A Solitary Reaper Page 17

  "I didn't see anything, Sir."

  "I was taking a nap."

  "I won't tell anyone."

  "Kleitos takes naps," Savva mused. He sucked his lip and debated whether he wanted to be lumped together with the man.

  "I think he takes those at home or in a hotel, Sir," Thanos corrected with a conspiratorial smile.

  "I believe you're right, Sergeant. The beach is much better. What can I do for you?"

  "Colonel Petros Callas called. He spoke to Sergeant Booras with the information you needed. Booras asked me to relay the information. He would've done it himself, but I think he and Private Kaikas were neck deep in research, Sir."

  Thanos held out a small white envelope, which Savva took, tapping it against his thigh. "Does everyone know where I go?"

  "Just me and Booras, I think, Sir. Maybe Private Kaikas, too. She's pretty quick."

  "Pretty soon she'll be the one running the show around here," Savva said without any trace of malice. "Booras will do well, but Kaikas has everything going for her. She's sharp, she's educated, and she's female. Everything people will want in a few years."

  Thanos stood, his thick black boots smacked against the dried leaves and cracked small sticks. "I'll see you later, Sir."

  Savva cleared his throat and grunted. He tore open the white envelope and squinted at the name. There was only a name. He dialed Stelios' number.

  "Sir?"

  "You have the man's name, I presume?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Any luck?" Savva pressed.

  "I've called every major newspaper's archive department in Athens with the names of all those involved. I'm still waiting to hear back. I've also called other shops in the area where the murder took place, to see if they knew anyone who was there thirty years ago. The specific building fell on September 7, 1999."

  Savva nodded, remembering with vivid clarity, the violent earthquake that had cost the country almost 4 billion euros and claimed more than thirty lives. "Tragedy."

  "Most of the block was destroyed, Sir. But I'm working on it. We may catch a break."

  * * *

  Savva left the department and hurried down the street. All he had was an hour in which to pack and present himself at the airport before the flight left. Shayma was on the couch flipping through a sheaf of papers when he walked in, jingling his keys.

  "What on earth are you doing home?" She leaned from side to side as if to suss out whether he'd been fired or injured.

  "I have to pack. I’m booked on the 10 am flight to Athens."

  "Why?"

  "I have a meeting with one of Nikolaos' contacts, a mafía contact. I'll stay with Petros while I'm there."

  "I see."

  Shayma fell silent. The house grumbled as the air conditioner switched on. Shayma followed him into the bedroom where he took down a leather weekender from the wardrobe and filled it with clothes. She'd be asking a question in three ... two ...

  "I have a favor to ask, Alexandros."

  "You broke something, didn't you?"

  Shayma laughed. It sounded like water tinkling off a rock in a slow stream. "No, nothing broke."

  "What is it?"

  "I was going over some old paperwork at work today and I noticed a hand-written note from a woman I used to keep vigil at the beach with, Aella."

  This was going nowhere good. "And?"

  "Aella was on the beach last week, watching for boats like any other night when she noticed a light flick on in the distance. A minute or two went by then a single gunshot. Then, later, the light went off. She waited for hours and finally a boat came in. No one spoke. Not at first. But when they'd all taken their life jackets off, an older woman started weeping uncontrollably. The men tried to hush her up but she screamed out the entire story.

  "A boat came upon them in the dark, turned on blinding lights, ordered all the women and young girls off the boat, shot one man when they didn't comply, and then sailed off as soon as the girls were aboard their vessel. After I talked to Aella, I went in search of more reports. I called everyone I could think of. They gave me the names of over a hundred people who'd reported the same thing. A year. A whole year this has been happening!"

  Savva stared at her. Blood pounded in his ears. He wanted to bury his head in his hands and walk into the ocean. Wanted to cry. And yet ... hope. "Kidnapping."

  "Alexandros, they're kidnapping refugees while they're fleeing for their lives."

  "How is it no one has noticed?"

  "What are we going to do?" she screeched.

  Savva dropped his head into his hands. The scale. The outrage. "Where are these people?"

  "Aella lives in Pigi."

  "Not Aella. The refugees; where are they?"

