"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.
This was all very well, but why would they murder Karayoryi and Kostarakou, supposing it was they who'd killed them? And why hadn't Dourou given out her address or number? Possibly so that she wouldn't get into any mess with the relatives if the patients died. But why had Karayoryi paid someone to supply her with the case records of the trade in children from the files of security headquarters? What connection was there between the transplants and the children? I was missing a piece of the puzzle.
Then I suddenly remembered where I'd seen Dourou's name. I again took out Karayoryi's file from the drawer and began searching through the photocopies. In one of these, Karayoryi had noted in the margin the name Eleni Dourou.
I called Mrs. Antonakaki and told her I wanted to see her.
"All right, but don't come before seven because I'll be out."
Outside, a north wind was howling. It had knocked two plant pots over on the balcony opposite. The old woman came out to pick them up. The cat was inside the house watching her through the open door. She must be mad to go out into the freezing cold for the sake of two wretched potted plants!
CHAPTER 31
She opened the door to me dressed in black.
"I'd gone to see about Yanna's headstone," she said, as if feeling the need to justify her going out while she was in mourning.
I sat on the sofa, in the same spot where I'd sat the first time. I was tired and was in no mood for chitchat.
"Mrs. Antonakaki, did you ever hear your sister mention anyone by the name of Pylarinos? Christos Pylarinos?"
"Isn't he the one who has the travel agencies? We went on a trip organized by his agency."
"When was that?"
"End of August, beginning of September, 1990."
"Was your sister with you?"
"Yes. There was Yanna, me, and Anna. Yanna had promised Anna that if she got into medical school, she'd take her on a trip as a present. We went to Vienna, Budapest, and Prague. For ten days." The memory upset her. She sniffed and her lip began to tremble. "I'll never forget that trip. It wasn't enough that we had guided tours all day long; Yanna wanted us to go out in the evenings too. I tried to restrain her, partly because I was tired and partly because I saw her spending money right and left. But my sister always did whatever she wanted"
"Apart from that trip, did you ever hear your sister mention Pylarinos?"
"No, never. Though I know she went twice more, after the trip we took together."
"When would those journeys have been?"
"The first time was in the winter. February, I think. And the sec and one was in May. But I couldn't tell you whether she went through Pylarinos's agency."
"On the trip that you went on together, did anything out of the ordinary occur? Anything that might have attracted your attention."
"Nothing. We were together all the time and had a lot of fun." She stopped, as if remembering something. "Apart from two mornings in Prague, when she went off to do her own work."
"What work was that?"
"I don't know. She didn't tell me"
"And she never said anything to you about Pylarinos?"
"No, never."
"Okay, Mrs. Antonakaki. That's all I needed to know."
As I was starting up the Mirafiori, it occurred to me that I should have another look through the folder with Karayoryi's receipts. To see if there were any clues about those trips. It wasn't unlikely that she'd discovered something on her first trip, quite by chance, and had started investigating. In 1990, she'd stumbled on the relationship between Pylarinos and the two foreigners in the photograph and then had made two other trips to get more information. Dourou was the key. If I could only find her, I might start getting somewhere with Pylarinos.