Codename Xenophon Read online

  Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

  Codename Xenophon

  Leo Kanaris is a teacher in southern Greece.

  Codename Xenophon is his first novel. He is currently writing a sequel Blood & Gold

  This is a work of fiction.

  Occasional references to historical events, characters and places are used for fictional purposes.

  Contents

  Title

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  1

  Athens, June 2010

  Like much of the city around it, 43 Aristotle Street had seen better days. The marble steps, the smoked-glass doors, the rows of dark wooden mailboxes, all had a dowdy, dreary, superannuated feel. Two cement plant tubs stood side by side in the lobby. One held a struggling jasmine, kept alive by an old lady on the ground floor. The other, empty and dry, had survived by default, an ugly ornament that no one could be bothered to throw away.

  Returning home from a trip out of town, George Zafiris felt the tiredness of the building as part of his own. The door creaked shut behind him. Although the day was bright, it was dark in here. He pressed the light switch and one low-energy bulb, its white tubes poking like the legs of a trapped insect out of a spotlight on the wall, began to glow feebly. A musty smell enveloped him: of damp, disinfectant and old soup. He was not a gloomy man, but the thought flashed through his mind, as it sometimes had before, that this was a lobby to shoot yourself in.

  He unlocked his mailbox and gathered its contents, glancing at the envelopes as he climbed the stairs. One handwritten, the rest bills and rubbishy advertising.

  At the top of the stairs he turned the key in the lock. Three, four times, the bolts clanking and echoing in the marble stairwell. He walked in, leaving the door ajar, and dropped the leaflets in the bin. The place felt dusty and close, even after two days away. He moved from room to room, hauling up roller blinds, flinging wide the windows. The light pounced in, dazzling and hot.

  The letter was a proper one, with a stamp and a handwritten address. Good quality paper. He opened a drawer, moved aside a tin of ammunition, a Beretta 950B Jetfire pistol, a summons to appear in court for shouting at a policeman, some notes on mental relaxation, a long-range microphone, and a framed photograph of his wife on a beach in 1992, the glass cracked in one corner. Under them all lay a Bechtold & Schmidt ‘Predator’ flick-knife, a lethal memento of a long-concluded investigation. He kept it there, honed and oiled, just in case. He opened the knife and slid its blade under the flap of the envelope.

  A voice from the doorway made him look up.

  ‘Mr George?’

  Dimitri from the café downstairs stood holding an aluminium tray with a tripod-shaped hanger.

  ‘Shall I bring it in there?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  George took a euro coin from his pocket.

  ‘How was the trip?’ asked Dimitri.

  George took a sip of coffee. ‘I don’t enjoy funerals,’ he said. ‘They make me feel old before my time.’

  Dimitri pronounced the traditional formula: ‘May you live to remember your friend.’

  George nodded. His mind was flooded with images, his heart with loss.

  ‘I just want my old friend back, for one more lunch together. One more ouzo by the sea.’

  Dimitri seemed to feel his sorrow. ‘I know the feeling,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t seem much to ask. A moment, that’s all. But you’ll never get it. That’s for sure.’

  George knew Dimitri was thinking of his wife. She was still alive, just, but on borrowed time.

  ‘How’s Tasia?’ asked George.

  ‘The same,’ said Dimitri.

  ‘No news, good or bad?’

  ‘Just waiting.’

  ‘Give her a kiss from me. Tell her to get well.’

  ‘I will,’ said Dimitri and left him, closing the door gently.

  George picked up the envelope again. The address was in black: a neat, educated script. Postmark Aegina. He unfolded a single sheet of notepaper.

  Dear Mr Zafiris,

  I was given your name by a business associate, who described you as reliable and moderate in your fees. I may have occasion to hire you. A member of my family has been murdered. The police have made no progress with the case. I need someone to investigate this thoroughly and with absolute discretion. Telephone me as soon as you receive this.

  Constantine Petrakis

  The name made him stop and think. He didn’t know the man personally, but this was a historic family. A dynasty even. Lawyers, politicians, intellectuals. Before that, warlords, heroes of 1821. When the call to arms came, they had summoned their supporters from villages and sheepfolds across the mountains of the Peloponnese, and chased the hated Ottomans from the land. There was a Petrakis Street in every town in Greece.

  He checked his watch. It was four thirty. No point calling for at least two hours. Petrakis would be asleep. That would get everything off to a bad start. He pushed the letter aside. Feeling drowsy despite the coffee, he lay down on his day-bed and closed his eyes.

  *

  He slept badly, fighting off a crowd of memories. An island port, the ferry approaching through sharp morning light. The ramp descending, a hearse rolling out. His old friend Mario inside, 47 years old. On the jetty, next to the whitewashed café, the dead man’s wife Eleni and their two sons. Waiting, still as statues. Their faces blank, even when George greeted them, as if they had lost the power to move.

  Then the procession, slow and reluctant, up the hill to the church.