  Shayma blinked. "Some are still at the camp; Moria."

  "We need to talk to them." Savva stood and walked to the front window, watching as a neighbor pushed her black and white pram down the street.

  Shayma joined him at the window. "They won't talk to you, Alexandros."

  "They'll talk to you." Savva turned to his wife. "We'll go as soon as I get back from Athens. Call the camp and organize the interviews. It'll be just you and me. We've got to keep this quiet. If word got out we are interviewing witnesses ..."

  "If these are the same people ... Alexandros ..." she trailed off.

  Savva glanced up at her. Her face was white and her chin trembled. "First things first. We have to interview them."

  * * *

  At precisely 10:50 am the Airbus A320 landed in Athens. It taxied to a terminal miles from the center of the airport. Everywhere Savva turned people milled in great packs; queuing in front of the coffee shops, congregating with nervous faces in front of their gates, massing in front of the bathrooms. He sighed as the baggage claim sign appeared above his head. He gripped the handle of his carryon and shouldered through. When he was expelled into the terminal he rushed to a male police corporal who held a white piece of paper with 'Captain A. Savva' written on it. The policeman, who stood only to Savva's shoulder and had a large belly, dull green eyes, and a grease stain on his left trouser, straightened his back as Savva approached.

  Savva pointed to the sign. "That's me."

  "Your identification please, Sir." Savva flipped out his wallet so that the warrant card was visible. "Thank you, Sir. If you'll follow me, the car is this way."

  They were almost to the automatic doors, taxis and busses whizzed by in huffs of grey exhaust, when the officer stopped. "Do you have any luggage?"

  Savva waved his hand at the exit. "No, Corporal, I do not. Let's be off."

  The officer shrugged, as though confused that anyone who had flown in from the outlying islands would ever want to hurry their visit, much less leave Athens. He preceded Savva out the automatic doors, and no sooner had Savva caught sight of the gleaming squad car, then the man started shouting and windmilling his arms. Three preteen boys, all in cut-off shorts and flip-flops, peered in through the windows and whispered to each other before they turned around, their faces full of horror, and scampered off at the sound of the corporal's high-pitched screeching.

  After this, straightening his shirt, he deposited Savva and his bag in the passenger seat and whipped around the side of the car. He pulled out of the airport drive as though hot on the heels of Greece's biggest drug dealer. The car whipped around corners and weaved through traffic and its driver ignored stoplights with abandon. Savva clung to the doorframe, his knuckles white, his forehead perspiring. Savva murmured, "Most highly do I praise you, Lord, for you have taken notice of my lowliness and have not delivered me into the hands of my enemies but have relieved my soul of its needs."

  The corporal slammed to a halt at 173 Alexandras Avenue, the grey square hulk that was Hellenic Police headquarters. The Greek flag that flew in front of the tower of offices snapped in the wind–frayed and pale in the morning light.

  "Just go check in," the corporal snapped as Savva eased himself out of the car.

  Savva kept a hol
d of the door, straightened his back, and eased around to face the other man. "If you think an errand boy is the worst job you could have on the force, you're mistaken. Colonel Callas is a good friend of mine, and I'm sure he could see what he could do about your situation."

  The overweight corporal blinked. His Adam's apple flew into his throat and catapulted down again. "I'm sorry, Sir."

  Savva lifted his hand. "Be courteous, it's all we ask."

  He left the corporal, with his mouth hanging open, and walked up the few steps to the concrete hulk. Near the doors, a man reposed against a counter. Not just any man, a man with biceps the size of a woman's thigh and legs the size of trees. But above all the bulk sat a kind face always on the verge of a smile or a snort.

  He turned at the sound of the door and bounded across the lobby. "Alexandros!"

  Savva braced himself, setting the weekender on the floor. "Petros."

  Petros Callas was Savva's closest friend. They'd served together in the Army and competed ferociously every step of the way through the police academy. But whereas Savva had languished in the rank of captain, Petros had long since risen to the rank of colonel and oversaw a large portion of the Hellenic Police's Anti Terrorism Unit. Physically he was strangely suited to the position, built like a tank, and with a low voice that terrified everyone but his daughters and granddaughters.

