Blood & Gold

by Leo Kanaris

  ‘Even against the law of the land?’

  ‘Only if a higher law sanctions it.’

  ‘What is that higher law?’

  ‘The law of God’s mercy. We are all sinners, Mr Zafiris. Every one of us lives or dies by that law.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’

  ‘I assure you it’s anything but. There is no hiding from divine justice.’

  ‘How often do you grant sanctuary to a criminal?’

  ‘Very rarely.’

  ‘Once a year? Once a month?’

  ‘No. I have known it perhaps three times in thirty years.’

  George put his hand into his pocket. ‘I’d like you to listen to something,’ he said. He placed the phone on the desk in front of them and, watching Paris attentively, let the recording play:

  ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘Because you’re cheating on me.’

  ‘I’m not and I never would.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You think I come out here to meet my lover?’

  ‘I don’t know any more. You’ve changed so much.’

  ‘I haven’t changed. You have! You’re suspicious, you’re jealous, you frighten me.’

  ‘If you’re frightened it can only mean you’re guilty.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! I’m afraid because you’re mad with jealousy, because… what are you doing?’

  ‘I want one last kiss.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t look at me like that! You’re crazy.’

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘Paris, don’t!’

  George compared the two men’s reactions. The monk was watchful, calm, expressionless. Paris was increasingly agitated.

  ‘Well?’ said George. ‘What do you say to that?’

  Paris could hardly speak. His eyes blazed with rage. ‘Where… how did you get that?’

  ‘From the police.’

  ‘And where did they get it?’

  ‘They found Keti’s phone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the bushes.’

  ‘So long after the murder?’

  ‘It happens.’

  Paris looked devastated. His face crumpled. Tears flooded his eyes and he shook with sobs.

  ‘Time for a confession?’ said George.

  Father Seraphim raised his hand in a gesture of restraint.

  Paris sat with his head in his hands, shaking as if gripped by a fever. George waited patiently. He felt his goal was in sight.

  His eyes wandered along the bookshelves. There were the expected volumes on prayer, the gospels, the lives of the saints, the history of the church. But there were other books too: paperbacks with titles in French and Italian, on art, psychology and philosophy. Orthodox monks did not usually possess such secular works. They were trained in a certain way of thinking and were expected to stick to it. Very occasionally one stumbled across an exceptional character, a refugee from some other way of life – business, science, the arts – intriguing figures who had known the world they renounced and chosen the cloistered life in the light of experience.

  He was curious about Seraphim, but this was not a moment for curiosity. Paris had stopped shaking. Slowly, he raised his head. He glanced first at Seraphim, then at George, his eyes distant and scared. There was something childlike in that look, like a boy who has climbed a tree and is frightened to come down.

  Seraphim folded his hands.

  ‘Come on, Mr Aliveris,’ said George. ‘You’re safe here. Not even the police can get to you. But you must tell us the truth.’

  Seraphim nodded.

  Paris made an obvious effort, struggling with some unseen difficulty. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s such a grotesque fake…’

  ‘A fake?’ cried George. ‘How could it be?’

  ‘Listen to the voices. That’s not me or Keti.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Paris! It’s your wife’s phone. It’s clear-cut evidence, and you’re using any…’

  ‘Listen to them!’ Paris insisted. ‘Listen to them!’

  ‘All right,’ said George, ‘I will.’

  He pressed the little white triangle on the screen of his phone and the dialogue began again. Paris winced as it played.

  ‘Does that sound like me?’ he said.

  ‘Voices change under stress,’ said George.

  ‘Not that much. I tell you, it’s not me, and it’s not Keti. This is some obscene trick.’

  ‘Unless you can prove it you won’t convince me or the police.’

  ‘Check the recording! When was it made?’

  ‘That’s obvious.’

  ‘You must check it.’

  ‘I don’t have the original file.’

  ‘Find the person who does. It will have a date and time.’

  ‘I’m sure the police checked that.’

  ‘Are you? You’ve asked them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please do that.’

  George dialled Sotiriou’s number. When the Colonel answered, George put the question to him. The Colonel told him to wait, ruffled some papers, muttered something insulting about his colleagues, then said irritably, ‘I’ll have to check this.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m with Mr Aliveris now.’

  ‘Ah.’ The Colonel said nothing for a moment or two.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Mount Athos.’

  ‘You’ve tracked him down. Good work.’

  ‘How soon can you check this?’

  ‘A few hours.’

  ‘I prefer minutes.’

  ‘We all prefer minutes, Mr Zafiris! But they are in short supply.’

  ‘Try to find some. I suggest you check all the settings on that phone, and fingerprint it.’

  ‘I shall do a lot more than that, I assure you.’

  George slowly put his own phone down.

  ‘Well?’ said Aliveris.

  ‘No answer yet,’ said George. ‘But they’re checking… Now tell me, why would anyone fake a thing like that?’

  ‘To incriminate me,’ said Aliveris.

  ‘I find that impossible to believe.’

