Santorini Caesars (13 page)

He held up his glass. “I propose a toast. Here's to Greek valor. May no war require it, but may it ever be ready for every foe.”

In one loud voice the entire table responded, “
Ya mas
!”

Sappho looked at Petro. “That's our cue to get back in there.”

“Especially the wine-pourer. My guess is after that little speech they'll be doing a lot of drinking.”

She let go of his hand, stood, and headed toward the door. “I sure hope the budget cuts don't kick in until after they pay our bill.”

“Spoken like a true Greek. Ask not what I can do for my country, but what can I get out of it.”

“What can I say? We're incorrigible.”

“And look where that's got us.”

She stopped to turn and look at him. “Perhaps I missed something back there, Mister Super Patriot, but it sure as hell sounded to me that a lot of big-time military brass just learned that their cushy lifestyle is now bye-bye. I don't want to be the idiot left holding their empty money bag.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“Make them pay before they leave. No more ‘send us a bill.'”

“Won't that offend them?”

She turned and headed back toward the door. “Better they're offended than we're stiffed.”

***

Guest left the dinner cold sober within twenty minutes of finishing his speech, but the last of the decidedly-not-sober military did not leave the taverna until after sunrise. Another hour passed after that before Petro felt he'd helped clean up sufficiently to announce he had to leave.

Sappho hugged him. “I wish we could have spent more time together. But I know you're tired. We both are. How about tonight?”

Petro laughed. “Let me get some sleep first.”

She looked up at him without loosening her hug. “You know I like you?”

“And I like you too.” He kissed her on the forehead and headed toward the front door.

Sappho's father caught up with him at the door and pressed an envelope into his hand.

“What's this?” said Petro.

“Your pay.”

“I don't want this.” He pushed the envelope back toward the father.

“Absolutely not, you earned it. And I hope you realize that any time you want a job you have one here.”

“Thank you, but I didn't come here to work for pay. I came to spend time with your daughter.”

“I insist. Besides, it's mostly your share of a very big tip.”

Petro smiled. “In that case…” He took the envelope and put it in his pocket. The two men hugged and Petro left. He was outside less than thirty seconds when his phone rang.

He looked at the caller ID. “Yes, Chief.”

“Don't take the job. We need you in the unit.”

“Glad to hear the clamp mikes work, even in my bag.”

“So you were able to switch them back out for the real ones.”

“While cleaning up.”

“Good. You must be exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You did some first-class work back there.”

“Thanks.”

“And as soon as you're back at the church call me. We have a lot to talk about.”

***

Andreas and Yianni had spent the night in Andreas' office, alternating shifts between listening to the live feed from the taverna and napping on the couch. But neither man slept during the gathering's heated debate over the implications of the Prime Minister's message that erupted the moment Guest left the taverna. Naptime only returned after the talk deteriorated into a bitching session about politicians in general, on its way toward the evergreen topics of fishing, sports, holidays, and women.

Now they sat wide-awake, staring at Petro's photographs of Guest.

“What the hell was he doing there?” said Yianni.

“Somehow, I don't think it was simply to deliver a message from the Prime Minister.”

“Hell of a message. More like a declaration of war against the military. I couldn't think of more unifying hot-button issues for the military than Turkey, FYROM, and cutbacks.”

“Almost as if he were trying to provoke them,” said Andreas.

‘But why? The Prime Minister's been pretty content up to now with not going after the military's sacred cows.”

“Or rattling its very comfortable cages.”

“Like the air marshal's in Larissa, a town known for having both the Air Force's main base and more Porsche Cayennes per capita than any other place in Europe.”

Andreas shook his head. “Something's not right about this. He just told a room full of military that the Prime Minister is planning a one-eighty reversal on the nation's basic national security strategy without a single word of any of that having leaked into the press.”

“That's just the sort of dynamite stuff someone turns over to the media in exchange for getting a big-time favor. Maybe the PM's office has been extraordinarily careful to keep a lid on this?”

“Not likely if what we heard him privately tell the air marshal just before making his speech is true. He made a careful point of telling the air marshal he did not agree with the PM's strategy and had vigorously but unsuccessfully argued against it. That's the kind of high-level discord that fuels leaks.”

“And he had to know the air marshal would repeat that kind of juicy gossip,” said Yianni.

“Which is precisely what we heard him do with several people over the course of the night. By now everyone who was at that table knows or will know by morning that there's a disagreement between the PM and his most trusted adviser.”

“It's as if he wanted them to know of his differences with the Prime Minister.”

Andreas nodded. “As I said, something's not right.”

“But we knew that about the guy from the first time we met him.”

Andreas looked closely at the photos. “I can't tell if he's wearing his jacket with the red striped collar.”

