Codename Xenophon Read online

  ‘Can’t you wait, and we report simultaneously?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s only fair. Three days is all I need.’

  ‘OK. Friday seven p.m. and no going back.’

  It was now five p.m. on Friday. George opened the file.

  There were the daily registers of movements, the telephone numbers used by Mrs Kakridis, the recordings, the photographs, the envelope of receipts. With misgivings in his heart he switched on his laptop and drafted a summary of his findings.

  It was a quick job. He had done it dozens of times before and the sentences flowed readily. “The subject was observed for a period of twenty-one days. On three occasions she visited the Hotel Socrates in Kotzias Street, spending two hours there each time. Her visits coincided with those of a well-dressed professional man who had booked a room under the name ‘Karouzos’. A waiter took whisky and coffee to the room on each of their visits, noting that Mr Karouzos came to the door in a kimono on two occasions, and the subject herself, wrapped in a sheet, on one. No incriminating photography was possible as the room was curtained, but we were able to obtain a few pictures of Mr Karouzos and the subject sharing a cigarette at an open window. The evidence suggests an intimate relationship. No other activities or visits by the subject give rise to suspicions of any kind.” He left it at that.

  It was six forty-five. He telephoned Pezas.

  ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready!’

  ‘Warning first. Then, if they insist, the evidence to be sent by courier?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  He ended the call and dialled Mr Kakridis on his private line.

  A harsh, impatient voice answered, setting his nerves on edge. George forced himself to stay calm. He told Kakridis that his suspicions were confirmed, and advised him not to pursue the case any further, or to examine the evidence, which would only upset him.

  Kakridis exploded: ‘You think I’m paying you to give me advice? And make unsupported allegations? You must be crazy!’

  ‘These are not unsupported allegations, Mr Kakridis. I have all the proof you need.’

  ‘Then show me, goddamn it!’

  ‘I am recommending that you don’t look at it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For your own peace of mind.’

  ‘Let me worry about my peace of mind! Just do your job and hand over the evidence.’

  ‘You’ll get the evidence. I’m just telling you…’

  ‘Don’t tell me anything!’

  ‘OK, I won’t.’

  ‘If my wife’s cheating on me, I need details.’

  ‘It’s a recipe for disaster.’

  ‘She should have thought of that before she started.’

  ‘The other thing to consider,’ George continued patiently, ‘is your own conduct.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘If you’re going to make accusations, be sure you’re without blame yourself.’

  ‘Listen, friend, I don’t need your lectures!’

  ‘This is a warning I give all my clients.’

  ‘Then you should be a priest, not a fucking detective.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Get those documents to me at once.’

  ‘I’ll send a courier. Home or office?’

  ‘Office! Mark it “strictly private and confidential” or my idiot secretary will open it and the whole bloody disaster will be in the papers by morning.’

  George replaced the telephone. He sealed the envelope and rang a motorcycle courier. Then he closed his eyes.

  The door-bell woke him. He checked the videophone. A man in motorcycle gear, his helmet under his arm, had come for the package.

  ‘Second floor,’ he said, and pressed the buzzer.

  George poured himself a whisky and soda, thinking of ‘Mr Karouzos’ in the Hotel Socrates. Karouzos, indeed! As if he was some kind of opera singer!

  He telephoned Pezas.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘As expected,’ said his colleague. ‘She wanted the evidence.’

  ‘You advised against it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She hit the roof.’

  ‘Funny. Her husband did the same.’

  ‘You see?’ said Pezas. ‘They need the certainty. Otherwise it eats at them.’

  ‘Has she paid you?’

  ‘On the nose. How about the husband?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’re running a risk.’

  ‘He won’t want his adventures in the papers. Or his wife’s.’

  ‘You wouldn’t go to the press, would you?’

  ‘No. But I’d like him to think I might.’

  ‘You keep copies of everything?’

  ‘I keep originals. He gets the copies.’

  5

  Early on Saturday morning, George made a sudden decision to visit Zoe. With the sun still cool as it slanted between the buildings, he collected his car – an old blue Fiat Mirafiori, dented and rust-flecked after years in the war zone of Athens traffic – and drove out along the road to Marathon.

  It was a thoughtful journey, between firewood yards, plant nurseries, kitchen and bathroom showrooms, speedboat parks and builders’ merchants crammed with brick barbecues – a dreamland of American-style suburban life. Every now and then came a road sign for Marathon, jolting his mind to that ancient battle. Four hundred black ships beached at Schinias. The Persian army, twenty-five thousand strong, camped among the fertile fields, preparing to strike at Athens. And their arrogant general, carting along his own fat block of granite, ready to inscribe it with a memorial of his victory. Nine thousand Greeks – Athenians and Plateans – saw them off. Brilliantly, boldly, driving a wedge of terror through the centre of the enemy lines, scattering their cavalry in panic to flee and drown in the marshes. Their success was improvised, unexpected. In an exceptional gesture they buried their dead with their weapons and horses on the battlefield. And carved the presumptuous granite into a statue of Nemesis.

