siger

  l l l l l

  It took until after nine p.m. before someone answered the number Yianni had been calling since mid-afternoon.

  “Hello, Ms. McLauglin?”

  “Speaking.”

  “My name is Detective Yianni Kouros and I work with Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis.”

  “I must have received a half-dozen messages from you saying you wanted to speak with me. Frankly, I was hoping to talk to your boss.”

  “Hopefully, I’ll be a suitable substitute.”

  “And hopefully you speak English.”

  Keep cool, Yianni. “I’ll try my best. We understand you have information on a possible connection between the murder of Mihalis Volandes and a Turkish citizen living in Izmir.”

  “Is that your way of asking how I came to believe that the head of refugee trafficking into the northern Aegean Islands is based in Izmir?”

  “If you wish to interpret it that way, fine. But I’m really just asking for the name of the person you referred to in your press conference earlier today, and any other details that might help us track down Mr. Volandes’ killer.”

  “Oh, so you agree that the man in custody is not the killer?”

  “I agree we must follow the evidence wherever it leads us, and if you’re aware of anything that might help us find his killer, whoever that may be, please share it with us.”

  “Please excuse me, Detective, but so far I’ve heard nothing from you or your boss that leads me to believe you’re doing anything to find the actual killer.”

  “Believe me, we are.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I’m not sure I know how to do that. You have every right to believe as you please, but we’d just appreciate it if you didn’t hold any more press conferences without first running by us what you have in mind to say.”

  “Are you trying to censor me?”

  Easy, Yianni. “No, just trying to make sure you don’t inadvertently help the bad guys.”

  Yianni heard clapping on the other side of the phone.

  “Wonderful line, Detective. Who wrote it for you?”

  Maggie was right to call her a bitch. “I’m sorry if you see it that way, but from my perspective, all you achieved in your press conference was to warn those who thought they’d covered their tracks that we’re on to them.”

  “Oh, the classic, ‘you’re interfering in the investigation’ routine.”

  Yianni bit his lip. “It’s a classic for a reason, Ms. McLaughlin.”

  “Fine, give me one reason why I should believe you’ve done anything to find the real killer.”

  “I can do better than that. I can tell you that we agree with what you said in the press conference.”

  “I don’t…understand.”

  “We know who killed Volandes, but if you keep broadcasting that to the world, he’ll vanish before we ever have a chance to catch him.”

  “What’s the killer’s name?”

  “Sorry, I can’t tell you.”

  She laughed. “Aha, more bureaucrat bullshit. How can I believe you if you won’t tell me the name?”

  Yianni laughed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh back at you, but it’s hard not to when this conversation started with my asking you for a name and you saying you couldn’t provide it. Now the shoe’s on the other foot and you’re indignant.”

  “But this is different.”

  “Only in the sense I never cursed at you.”

  He heard her swallow. “I’m not going to let you get away with this.”

  “I suggest you stop thinking of us as your enemy. I also suggest you consider that if you continue to talk to the media as you did today, the only ones likely to ‘get away’ with anything are those who murdered your friend.”

  Silence. Then Yianni broke it.

  “Why don’t you give us the name of the person in Izmir? We need to work together on this.”

  “Can I trust you with something?”

  “What sort of trust?”

  “Not to tell it to the press?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have a name. I just know that someone sits atop Turkey’s refugee-trafficking pyramid, and Izmir is the obvious place for him to be, because we all know it’s the logistical center for smuggling refugees into the islands.”

  “May I ask you a question?” said Yianni.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “No.”

  “Same trust stipulation?” said Yianni.

  “Yes.”

  “We agree with you.”

  “So now what?”

  “Let us do our job.”

  “What about me?”

  “Keep your head down. People like this…they strike back hard.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?” she said.

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Three hundred kilometers due east of Athens, wrapped around a large blue bay at Turkey’s western edge and set off against a mountain backdrop, sat Izmir, Turkey’s third largest city behind Istanbul and Ankara. With a busy commercial center of wide boulevards, neighborhoods of modern high-rises mixed in among traditional architecture, and a metropolitan population equivalent in size to Athens, Izmir took pride in itself as a liberal and cultural center, a city of festivals and fairs, and the region’s economic powerhouse.

  Not so often acknowledged was the nostalgic longing of many residents for the more manageable times of decades past, before waves of immigration and virtually unfettered construction irreparably changed the face and culture of the city, burying some ancient sites in the process.

  Izmir was one of the Mediterranean’s oldest settlements, with four thousand years of recorded history as an urban center. But in classical times it was known by another name: Smryna. A name burned into Greek, Armenian, and Turkish memories by horrific events that took place there at the end of the Greco-Turkish War of 1919 through1922, and led to an almost unparalleled exchange of populations between Greece and Turkey. In this mutual expulsion, two million people found themselves banished from their homelands and forcibly turned into refugees, solely on the basis of their religions.