“With or without it, he's still that asshole Prada.”

The phone rang on Andreas' desk. Andreas hit the speaker button.

“Chief?”

“Yes, Petro, I'm here with Yianni.”

“Great work, kid,” said Yianni.

“Thanks.” A yawn came over the speaker.

“Yianni and I were just talking about your guest who came to dinner.”

“Who is he?”

“He's the head of State Security Police, whatever the hell that is. It seems to be where he's parked himself for a paycheck and power base while he serves as an advisor to the Prime Minister. We met him at our meeting with the Brigadier in our minister's office. Yianni calls him Prada. His real name is…” Andreas looked at a note on his desk and said the name.

“Never heard of him.”

“That's apparently how he likes things. He and Babis organized most of the major violent demonstrations for the Prime Minister that helped bring their party to power. Prada served as the brains and Babis as the front man. Prada kept a low profile then too. Let others take the credit.”

“And shielded the Prime Minister from taking the blame,” said Yianni.

“Well, the military top brass certainly knew him,” said Petro.

“That surprised me,” said Andreas. “I wouldn't have thought he'd be that close to the military.”

“Certainly not as a leftist revolutionary,” said Yianni.

“Any idea why he delivered a scary message to the military instead of what they expected him to talk about?” said Petro.

“We were just tossing that around,” said Andreas. “What's your take on what you saw?”

“He certainly shook everyone up. Especially the young ones. I could tell from their faces. It was as if someone near and dear to them had just died in front of them.”

“Did they seem angry?” said Andreas.

“Hard to say. They drank a lot and that muddies your emotions. But for sure they'd come to Santorini expecting to be anointed the military's next generation of leaders only to learn that their dreams had just crashed and burned, courtesy of the Prime Minister.”

Andreas picked up a pencil and began tapping it on his desktop. “What did they say about Prada?”

“Not much. They took him as the messenger.”

“Did they mention anything about his not agreeing with the Prime Minister's strategy?”

“Not that I overheard. Is that true?”

Andreas filled Petro in on what they'd picked up from the microphones.

“Very interesting, but I never heard them talking about that.”

“Okay, try to get some sleep, because as soon as your big tippers wake up, I want you glued to those mikes.”

“The tips weren't that big.”

“No matter, you earned them. But be alert. I'm sure what Prada said will now be their number-one agenda item. I want to know where this is headed so we can try to be out in front of it for once.”

“Any guesses?” said Petro.

“None that I want to make until after I hear what the men have to say when they're sober.”

“I'll call you as soon as they're up and talking.”

“I've a better idea. Call Yianni.”

Yianni did a double take at Andreas. “Let me guess. So you can sleep?”

Andreas stood and headed toward the door. “The benefits of rank, Detective. But don't worry, now the couch is all yours. Sleep tight, guys.”

Andreas never saw the pillow coming, but felt it hit just before he made it out the door.

Chapter Thirteen

“So, what do you think of this color for the baby's room?”

Andreas pulled the pillow off his head. “I thought you liked the Pepto-Bismol pink Tassaki and I painted it.”

“I changed my mind. Being left alone as much as I've been has given me an opportunity to re-think some choices.”

Andreas pulled the pillow back over his head. “It's perfect.”

“I'd respect your opinion more if you actually took the time to look at what I'm holding in my hand.”

“I'm sleeping.”

“And I'm dealing with a color-blind painter. It's almost noon. Aren't you embarrassed to leave your pregnant wife to deal with tradesmen?”

“Nope, they're no match for you. Besides, I didn't get to bed until three hours ago.”

Lila walked to the foot of the bed. “Not my problem.” She tickled his toes.

Andreas yanked away his legs to protect his feet. “Stop that.”

“Not until you tell me what you think of the color.”

Andreas twisted his head and looked at the piece of painted board in her hand. “Brown? For a baby's room. Ugh.”

“My sentiments exactly. What do you think of light lemon yellow?”

Andreas forced a smile. “Perfect. May I go back to sleep now?” He shut his eyes.

“If you'd like, though Yianni said to tell you to call him as soon as you were up.”

“When did he call?”

“Five minutes ago.”

Andreas swung his feet around and over the side of the bed.

“So, this wasn't actually about the painter.”

Lila smiled. “I just wanted to have some fun. It gets lonely having a husband who stays out all night eavesdropping on other people having a good time.”

“Remind me to take you along the next time.”

“Oh, sure. You know how to show a girl a good time.”

Andreas stood and headed toward the door.

“I suggest, dear husband, that you put on a robe. I don't think the painter will appreciate your Adonis-like nude form as much as I do.”

“You mean there really is a painter?”

“And he is color blind.”

