An Aegean April

by Jeffrey Siger

  He wondered if he’d ever be able to truly relax. For him, that required a sense of home, a truly safe place. His life now ran in perpetual transit; no family here, no family wherever he might end up, no family back in his homeland. He remained an unwelcome visitor in someone else’s homeland, always conspicuous and far too likely viewed as a potential rapist, robber, disease carrier, or terrorist; never simply as another man.

  Ali nibbled at his toast. He sat alone in the taverna, except for a tall white man who came in a few minutes after he did. The man sat two tables away, sipping a coffee and facing him. Ali sensed the man watching him, much like a cop might watch. Maybe he was a cop, and Ali’s release was only conditional? Maybe he wasn’t a cop, and was only curious? But the man seemed more interested than curious.

  Ali wondered if the man might try to speak to him. He hoped not. He had no desire to play the role of accommodating refugee. He wanted to be free of that sort of subtle harassment. At least for now. There’d be time to fall back into that role later, after he went back to the NGO’s office.

  He’d thought about quitting his work with Dana, trying to head north to Germany, perhaps through a boat to Italy, like all those he dealt with on a daily basis dreamed of doing, searching desperately for a way north into Europe. North was the way to freedom—the same as for the American slaves he’d read about in school. Yes, he’d been educated, and would have been in college if his life hadn’t exploded.

  Literally exploded, killing his mother, father, and two younger sisters. At the moment of the bomb, he wanted to die with them, but something deep inside him convinced him to live on.

  The same voice now told him to continue on in his work with Dana.

  Right after he finished his Coke and toast.

  l l l l l

  Malik wasn’t sure what to do next. The rash of murdered practitioners in the refugee-smuggling trade had severely spooked Malik’s long-time political protectors, and though Aryan dismissed Malik’s concerns by telling him to simply offer them a temporary larger share of the profits, the political heat burned too intensely. The male lineage of a politically prominent family had been wiped off the face of the earth in a matter of days. No one was willing to risk going forward with business as usual without a clear resolution of the conflict.

  Malik dared not act without Aryan’s input, but Aryan was nowhere to be found. He’d left first thing that morning on what he’d described as “personal business.” He’d left no way to be reached, and Malik knew not what to do. So he did nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  His plane from Athens arrived early enough for him to be in position across from the jail before Ali came out. He’d called the jail from the airport to ask about visiting hours, hoping to catch the McLaughlin woman visiting with Ali before her press conference. The perfect assassination would have required the two of them together.

  Pure luck landed him an officious officer who insisted on knowing the name of the inmate before answering his question, only to announce that a visit would be a waste of time, because he was being released this morning.

  He’d followed Ali to a taverna and purposely sat close enough to him to gauge his state of mind. He could tell Ali sensed being watched from the stress showing on his face, even though he tended to default into a smile. He’d just spent days in jail accused of a murder he knew he didn’t commit, lived as a refugee in a land growing angrier every day at the presence of his kind, and his skin stood out as dark amid a sea of white. All legitimate reasons for stress. But did he realize he’d soon die in a second assassination?

  I think not.

  l l l l l

  Ali left the taverna and headed straight for the bus stop. The man had left a moment before him, but Ali saw him standing at a nearby kiosk buying a newspaper. The man seemed to pay him no mind, but Ali kept glancing back over his shoulder at him. He hadn’t moved from the kiosk, and a minute or so after Ali reached the bus stop, the man turned and walked the other way.

  Ali breathed a sigh of relief. Five minutes later he was on a blue-and-white bus headed north toward his NGO’s office, passing through neighborhoods he’d only hours before wondered whether he’d ever see again.

  His mind wandered back to the moment he’d first landed on Lesvos, stepping off that wavering, overloaded, Chinese-made rubber boat into the surf, and that feeling of relief at having arrived alive, no longer in fear of war or drowning. Others might describe the emotion as joy or happiness, but he carried too many sad memories to call it that. Those who met the new arrivals on that scraggy, hilly beach offered directions to where each should go—Ali to Moria Relocation Center—but also told them to expect few services there, a decidedly different scenario from what the smugglers promised would be waiting for them in Greece.

  But those were lies told by smugglers, not Greeks, and did not erode the promise of a new life flowering in the heart of each arriving refugee at having safely reached Greek shores. Disappointment would come later, once it sunk in that their arduous journey through EU bureaucracy had only just begun.

  Little did he realize at the time that the long trek along hilly dirt roads and two-lane highways toward Moria symbolized so much more yet to come. Taxis, cars, and buses passed them by without offering to pick up even the very young, very old, or disabled. Only later did he learn that Greek law forbade all drivers but those with express police permission from giving refugees a ride, making even that simplest act of human kindness bureaucratically complex.

  But what truly changed him lay only ten kilometers northwest of Mytilini: Moria. It changed many of its occupants. Just the mention of the name Moria triggered a vision in Ali’s mind of the soaring chain link and razor wire containment fence surrounding much of the interior camp. That fence stood out to him not as a sign of where he had been confined, but of what the world thought him to be.

