Santorini Caesars (16 page)

It was after two in the morning when the last wave of military left the taverna offering a farewell nod to Petro and an effusive, hugging session of goodbyes to Sappho.

Sappho dropped into a chair next to Petro and said to the waiter clearing the tables, “I think I deserve part of your tip.”

“You earned it,” he said without looking up from the plates. “Maybe you should consider going someplace where you won't bump into your customers on your night off.” He looked at her. “Do you act like this every night?”

Petro answered for her. “Every moment of every night.”

Pointing at Petro she said, “I didn't pick the place, he did.” She leaned toward Petro and whispered, “Besides, you really can't say that until you've spent every moment of a night with me.”

“Promises, promises.”

Sappho jerked her hand in the air. “Check, please.'”

“Are you kidding?” said the waiter. “Your friends not only paid the check but tipped me three times what I expected. You're welcome to come back any time you want, Sappho, and if the boss won't comp your meal, I'll pay for it out of my own pocket.”

“I'll keep your offer in mind,” she said, pulling Petro out of his chair toward the door, “but right now I have another one to deal with.”

“Thanks and good night,” said Petro to the waiter.

As they walked out the front door, Sappho said, “Enough with being nice to everyone else. It's time to start paying attention to me.”

“What are you talking about?” he said as they headed toward his motorcycle.

“I thought you and that colonel were going to elope.”

Petro smiled. “He did give me his card.”

“Stop making me jealous.”

Sappho stopped and turned to face him head-on. “One question.”

“Sure.”

“What was the real reason you asked me to dinner in this place?”

He hoped there wasn't enough light to make out the color change he felt rush across his face.

“I told you, my friend recommended it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard all that. But I also heard the two of you going at it. It sure seemed to me as if the colonel was the only one in the room you had any interest in talking to. It was as if I wasn't there.”

“Uh, let's be real here. Once you get into your restaurateur mode, it's bye-bye to anyone having a one-on-one conversation with you. You're off entertaining the entire room and nothing else matters.”

She reached up and clutched the front of his jacket. “Are you suggesting we find a room for just the two of us?”

Petro smiled. “If you can find one, that works for me.”

She let go of his jacket and waggled a beckoning finger at him. “Follow me.”

***

For no reason in particular, Petro thought Sappho lived with her parents. She'd never said she did, but he assumed from how closely they worked together she'd simply moved in with them after her breakup with her husband. Another wrong assumption he'd made about her. And one that made it more likely this evening would end up in her bed.

Though virtually alone on the road, with Sappho mounted snugly behind him on his bike, her arms squeezed tightly around him, and her lips pressed hard against his ear whispering directions, it took far more concentration than he'd like in his too-much-to-drink condition to keep them smoothly on the road. The process became even more difficult when Sappho's whispers turned to nibbles at his ear. Another reason for wearing a helmet, but that wouldn't have helped him once her hands turned to gliding along the insides of his thighs.

She lived southwest of Exo Gonia at the heart of the island's wine production country in the relatively out-of-the-way village of Megalochori. Her room was on the top floor of a nineteenth-century neoclassical mansion, a popular style in Greece back then among the rich, but one that hadn't really taken root on Santorini. Historically, whether built in or out of town, Santorini houses came in three basic forms: those dug out of the volcanic earth and lived in as caves, those built partially dug out and partially built in the normal way, and those built completely above ground, virtually all designed with vaulted roofs of one form or another. As the island's residents became more affluent, the mansions that evolved from those forms fell more under the Italian influence of the Renaissance than any other style. According to Sappho, architectural considerations had played no part in her choice of where to live. She loved her place for its southern view toward the island's fabled black sand beaches.

It being the middle of the night, Petro took her at her word about the view. He also believed her when she said the neighbor below was deaf.

He parked in the shadows close by the front door, turned off the motor, and waited for Sappho to slide off behind him. But she didn't move. Instead her hands moved higher up on his thighs and stopped just below his belt. He pulled her hands away and swung himself off the bike.

“Inside,” he said, pointing at the front door.

