by Leo Kanaris
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Only by getting in to EAP.’
‘You still want to do that?’
‘If we can get out alive.’
‘Understood. I’m working on it. I’ll come in and see you in the morning.’
37 The Death Trap
Early the next day George was woken by a call from Colonel Sotiriou. ‘I’ve managed to get the arrest order lifted,’ he said. ‘You can go home.’
George asked him how he had achieved this, but the Colonel would say no more.
‘How about the Kokoras killing? Any ideas on that?’
‘A professional job.’
‘Why?’
‘Very quick and neat.’
‘His bodyguards?’
‘They played no part.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one has seen them or mentioned them.’
‘They struck me as pretty useless.’
‘A fair assessment, I would say.’
‘So who could have done it?’
‘Good question!’
‘The TV report mentioned a raid on the home of an archaeologist.’
‘That was Dr Mylona.’
‘I met her! A dreadful woman.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s a typical bureaucrat. Sitting like a spider in her web of regulations, waiting to catch unsuspecting victims.’
‘What did you want from her?’
‘Some help over those golden wreaths that were in Mario’s coffin.’
‘You never mentioned that to me.’
‘You never showed any interest.’
‘What was her involvement?’ asked Sotiriou.
‘I wish I knew. I thought she might have some ideas about where the stuff came from, where it was going, who the dealers are… She was even tighter with information than you are.’
‘Did you find out any more?’
‘The trail seemed to lead to New York. But I never got to the end of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not enough hours in the day.’
‘Why New York?’
‘Mario Filiotis ended up at a crematorium in Brooklyn. The name on the undertaker’s waybill was Medouris. One of the biggest dealers in antiques from the classical world has a very similar name: Ventouris.’
‘This is all most interesting,’ said Sotiriou.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Can’t you tell me just one little thing for once?’
‘Not now,’ said the Colonel. ‘As usual you have been most helpful.’
George paid his hotel bill and walked home through Kolonaki, past the Evangelismós hospital with patients in dressing gowns enjoying a contemplative smoke among the rubbish bins on the pavement, past the lost-world neoclassical beauty of the Maraslion school, past the boutiques and cafés still clinging to their menaced old way of life. On the way he rang Haris and told him to come over as soon as he could. Haris said he would be there by eleven.
In the Café Agamemnon he ordered a fresh orange juice, coffee, toast and two fried eggs.
‘American-style today?’ said Dimitri.
‘I’m hungry,’ said George, ‘but let’s be patriotic. Fry the eggs in olive oil.’
‘Very good,’ said Dimitri. ‘Do you want the news now or later?’
‘Tell me now.’
Dimitri filled him in on the past few days in Aristotle Street.
‘The police were in and out all the time,’ he said. ‘Uniform, plain clothes, asking questions, waiting in their cars, anyone would think you were a dangerous criminal.’
‘They either do nothing or too much,’ said George. ‘It’s insane. You never saw that bald man again?’
‘Oh yes, he was around. Nasty piece of work. Never believed me when I said I hadn’t seen you.’
‘When was he last here?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘And the other plain clothes men? Who were they?’
Dimitri stared at him in disbelief. ‘You think I asked them?’
‘OK,’ said George. ‘I’m just a little surprised that they would have sent more than one team. Even by our crazy standards that’s over the top.’
‘I did what I could,’ said Dimitri.
‘You’ve done well,’ said George.
Dimitri went off to fry the eggs and George picked up the newspaper. A short article confirmed all the details about Kokoras, adding that a neighbour had seen two men going into his home on the day of the killing. They had stayed about fifteen minutes, arriving and departing in a black Mercedes.
At half past ten George went upstairs. He let himself into his apartment and found a note scribbled on cardboard pushed under his door. As he tried to decipher it a sound behind him made him turn. He realised too late that someone had followed him in. Someone with a leather jacket, a bald head, and an automatic pistol.
‘Put your hands on your head and walk slowly to your right.’
George obeyed. The door clicked shut.
‘Keep walking. In there. Stop. Kneel on the floor.’
‘Kneel?’
‘You heard what I said.’
George knelt, facing the window of his study. He felt the barrel of a pistol pressing his neck.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Don’t talk. Hands behind your back!’
George waited, facing the window. He heard drawers opening in his desk, papers being checked and shoved aside. If Baldy was holding the pistol, he must have an accomplice.
‘What’s the password for this laptop?’
‘Tell me what you’re looking for,’ said George, ‘it will be quicker.’
The gun muzzle was jabbed into his neck. ‘Password!’
‘Karpenisi. All lower case.’
A finger tapped out the letters one by one.
‘Are you in?’ asked Baldy.
‘I’m in,’ said the other.
‘OK. Take a look.’
George waited, listening to the sounds of fingers rattling impatiently along a keyboard. In the street traffic rumbled through the sunshine. He wondered how long these men would keep him here, what they were planning to do.
After a few minutes the man on the laptop said, ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Give me your phone,’ said Baldy.
George handed it over.
‘Open the contacts.’
George did so and handed it back.