  His next thought always ran to cardboard.

  You’d find it everywhere. Underfoot, overhead. Detainees relied on it as a floor, a crib, a mattress shielding them from the bare ground, and held it above their heads as protection from the sun while standing in lines waiting…for something…for everything.

  European governments called Moria a hotspot or detention center, but those who’d spent time there, as a worker, detainee, or visitor, knew the truth. This former military compound built to accommodate a maximum of four hundred, had become a concentration camp for three thousand.

  And then there were the odors. Ali swallowed and stared out the bus window at the passing buildings.

  But some good, too, had come to him through Moria. He’d found it in the children of the camp. Some with families, some without, many listless, defeated, afraid, unsmiling, and all looking for hope. They’d given him a means for honoring his own family’s memory, a renewed purpose for smiling, and a reason for staying behind when his own chance at moving on arrived.

  He sighed as his thoughts had led him back to Dana. She’s who gave him the opportunity to work with the children. He prayed she hadn’t lost hope now that Volandes was gone. So many NGOs had given up and left the island after Turkey’s agreement with the EU dramatically curtailed the migrant flow. They felt there was nothing left for them to do, even though thousands still remained detained on Lesvos. Their departure left voids in services local volunteers tried to fill, as they’d done before the NGOs arrived. But now that was more difficult.

  A sense of violence pervaded the camp, fueled by frustration, anger, disappointment, and fear. On top of that, Moria operated as a closed camp, meaning no visitors, only approved NGOs allowed, and an inevitable close-minded perspective on how things should be done…leading to riots.

  A simple difference of color, religion, or culture summoned up such intense fears and biases in so many who thought of themselves as part of the civilized world, as to offer Ali little hope for his or the world’s future. After all, what sort of fiendish subliminal int
olerances caused otherwise decent souls shown a photograph of a dead child to measure the intensity of their reactions in direct proportion to the child’s skin tone?

  Despite all that, he persevered, because not to do so meant ceding his life to hopelessness. That was something he would never do. Nor, he believed, would Dana.

  He got off the bus and walked the two blocks to the office. He noticed several strange cars parked outside. His reception committee, he presumed.

  Time to practice his smile.

  l l l l l

  “Where have you been?” shouted Dana as Ali walked into the room. “I’ve been worried sick.” She jumped up, ran around the table, and hugged him.

  Ali let his hands dangle by his sides and smiled at the three men at the table through Dana’s bear hug.

  “Ali,” she said, “these men are police, so be careful what you say.”

  Andreas shut his eyes and shook his head. “Not a very constructive way to start a conversation designed to keep you both alive.” He opened his eyes.

  “They think the only reason you’re out of jail is because someone intends on killing you,” said Dana.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, McLaughlin?” said the police commander. “Are you trying to scare the poor man to death?”

  “It’s the truth, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes,” said the commander, “but how you tell it matters.”

  She crossed her arms. “I believe in telling it straight.”

  “Like you did to the media in announcing how you’d give them the name of Volandes’ killer?” said Yianni. “A name you do not know.”

  She glared at Yianni.

  “Well, have we all sufficiently vented?” Andreas rose to his feet. He extended his hand to Ali, “Hi, my name is Andreas Kaldis.”

  Ali shook it.

  “I’m in charge of the Greek police force’s special crimes unit, and I’m here with my assistant, Detective Yianni Kouros, and the Mytilini police commander, whom you already know, because we believe you’re innocent of Mihalis Volandes’ murder, and that your and Ms. McLaughlin’s lives may be in danger from his real killer. We want to talk with you about how best to protect you and capture the killer.”

  Andreas turned to Dana. “Do you disagree with any of that?”

  She clenched her lips but jerked her head straight up.

  Andreas turned back to Ali. “Did you recognize that gesture as meaning no?”

  Ali smiled as he jerked his head down, signifying yes in the Greek style.

  Andreas smiled back, telling Ali what he’d told Dana about events in Turkey, and how Dana’s threat of naming the killer to the media might draw him back to Lesvos.

  Ali began blinking and his smile faded.

  “What’s wrong?” said Andreas.

  “There was a man in the taverna where I got something to eat in town before coming here. I thought he was watching me. He stood outside the taverna when I left, and didn’t leave until I reached the bus stop.”

  “Do you think he was following you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Ali shrugged. “Taller than me, white.”

  “How old?”‘

  “I have a hard time telling ages, as most people I know look much older than they are. I think under forty.”

  Andreas nodded at Yianni, and Yianni handed Ali a photograph.

  “Is this the man?” asked Andreas.

  Ali studied it intently. “I don’t know, could be, but I can’t be sure.”

  “Let me see it,” said Dana.

  “Only if you promise not to tell the media we have a photo of the possible killer,” said Andreas.

