Deadline in Athens (29 page)

CHAPTER 30

On the way back, the driver of the patrol car changed his route. He turned off of lakovaton Street and drove down Patission Street.

"You tell them that the person you're after frequents a certain bar, and it doesn't occur to them to make inquiries at the nearby hotels," Thanassis said. "The lousiest reporter is better at his job." He was looking at me through the rearview mirror.

"That's what you get when you organize the investigation by phone from your office instead of supervising it personally," I said, and he shut up. I held back on "You're a moron," because I didn't want to embarrass him in front of the driver, his subordinate.

I wondered if I'd done the right thing with Kolakoglou, or if I'd let my belief that he was innocent run away with me. But what else could I have done? After all, there was one positive thing to come out of all that business. It proved that Kolakoglou either didn't have a circle of friends to hide him or that he'd exhausted his limits and had been forced to stay in a hotel under a false name. So now we knew where to look and we'd be able to find him more easily. The only problem was Ghikas. Once again, I'd failed to inform him. I'd done what I'd thought best and I didn't know how he would take it.

The whole way to the traffic light on Alexandras Avenue Thanassis said not a word. "Do you want me to tell you now about Petratos?" he said as we were passing the Pedio to Areos Park.

"Go on." I preferred him to tell me then, because it was almost noon and I'd be up to my neck in the office. Not to mention that I had to report to Ghikas.

"I found someone who saw a black Renegade parked two streets down from Kostarakou's place."

"What time?"

"At six-thirty. He's a lawyer and he was going back to his office. He parked in front of the Renegade."

"Did he notice the license number?"

"No."

"Ask in the building where Petratos lives if anyone noticed the Renegade missing from the garage after around five."

"I already did. One of the tenants was in the garage just before six and is certain that Petratos's car wasn't there." He was congratulating himself for making up for his blunder with Kolakoglou.

"You see how far you get when you ride hard?" I said patronizingly. He took it as a sign of reconciliation and smiled in relief.

I went straight to see Ghikas. If I delayed, it would only make things worse. He listened to me without interrupting even once.

"Are you sure they went to the hotel without notifying us first?" he said at the end.

"Yes. They didn't inform us or the local police station."

"Are there any witnesses to confirm that?"

"The hotel owner, who called the station. And the police officers who found them there."

"You did right to let him go," he said, obviously pleased. "Now they won't dare say another word about Kolakoglou. We lost him because of them." He looked at me and smiled. "Yesterday, you were surprised that I contacted Delopoulos right away. He used the information, wanted to move behind our backs, and made a mess of it. That's what it means to be flexible. You throw him the cheese, he goes to bite it, and he falls into the trap."

I smiled at him. If I was lucky and Ghikas was to remain another couple of years in that position, then with all the tricks I was picking up from him, I'd be certain to get a promotion.

"So that's the good news. Now for the bad news," he said. "I received the handwriting report. We drew a blank. It's not Petratos's."

On the one hand, it rankled me. On the other, though, I was thankful that my intuition always led me to keep something up my sleeve. "I told you yesterday that would probably be the result. It doesn't mean a great deal, in any case." And I gave him the latest on Petratos's Renegade.

Things had taken a downturn with the negative report on the handwriting, and he was weighing how he was going to deal with it. "Leave it to me," he said eventually. "I'll sort it out and I'll let you know. Meanwhile, find out all you can about Pylarinos."

"I'm like a cat on hot bricks, that's why I'm moving slowly," I said, to show him that I was following his advice. "In a couple of days, I'll have something."

I wasn't at all surprised that the usual throng wasn't in the hall. They were all at their studios, editing their videocassettes and sound recordings for the day's big story. The same story all around and each of them with an exclusive report.

On my desk I found the photographs from Karayoryi's film.

