Santorini Caesars (12 page)

“Almost. I just have to bring out what's on the trays from the kitchen and put them on the table.”

“Plus the bread.”

“Will do.”

“Hurry up. I'll get the hot water started for your shower.”

Petro cocked his head at her.

Sappho turned and walked three meters to the left of the kitchen entrance to a door marked PRIVATE.

She smiled at him. “It's down here in the basement. But don't worry, handsome, the soap's all yours. I don't need a
hot
shower.”

She opened the door. “But fair warning. Mother's angling to bring you the towel.”

***

It took Petro fifteen minutes to shower, shave, dress in dark pants and a white shirt, and be back in the dining room. Sappho stood by her desk wearing a tight fitting, knee-length black skirt and snug white cotton blouse in the deeply plunging décolletage style so favored by Greek women. Perfectly centered between her breasts hung a heavy gold and emerald cross on a black lanyard.

“You clean up nicely,” she said.

He tried not to stare at Sappho's breasts. “You don't look so bad yourself.”

She adjusted her neckline. “I figured if I dressed like this, they'd pay less attention to you.”

He watched as she finished. “That's very considerate of you.”

“It's to protect us. We don't want our guests discovering there's a stranger among us since we promised it would be only family.”

“So, who should I say I am?”

“Where are you from?”

“Athens.”

“I mean before that. Where's your family from?”

“Argolis.”

“In the Peloponnese?”

“Yes.”

“Great. You're my father's godson and the son of my father's best friend. What's your father's name?”

“Ilias. But that still doesn't make us family.”

“Are you kidding? You're a godson, which makes you more than family. He had no choice with me, but with you he did.”

Petro smiled. “You sure do have a strange way of looking at things.”

“And you've been working with us for the past three summers.”

“What if they check your records?”

She smiled. “Off the books, of course.”

“But what if they don't believe my story?”

She touched the buttons on her blouse. “I'll undo another one. Or two. Don't worry. Just don't talk. Let my father and me be the life of the party.”

Before he could answer, the taverna's front door swung open and a line of straight-backed men in casual dress began parading through it.

Petro swallowed hard.

Showtime
.

Chapter Twelve

Nearly an hour passed and not one of the men had sat down. They stood in small groups, drinking, talking, and grabbing
meze
off the table almost as quickly as Petro brought more appetizers out from the kitchen. Sappho spent the time circulating among the men, plying them with drinks and flirting up a storm in a theater-in-the-round troubadour performance worthy of an Academy Award—and making it highly unlikely that anyone would sit anytime soon near a microphone.

The operation had jumped off the tracks headed straight for the realm of FUBAR. The only good thing Petro could think of to say about the way the evening had gone so far was that Sappho's performance had made him invisible. Everyone acted as if he weren't in the room.

He'd been able to match every face to photographs taken of the men staying at the hotel. That meant twenty-four men. He counted heads to confirm. No number twenty-five yet, no unrecognized face, no mysterious guest.

A loud voice rose up from one of the groups. “Gentlemen, it's time to take our seats for dinner. I assume no one as yet has had so much to drink that he won't be able to find his way to his own name at the table. I emphasize
as yet
.”

Amid courteous laughter everyone promptly moved to his assigned seat.

“A good beginning,” said the same man after everyone had sat. He was a swarthy, buzz-cut fellow in his early fifties who likely hadn't missed a meal in a very long time. “We all made it safely to the table.” He looked to his right and paused. “Except for one. But we're not going to wait for the straggler.”

He waved at Petro and pointed to the empty chair and place setting next to him. “Take all this away.” He leaned over and looked at the place card. “If Mister Guest is not here on time, he doesn't get to eat with us.”

Petro nodded and quickly removed the setting and chair to another table.
Who the hell was number twenty-five
? He shook his head.
This now was officially Fucked Up Beyond All Repair
, he thought.

“Hey, Petro. Get it in gear, man. We've got a lot of hungry people to feed.” Sappho stood with her hand on the shoulder of the man who'd ordered him to remove the place setting. “And be sure to start with our host, dear friend, and savior of Santorini skies from the Turks, our beloved air marshal.” She patted Buzz-Cut on the shoulder.

The air marshal waved dismissively but his face beamed at the praise.

Petro forced a smile and headed into the kitchen. For the next forty minutes he did nothing but shuffle back and forth from the kitchen, holding plates of food in each hand and more plates lined up along his right forearm. Whenever he caught a glimpse of Sappho she'd be reaching over one man or another pouring wine. More than once he heard her laughingly tell someone that she only poured wine, so he'd have to service himself with his other requests.

