Blood & Gold Read online

  For George, engaged in excavations of a different kind, there was a mysterious satisfaction in this story.

  21 Into the City

  Next morning he drove to Thessaloniki. A good fast country road, through golden autumn landscapes. Then a jumble of petrol stations, body repair shops, supermarkets and bathroom stores before he came into the old city: the long, curved promenade gazing south into the sea, the hills studded with churches and synagogues with red-tiled roofs.

  He had an appointment with the Deputy Inspector of Antiquities, Dr Mylona, in a building beside the Archaeological Museum. She kept him waiting three quarters of an hour with no apology; a middle-aged woman with yellow skin and a worn, distracted, self-pitying air. She must have possessed an office of her own, but she chose to meet him in a corridor where staff came and went to make coffee, smoke and chat. Four office doors were open onto their conversation. There was no question of privacy.

  George explained what he was trying to discover: the trail that led from an ancient goldsmith’s workshop in Pella to a funeral parlour in Brooklyn and a graveyard in Astypalea.

  Dr Mylona listened with no sign of interest. She frowned. Then sighed deeply. This was a complex issue, she declared. Many questions arose, with many obstacles to answering them.

  George asked her to expand on this. Again she frowned. The matter was under police investigation, she said. Moreover the objects had not been officially catalogued, so their physical dimensions, condition, provenance, status, etc, were not defined. An undefined object obviously cannot be the subject of an inquiry. Unfortunately there would be a delay in defining the objects, as the department had been re-organised by ministerial decree, with the Byzantine and Classical Inspectorates in the process of being combined into one. In the present economic crisis, staff numbers were being reduced and everything was moving more slowly than usual. In addition the archaeologist with responsibility for Pella was currently unavailable – she was on extended leave, with health and family problems. The documents in her office could not of course be touched because of the investigation. Dr Mylona was unable to say anything about the police enquiries at the Inspectorate as these were a separate and confidential business. Was there, she asked with an exhausted look, anything else she could help him with?

  George said there was. As far as he understood, the objects found in Mario’s coffin had been remarkably similar to a number of treasures unearthed by Professor Andronicos at Vergina in 1976. What did she think of this?

  Dr Mylona winced at this. ‘Similar is a very approximate term!’ she said irritably. ‘Perhaps one might say there are certain similarities, but similar overall? That would be overstating it.’

  ‘It was the opinion of one of your colleagues.’

  ‘I cannot answer for a colleague!’

  ‘Have you seen the objects in question?’

  She hesitated before answering. ‘I have seen photographs,’ she said.

  ‘What surprises me,’ said George, ‘is the number of these things. The golden wreaths were thought to be individual masterpieces, created specially for King Philip and his Queen. Why was this workshop creating multiple versions of them?’

  ‘Possibly for export? Or some non-funerary use?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Crowning victors in battle, or in civic games?’

  ‘It seems odd to use royal wreaths. Golden ones too!’

  ‘Gold became more plentiful following Alexander’s conquests.’

  ‘Perhaps it did, but still, most ancient wreaths for athletic and military honours were made of laurel and olive leaves, which cost nothing to make. It’s a big jump from that to gold.’

  For a moment, the archaeologist became animated. ‘I see you have been doing some research,’ she said. ‘But remember, these might also be Roman. We know that the Emperor Nero liked to take part in Greek games. Naturally he won every event. He may well have insisted on golden wreaths.’

  ‘How much time separates Alexander the Great from Nero?’

  ‘About four centuries.’

  ‘Can you date the objects precisely?’

  The frown returned. ‘That’s difficult. The question of dating is one of many which we are hoping to study. But with a shortage of staff, budget cuts and a workload that just seems to go on increasing we are extremely restricted in what we can do.’

  ‘I understand. It must be very frustrating.’

  ‘I have not been much help.’

  George waved away the apology. ‘You have already told me a lot,’ he said.

  She reacted with a jolt of surprise. Really? She felt that she had not told him very much at all. No, George insisted, this had all been most revealing.

  Dr Mylona was nonplussed. He could see her replaying the conversation in her mind, to find the scrap of useful information that she might, by some terrible oversight, have allowed to escape. George stood up, and at once turned sideways to allow a man in a lab coat to hurry past. He was about to leave when a final question occurred to him.

  ‘Do you know of anyone, locally or elsewhere, who deals in these treasures?’

  Dr Mylona shuddered. ‘I cannot begin to answer that! Such barbaric people must exist, but I have never come across them. Not consciously at least. It’s a crime, as I’m sure you know, to buy and sell antiquities.’

