Chapter sixteen

                                                                          

The true face of Hrisacopolis comes to the surface in all its ugliness. While two of his thugs silence a tongue that could reveal his secrets, he is busy greasing the palm of a fellow politician, someone who is only too aware that he is one step away from a ruined career if he doesn't toe the line.

This chapter completes the setting up of the plot. There are many unanswered questions and many ways the story can go. Hopefully the reader is trying to figure things out but Enda is one step ahead as usual and soon he will get within touching distance of a deadly enemy without knowing it.

A Volvo cruised along the Athens coastal highway. Rays of the setting sun glinted off the car’s windshield as it turned a bend. Just a quarter mile out, off the coast and bathed in an incandescent orange, the island of Salamis came into view. In the half light a couple of small fishing boats were on their way back to the harbor, followed in their wake by several noisy gulls. In the distance, the late afternoon lights of Megara twinkled against a hazy blue sky.        

       Constantine Demetrios was a big man. Cramped in the front seat, the heat made him uncomfortable. His hairy arms glistened and his shirt stuck to his back. His partner, Stavros, a smaller man of stocky build, sat with his eyes closed.

       “Megara coming up.”

       Stavros adjusted his seat position with closed eyes. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

       “Are you sure you have all you need?” Demetrios looked sideways, nervously.

       “Yes. I think so.” Stavros opened his eyes and began to issue a deep guttural laugh. “You think I need advice from you?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin and yawned.

       Demetrios felt his stomach knot. He wished, as he had many times, he’d refused the money. But he knew that he had no choice. His own life would have been in danger. “I didn’t mean that.”

       “You just worry about getting me there and getting me away when the job is done. I’ll take care of the business.” Stavros grinned.

       Demetrios shivered. He licked the perspiration from the top of his lip and drove on in silence. Minutes later, Stavros began to snore.

Italianate balconies, adorned with flowers, hung over either side of the narrow cobbled street, filling the air with a heavy scent. Several of the small terraced home windows glowed with a dull light from within. From an open doorway music accompanied by loud clapping and raised party voices drifted out into the street.

       Demetrios cut the car’s engine and glided into the dark space beneath the last balcony. Ahead of them another street led off to the right. “The apartment is over there,” he whispered.

       Stavros finished pulling on his gloves, and picked up the length of rope and green canvas bag between his feet before carefully opening the door.  Both men stood for a moment, looking in both directions along the street before carefully closing the doors with a soft click. Demetrios walked a few feet ahead of Stavros, both men striding silently in soft trainers as they crossed to the other side of the street and turned right at the junction.

 They knew Alexander left his studio each night and went to the bar in the town square. Between eight and nine he returned, normally drunk.

       Demetrios breath came in short nervous gasps as they reached a crossroad. All he had to do was place the bag over Alexander’s head and help tie him up.

       They walked on in silence until they reached a small block of four apartments and stopped.  The block was an old three story building, the bottom level being two basements that were once garages but now turned into studios.  Both were reached by a cracked concrete slope covered with weeds. Set into the white flaking walls were two old wooden double doors.  Alexander had the bottom apartment on the left and used his basement for painting.

       Both men moved quickly and descended the slope through long shadows cast by another block of apartments next door. Reaching the double door, they stopped, both breathing heavily. Demetrios licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He looked back up the slope and then at Stavros. His stomach was in a knot. A strip of light shone from under the door and he could hear someone inside. Nodding to Stavros, he knocked twice.

       “What? Who’s that?” a gruff voice bellowed.

       Demetrious knocked again, louder.   

       “Just a minute!” The sound of a piece of furniture falling over filtered through the door.  “What the hell do you want?” The voice was slurred.  The door opened and Alexander’s face appeared, red hair tangled in front of his eyes. “Who are you?”

       “Alexander Constantine?”

       “Yes.”

       Stavros pushed the door back with force, throwing Alexander off balance. The instant he hit the floor Stavros slapped a piece of duct tape over Alexander’s mouth and Demetrios placed the bag over his head. While Stavros pinned the man’s arms from behind, Demetrious bound the wrists tightly with the rope before paying attention the legs. Thrashing wildly, one of Alexander’s legs caught Stavros a vicious blow to the chest, winding him. Cursing, Stavros released his hold and stood to gain his breath. In less than a minute Demetrious had secured the big man’s arms and legs. He lay helpless on the ground, struggling against the ties.

       Stavros turned to Demetrios and ordered him to trash the apartment. It didn’t take long to overturn the table and throw paintings on the floor along with all the other painting materials lying around on the work bench. When he finished, Demetrios stepped over to the door without a backward glance.

       “And now, you pig, you will pay for insulting the Hrisacopolis name.” Stavros pulled Constantine along the floor and sat him on a chair. He took a long handled razor from his pocket and pulled the hood up enough to expose Constantine’s throat.

Paul Hrisacopolis sat by the side of the pool eating from a fruit breakfast. A cigar lay in an ashtray, smoke spiraling into a clear sky. Although seven-thirty a.m. the temperature gauge on the wall showed seventy-five degrees.  The Doberman, half asleep in the shade of the awning, panted in time to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Hrisacopolis opened his newspaper and scanned the headlines in the business section.

       He snatched at the phone the instant it rang. “Yes.”

       “Paul, its Alain Boutin.”