She didn't say a word, just slid off the bike, walked to the door, and opened it with a key. He stepped in behind her and closed the door. She spun around to face him. Neither reached to turn on a light. They had no reason to. LEDs clustered by a nearby giant TV threw off a faint green, blue, and orange glow sufficient to make out all the shapes they needed to see.

He held her in his arms and kissed her. She pressed back hard and bit at his lower lip before probing for his tongue with hers. His hands ran up and down her back, coming to rest tightly and gripping the well-formed ass he'd watched so many times in the past forty-eight hours. They paused only long enough to wrestle their coats off onto the floor.

She raised her arms for him to pull off her blouse, and then undid her bra before undoing his pants and yanking everything down around his ankles. She ripped off his shirt as he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. Naked, he reached out for her, but she stepped back a pace to drop her skirt and panties.

Neither moved, each looking at the other's body. She stood only slightly shorter than he, a broad, sturdily built woman, with all parts in distinct proportion to the whole.

“I have more of a belly than you.”

He stepped forward and touched her belly. “I like it.”

She ran her hands along his chest. “I like that you like it.”

He pressed his chest against hers.

Neither moved for a moment. Petro reached down with one hand and touched the small triangle of dark brown hair between her legs.

She shut her eyes as he stroked his way through to her most sensitive spot.

Sappho moaned, and pulled his hand away. “This way.” She led him off to a bedroom at the rear of the house.

She pulled back the covers and pushed him down onto the bed. Before he could move she'd dropped her head to below his waist and kept it there until he forced himself to roll away from her mouth. He pressed her onto her back, holding her there with his hands firmly on her belly and his head buried farther down. She struggled to resist, but not with much conviction, and as her moaning and his movements achieved crescendo, he wondered just how deaf her neighbor might be.

He kept gently moving as he had until he felt her tugging at him to stop.

He slid up next to her and they kissed.

“It's your turn.” She squeezed at what pressed hard against her side.

He kissed her again. “I don't know how to ask you this, but do you have a condom?”

“It's a little late for that don't you think?”

“Humor me.”

She rolled over, opened a drawer in the nightstand and handed him an unopened box of condoms. “And before you ask, I bought them yesterday after you asked me out. Just in case.”

“I'm flattered. They're magnum size.”

“A girl can hope.”

Petro laughed. “Let's try to stay serious for just a bit longer,” as he rolled the condom snugly on.

“God, I certainly hope so.”

And they did. And they did. And they did.

***

When Petro awoke, Sappho lay on her side staring at him.

“I don't want you to leave.”

He rolled over and kissed her. “Me either.”

“Stop saying all the right things.”

“Okay, but at least tell me if I did the right things.”

She reached under the sheet and stroked below his bare belly. “For sure.”

Petro pressed against her and ran the fingertips of his right hand over the shape of her breasts pushing up beneath the sheet.

“Are we going for a second encore?” she shifted slightly closer to him.

“Third. But only if you'd like.”

“I can't believe you're giving me the choice. Do horny men actually do that? Or are you just not for real?”

“At the moment I'm definitely feeling a lot more like the former.”

Sappho sat up in bed, allowing the sheet to fall away. “The sun's up.”

“I can tell from the fact I can see you.” He reached across and lightly touched one of her breasts. “I love feeling you pressed bare up against my chest.”

“Sweet talker.” She pulled the sheet up to her neck. “I still don't have an answer to my question from last night.”

“And what question is that?”

“What was the real reason you took me to dinner there?”

“Are we going over that again?”

“Only because I don't want to feel used.”

Petro's face hardened and he sat up in bed, not looking at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Don't get angry. I'm just worried about being hurt. Is that unfair?”

Petro sighed. “No, it's not unfair, but what makes you think I'm using you?”

“Call it women's intuition, but when I offered to help make an introduction for that colonel, you said, ‘It's better for you to stay out of this.' You made it sound as if you knew more about what the colonel had in mind than he'd told you. And
that
made me think it wasn't a coincidence you met up with him there.”

Damn, she's smart
. Petro kept his eyes from meeting hers. “I can see where you might have thought that, but you misunderstood what I meant.”

Sappho reached up with both hands and turned Petro's face toward hers. “So, what did you mean?”