‘What’s this?’ said the accomplice. ‘Three names?’
‘I’ve only had it a few days.’
‘Where’s your old one?’
‘With the police.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone was using it to track me.’
‘Oh, aren’t we smart? Got a tablet?’
‘What for? Headache?’
‘I’ll give you a headache, asshole! A tablet! An iPad?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you write down names, addresses, details of the people you see?’
‘On my phone.’ George lied. He also had his precious notebook, which they would certainly find if they made him empty his pockets.
‘Look, guys, I don’t know what you’re after but if you just tell me what you want I can try to help you.’
‘We know the kind of help you give, maláka. You’re a waste of space.’
‘OK, have it your way.’
‘We will. What do you cook with, gas or electric?’
‘Electric.’
‘Loser!’ He returned to the other man. ‘Put some paper under the sofa.’
George felt his hands grabbed and forced together. A cable tie was pulled tight around his wrists.
‘Tell me what you want!’ he shouted.
‘Shut up, maláka!’
His feet were grabbed next, the ankles lashed together.
On the edge of his vision he saw the other man crumpling papers and tossing them into a pile under the sofa.
Then came a so
und he particularly dreaded. Strips of parcel tape being torn from a reel. His head was seized and bent back, the tape wound in a gluey band round his eyes, shutting out the light.
‘OK,’ said Baldy. ‘Do his mouth. Then light the fire and let’s go.’
‘Wait,’ said George. ‘This is crazy. You want something but you won’t tell me what. You’re going to burn the place down, you’ll kill me and other people in this building. Why? What have we done? What are you looking for? Tell me, in the name of –’
The pistol was smashed into the side of his head and a ball of yellow light exploded in his brain. He toppled over against his desk, banging into it before hitting the floor. His head was roughly grabbed again and a band of sticky tape closed over his mouth and nose. Blinded, gagged, unable to breathe, he struggled to free himself.
‘Let’s go,’ said Baldy.
George heard their footsteps crossing the floor, the front door closing behind them. Then silence.
The tape had cut off his air supply. In a mounting panic he twisted his mouth from side to side, up and down, wrenching in every direction, wrinkling his nose, working at the tape to get just a sliver of air, a wisp, a chink in the great wave of airless darkness that was engulfing him. He thrust out his lips, prodded with his tongue, levered with his jaw, chewed, spat, blew.
When a few molecules of air got through, they carried an ominous smell. Hot, rubbery, chokingly chemical. His sofa was starting to burn. He felt the heat increasing and knew that he must act now or die. It was an old foam rubber sofa. These things gave off poisonous black smoke. With his lungs bursting and his brain a flashing firework display he straightened his body and rolled sideways, against his instincts, towards the heat. He kicked out with his feet to scatter the fire beneath the sofa, but the heat continued to grow. He had to throw himself onto the sofa and smother the flames somehow, but roll and twist as he might he could not get to his feet. He tried his side, his back, his side again, ramming his fists against the floor to push himself up. All he could do was sit.
Then it occurred to him to use his legs in a different way.He lay back and shuffled as close to the fire as he could, feeling his shins and knees seared by the flames. Hoisting his legs he brought them crashing down on to the sofa, into the burning cushions, defying the pain, the stinging. He felt pieces of melting foam rubber stick to his legs, the stabbing sharpness as the flames scorched his skin. And that horrifying smell, the toxic smoke that he knew too well would kill him quicker than he could burn.
He was getting exhausted and the fire was still raging. He thought suddenly of the balcony doors. If he could break the glass he could let air into the room. It would feed the flames but at least give him some fresh air, and maybe someone in the street would see the smoke. He rolled away from the sofa, over towards the balcony. Four, five times: face to the floor, onto his side, his back, other side, face to the floor again.When he reached the door he lifted his feet again and lashed out at the glass panes. They bounced off. He must have hit the woodwork between the doors. He dragged himself to the right and tried again, but his feet hit the glass at the wrong angle, too high and oblique, and slid down. His strength was almost gone. One more time, he told himself, one more time and a good one. Kick straight out, level and hard. He drew back his legs, the weight pressing painfully on his hands, crushing his clenched fingers, and hurled out with every shred of force he could muster. He felt his feet strike the glass, stop for a microsecond, then carry on, smashing through, a shower of splinters clattering onto the balcony and a sweet rivulet of air from the outside world pouring over his sweating face.
How good it was! But behind him the fire sucked in the draught, greedily, hotly drinking it in. Thinking he had made a mistake George gulped in the air, past caring, and let the blackness that had pressed in on him for so long come like a friend and close him in its arms.
38 The Other Side
George woke up in hospital, an oxygen mask over his face, his wrists and ankles raw, his throat and chest aching as if they had been slashed with hot knives. His mind was confused and hazy. Nothing was in focus. He tried waggling his fingers.They seemed to work. That was something. Even better, his hands were by his sides, no longer lashed together behind his back. His feet too, he found he could move separately. That was good. But this mask was awful. It had to go.
He raised a hand to remove it. A woman’s voice said, ‘No.’