  Petros threw his arms around Savva, squeezed, and then kissed him robustly on both cheeks. At one point Savva thought his feet had come off the floor. When he felt it, firm and sound, beneath his feet, he tugged at the hem of his suit coat and nudged his tie back into place. Petros took one step back and beamed like a mother welcoming her prodigal son home.

  "Look at you!" he said. "Just like you said, getting rounder around the middle."

  "I walk more now," Savva bristled.

  Petros clapped Savva on the shoulder. "Glad to be back?"

  "No."

  "Ah, well, you've been on the island for too long," Petros said with an impish grin. “Listen, I've got meetings all day, but I'll meet you at my house at eight. You remember where it is? Here's an extra key, let yourself in. I've got my sergeant rounding out all the files we have on your murder victim. I'll bring them home. It'll be like old times."

  Petros handed Savva a thick black skeleton key about the size and weight of his phone. He dropped it in an interior pocket of his suit. "You remember where all the good places are to eat?"

  "Stop hovering like a worried yia-yia," Savva grumbled. "I've got to meet the informant."

  "Where?"

  "The Acropolis."

  "He's alright with the cameras?" Petros asked as he massaged the back of his neck. "Is it safe for you?"

  Savva shrugged. "I haven't been to Athens in ages. No one will recognize me. No one knows who I am."

  Two deep lines appeared between Petros' eyebrows. "I wouldn't be so sure."

  "It's busy. It won't be a problem," Savva said as he bent to pick up his case. "I'll see you at the house."

  Petros nodded, clasped Savva's shoulder, took Savva's case (“I'll sent it to the house with a uniform!”), and then shouted at the receptionist to call a taxi for the captain. Savva would have preferred to walk, but it would have taken close to an hour, and he simply didn't have the time. Instead he took a yellow taxi, gave his destination, and settled back against a sticky leather seat.

  Savva was dropped off in front of a cavalry line of tourist busses. How was it these monsters navigated the streets of Athens? He paid the driver, crossed the street to stand on the cobblestone walkway, and stared at the pinnacle of the ancient city. The ruins were poked through gaps in the olive trees. A young police officer in a light blue uniform shirt nodded serenely. Savva nodded back and then set off up the stone steps, the trees whispering like a thousand oracles.

  He paused at the third step. The city went quiet. The trees shook and yet made no noise. A thousand worries bombarded his mind. Should he alert the officer? What would he say? I'm about to meet with a mafía official–if I'm not back in an hour call for someone to get my corpse? No. Petros knew whom he was meeting. Knew where he was meeting. Good God, he was shaking like this was his first day on the job. Pathetic.

  Savva swallowed and climbed. Before he'd gone three steps a man locked eyes with him. Black pants, black tracksuit jacket, thick muscled arms, hands stuffed into pockets. Here it was. And no way to say goodbye to Shayma. The man glanced left, right, and behind him, took his hands out of his pockets. Savva's hand went to his hip where there should have been a gun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Someone shouted. A woman? Savva's vision went opaque at the edges. The man turned. Crouched down. Picked something up. Righted himself. Stood with a child on his shoulders. A child holding a model airplane with blue wings. Father and child laughed. The man bounded down the steps, the woman behind him yelled for him to be careful.

  Savva met the man's eye as he and his son drew level. The man raised his eyebrows, said "kids" with a knowing smile, and tore across the street. The woman passed and shook her head at Savva. Twin girls with swinging braids trailed behind her, their heads bent over a book. Savva propped himself up against the trunk of an olive tree.

  Where was the man who'd worked decades as a cop, who'd seen and done things more terrifying than meeting a mafía member in the broad daylight at the ancient world's most famous site? Savva forced his feet forward and climbed the path, made up of multi-tone stones. Two men in black shorts and black baseball hats trotted down on the opposite side. The path rose, forcing his breath to come deeper. He didn't stop to take pictures at the overlook like the rest but passed by the theatre without a backwards glance. He wove among tourists, passed trashcans shaped like columns and lights, that illuminated the ruins at night, and up the three quick steps to the ornate entry to the Propylaia.