He focused on her eyes. Her dark brown eyes. “The part of the conversation where the colonel said he needed an introduction to that guy from the other night grew out of his telling me I should ask you to introduce me to potential backers. I was afraid that if the two of you got into talking about making an introduction for him, he'd suggest you do the same for me. I didn't want you thinking I needed or wanted your help with any of my business.”

“But why wouldn't you ask me? You must know I'd be glad to help.”

“Of course I do, and that's just the point. I didn't want you thinking the very thing that's obsessing you now.” He paused. “That I might be using you.”

Now Sappho sighed. “I guess I really screwed that up.”

“Not at all. But that's my reason. I never want you to think I'm using you.”
And that's the God's honest truth
.

“Well, permit me to add a qualification to that concern on your part.”

“Being?”

“When it comes to this, feel free to use away,” and she ripped the sheet away from their naked bodies.

Chapter Sixteen

Petro wasn't particularly religious, but he did wonder whether his early morning ride and hike up the hill to Dimos and Francesco formed some sort of penance for his evening with Sappho. At practically the moment he'd said goodbye, a harsh drenching rain blew in along a raw north wind, bringing rivulets to the roads and chills to the bones of anyone caught in the downpour. To make matters worse, the bike held no rain gear in its tiny storage compartment, leaving Petro to borrow a rain parka and hood from Sappho—in bright lavender.

Super Grape, as Sappho called him while she zipped him into her parka, decided to take the westerly high ground route into Fira. He figured that to be the safer, less likely flooded road, and taking care on a motorcycle was a serious concern in weather like this. The rain hadn't yet washed away the oil buildup left by exhausts on dry pavements, but had dampened the residue sufficiently to treacherously slick up the roadways. The water had also turned painted lines into ice rinks, metal plates into banana peels, and crater-size pits into camouflaged puddles. Plus, since Petro wore no helmet and had no visor to protect him from the pelting rain, the faster he drove the more painful the beating he took to his face. At least there wasn't any lightning.

Despite his caution, as he headed up onto the caldera, Petro couldn't help but glance out across the lagoon. Even with its brilliant azure blue and sapphire green waters now as gunmetal gray as the sky, the view still took his breath away.

The rain now came in fits and starts, at its fiercest masking everything beyond the near edge of the caldera so completely that Santorini's four other archipelago islands simply disappeared. No Thirasia, Aspronisi, Palea Kameni, or Nea Kameni. Only the bit of road in front of Petro's bike remained in sight. A chill ran down Petro's back. He tried to shake it off, not sure if the cause was rain soaking through to his skin, or thoughts of how much of this magnificent island and its resilient people had so often vanished on the random brutal whim of Mother Nature.

It took him nearly twice as long to cover the same ground he'd covered in dry weather, and still his face felt as if it had served as target practice for a swarm of bees. He parked where he always did, and jogged up the path to the church while trying to shake the bone-soaking chill he knew this time came from the rain.

He reached the door and tried the handle. Locked.

He banged on the door. “Open up, it's Petro.”

“Who?”

“Stop screwing with me, Francesco, I'm soaked and freezing. Open up.”

“The only Petro we know is serving as a male concubine to a Santorini chieftess who's demanded six Spartan warrior slaves in exchange for his safe return from her harem.”

“On second thought, you better not open up. Because I might just kick your ass off the top of this volcano if you do.”

“Okay, now I know it's you.”

The lock clicked and the door opened. “Damn, Petro, you really do look like part of a harem. Purple just isn't your color.”

“Screw you, Francesco. And it's lavender.”

“Excuse me,” said Francesco tossing him a towel. “Truth is you better get out of those wet clothes fast. This weather's not getting any better.”

“That's the good news,” yelled Dimos from the other side of the iconostasis. “The boys down at the hotel are calling it quits early. Everyone wants to get out of here as soon as they can.”

“Is that all you got since I left?” said Petro taking off the parka.

“Yep,” said Dimos peeking out from behind the iconostasis. “Unless you want to count endless hours listening to generals, air marshals, and admirals trying to out-
macho
each other with war stories. Trust me, your night was far more interesting.”

