“You’re helping me to help him and that’s enough. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings with him.”
“Well, now I’m worried that you’re worried. May I ask why you’re worried?”
“Because cops will say anything to ensure someone cooperates with them, especially when there’s a murder to solve. Take it from me, you can’t trust cops any more than you can trust their clients. Even now he might be booking us a nice quiet cell in this Haidari Barracks he mentioned.”
“There are no nice cells in Haidari. It’s still the most notorious prison in all of Greece. Many heroes of the Greek resistance were tortured and killed there. And many Jews, of course. Although for them it was more of a transit camp to somewhere even more unpleasant. From Thessaloniki to Auschwitz.”
“That’s a comforting thought. Look, I hope I’m wrong. What kind of man is this lieutenant, anyway?”
“Leventis? He struck me as quite a fair man, actually. A bit better than the average police lieutenant, perhaps, so I’m not absolutely sure if he’s the type who can be bribed or not. But I’ve yet to see him write anything down, so he could still release both of us without having to explain why. For the right consideration.”
“I like the way you said ‘both of us.’ It gives me confidence in our professional association. How do you bribe a cop in Greece anyway?”
“The best way is with money, sir.”
“Is that a fact? You sound like you’ve done that kind of thing before.”
“Yes, but not for anything important, you understand. Traffic violations, mostly. And once on behalf of a cousin of mine who was accused of stealing a lady’s handbag. But this is something different. At least it feels that way. Have you got much money?”
“That depends on the cop, doesn’t it? I don’t know how it works in Greece but generally speaking we don’t bribe cops in West Germany because Germans can’t hide behind a sense of humor if it goes wrong.”
“The Greek police do not have a sense of humor, either. If they had, they would not have become policemen in the first place. But they do like money. Everyone in Greece likes money. It was the Greeks who invented the use of money, so old habits die hard. Especially for the Attica police.”
Lieutenant Leventis appeared in the doorway of the Gendarmerie and walked back toward the car. Garlopis watched him with narrowed eyes.
“Against this man being bribed is the fact that he shaved this morning. And for another, he’s wearing a clean shirt. The car we’re sitting in is a Ford Popular, which is the cheapest car in Europe. Also the watch on his wrist is just a cheap Russian model and he smokes Santé, which is a ladies’ brand of cigarette. No man in Greece smokes these unless he’s trying to save money.”
“Maybe he likes the lady on the packet.”
“No, sir. If you’ll forgive me, this is a man living within his means. Besides, he walks too quickly for a man who’d take money. Like he has a purpose. I tend to think that corruption moves much more slowly in a country like this.”
“You should have been a cop yourself, Garlopis.”
“Not me, sir. As well as a coward I have always had very bad feet. You can’t become a policeman if you have bad feet. Standing around and doing nothing all day is very hard on the feet.”
The lieutenant got back into the front seat and we drove into the center of Athens; we made quick progress, too. As a way of getting around Athens I’d certainly recommend being driven by a policeman, even in a Ford Popular.
The Megaron Pappoudof faced the north side of the Greek parliament and the northeastern corner of Constitution Square and was set back from the main road, behind a tall wrought-iron railing. Overlooked by the St. Isidore Church on the highest rock in Athens, which dominates the city like a Christian riposte to the Acropolis, the four- or five-story building with its central pillared pediment was the Athenian equivalent of Munich’s Police Praesidium, or the old Alex in Berlin. Leventis parked the car around the corner, uncuffed us, and then led the way through the main gate and up the marble steps to the entrance. Inside was almost a relief from the noise and smell of buses taking Greeks home from work and we were immediately faced with a color portrait of King Paul, who was holding a pair of white gloves, just in case he was obliged to shake anyone’s hand or take a bribe. We climbed to the third floor.
Police headquarters are the same the world over: impersonal, worn, malodorous, busy—and already I felt very much at home. In spite of this, I would happily have turned around and walked over to my hotel for a bath and a drink, even if it wasn’t as good as the Grande Bretagne. The notice board in the corridor outside the lieutenant’s office was all in Greek but I knew exactly what it said because they’d had the same noticeboard at the Alex twenty years ago. Crime’s more or less the same in any language. Garlopis and I sat down in front of a cheap wooden desk under the watchful eye of another cop who was leaning against the green-painted wall smoking a cigarette, and waited while Leventis fetched some files from a battered steel cabinet. It was a large office with green linoleum, a high ceiling with a stationary fan, a glass door, a water cooler, and another portrait of the king wearing a monocle, which really did make me feel at home. Somehow, and no matter where it hails from, royalty always manages to look a bit German. I expect it’s something to do with the Prussian grenadier’s ramrod they all shove up their arses before they have their portraits done.
“Do you like Greece, Herr Ganz?” said Leventis as he riffled through his case files.
“It
