The TV was on in the living room and the picture showed the back of someone's head. The voice coming out was that of a young girl. Her words were confused, faltering, and came out sharply, as though someone was forcing them out, one by one:
"He used to buy me clothes…:'
"What sort of clothes?"
"Blouses… skirts…"
"And then?"
"He'd take me to his home…"
"What did you do there?"
"He'd dress me in the new clothes…"
"Did he do anything else to you?"
"He would look at me."
"Only that?"
"He told me that I was a pretty little girl… and he touched me…"
"Where did he touch you?"
"On my hair… my arms… my legs, sometimes, not always…"
"Just that?"
"Yes."
The back of the girl's head vanished from the screen and in its place appeared Sotiropoulos's face, grave, expressionless. His eyes, however, had a glint in them. Two fireflies, behind round glasses.
"Ladies and gentlemen, a man was sentenced to six years in prison on the basis of only a journalist's report and the allegations made by two sets of parents," he said with the look of someone unraveling a massive travesty of justice. "I'm not saying that he was convicted unjustly, but without doubt the charge of indecent assault of a juvenile is open to question. The fact that Kolakoglou's tax consultancy firm passed into the hands of the parents of the two alleged victims also leaves questions to be asked. I couldn't say whether that is of any significance in the case. Maybe yes, maybe no. At any rate, today Kolakoglou is a wanted man. If he weren't living under the burden of his conviction, it is almost certain that no one would be seeking to arrest him." He allowed a moment to pass, then added in a meaningful tone: "We reporters are sometimes prey to excessive zeal and are sometimes blind to its consequences."
Catalytic, that's what Robespierre was. Adriani could bear it no more and pressed the remote control. "What's he up to? Is he trying to pretend Kolakoglou is an innocent lamb?" She was furious.
"No. He's simply trying to discredit Petratos and the rival Hellas Channel."
"And is that the right way to do it?"
I wanted to change the subject. I was in no mood to discuss Kolakoglou, Petratos, or Sotiropoulos in my own home. "I spoke to Katerina," I told her.
"Well, you should have heard her on the phone when I told her that I was going up to Thessaloniki. Just like a baby girl." She looked at me furtively. "Couldn't you come too for Christmas? It falls on a weekend this year."
I bit my lip to stop myself from saying yes. "It's impossible. I can't leave while this case is still open. Something might come up and I'd have to run back." It wasn't only the case. It was the cost of the trip and the hotel because we couldn't all stay at Katerina's place. Then I'd have to borrow money to send her in January.
Fortunately, my tone was categorical and Adriani didn't persist. Before we sat down to eat, the phone rang. Adriani answered. "Someone called Zissis," she whispered, and handed me the receiver.
"Greetings, Lambros:"
"I have to see you. You know Hara's, the confectioner's that sells homemade ice cream at the end of Patission Street?"
"Yes."
"I'll be waiting for you there in half an hour and you can buy me an ice cream," he said and hung up.
I told Adriani I wouldn't have anything to eat as I had to go out again. In any case, my stomach still hadn't settled.
"Who is Zissis?"
"A colleague," I said, as vaguely as possible.
CHAPTER 32
We sat at a table by the window that looked onto Patission Street. Zissis was eating his parfait ice cream, while I made do with soda water. He was scraping the glass so clean with his spoon that it wouldn't need washing.
"Christos Pylarinos," he said eventually, sounding like a civil servant. "Son of political refugees. Born in Prague. Grew up there and studied economics there. Kept well away from party politics. As soon as he'd finished his studies, he entered a state-owned company. I think it was Czechoslovakian Airlines, but I was unable to verify that. He was competent and soon rose from the middle to the higher echelons of the company. He was unable to get to the top because only party members were appointed to the higher positions. At the beginning of the eighties, he suddenly appeared in Greece and opened a tourist business. The question is: Where did a company employee working in a socialist country get the money to open his own business in Greece?"
He looked at me with a crafty smile. I didn't have to rack my brain. I knew where he was leading. "The Czechs gave it to him."
"Just so. All the socialist states opened businesses of that kind in capitalist countries, because they needed the foreign currency. Some opened them through sister parties in the capitalist country, but more often than not they used individuals as fronts. Pylarinos belongs in the second category."
"And why would the Czechs trust the son of a Greek political refugee? How were they so sure that he wouldn't run off with their money?"
Zissis's smile was all condescension, as if he were talking to a mental retard. "They had a powerful control mechanism. First of all, they put one of their own people beside the individual acting as a front, to watch him on a daily basis. In addition, the sister party in the host country undertook a high level of supervision and regularly reported back to their comrades in the source country. And on top of all that, they also had a guarantee."
"What kind of guarantee?"
"Pylarinos's father died years ago, but his mother is still alive. She came back from Czechoslovakia in 1990."
"They used Pylarinos's mother as their guarantee?"
Zissis shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time, but again I can't be sure. The party's finances were monitored by a very small circle of members. Even party leaders in high posts didn't know everything that was going on. But doesn't it seem strange to you that the son should have a huge fortune in Greece while the mother was living on her state pension in Prague?"
It wasn't only strange, it stuck out like a sore thumb. Zissis shook his head fatalistically.
"Controls, covering for each other, mechanisms-they thought of everything. There was only one thing they hadn't reckoned on. That all this would collapse like a house of cards in 'eighty-nine. And suddenly Pylarinos found himself with a vast fortune, all his own. The Communist Party of Czechoslovakia had disintegrated, its echelons had scattered, and those who came to power had no means to lay claim to all these fortunes. It's quite possible that the new people didn't even know of their existence."
"And suddenly, from being a marionette, Pylarinos became a businessman in his own right."
"I don't know about `right'!" Zissis leaned toward me and lowered his voice. "Pylarinos is like a red flag. He appropriated money belonging to others, lots of money. I'm not the only one who despises him. He is despised by all the party members. They'd be happy to see him rot behind bars, but if they expose him, they'd have to bring a lot more to light. I'm telling you all this, so you'll understand that no one likes him." He shifted his position. He sat back in his chair, looked at me, and said with absolute certainty: "But there is no way he's involved in any dirty business."
"Why is that?"
"Think about it. As long as the socialist regime existed in Czechoslovakia, he didn't dare put a foot wrong. They'd have got rid of him. Now he has a fortune. Why would he get involved with dirty money?"