  He swerved to the right and walked across the rocks to stand in front of the Parthenon. It was only as he dropped onto a stone step that Savva allowed his hands to shake. He ignored the chattering crowds. The snap of tiny country flags, held aloft by harried tour guides. The sound of the wind tearing across the treeless acropolis. He rubbed his left eye, plucked out a small rock from where it had lodged between his ankle and shoe, dropped his head onto his palm, and waited.

  "You look as grumpy as your picture, Captain Savva."

  Savva rubbed his jaw and turned to his right where a man stood, blocking the light of the sun. He was neither tall nor short. Neither handsome nor hideous. Neither thin nor fat. Neither well dressed nor in rags. It was as if, having been asked, God had produced the most unremarkable and unmemorable person possible. Someone to fade into the shadows; just a man with dark hair, dark sunglasses, and grey trousers.

  Savva extended his hand. "Your name?"

  The man straightened his shirtsleeves and rotated his cufflinks. "My mother calls me Damasos."

  "I take it Damasos isn't your real name?"

  "Does it matter Alexandros? If I may call you that?"

  Savva patted the rock beside him. "Of course"

  Damasos sat. Upon closer inspection Savva saw he wore a watch, no distinguishable brand name, with a black band and a thin gold band on his ring finger.

  "How was your hike Alexandros?"

  "Fine."

  "Nervous are you?"

  Savva peered sideways at Damasos who was cleaning his sunglasses on a square of red fabric, which must have come from a trouser pocket. He watched Damasos put them back on and stare out onto the milling crowds. The smell of honey and filo pastry and lamb wafted on the wind.

  "Nervous? Sure. But I need to solve this case. My personal feelings don't matter."

  Damasos snorted. "Admirable, I'm sure. What do you want to know?"

  "Whatever it is you'll share without my body ending up in an alley."

  Damasos laughed. A group of French tourists stopped their chortling to glance over. Savva waved at them. They straightened up and then turned back to their gossip. "I used to be Taras’ and Matthi
as' handler. I've worked my way up since then. But when Taras came to Athens to work for us, I was the one that saw to him. Even when Matthias started working Taras was still low-level. Taras didn't have the brains for anything more. No one trusted him with anything more than the simplest of tasks. Especially after 1987. That was a cock-up, to use the American phrase. Simple enough task and they ended up killing the man. It was dealt with, but we'd rather have time to plan."

  Damasos paused. Savva bit down hard on his lip. Every word out of his mouth was spoken as if this were the simplest, most law-abiding business. And here they were, in the center of Ancient Greece, on this hallowed ground of democracy, calmly discussing organized crime.

  Damasos stretched his legs and rested them on a rare patch of pale green grass. "I know what you're thinking, Captain. I can feel the outrage of your moral superiority. But there's more if you can stand to hear it."

  Savva too stretched his legs. "Go on."

  "Taras and Matthias had a nickname: Father, Son, and holy ghosts. I imagine you can understand why from their line of work."

  "Ah." Savva nodded and clasped his hands between his interlocked legs, his jaw vibrated.

  Ah was all he would muster in the face of what Damasos alluded to. Had the world sunk to such a pitiful place that the Holy Trinity could be used in reference to hit men? The Church of Ioannis Kalvinits and its bright, mint-green façade swam across his eyes–oh, he longed to curl on a pew and stare at the altar and forget the world. But Damasos was already talking. A gull screeched, Savva swiveled around to catch the sound, but the sky above Athens was clear and quiet.

  "You can also imagine how prolific they were. Assassinations: the easy ones. Burglary. Extortion. If you're looking for someone with a grudge, I hate to say it, but you now have hundreds of suspects. There are people with dead relatives. People who lost their entire savings. People who lost their homes."

  "All for what?" Savva said through clenched teeth.

  Damasos shook his head.

  "Why was Matthias allowed to leave?"

  "I've known Matthias since he was thirteen. He was a good lad. He shouldn't have been out–we admit that. His father was a cruel man, even by our standards. He forced the boy to go beyond their ordered purview."