Devil of Delphi: A Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis Mystery (9 page)

“When he did, we followed him to Kifisia. He parked next to an apartment building listed as the address for the car. He went upstairs to an apartment, and from the street we could see him with what appeared to be his wife and two young children.”

“Just your typical, hardworking, Greek family man,” smirked Tassos.

“Trying to make ends meet selling bootleg,” said Kouros.

“From the neighborhood you tailed him to, I’d say he’s making a hell of a lot more than any liquor salesman I ever knew,” said Andreas.

“I checked him out. He’s connected through his wife to a political clan up north.”

“Let me guess.” Tassos gave him Tank’s family name.

“How the hell did you know that?” said Kouros.

“Lucky guess.”

Andreas answered for him. “An informant told him that a member of that family had gone into the bootleg business. It all fits. His nickname is Tank and he keeps his organization tight by using family members wherever he can.”

“The warehouse looks like it could be a major distribution point for his booze. We could hurt him real bad with a raid,” said Kouros.

“He’d probably claim he uses it for his legitimate booze business and didn’t know anything about the counterfeit,” said Tassos. “But even if you nailed some of his relatives in the warehouse in the act of putting phony tax stamps on
bomba
, I doubt you’d catch more than small fry.”

Andreas made a fist. “We have to yank this network out by its roots. That means shutting down his producers and distributors, not just taking him out. Otherwise, all we’re doing is making it easier for another bootlegger to step into his shoes.”

“Not sure we can ever avoid that from happening,” said Tassos.

“We can try,” said Andreas.

“Sounds like you don’t want him to know we’re onto him,” said Kouros.

Andreas nodded. “Not until we see if we can get a shot at bringing down the whole operation.”

“Works for me,” said Kouros. “Just tell me where to go from here.”

“Have Petro stay on the Kifisia relative. I want a list of everyone he contacts. And once Petro has those names, tell him to do the same for the other salesman-looking types you saw at that warehouse. That should give us a handle on the distribution side of his business.”

Kouros made a note in a pocket-size notebook. “Got it.”

“I want you to head up north and see what you can find out about the production end. But be careful who you talk to, because with all the money involved, anybody could be in Tank’s pocket.”

Tassos nodded. “And he won’t take kindly to someone he thinks might be trying to shut him down, even a cop.”

“Especially a cop,” added Andreas.

“When do I leave?”

“As soon as you can.”

“Guess that means I’m out of here. Got to get home and pack. It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.” Kouros stood and smiled at Tassos. “Amazing how a man of your age can still manage to stay up all night.”

Tassos shrugged. “It’s simple. Don’t take care of your prostate.”

Chapter Nine

Teacher sat in her study surrounded by things. All very expensive, immaculately maintained, and scrupulously accurate in presentation. Not one offered her a memory of her past. Any that did, even fleetingly, were banished to an auction house. Even the lone photograph in a silver frame on her desk pictured a young girl, someone she never knew, symbolizing a life she’d never lived.

She would have preferred never returning to Greece. Certainly not in search of another headstrong man to work for her, given the bitter disappointment of her last experience on that score. But this new one came highly recommended, too much so to ignore. More than she needed his help, she knew that it would be bad business for him to end up working for one of her competitors.

Too many mad religious zealots, preaching terrorism as the primary reason for existence in this life, wanted her dead. She and they appealed to the same recruits, for she also saw terrorism as a tool; but as one to better the lives of her followers in this life rather than simply as a means for transporting believers to the next.

She drew in and let out a deep breath. The young man had demonstrated the necessary physical skills and courage, and was clever too. He could be a sociopath, a trait common to his line of work. The question was, would he follow orders or look to run his own game? Children forced to raise themselves could go either way.

She knew that all too well. She’d had parents. Just never knew them. At the thought, memories came at her in rapid, flip-book fashion. Instinctively, she focused on the anonymous girl’s photograph to fend them off, but some other instinct made her pause, and she let them come:

An Eastern European child, stolen away so young that her first memory was of her hands making knots for carpets and her body serving the much larger hands of faceless men. She’d survived as a trafficked slave by learning to obey orders in whatever language they were given, and emerging as the unquestioned ruler of her fellow captives’ tiny universe by adopting the cardinal principle of her enslavers:
Do as I say or die
.

When her enslavers found more profit to be made from her as a full-time whore, she’d used her beauty to escape the life of those forced to take on all comers on a shantytown cot, and ultimately her wits to escape slavery by marrying the police protector of her captors.

She shook her head as if to stop her thoughts, but they rolled on. Now came the memories of her two fine sons, a kind husband who encouraged her education, and the day she found all three slaughtered in their home by a still unknown enemy.

On that day she became a nameless refugee fleeing to a foreign land, abandoning all connections to her past. In time she no longer feared death, and with that newly discovered liberty, took absolute control over her life for the very first time.