In the first one, Pylarinos was holding up his drink, smiling, as if wanting to toast me. It was only natural that he was in good spirits, as he was partying in a nightclub with three others. Two of them were obviously foreigners, Germans, Belgians, Dutch, I'd no way of knowing-at any rate, they looked like northern Europeans. The other one was lank and surly. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a dark suit, his hair was brushed back and stuck down. He didn't look to me like a businessman. More like the director of a ministerial department or of some public organization. While Pylarinos and the man next to him were plainly enjoying themselves, this one had a constipated smile, as if he were smiling out of obligation. There was something about his face that was familiar to me, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen it before. Sitting beside him was the last member of the group, a hefty, round-faced man with swollen cheeks. His hair was combed over his forehead. It seemed as if they'd put him beside the other one because he had the same reluctant smile. I'd bet money that those two weren't having any fun at all. Below right, the camera had recorded the date: 11/ 14/1990. Fine, so on November 14, 1990, four men were partying at the Diogenes Club. One of them was Pylarinos, the second one reminded me of some one, and the other two were foreign and unknown to me. What was special about it? Was it the photograph, or the date, or a combination of the two? I couldn't come up with an answer and I continued.

In the next photograph, the two with the sour smiles were in a cafeteria at a table beside the window. The photograph was taken from outside in the street and I couldn't make out their expressions because the glass was reflecting the light. The date at the bottom right was 11 / 17/1990. Three days after the Diogenes picture, the odd couple from the group had met to talk without the others. Why were these two meetings so important that Karayoryi had gone to the trouble of getting them on film?

It seemed that at some stage she'd grown tired of photographing people and had decided to focus on vehicles. Because the next four pictures were refrigerator trucks and coaches belonging to Pylarinos's company. The trucks bore the company name Transpilar, with the address and the telephone and fax numbers. On the left side of the coaches were the words "Prespes Travel," again with the company address, telephone, and fax numbers. Photographing people was one thing. Obviously, she had her reasons. But why was she photographing Pylarinos's fleet of vehicles? I couldn't understand it.

I heard the door open and looked up. Sotiris came cantering in.

"What is it?"

"I sent the written requests to the airport and customs. I'm waiting for a reply. They promised to phone me from customs as soon as they come up with anything, but as it's been two years all the documents have been filed away."

"What about the names I gave you?"

"I located all of them. Two of them came back dead. Fotiou died six months after returning. Petassi lived a bit longer. For a year. Died of AIDS. The only one still alive is Spyros Gonatas. I've got him outside waiting for you."

Of the five on Karayoryi's list, four were dead. We were off to a good start. "Bring him in," I said impatiently.

I opened the drawer and took out Karayoryi's file. I found the list. Gonatas was the one who'd traveled by bus to Budapest on March 3, 1992.

The door opened and Sotiris ushered in a couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Gonatas," he said, as he showed them where to sit.

Gonatas looked to be in his sixties, nearly bald, with just a few tufts of hair left around his temples. His jacket was a different color from his trousers. It wasn't a sports jacket and flannels, just the halves of two different suits. He was wearing a crewneck pullover, which left just enough room for the knot of his tie to stick out. His appearance suggested a small-time shop owner-haberdasher, stationer, milliner, something like that. The woman with him was a bit younger. She was wearing a loose, gray overcoat. Her hair was jet black, flecked with a few white hairs. Two ordinary people, who were now sitting opposite me, nervous and worried.

I put on my kindest expression to make them feel at ease. "Don't worry, it's not about anything serious," I said. "I just need to ask you a few questions." I saw them relax, but at that moment the phone rang.

"Haritos."

"Haritou." It was the voice of Katerina, who always laughed at her little joke.

"Hello. How's things?"

She immediately understood my tone, because usually I'm full of sweet talk. "Is someone with you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Okay. I won't keep you. I just phoned to say that you're the best daddy in the world."

"Why?" I asked like a moron, as I felt a smile spread from one ear to the other.

"You know why. Because you're sending Mom up to me for the holidays."

"Are you pleased?"

"Yes, but only half pleased."

"Why only half?"

"Because the other half would be if you came. And you'll be all alone in Athens."

"You want everything," I said, teasing her to hide my emotion.

"No. You've always taught me to make do with a little." I knew why she said that. Because I was stingy with her allowance so that she wouldn't take everything for granted.

