“Yes, keria. I’m here to see the man whose office is behind that door.” Andreas pointed at a dark, raised-panel, tall wooden door six feet behind the receptionist.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Andreas handed her his card. “Please, just give Orestes this.”
She took the card, picked up her phone, pressed a button, waited, and said, “Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis is here to see you.”
She paused, looked up, and smiled. “He said to tell you to go to hell.”
“You’re too kind. I’m sure he really said to say, ‘Go fuck yourself.’”
She smiled again. “Whatever interpretation works for you, works for me.”
Andreas leaned in. “Just tell him his daddy might cut off his allowance when he wakes up tomorrow morning to find his pride and joy described in the press as the new butt boy for a certain Ukrainian arms smuggler, drug trader, and sex-slaver planning to set up operations in Greece. In the southern Peloponnese to be exact. And, please, my love, in your message, make sure to emphasize ‘butt boy.’”
The woman’s smile disappeared.
Andreas pointed at the phone. “Butt boy has two t’s, just in case you’re afraid to call his royal highness and prefer to email him instead.”
She jumped up, shuffled quickly to Orestes’ door, knocked, went inside, and closed the door.
Andreas heard muffled shouting from inside the office. Fifteen seconds later the door opened and the woman stepped out. She said nothing, but nodded for Andreas to go inside. He waved and smiled as he walked by her into the office. She slammed the door behind him.
“Touchy help,” said Andreas looking around the office. The walls were plastered with photographs of what looked to be every powerful person Orestes had ever met.
“Take your time. Take a good look. As you can see, I know everyone. Figure out for yourself how many ways I can bury you.”
Andreas kept looking at the walls, ignoring Orestes. The space was three times the size of Andreas’ office. “As far as I can tell, a lot of your pinup pals are in or headed to prison. You ought to be more careful whom you’re photographed with. Could ruin your reputation.”
From behind his ornate, Louis XIV desk, Orestes pointed at a lone straight-back chair in front of and facing him.
Andreas walked to the chair and without breaking stride lifted it with one hand above his head and continued around Orestes’ desk.
Orestes’ arms shot up in front of his face, “What are doing?”
Andreas dropped the chair inches from Orestes’ feet. “Rearranging the furniture.” He sat down. “Now, isn’t this cozier?”
“Get out of my office, now.”
“First, a few questions.”
Orestes played with his tie. “After screwing me in Crete, you expect me to help you?”
Andreas pointed at his own chest. “Me? I did precisely what you asked.” He pointed at Orestes and back at himself. “You and I, working together at protecting Greece from foreign predators. What more could you ask for? But don’t worry, I didn’t steal your credit. The prosecutor knows the list of suspects came from you.”
Orestes glared.
“I told him to do his best not to reveal you as the source. After all, we wouldn’t want potential clients on that list learning of your indiscretion. Might hurt business.” Andreas reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a print of a photograph captured from the DVD obtained by Petro. “Speaking of your business, what can you tell me about this?” He handed the photo to Orestes.
Orestes shrugged. “What’s there to tell?”
Andreas locked eyes with Orestes. “Short version or long?”
“Whatever version you think is going to mean more than a rat’s ass to me.”
“Fair enough. I’ll go short and let your imagination fill in the details. You and Alexander,” Andreas pointed at a face in the photograph, “saw the chance of making a lot of money by helping this dude,” he pointed at another face, “set up operations in Greece. The fact he’s high up on NATO’s shit list didn’t matter in the least to you or,” he pointed at an oversized portrait of Orestes’ father on the wall behind his desk, “Daddy.”
Orestes smiled. “You’re right.”
“Nor do you care what the Americans might think.”
Orestes smiled again. “You’re very well informed.”
“Too bad you weren’t, before you jumped into bed with Alexander and his Ukrainian mate.” He paused. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Anger flashed across Orestes’ face but he said nothing.
“You see, if certain folks in the Mani learn you’ve been working with those two, you’d better be sure your life insurance premiums are paid up. And his.” Andreas pointed at the painting again.
“I assume you’re talking about your colleague Kouros’ cousins.”
Andreas nodded. “You, too, are very well informed.”
“I had absolutely nothing to do with their father’s murder.”
Andreas shook his head from side to side. “You’re missing the point, my dear friend. Whether or not you were involved in the murder isn’t the issue. It’s how hard you’re working at the cover-up that’s going to get you killed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You and I know that either the Ukrainian killed their father or knows who did. And if I know that,” he smiled, “and Detective Kouros knows that, how long until the sons know? And when they find out…” Andreas shook his head, “I don’t have to tell you how seriously those Maniots take their vendettas.” He nodded toward the portrait, “It’s practically biblical, as in ‘An eye for an eye.’”
“You’re bluffing. All you have linking me to your bullshit story is a photograph taken at a club where every sort on Earth says hello to each other.”
“If you’re betting on Alexander riding in on his white horse to cover your ass when they start twisting his nuts, good luck.” Andreas shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s down there right now putting as much distance as he can between you, the Ukrainian, the deal, and him.” Andreas smiled, “And oh yes, let’s not forget the Ukrainian’s plans for the airstrip.”
Orestes bit at his lip.
“Personally, I’d rather have NATO and the U.S. gunning for me than that dead man’s sons.”
“Where are you headed with this?”
“Perhaps it’s time to consider taking out insurance. The kind which promises that when the sons start looking into your role in their father’s murder, a certain detective cousin of theirs tells them how you fully cooperated from the moment you realized you might know something about their father’s murder.”
Orestes bit harder at his lip. “Why should I trust you?”
Sold, thought Andreas. He patted Orestes’ knee. “Because I’m not like you.” He leaned back and yawned. “Besides, what choice do you have?”
Orestes got up out of his chair and walked around the side of his desk away from Andreas. “I really don’t like you.”
“Old news.”
“Or the nephew.”
“I’m sure Detective Kouros would be hurt by that.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Names of anyone you think might have been involved in the murder.”
“I don’t have names.”
“Too bad, because I have yours.”
“You’re pretty stupid if you had to ask me that question.”
“I’ll live with that. Just tell me.”
“The competitors of the Ukrainian.”
“Competitors?”
“Local gunrunners operating on the Peloponnese. The kind that wouldn’t take kindly to a big player moving in on their territory.”
“But the locals use boats, the Ukrainian is into planes.”
“For now. But competition is competition, and if the Ukrainian gained a foothold in the Mani through a strong business alliance with the father, his expansion into their highly profitable sea routes would be inevitable. He presented an unacceptable risk they’d prefer to nip in the bud.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because that’s what the Ukrainian told me. In private, when that old queen wasn’t around.”