by Leo Kanaris
Petros nodded, took a gulp of wine. ‘Of course. Dealing with the government is no joke. They’re disorganised, inefficient, devious and arrogant. And they keep changing the rules. They give a deadline for applications, you run around like a lunatic to do everything in time, then a week before the deadline they announce new rules. So you have to scrap everything and start again.’
‘That’s happened to you?’
‘Twice already.’
‘Why go on?’
‘I’ve invested time and money. If I stop that’s all wasted.’
‘So they’ve got you.’
‘They always have!’
‘I’d go mad in your position.’
‘That seems to be the intention.’
‘So get out.’
‘No. I want to beat them. Anyway, I’m used to the Third World, so I know what to expect.’
‘As bad as that?’
‘Worse! Much worse! We are supposedly a developed nation. So we have two standards. The official and the unofficial.’
‘That’s an old story.’
‘Ever since the European Union started pumping money into our economy we’ve been pretending we’re a modern state. In fact the old ways have simply continued, hidden under fat layers of bureaucracy and waste.’ Petros wiped a hand across his eyes. ‘To be honest I’m getting too old for this kind of crap.’
‘How do you stand it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You could employ someone?’
Petros nodded wearily. ‘I probably should. But when you’ve had to fire as many workers as I have – friends, colleagues, good people – you think twice about offering someone a job.’
With a sudden pang of guilt, George thought of Haris. He should have contacted him. He had heard nothing since this morning.
‘You’ve just reminded me,’ he said. ‘I took someone on today. I need to give him a quick call.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Petros.
He called Haris’s number. There was no reply. He left a brief message and turned back to Petros.
‘I wanted to tell you about Mario’s funeral.’
Petros winced. ‘I feel bad for missing it,’ he said, ‘but I had an appointment at the Ministry.’
George told him to put it out of his mind. ‘There were plenty of people there. His wife was too wrecked by grief to notice who turned up.’
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ said Petros.
‘None of us can.’
‘He was too young!’
‘Wasn’t he just!’
‘At least he died happy.’
‘How the hell do you know that?’ said George.
‘Lovely family, good career, mayor of his island, popular man. And all cleanly done. A man of principle. He achieved things.’ Petros gave him a wistful look, filled with pain and nostalgia. ‘Why should Mario be taken, and not one of the thousands of cockroaches who run this country?’
‘That,’ said George, ‘is what we all want to know.’
They ate for a while in silence.
‘Did you speak to Mario about solar energy?’ asked George.
‘I started to.’
‘Was he interested?’
Petros nodded. ‘Of course. The island’s very wild. Unspoilt. Lots of space. I thought of buying a piece of land.’
‘Did he like the idea?’
‘Let’s say he was cautiously open to it.’
‘Why cautiously?’
‘If it was wind farms he’d have said no.’
‘Really?’
‘He hated them. “Ugly white propellers,” he called them. Solar is different. Less visible.’
‘So you have mountains covered with photovoltaic panels instead of propellers?’
‘You hide them away. Remote spots in the countryside. Valleys, not peaks.’
‘Those were exactly the places Mario wanted to protect.’
Petros shrugged his shoulders. ‘He wanted to protect everything. Nature, old buildings, trees. Even views for heaven’s sake! He was a conservation fanatic.’
‘So how would he have helped?’
‘I told you, I’m making green electricity. We’re on the same side.’
‘He would have blocked every planning application you made.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘How come?’
Petros frowned. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘You’d make him a partner?’
‘That kind of thing.’
‘I’m trying to find out what his other business interests might have been,’ said George.
‘Why?’
George was on the point of explaining. He must not say too much.
‘Mario was a more complex figure than we thought.’
Petros seemed mystified. ‘Really? Give me an example.’
‘His family life for a start.’
‘In what way?’
‘His marriage wasn’t exactly happy.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Eleni told me.’
‘At the funeral?’
‘No. I spoke to her yesterday.’
‘So you’re in touch?’
‘I felt I should be.’
‘She’s crazy of course. You know that?’
‘I wasn’t aware of it.’
‘A religious fanatic. She made Mario extremely nervous.’
Petros said no more for a while. He turned the wine in his glass thoughtfully.
‘I have a feeling,’ he said, ‘that Mario got in too deep with some of his projects.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You get a sense with certain people that they’re spinning too many plates. One of them has to crash. Then one by one they all go. That’s how it was starting to be with Mario. I suspect he couldn’t cope.’
‘So what were these spinning plates?’
Petros counted them off on his fingers. ‘Running the island, expanding the airport, setting up a faculty of the Aegean University, organic fish farming, alternative technology… Every week a new project. He talked about sustainability, but his own programme was the most unsustainable thing on the planet.’
George was thinking about this when his phone rang.
The number for Haris Pezas came up on the screen but the voice was wrong.
‘Come and get your friend.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Never mind. You just get over here quickly.’