He turned his head and saw Zoe sitting in a chair by the bed. Her left hand reached across to restrain him.
He tried to speak but the mask muffled everything. Zoe stroked his forehead.
‘It’s OK, George. We’re in the Red Cross Hospital. There’s poison in your blood. Your lungs are damaged. You must keep the mask on.’
He nodded, the tubes squeaking as he moved.
He wondered how Zoe had got there, what day it was, if the apartment had been destroyed… Questions gathered in his mind like clouds along the horizon, visible yet strangely distant. He realised that some medication must be keeping him hazy, detached, floating in mid-air.
She seemed to hear his thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, George, everything’s OK. The old sofa was ruined but that’s no bad thing. I’ve wanted to replace it for years.’
He tried smiling but his cheeks merely pushed against rubber. He raised his eyebrows instead.
Zoe smiled and reached for his hand. ‘The important thing is you’re still here.’
He closed his eyes and drifted away into sleep again.
The second waking was harsher. A doctor was standing by him pushing open his eyelids with his thumbs. He felt a stethoscope pressed against his chest. ‘Just breathe normally. Don’t force it. I’m listening.’
George tried once again to remove the mask. The doctor stopped him. ‘Leave that alone. It’s keeping you alive.’
A nurse was standing by the doctor. She handed him a clipboard, which he stared at for a while, then scribbled a few notes and handed it back. Without another word he left the room, followed by the nurse. George wondered how close to death he was.
A little later the door opened and Haris walked in. Behind him came Colonel Sotiriou. Haris looked worried, fraught and restless. Sotiriou was cool and detached as ever, noting the details of the room, the patient, the equipment, as if he was a technician checking that everything was functioning correctly.
It was Sotiriou who spoke.
‘You owe your life to this man,’ he said, placing a hand on Haris’s shoulder.
Haris seemed embarrassed. ‘Don’t say that.’
Sotiriou insisted. ‘He saw the smoke at your window. He called the fire brigade. In the fifteen minutes it took them to arrive he climbed over from your neighbour’s balcony and dragged you out into the fresh air. He then put out the flames. By the time our distinguished colleagues from the fire department arrived the situation had been brought fully under control. And so it is that we visit you in hospital rather than the morgue. You are a very lucky man.’
George nodded.
‘Mr Pezas, please say something.’
Haris cleared his throat. ‘I arrived early for our appointment,’ he said. ‘And thank God I did. Dimitri let me into his apartment… You managed to break the glass in the balcony door?’
George nodded again.
‘That’s what saved you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sotiriou. ‘A few more minutes and you would have been burnt alive as well as asphyxiated. Pezas saved you. That is indisputable!’
George gave his assistant a thumbs-up.
Haris said, ‘You must know who did this?’
The Colonel held up a restraining hand. ‘Let him recover.’
George shook his head angrily and wrenched off the mask.
‘It was those…’ his voice grated in his throat. Speaking was like vomiting sharp stones.
He waved towards the bedside table for some water. Haris poured a glass from a jug and brought it carefully to his lips. George took a sip. It burned like brandy as it
went down.
‘Don’t talk,’ said Haris. ‘Put the mask back on.’
‘It was those guys in the black Mercedes,’ said George. ‘They’re not Special Security, they’re…’
‘I know,’ said Sotiriou. ‘Save your breath, Zafiris.’
Haris was puzzled. ‘You know?’ he said. ‘How do you know?’
‘It became obvious,’ the Colonel replied.
‘Who are they?’
‘Private specialists.’
‘You mean contract killers.’
‘Potentially.’
‘What do you mean “potentially”? This was attempted murder. Plain as day.’
‘I repeat: potentially! Nothing is proved yet.’
‘Two men walk into your apartment, tie you up, set fire to the place and nothing is proved? You have to be joking!’
‘I proceed from fact to fact, Mr Pezas.’
‘You have the facts, Colonel. I don’t see you proceeding!’
‘All in due course. I’ll take a statement from Mr Zafiris, from you, from other potential witnesses…’
Haris waved this away angrily. ‘Who’s paying those men?’ he asked brusquely.
Sotiriou’s brow clouded. ‘That would be most interesting to know.’
‘Come on, Colonel! This isn’t a court of law. We’re colleagues. We need to share this information.’
Sotiriou thought about this for a few moments.
‘I thought at first it must be your friends at EAP,’ he said, ‘but I’m starting to have my doubts.’
‘Why?’
‘Kokoras was in with EAP. He worked with them closely. He was their agent in Edessa. And yet these two fellows seem to have driven up there two days ago for the sole purpose of shooting him. Something odd there.’
‘So Kokoras fell out with EAP?’
‘Possibly. Over what, though? He was their faithful lieutenant. There was no sign of trouble. Our informers are as puzzled as we are. An alternative explanation is that Kokoras was killed on a contract for someone else, in order to weaken EAP. In some ways I favour that scenario.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is more chaotic. More bizarre. More Greek, if you like.’
‘You talk about it as if it was some kind of show.’
‘Things become savage when law and order breaks down.’