“For sure on that score,” said Francesco taking the parka from Petro and waving it at Dimos.

“It's lavender,” said Dimos.

“Thank you,” said Petro flashing an open palm at Francesco. “So, any word from the chief?”

Dimos gestured no. “He said he got your SMS on what you learned from Colonel Retsos, and to say you made the right decision not to push things further with him.”

“Anything else?”

“Let me read it to you. I want to get this right.” Dimos tinkered with his cellphone. “He wrote, ‘Tell him I hope he enjoys the rest of his evening.'”

Francesco burst out laughing. “Don't forget to file a full report.”

“She happens to be a very nice girl.” Petro's voice had lost its lightness.

Francesco held up his hands, “No argument there. Dimos and I are just teasing you. All we've had to look forward to since you took off last night is razzing you when you got back.”

Petro drew in and let out a breath. “I get it. I'm just tired, wet and, to be honest, feeling a bit down at how I've been lying to that girl. How am I ever going to tell her the truth?”

Francesco glanced at Dimos.

Dimos stepped into the room and pointed at Petro's bag. “The first thing you do is get out of those clothes, the second is take a nap. That way you'll only have the third point to worry about, and if there is something real between the two of you, you'll find the right way to tell her at the right time.”

Francesco stared at Dimos. “Wow, that was really profound.”

“Go to hell,” said Dimos.

Petro smiled, picked up his bag, took out dry clothes, and changed.

No one bothered to mention the scratches on his back.

***

Andreas hadn't planned on spending his Sunday morning at home. He'd promised his son they'd spend the day together exploring Athens at Christmastime while Lila shopped. Serious Christmas decorations first came to Greece after World War II, but once they caught on, the fashion took off with a vengeance in the traditional big way of Greek celebration everywhere.

He'd wanted to start their day off amid the brightly decorated Christmas Village displays occupying Syntagma Square, a surefire wondrous sight for any five-year-old. For the rest of the year Syntagma might be the focal point of mass demonstrations directed at the doings within the abutting Parliament building, but during the Christmas season—from the last week of November through the Feast of Theophany on January sixth—Parliament Square found itself transformed into a festive holiday wonderland, the tree annually erected in the midst of it all claimed to be the tallest in Europe, albeit artificial.

Sadly, not even Christmas stood immune to Greece's political realities. In 2008 demonstrators burned the Christmas tree to the ground. Although ensuing austerity had surely taken its toll, the annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony remained a popular draw for crowds eager to hear orchestras, bands, choirs, and popular singing idols performing traditional holiday favorites in many different languages.

Andreas swore he would not break his promise to his son, but nor would he risk talking coup possibilities on a mobile phone in the middle of a crowd of would-be eavesdroppers in Syntagma. That's why he sat alone in his kitchen, drumming his fingers, impatiently waiting to hear from his team on Santorini.

For over an hour he'd been calling Santorini every twenty minutes for an update. He knew he was getting on their nerves. He also knew there wasn't a thing any of them could do to prod their surveillance subjects into adding something of value to the investigation. Still, pestering made him feel somewhat better when he had to confront the little boy with the ever-sadder expression peeking into the kitchen to ask when they would leave.

Andreas stared at the clock on the wall. Almost one in the afternoon. Time to say bye-bye to their shot at monitoring the private thoughts of Greece's most likely pool of coup candidates. Once they'd left the hotel, Andreas doubted there'd be another opportunity. Career military officers at their level took great care to avoid precisely that sort of spying upon them.

“When can we go, Daddy?”

Andreas' heart sank. “I'm hoping soon, son.”

“You said that the last time.”

“I know.”

“And the time before that.”

Andreas bit his lip. “I'm trying my best.”

As Tassaki drooped his head and walked away, Andreas' phone rang.

“Talk to me.”

“Chief, it's Petro. You're on the speakerphone. We picked this sound bite up a couple of minutes ago. Colonel Retsos stopped by an Air Force group captain's room to say goodbye and a Navy captain joined them.”

“That's it? What about the generals, admirals, and air marshals?”

“They all checked out without mentioning a word having to do with Prada.”

“Or anything else of interest,” said Dimos.