Andreas put on his robe, walked through the foyer into the study, nodding to the paint-speckled Polish lad standing outside the baby's room as he did. “My wife will be right with you.”

He closed the door and called Yianni.

“Didn't mean to wake you,” said Yianni.

“Of course you did. So what's happening?”

“The meeting's in full swing, and the only topic of conversation is what will happen if the Prime Minister goes forward with his plans.”

“What do you mean if?”

“Their word, not mine. As we thought, everybody now knows Prada doesn't agree with the Prime Minister, and there is a lot of speculation over how that might be exploited.”

“Exploited how?”

“You name it, they've suggested it. Some have even gone so far as to suggest financially backing Prada to split from the PM's party and form his own.”

“I don't see that ever happening. Once it got out he was the military's candidate, he'd be dead. Possibly literally.”

“Yeah, that wouldn't sit too well with his leftist buddies.”

“Besides, I don't see him as the charismatic type that appeals to the electorate.”

“That's what the air marshal said. His thinking is to get the media involved. Play up how dangerous is Greece's Mediterranean neighborhood, and that the waves of illegal immigrants streaming across our borders calls for an even stronger, better-equipped military presence. That way, instead of battling the Prime Minister over cuts, the Prime Minister has to fight public opinion calling for an increased military budget.”

“That approach might have worked in the past,” said Andreas, “but I don't think it's going to play well these days. The people are numb to preachings of disaster. All they've heard over the past couple of years in one election after another is sanctimonious politicians preaching milk and honey if you voted for them and utter disaster if you didn't. But no matter which party won, nothing changed, things just got worse. They don't believe a thing they're told by a politician or the political parties' mouthpiece media outlets. Political promises are meaningless, facts are made up, lies are everywhere.”

“Have you been listening to the recordings?” said Yianni.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just repeated the essence of what practically every senior officer said in that meeting. ‘The times are different,' they say. ‘The old ways won't work.'”

“So what are the young ones suggesting?”

“That's what they're debating now.”

“How big is the difference of opinion between the general and senior officers?”

“I wouldn't call it a mutiny in the ranks, but considering how carefully politic these senior officers must have been to get this far, I'd say it's a rather dramatic development for them to be openly expressing their differences with the general officers.”

“Sounds like they took the message Prada delivered from the Prime Minister to heart,” said Andreas.

“For sure. Both levels of officers see Prada as the key. The question is, how to use him to turn the Prime Minister.”

“Let me know if they come up with an answer.”

“Right now they're trying to come up with the right person to approach Prada.”

“Approach him for what?”

“To feel him out, see if he's willing to try again to change the Prime Minister's mind. If not, they have to come up with a different angle.”

“Hate to drop the word, but any talk of a coup?”

“Not even a hint. A cynic would say it's as if they know they're being recorded. I'd say it reaffirms the military's loyalty to the nation and its recognition that any talk of that sort is treasonous,” said Yianni.

“You sound like you might want to re-enlist.”

“As hard as it may be to believe, I think I actually got more sleep as a Greek Navy commando than a cop.”

“I get the hint. I'll see you in about an hour. You can catch some sleep then.”

“Can hardly wait.”

“Good. And while you're at it, make a list of the officers you think are most enthusiastic about using Prada.”

“Why?”

“Just a hunch. But if a painter can be color blind, maybe we're missing something too.”

“I won't even ask what that means. Bye.”

Andreas put the phone back in its cradle.
Not sure I know either.

***

“Francesco, what are you doing?” said Petro.

“Just what it looks like. I'm getting ready to head out for a walk.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. I'm going stir crazy. I spent all last night cooped up in a van listening to military types rattling plates, and for the last five hours to them rattling sabers.”

“Don't you have to help Dimos?”

“It's all under control. Right, Dimos?”

“Gotcha covered. Just don't stay away too long, your wife might call.”

“Cover for me. Tell her I'm out chasing terrorists.”

“On Santorini?”

“Okay, tell her they're price-gougers. She dislikes them even more.”

“Did you guys rehearse this routine or what?” asked Petro.

“Don't worry, Dimos will cover for you with Sappho, too.”

“Damn, I forgot to call her. What time is it?”

“Nearly four,” said Francesco.

Petro reached for his phone.

“Hold on guys,” said Dimos. “You're going to want to hear this. I've got it going live to the chief, too.”

Petro and Francesco crowded in next to Dimos and listened through a pair of shared earphones.

Dimos nodded at the phones, “It's the air marshal and a rear admiral alone in the admiral's villa,” said Dimos. “That's the admiral talking now.”

“—you're right, a real tragedy. I knew the girl. Really nice kid. Not at all like her mother.”

Laughter.