"I love you."

"And I love you, dear." I'd forgotten the couple and it slipped out. I heard her hang up and I put the phone down.

"My daughter," I said to the couple. "She's studying in Thessaloniki and called to say hello." So that they wouldn't think I was talking to my mistress, and also to break the ice. Evidently I succeeded in the latter because they smiled sympathetically.

"Mr. Gonatas. On March 15, 1992, you went on a journey to Budapest."

"That's right."

"Can you tell me the purpose of your journey? Was it for pleasure, business, or what?"

"I went for treatment, Inspector. I had a kidney transplant."

So that was it. They'd all gone abroad for organ transplants. That might explain Petassi's AIDS. Perhaps he'd got it from a blood transfusion.

"You can get a transplant in Greece. Why did you go to Budapest?"

"Because we'd been on the waiting list for seven years and we were desperate, Inspector," his wife said, intervening. "Seven years of hell. Going twice a week for dialysis and with no light at the end of the tunnel. God bless that woman-she saved us."

"What woman?"

"One afternoon, as I was coming out of dialysis, a woman came up to us," said Gonatas. "It was November 'ninety-one."

"No, it was October. I remember it well," his wife said, correcting him.

"Anyway. She asked me if I was interested in a transplant abroad. In Budapest, Warsaw, or Prague. Three million drachmas. Opera tion, hospital, hotel, tickets, all included, and paid for in Greece. Yitsa and I sat down and thought about it. We might have been waiting for another seven years here. We didn't have the money for Paris or London. So we took a chance, agreed to the deal, and I was saved."

"What was the name of this woman?"

Gonatas glanced briefly at his wife. Then they both looked at me, once again nervous and perplexed.

"Do you think there was anything illegal in what you did?" I asked innocently.

"Heavens, no!" the woman cried. "My Spyros got his health back, that's all!" She didn't know that the other four had died and that only a miracle had saved her husband.

"Then why won't you tell me her name? You've nothing to fear, and neither does she."

"Her name was Dourou," Gonatas said with resolve. "Eleni Dourou."

Where had I seen that name? I couldn't recall. "Do you have an address for her? Phone number?"

"We don't have anything," his wife answered. "She had our number and she was always the one who communicated with us. She brought us the tickets, together with the voucher for the hotel and a paper for the hospital saying we'd been accepted, and the date that we had to be in Budapest. We arranged everything else through the travel agency."

"Which agency was it?" I asked, although I knew the answer already.

"Prespes. We went there by coach and came back by plane. It was cheaper that way."

I remained silent and looked at the couple across from me. They'd gone to Budapest, the man had regained his health, and they'd found peace. Now I'd come along, opening up old wounds, and had planted in them the worm of disquiet.

"All right. That's all. You can go home now. I don't have any reason to question you again."

This reassured them and they got up to leave. As soon as they'd gone, I called Sotiris in.

"Note down the name Eleni Dourou. Find her for me."

I picked up the two lists and looked at them. On June 25, 1991, a coach left Tirane for Prague. On June 30, 1991, Yannis Emiroglou left Athens for Prague. On October 20, 1991, a bus left Bucharest for Budapest. On November 5, 1991, Alexandros Fotiou left for Budapest. Spyros Gonatas, who left Athens on March 15, 1992, was linked with a bus that left Bucharest on March 6, 1992. It didn't take much to realize what was going on. They found various poor wretches, Albanians, Romanians, or Bulgarians, and bought one of their kidneys. They took the Albanians to Prague, the Romanians to Budapest, and the Bulgarians to Warsaw. Then they notified the patient in Greece, telling him where to go. There, they took the kidney from the donor and transplanted it in the patient. The Greeks returned home cured, and the Albanians and Romanians were left with one less kidney and a few banknotes in their pockets. Okay, four of the five had died, but we were talking about transplants and they were no joke. And, after all, anyone who had an objection could go and file a lawsuit in Prague, Budapest, or Warsaw. He could do absolutely nothing in Greece. There wasn't even an illegal export of currency involved.