  At six he woke up, feeling drugged and heavy. He staggered into the shower and let the cold spray startle him awake.

  With a towel round his waist he poured a beer from the fridge, settled on the sofa, and dialled the number in Aegina.

  Constantine Petrakis had a tense, dry voice, with the grating quality of a door on rusty hinges.

  ‘I only know the bare facts, Mr Zafiris. My brother was shot here on the island. You must speak to the lady who found him. Only she won’t use the telephone, you must see her face to face. And her house is tricky to find. I’ll have to show you, there’s no other way. John was staying with her. He often visited. Why anyone would wish to shoot him is beyond me. He was an eminent man, with a worldwide reputation. And the police are pathetic. Bureaucrats, every one of them. They specialise in doing nothing. Tell me, when can you come?’

  George glanced at his diary, which was empty for the whole week.

  ‘Tomorrow morning? Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll see you at the Hotel Brown. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  2

  George lived apart from his wife for most of the year. It was not an arrangement he liked, but he accepted it as a compromise. It had its roots in dark times. If he dwelt on those he would really get depressed, but he chose not to. From early spr
ing to late autumn Zoe stayed in Andros, at her father’s village house, painting, writing poetry, looking after the garden and a collection of aunts and eccentric cousins. Meanwhile George toiled away in Athens, visiting the island for rare weekends and – with luck – a fortnight every August. In winter she would join him in the city, and they would have a more conventional married life. Their son Nick was studying engineering in Newcastle; a safe profession, they hoped, for unsafe times.

  George’s working days, like everyone’s in Athens, were complicated. Cases were opened, pursued, baulked, interrupted. New ones appeared. Clients went silent, or vanished. Some had to be investigated in their turn. Either they’d run out of money or got tangled up in complications of their own. The national crisis didn’t help. Businesses were going bust, salaries and pensions shrinking with horrible speed. People were getting ill, going mad, wanting to disappear from their own lives.

  ‘Ade na vris ákri.’ The phrase was on everyone’s lips. ‘You don’t know where to begin.’

  George was lucky. He had no outstanding loans, and no one owed him money. Not serious money, at least. But work was falling off. Only the rich could afford to pay, and even they were being careful these days. He took any offer that came his way.

  The voice of Petrakis had filled him with mistrust. Not what he said, just the way he said it. After some expensive mistakes, he had developed an instinct for difficult characters. This was one to be wary of.

  George stood on the deck of the Aghios Nektarios in Piraeus, enjoying the breeze and the widening gap of water between him and the city. Slowly but steadily the tangle of urban sensations left him. The horizon blossomed with mountains, outlined sharp as metal cut-outs against a silvery-blue sky. Gulls rode the ship’s slipstream, their wings unmoving, only their heads tilting side to side in the search for food.

  They passed through a strange ocean landscape of laid-up tankers and cargo ships. Images of a stalled economy, going nowhere. Waiting. Once in a while a powerboat surged by, slicing open the blue surface of the sea with a brilliant white trail of foam. At the helm a middle-aged man – big belly, shades, gold neck-chain and bracelet – accompanied inevitably by a girl in a bikini, half his age, probably eastern European. In the back seat, a bored Alsatian dog. The market had crashed two years ago, but luxury – of this strange, 1960s, cigarette advertisement kind – still flourished. Like the cafés of downtown Athens, packed with people paying monstrous prices for their iced cappuccinos while they complained about the crisis.

  After an hour they reached Aegina. The anchors rattled down and the ferry backed onto the jetty in a cloud of diesel exhaust. A voice on the public address system, urgent and harsh, told passengers to get off at once: ‘the ship will depart immediately.’

  The Hotel Brown stood a few hundred metres away, at the far end of the waterfront. George strolled past fishing boats, fruit-stalls, cafés, a kiosk hung with glossy magazines and plastic toys. With ten minutes still to spare, he sat in a dusty church garden where a bust of Kapodistria – first prime minister of Greece, gunned down in his fifties by a political opponent – stared out from a ring of palm trees at the sea.

  Petrakis was lean, precise, seventy years old. A nervous light flickered in his pale green eyes. His shoes, trousers and shirt were expensively elegant, his watch a piece of Swiss real estate. He shook hands quickly, without warmth.

  ‘We’ll sit in the garden.’

  Petrakis led him to a table under a loquat tree and irritably brushed three fallen leaves from his chair before sitting down. He examined his visitor for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Let me give you some information about my brother. After that I shall take you to meet Madame Corneille. It was in her apartment that the tragedy occurred.’

  ‘I’ve kept the whole day free,’ said George.

  ‘We won’t need that long. The facts are straightforward. My brother was a classical scholar. He taught at Stanford, Princeton, and latterly King’s College, London. He was a man of outspoken – even controversial – views. He did early work on Plato, but he was best known for his writings on the less palatable aspects of ancient Greek life. What he called ‘the darkness behind the light’. Slavery, prostitution, crime and punishment, paedophilia, homosexuality, and, I very much regret to say, even child sacrifice, although the evidence for that is circumstantial. You can imagine how such work was received here, especially in patriotic circles.’

