Ник Картер - Assassin - Code Name Vulture

Less than forty-eight hours later we arrived in the capital of Greece. I booked adjoining rooms in a small hotel called the Odeon at 42 Pireos, just a short distance from Omonia Square. The weather was balmy and a pleasant relief from the heat of Paracatu.

The newspapers in Athens were full of commentary on the quickly changing political scene. News had sifted back from Rhodesia that my friend Alexis Salomos had been killed, and speculation was rife. It was generally known that there had been an attempt on his life before he had left for Rhodesia. One paper in particular, however, had avoided any mention of the death of Salomos. It was also running regular editorials denouncing the leadership of the ruling junta, attacking a leading general or colonel in almost every issue. Salomos had mentioned to me that this publisher was unscrupulous and had been the first to support the original hard-line junta after the coup in 1967.

“It is quite clear that the publisher has been bought off with my money,” Minourkos remarked, sitting on a reclining chair in my room on the sunny afternoon of our arrival. “And look at this headline in another paper: MINOURKOS DECRIES JUNTA COMMUNIST AFFILIATIONS. Mr. Stavros has been busy.”

Erika took a cup of thick Greek coffee from a tray that had been brought to us and served it to Minourkos. He accepted it with a somber face. Erika took a cup herself and sat beside me on a short sofa.

“I just hope nobody has seen you yet,” I said to Minourkos, “particularly one of his men. Your life wouldn’t be worth a drachma if Stavros learned you were here in Athens.”

“He will find out as soon as he contacts Paracatu,” Minourkos reminded me.

“Yes, but that might not be for several days, if we’re lucky. And even then he wouldn’t know definitely that something was wrong without sending somebody there from Rio. That somebody would have to be a subordinate because Ubeda is dead.”

“What do we do first, Nick?” Erika asked. “We can’t just storm the penthouse the way we did the plantation. It will be too well protected.”

“I could place a call to the penthouse,” Minourkos suggested, “to see how they are handling contacts with outsiders. But they would recognize my voice.”

I handed him a napkin from the tray. “Raise the tone of your voice and speak through this. Tell them you want to speak to yourself. When they refuse, ask for your secretary, Salaka Madoupas. Tell them you are a visiting newspaper editor from Salonika, and you would like a statement about Nikkor Minourkos’ political ambitions.”

Minourkos smiled at my plan, then he put the call through. He placed the napkin over his mouth and tried to change his voice. In a moment he was speaking to someone at the penthouse. He asked for Nikkor Minourkos, and then listened to their excuse. He asked to speak to Madoupas. There was more talk and he insisted. Then he was speaking to the man who was posing as Madoupas, an Athenian actor whose real name, Stavros had told Minourkos, was Yianis Tzanni. Minourkos asked the questions about himself and waited for the pat answers and then asked if he might make a date for a personal interview with Mr. Minourkos. He was refused, and the conversation was over. He hung up and looked at us.

“It is like a bad dream,” he said. “It is as if I really am at the penthouse and Madoupas is answering the phone for me as he always did. They know my habits well. And this Tzanni’s voice is exactly that of my dead friend Salaka.”

“Who answered the phone first?” I asked.

“Some young man. He was not a Greek. Probably one of Stavros’ hoodlums.”

“It sounds as if they’re well entrenched,” Erika said.

“Yes, it does,” I agreed. “With all of Athens thinking it’s Nikkor Minourkos up there in that penthouse, it’s a serious situation. Stavros may even have police protection up there. Or soldiers from his growing private army.”

“If I just go to the police, or to the junta itself, and tell them what happened,” Minourkos said, “they will have to believe me. Even if they think I have suddenly gone mad, they will be obligated to check out my story. They will then find out what has happened.”

“It could be dangerous,” Erika said.

“She’s right,” I agreed. “At this point, we don’t know how many friends Stavros had made in his own name. Anyway, if we just throw this out into the open, we’ll force Stavros to make a move — probably a big one. He might just decide to try a coup without your name behind it. He has a military group in readiness and a lot of ambitious military leaders around him who don’t care who is behind a takeover. And even if he made a move and failed, there would be blood spilled. A lot of it. No, Mr. Minourkos. We’re going to sneak up on Stavros. In my country, this is the part we call in-fighting. Erika here has orders to execute Stavros, and so do I. If our mission succeeds, that’s exactly what will happen to him. If it fails the authorities will be much more civilized with him. And God help you if they can’t stop him in time.”

“All right, Mr. Carter,” Minourkos said. “I put myself in your capable hands. How do we sneak up on Mr. Stavros?”

I smiled at Erika, and she returned it. “I think you mentioned that Stavros boasted about using one of your relatives, a brother-in-law named Kriezotou who’s a general in the army?”

“Yes,” Minourkos said. “He is not a strong man, I must say. He married my younger sister before I had made my fortune, and they have a fine marriage. But Vassilis would have remained at some lesser rank in the army if it had not been for my influence. He feels indebted to me, rightfully, for what he has in life. So it would be natural for him to go along with any scheme I would propose.

“Stavros found this out. He is a thorough man, Mr. Carter, a man not to be taken lightly. He must have made a tape of some kind to play to Vassilis on the telephone, and then sent the man posing as Salaka Madoupas, my secretary. The imposter must have then convinced Vassilis that I was depending on him.”

“Do you know how Stavros may have used the general?”

“He hinted that Vassilis would be asked to organize and train a secret force of soldiers and to convince other military men to join the conspiracy.”

“Yes,” I mused. “Very neat. Does your brother-in-law live here in Athens?”

“He does,” Minourkos said. “On the outskirts of the city to the north.”

“Will you take us to him?” I asked.

“It will be my pleasure,” Minourkos replied.

I called a cab, and we drove out to General Kriezotou’s residence in the early evening. I made Minourkos wear a hat that covered part of his face until we got there. The general’s house was a small mansion in a rich suburb of Athens, with a winding gravel drive to the house. I was impressed with what Minourkos could do for an ordinary man.

When the general met us at the door, Minourkos removed the hat. Kriezotou just stared for a very long moment. Then he threw his arms wide to embrace Minourkos.

“Nikkor!” he exclaimed, clasping Minourkos warmly. He was a tall, gray-haired man with kind of De Gaulle face and soft eyes. He was wearing a tan uniform with braid on the shoulders and ribbons strung across the front.

“Kali mera sas, Vassilis,” Minourkos said warmly, returning the embrace. “Sigha, sigha. It is all right.”

“It is so good for you to visit,” Vassilis said. “Come. Come in.” His gesture included all of us.

We stepped into a large hall with a winding staircase at its rear and urns decorating its walls. The general then led us into an oak-paneled library with thick carpeting and many soft leather chairs. We all sat down, and the general asked if we cared for a drink, which we declined. Minourkos introduced Erika and me by our last names only.