  George liked to visit the site, which was still a chessboard of green fields between the mountains and the sea, with its olive groves and irrigation ditches, a peaceful place where the best of Greece was preserved. A grassy mound held the remains of the Athenian soldiers. One could stand there and be charged with their spirit, still strong after two and a half thousand years. A little museum, built by a patriotic ship-owner, displayed the statues and urns, the bronze tripods and gold jewellery, of a cave sacred to Pan, an ancient cemetery, a Roman temple to Isis.

  There were some who compared Greece today to the way it was in 490 B.C., drawing dark parallels between the invading Persians and the International Monetary Fund. As if the Persians had been a team of technocrats and economists, bringing nothing more sinister than administrative reforms and the rule of law! George winced at the idiocy of it. Like every Greek he was fascinated by the past, but he was disgusted when it became an excuse for avoiding the responsibilities of the present.

  Thirty kilometres out of town, he turned off for Rafina, and drove slowly down to the port. At the sight of the sea his heart lightened. The next ferry for Andros was leaving in half an hour.

  He arrived at the house to find Zoe in the kitchen, wearing an old green apron, the table piled with apricots. She had been busy all morning stripping the trees. She offered him a hot cheek to kiss.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ she said.

  ‘I came on impulse. Had a tough week.’

  ‘I’m making jam. Want to help?’

  ‘Sure. Let me have a coffee first.’

  He had hoped for a lazy afternoon, but he didn’t want an argument.

  In fact he enjoyed jam making. The apricots bubbling in the cauldron, reddening as they cooked, the whole kitchen fragrant. When the syrup thickened, they poured the jam into hot jars, spiking a few ‘specials’ with raki or brandy, and, fingers scorching, gripping each jar tight in a cloth, they screwed ho
me the lids. It was evening when they finished.

  ‘Let’s have a swim,’ said Zoe.

  They drove down to Aprovato, where the sun hung low over the horizon. George plunged in and swam straight along its track, through flakes of fire. The water was cool and salty, its blue depths darkening as the day dimmed. Zoe followed him, sleek-headed, her face changed by the sea.

  He felt young, despite four dozen years on earth. He was still fit, and had managed not to put on weight, unlike many of his friends who sat behind desks all day, never walked further than thirty metres, and lived in a state of gluttonous lethargy. He enjoyed exercise – running, tennis, working out in the park, but most of all swimming, pushing through the water, every muscle engaged, gravity-free, dissolving the toxins of city life.

  They drove to Costa’s taverna on the hill, drank a bottle of retsina and ate sea bass grilled on charcoal with a sauce of lemon and olive oil. They remembered their early married years, before Nick was born. Life had been easy. Whole summers had gone by between the sea, taverna and bed. Later came the realisations. Nothing happens without effort, children and work take up every moment of the day. Even fruit trees need care.

  Zoe had suffered from this awakening. Somehow it led to an affair. A ship-owner, with houses in Switzerland, New York and Paris. Everything done by servants. Even shopping. For twelve months it had thrilled her. Then suddenly she was home again, among the plates and laundry, saying very little.

  Was she happy to be back? She never said. But she was back: that was the important thing.

  These memories were unspoken, and familiar to them both. They ran parallel to the conversation.

  She asked him about Athens. The TV had shown strikes, protests against the government. The Prime Minister, George Papandreou, gave daily speeches, even on foreign visits. He stressed the need for solidarity, for sacrifice. Greece had staved off bankruptcy with a rescue loan, but this came with strict conditions. ‘The Greek people,’ said Papandreou, ‘have no choice but to accept.’

  But the Greek people – at least a well-organised minority of them – had no intention of accepting their ‘orders from Washington and Brussels’. Let the plutocrats pay! It was their tax-dodging and profiteering that had plunged the country into crisis.

  ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not as bad as it looks. Life goes on as normal.’

  ‘And the protests?’

  ‘They take place in front of parliament. Everywhere else, peace and quiet.’

  ‘What are people saying?’

  ‘Depends who you talk to. People who are comfortably off say it’s pay-up time, previous governments borrowed too much, now we must stop spending and put our house in order. We can’t do it ourselves, so we need help. On Wednesday I heard a man say he would welcome a German and an IMF official in every public office in Greece. Just to put everything straight. Working people say it’s not their fault, so why are they forced to pay? They’re resentful. And the communists and anarchists are pouring petrol on the flames.’

  She nodded. Then, as if continuing a previous line of thought, ‘You remember those three young people who died in a bank a few weeks ago?’

  ‘In May? The fire-bombing?’

  ‘That’s right. My cousin Evi’s son, Panos, knew one of them. The pregnant girl.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘In fact it was four who died. Including the unborn baby.’

  ‘You wonder what these idiots were thinking as they threw their molotov cocktails,’ said George. ‘Some fool of a spokesman was callous enough to say the bank workers deserved to be punished!’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Ignoring the call for a general strike.’

  ‘That’s sick.’

  ‘Those bastards will never be brought to justice. They wore masks, hooded jackets.’

  ‘I wish you’d look into it, George!’

  He frowned. ‘I can only do that if someone hires me.’

  ‘I could suggest it to the family.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll want special rates.’

  ‘They’re not like that.’

  ‘Please – no!’