‘Where is he?’
‘You know where he is.’
The phone went dead.
George stood up. ‘I have to go,’ he said. He put some banknotes on the table. ‘Can you deal with this?’
‘What’s happened? You look terrible.’
‘Something bad.’
He searched for a number on his phone and scribbled it on the tablecloth. ‘If you don’t hear from me by midnight, call this number. Speak to Colonel Sotiriou. No one else. Tell him to come to this address: Leoforos Kymis 136. With back-up.’
10 EAP
George ran home to pick up his Beretta, ankle holster and a tin of ammunition. Glancing in the bedroom, he found Zoe asleep. That saved explanations. He left her a note with Sotiriou’s number and hurried down the stairs.
In the street he grabbed a passing taxi and gave the address on Kymis.
The driver keyed it in to his GPS. ‘It’s a used car place?’
‘Could be,’ said George. ‘Just take me there.’
‘That’s what it says here. It will be closed at this time of night.’
‘I expect so. This is a private meeting.’
‘As you wish.’
He drove on in silence, the radio quietly burbling bouzouki music. George watched the buildings of Leoforos Alexandras speed by – the police headquarters, the central criminal courts, the bullet-scarred workers’ housing blocks. His mind racing, he tried to work out what might have happened, and how to stop even worse things from happening.
The taxi pulled up outsid
e a car showroom. A dark building with plate-glass windows and a floodlit forecourt, closed off with chains. Inside, under spotlights, a selection of gleaming black limousines and high-end sports cars: Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maserati.
‘This is it,’ said the driver. ‘Shall I wait?’
George glanced along the avenue, still busy with traffic.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He paid the fare and got out. Along the right side of the forecourt he could see a tall fence marking the boundary with the next property, a yard selling firewood. On the left a concrete track led to an alley. He took this, walking as casually as he could, feeling the weight of the holstered Beretta above his left ankle.
The alley was a dark block of shadow. As he entered, a security light snapped on. A man in black combat trousers and T-shirt stood in front of him. A slab of a man, armed with a pistol and a long wooden truncheon.
‘Where are you going?’
George said, as calmly as he could through his accelerated heartbeat, ‘I’ve come for my friend.’
‘Name?’
‘Zafiris.’
The man pointed to the door. ‘In there.’
George entered a narrow corridor with unpainted concrete walls. He walked slowly along, smelling stale coffee and cigarette smoke, towards a left turn at the end. With an unpleasant feeling he heard the man follow him in and lock the door.
Around the corner stood another guard, blocking his way.
George stopped. He could hear the first guard’s footsteps approaching from behind.
The guard in front put out his hand, as if asking for payment.
‘What do you want?’ asked George.
‘Empty your pockets.’
George pulled out a few banknotes and coins from his trousers.
‘Jacket?’
He emptied the side and front pockets. Phone, business cards, notebook, folding knife, pen. The tin of ammunition was on the inside. He hoped it didn’t show.
The guard said, ‘Spread your arms and legs.’
They were going to search him. Quickly, to avoid trouble, George said, ‘And this.’ He handed over the ammunition tin.
The front guard took it without reacting.
‘Where’s the gun?’ he said, his cold eyes hardening.
George pointed to his ankle. He felt strong hands grip his left leg from behind and run down to the holster, then quickly flip up his trouser and pull out the gun. The rest of his body was swiftly searched. The guarded stepped aside. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.
The corridor opened into a big, comfortable office – sleek desk, leather armchairs, chrome-framed posters of Formula One cars, signed portraits of their drivers. At the desk sat a heavily built, bearded man in his forties, cream shirt and dark blazer, heavy gold wristband. Everything spoke of luxury and high spending. The man glanced up at him, a pained expression on his face.
George’s possessions were placed on the desk. The tall man fingered them with distaste.
‘So,’ he said. ‘You carry a knife and a Beretta?’
George said, ‘It’s a normal precaution.’
The man looked displeased.
‘I don’t like armed visitors. What are you doing here?’
‘My job,’ said George.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Private investigator.’
The man seemed even more displeased.
‘What are you investigating?’
‘I’ve come to pick up my friend, Mr… ’
‘I know his name!’
The man glared at him.
‘What’s your interest in EAP?’
‘I had a friend, Mario Filiotis. He had a meeting here shortly before he was killed, the Friday before last.’
The man’s expression did not change.
‘And?’
‘I wondered what he was doing here.’
‘What does anybody do here? We sell cars.’
‘He wasn’t a car enthusiast.’
‘So you sent your little man to snoop around.’
George shrugged his shoulders. ‘It seems to have caused some offence.’
‘It has,’ said the man quietly.
‘I hope I’ve explained,’ said George.
‘No.’
The man picked up the Beretta and aimed it casually at George’s head.
‘Does this work?’ he asked.
‘It does,’ said George. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t point it.’
