Blood & Gold
Page 26
‘It’s your job to make sure it doesn’t.’
‘I do my best. But with a government run by communists and anarchist sympathisers, there are limits to my powers.’
George could not restrain himself any longer. He pulled away his oxygen mask and rasped, ‘You know exactly what’s going on, Colonel! Why don’t you tell us?’
Haris moved to put the mask back on but George pushed his hand away.
‘Tell us, Colonel! Those bastards nearly killed me! They were looking for something, a name, an address, they never said what. When they couldn’t find it they set fire to the place. Presumably to destroy evidence. Or me. I want to know why!’
George coughed, which drove hot knives deep into his chest.
Sotiriou said, ‘Put your mask back on, man, or you’ll finish the job for them.’
‘I’ll do it when you tell me what’s going on!’
‘All right! Just put on that damned mask!’
George fumbled it back into place and breathed deeply.
Sotiriou folded his arms. ‘Are we calmer now?’
George glared at him.
‘Good,’ said the Colonel. ‘Let’s get one thing clear. What I am about to say now is confidential. Totally confidential! Is that understood?’
Haris nodded. George continued to glare.
‘I will take that ferocious expression as agreement,’ said the Colonel. ‘Now, let me begin with Mario Filiotis. You spoke of him as a friend, Zafiris. He was also a friend of mine.’
George’s fierce look turned to one of surprise.
‘A friend and a kindred soul. Someone who was prepared to risk his peace of mind, his relationship with his wife, his family and friends, even his life as it turned out, in order to help his community and his country, to resist the appalling plague of self-interest and dishonesty that is destroying our society. He is one of a handful of mayors, teachers, doctors, journalists and other professionals who are prepared to do this. Admirable people, pitifully few in number. You, Zafiris, your friend Mr Pezas, his friend the butcher of Markopoulo, are also characters in this mould. There must be many thousands more who do not have the power to act on their beliefs. Ordinary people who recognise a simple truth: respect for the law, self-discipline, concern for our fellow human beings, our earth and our future – these are the foundations of civilisation. Our ideas are sound, they are unimpeachable, but we are not organised, we have no political power. We are fragmented, weak, demoralised. They can pick us off one by one.’
Sotiriou paused. ‘Are you with me, Mr Pezas?’
‘Completely,’ said Haris.
‘Let us look now at the opposite end of the moral spectrum. Mr Kokoras, the Marangós brothers, the men who drive the black Mercedes. They are well organised, politically connected, wealthy. Apparently unstoppable. But something has gone wrong. A piece has come loose in their satanic machine and it is starting to cause damage. What is this stray piece? We don’t know. I believe the national economic crisis is playing a part. Businesses are failing everywhere, money is scarce, even the parasites are suffering. And along comes Mr Merkulov. He is the answer to everyone’s prayers.’
‘Where do you put him on the moral spectrum?’ asked Haris.
‘Good question! Hard to answer. He seems quite well-intentioned. But he doesn’t know Greece, and his goodwill is easy to exploit. Mario Filiotis wanted his money for social projects, EAP wanted it for nightclubs. There was in effect a war between EAP and Mario for the soul of Mr Merkulov. Are you still with me?’
‘Surely even a Russian can tell the difference between a nightclub and a medical school?’ said Haris.
‘Of course,’ said Sotiriou. ‘But I can’t tell how EAP presented themselves. Efthimios, the clever one, is a highly capable man. He will have taken the measure of Merkulov at once and told him exactly what he wanted to hear. And remember, Merkulov is a businessman. To him, what makes money is good, even if it’s a nightclub. What loses money is bad, even if it’s a medical school. But I return to Mario Filiotis. After his death his body went missing, as you know. Mr Zafiris discovered that he was flown to New York and cremated. This sounds like an accident but I’m not so sure. The people in New York, the so-called family of “Mr Medouris” were expecting a casket full of ancient gold wreaths. They were not amused to find a dead body instead. Nor were they amused when the golden wreaths they had paid for were seized by police in Astypalea. They came looking for compensation. Their agents here were EAP, who said, “It’s not our fault.” The Americans asked a few questions, went to see that archaeologist you disliked so much in Thessaloniki, left her badly bruised, and then called on their agent Kokoras. He failed to show the proper respect and paid the price. Now they are in Athens and, if my theory is right, they will very soon be in conversation with E and P of EAP on Leoforos Kymis.’
George pulled off his mask again. ‘Who are these Americans?’
‘Oxygen, Mr Zafiris! I’ll tell you. Although you know the answer because you yourself gave me the name. Philip Ventouris.’
‘He’s here in Athens?’ asked Haris.
‘He is.’
‘And he’s talking to EAP?’
‘He and the two men who tried to set fire to your apartment.’
‘Who are they working for, EAP or Ventouris?’
‘That is the question! It is possible they were working for EAP but have just switched to Ventouris. Or they worked for both, and now that things have gone sour between Ventouris and EAP they have chosen Ventouris. But I repeat: all this is a hypothesis. I am uncomfortable even talking about it. I prefer proper evidence. But we will have that quite shortly.’
