Mykonos. He thought to call Lila and tell her his plans had changed but decided against it. The coincidence was too great: she tells him and the next thing he knows someone tells Demosthenes. He couldn't believe she was one of the bad guys but, whatever the explanation, he came out in the same place: trust no one. Demon had phone calls and arrangements to make. He used, but never trusted, cell phones, certainly not for this sort of thing with these contacts. He always found some anonymous university landline to use but still worried about the other end of the conversation. These people only used cell phones.
They assured him not to worry, that in their country everything was under control. They even bragged they were responsible for their country's first cell phone system, a network that didn't accomplish much more than better coordinate their smuggling operations. He wasn't sure whether to believe their bragging, but he needed them, and so far, at least, no problems. Still, at his insistence, every two weeks he received a letter addressed to one of his many post office boxes listing new cell phone numbers for him to call.
He waited for someone to pick up.
'Hello.'
The language wasn't Greek but Demon spoke it. 'We need to make some additional arrangements.'
'What sort of arrangements?'
'Our recent message was ignored.'
'I see.'
'We must meet at once.'
'Where?'
'Location three at one-seventeen.' The man would know that meant five this afternoon in the Omonia metro station, a place where Greek was the minority tongue.
'Okay.'
He ended the call. These people were very good at what they did. But they needed direction. He'd make sure that this time that bastard Kostopoulos got the message — loud and clear.
15
It was Andreas' first trip to Mykonos since his promotion to Athens and he told no one there he was coming. No reason to. He wanted anonymity, not dinner invitations. Still, sooner or later he'd be recognized; he just hoped it wasn't the moment he got on the plane. Mykonos was one and one half times the size of Manhattan, but when it came to gossip it was a tiny village — of ten thousand citizens and fifty thousand seasonal visitors.
He boarded before the other passengers and sat in the first row, his face pressed against the window. His plan was to get to Kostopoulos right away, then head down to the old harbor for a few hours amidst the bouillabaisse of fishermen, farmers, politicians, and miscellaneous other spicy sorts who made up Mykonos' version of cafe society. Andreas hoped acting like he was on holiday might keep the island's wagging tongues from speculating too seriously on the reason for his visit, but he knew there were better odds at keeping the sun from setting.
Maybe I should have brought Lila along, he thought. It would be a better cover story. Yeah, for every gossip magazine in Greece: 'Cop and Socialite on Hide-Away Holiday in Mykonos.' He decided not to think about her; it only aggravated him. He'd focus on her involvement in all this back in Athens.
The flight took about twenty-five minutes and Andreas' eyes never moved from the window. He'd spent a lot of time in his life doing far worse things than watching uncluttered Cycladic Aegean islands roll out beneath him with their round-edge mountains of beige-to-brown faintly accented by slashed, hillside dirt roads and random dots of white and green. And all of this surrounded by coves and harbors of emerald to sapphire waters set against an endless lapis-colored sea. Ships of every type and size sat pasted on the blue, with bold wakes feigning movement carefully painted behind each one. He watched as the blue began picking up sharper accents of white. That meant wind-driven waves and Mykonos, the Island of the Winds, was close-by. The plane turned to approach from slightly southeast of the harbor town of Mykonos, passing by the neighboring holy island of Delos and coming in over Paradise Beach. There was a lot of history down there. Memories too.
Andreas was first off the plane, but instead of heading toward the door marked ARRIVALS he walked toward a half-dozen large and larger private jets parked by the far end of the terminal. Amazing how much money so many people had. Andreas always shook his head when that thought ran through his mind. He wondered why he did that.
He saw what he was looking for: the most popular tourist vehicle on Mykonos, a white Suzuki Jimny parked between the jets and the terminal. The key was in it, and a map. God bless Maggie; he always could depend on her. He picked up his cell phone and dialed.
'Hello.'
'Hi, Maggie, it's me.'
'Everything okay?'
'Perfect. Thanks to you. So, what's the story?'
'The bad news is they found nothing useful on the SIM card-'
'Not surprised, but what about Kostopoulos' house?'
'That's the good news. It's on the northern tip of the east side of Panormos Bay. In the Cape Mavros area.'
'That's in the middle of nowhere! How the hell do I find it?'
'Well, you start by taking a left at the first road you come to in Ano Mera, go past the monastery…' Ano Mera was the island's other town, located at its rural center, and Andreas could tell Maggie was reading from something that involved a lot of 'at the big tree,' 'by the light green — not dark green — gate,' 'just past the horses,' and the like. Mykonos had few street signs and virtually no working maps, for that matter. The locals didn't need them, and most visitors considered it 'quaint,' at best, but it did offer a bit of privacy from curiosity seekers randomly searching out celebrities.
'How did you get those directions?'
'I called up Zanni and said 'My chief would like to drop by for a chat this afternoon.''
He didn't respond, just started the engine.
'It's illegal to drive while talking on a cell phone.'
'I'm not talking, just listening.'
'Cute. What better things do you have to do for the next twenty minutes than listen to me?'
'Maggie…'
'Okay, okay. I called a real estate agency on Mykonos, said my boss wanted to rent a villa for a month like his friend's, Zanni Kostopoulos. They said there was nothing like his in the Cape Mavros area but they had a few others elsewhere they could show me. I said my boss wanted to be as close to the Kostopoulos' home as possible and, after some serious pleading and assurances that I wasn't trying to cut them out of their commission, they gave me 'general directions' to one.
'Then I called a liquor store in Ano Mera that delivered, told the man who answered I was trying to find the Kostopoulos home but 'got lost by the light green gate,' and wondered if by chance he might know what turns I should take to get there. He asked why I didn't call the house. I said, 'I tried but no one answered.' He asked what number I called and I gave him what I knew was the right one. That's when he gave me directions.'
Andreas was shaking his head. 'Amazing what people will tell perfect strangers.'
'It's the voice. You have to sound like you need to be rescued. Men don't understand. They're all so macho. It gives us power.'
He could tell she was grinning. He didn't mind; she'd made him smile too. 'I think I'll hang up now. Thanks again.'
Andreas looked at his watch. If Maggie was right about the time, only fifteen more minutes until show time. Should be one hell of a performance. He just wished he knew his lines. The road was narrow, partly dirt, and filled with blind turns and steep drops, but it was the main and only road to Cape Mavros, at the very end of the area locals called Mordergo. The view across the bay to Panormos and Aghios Sostis beaches was spectacular, but Andreas was too busy concentrating on what to expect at the house to notice. He even missed the turnoff 'by the