  ‘I know,’ said George, eyeing her firmly. ‘A serious crime. One possible explanation for the presence of these items in a coffin is that they were intended for illegal export.’

  ‘I have no doubt about that!’

  ‘The question is, who in Thessaloniki organises this trade.’

  ‘I am not the person to ask.’

  ‘Then who is?’

  She seemed astonished by the question. ‘This is absolutely not my field! Go to the police. Or to the antiquaires in the old town. They must have a circuit…’

  ‘You’ve never had any contact with these people?’

  ‘Absolutely not! I’m a scholar, Mr Zafiris! Those people are traders in illegal goods. You might as well ask me if I can recommend a drug dealer.’

  George noted the aggressive character of her indignation and wondered if it was a sign of guilt. He thanked her for her time – although she had given little enough of it – and left the shadow of the building for the glare of the street.

  His next stop was the undertakers. The address was not far from the archaeological museum, but their shop was closed. A notice taped to the window gave a telephone number for inquiries. George called it and left a message on the answering machine. He tried asking in the shops nearby whether the owner had been seen recently. Not for a few days was the answer. Was this unusual? It was. They were normally open every day. When he asked further questions he met the inevitable suspicion. What do you want them for? Is there some kind of problem? Has someone died? Who are you?

  Frustrated in his quest, George walked along the seafront until he found a café without the distracting frazzle of pop music where he could sit and think. He ordered a bottle of beer and a mezé of grilled octopus, opened his notebook and jotted down some thoughts. He had drawn a blank on archaeology, but that was probably peripheral. He doubted whether Mario’s death had anything to do with smuggled goods. Much more likely was a connection with the mysterious project he was setting up with Dr Skouras – probably something medical – but until he knew more he could go no further with that line of thought.

  Finally there was Paris. George hoped the musician would be in touch with his father soon, and that his message would be passed on.

  On impulse he decided to call the old music professor, who said, ‘As it happens, I have just been speaking to my son.’

  ‘Did you tell him to get in touch with me?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was unwilling.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘He described you as aggressive.’

  ‘Really? Zealous perhaps, but…’

  ‘No. Aggressive was his wo
rd.’

  ‘I see. And what did you say?’

  ‘I encouraged him to contact you all the same. For the reasons you gave me.’

  ‘That was kind of you. Is he back in Greece?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Do you know when he’s coming back?’

  ‘This evening.’

  ‘To you or to Athens?’

  ‘Neither.’

  ‘So where?’

  ‘He’s planning to go to Mount Athos.’

  Mount Athos? George immediately thought the worst. The Athos peninsula, known as the Holy Mountain, was extraterritorial: physically part of Greece but legally separate, an ecclesiastical domain beyond the reach of state law. Within its twenty monasteries it was said to harbour several criminals who preferred a life of prayer and fasting to the confinement of prison.

  ‘Did he say why he’s going there?’

  ‘He goes every year.’

  ‘Which monastery?’

  ‘I don’t know… although…’ The professor seemed to hesitate. ‘Mr Zafiris I am not entirely happy with the way this conversation is going.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Why is that?’

  ‘I have to be sure that you are not seeking to entrap him or endanger him.’

  ‘He’s endangering himself by hiding. I think I made that clear.’

  ‘Do you suspect him of killing Keti?’

  George felt unable to reply.

  ‘Tell me straight, Mr Zafiris! Do you suspect him of killing Keti?…Your silence is ominous.’

  ‘There is evidence…’

  ‘Evidence! Why don’t you answer me directly?’

  ‘I am trying to do that. There is evidence that links him to her death. There may be an innocent explanation for it, but that evidence and his behaviour – disappearing to Bucharest, his hostility to questions, now going off to the Holy Mountain – this combination suggests guilt. If he’s innocent he must come forward and explain himself.’

  ‘Who possesses this evidence?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘I see…’

  ‘And they will go after him.’

  ‘If they know where to go.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The professor sighed. ‘I find myself in an impossible position,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you any more.’

  ‘I understand.’

  George ended the call and watched the traffic go by, ghostly in the sun’s glare. The father’s impossible position was one thing, the death of an innocent woman another. He telephoned Anna.

  ‘Did Paris ever go to Mount Athos?’

  ‘Every year.’

  ‘Do you happen to know which monastery?’

  ‘Osiou Grigoriou.’

  ‘He has friends there?’

  ‘I believe so. And a spiritual adviser. Why do you ask? Have you found him?’

  ‘Still looking. But this might give me a lead.’