She made friends among the many like her that she met in shelters and on the streets. She’d lived their lives; she spoke their languages, and they had bonded. She taught them how to overcome and unite, weaned their fears into strength and their innocence into power. She used the skills she’d developed as a trafficked child to harness their rage at society’s empty promises and focused them in violent attacks on those she presented as symbols of their oppression. She offered them a simple satisfaction for otherwise belittled lives: revenge. And in return they called her Teacher.

It did not take long before prospective targets saw the wisdom in paying Teacher for protection from her followers’ ire. That’s when money started rolling in and Teacher’s life became infinitely more complicated. It led to bankers, lawyers, and investment advisers. Teacher had become part of the very system her followers despised.

But they saw her as different, for she brought them a better life, something no government had ever done. In exchange, they ruthlessly spread her methods of doing business across Eastern Europe, taking advantage of power vacuums that accompanied distracted, corrupt governments. And those who went to prison found new followers for her inside. No opportunity was missed. Teacher had become the quintessential, multi-national corporate leader.

She’d achieved far more than she’d ever dreamed. And none of it had been about the money. For her it was all about protecting the marginalized and oppressed; a mission that today made it
all
about the money. Today she faced off against fanatics possessing seemingly unlimited resources, recruiting the gullible from around the world with grand promises of a glorious afterlife for all who followed them in their violent path against the non-believers.

Her competition financed their proselytizing with oil and drug money. Teacher relied on counterfeit booze—and a global network of loyalists channeling its profits into bettering the day-to-day street-level lives of the exploited. All she asked of those benefitting from her largesse was the simple commitment of absolute fealty to furthering her vision. If that meant some had to die in the process, so be it. Her goal was just.

Teacher shifted in her chair and thought about what Kharon had said to her in the car. “It’s never been just about the money.”

She smiled.
Perhaps he is the right choice.

***

At a casual pace, the drive from the hotel near Athens’ Omonia Square to Kharon’s home in the modern village of Delphi just beyond ancient Delphi took approximately two hours. For most travelers, entering modern Delphi meant a two-lane highway splitting into twin one-way streets, each a third of a mile long, one taking you away from the ancient site toward the towns below and one bringing you back. The streets stood lined with hotels, restaurants, snack bars, tourist shops, an occasional market or bakery, the random private home, and on one road, a post office. Much like most tourist areas, the locals lived away from the main streets, in this case up the mountain. There they’d find the goods and services necessary for sustaining a normal existence amid a tourism-driven economy.

But, for Kharon, entering Delphi today meant that he’d made the trip from Athens in one and a half hours, a near record, in large measure due to the BMW motorcycle he’d borrowed from Jacobi.

“Why not, you paid for it?” was all Jacobi said when Kharon asked to borrow it.

The rush of the high-speed ride cleared Kharon’s helmetless head and got him thinking about Teacher’s offer. No question if he accepted it he could say good-bye to being his own boss. She’d own his soul. And if she somehow thought him disloyal or inept, that would be the end of him. Or maybe there wouldn’t even have to be a reason; simply an instinct on her part to get rid of him would do the trick.

But—and it was a big but—if he refused her offer, she’d likely kill him now. Her story about them parting ways amicably if he declined her offer was pure bullshit. Someone as powerful as Teacher, and used to dominating the lives of all about her, did not take rejection well. Rejection made her type worry about the motive and, rather than worry, elect to remove the source of concern. She’d probably already lined up his killer, just in case she had to pull the trigger. He thought about that last point. He thought about it a lot.

Know thyself,
he thought,
and thy enemy better
.

By the time Kharon reached home he’d made up his mind. If he had no choice but to work for the devil, he’d damn well better have the devil’s respect from the start. That meant pressing the devil hard. Extremely hard. Kharon now knew his price, and how far he might have to go to get it.

***

Sunset colors in the Athens sky depended upon a lot of things. Some of which the city tried to control by limiting vehicular traffic in the city center according to the last number on a license plate. Those with even numbered plates could enter on even days, odd ones on odd days. But no matter what colors happened to be performing on a particular night—orange, magenta, crimson, rose—staring out his apartment windows at the Acropolis, backlit against a sunset sky, never failed to remind Andreas of how very blessed he was.

He sat in his living room holding his son on his lap, pointing at the Parthenon and telling of the glory that once was Greece.

“Daddy…do gods live on the Acropolis?”

Andreas kissed Tassaki on the top of his head. “We Greeks certainly hope so.”

“My teacher said all gods are myths.”

“Do you know what a myth is?”

“A story. Like fairy tales.”

“You’re very smart for four.”

“Do you think my teacher is right?”

“I think your teacher believes they are myths. Other people do not. That’s something for you to decide for yourself when you’re older and can read about them.” He kissed him again.

“I know how to read.”