       Hrisacopolis reached for the cigar and drew on it until it glowed red. Boutin was one of twelve EU members of parliament representing France within Brussels. “How’s the weather in Brussels?”

       “It’s raining.”

       “Isn’t it always? You’re up early, you work to hard,” said Hrisacopolis. “Take a break and come out here. The sun will do you good. Bring your beautiful wife as well.” He paused. Alain’s voice merged into the sound of heavy traffic. Irritated, Hrisacopolis shook the receiver. “Alain?”

       “Yes, Paul, that would be nice. I’m staying in Brussels this week while the House is in session but I’ll give Aurelia your kind invitation when I get back home.”

       Hrisacopolis blew smoke and coughed. He knew he had the man where he wanted him, although it would cost. Alain’s vote, along with half a dozen others would secure his seat and Chairmanship on the Ways And Means Committee. A veiled threat and money would seal the deal. “Breakfast with your young man then…..while you’re in town….I’ve forgotten his name, Eugene, isn’t it?”

       Boutin ignored the remark that reminded him how vulnerable he would be if Hrisacopolis didn’t get what he wanted. A male prostitute scandal two years earlier nearly ruined his career.

       He came straight to the point. The size of Hrisacopolis donation to the Montpellier Art Foundation was very generous, particularly if given as an annual gift. However, there were expenses for traveling and accommodation while entertaining and arranging exhibitions; very hard to fund on a limited budget, explained Alain. He sounded worried.

       Hrisacopolis thought for a moment. The man was greedy, but then all the politicians he knew were greedy. It needed to be an amount that bought total loyalty. He couldn’t take a chance on the man having second thoughts. “Shall we say half a million?”

       “Francs?”

       “Dollars.”

       “Perhaps an advance?”

       “Total amount paid into any account tomorrow.”

       There was a moment’s silence, then, “Pardon?”

       “Renewable on the same date next year.” Hrisacopolis grinned then added before Alain had a chance to answer, “An annual payment, Alain.”

       “You will have my vote, Paul.”

       “On all decisions except those we agree you can disagree on. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, do we?”

       “Certainly not,” replied Alain. “What of the others?”

       “There are no others, Alain. There will never be any others. There is only you.”

       “I understand.”

       “Do you? If there is any misunderstanding I want to clear it up now. I would hate to have to remind you.” Hrisacopolis waited for confirmation .

       “I understand, Paul.”

       Hrisacopolis sighed. One slip and there would be a disaster. No information about him could be on Alain’s computer or any personal notes either at home or at work, nothing to connect them except official EU business. While Boutin was apologizing an idea occurred to him. Boutin could start earning his money. There was a Turkish delegate elect who was overseeing arrangements for meetings the following month between the Turkish Minister of Trade and his British and French counterparts.

       “Mustafa Hamit,” said Alain.

       “Do you know him well?” asked Hrisacopolis.

       “Yes.”

       Hrisacopolis thought for a moment.  If Boutin could find an excuse to engage the man in conversation relating to the talks, he could let it slip that he’d heard a rumor that Hrisacopolis Industries were looking at taking over the Famagusta container complex on Cyprus.

       “The British would love that,” replied Alain.

       Hrisacopolis agreed. If the British influenced other members to go for the plan, then a solution to the Greeks objections on farm subsidies would end.

       Hrisacopolis hung up. The first fish hooked into the net, and soon more would follow. He dialed his office and waited. His housekeeper appeared from the villa and walked towards him with a tray. He looked at her and scowled. “Did I say I’d finished?”

       “It’s getting hot,” she replied.

       “I know it’s getting hot! I don’t need you to tell me.”

       A voice answered in his ear. “No, not you, stupid!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m surrounded by idiots! I was talking to my housekeeper.” He waved the housekeeper away angrily. “Nana, are there any messages for me?”

       “Just two, Sir. A message from someone called Stavros. He sent his respects and asked that thanks be passed on to you for the flowers you sent to his brother’s funeral.”

       Hrisacopolis tapped the cigar. “And the other message?”

       “From the police, Sir. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

       “Spit it out.”

       “It’s one of your chauffeurs, Sir, - Constantine Demetrios. He drove your limousine late last night and crashed on the outskirts of the city along the coast highway.”

       “Much damage to the car?”

       “It’s a write-off. The car went over the cliff.” A faint tremor sounded in her voice. “Sir, I’m afraid your driver died in the accident. The police say he smelled of alcohol.”

       “Damn fool! All right, Nana. Make sure we pay funeral expenses and give his widow a year’s salary.”

       “Yes, Sir. One last thing about the two reporters you asked me to invite on the cruise from London.”

       “What of them?”

       “I called their office yesterday, they’re on vacation.”

       “So?”

       “On Cyprus.”

       Hrisacopolis threw the cigar into the pool. “Call Koskotas and let him know. Do it right away. Tell him to look our friends up and find out what they are up to.”

       “Do you want me to cancel their invitation?”

       “Absolutely not.”

       Hrisacopolis rose from the chair and called another number. “Be there, you stupid” – he spoke under his breath. “Oh, yes, is Ahmet there.” He waited for what seemed an eternity. “Ahmet, I have a little more work for you.”

       He puffed on the cigar as he spoke. After finishing the conversation he slumped back down into the chair. He was exhausted.

        Being able to pull Boutin’s strings made him feel better.