Andreas’ in-laws were in Athens so he stayed at their summer place on Mykonos’ north central coast. It was a rare location, having its own cove. Though by law no beach was private, since Lila’s family owned the land surrounding the cove, for all practical purposes the beach was theirs alone to share with the sea.
Mykonos was a different island out there away from the craziness of the season. A true paradise.
Lila loved sitting on the beach in the morning as Aegean sunlight danced upon the water casting the sea in hues of silver, rose, and gold, popped distant islands into sight, and bounced shades of blue across the sky to fire up a splash of green along a light brown hillside, a shot of pink amid oleander green, a beige lizard against a gray wall, or a cresting wave of white against a deep blue sea.
Andreas’ favorite time of day was late afternoon, watching light range across fields of ochre, gray, and black-framed in the stones and shadows of ancient walls lumbering up onto hillsides or sliding down toward the sea. For Andreas, those tranquil moments eased away his memories of places forever lost to modern times; and led him to wonder how akin his own thoughts might be to those of ancients who looked out upon those same hills, seas, and sunsets so many thousands of years before.
But today was not one for musing about the beach or ancient times. Tassos and Kouros had crashed in the guest bedroom and there was a busy day ahead. Andreas pushed himself out of bed, went to the bathroom, threw some water on his face, and headed for the kitchen to start the coffee.
Tassos and Kouros were already there, cups in hand.
“Morning, Chief. Sleep well?”
“Are you trying to impress me? I can’t remember the last morning I saw you in the office on time.”
Kouros smiled. “That’s because I spend my first waking hours at home doing paperwork, and sometimes I get so distracted I forget what time it is.”
Andreas held out his left arm and used his right hand to feign playing a violin.
“Well, for this morning at least I can vouch that the boy has been working.” Tassos poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Andreas.
“Thanks. On what? Too early to be his suntan.”
Kouros handed Andreas a half-dozen sheets of paper. “It’s everything the agencies had on Sergey Tishchenko. Aside from the arrest in Poland that put him away for two years, he has no criminal record. That might be because up until he moved to Poland he was in the Russian military. One report said he was thought to be part of a military drug and sex trafficking operation that got its start during the first Chechen War in 1994, and kept up at it until they lost their patron’s protection. That fits time-wise, because the ring fell apart about the time Sergey left Russia for Poland.”
“Where was he born? How old is he?” said Andreas.
“Not sure. Records say he was an orphan, but nothing about when, where, or how. He gave a birthdate when he joined the military that made him old enough to enlist. That would make him around thirty-seven, today. He listed his parents as deceased, that he didn’t know their names, and had no next of kin.”
“Sounds like someone trying to hide from something,” said Andreas.
“Or escape. Possibly from a foster home or orphanage,” said Tassos.
“Maybe. What else do you have on him?”
“He was heavily decorated in the military and went from enlisted man to major. The military even sent him to university.”
“He’s a man who knew how to please his superiors,” said Tassos.
“And, if I recall correctly, pleasing one’s superiors in Chechnya meant doing some pretty nasty things,” said Andreas.
“Like drowning your girlfriend in a bathtub?” said Kouros.
“How was he in prison?” said Andreas.
“A model prisoner. So much so that they let him grow his hair as a reward for good behavior. Only incident even mentioning him was the suicide of a cellmate. And Sergey was nowhere around when it went down.”
“What happened?” said Tassos.
“The report says a guard found the cellmate alone in his cell hanging by his neck from shoe laces tied to the railing at the foot of the upper bunk. He’d made a noose on one end and let his knees drop until he passed out. He suffocated.”
“Christ, he could have stood up anytime to save himself,” said Kouros.
“You really have to hate your life to end it that way,” said Tassos.
Andreas picked up his coffee and took a sip. “Or be a lot more afraid of living it.”
“Do you think Sergey might have driven him to it?” said Kouros.
Andreas shrugged. “We’ll never know.” He took another sip. “If what’s in those records is the true story of Sergey’s life, I don’t see how he has the money to buy a hotel on Mykonos.”
“Perhaps he’s back in business with his old Russian military buddies?” said Tassos.
“But why a hotel on Mykonos? All their connections are in Russia,” said Kouros.
“The island is getting a lot more Russian tourists. Maybe they want their own hotel?” said Tassos.
“That would make a lot of Mykonian hoteliers and their guests very happy,” said Kouros.
Andreas put down his cup. “I think it’s time we introduce ourselves to Mister Tishchenko.”
***
The mayor’s office was on the second floor of the late eighteenth century, two-and-a-half-story municipal building at the south edge of the old harbor. It was the only structure on the harbor with terra-cotta roof tiles.
The place had seen a lot of changes over the centuries, most recently a new mayor. The old one had been in power for two decades and likely would have remained so for another two had he not surprised everyone by abruptly resigning in midterm as ruinous financial crises loomed on the horizon.
The office of Mykonos’ mayor controlled virtually everything that happened on the island. If the mayor was not pleased, he could shut you down in a heartbeat. The island’s new mayor was of short stature, mustache, and hair, but long on charm and political instincts. He’d been in local politics his entire adult life and knew how things worked on his island: money talked.
So, when Wacki called him to say big Russian money wanted to see him ASAP, the mayor passed on his usual early morning coffee in the port with cronies to meet with Sergey in his office.
When Sergey and Wacki walked into his office the mayor jumped up from behind his desk, came around to the other side, and, with arms spread wide open and a broad smile across his face, said in Russian, “Welcome home!”
Sergey was surprised. “You speak Russian?” he said in Russian.
The mayor said in Greek, “I have no idea what you just said, my friend, because I just exhausted my knowledge of Russian in welcoming you home, but please, sit.” Wacki translated into English as the mayor shook each man’s hand and pointed to three chairs at a small round conference table next to a window overlooking the harbor. Once his guests were seated, the mayor took the empty chair.
“What did you mean by ‘Welcome home?’” said Sergey in Greek.
“No need to struggle with Greek, said the mayor. “I see you speak English.”
“Yes.”
“My English is not so good, but I think it would be better if we try to speak in English. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“What I meant was that this building was built by a Russian count and it served as his residence. We’re sitting in a place where you and your countrymen should feel as much at home as we do. Our home is your home!”
Sergey smiled. “Thank you. That is very kind of you to say.”
The mayor nodded. “I’m sure you’re very busy, so why don’t you tell me how I can be of assistance to you?”
“I assume by now you’ve heard of my interest in acquiring a hotel on the island?”
“Yes, Lefteris is a dear friend. He said you made a very generous offer and assured him that things would continue as they always have.”
“That was very kind of him to say, and yes, I understand there are certain interests that must be protected.”