  It took Aryan and Malik roughly two hours to drive the nearly one hundred fifty kilometers to Izmir, and another forty-five minutes cooling their heels in the reception area of a glass and glitz penthouse office atop one of Izmir’s most dramatic and tallest towers. A receptionist with remarkable décolletage finally showed them into a conference room of equally impressive accouterments, each undoubtedly intended to draw similar, fawning attention to their possessor.

  She pointed to a chrome-edged oval conference table topped in sleek gray leather and set upon two massive chrome pedestals. Surrounding the table stood twelve neatly arranged swivel chairs of matching chrome and leather, and beneath it all lay an Ardabil Persian rug of undoubtedly great value.

  “Please wait there,” she said.

  Malik sat with his back to the windows, looking down at the tabletop, his hands folded in his lap.

  Aryan sat next to him. He spent a moment glancing at the carefully displayed paintings and objets d’art, but fixed his eyes on a second door across the room from the one they’d entered by, and adjusted his chair to face it.

  To Aryan, the most striking thing about Big Boss’ office was the towering view staring west down the bay toward the Aegean, through a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows running the length of the room. In that and all else—the artwork, the furnishings, even the receptionist—he saw an identical purpose: to impress and distract. That’s why he kept his focus on the second door.

  Their forty-five-minute wait in reception, and a likely additional fifteen or so in here, struck him as a variation on a vintage mind game some practiced, thinking it put supplicants ill at ease. Ke
ep them waiting amid the trappings of your power, work up their insecurities with a show of your prominence, and they’ll be on their knees by the time you walk into the room.

  Aryan saw it all quite differently. To him, the wait showed indecision on the part of Big Boss. Had they been shown in immediately, that most likely meant Big Boss had a fixed plan in mind for his visitors. The longer he kept them waiting, the calmer Aryan became.

  From the way Malik kept wiping his brow with the rumpled handkerchief clutched in his fist, he hadn’t reached the same conclusion.

  Ten more minutes passed before the second door swung open and a man of Malik’s height and build, but of much wider girth, strode through it wearing a dark blue tailored suit, white-on-white shirt, and gold and red Hermès tie. Two men of roughly Aryan’s age and height, though more broadly built, followed him into the room, both dressed in dark suits and ties of far lesser quality than their boss’.

  Malik jumped to attention. Aryan casually pushed back his chair and rose to his full height. The two men headed straight for him and without a word frisked him from head to toe. He didn’t resist.

  One man pulled a pen out of Aryan’s pocket, and handed it to Big Boss. “Only this on him.”

  Big Boss studied the pen, unscrewed the cap and studied it some more. “A Montblanc fountain pen. Impressive choice.” He sat across the table from Aryan and slid the pen to him.

  Aryan stopped it with his fingertips. “Thank you.”

  “You, too, are impressive,” said Big Boss. “At least by reputation.”

  “Thank you again,” said Aryan.

  The Big Boss squinted as he leaned in toward Aryan. “Then how come you fucked up so miserably at such a simple task as the killing of one old man?”

  Aryan shrugged. “He’s dead, the police have their killer, and your message is being broadcast throughout the region and the West, telling any who might think of screwing with your business what will happen to them if they do. The only ‘fucked up’ thing is how you’re reacting.”

  Big Boss glared. “The world is pointing a finger at Izmir. Which means it’s pointing its finger at me.” He pounded his fist on the table and sat back.

  Aryan smiled. “The world is not pointing a finger at you. One young woman is ranting at the gods in an effort to get you to make a mistake. All she’s done is state the obvious and hope you’ll do something stupid that exposes you.”

  Big Boss bristled at “stupid” but did not interrupt.

  “Anyone with half a brain realizes that whoever’s behind running refugees into Greece from this part of Turkey is based in Izmir. Where else would an operation that big be based? In a hut in the mountains, like my friend Malik’s here?” He patted Malik on the back. “Izmir is the obvious guess, and that’s all it is. A guess. The woman gave no name because she has no name to give. Nor will she ever, unless you do something that forces those with real power to expose you.”

  Big Boss stared. “You’re a bold one, eh?”

  “I think you mean thorough. Something your organization obviously is not. As I see it, you’ve come to rely on political protection instead of thinking. You react to a challenge with emotion, plan without reason, execute as amateurs, and when something unexpected occurs, panic, and fall back upon the same cycle of shabby thinking as got you into trouble in the first place.”

  Big Boss clenched his jaw. “I could have you killed for such talk.”

  “You could try, but I doubt there’s anyone in this room capable of doing that.”

  Big Boss looked at the two men standing off to his left. “Are you sure he has no weapon?”

  They nodded.

  Aryan picked up the pen and twirled it between his fingers.

  Big Boss’ eyes fixed on the pen.

  “Remember what I told you about your organization not being thorough.” He flipped the pen in the air with his right hand and caught it with his left.

  One of the men reached inside his jacket.

  “Uh-uh,” said Aryan, pointing the pen at Big Boss with his thumb pressed tightly against the cap. “Not a good idea.”

  “Stop,” yelled the boss, raising a hand to his men.