‘Really?’ The man seemed amused, but the gun stayed on him.
‘Just in case this goes off – which it could easily do – you’d better tell me, right now, who’s hired you and what you’re after.’
‘I was hired by the family,’ said George.
‘What family?’
‘The Filiotis family.’
‘And what are you after?’
George said, ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe you can tell me.’
The man slipped off the safety catch. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
George disliked the man’s tone, but he disliked that little black hole in the Beretta even more. ‘I’m looking into the circumstances of his death.’
‘I heard it was an accident.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I have reasons. And I’m puzzled why he would come here, since he wasn’t interested in cars.’
The man’s index finger began to move. George ducked as the muzzle flashed. The room seemed to explode with the detonation, which quivered in his ears, deafening him. The bullet smashed into a picture behind him, shattering the glass.
George slowly straightened. He met the man’s eyes, trying not to show fear.
The man said, ‘We have high net worth customers here. Security is a priority. Our clients don’t like assholes like your little hired pimp asking questions around them. Do you understand that?’
‘Of course.’
‘No, not “of course”, smart-ass! If it was “of course” you’d have got it first time round.’
‘I suppose so. But I knew nothing.’
‘And now you know!’ The hand moved again. George flinched, but the gun did not fire. The man watched him with amusement.
‘Mr Filiotis came here looking for finance. That’s your story for the family.’
George thought about this, watching the man’s hands, on a razor’s edge of tension.
‘Finance,’ said George. ‘Is that part of your business?’
‘Of course it is. These are expensive cars.’
George risked another question. ‘I don’t understand. Was he trying to buy a car?’
‘No,’ said the big man wearily. ‘He was here to meet a client, a particular client of ours who might have been interested in financing one of his schemes. Unfortunately, the stupid prick turned up on a bicycle. Not a good idea. People in finance have a more elevated idea of transport.’
George tried hard to stay calm. ‘What scheme?’
The man shook his head. ‘You’ve asked enough. Now get out before this thing goes off again.’
‘What about my friend?’
‘You’ll find him in the alley.’
George said, ‘Can I have my things?’
The man flicked the safety catch, unclipped the magazine and emptied the bullets onto his desk. He swept them into a drawer with the ammunition box and pushed the gun over. ‘I don’t want to see you again,’ he said. ‘Or your pimp.’ He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette.
‘Get out,’ he said through a mouthful of smoke.
George collected his possessions in silence.
One of the guards led him back along the corridor and unlocked the door.
‘Where’s my friend?’ asked George.
The man pointed into the dark beyond the security light.
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see him.’
The man stepped back into the corridor and pulled the door shut. The
key turned in the lock.
11 Boxed
George stepped out of the pyramid of light. Beyond it the dark seemed to fizz in the spill-over glare from Kymis Avenue, silvered in the dampness of the night. He stood still, letting his eyes adapt, trying to push back the guilty thoughts jostling in his mind: why had he sent Haris on a risky mission like this? The man was a beginner. An apprentice. Did he want two dead men on his conscience? Brothers?
The outlines of the alley began to appear. Two high black walls, with a faint grey track running straight ahead in between. At the far end, thirty metres away, a parking lot, jammed with cars. He walked towards it, tense, alert, aware only of the present moment and its dangers. The rushing of cars on the avenue seemed to sweep away every trace of the past.
As he reached the end of the right-hand wall he made out a dark, square shape, a cube of blackness about a metre high, partly blocking the alley. He stretched out his hand to feel it. A cardboard box. He took his phone from his pocket and switched on its flashlight. The top of the box was taped down. The sides bulged a little. Someone had scrawled “Return to Sender” in thick red marker pen on the top.
George peeled away the parcel tape and lifted the flaps of the box. Inside was a black rubbish sack, its neck slightly open, a sweet-sour stench of urine leaking from the hole. He had to step away to grab a breath. Returning he glimpsed a few strands of light brown hair at the opening of the sack. His heart began to thump. The hair belonged to a head. The head, he could now see, as he pulled down the sack and turned his flashlight on the blotchy and battered face, belonged to Haris Pezas.
He fumbled at the sack, rolled it down over the shoulders, and carefully pulled away the bands of parcel tape that forced Haris’s mouth open. A slow wheezing breath hissed over his hand, like air escaping from a punctured tyre.
‘Haris?’ he queried gently.
There was no response. George tried again, feeling the neck for a pulse. It was warm. That was something.
‘Haris, it’s George. You’re OK now.’
A slow, rasping breath. The eyes flickered open, took in nothing, closed. Another breath. The eyes opened again, weary and afraid.
‘You’re safe now,’ said George.
Another wheezing breath. A cough. A dribbling attempt to spit.
‘Where are they?’ whispered Haris.
‘Inside the building. We’re alone out here. I’ll take you home.’
‘Get me out of this bag.’