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  She offered him a chair. ‘Cup of coffee?’ she suggested.

  ‘Why not? Greek if you can manage it.’

  ‘We can. How do you take it?’

  ‘Métrio.’

  She picked up the phone and ordered two medium sweet coffees. Then she turned to George and said brightly, ‘How can we help?’

  This was so thoroughly the opposite of what he had come to expect from civil servants that it took George a moment or two to recover. Rudeness, arrogance, laziness, obstructionism… Any of those would have been normal. But courtesy? Helpfulness? And coffee? It was unheard of.

  Feeling slightly ashamed of the necessary lie, George gave his cover story. Mrs Kyriakou did not ask too many questions, but quickly and efficiently looked up the names of other cycling organisations in Athens and around the country, with the names of people to speak to. George conscientiously took notes, wondering all the time how he could push the conversation on to what he really wanted to discuss. The coffee was brought in. He reached for his wallet but she had the money ready.

  ‘Allow me,’ said George.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  He accepted with thanks.

  ‘Mr Filiotis was a hospitable man,’ she said. ‘We maintain the tradition.’

  This was his opening.

  He asked her if the new Mayor planned to continue Mario’s work. She replied, with only a slight hesitation, ‘He intends to.’

  ‘He was ambitious wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was.’ She spoke proudly of the projects and initiatives that Mario had cultivated, his contacts all over the world, from Argentina to Canada, Senegal to Japan. ‘He had hundreds of friends,’ she said.

  ‘He didn’t make enemies?’

  ‘A lot of people ask that. You’d be amazed. Very few. He had such a clear vision, such conviction. Everything he said made sense. We can’t go on burning up the earth’s resources, destroying the atmosphere, heating up the planet. We’re killing ourselves! We’ll be flooded, we won’t have air left to breathe. And what for? To keep the oil companies happy!’

  ‘It’s those vested interests that I’m worried about,’ said George.

  ‘They know the truth. And the genius of Mario – sorry, I mean Mr Filiotis – was that he helped them to see it. He wanted partnership, not antagonism.’

  ‘In Athens people are saying he was killed deliberately.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Athens is the world capital of conspiracy theory.’

  ‘I thought you meant something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That he really was killed deliberately.’

  She stopped and looked at him more closely. George began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  When she spoke again she chose her words with care.

  ‘I don’t want to speculate on the death of Mr Filiotis. As far as we know it was an accident.’

  ‘That’s the official story.’

  ‘And you don’t believe it?’

  ‘I’m not saying that,’ said George. ‘But given the possible impact of Mario’s policies on vested interests, it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to start a campaign group?’

  George mistrusted the question. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said.

  ‘I thought you might be afraid of getting killed yourself.’

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘The more people take up the cause, the more power we have.’

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘But I still don’t know what you really think.’

  ‘What I really think is nobody else’s business,’ she said. ‘Have I answered your questions?’

  ‘Yes. I just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m curious to know what else Mario was up to. This is nothing to do with my campaign group. Just as a friend.’

  Mrs Kyriakou looked puzzled. ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘I mean apart from cycling and the environment, what other projects did he have?’

  ‘I don’t see the relevance of this.’

  ‘None at all,’ said George. ‘It’s just curiosity about my friend.’

  ‘Have you seen his website?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take a look.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Mariofiliotis.gr’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of looking on the internet.’

  ‘He used it a lot.’

  George stood up. ‘You’ve been very kind,’ he said.

  She shrugged off the compliment. ‘I would do anything for Mario,’ she said.

  7 Threads in a Web

  Back at his hotel, George settled down to explore Mario’s website.

  The range of ideas and interests was immense. Transport systems, alternative technology, recycling, water treatment, footpaths, folk music, organic farming, public health, urban regeneration, eco-house building, marine propulsion, wildlife conservation, ethical investments, legal and institutional reform, renewable energy, education, sports facilities, fair trade, the media – there was scarcely a branch of human activity that he did not touch on somewhere. He called his website a ‘worldwide hub for sustainability’. It glittered with photographs, buzzed with discussions. All very impressive, but George felt mired in possibilities, swamped with information. He was no further on. Somewhere in that mass of detail there might well be a clue to Mario’s death. But where? And how would he know when he found it? Almost any of those initiatives, if it crossed the wrong people, could have cost him his life.

  He thought about Mario pedalling through Athens. If he had been knocked down deliberately, the people who did it must have followed him. They would have known where he started his journey. They may even have started alongside him. Had they just met him? Could it be as simple as that?

  He needed Mario’s diary or phone. Both would have been with him when he died. So now they would be in police hands. Therefore unreachable.

  Then he thought about Mrs Kyriakou. Perhaps she might have a record of Mario’s schedule?

  He telephoned her office.

  She was surprised to hear from him so soon.

