Blood & Gold

by Leo Kanaris

‘Doesn’t bother me.’

  ‘It will.’

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can I get to my car?’

  George did not budge. The man began to go past him. George felt the steely muscles of the arm moving him aside. The door opened and he caught a glimpse of another figure in the passenger seat, sitting quite still. Then the door closed again and was locked from the inside.

  George wanted to put some heat on them, hustle them out of the street, but he remembered Haris’s dictum about knowing your target. If a fight started it would be two against one. He was also unarmed.

  He returned to the Café Agamemnon and let Dimitri serve him coffee.

  ‘In trouble again?’ said Dimitri.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said George.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘God knows.’

  *

  Back at his desk he found a new thread in the hospital story. At a certain point in the negotiations, in July, the price of the disused factory in Astypalea had suddenly shot up by seven hundred and fifty thousand euros – an enormous hike justified by the inclusion of a piece of adjoining land. This was odd. It could either be due to a spoiling bid by Mario’s enemies or perhaps spectacular greed on the part of the seller.

  George read the correspondence. It looked more like greed. Unusually successful greed in this case because Mario, instead of pulling out as he should have, had calmly increased his offer. The reason for this cool response was clear: he had recently made a successful application for crowdfunding, raising over one million euros, which more than covered the new price. Even if Mario’s enemies were on the case, it seemed there was no stopping him.

  Now, though, another obstacle appeared. With the good news about crowdfunding came a blow from one of the investors. Due to ‘global uncertainty in the markets’ a London-based fund called Worldwide Ethos had decided to pull out. This suddenly took two million euros away. So now the project was one and three-quarter million euros worse off than before. This was the situation the day before Mario left for Athens.

  Had he gone there to raise more money? Did he need it so fast that he went to a ‘no questions asked’ lender?

  With a shudder George remembered that unpleasant man at EAP, who purported to deal in finance. It seemed unlikely that such a man would ever tell the truth about anything, but perhaps in this case he had.

  George read the last few documents in the folder: a note of regret from his financial adviser about the situation; a request to the owner of the factory about paying in instalments; a reply from the owner’s lawyer saying the price had been agreed on the understanding that the full amount would be paid on the date of transfer of ownership; finally a plea from Mario for flexibility, which remained unanswered.

  Reading these emails, George felt Mario’s desperation. His friend was frustrated, impatient, fed up. As a result he had let himself be cornered. Anyone offering to buy a ruined factory at a time like this should have been in a commanding position. With the national economy in meltdown, no other buyer would be likely to appear for five, ten, maybe twenty years. Mario had all the cards in his hand. Why was he allowing himself to be outplayed?

  George stood up from his desk and took a turn around the room. There was something wrong here. If Mario was in such a weak position, why had his enemies found it necessary to kill him? Why not simply exploit his weakness?

  Perhaps he had some kind of hold over them? Some compromising knowledge? Had he threatened to expose them? That was the usual way in Greece. Everyone who runs a business, builds a house, lives any kind of active life, is forced by the complexity of the law and the malevolence of the state bureaucracy to work outside it, in the fast-moving unofficial economy of cash payments and favours. Everyone is vulnerable, so they leave each other in peace. A hostile peace, always in danger of exploding…

  He returned to his desk and checked again through the last few emails. Maybe he should talk to the other people in these exchanges? The financial adviser, the owner of the factory, the lawyer? Maybe, too, he should ask Haris and Andreas to look for other clues.

  He picked up the phone.

  32 The Two Andonis

  Before he could bring up Haris’s name on his phone he had an incoming call. This showed as a ‘private number’. He answered, and a voice he did not recognise, a smooth, confident voice, used to giving orders, said, ‘Don’t upset my men, Mr Zafiris. They are there to protect you.’

  ‘Really? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘That’s your problem.’

  ‘Who are they protecting me from?’

  ‘A lot of people. And yourself.’

  ‘In other words this is a threat.’

  ‘I don’t deal in threats, Mr Zafiris. I deal in self-preservation.’

  ‘Did Mario Filiotis get one of your phone calls? Offering self-preservation? If he did I don’t think much of your services.’

  ‘Watch your step, Mr Zafiris.’ The voice was suddenly harsher. ‘You’re starting to annoy me.’

  The phone went dead. George pushed it away in disgust. He fetched a can of beer from the fridge and snapped it open. He thought about what had just happened. This was not good. On the other hand if he was receiving calls like that he must be getting close to the bone.

  He picked up the phone again and called Haris. He would surely have something helpful to say.

  He began with the black Mercedes, and was about to move on to the threatening phone call when Haris brusquely interrupted him.

  ‘Listen, Mr Zafiris, I can’t discuss this now, I’m running out of battery.’

  ‘Plug in your charger!’

  ‘I can’t, I’m out in the country.’

  ‘Where? At the factory?’

  ‘I’ll call you back later. Bye.’

  George was puzzled. This was not like Haris, either to be caught short of battery – he used to run an electrical shop for heaven’s sake – or to cut off a conversation so abruptly. Something else was going on.