  The man withdrew his hand from his jacket. Aryan put the pen back on the table.

  “So, where were we?” said Aryan. “Oh, yes, I was giving you my observations on the status of your organization. And please understand I appreciate your reluctance to listen to an outsider, but I do have experience in the areas in which you need great help. For example, your two men are fine specimens, and I’ve no doubt with proper training they’d be invaluable security for you, but they sorely lack that sort of training.”

  Big Boss raised his chin. “They could tear you apart with their bare hands.”

  “Yes, but they’re afraid of a simple fountain pen.”

  Big Boss blinked. “You mean it’s not a weapon?”

  “Does it matter what it is as long as I made you believe what I wanted you to think?”

  Aryan stood and walked along the side of the table away from Malik in the direction of the two men. He’d left the pen on the table, and kept his hands held up in an I’m-not-a-threat gesture as he walked past the men.

  “How do you think your men should react to this situation? I’m unarmed with my back to them, admiring all the wonderful antique implements hanging on your wall and attempting to offer you my professional opinion on how to make your business more profitable and less subject to international criticism. So, what is your decision? To address this in a rational, businesslike manner or to take out your anger on me because you need someone to blame for what you wrongly think of as a ‘fuck up?’”

  Aryan stopped with his back to the room and stared at the display on the wall.

  “Why can I not have both?” said the boss. “I’ll have them beat you, and listen to you after, once you’ve learned to show me the proper respect.” He nodded at the men and they charged Aryan.

  With the speed and grace of a dancer, Aryan stepped forward, placing a foot high on the wall before spinning counter-clockwise in mid-air and landing with an antique sword arcing around behind his body in his right hand. The blade caught the first bodyguard squarely in the side of his neck.

  The second reached for his gun but froze when the head of the first man bounced at his feet. Aryan stood with the sword poised to arc back clockwise at the second man’s neck.

  “I shall be merciful and give you the choice. Remove your hand from your jacket or I shall remove your head.”

  The man slowly lowered his hand. Aryan pressed the point of the sword tightly up against the man’s throat as he removed the gun from the man’s shoulder holster. “Now, sit next to your boss with your hands on the table.”

  Big Boss’ eyes darted toward the second door as the bodyguard sat on the side of him farthest from Aryan.

  “Whether you’re thinking of running or praying for someone to come through that door, either will end badly for you. I now have this and I’m very good with it.” Aryan lifted the pistol, then stuck it in his belt.

  Aryan shook his head at Big Boss. “You’re such a disappointment. I truly hoped you’d be more sensible than Malik. Be someone I could work with, serve with honor and loyalty. But you’re just like all the others. Foolish, arrogant, and, utterly predictable.”

  Aryan stooped and picked up the dead man’s head by the hair. “And, worst of all, you have no sense of loyalty to your people. You told this poor man,” he held up the head, “to beat up a merciless professional killer because your delicate ego took offense. If you were so bothered by me, why didn’t you just tell him to kill me and be done with it?”

  Aryan walked slowly toward Big Boss. “Of course, I know the answer. You weren’t sure yet whether or not you might need me. But you had to teach me a lesson. The same arrogance is what blinded you to my admiring your impressive collecti
on of kilij sabers when you ordered this poor man to attack me.” He brandished the head again.

  “My compliments on your keeping your collection in such pristine fighting condition.” He dropped the head onto the table in front of Big Boss. “Be careful, or your arrogance will be the death of you yet,” he said softly.

  Big Boss sat staring at Malik, his fists tightly clenched on the tabletop.

  “I know you now believe you’ll have to kill me,” said Aryan. “I accept that. Which is why I’d like you to explain to me why I should not kill you first.”

  Malik’s eyes went wide. “You cannot do that. He is my cousin.”

  “I see. So, if he dies, does that put you in line to take over the family business?”

  “You are crazy,” said Malik.

  “What do you think?” Aryan said to Big Boss.

  “You will never get out of here alive.”

  “Here you go again with the arrogance. If I kill you, who will be interested in coming after me? They’ll be too busy trying to take over your empire. What do you say, Malik, would you like to be the new big boss?”

  Malik paused for an instant.

  Big Boss glared at his cousin. “I’ll see you in hell.”

  “Sure will.” Aryan swung the sword around in a powerful arc and a second head bounced onto the table. Malik threw up; the man sitting next to Big Boss stared up at Aryan but didn’t move.

  Aryan nodded in the direction of the second man and looked at Malik. “What about him, can we trust him?”

  “He’s not a relative. He’s not even Turkish. He’s new.”

  “Well, in that case,” Aryan raised his sword above the second man’s head. The man crossed himself and shut his eyes.

  Aryan brought the sword down point-first into the table. “So, New Man, are you prepared to join us?”

  The man swallowed, crossed himself again, and nodded. “Yes.”

  Aryan smiled. “Even if you don’t mean it, that’s the smart answer. I’ll train you to be loyal. And if you aren’t trainable, I’ll kill you.” He patted the second man on the back.