  “Why should I agree to that?”

  “So that I show it to you.”

  She clenched her fists. “Okay.”

  Andreas held it up in front of her. She reached for it, but Andreas did not let her touch it. She dropped her hands and stared at the photo. “I’ve never seen him.”

  “It was taken at the scene of a triple murder north of Izmir,” said Andreas.

  Dana’s eyes widened. “So I was right about Izmir.”

  “My gripe with you has nothing to do with whether you’re right or wrong, but with the way you do things. You might think you’re helping to catch your friend’s killer, but you’re actually screwing things up. I wish you’d somehow understand that we’re all on the same side in this.”

  Ali cleared his throat. “Sirs, what is it you want of me?”

  “Ali, you don’t––”

  Ali raised his hand. “Dana, I trust these men. If I am wrong, how am I any worse off? I have nothing to hide because I did not kill Mr. Volandes, and there is nothing more I can tell them about that night.” He swallowed. “But if they are right, and I do not help them, both you and I will likely be dead. I see no choice but to cooperate.”

  Dana shrugged. “It’s your life. Do as you choose.”

  Ali did not smile. “It is not just my life, it is yours too. I watched my entire family die.” He paused. “It has taken me much time, but I have accepted that I had been helpless to save them. Now you are like family to me, the only family I have left, and I’m offered this chance to save you.” He paused again. “Do you understand why I must do what I can to help?”

  Dana shut her eyes and nodded.

  Andreas drew in and let out a breath. Now all they had left to do was to come up with a plan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tassos instinctively looked at his watch when his cell phone rang. He could easily have checked for the time on his phone, but that glance at his wrist hung on as one of many old-fashioned habits he just couldn’t break.

  He did, though, check the caller ID. Maggie had told him to leave his phone on while she did some shopping, just in case she needed to reach him. She’d been with him from the instant he arrived at Athens Onassis Cardiac Surgery Center, and from that moment on she’d forbidden him to take calls, saying he needed his rest.

  Caller ID read BLOCKED, so he ignored the call.

  His catheterization surgery had gone well, and he’d likely be released tomorrow. The valve replacement surgery they’d schedule later. How much later he did not know. But getting out of here would be good, if only for a little while.

  The phone rang again. The same BLOCKED ID message appeared on the screen.

  “Wondering who the hell that is riles me up more than whatever it’s about,” he mumbled as he answered the phone with a brusque, “Hello.”

  “It’s Ibrahim.”

  It took Tassos an instant to recognize the caller as his Turkish source who’d reluctantly given him the information he’d passed on to Andreas about the refugee smuggler named Malik.

  “Well, aren’t you a pleasant surprise? Never thought I’d hear from you again so soon.”

  “Spare me. I’m calling to do us both a favor,” said Ibrahim in a decidedly impatient voice. “A lot of people are dying over here, and from what you squeezed out of me in our last conversation, I’m pretty sure everyone’s interested in the same madman.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Don’t play games with me. The one who killed your shipowner on Lesvos.”

  “What’s on your mind?” said Tassos, shifting in his hospital bed.

  “The man’s crazy. He’s killed more than a half-dozen here and moved in on Malik’s smuggling operation. No one believes he’s going to stop there.”

  “Why don’t you guys just follow your government’s lead and do what you do best, eliminate the opposition?”

  Ibrahim’s voice rose. “Screw you. You think your politicians are any better?” He paused, and in a calmer voice said, “This is not about politics, but since you asked, those who feel threatened by the madman are too afraid to take the risk
of eliminating him. They’re convinced if they try and fail, he’ll wipe out their families…as he did to one already.”

  Tassos’ tone turned serious. “What do you think I can do for you from over here?”

  “If you want him for that murder on Lesvos, now’s your chance to catch him, because that’s where he is right now.”

  Tassos propped himself upright in the bed. “How do you know he’s on Lesvos?”

  “Early this morning he hired a smuggler to drop him there. The smuggler’s being paid handsomely to return at midnight tonight to pick him up.”

  “What makes you think the story’s true?”

  “The smuggler bragged about the deal to some of his buddies when he got back from dropping him off. The passenger’s name meant nothing to any of them, but from the description the smuggler gave of him, one of them recognized the passenger as the guy who’d moved in on Malik.”

  “How’d he know that?”

  “He’s Malik’s brother-in-law, and before you ask, he hates your guy and wants him out of the way.”

  Tassos leaned back in bed. “So, he’s who asked you to call me.”

  “He’s a friend and knows of my connections with the Greek police. How could I refuse this opportunity to help you?”

  Tassos ignored the sarcasm. “If your madman is part of Malik’s operation, why didn’t he use one of Malik’s smugglers’ boats to take him to Lesvos?”

  “My guess is he chose to pay a stranger because he didn’t want Malik knowing he’d left for Lesvos. He probably worried about Malik doing the very thing his brother-in-law asked me to do, tip off the Greek police.”