“Okay,” said Petro. “The first voice is the Navy captain, the second is Colonel Retsos.”

Hey, guys, it's late, we've got to get moving if we want to get off the island today. Everyone but us has checked out.

I stopped by to speak to Philippos about what you and I talked about last night on the drive back from the restaurant. I wanted to catch him before he gets back into the wild blue yonder and loses touch with the rest of us.

No such luck this week, fellows. I'll be in Athens at the Pentagon for meetings. We'll be neighbors.

Terrific, because our friend Retsos here would like your support in a little ASAP project he has in mind.

What sort of project?

I can speak for myself, thank you. It's a plan for addressing this insane idea the Prime Minister has for undermining our national defense.

Haven't we beaten that horse to death? Our brass won't touch it.

But they said we could if we wanted. I'm in for the Navy, Retsos is in for the Army. We need you for the Air Force.

In for what?

Tomorrow I'm aiming to set up an appointment with our surprise dinner guest from the other night.

Why?

To get him to convince the Prime Minister to change his mind.

Am I sensing you still haven't sobered up from last night?

Stop busting my balls, Philippos. You know I'm right. We're a country of only eleven million, with historic enemies many times our size at our borders. We can't afford to appear weak to them. Have you forgotten what's happened to us going back thousands of years whenever we let down our guard?

You sound like the Israelis.

For good reason. They're right.

I just don't see that guy helping us. He's a politician and politicians don't go head-to-head with their benefactors just because it's the right thing to do. Besides, he's a smart guy and if he agrees with you, don't you think he's already made your arguments to the Prime Minister and lost?

You could be right. But the Prime Minister is so misguided and wrong on this, we owe it to our countrymen to do what we can to stop it.

Inspirational words. But, as I said, what politician is going to listen?

Let me repeat what I said just in case you missed it. We have the support of our brass. There's no way I'd be involved in this meeting effort if my admiral hadn't said it was okay for us to try.

And don't forget that the person most upset at what we heard from him that night was your air marshal.

Silence.

If we get nowhere with this, your air marshal won't likely care that you didn't join in, but if we succeed, how do you think he's going to react when he learns you ducked out on the opportunity of involving his branch in the battle that brought the Prime Minister around to changing his mind on the future of our nation's military?

Retsos, sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass.

Should I take that as a yes?

A loud sigh.

Just tell me when and where.

Terrific.

Gentlemen, now that we have the Air Force on board, may I suggest we get the hell off this island? The weather's only getting worse.

“Okay, Chief, that's it,” said Dimos.

Andreas fluttered his lips.

“Chief?”

“Just thinking, give me a minute.”

“Too bad we didn't have the equipment we need to pick up what the two of them talked about on their ride back to the hotel last night,” said Dimos.

“Hey, that reminds me,” said Francesco. “We still need to get into the hotel and pull out our equipment.”

“Tassos' nephew Christos will be back first thing tomorrow morning. It will be on a follow-up inspection, and we'll pull it out then,” said Petro.

“That hotel guy's going to be pissed,” said Dimos.

“Nah,” said Petro. “He'll be in heaven, because he'll be told the hotel's getting a boosted rating, as long as the follow-up inspection confirms the original findings.”

“Only one problem with that, guys,” said Francesco. “No boats or planes will be coming here tomorrow. Forget about Christos getting to Santorini in this weather. And if we don't get off the island now, we'll be stuck here for days waiting for him.”

“He's right,” said Dimos. “Can't we yank the equipment out now? All the military guys are gone.”

“There's no way to pull that off without Tassos' nephew setting up the cover story,” said Petro. “And even if we could somehow get him here today, can you imagine the suspicions it will raise having three public servants show up in this lousy weather on a Sunday and
not
be looking for a payoff?”

“My wife's going to kill me,” said Francesco.

Petro cleared his throat. “If it's okay with the chief, I'll take Francesco's place and work with Dimos, assuming it doesn't require any special skills.”

Francesco stifled a strange-sounding cough. “Uh, no it doesn't.” More coughing. “And I can teach you what you need to know in five minutes. A piece of cake.” More coughing. “If it's okay with the chief.”