Petros Markaris - Deadline in Athens

I finished the souvlaki along with the news. I was deciding be tween watching TV or taking refuge in my dictionaries, when the phone rang. It was Thanassis.

"We've found them," he said triumphantly. "Evangelos Milionis is here and is waiting for you. Christos Papadopoulos is arriving tonight in Patras, on board the ferry from Ancona."

"All right, I'm on my way. Send a message to the police in Patras to detain Papadopoulos without fail and to send him to us."

Pylarinos had turned out to be reliable. By five in the afternoon, he had provided us with the information I'd asked for. Milionis and Papadopoulos were the drivers of the refrigerator trucks that Karayoryi had noted. As for the lists of passengers, things were a little more complicated. Those who were from EU countries got in simply by showing their identity cards. I'd sent the lists of passengers from America and Canada to the airport, but the chances of their being able to locate which of them had come using a family passport or had declared children as traveling with them were slim. Following the appearance of the couple at Dourou's nursery, I was now sure of the way the operation worked, but without the English couple it was going to be extremely difficult to prove it. My only hope was that Dourou or Hourdakis or one of the drivers would crack.

Waiting at the station was a spare man with a mustache and a threeday-old beard-Evangelos Milionis. His criminal record was clean. No convictions, no arrests, no accidents. He was thirty, unmarried, and lived with his parents. He sat with his arms folded over his chest, a tough truck driver, a man who wasn't going to be easily intimidated.

"Are you a driver for Transpilar?"

"Yes."

"And you drive a refrigerator truck?"

"Refrigerator truck, lorry, whatever they give me."

"And do you do runs to Albania?"

"Not only there. I go to Bulgaria and Italy and Germany too."

"When you go to Albania, what do you carry?"

"When I'm driving a refrigerator truck, frozen meat, frozen fish, or cured meats. When I'm driving a lorry, anything from canned foods to clothes, whatever you can imagine."

"And what do you bring when you come back?"

"Nothing. I come back empty."

"On August 8 last year, on April 22, July 18, and November 5 of this year, you crossed from Albania into Greece."

"Maybe. How should I remember with all the trips I make?"

"What cargo did you have when you came back?"

"I told you. I was empty."

"I know otherwise. I know that you were illegally carrying Albanians and young children."

He gave me an inquiring look, then laughed at me. "Since when have we been bringing frozen Albanians into Greece?"

I leapt to my feet and put my face up close to his. "Don't be a wise ass, Milionis, because you'll find yourself laughing on the other side of your face," I said. "I know that on all four trips you went to Albania loaded with frozen goods and came back loaded with Albanian kids! We're holding Eleni Dourou and she spilled everything!"

"Who's she?"

"Does The Foxes mean anything to you?"

"No."

"The Foxes is a nursery in Gizi, belonging to Mrs. Dourou. It was to her that you handed over your load of Albanian kids."

"I don't know any Mrs. Dourou and I've never seen a nursery. I grew up in the streets, getting beaten by my mother every day of my life."

"That may serve you in good stead, now that you're on your way to prison."

"Let's wait till I get there first," he said calmly.

"You're going, all right, because we've also picked up Hourdakis."

"And who's he?"

"The customs officer who turned a blind eye so you could pass untroubled with your illegal cargo."

He shrugged. "No one ever turned a blind eye to me. They kept me waiting there for hours."

"You're a blockhead, Milionis. Go on playing the tough guy and we'll hang everything on you, and those who feathered their nests will be rubbing their hands together because they'll have you to take the rap. Talk if you want to make things easier for yourself. Did you take your orders from Sovatzis?"

"I've never spoken to Sovatzis in my life. I saw him once, that's all, from a distance, when I went to the garage. He was speaking to the freight manager and didn't even turn his head to look at us"

"Where were you on November 27?" The day that Karayoryi was murdered.

"Let me think… On the twentieth I left for Italy, Germany. On the twenty-seventh, I took on a load in Munich."

He had to have been telling the truth, because he knew I could easily check. "And on the thirtieth?" The day that Kostarakou was murdered.

"Here, in Athens."

I could have checked him when it came to Kostarakou's death, but since he had an alibi for Karayoryi, it was pointless.

The interrogation went on till seven in the morning. We kept recycling the same questions and the same answers, sometimes with more aggression on my part, sometimes with more irritability on his. But it didn't get us anywhere. Milionis was a young truck driver, used to being at the wheel all night, and at seven he was as fresh as he'd been when we'd begun at ten the night before. He was relying on his endurance and was trying to exhaust me. I sussed him out and changed tactics. I went at him for thirty or forty-five minutes and then I sent him to Thanassis. I had a coffee, relaxed, and then took my shift again right from the beginning, as if nothing had gone before, for another thirty minutes or so. I thought that in this way I'd both break him down and keep myself awake through all the coffees, because after about three in the morning, my eyes had begun to get heavy with sleep.

I was on my fifth coffee, leaning back in my desk chair, and I closed my eyes to rest them, when the phone rang.

"Inspector, they've brought us someone by the name of Papadopoulos. He's for you," said the officer on cell duty.

"Get Milionis out of the interrogation room and take in Papadopoulos. I want you to isolate those two. There mustn't be any communication between them."

I picked up what information we had about Papadopoulos and tried to concentrate to read it. He had a wife and two kids. He was in his fifties. His daughter was married and had a one-year-old boy. His son was doing his military service.

I let another half hour go by and went back into the interrogation room. I found myself facing a bald-headed man with a potbelly that swooped over his belt. He obviously turned the steering wheel with his stomach, and, if he didn't wear moccasins, his wife must have to tie his shoelaces. As soon as he saw me, he propped himself up with his hands on the tabletop in order to support his weight.

"Why have you brought me here? What have I done? I haven't had any trouble on the roads or been involved in any accidents, nothing! I asked your people where they were taking me and no one has told me!"

He fell silent, thinking that I would tell him, but when he saw that he wasn't going to get any answer, he began shouting: "I've left my truck with a full load in Patras, at the mercy of all and sundry! If any thieves get wind of it and empty it, the company will be on my neck!"

He tried to pass this off as an outburst, but most probably he only wanted to quench his anxiety with his shouting.

"Sit down," I told him quietly. He obeyed immediately.

I began just as with Milionis. I received the same answers, but in a different tone of voice. He always came back empty and he knew nothing of any illegal children, what was all this that we were trying to pin on him, thirty years behind the wheel and he'd never had a single accident. Whereas Milionis was calm and above it all, Papadopoulos shouted and yelled, and deep down was scared. Things changed when we got on to Hourdakis.

"Do you know Hourdakis?"

"I don't know any Hourdakis."