  ‘I forgot something important,’ he said. ‘Mario promised to introduce me to someone useful for my campaign. We were going to meet on the day he died. I couldn’t make it, but he promised to tell me about it afterwards. He must have been on his way from that meeting when he was killed.’

  ‘You want to know who he was meeting?’

  ‘That would be useful.’

  ‘Let me check the diary.’

  She was quiet for a few moments. Then: ‘Mr Zafiris?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There are three letters and an address: EAP, Leoforos Kymis 136.’

  ‘Who is EAP?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen them in his diary before.’

  ‘No matter, I’ll find out. Thank you very much.’

  ‘He had two more meetings that day. Do you want those names too?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Petros Karagounis, and Dr Milton Skouras.’

  ‘Any addresses for those?’

  ‘Karagounis no address. Dr Skouras at the Red Cross Hospital.’

  George scribbled down the details as she spoke. With a twinge of conscience for deceiving such a helpful woman he thanked her and laid down the phone. He was quickly back on his laptop searching for Skouras and EAP. He had no need to look up Petros Karagounis, who was an old friend. Still, he wondered what the business connection between them might be.

  EAP was obscure. It could stand for Employee Assistance Programmes, English for Academic Purposes, Europe Athlétisme Promotion, and the European Association for Psychotherapy… But there was no connection there with any of Mario’s interests, wide as they were, and no company or organisation with that name registered at Leoforos Kymis 136. He would have to go and visit in person.
r />   Dr Skouras was easier to find, although just as hard to explain. A physician with a career that included spells in the US and Britain, he was a visiting professor at universities in Thessaloniki and London. Mario might have been to see him for private or public reasons. Skouras did not sound like the kind of character who would take out a contract on another man’s life. But even that could not be taken for granted. People are unpredictable.

  *

  Back in Athens that evening, he bought Zoe a bunch of flowers on his way home. She was half asleep in front of the television and smiled wanly when she saw them. There was a depressing atmosphere in the apartment. It was stuffy, hot and dark.

  George kissed Zoe on the forehead and said, ‘I’ll put the flowers in water.’

  In the kitchen he found the fridge empty. ‘Did Dimitri not feed you?’ he asked.

  ‘He tried.’

  ‘How hard did he try?’

  ‘Very hard. I had to kick him out. But it’s not his fault. I don’t like being told what to do.’

  ‘You have to eat!’

  ‘I know,’ she said wearily.

  ‘I’m going to get some food. I’m hungry. I want you to eat too.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He ordered a roast chicken from the local takeaway, with pitta, salad, tzatziki and beer. They said they would deliver in half an hour. The light on the telephone flashed as he spoke, indicating a message on the answering machine.

  He pressed the ‘play’ button and listened: Haris Pezas pressing for another meeting, then an unknown woman called Anna Kenteri.

  He decided both could wait until tomorrow, and went through to the kitchen to lay the table.

  8 Among Doctors

  Next morning, as they lay in bed together, Zoe asked George to bring her a cup of coffee. ‘I have something to tell you,’ she said.

  In the kitchen, George opened a fresh bag of mousto biscuits, sweetened with grape juice and cinnamon, to go with the coffee. Still in a sleepy haze, he carried the tray into the bedroom.

  ‘Something’s wrong with me,’ said Zoe solemnly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  She began a tangled tale. Feeling unwell a month ago, she had been to Pierris, their old family doctor in Andros. He had listened, examined her, asked questions, and sent her home with a prescription for mild tranquillisers, to be taken if she became anxious.

  This visit did not reassure her, so she went to a private specialist in Athens.

  This doctor ordered tests.

  She also went to a second doctor in Athens. A rival specialist who ordered different tests.

  The test results were ‘not good’. She did not say which ones – first, second, or both. She was now afraid and depressed. One of the specialists prescribed stronger anti-depressants: fermoxan. He also recommended surgery.

  The other specialist said surgery was risky, would not cure the problem, and could quite possibly make it worse.

  So what was the problem? She did not say what it was, or where, but gestured towards her abdomen.

  It was, she said, ‘inside’ her.

  When George asked why she had not told him about it before, she said she didn’t want to worry him.

  ‘You’ve worried me now,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t avoid it any longer.’ A panicky light flashed in her eyes. ‘I’m being possessed by something, I think of it as the death force.’

  ‘There is no such thing as the death force,’ he said decisively.

  ‘It’s everywhere!’

  ‘It’s not a force. It’s just the way things go when they lose energy.’

  ‘How come I feel it inside me, like a presence?’

  ‘It’s your imagination.’

  ‘I feel it very strongly.’

  George hated this kind of talk. ‘I don’t believe this force exists. It’s a fantasy.’

  ‘You don’t believe it? You’re so used to death.’

  ‘I see it often, but it still tears me apart.’