  ‘I tell you, Keti was spending time with thoroughly unpleasant people.’

  ‘But not stupid people.’

  ‘What difference does that make? This is a question of evil, not intelligence.’

  ‘All right. The trouble is, it fits with other evidence.’

  ‘What are you referring to?’

  ‘Your jealousy, for example.’

  ‘Who told you about that?’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘But you behaved like a jealous man, following her about, listening to her phone calls…’

  ‘Ah, it’s Anna, isn’t it? Angel-faced Anna! With a snake’s heart!’

  George did not reply.

  ‘All I did,’ said Paris, ‘was protect her from exploitation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was a serious musician, a fine soloist, and she wanted to throw all that away for a show-business career.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘I know, but it’s a mistake. A terrible mistake.’

  ‘Mistake or not, it was her decision,’ said George.

  ‘One that needs to be taken very carefully!’

  ‘She wanted money presumably?’

  ‘And fame.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Her reputation would be ruined.’

  ‘So you tried to stop her?’

  ‘I did my best.’

  ‘By stalking her?’

  Paris winced. ‘Who said I did that?’

  ‘I have witnesses.’

  ‘I did not stalk her. How do you “stalk” your own wife?’

  ‘You did exactly that.’

  ‘I followed h
er on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘And checked her phone, diary, emails?’

  Paris did not reply.

  ‘Do you know who she was seeing in the last days of her life?’ asked George.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you give me names?’

  Paris stopped short. ‘Names?’

  ‘That’s what I want.’

  He seemed lost for a moment or two, ‘Why do you want names?’

  ‘If you didn’t kill your wife, Mr Aliveris, I need to know who else it might have been. Who was around her? Who might have had a motive? Without names I keep coming back to just one suspect: you!’

  Paris sighed and looked to Father Seraphim, who sat with his eyes downcast.

  ‘This is incredibly painful,’ said Paris.

  ‘No doubt,’ said George. He took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’

  Paris began. Three night-club owners, a stylist, a business consultant, a concert promoter, a journalist, a photographer, a director of TV commercials. He spoke each name with clarity and contempt.

  Two names, different from the others, attracted George’s attention. Vladimir Merkulov, one of the night-club owners, and Stelios, the photographer.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Merkulov,’ he said.

  ‘He owns a big night-club in Glyfada. Also a hotel in Halkidiki. And businesses in Russia.’

  ‘Do you know him personally?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘And Stelios?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Does he have a surname?’

  ‘He does. I forget it. Stelios is his professional name. A sure sign of pretentiousness.’

  ‘You seem to dislike these people.’

  ‘I am trying to moderate my feelings.’

  George took a last sip of coffee and closed his notebook.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to your work now.’

  George shook hands with them both, saying to Paris, ‘Please answer your phone in future.’

  Paris gave a tense little nod in reply. Father Seraphim opened the door.

  Back in his dormitory he met Stephanos the gym teacher packing his bag.

  ‘Are you leaving too?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Stephanos. ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘You seem to be getting ready to go.’

  ‘They’re giving me my own room.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They’ve asked me to stay!’ There was a childish excitement in his voice.

  ‘How did that come about?’

  ‘The Abbot has trouble with his knees. He can’t walk. They’ve asked me to look after him, get him walking again.’

  ‘That’s a stroke of luck.’

  ‘It’s all I could have hoped for. A gift from God. A reward for my faith and a sign of His mercy. The age of miracles is not over!’

  George offered his hand. Stephanos grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘My friend!’ he said, tears glinting in his eyes. ‘You have witnessed the miracle. You have seen God’s work. Now go out and spread the word!’

  George frowned. ‘And you, my friend, make sure you behave yourself. I don’t know about God, but man will not forgive you a second time.’

  ‘I hear your wise words!’ Stephanos patted his heart. ‘God bless you, dear friend!’

  25 Kokoras II

  Two hours later, George walked through the frontier town of Ouranopolis in a daze of mental re-adjustment. Everything jangled, all things seemed garish and strange. Butcher’s shops, motorbikes, racks full of magazines, advertisements for ice cream, fast food, insurance. The colours so bright! The women so sensuous! Their hair so extravagant! He felt like an astronaut returning to earth: out of place, heavy-limbed, not quite in control.

  He needed a coffee, some means of rooting himself to the ground. In a quiet place, off the main street, where brash sensations were muted. He found an alley with a stone building at the far end. Wooden shutters, vines over the door. As he walked in a few fat raindrops started to fall.

  He ordered a big black coffee. He wanted more than anything to sleep now, but that would have to wait. He took his phone from his pocket and dialled Gavrilis in Edessa.

  ‘I know Kokoras wants to be left in peace,’ he said, ‘but tell him I have to see him.’

  Gavrilis was brusque. ‘He won’t like it.’

  ‘I know. Just tell him it has to happen.’

  ‘No one says that to him.’

  ‘He’ll have the police all over him.’

  ‘He has good relations with the police.’

