Megalochari, and at least one of our prime ministers considered that holy icon the source of his political power. How many milliseconds do you think it will take after we share our little theory with your Foundation lady before our Prime Minister gets a call from the Foundation and I get one from Spiros screaming, ‘What the hell are you doing?’”
Tassos smiled. “Just tell him ‘we’re closing the case.’”
Andreas rubbed his eyes. “When’s the meeting?”
Tassos looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Andreas nodded toward the Church of Panagia Evangelistria. “Well, I guess we should head on up there.”
Tassos gestured no. “When I told her it was ‘sensitive’ she suggested we meet at a taverna out of town.”
“Guess it’s not just cops who worry about their walls having ears.”
“Who knows, it might just be her cousin’s place and she wants to throw him some business.”
Andreas smiled. “But we’re cops, we don’t pay.”
“Could be it’s a cousin she doesn’t like.” Tassos pointed to a marked police car. “That’s our ride. You drive.”
Chapter Nine
Andreas once had a teacher who said Tinos resembled “a haunting, second millennium BC Mycenaean fortress.” It was easy to see why. The island’s high-ridged backbone ran northwest-to-southeast above the sea like some ever vigilant guardian of the shoreline while, at its narrow, eastern sea border with Mykonos, Tinos’ tallest peak, Mount Tsiknias, loomed down from the clouds and across its foothills toward the port city to the southwest.
His teacher would go on and on about how the true beauty of Tinos lay in its surprises. None of that had changed. To foreigners, virtually everything about the island was a revelation for so few had even heard of it. But it was native-born Greeks, those raised on wondrous stories of the Megalochari and perhaps even a daylong pilgrimage or two, who were most surprised at what they discovered outside the harbor town.
Fifty villages as quiet and undisturbed as a dreamer’s quaint fantasy of Greece; brilliant vistas at every turn; a meandering two-hundred-mile network of cobblestone trails and old farm paths running from hillside to hillside and dipping into valleys in between; and a history of fabled marble quarries and artisans linked to some of Greece’s greatest artistic achievements.
Tassos said they were looking for a taverna in a mountain village in the northeast region of the island. Locals called that district Kato Meria; the southeastern part of Tinos, including the port, they called Ano Meria; and everything to the west was Exo Meria. The “lower,” “upper,” and “other” parts, respectively.
The taverna was around a bend on a twisting mountain road and, but for a large sign screaming TAVERNA OMORFI THEA, Andreas would have missed it. The place was practically invisible from the road. Tables inside led to many more on an outside terrace with still more arranged amphitheater fashion along a hillside filled with deep purple bougainvillea and wild fruit trees. It all ended at a fence line of pink and white oleander. Far beyond, out past the valley and port town below, a deep blue sea shimmered toward the islands of Delos and Rhenia on its way to the horizon and a cloudless, robin-egg blue sky.
“The sign was right. This is a beautiful view,” said Andreas.
A woman sitting alone at a table under a fig tree waved at them.
“That’s Eleni.” Tassos waved back and they walked to her table.
She looked about Andreas’ age and had the Greek woman’s traditional fancy for decolletage revealing dress, in this case a white sleeveless blouse. Aside from that national custom she was discreetly dressed in a knee-length dark-navy skirt and mid-heeled navy pumps. She was virtually indistinguishable from any other serious Greek businesswoman. With one exception: her hair was the bright copper color of an Irish setter and curly as a Shirley Temple doll.
Eleni stood. “Hi, uncle.” She exchanged kisses with Tassos on both cheeks and shook hands with Andreas.
“Uncle? She’s your niece?” Andreas pointed at two men standing by the kitchen. “Let me guess, those two are your cousins.”
Tassos gestured no. “The one to the right is Eleni’s father, and the other is her brother.”
“He’s not really my uncle. He’s just such close friends with my father that I’ve called him ‘uncle’ all my life.”
As they sat down Andreas mumbled to Tassos, “You’re paying.”
The father and son came over with water, biscuits, and coffee, and after exchanging hugs and introductions left them alone to talk.
“So, uncle, what is the ‘sensitive’ subject you want to discuss with me?”
Tassos smiled, “I see your career has made you all business. Whatever happened to, ‘Hello, how are you?’”
She laughed. “I know how you are. My father told me all about Maggie, and since I know you’re here with the famous Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis, who’s marrying Lila Vardi this Sunday on Mykonos in the wedding of the season, I assumed you’re both anxious to get to what’s on your mind.”
Andreas looked at Tassos. “I take back what I said before about Eleni being your niece. She must be your daughter.”
“I should have only been so lucky.” Tassos leaned over and pinched Eleni’s cheek. “Andreas, tell Eleni ‘what’s on your mind.’”
Eleni sat back in her chair and focused on Andreas.
“If you’ll excuse me I’m rather new to your family. I don’t mean to sound rude, but could you give me a little background on what you do at the Foundation. It might make it easier for me to explain what I need to know.”
Eleni looked at Tassos. “He’s trying to decide whether he can trust me.” She smiled. “But that’s fair. I’m personal assistant to the vice-president of the Evangelistria Foundation’s commission.”
“Who’s the President?”
“The Bishop of Syros and Tinos. Whoever is bishop is president by reason of his position. There are ten members of the commission. The other nine are all Orthodox Tinians elected to serve without compensation, and the vice-president runs the day-to-day affairs of the Foundation. You do know what the Foundation is, right?”
“Sort of.”
“That’s the answer I generally hear, second only to ‘not a clue.’ And to be honest, that’s the way we like it.” Shirley Temple flashed a glorious smile.
Andreas smiled back. “Okay, let’s start from ‘not a clue,’ just so that I don’t have to interrupt you with questions by having mistakenly opted for the more advanced lecture.”
Eleni took a sip of water. “First let me give you a little background. In ancient times, a temple to the Greek god Dionysus stood on the present day site of the Church of Panagia Evangelistria. When Christianity came to the Cyclades the temple was transformed into a Christian church dedicated to the Virgin Mary and Saint John the Precursor. It was in those early Byzantine years that the Holy Icon of the Megalochari came to the island of Tinos to be kept and venerated within that church.
“However, the Megalochari dated back to long before Byzantine times. It belonged to the early Christian era and those who’ve studied it unanimously concluded that it was one of the first three icons painted by the apostle Saint Luke during the lifetime of the Holy Virgin. Many believe the Megalochari received its wonder-working power directly from the Holy Virgin herself who blessed it with the words, ‘The grace of him who was borne by me, be through me with it.’
“In the mid-10th century Saracen pirates invaded Tinos, burned and leveled the church, and the holy icon vanished. Nine centuries later, in July 1822, a nun named Pelagia from a monastery northeast of the town had three recurring, consecutive Sunday visions of the Holy Virgin instructing her to convince her superiors to order digging at a specific place where they would find the missing holy icon and must build a church to the Holy Virgin.