Andreas smiled. “I know you do, but some books may be a little too difficult for you to understand right now. I’ll see if I can find one for you about the gods. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Lila poked her head through the doorway from the dining room. “Marietta said dinner is ready.”

Andreas put Tassaki on the floor, and the boy ran to his mother. “Daddy is going to buy me a book all about Greek gods, so I’ll be able to find them when they come to the Acropolis.”

Andreas caught a wondering look on Lila’s face. He shrugged. “It beats raising an Xbox junkie.”

Lila took Tassaki’s hand, led him to the table, and helped him into his booster seat. “Tomorrow, right after preschool, we’ll go to the bookstore and find you a good one.”

Andreas gave Lila a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for saving me the trip.”

“Thank you, too, Mommy.”

“You’re welcome.” Lila gave her son a kiss on the cheek and sat down between him and Andreas.

Marietta came into the room, carrying a bottle of white wine and a juice box. She put the juice box down in front of Tassaki. “Now you be careful not to squeeze the box or else you’ll spill the juice and your mother will not be happy with either of us.”

Lila smiled as Marietta poured some wine into her glass. “I’ll be careful too.” She turned toward Andreas. “Theo sent us a case of his best wine as a thank you for your helping him.”

Andreas stared at his glass as Marietta served him the wine. “I haven’t helped him yet, and I’d have preferred he’d not have done that.”

“Why, do you think someone might think he’s trying to bribe you?”

Andreas shot Lila a quick glance, moving his eyes to Tassaki and back to her.

Lila silently mouthed, “Whoops,” followed by saying, “I meant, do you think someone might think he’s trying to ride you into taking action?”

Andreas smiled. “Nice recovery, but yes to both formulations.”

“Should I send it back?”

Andreas gestured no. “Let’s just thank him and ask for the name of his favorite charity so that we can send a check in his name in appreciation of his gesture.”

“Isn’t that a bit of an overreaction for a case of wine?”

“Far less has brought down honest cops.”
Like my father
. “No point in giving folks angles on me. Right?”

Lila nodded. “Absolutely. No problem, I should have realized that in the first place.”

“What’s a bribe?” said Tassaki.

Lila bit at her lower lip and looked at Andreas.

Marietta picked up a small plate filled with salad from the sideboard and placed it in front of Tassaki. “Eat all of your greens and I’ll give you rice pudding for dessert.”

Tassaki’s face lit up in a smile, “Rice pudding’s my favorite.”

“Yes,” said Marietta, “and giving it to you for eating your greens is what’s called a bribe.”

Andreas leaned over to Lila and said in a stage whisper, “She gets a raise first thing tomorrow.”

Marietta smiled, did a brisk curtsy, and continued serving.

Lila tasted the wine. “Very good.”

Andreas took a sip and nodded. “I sure hope I can do something for Theo. This is shaping up to be something a lot bigger than just Greek bootleggers. We’re going to need quite a bit of cross-border cooperation.”

“Doesn’t seem to be much of that happening these days from what I see in the news.”

“Europol is still pretty helpful. It’s local authorities that make things tough in these situations. There’s so much money available for bad guys to spread around that it seems practically impossible to root out the protected ones.”

“I take it you’re saying this isn’t some Greek version of a cartoon showing an American hillbilly moonshiner trying to outwit the revenuers?”

“Definitely not.”

“So I guess that means I root for the revenuers.”

Andreas grinned. “That would be nice.”

“I want to help, too, Daddy.”

Andreas smiled. “Thanks, son.”

“I’m going to ask the gods to help you.”

Lila looked at Andreas but spoke to Tassaki. “How are you going to do that?”

“In my prayers.”

Lila turned and faced Tassaki. “We only pray to one god.”

“Mommy, I know that. That’s why I’m going to ask our God to speak to his friends who live in Greece to help Daddy. After all, isn’t that what Greek gods are supposed to do, help Greece?”

Lila tousled Tassaki’s hair. “Out of the mouths of babes.”

Andreas lifted his wineglass. “From your lips to God’s ears, my son.”

Tassaki lifted his juice box. “
Yia mas
.”

Lila stared at Andreas as she lifted her glass. “And he’s only four!”

***

Teacher picked up the phone on the third ring. She could have on the first, but delay suggested nonchalance on her part and many times triggered unconscious anxieties in the caller. Both good things in negotiations. And she knew that’s what this would be, for it was Kharon calling. Only he had the number for this line, scrambled and untraceable to her.

“Hello.”

“Teacher?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Kharon.”

“How nice to hear from you. I had expected a call from you sooner. You have patience.”

“I have a price, too.”

“I like someone who gets right to the point.”

“As do I.”

“So, what is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

Teacher cleared her throat. “Complicated?”

“There are olive trees and an olive oil production facility near where I live for sale. I want you to buy them for me.”