Philip Kerr - Hand of God

Ayrton Taylor had the SP on why this was:

‘In fact,’ he explained, ‘it was supposed to have been demolished more than a decade ago. Panathinaikos moved out of Leoforos in 1984 to play in the new Olympic Stadium. But they had to move back here in 2000 while renovations to bring the place in line with UEFA requirements took place. Cut a long story short, the money ran out and now they’re stuck here for the foreseeable future.’

‘It’s just like I was saying,’ said Gary. ‘The country is fucked.’

‘And to think people in Britain are still bellyaching about the cuts,’ said someone else. ‘They don’t know how well off they are.’

‘Come to Greece and then vote Tory,’ said Ayrton. ‘Makes perfect sense to me.’

Antonis Venizelos, our liaison from Panathinaikos, greeted us at the main entrance. He wore a short-sleeved green shirt and a green and white tie; with all the hair on his arms he looked like an Iranian surgeon.

He handed out some tickets, lit a menthol cigarette and we trooped after him and into the ground.

‘So,’ I said, making polite conversation, ‘the other team. OFI. Where are they from?’

‘The island of Crete,’ he said, ‘where English whores go on holiday to get laid by a nice Greek boy.’

‘I’m sure that’s not the only reason,’ said Simon, stiffly.

‘English whores and sand monkeys.’

‘Sand monkeys?’ I frowned. ‘Who or what are they?’

‘The island of Crete is where all the illegals from Libya and Egypt make for on their cargo boats.’ Venizelos shrugged. ‘It’s a real problem for them and for us and the EU does nothing about it. As long as they stay out of Germany and France no one gives a damn. Every week our coastguard has to rescue boatloads of them. Just the other day they picked up 408 in one boat. That’s 408 people we’re now going to have to look after. In my opinion we should have let those bastards drown. Then maybe someone would help us to do something about it.’

The crowd began to applaud as they saw us take our seats and Venizelos left us. The stadium may have been falling down but our welcome was holding up; and the pitch looked to be in excellent condition.

‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ said Simon. ‘For a man who smokes menthols he says some very sour things. Sometimes I’ve half a mind to stick one on him, boss.’

‘Don’t do that, for Christ’s sake. These are the only friends in Greece we have.’

‘You do know he’s a bloody Nazi, a member of the far-right Golden Dawn? At least that’s what he told me.’

‘Lots of people are, I think. They’ve got eighteen seats in the parliament.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re right.’

‘No, of course it doesn’t.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go somewhere, and I probably won’t be back in my seat until the end of the match. It suits me for the cops to think I’m here for the next hundred and five minutes. So don’t worry. I’m not about to disappear, like Zarco.’

‘Where are you going, boss?’

‘It’s probably best I don’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Just enjoy the game. And if anyone asks you later on, I was here all the time.’

Simon nodded. ‘Right you are, boss. And remember what I said: be careful.’

I went out of the south entrance where, outside the official Panathinaikos store, Charlie was waiting in the Range Rover. We drove fast and west for a while before turning south in the direction of Piraeus.

‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this,’ said Charlie, ‘but it’s a pity you weren’t watching Olympiacos. It’d be nearer and we’d have more time.’

‘Can’t be helped. But if we miss full time it won’t really matter that much. The important thing is that we’ve given the cops the slip again.’

Charlie glanced in his mirror as if just making sure and then nodded.

Dimitrakopoulou was the north street on a little square of neat gardens with tall trees and a playground where several children were having noisy fun on the swings under the watchful eyes of their mothers.

Charlie got out of the car and fetched an old blue police sweatshirt and matching baseball cap from a plastic bag in the boot.

‘I brought these from home,’ he said, putting on the sweatshirt and the hat. ‘They wouldn’t convince a real policeman, of course, but for anyone else they’ll do fine. Let me do the talking. And don’t speak to anyone. It’s probably best if you seem bad-tempered and overworked and keep your sunglasses on; that way, you’ll look like a real detective.’

Nataliya Matviyenko’s apartment was on the top floor of an ochre-coloured building with so many green canvas canopies shielding its several balconies from the strong afternoon sun it looked like it was under sail. There was a pharmacy on the ground floor that, according to the plastic clock on the door, was about to close for the afternoon and, next to the pharmacy, a modern glass door with several bell buttons.

‘There’s a Nataliya Boutzikos here,’ said Charlie, ‘but no Nataliya Matviyenko.’

‘Has to be her,’ I said. ‘Don’t you think?’

Charlie nodded and rang the bell; it was always possible someone else lived in the same apartment — Mr Boutzikos, perhaps — but there was no answer.

‘Now what?’ I asked.

‘Now we wait for the cavalry.’

‘Holy shit,’ I said. A police car was coming slowly along Dimitrakopoulou with its blue light on.

‘Relax,’ he said. ‘This is them now. The cavalry, I mean. These guys are nothing to do with the GADA. They’re friends of mine. I put a call in to the Piraeus Police for a squad car to turn up and make things look a bit more convincing, at least for the benefit of people who live around here. They’ll keep watch for us while we break into her flat. Have you got a couple of twenties?’

I gave him four tens and watched as Charlie went over and leaned into the driver’s window. I didn’t see him hand over the money but I suppose he must have done because the police in the car switched off their blue light, lit up a couple of cigarettes and settled down to wait for us to do what we wanted to do. Charlie returned to the door as the pharmacist came out of his shop, still wearing a crisp white coat, and curious to know why the police were in his neighbourhood.

Charlie started talking to him and, after a while, the pharmacist went inside the shop again. In an effort to contain my nerves I took out my phone, checked the recent calls list and then rang Francisco Carmona, from Orientafute.

‘Frank? It’s Scott. Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier.’

‘That’s okay, Scott. I’m used to people pretending they don’t know me.’

‘I was a bit taken aback to discover you’re coming to Athens, Frank. When I called you before it was because I wanted to speak to you about a player at another club. Someone you represent. Hörst Daxenberger, from Hertha.’

‘You’re looking to replace Bekim Develi?’

‘That’s right. Why don’t you cancel your flight to Athens and get on a flight to Berlin and see how much that German lad wants to come and play in London instead of trying to upset some of my players with some of that Orientafute bullshit.’

‘It’s not your players I’m interested in, Scott. It’s you. You’re the reason I was coming to Athens. I want to represent you. From what I hear, you might need an agent.’

Charlie came back from the police car.

‘Look, I can’t talk now. Just speak to that German lad and find out if he’s interested.’

I finished the call and looked at Charlie.

‘That’s a stroke of luck,’ said Charlie. ‘Mr Prezerakou is Nataliya’s landlord and he’s gone to fetch some keys for us. I told him we were looking for illegal immigrants and naturally he’s only too keen to help. No one around here likes illegals. He hasn’t seen her in days but that’s not unusual at this time of year. He says she often goes on vacations to Corfu. Apparently, she’s a good tenant and always pays her rent on time and he insists he saw all of her paperwork before he rented her the apartment. Originally, the apartment was rented to her husband, Mr Boutzikos, but he’s working in London now and Nataliya manages the place herself.’