Jeffrey Siger - Sons of Sparta

“Hard to imagine that a little two-bit shit like that could have brought down my uncle.”

“Aye, there’s the rub,” said Tassos. “Getting the mouse that roared to talk.”

Andreas leaned forward in his chair. “Not sure If I should thank you, Hamlet, or Peter Sellers, but you just gave me an idea on how we might get this guy to talk if we ever find him.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked Kouros.

“It’s percolating but about all I can say at this point is ‘’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.’”

Kouros picked up a piece of spanakopita and took a bite. “I wish you two would stop.”

“At least it got you eating again,” said Tassos.

Andreas’ phone on the table rang. The screen read BLOCKED CALLER. He picked it up. “Kaldis here.”

He listened for twenty seconds before putting it back down on the table. “Well, we have an address for Niko.”

“Where?” said Kouros.

“On Kranae, wherever that is.”

Kouros turned and pointed off to the right. “You get there across that narrow, concrete causeway. It’s an arrow-shape island two hundred yards offshore. The whole island’s only about five hundred yards long, east to west, and one hundred yards wide at the broadest point.”

“What’s on it?” asked Andreas.

“Mostly dirt, rocks, and pine trees. There aren’t many places to hide. It’s got a lighthouse at the far end, a church on this end, and a battle tower and connected mansion from the early 1800s in the middle. The tower’s been renovated and expanded to house the Historical and Cultural Museum of the Mani. And, aside from a couple of fishing shacks just beyond the church, a restaurant and taverna on the island end of the causeway, that’s it.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” said Andreas.

“My mother makes me take her to the museum practically every time we’re down here.”

“Whoever called you must be pulling your leg,” said Tassos.

“We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because someone other than Mihalis Petropoulakis just said to me, ‘Niko will meet you at the tower on Kranae at ten tomorrow morning, right after it opens.’”

“ He wants to meet with us?” said Kouros.

Andreas nodded. “Yes. But to be precise he also said, ‘And please be sure to bring along that cousin with the shortened last name who works with you.’”

***

By nine the next morning Kouros and Andreas sat in a rental car off the edge of a gravel and dirt parking lot watching the seaside entrance to the museum.

Andreas lifted a two-way radio to his lips. “Anything yet?”

“Nope,” said Tassos. “What about you?”

“Not a thing here, but we’re hemmed in by pine trees. No telling who might be out by the lighthouse or back inside the church.”

“Or on a boat tied up offshore,” said Tassos.

“I think we’ll take a drive around just to see if we’re as alone as it looks. Give us a shout if anyone comes over the causeway.”

“Will do.”

They drove toward the lighthouse at the end of the island. Aside from rocks, trees, and a few crumbling sheds within a fenced in area securing the lighthouse, this part of the island offered no place to hide. The lighthouse doors and windows stood securely locked and showed no signs of forced entry.

Andreas turned the car around, drove past the museum, and parked thirty yards before a bright-white church with a terra-cotta-tiled dome roof. Next to the car, a half-dozen small, weather-beaten fishing boats lay scattered on the ground or propped up on pieces of scrap wood. Beyond the boats, down by the water, two tiny shacks looked in worse shape than the boats. They found no one in the shacks or boats.

The restaurant at the end of the causeway had a sign marked CLOSED, and none of the five men in the taverna next to it came close to matching Niko’s description. Andreas and Kouros walked to the church and tried the front door. Locked.

“A lot of people come here to get married because this island is where Paris and Helen spent their first night together before sailing off to Troy.”

Andreas smiled. “I sure hope things end up better for the newlyweds than it did for those two.”

They turned and stared across the water toward the harbor-side road in Gytheio. That got them a quick wave from Tassos sitting in a parked car on the other side of the causeway.

By nine-thirty Andreas and Kouros were back in their spot by the entrance to the museum.

Twenty minutes passed, filled with small talk of the anxious sort cops do while waiting for all hell to break loose. Nothing serious about family or futures, just silly things to keep their minds off what might erupt at any second.

Tassos’ voice barked through the two-way. “You’ve got company coming. A van full of tourists.”

“He might be using that as cover.” said Kouros.

“Anything’s possible,” said Andreas.

“You’d have thought our records guys could have found a photo of him,” said Kouros.

“Never got arrested and keeps himself out of the papers. Let’s just hope he hasn’t dyed his hair.”

They waited for the van to make it across the causeway and the additional three hundred yards to the museum parking lot.

“Motorbike coming now. It might be our guy,” said Tassos.

“How can you tell?” asked Andreas.

“He’s wearing a helmet, and since practically no one in Greece wears one, it makes me think our guy is trying to hide something.”

Andreas smiled. “We’ll keep an eye out for him.”

They watched the motorcycle overtake the van just beyond the church, pull into the lot, and park at the head of the path that ran past them up to the museum entrance. The driver wore jeans, work boots, a light blue jacket and a full-face black helmet. He got off the bike and walked by them, up to the museum’s front door without taking off his helmet.

“He must like his helmet a lot,” said Kouros.

“Careful, Yianni, he’s reaching in his jacket pocket for something.”

Both cops pulled their guns and opened their car doors slightly in case they had to move quickly.

The driver never turned around. Just fiddled with the front door until it opened and went inside.

Andreas let out a breath. “He was reaching for keys.” He spoke into the two-way. “False alarm. It was a museum employee opening up the place.”

“First time I’ve been wrong today,” said Tassos.

Andreas and Kouros watched a small group of foreign tourists unload from the van and head toward the front door.

“They look like pensioners from Germany,” said Andreas to Tassos.

“They’re about the only pensioners with money these days,” said Tassos.

“Unless the bus driver’s our guy, I’d say Niko’s late for our appointment.” Kouros pointed at his watch. “It’s ten after.”

“Tassos, we’re going inside. Just in case Niko got here before we did. Let us know if more company shows up.”

“Be careful.”

Andreas and Kouros holstered their guns as they got out of the car. They scanned the windows of the museum buildings as they hurried along the stone path, down and up steps toward the entrance.

Inside, an elderly couple stood reading a poster on a wall next to a desk with a handwritten sign, TICKETS HERE. A pockmarked man wearing a black baseball cap marked MANI in white letters sat behind the desk in front of a door marked OFFICE.

“May I help you?” said the man in the hat.

Andreas walked over to him. “Yes, sir. My friend and I were supposed to meet someone here at ten.”

“There are about a dozen visitors inside. Maybe your friend’s in there.”