  ‘That’s exactly what it’s doing to me. From inside my own body. I’m being eaten alive by my own cells.’

  ‘That’s a horrible image.’

  ‘It’s a horrible feeling.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Is this cancer, or something else? Something mental?’

  ‘We’re not sure yet. But it could well be cancer.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘My stomach.’

  ‘Do all the doctors agree?’

  ‘No. Dr Pierris still thinks it’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something psychosomatic… But he’s not a specialist. And he’s old-fashioned.’

  ‘He’s also not charging monstrous fees.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Can you talk to them? I’m so confused. All these opinions!’

  George stroked her hair and told her he would take care of it.

  Later that morning, he left messages with the secretaries of Zoe’s three doctors. Every one of them was busy with patients or ‘in a meeting’, and he had no doubt they would fail to call him back. Only the old-fashioned Pierris might manage it – if he remembered. With the others it would take five or six attempts. They would have patients queueing up to see them, crisis or no crisis.

  He emailed his son Nick to tell him Zoe was unwell. Then he called Haris Pezas and asked if he was ready to work. Haris said he was.

  ‘This is a straightforward job,’ said George. ‘I want you to find out all you can about a person, or maybe it’s a company or an association, with the initials EAP. The address is Leoforos Kymis 136. I’ve tried the internet, so don’t waste your time with that. You’ll need to go there in person and sniff around, maybe watch from across the street, or a café nearby, see who goes in and comes out, learn what you can. But – this is the important bit – don’t let them know you’re doing it.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘General information.’

  ‘When do you want this?’

  ‘Soon as possible.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  One more call: the girl on the answering machine, Anna Kenteri. He listened again to the recorded voice. It was edgy, nervous, self-pitying, and it sounded like trouble. But trouble meant money. He punched the numbers aggressively, wanting this out of the way. Her voice irritated him. She was probably the kind of person who wants work done for free.

  She picked up at once.

  ‘You called me back!’ she said.

  ‘It’s normal.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how important that is to me.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  She explained. Her sister, a violinist, had vanished five days ago. Leaving no note, no message, no clue.

  ‘Has she ever done anything like this before?’ asked George.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Is she mentally stable?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Could she have fallen in love?’

  ‘She’s married.’

  ‘That’s not necessarily an impediment.’

  ‘Love isn’t the problem, Mr Zafiris! Something bad has happened. I know it.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘She calls me every day. Only now she hasn’t for five days.’

  George found her unsettling in a way he could not define. Her insistent manner. Her familiarity. He wanted to end the conversation.

  ‘The cost of an investigation is five hundred euros per day,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ she replied.

  ‘Paid in advance.’

  This had the desired effect. ‘I need to think about that,’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ said George. ‘Expenses are on top. You have my number. Think as long as you like.’

  A few minutes later Nick called, concerned about his mother. George told him not to worry but asked him to talk to her, say reassuring things. Nick said ‘of course’ and George took the phone through to th
e bedroom.

  9 Dinner with Petros

  That night he had dinner with Petros Karagounis. They sat in a vine-shaded courtyard with barrels stacked high along one side. Such places were vanishing from the centre of Athens. One day soon the owners would retire to their village in the Peloponnese. The taverna would turn into an overpriced coffee bar with sofas and American music. Bossa Nova if they were lucky. Techno or rap if not.

  Spyros came to tell them what was on offer tonight. They ordered grilled fish, tomato salad, fried potatoes, a half-litre of retsina.

  Petros had once been a company executive. He had built a factory on the edge of the city for Universal Ceramics, managed it profitably for twelve years, done the same again in the Far East with lower labour costs, and made three times the money. Ten years later, back in Greece, he was told by the bosses in Illinois to run the Athens factory down. Citing the globalisation of business and the need to trim costs, he was forced to dismantle his own creation, firing the people he had brought in and educated in the ways of the company, asking them “never to give less than two hundred per cent”. He felt like a traitor. It robbed him of sleep. One morning he reported for duty to find there was only one person left to sack. With a hollow feeling in his stomach he opened the letter from head office. ‘Dear Mr Karagounis, Regretfully I have to tell you…’ A week later, as he jogged in the park to lose weight, all the tension and bitterness of those working years exploded inside him. A doctor walking his dog nearby diagnosed a heart attack, kept him going till the ambulance arrived. That was two years ago. He had been putting his life back together since then.

  His new mission statement was ‘avoid stress’, but that is a tall order in Greece.

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked George.

  ‘I’m working on solar power.’

  ‘OK,’ said George. ‘Is there money to be made?’

  ‘Theoretically, yes. Every country in Europe has to generate a fifth of its electricity from renewable sources by 2020. The government issues licences to private investors, with the promise to buy from them at a certain rate for a fixed number of years.’

  ‘There must be a catch,’ said George.