Constitution Square was the usual human menagerie of lottery-ticket salesmen, pretzel vendors, cops, soldiers, pickpockets, beggars, musicians, and office workers hurrying to their bad-tempered buses and then home. Athens’s answer to Alexanderplatz had everything to divert the unwary citizen and I stopped for a short while to watch as a skilled pavement artist sketched out a grotesque picture in chalk that made me think of a picture by George Grosz and served to remind me only of how much I missed the old Berlin with its Biberkopfs and Berbers, its bear and its beer. There’s no one quite like George Grosz to make you think you need a stiff drink or, for that matter, that you’ve already had one. I knew this better than anyone, given my old acquaintance with George Grosz. I hurried into the hotel and found Achilles Garlopis waiting on one of the big sofas under a crystal chandelier. He got up like a beetle struggling to right itself and walked nimbly across the marble floor to greet me.
“Thank God you’re all right,” he said, crossing himself in the Greek way. “When those men picked you up outside Averoff Prison I did my best to follow them in the Rover, but they lost me at the traffic lights. Not that I’d have known what to do if I had caught up with them. They were a tough-looking bunch.”
“That they were.”
“They didn’t look like police.”
“No. They weren’t police.” I didn’t offer any further explanation; the less he knew about the bandit queen the better it would be for him. “Look, let’s just forget it, can we?”
“Surely, sir, surely.”
“No, let’s get a drink. I have a craving to shrink my liver. Walking here just now it was all I could do not to drink the contents of my cigarette lighter.”
“Then let me buy you one. On second thoughts, let me buy you two.”
“At these prices? We’ll have MRE pay for the damage. It’s what they’re good at.”
We sat down at the horn of alcoholic plenty that was the GB bar and summoned a waiter, whereupon I pointed at the tapestry of Alexander the Great. A boy on an elephant was holding up a hip flask and a couple of slaves were walking beside the chariot with what looked like a large pitcher full of wine on a stretcher. Another fellow with red hair was sucking on a golden bottle of Korn and trying to pretend it was a trumpet, the way you do after a good night out. Alexander himself was smiling and trying to stay upright and Great in the chariot he was standing in, like he’d already downed a glass or two of something warming.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” I told the barman.
“I’ll have the same,” said Garlopis, and then ordered two large whiskeys on the rocks, which seemed likely to produce the equivalent result.
“Did Meissner tell you anything important? Anything useful? Anything that will satisfy Lieutenant Leventis?”
“No, nothing that will help us. I fear we’re going to have to bribe the bastard after all. Either that or I use the money to buy myself a new passport.”
The drinks arrived and almost immediately we ordered two more, as insurance.
“A Greek passport? I wouldn’t know how to help you do that, sir. Every Greek is equal to the task of giving or taking a bribe to a public official. Indeed no one would regard such a thing as criminal. But obtaining a false passport is something else, sir.”
“Then we’d better just stick to a bit of honest bribery.”
“So we’ll cash the company’s certified check tomorrow,” said Garlopis. “We’ll drive to the Alpha Bank in Corinth, like we planned.”
“You’re sure the banks are open on a Saturday?”
“From nine until twelve, sir. I think you’ll enjoy it in Corinth.” He chuckled. “Especially when we’ve cashed the check and we’re on the road back to Athens.”
“What’s wrong with bribing Leventis on Sunday?”
“Oh no, sir. That wouldn’t do at all. You couldn’t bribe someone on a Sunday. Not in Greece. Never on a Sunday. No Greek could tolerate that. And it will have to be done with great skill and diplomacy. Indeed, it’s my considered opinion that we should bribe this man not just with money but with appreciation and esteem. We’ll have to polish his ego with a soft cloth. ‘I wouldn’t insult you, Lieutenant, by offering you a few hundred, or a thousand,’ that kind of thing. ‘For a man like you, Lieutenant, one would feel obliged to offer five thousand.’ That would not be an insult. Five thousand would be respect. Five thousand would be diplomacy. He will understand this kind of figure.”
“Suppose he wants more.”
“Of course, we can pay ten thousand. We should keep this in the toga sleeve, so to speak. Believe me, sir, for any more than ten thousand we could get the minister of justice himself. But like any Greek official, Lieutenant Leventis is wise enough to know his true value. One more thing. If you’ll permit me to say so, I think it’s best a Greek such as myself handles this matter. Speaking as a translator, it’s been my experience that when you’re paying a man his fakelaki it’s best there’s no linguistic room for doubt. And no loss of face. One Greek bribing another is commonplace, but somehow a German doing it seems unpatriotic.”
“Sure. I’ll buy that.”
“Let us hope we can buy our peace of mind.”
We had a couple more drinks
