Andreas nodded. 'Yeah, as in sicko-genius. Instead of just killing his uncle and watching all that money pass on to his cousins, our guy figured out a way to torture the man for life and still get him to take care of the sister he despised.'
'Think he's behind the whole thing?'
'Seems too young to me for that, but who knows. One thing's for sure, he has the right connections and is our only link to them, whoever they are. I want 24/7 surveillance on this guy ASAP. But nothing that might let him know we're on to him. He's too smart and runs with too dangerous a crowd.'
'I'll get it up and running first thing tomorrow.'
'And be careful, I don't want him recognizing you from that coffee shop, even though he was studying me, not you.'
'Don't worry. I'll get Maggie to lend me her invisibility cloak, the one she uses to find out everything going on in this building.'
Andreas leaned forward and pointed a finger at Kouros. 'You know, that would explain a lot.'
Kouros smiled and stretched. 'Looks like we finally have something to grab onto, Chief.'
Andreas leaned back in his chair and yawned. 'Yeah, let's just hope it's not that Minotaur's balls.' His routine was simple: he had none. He lived by that rule. Never could tell where he'd be. Certainly never when he said, unless he was ordered and then always early. How early depended on what he felt the situation required. Routine to him was a weakness, the Achilles' heel of the strong. The only time he was precisely where he was supposed to be was when the habits of a target required split-second timing, and that exception proved his rule: targets died because of their routines.
Demon was a very angry young man those first few years at university. Bitter at the world in general and at his uncle in particular, he didn't realize just how easily one could be manipulated: ponderous thoughts subtly argued out to logical extremes by gifted talkers, patiently reinforcing each point with references to classic literature, ancient history, and modern events were exactly what young, rebellious minds found important when trying to validate their new independence from family and home. That was what made them so vulnerable to those seeking to focus their outrage at the world in general on 'Greece's class system' in particular, and channel undirected anger into violence. For most, their seductions required not much more than that, carried out amid drinks, drugs, supportive friends, and willing lovers applauding their every argument and thesis.
But for Demon it was different. Yes, he enjoyed and participated in the Exarchia revolutionary scene, but his reach was far greater than the bounds of any single group or philosophy. He was a creature born of the unique us- against-the-Man rapprochement achieved in that community among the ideologues of revolution and the city's unholy criminal underbelly, and he moved effortlessly through those different worlds.
In that environment, it felt natural for him to talk among his like-minded comrades of how revenge might be had on his capitalist pig of an uncle; but never did he expect things to go so far that his words would become actions. He wasn't even there when it happened; but they told him how his description of the house, the church, and his uncle's routine gave them what they needed, and his words the inspiration to come together to make his plan work. He threw up for days, agonizing over how he'd possibly become part of this, made it all happen. Then he was told his moment was here: there was a message only he could deliver. To his uncle, in person, and at once.
In a heavily guarded hospital room, in the presence of his aunt and cousins, a dutiful, concerned nephew calmly whispered into his uncle's ear, 'Take care of my mother or your children and wife are next,' then kissed him on the forehead and smiled. Not a word was returned, not a gesture made; only a nurse moved, looking for what triggered the heart monitor alarm.
Demon stayed in the room for another five minutes; quietly off to the side feeling no stress, no anxiety, no fear, no remorse. He was perfectly calm and at peace with himself as his eyes drifted over each member of the family, his family, that he'd just threatened to cripple or kill. None of this bothered him at all, and at that moment he realized he had a great gift: he was free of conscience. Never again did he question any method that might achieve a goal. Unless it failed.
But in the years that followed, failure rarely occurred when Demon was involved. No one seemed able to resist his charms and, for the same reason, he served the Exarchia shadow world as its primary liaison to the other world. Not to the planet at large, just to those parts of it necessary for achieving one group or another's seemingly far-fetched goal. He possessed an uncanny instinct for finding the perfect flattery, bribe, appeasement, or threat required, and an equivalently eerie facility at maneuvering past the maniacal egos, outrageous demands, and polar opposite political views of those he sought to persuade.
His skills grew almost as much as his view of himself, and he hungered for greater influence than the banner-painters, bomb-tossers, and political outsiders he served could ever hope to achieve. When a chance meeting with old-line acquaintances of his grandfather led to musings on the fate of their country, Demon saw an opportunity to broker violence for those with real power and jumped at it. But that was years ago, and he believed by now he'd more than proven his value to them — certainly with his Kostopoulos masterpiece.
Demon never wanted to play a visible part in the Kostopoulos operation, but there was no one else he could trust to do it. He'd brokered the arrangements privately, as he always did, among disparate groups who would never work together openly. Only he knew each one's role, and he dared not chance involving another in coordinating the operation. That was how he ended up in the Ramrod.
'Demon, please, be careful how you hold him.' He was holding the baby out in front of him, under his arms, as if looking for a place to dump him.
He'd thought of tidying up the only loose end linking him to the murder, but the death of the mother of his child might bring him more attention than letting her live. Besides, Anna had no idea he was the one who set her up, even if the cops should find her. Still…
He smiled. 'Sorry, I'm not used to babies.'
Anna was glaring at him. 'So, why this surprise visit at three in the morning?'
Why is she so angry? 'I felt badly, I haven't seen you or the baby in days.'
She took the baby from him. 'Weeks, and he has a name. If you remember it.'
Ahh, that explains it, he thought, no attention. 'I'm sorry. It's all my fault.' He leaned over to kiss her.
She pulled back. 'I know.'
'Can you use some money?'
She hesitated.
His face didn't show what he was thinking: same old Anna, when money comes up, bye-bye principles. He found that reassuring. It's what kept him interested, her predictability.
'Sure, we could use it.' The fire was gone from her voice.
'Good, put the baby down and come over here. I've missed you.' He put two hundred euros on the table and gestured toward the couch.
Anna hugged the baby as she carried him to the crib, then kissed him, carefully tucked him in, and walked over to the couch. Her face was blank. He touched her breasts, then squeezed them and slid his hand under her nightgown. 'That's my girl.' She just stood there, letting him do as he chose. He pushed her down onto the couch, and within a minute was on her, burying his face in her neck. 'That's my girl, that's my girl.'
He never saw the tears running down her cheek. He was too busy proving to himself how much she still needed him.
14
Lila couldn't sleep. She had an idea how to find where the Kostopoulos family might be. It came to her several hours ago. She kept peeking at her bedside clock hoping for the hands to move to where she'd feel comfortable making her call.
'Hello, Christos?'
'Huh, who's this?' The voice was not a happy one.
'It's Lila. Lila Vardi.' She tried sounding perky.
'Lila… it's five fucking o'clock in the morning.' No apology was offered for the language.