  ‘You’re odd sometimes,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t work for family.’

  ‘Even if the family’s desperate?’

  ‘They should let the police do what they can first.’

  ‘I’m just sad for my nephew, and for the girl’s family. I want to do something for them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Try to help, George!’

  ‘I’ll give them some general advice. They can go to one of my colleagues. Pezas is a good man.’

  She glared at him.

  This was typical of their meetings. The potential was there for old affection to grow again. For a while they seemed to feel it. Then it was gone again. And it seemed too far to reach, too humbling to their pride. As they left the taverna and drove home along the mountain road, they retreated into private thoughts. Back at the house, they changed for bed, took turns to wash, and, he in pyjamas, she in a nightdress, switched on their reading lamps and opened their separate books. They were soon asleep.

  In the morning Zoe rose early, made coffee and toast, and labelled the jars: “George & Zoe’s Apricot Jam, Andros, June 2010”. Symbol of a happy union which did not really exist. A pious hope. Perhaps if they tried hard enough, and often enough, and didn’t talk too much about difficult things, the hope might take root and grow.

  George came into the kitchen and saw the subliminal message, repeated along the rows of jars. It seemed improbable. Like trying to walk back along the road of time, turning the boiled and sugared fruit back into fresh apricots on the tree. An impossible alchemy.

  They had breakfast on the terrace, among the roses and pots of basil. Birds sang in the trees. The valley was ablaze with morning light. The apricots were preserved now, thought George, even if the bloom had gone. Could they hope for anything more?

  6

  On Monday, back in Athens, George sat in the Café Agamemnon sipping coffee and planning his week. This was his local – a dozen metal tables under the arcades of Aristotle Street. The sun shone brightly among the buildings, casting deep diagonal shadows. Buses and scooters whizzed by, old Captain Andreas wandered through selling lottery tickets, and a canary twittered on a balcony above. Dimitri served his customers with dignity and grace, even though his wife was dying. This part of Athens George loved. It was still a neighbourhood, where experience was shared and the pain of city life eased away by wisecracks, coffee and cigarettes.

  George reached for the newspaper on the next table. At once he wished he hadn’t. “Suicide of a member of parliament” ran the headline. His pulse quickened as he read. Angelos Boiatzis had left his apartment yesterday afternoon to take his dog for a walk. Two hours later, he had failed to return. His wife went out to look for him. Alerted by their barking dog, she made for a clump of pine trees, where she found her husband on the ground, a pistol in his hand, a blackened hole in his shirt. In a statement to police Mrs Boiatzis said that he had left no note. She was at a loss to explain this tragic event. An article on page three analysed a political career brutally cut short.

  George was starting to read this when his phone rang.

  ‘George? It’s Hector. Have you heard the news?’

  ‘I was just reading the paper.’

  ‘I wish to God I’d listened to you!’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Giving the evidence to Mrs Kakridis. She must have had it out with her husband and threatened to expose him. He then hit back with the information you gave him, and threatened to expose Boiatzis. I’m sure that’s what drove him to kill himself!’

  ‘Hold on, Hector! That’s a hell of a stretch. Do you know any of this for a fact?’

  ‘It’s obvious!’

  ‘Nothing’s obvious. All I see is a lot of questions.’

  ‘Have you seen
the obituaries?’

  ‘I was just reading one.’

  ‘Read them,’ said Pezas. ‘He was a hero.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I feel like shit because I failed to protect a decent man. One of the rare ones.’

  ‘You were paid to do a job.’

  ‘I should have listened to you!’

  ‘Listen to me now. Forget all this. It’s not your fault.’

  A silence greeted this remark.

  ‘Hector?’

  ‘I don’t find that a helpful thought,’ said Pezas. ‘I like to think I’m doing some good.’

  ‘Then stay out of marital work. It’s a shitty business.’

  ‘It’s ninety percent of my income.’

  ‘Then you’re in the wrong game. Go and open a pet shop instead.’

  ‘I may well do that.’

  ‘I’ll bet Boiatzis shot himself for some totally unrelated reason.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I tell you I’m feeling bad…’

  ‘Stop it, Hector, save your energy for better things.’

  Pezas rang off and George returned to the article. Boiatzis, said the writer, was an idealist who had gone into politics for all the right reasons and only achieved a modest success. “Although widely respected,” the piece concluded, “he lacked the aggression that alone achieves results in our cut-throat political culture.”

  ‘Amen,’ said George.

  His phone buzzed again. It was Kakridis, telling him to get over to his office at once. He would not say what it was about.

  George finished his coffee and set off on foot for the parliament building.

  It was a twenty minute walk, down to Panepistimiou and along to Syntagma Square. There were few signs of crisis on the way: a gipsy beggar or two, some anarchist graffiti. The luxury shops still looked busy, the ladies coming and going with the same expensive hair-dos, the same couture, handbags and jewellery.

  For once Kakridis did not keep him waiting.

  ‘This business with Boiatzis,’ he said, the moment his office door was closed, ‘is a bloody disaster.’

  George nodded.

  ‘I’m looking ahead,’ said Kakridis. ‘To the further damage this can do.’

  ‘In what way?’