  He gulped his beer, feeling frustrated, wishing he had a cigarette.

  A knock on the front door made him jump. Sliding open the top drawer of his desk he found his Beretta. He slipped off the safety catch and walked softly to the door. He put his eye to the keyhole.

  It was not the bald man or his companion. It was Dimitri from the café downstairs. He let him in at once.

  ‘What’s up?’ George asked, laying the Beretta on the hall table.

  Dimitri closed the front door behind him. ‘Haris Pezas has just called me. He says your phone is being monitored. That’s why he cut you off.’

  ‘How does he know all this?’

  ‘He didn’t explain. He said you should ask me to go out and buy you another phone so that you can talk freely. Meanwhile watch what you say.’

  ‘I could go and buy a new phone myself.’

  ‘You could, but you have to give your name and address.’

  George laughed uneasily. ‘He’s paranoid!’

  ‘I don’t know. Only you can judge…’ Dimitri looked embarrassed. ‘Excuse me, there’s no one in the café. If you don’t mind I’d better go.’

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘Thank you for the message.’

  ‘What about the new phone?’

  ‘I’ll think about that. You need to go now.’

  He saw Dimitri out.

  George considered his options. If Haris was right it would be impossible for him to do anything without being followed, listened to, observed. His effectiveness would be drastically reduced, with every move signalled in advance to his so-called ‘protectors’. The new phone was an easy solution to the problem. Even if Haris was wrong he would only have wasted a few euros. He would ask Dimitri to buy one for him.

  Meanwhile he needed to see Colonel Sotiriou. No call in advance, just turn up at his office unannounced. He picked up his keys and descended to the street.

  Leaving the dusty brown lobby, he stopped briefly at the Café Agamemnon to give Dimitri fifty euros fo
r a cheap phone and some pay-as-you-go credit. Emerging again, he walked quickly against the traffic for a couple of hundred metres, past the first side street, then hailed the first taxi that approached. He told the driver to take an immediate right, then right again towards Leoforos Alexandras. The black Mercedes and its crew could not possibly follow him, but still he took no chances. About half a kilometre beyond the police headquarters he asked to be dropped off. They were at the junction with Panormou, where dozens of little streets spread out in every direction.

  He paid off the taxi, crossed the busy avenue and slipped into an alley between two bars. At the far end was Ambelakion Street, with the traffic running one way towards him. He took it, walking against the flow, until he reached the junction with Dimitsanas. The side entrance to the police headquarters was on the left. He had not been followed on foot, and it would have been impossible to follow him by car. He entered the building with a sense of relief.

  The policewoman on the door, a young blonde with big, handsome eyes, took his name in a businesslike fashion and telephoned Sotiriou’s office. As she waited for a reply, George glanced outside. A black Mercedes with tinted windows was pulling up at the kerb. The front door opened and the bald man in the leather jacket stepped out. He glanced about, adjusted the earpiece on his wire, and headed straight for the entrance to the police building.

  George’s heart tightened with fear. How had they traced him? The thought flickered instantaneously through his mind even as his eyes darted about the small entrance lobby searching for an escape. To the left was a closed door. Ahead a dark corridor. To the right the lift. The policewoman was still waiting on the phone, peering distractedly at something on her desk. George made for the corridor, entering its shadow as the street door opened, sending a beam of reflected light sweeping across the floor. George flattened himself against the wall and listened. He heard the policewoman begin to say, ‘His office is not answering…’ then stop with a gasp of surprise.

  ‘A man just came in,’ said a male voice. ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  George heard nothing for a few seconds. Then the man’s voice spoke more softly in words George could not make out. The street door opened again, the beam of light swung across the floor, just catching the toes of George’s shoes. He waited a little longer before emerging from the shadows. The policewoman was at her desk, wide-eyed and bewildered.

  As George approached they fired questions at each other.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘What did that man say to you?’

  ‘Stop asking questions! You need to tell me what you’re doing here.’

  ‘I’m looking for Colonel Sotiriou. I have urgent information for him. Please try his office again.’

  She pressed her lips together, glanced nervously to one side, back at her desk and computer screen, then picked up the phone.

  ‘Is Colonel Sotiriou there? I have someone downstairs to see him.’ She looked up at George. ‘Your name?’

  ‘George Zafiris.’

  She repeated the name to the phone. ‘Wait here. He’s coming down.’

  George tried one more time to prise some information from her. ‘That man who just came in,’ he said, ‘works for a criminal organisation. If you want promotion from this janitor’s position you’d be wise to tell Colonel Sotiriou what he said to you.’

  She gave him a heavily sceptical look.

  ‘Wait just there,’ she said, pointing. ‘In the light, where I can see you.’

  The lift doors opened and Colonel Sotiriou appeared.

  ‘Let’s go out and get some coffee,’ he said briskly.

  George stopped him. ‘I’ve been followed here,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how they managed it. Haris Pezas says my phone’s bugged, but they must have it on a tracker system.’

  Sotiriou was listening carefully. ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘Outside in a black Mercedes. One of the men came in and spoke to the girl on the door. She won’t say anything about it.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Sotiriou.