He watched Sappho's father work his way around the table, smiling and joking with his guests, all the while taking orders for their next course.

Sappho's mother and her three female Bulgarian assistants remained in the kitchen, quietly working away, though all smiled at Petro each time any one of them caught his eye.

He'd done his best to eavesdrop on the conversations at the table, but nothing he heard was much different from what he'd expect to hear in any other group of guys out for the night. Sports, new clubs, vacation plans, women and—of course—Sappho's tits. What they didn't talk about is what caught Petro's attention. Not one word about politics, an unheard of situation in a gathering of Greek men out for the night. It was as if they'd been ordered not to discuss the subject in public.

Petro stood at the kitchen counter, avoiding eye contact with the women while he waited for more food to carry to the table. He wondered why, despite how badly this evening had gone for his unit's surveillance operation, he was having such a great time. He really enjoyed helping this family do its thing.

Perhaps tonight's undercover disaster was meant as God's way of suggesting to him that police service might not be the best career path. Yes, the Lord surely did work in mysterious ways. Perhaps even in a kitchen.

One of the women smiled at him.

Perhaps as a Bulgarian cook.

On that thought, he allowed himself a wide smile, blew all the women kisses, and laden with plates, walked back out to the table.

He caught a glimpse of someone standing by the front door. “Sappho, you've got company at the door.”

She yelled over to the man, “Sir, may I help you?”

Everyone turned to see whom she'd called to.

The man walked toward her. “Sorry to be late, but my plane was delayed in Athens.”

The air marshal jumped to his feet. “Ah. So you're our surprise guest. Why didn't your office tell me instead of keeping it a secret?”

The man shrugged. “You know how things are these days. I'd rather keep my agenda to myself.” He looked to be in his mid-forties, slim, of less-than-average height, and most likely not military.

The air marshal nodded. He pointed at Petro. “You. Set a place for my friend at my right hand.” He patted the man on his back and helped him off with his coat. “Come, sit. We have a lot to talk about.”

Petro quickly set a place for him next to the air marshal, taking great care to position the tablecloth clamp between the two men. He held the chair for the man to sit down, then hurried back to the kitchen, glancing skyward as he did.
Thank you, Lord, thank you.

***

Within fifteen minutes after his arrival, every general officer had made a point of getting up from his seat to say a few words of respect to Guest. When one officer asked to have his picture taken with him, Guest turned to Air Marshal and whispered in his ear.

Air Marshal immediately announced to the table, “There will be no photographs this evening.” He then called out to Sappho, her father, and Petro. “That applies to you, too. No photos. In fact, turn off your phones.”

“Yes, sir,” said Petro.
Nice idea but too late
. Someone fidgeting with a smartphone these days was practically invisible. All it required was a bit of technique and a silent shutter setting so as not to tip off your subject. He'd long ago taken and sent along photos of everyone at the table, including more than a dozen of Guest.

For the next twenty minutes Guest and Air Marshal sat locked in hushed, eye to eye conversation. Air Marshal turned away from the conversation first.

He picked up his wineglass, leaned back in his chair, and took a long sip. He held the glass for several seconds before putting it down and clearing his throat. “Gentlemen, I need your attention.” His voice was firm and clear, but not loud.

Some voices immediately stopped; others continued as if they'd not heard him.

He repeated in the same tone, “Gentlemen, I need your attention.”

More voices stilled, and those that didn't were nudged to silence by those who had.

Petro took Sappho by the arm, put his forefinger to his lips, and steered her into the kitchen. Her father had beaten them there.

“They don't want us in there now,” said the father.

Petro nodded. “It's best that we just sit here and listen for when they call us.”

Sappho opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead glanced out through the doorway at the table. “Yes, let's just sit here in the kitchen and listen.” She nodded at two chairs. “Bring those in here and follow me.”

Sappho walked along the wall separating the kitchen from the dining room, and stopped under a vent. Pointing up she whispered, “We'll sit here, right below the vent. But be quiet, because they can hear us the same as we can hear them.”

“This is crazy.”

She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “There's another vent above their table. It's our unofficial intercom with the dining room. When we're really busy, we stand under it and shout out the orders.”

“Your customers must think you're crazy.”

“I should hope so, what with all I do to make them think I am. But at least this gets the orders working faster.”

Petro put down the chairs. “Are you sure we should be doing this?”

She nodded and sat. “Aren't you curious?”

