He heard a knock on the door.
“Come in. It’s open.”
Wacki entered wearing fire engine red jeans, a different florescent yellow Hawaiian shirt, white Louis Vuitton beach sandals, and red-frame sunglasses.
“Is there any other man on the island who dresses like you?”
“There’s nobody, man or woman, who dresses like Wacki.”
Sergey suppressed a smile. “So, what has you up and about before noon?”
“The files you’re interested in. I’ve been asking around. About the fat cop. And whether anybody knew anything about him and some files. I told folks there was money in it.”
“And?”
“A Bulgarian cleaning lady who works at the airport called me this morning. Bitch woke me up.”
“Just get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. A few mornings ago she was cleaning up the baggage area to get it ready for the first flight of the day in from Athens when she heard someone forcing open the sliding doors leading into the baggage area from the terminal. It’s illegal to do that but sometimes locals who don’t want to wait outside for their friends do it anyway.
“It was a fat guy with a briefcase and she told him he shouldn’t be in there. He thanked her for being a ‘concerned citizen’ but said he was a cop on official business and continued walking toward the doors leading out to the runway.
“He stood by the doors until the plane landed, then went out onto the tarmac to meet two other men coming off the plane. She recognized the other two as cops who used to work on Mykonos.”
“Kaldis and Kouros?”
Wacki nodded. “Anyway, she stopped paying attention once she realized the fat man must have been a cop, too.”
“That’s it?”
“Not quite. An hour or so later she was working on the second floor when she saw the same three cops come out of the director of operation’s office. It surprised her, because she knew the director was out of the building.”
“And the briefcase?”
“Still with them.”
“When did all this happen?”
Wacki smiled. “The morning after Christos’ body was discovered and Tassos Stamatos conducted an investigation of the scene.”
And emptied the safe, thought Sergey. “I want to meet with that Syros cop right away. But let’s make it a surprise.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Syros lay forty-five minutes due west of Mykonos by fast boat, in the north central region of the Cyclades. The island’s architecture varied from town to town, but was heavily influenced by romantic classicism and differed substantially from traditional Cycladic forms, as did the muted, slight peach cast to its capital city of Ermoupoli.
The Zodiac entered Syros’ harbor at Ermoupoli from the east, aiming toward a long concrete dock running in front of the customs house and port authority headquarters on the right side. Off to the left loomed shipyards that once were the busiest in Greece, but that was long ago. So, too, were the island’s modern glory days.
Phoenicians were the first known inhabitants of Syros, naming the island from their word for “wealth,” and later occupiers, pirates, and Syriots seeking precisely that same prize brought boom and bust times to the millennia that followed. Syros’ last great aristocratic run, as Greece’s nineteenth century ship building and repair center, ended at the close of that century with the opening of the Corinth Canal and the harbor and shipyards at Athens’ port city of Piraeus.
Syros still had its stunning neo-classical buildings, streets paved with marble, and opera house-some said the first in Greece-but there was no question the glory had faded. No more than four hundred of the island’s twenty-five thousand residents still worked in its shipyards and though known for agriculture, the island’s main role now was as the political center of the Cyclades.
Wacki pointed beyond the shipyards at the shell of a building all the way across the semicircular harbor. “That building is Lazaretta. It was built in the 1840s to quarantine anyone arriving by sea who might be carrying plague. Later it was used as a prison but hasn’t been in a hundred years. Maybe they’ll re-open it for Stamatos and his buddies. It’s probably the only prison in Greece with no one inside who wants a piece of them.” He laughed.
“Where does Stamatos live?” asked Sergey.
“On the sea on the other side of the island, about four miles outside of town. It’s a village called Kini. But he won’t be there. My people told me that if he’s not in his office at police headquarters up on that hill,” Wacki pointed at building on a bluff above and to the right of the customs house, “he’s usually in a taverna on a side street just off the harbor.”
They tied up in front of port authority headquarters and walked toward a line of cafe umbrellas, chairs, and tables perched off to the left along a narrow concrete apron between the sea and a two-lane harborfront road. Directly across the road were the tavernas, bars, and cafes servicing those who chose to sit outdoors by the sea. Waiters darted back and forth among the two-way traffic carrying trays filled with food, drink, and the remains of both.
They crossed at a small square, turned left and walked along the harbor road for a few blocks before turning right. Dead ahead and four blocks away was City Hall. It was by far the island’s most dominant building, a football field-size neoclassical beauty, sitting behind an even larger town square.
Wacki stopped at a seven-foot wide alley on the left. “Police headquarters used to be up by city hall until the government moved it onto that hill I pointed out from the harbor. But Stamatos still hangs out down here.”
They turned into the alley and walked about twenty yards before Wacki stopped. “That’s it. The next taverna on the left.”
It was a cozy looking place set off from the quiet, white and gray marble-paved street by a line of potted oleander and tamarind.
Sergey peeked through the leaves. Three old men sat drinking coffee at a table near the front watching two younger men at a table next to them play backgammon. Toward the rear, next to the kitchen, two men at a table were talking. One looked to be a cook. The other was Tassos.
Sergey took a deep breath. “Translate exactly what I say, word for word. And do precisely the same thing for whatever comes out of his cop mouth, no matter what it is, even a cough. Do you understand?”
Wacki nodded.
“I said, ‘Do you understand?’”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Just translate. Don’t think.”
Sergey reached behind his head, pulled out the elastic band holding his hair in a bun, and shook his head. He ran his fingers quickly through his hair and headed for the entrance to the taverna.
***
Tassos’ eyes were fixed on Sergey from the moment he came through the taverna door headed straight at him. When Tassos saw Wacki he said, “Ah, sorry there, Sergey, didn’t recognize you with your hair down.”
Sergey said in English. “I would like to speak to you.”
“I don’t speak English very well.”
“That’s why Wacki is here.”
“This should be fun. Okay, guys, sit down.” Tassos looked at the other man at his table. “Could you excuse us, Niko?”
Niko got up and went into the kitchen.
“So, what can I do for you?” said Tassos.
Sergey leaned in and fixed his stare on Tassos’ eyes. “You have something I want.”
Wacki translated.
“Good choice. The coffee’s terrific here. Shall I call a waiter?”
Wacki translated.
“Don’t play games with me, I may be the only friend you have left in Greece.”
“Thanks to you no doubt.”
“Don’t blame the messenger. You’re the one who took what did not belong to you. Is it my fault that your police colleagues are prepared to ruin you and your two friends over something they’re not even certain exists?”
“But you’re certain.”