  The Colonel went over to the girl and exchanged a few words. When he came back he said, ‘We’ll use another entrance.’

  Sotiriou called the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

  ‘Strange place for an entrance,’ said George.

  The Colonel ignored the remark. ‘Give me your phone,’ he said.

  George handed it over and they rode up the rest of the way in silence.

  At the fifth floor the Colonel led the way along a corridor to a door with a number on it. He knocked and went in, indicating to George to stay outside. A minute later he was back with a car key in his hand.

  They rode the lift down again to the basement, where a police mechanic showed them to a scruffy blue Citroën. The Colonel reached into the glove compartment, found a baseball cap and gave it to George. ‘Put that on,’ he said, ‘and shades if you have them.’

  He drove up the ramp to street level, directly onto Leoforos Alexandras, avoiding Dimitsanas Street where the black Mercedes must still be waiting.

  ‘If they’re tracking your phone,’ said Sotiriou, ‘they’ll think you’re on the fifth floor. If they follow us it means they’ve planted some other device and we’ll need to have you X-rayed.’

  ‘Suppose someone needs to get in touch with me?’

  ‘That’s the least of your problems.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘You’ve got all kinds of trouble on your tail,’ said Sotiriou. ‘And it’s going to be on mine soon if I’m not careful. So we’re going to be quick and minimal.’

  Spotting a parking space he switched on his flashers and reversed in.

  ‘Got a notebook?’ the Colonel inquired, turning off the engine.

  George took one from his pocket.

  ‘Get this down. I’ve looked into Stelios and Merkulov as you requested.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Both highly interesting characters, although not quite my department as they’re not involved in violent crime.’

  ‘What about someone called Andonis? A friend of Anna Kenteri?’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘She said the police had interviewed him, and he cut up rough.’

  ‘I only know about Stelios and Merkulov.’

  ‘So who the hell is Andonis?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. May I continue with what I was saying?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Stelios is a photographer. Or should I say pornographer?’

  ‘Illegal stuff? Under age?’

  ‘No. Just vulgar. He exploits and corrupts girls. He also owns a collection of nightclubs and casinos. The police spend a lot of time on call-outs to these places. They’re associated with prostitution, drugs, money laundering, stolen goods and vehicles, insurance fraud… We have to keep rotating our personnel to prevent them getting sucked into the system. Even then we’re never sure.’

  ‘You should close those places down.’

  ‘That’s difficult. Stelios knows the law and stays inside it. The dirty stuff is done at arm’s length. You can’t pin anything on him. He’s also well connected. Once or twice he’s been in danger of being busted, and a word comes from on high to leave him alone.’

  ‘What’s the connection? Family?’

  ‘His daughter is married to the son of the Minister of Justice.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Byron Kakridis.’

  ‘That bastard!’

  ‘Watch what you say about him!’

  ‘I thought he was PASOK. How did he get into a SYRIZA government?’

  ‘Switched parties when he saw the way things were going.’

  ‘He killed my friend Hector Pezas, not to mention his own wife.’

  ‘Steady on!’ said Sotiriou.
‘None of that is known for a fact. It’s your theory.’

  ‘Come on, you were there! It may have been his Georgian friends who did the shooting, but he was responsible.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue that with you. Believe it if you want to, but keep quiet about it. For your own safety.’

  George struggled to suppress his anger. ‘You’re so bloody legalistic sometimes.’

  Sotiriou bristled. ‘Someone has to uphold the law!’

  ‘OK,’ said George, ‘let’s get back to Stelios. He’s a pornographer and pimp, and well connected. What else do we know about him?’

  ‘He’s in his late fifties, drives a Bentley convertible, has a yacht, what else? Models himself on James Bond…’

  ‘Oh, it gets worse.’

  ‘In spite of the glamorous lifestyle he’s very private. He did not take kindly to being interviewed by the police.’

  ‘Who questioned him?’

  ‘Our friend Karás, the rugby player.’

  ‘That’s good. I’ll talk to him. Tell me about Merkulov.’

  ‘He’s an investor.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Hotels, resorts, shopping malls. Various other things.’

  ‘Any criminal connections?’

  ‘Nothing known. In fact he dabbles in philanthropy, although that could be a front, cultivated for public relations purposes. He was described to me by one informant as the underground spring that supplies the wells.’

  ‘What does that mean? A kind of bank?’

  ‘Like a bank, but totally unregulated and on his terms.’

  ‘High interest rates?’

  ‘Or a slice of the action.’

  ‘Where does he get his money?’

  ‘He’s a Russian oligarch.’

  ‘Is he a friend of Stelios?’

  ‘That’s what you told me.’

  ‘Did I?’ George was surprised.

  ‘You said he and Stelios were both close to Keti Kenteri. That was information from her husband, Paris Aliveris.’

  ‘I remember that,’ said George. ‘But they might be friends of hers without knowing each other.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Sotiriou. He sat back. ‘You can stop taking notes now. That’s all I’ve managed to gather… By the way, I’ve been watching the street. We weren’t followed.’