  Driving back into Edessa that afternoon, he got a call from Haris. He pulled over and opened his notebook. Haris had two names to give him: Christophe Lakiotis, based in Geneva, and Philip Ventouris, based in New York. Both dealers in antiquities. The similarity of the New York dealer’s name struck him at once. Ventouris and Medouris were almost identical. Haris had noticed this too.

  ‘OK,’ said George. ‘Tell me what else. These two deal in Greek artefacts?’

  ‘They’re well known for it. Top end of the market. Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Dorotheum…’

  ‘Do they compete or work together?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘They must have agents in Greece?’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘Can you contact them? Find out how they operate?’

  ‘How am I going to do that?’

  George hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Try to sell them something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Those golden wreaths that were in Mario’s coffin.’

  ‘No chance,’ said Haris. ‘If they’re any good they’ll know exactly what happened to those things. They’ll see through me straight away.’

  ‘You could say you have some other material from the same source.’

  ‘That’s even worse! I don’t even know what the source was.’

  ‘Maybe try an indirect approach?’

  ‘Listen, Zafiris, these are hasty ideas. You can’t bluff with the big boys. We need something fresh, something really tempting. Let me work on it.’

  ‘OK, Haris. You work on it. Call me when you’re ready.’

  22 Kokoras I

  Driving into Edessa he saw signs for the hospital and on impulse decided to take a look. It was an impressive new building on the edge of town, surrounded by a vast car park, unfinished but already in use. Doctors hurried through the enormous lobby where wires poked out of bare plaster walls. Patients and visitors wandered about looking lost. A deserted information desk offered no help. Only the bar, a lively little room stacked with sandwiches, bottles and cakes, made any sense.

  George walked in and ordered coffee from the barman, a stout bearded fellow with long curly hair who broke off a phone conversation to serve him.

  ‘Is this the only hospital in town?’ asked George.

  ‘You want two?’ said the barman with a loud laugh.

  ‘I didn’t know about this one.’

  ‘It’s new.’

  ‘I can see that. Is there an old one?’

  ‘In the centre.’

  ‘What’s happened to that?’

  ‘Finished. Demolition job.’

  ‘And private hospitals?’

  ‘In Edessa? You’re joking.’

  ‘If I wanted to find a private hospital, where would I have to go?’

  The barman shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ioannina? Thessaloniki?’

  George took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Are there any plans to build a private hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. You should ask at the Town Hall.’

  ‘I thought you might have heard something.’

  ‘If you need a hospital, why not come here? It’s good. And it’s free.’

  George waved away the suggestion. The man regarded him strangely. ‘Unless you have some rare disease that needs the top specialists.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said George, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Then why are you interested?’

  George was starting to wish he had never started this conversation. ‘It’s my work,’ he said vaguely.

  With a sharp look the barman said, ‘Really? What’s your business?’

  ‘Construction.’

  The barman seemed satisfied.

  ‘This one doesn’t look quite finished,’ said George.

  ‘It’s not. The contractor’s still waiting for the final payment, the government’s bust, you know the rest.’

  ‘Who’s the contractor?’

  The barman stopped what he was doing. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  George shrugged his shoulders. ‘It makes no difference. Must be public knowledge anyway.’

  ‘There’s only one contractor for big jobs like this. If you were local you’d know that.’

  ‘I’m just visiting.’

  ‘Then don’t ask too many questions.’

  ‘How about a few names?’

  The barman did not reply. He began unpacking glasses from the dishwasher.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘There are names, but some are public and some are not. I don’t want to get it wrong.’

  ‘Is Kokoras one of them?’

  The barman gave him a heavy look. ‘If you know that name,’ he said, ‘you’re not as ignorant as you make out.’

  ‘Is he one of them?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

  ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘He’s ov
er there in the lobby. In the red shirt.’

  George glanced over his shoulder and saw a heavily built man in his sixties, red-faced, dressed like a farmer: check shirt, baggy jeans, workman’s boots.

  ‘That’s Kokoras?’

  ‘Don’t tell him I told you.’

  George put a ten-euro note on the counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Keep the change.’

  Kokoras did not look pleased to be accosted.

  George put on a smile and chanced it. ‘George Zafiris, International Health Care,’ he said. ‘We met a couple of years ago.’

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. ‘International Health Care. What the hell is that?’

  ‘We build clinics and medical facilities worldwide.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here for private reasons, but I just saw you and thought I’d say hello, it’s Mr…?’

  ‘I don’t know you or your company.’

  ‘We talked about joint ventures in Greece.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I remember it clearly. Here in Edessa, also in Ioannina and Thessaloniki.’

  ‘Must have been pre-crisis.’