  George nodded.

  ‘John was about to give a lecture on this entirely unsuitable subject to the Aegina Historical Society. This was arranged by Madame Corneille, in association with local friends, for nine o’clock on the evening of March 25th.’

  Petrakis paused, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Go on,’ said George.

  ‘I expect you to note the significance of the date.’

  ‘It may be significant or not.’

  ‘It can only be significant!’

  ‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions.’

  Petrakis seemed irritated. ‘As you please, Mr Zafiris. I ask you merely to be aware that my brother was shot on the day when we celebrate our national independence.’

  ‘I note that fact,’ said George. He met the man’s agitated stare calmly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘At about seven, John went for a shower. He never came out. Half an hour later, Madame Corneille knocked, got no answer, entered the bathroom, and found him. He had been shot in the head. She summoned the police at once; and there, I am sorry to say, the matter has languished.’

  George thought about it while the waiter served coffee.

  ‘Tell me some more about your brother.’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell.’

  ‘There has to be.’

  ‘Nothing else of relevance.’

  ‘I need to know about his private life.’

  ‘There’s nothing to hide.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I need to know.’

  Again the irritated look. ‘What exactly do you need to know?’

  ‘His relationship with Madame Corneille for a start.’

  ‘Above suspicion!’

  ‘Other people on the island?’

  ‘A few friends. Trusted people.’

  ‘I’ll need their names.’

  ‘Not relevant.’

  ‘It may be highly relevant.’

  ‘I can assure you it’s not.’

  ‘I’ll make up my own mind about that.’

  ‘I am trying to save you time. Which of course means money for me. I presume you charge by the hour, by the way, like a lawyer?’

  ‘I do, but nothing like a lawyer’s rates.’

  Petrakis looked sceptical. ‘What is your rate, if I may ask?’

  ‘Basic is 50 an hour, plus expenses.’

  ‘How long do such jobs normally take?’

  ‘Impossible to say.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some go quickly, others drag on for months.’

  ‘I want this one to go quickly.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Petrakis grimaced. He sipped his coffee as if it might be poisoned.

  ‘What else do you need to know, Mr Zafiris?’

  ‘I’ve told you. His personal life. That’s where the answers usually lie.’

  ‘In his case, I doubt it.’

  ‘Very well.’ George drained his cup. ‘I’ll send my bill for this morning’s visit.’

  ‘We have to see Madame Corneille!’

  George stood up. ‘You go and see her. I’m wasting my time.’

  Petrakis said calmly, ‘You are very impatient.’

  ‘I have other cases to attend to.’

  ‘You said you had the whole day free.’

  ‘For work. Not for sitting around.’

  ‘Calm down, Mr Zafiris!’

  ‘I’m perfectly calm. Either you give me more information or I leave.’

  ‘Very well.’ Petrakis raised his hands from the table. ‘My brother was a homosexual. Is that what you want to
know?’

  George said coldly, ‘It may be. It may not be. I need to know more.’

  ‘I don’t see why!’

  ‘Did he get mixed up with people who provide certain services, or indulge certain tastes, perhaps unpalatable ones to use your word?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Strangling, asphyxia, bondage? Things go wrong sometimes. Accidents, crazy partners. Criminals…’

  ‘I can assure you he was not that type.’

  ‘Do you know that for certain?’

  ‘He never mentioned anything of the kind!’

  ‘Did you talk about it with him?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘All right,’ said George. ‘Let’s go back to basics. How do you know he was gay?’

  ‘He had a “partner” as they say.’ Petrakis spoke with disdain.

  ‘What sort of a partner?’

  A long, pained look. ‘Not the sort of man you would expect around a professor of ancient history.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A builder. And decorator. Of a sort.’

  ‘Where was this partner when John was killed?’

  ‘On a flight to London.’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to him.’

  Petrakis’s irritation spilled over again. ‘If any of this gets out to the press, I will personally –’

  ‘It won’t.’

  Petrakis was silent for a few moments. ‘All right. I’ll give you Bill’s number when I’m back in Athens.’

  ‘Thank you. Now tell me about John’s relationship with Madame Corneille. And please stick to what you know.’

  ‘She was purely a friend and admirer.’

  ‘That sounds a little bland.’

  ‘She’s an eccentric. A spiritualist. A psychic healer.’

  ‘Did he consult her professionally?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘What did he say about her?’

  ‘Very little. She was just a friend.’

  ‘Did he have enemies?’

  ‘Hundreds! His books caused great anger.’

  ‘How was that expressed?’

  ‘Letters, articles in the press, attacks on television and radio. Luckily, none of these people knew anything of his private life. If they had, he would never have been left in peace.’