  ‘Listen, my friend, I’m not pissing about. I’m talking about the Athens police. Tough bastards. They like nothing better than stitching up an out-of-town villain.’

  ‘What have they got on him?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Thanks to you?’

  ‘No thanks to me.’

  ‘I hope you’re not bluffing, Mr Zafiris. If you are…’ His voice trailed off, allowing George to imagine the rest.

  George said, ‘I have to see him this evening.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Around seven. Not before. I’m about three hours away.’

  ‘I’ll call him.’

  Fifteen minutes later, as he set off for Edessa, he had the return call. Kokoras would see him in the Waterfalls Park at 7.30 pm. He checked his watch. He should just make it.

  By the time he walked into the park he had it clear in his mind. He had phoned Colonel Sotiriou and told him what he was up to. Sotiriou was typically parsimonious in his support. ‘If you disappear,’ he said, ‘we’ll know where to look.’

  ‘Nothing until then?’

  ‘I’ve told you from the start, you’re on your own.’

  George thought a little more about it, then phoned Haris Pezas. ‘God knows what I’m getting into here,’ he said, ‘but if I don’t call you by 9.00 pm get yourself up to Edessa at once and find Gavrilis at the Pindos Hotel. He might have an idea where I am. Meanwhile call Sotiriou, tell him I’ve disappeared.’

  ‘Got that,’ said Haris. ‘It sounds like you’re taking your usual risks.’

  ‘I don’t know how else to do this,’ said George.

  He found Kokoras sitting at a table in the shadows, his lieutenants on either side of him, flicking their worry beads with a bored and stupefied air of self-importance.

  George introduced himself.

  ‘I remember you,’ said Kokoras, giving the phrase a sinister intonation.

  ‘I remember you too,’ said George.

  They eyed each other coldly.

  A waiter appeared, asking, ‘What will you have, gentlemen?’

  ‘We don’t want anything,’ said Kokoras. ‘Clear off.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said George. ‘I’d like a beer. A Fix. And a little mezé.’ At the back of his mind was the thought that the bottle might come in handy if things got rough.

  The waiter nodded and moved away.

  Kokoras wasted no time getting to the point.

  ‘What the hell is this about?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s about my friend Mario Filiotis.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘You’ve missed your chance now. He’s dead.’

  Kokoras said nothing.

  ‘He tried to build a medical school here. He had several partners, including Dr Skouras in Athens.’

  Kokoras glanced at one of his lieutenants. ‘Is that who sent you? Skouras?’

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘Skouras is not involved.’

  ‘Who then? One of the investors?’

  ‘You seem to know what I’m talking about all of a sudden,’ said George.

  ‘It’s coming back,’ said Kokoras, a smirk twisting his narrow strip of moustache.

  ‘OK,’ said George. ‘Filiotis was prevented from building a teaching hospital, here in Edessa, by people who had their own alternative project.’

  ‘
So?’

  ‘You’re one of those people.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Filiotis was murdered.’

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘By one of your partners perhaps.’

  ‘Why? He was no threat to anyone.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  Kokoras dismissed this with an impatient flick of his hand.

  ‘I want to know the names of your partners,’ said George. ‘The backers for the new hospital here.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  George repeated the question slowly.

  Instead of replying, Kokoras said, ‘Who are your partners, asshole?’

  George felt like putting a fist into that drooping mouth. ‘I’m asking the questions,’ he said brusquely.

  ‘You want information for nothing?’

  ‘Tell me the names of your partners and I’ll tell you the names of mine.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Kokoras. ‘Who sent you? Some cocksucker in the Athens police?’

  ‘I’m not giving names,’ said George.

  ‘Neither am I. You’re wasting my time.’ He signalled to his men. ‘Let’s go.’

  The two lieutenants began lifting themselves out of their chairs.

  George said, ‘Take it easy. No rush. I’ve ordered a beer and I’d like to drink it.’ He turned to Kokoras and said softly, ‘Why don’t you ask your friends to go and pose somewhere else?’

  One of the lieutenants said, ‘Get up, pousti!’

  George addressed Kokoras again. ‘I want to talk to you privately,’ he said.

  Kokoras thought about this, his face unmoving. Then the gold rings flashed on his left hand.

  ‘Go and look at the waterfall, lads,’ he said. Then, turning to George, ‘This had better be good.’

  ‘That’s up to you,’ said George.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The people I work for know exactly where I am, who I’m with. They have you in their sights. They’re prepared to destroy you.’

  Kokoras did not seem unduly worried.

  George cranked up the pressure. ‘They’ll start with a tax check, a full one. They’ll move on to a criminal investigation, looking into a pile of complaints about intimidation, extortion, restraint of trade, and all your other nasty habits. With two investigations running, bank accounts frozen, you’ll find it hard to do business. You’ll be a wounded animal, and your rivals will know all about it. Everything you’ve built up will fall apart.’

  Kokoras glared at him, his eyes two fiery slits.