Of course he was. But he knew the microphones would pick up everything, so there was no reason for him to risk someone from the table walking into the kitchen and catching him eavesdropping. The chief would skin him alive.

Sappho reached out and touched his hand. “Okay, if you're not curious, just think of this as humoring me.” She sat focused on the vent, and tugged at Petro's hand without moving her eyes. “Please, sit next to me.”

Petro shook his head, dropped onto the chair without letting go of her hand, and listened.

Air Marshal's voice came roaring through the vent. “Gentlemen, it is our great privilege and honor to have with us this evening our Prime Minister's most trusted and respected advisor. He has shown himself on countless occasions to be the man whose counsel our Prime Minister treasures most. We have known each other for many years, and though we have our differences, I respect him as a forceful, determined advocate who once committed to a cause will not rest until it succeeds.”

He paused. “Now if only we could convince him that a strong military remains Greece's best hope for a secure future in these restless times.”

Over applause he introduced the guest by name to the others at the table.

“Thank you, Air Marshal. I, too, am deeply honored, for you have given me the opportunity of addressing our country's finest, most dedicated military minds. You are Greece's strong right arm, the modern day embodiment of our ancient warrior tradition carrying on with a proud history of valor that serves as inspiration to heroes everywhere.”

Applause.

Guest smiled. “Thank you for that. Applause is something we in government receive precious little of these days.”

A few men laughed.

“I'm particularly gratefully for your applause now,” he continued, “for once I've said what I've come to say, I dread I may hear no more.”

Nervous glances bounced around the table.

“I was asked to speak on the topic of domestic terrorism, but I have something far more important to share with you. I do not have to tell you, gentlemen, that every day our democracy is locked in battle with economic catastrophe. Not since the horrors of the World War II German occupation have so many of our countrymen faced suffering of such third-world proportions. Our efforts to reason with our creditors only intensify their demands for deeper carvings into social programs they see as unnecessary, wasteful, or simply too generous for our times. They do not grasp that what they ask saps the very marrow of what makes us Greeks.”

A couple of officers applauded but abruptly stopped when no one else joined in.

“Many have given up hope. Our brightest youth flee for studies and careers elsewhere. The poor are getting poorer, the rich have already moved their wealth to foreign shores, and the middle class fears being no more. Tax evaders are more blatant, criminals more forceful, and all feel prey to their neighbors' envy. The very fabric of our nation is at risk.

“We cannot permit that to continue. And I am here tonight to tell you we shall not.”

Silence.

“Our Prime Minister has weathered many difficult times. He's been forced to accept concessions he despised, dictated by foreign powers in order to keep our ship of state afloat. He is no stranger to hard choices, and I'm about to inform you of another he's forced to make. I doubt you'll agree with it, but as he's convinced of its wisdom it shall come to pass. I am here merely to tell you to prepare.

“There is no country in Europe with a bigger military for its size than Greece. There is no country in NATO as militarized as Greece, and no country in the EU with a bigger proportion of its Gross Domestic Product dedicated to military spending than Greece. Until the financial crisis struck, we numbered among the world's five biggest arms importers and even today have four times the number of German-made, top-of-the-line Leopard tanks as Germany's own military.”

He shook his head. “Our Prime Minister does not see how he can justify spending of that magnitude in the face of the extraordinary amounts owed to our creditors and the crushing economic and social toll that burden takes from our people every day.

“He is convinced we need a new direction, one that rejects outdated thinking and wasteful ways. He asks, what are the concerns that fuel our military budget? Turkey? The Turks may rattle their sabers but would never dare invade our NATO country. FYROM? It may call itself Macedonia, but it too would never dare act upon its desire to run its southern border into the heart of northern Greece.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Our Prime Minister sees all of that as scary tales told to the Greek people by politicians of the old order for but a single purpose. To justify their ongoing corrupt dealings with our nation's armorers. Their greed has cost our nation billions, and made them and their patrons very, very rich.

“I am here to tell you those days are over. We shall embrace our NATO and European allies as our protectors and spend our precious resources on fulfilling our party's promises to the people, not on buying foreign armaments. Gentlemen, embrace the new order. For it is here.”

Silence.

The air marshal coughed. “Thank you for sharing the Prime Minister's views. I'm sure you realize many of us have very different opinions on how best to address our nation's predicament.”

A chorus of agreement arose from around the table.

“But I see no reason to ask you to defend the Prime Minister's thinking with us here tonight. We came for an evening of camaraderie and fun, not serious discussions. There will be time enough for that later.”