“Too bad the father wouldn't join us,” continued the air marshal. “If there's anyone who might be able to convince our dinner guest to straighten out the Prime Minister's thinking, he's our man.”

“The two of them are that tight?”

“They go back to childhood school days. One went into the military, and the other into leftist politics, but they stayed close friends right up until a couple of years ago.”

“What happened?” said the admiral.

“Not sure, but I heard it was our dinner guest who steered his buddy's daughter into her passion for leftist causes.”

“How'd he do that?”

“No idea.”

“And now she's dead. I see why there's not much of a chance of getting him to ask his old friend to convince the Prime Minister to change his mind.”

“You got it…Now, if you'll excuse me, Admiral, I must head back to my quarters for a nap. That is, if I want to have any chance of keeping up with our late-night partying colleagues.”

“Are they going out again tonight?”

“No idea, but I want to be ready in case they do. Can't let them see the old man sweat.”

Laughter, and the sound of a door opening and closing.

Dimos looked at Petro. “Does that make any sense to you?”

Petro bit at his lip. “I'm sure it will to the chief.”

***

Yianni stared across Andreas' desk at his boss. “Son of a bitch.”

“I think what we just overheard calls for something more like,
MISERABLE MOTHER FUCKER
,” shouted Andreas pounding his fist twice on his desk. “The asshole's daughter was murdered and he's holding out on us.”

“‘Holding out' is a colossal understatement. The bastard never bothered to mention a word about his relationship with Prada.”

“Sort of makes you wonder about how much of what went down in Babis' office was staged.”

“And how much of what he told us in the cafenion was true.”

Andreas ran his fingers through his hair. “But why tell us about the meeting on Santorini at all? He had to know it could lead us to discover his history with Prada.”

“Maybe he didn't think it would come up?”

Andreas picked up the phone, looked at a number written on a pad on his desk and dialed. “I'm tired of maybes.” He began tapping a pencil on the desktop.

“Hello, Brigadier, this is Andreas Kaldis.”

Pause.

“I'm fine, but I need to see you right away.”

Pause.

“I know you're busy, so am I, but this is urgent.”

Pause.

“No, I can't talk about it on the phone and this time I'm afraid you'll have to come to my office.”

Pause.

“I must insist. Get here as soon as you can. Goodbye.” Andreas thrust the phone back onto its cradle.

“So much for being politic with the military brass,” said Yianni.

“I thought I was rather restrained.”

“Since he's coming, I'd say you got the message across.”

“That we know about his relationship with Prada?”

“That we know something not nice about him. You didn't exactly sound like an investigating cop talking to a grieving father.”

Andreas scowled. “If he wants to be treated like a grieving father, then he should start acting like one and cooperate with the investigation.”

Yianni got up and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get a quick bite to eat. I don't want to sit through what's coming on an empty stomach.”

“Just be here when he arrives.”

“Don't worry, I wouldn't miss this for the end of the world. Which in fact it may turn out to be, considering the Brigadier's temper.”

“I can handle his temper.”

“The question is, can he handle yours?”

Yianni ducked as Andreas launched a pencil across the room at his head.

***

Andreas sat silently at his desk, nibbling at the
spanakopita
Yianni had brought back for him from the cafeteria. The most difficult thing about preparing for confrontation was determining how best to deal with all the competing scenarios playing out in your head. No matter the outcome, you wasted substantial time and attention on things that would never happen. That's why Andreas decided to stop thinking about the possibilities, and concentrate on how to put what he knew straight to the Brigadier. Whatever happened after that, he'd deal with it. At least that was the plan.

Maggie's voice came crisply through the intercom. “Chief, the Brigadier is here.”

“Show him in.”

Yianni shifted on the couch.

Andreas stood up as the door opened and the Brigadier walked into the office wearing civilian clothes. Andreas extended his hand, but did not move from behind his desk. “Brigadier, thank you so much for coming.”

The two shook hands and Andreas pointed at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Please.”

The Brigadier sat down and crossed his legs. “I'm not at all happy about your dragging me down here on a weekend.”

Andreas forced a smile. “I don't like working weekends either, but sometimes we have to if we want to catch bad guys who do bad things to other people's children.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” The Brigadier uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair.

“Precisely what you think it means. We're trying to find out who killed your daughter, and we think it's time you started telling us the truth so we can do our job.”

The Brigadier's face turned crimson. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, I'm saying you don't seem to give a shit about telling us what we need to know if we're going to find who's responsible for murdering your daughter.”

The Brigadier lunged out of his chair, swinging his right fist across the desk at Andreas' face.

Instead of ducking, Andreas deflected the punch across his body with his left forearm, and used the Brigadier's momentum to yank him sailing over the desk and into the wall behind him.