‘How?’
‘Someone will come out of that building on Leoforos Kymis. Either walking or carried out in rubbish sacks. Whichever it is, I shall make my move. Thanks to the disposal of Andonis Marangós, their ministerial protection has gone. I have men there ready to arrest whoever is the victor in this repulsive battle of snakes.’
‘How can you arrest them? On what charges?’
Sotiriou tapped his briefcase. ‘It’s all in here.’
George was feeling weary again. He closed his eyes as the two men continued talking, their voices lulling him towards drowsiness. He was glad they had come to visit but now he wanted to be left alone.
The ringing of a phone snatched him back into wakefulness.
‘Excuse me,’ said Colonel Sotiriou. ‘I must answer this.’
He stood up and left the room.
George sent Haris a sleepy glance.
‘You have some rest,’ said Haris. ‘I’ll go and get a coffee.’
George dozed off again, but uncomfortably. His mind wandered between levels of consciousness, never fully asleep nor fully awake, replaying scenes from the past few months like old films in a dusty provincial cinema. There was Kokoras with his twisted moustache. Eleni Filiotis like a poisoned ghost. Paris Aliveris darting through the monastery gardens. The calm voice of Father Seraphim. Andonis Marangós in his leather suit and blood-soaked shirt. And Mario Filiotis riding his bicycle on a journey to nowhere…
When he woke up again it was dark outside. A lamp was on beside his bed. At first he thought he was alone, but a young man’s voice surprised him.
‘Dad?’
He tried to speak but the oxygen mask still prevented him. He pulled it aside.
‘Nick! What are you doing here?’
His joy at seeing his son was quickly replaced by dread as he realised what the answer must be.
‘Mother told me I should…’ Nick stopped, embarrassed.
‘I understand,’ said George. ‘It’s kind of you.’
‘I had to come,’ said Nick.
‘I hope I’m not going to die,’ said George.
‘I’m sure you’re not.’
‘That’s good. It helps.’ He coughed painfully. ‘Think positive.’
‘How are you feeling, Dad?’
‘I feel as if I’ve smoked about a million cigarettes.�
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‘Cigarettes made of foam rubber!’
‘Not a brand I would recommend. And you, my boy, how are you?’
‘I’m in good shape. But you mustn’t talk. You have to keep that mask on.’
‘Bugger the mask.’
‘No, Dad. Put it on. Otherwise I’ll go.’
George coughed again, with a weak, rasping sound.
‘There!’
Nick came over and eased the mask back over his father’s nose and mouth.
‘Mother was in earlier but you were sleeping. She sends her love.’
George nodded. He tried to see the time but his wristwatch had been removed.
‘It’s nine-thirty,’ said Nick.
George rested his eyes on him, admiring his handsome face, his dark, thick hair, his lively movements. ‘This,’ he thought, ‘is what it’s like to feel old.’
Nick said, ‘You’ve had other visitors. Dimitri from downstairs. He brought flowers from Evantheia.’
George glanced at them. A pot of creamy-blossomed gardenias. He wished he could smell their gorgeous scent.
Nick took a note from the bedside table.
‘There’s also this from a man I don’t know. G.Z. from C.S.’
George put out his hand for the note and fumbled it open.
‘Zafiris,’ it said, ‘I did not wish to wake you so I leave this note with your son. The Mercedes men left EAP in haste having torched the building – their speciality, it seems. They started the fire in the woodyard and it quickly spread: cars, petrol, firewood – an inferno. E and P were trapped inside, no chance of rescue. This is regrettable, but the workings of Nemesis are rarely delicate. We picked up the Mercedes men but not Ventouris, who has eluded us. I will visit you again tomorrow. Remember to keep your mask on or you will die. We do not want that. Constantine Sotiriou.’
George let the note drop on the bed.
‘Good news?’ asked Nick.
George nodded. He pushed the note towards his son, who scanned it quickly and reacted in disbelief, ‘If that’s good news, what’s bad news like? That’s horrific.’
George lifted the mask. ‘In my business it’s good news,’ he said.
Nick looked appalled. ‘I wish you’d take up safer work. Go back to the bank! Sit in an office! This is crazy stuff. Sick, sad, horrible psychos, burning people alive. You don’t need to work around people like that! I worry about you. So does mother.’
‘You’re right,’ said George. ‘Totally right. Just a few more evil bastards to chase down, then I’m done.’
He dropped the mask back onto his nose and closed his eyes. The news was good, even if nothing could bring Mario back. Now he must concentrate on staying alive, clearing the poison from his blood, soothing his lacerated throat and lungs. It gave him joy to see his son, a joy which was physical, sustaining, flooding his body like the warmth of spring. What more could he ask?
He set his mind on that, swept aside other thoughts, and breathed deeply on the cool, clean, healing air.
Copyright
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First published by Dedalus in 2017
Bood & Gold copyright © Leo Kanaris 2017
The right of Leo Kanaris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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