Jeffrey Siger - Target - Tinos

“Tassos, what the hell did that guy tell you?” said Kouros.

“He said that no matter what he told me I should laugh all the way out the door. He said that the bald guy was a real hothead bad ass and only agreed that nothing would happen to us in the meeting. Once outside we were on our own and Aleksander was certain that by now whatever we’d come in was wired to explode. The Fiat was his final payment on a major favor owed.”

“Which was?” said Andreas.

“Let’s just put it this way, if I told you who he is-or from the way he now looks was-I will have reneged on a promise that just saved our lives.”

Andreas sat quietly for a moment. “Sometimes you are a very difficult man to understand.” He paused again. “But thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

On the trip out of Menidi no beggar stepped in front of the Fiat. They were too busy diving out of its way as Kouros swerved, sped, and slid like a drunken tourist on holiday to the Greek islands.

About a half-mile from the National Road, two police cars were waiting on the shoulder, and the cops inside were waving for them to pull over.

“Finally, reinforcements,” said Kouros.

“Don’t stop,” said Tassos. “They may not be friendly.”

“What are you talking about? We sent out a GPS distress call,” said Kouros.

“I know, but we’re no longer in distress and no reason to risk it.” Tassos looked back at Andreas. “The bearded guy in the sunglasses, he’s a cop.”

Andreas opened his eyes. “I thought he might be.”

“I don’t know him but I’m sure I’ve met him before,” said Tassos.

“Son of a bitch, I thought I recognized his voice,” said Kouros. “The beard’s a phony.”

“That’s how bald guy knew the tsigani were already dead when they were incinerated,” said Andreas.

Tassos nodded. “He’s owned by the Albanians. They probably had him here to watch out for ‘cop tricks.’”

“Then why didn’t they search us?” said Kouros.

“They were cocky,” said Tassos. “They didn’t care if we had weapons because there was a guy at each table holding a gun on us from the moment we walked in, probably shotguns and that AK-47.”

“That was the reason for the tablecloths,” said Andreas.

“Okay, but why wouldn’t the cop have them check us for a wire?” said Kouros.

“Same cocky, macho bullshit,” said Tassos. “They probably had a jammer working in case we were transmitting to someone on the outside and figured any recorder we had on us would go up in the explosion.”

Andreas leaned his head back against the seat. He drew in a breath. By now his pulse had returned to normal and his thoughts to what really counted. Lila and Tassaki foremost.

But something else, too: Punka. Son-of-a-bitch had to know more than he claimed about what was going on. His brothers must have told him something. Punka’s time on the outside was over.

“Yianni, who’s on Punka?”

“Angelo and Christina.”

“Fine, call them and tell them to bring him in now.”

Angelo was not free of prejudices. He never claimed to be. He just tried to keep his from interfering with his professional responsibilities as a cop. But Punka was making it very difficult. Angelo and his partner, Christina, had been staked out in Syntagma for hours watching Punka orchestrate a petty-crime wave in the heart of their city.

The Athens that Angelo remembered as a child had changed dramatically. Its innocence was gone. Residents no longer dared leave their front doors open, or any door or window for that matter. His mother and everyone else’s mother now rode the metro clutching their purses. That included immigrant mothers, for they were among the most preyed upon. Many feared that with Greece in economic decline for the first time in decades, there was worse crime to come, and all prayed that whatever came would not get out of hand.

To Angelo, Punka already was way out of hand. Cute, innocent-looking three-year-olds, five-year-olds, seven-year-olds, eleven-year-olds and every age in between raced around smiling and touching as they begged tourists and locals alike for money, and cursing those who did not give. Then there were the babies sleeping in the laps of older girls begging, but not really sleeping: drugged, so they couldn’t move or cry. And into this mix dropped the pickpockets, the opportunists. All run by Punka from a park bench and all watched as closely as a distrusting casino pit boss would his dealers.

“I really can’t take much more of this,” said Angelo into his transmitter. “What do you say, Christina, want to help me kick his ass?” He glanced across the square toward his partner.

“I can do it myself, thank you.”

“I bet you could.” He looked at his watch. He despised Punka even though he’d never met him. It wasn’t a matter of race or the notorious tsigani crimes and hustles that played out every day almost everywhere in Europe that bothered him. After all, separating suckers from their money was a time-honored tradition practiced by many groups, including businessmen and politicians. What drove his anger were the children, their exploitation.

He looked at his watch again. “Twenty minutes until our relief gets here,” said Angelo.

“Thank God,” said Christina. “This is worse than boring. Having to watch that bastard-”

“Christina. Someone’s heading toward Punka. Male, late twenties, five-six, thin, dark blue zippered jacket…”

“I see him,” said Christina.

“Hold off until contact is made then you follow the new guy. I’ll stay with Punka in case it’s a diversion.”

The new guy walked over to Punka and smiled. They didn’t shake hands, but talked for minute. He offered Punka a cigarette. Punka stood up, stretched, and took it. New guy reached into his right jacket pocket and pulled out a lighter. Punka leaned in for a light and new guy transferred the lighter to his left hand and…

Angelo thought, left hand? Why would he switch it to his left hand to light the cigarette? “ Move in now, something’s wrong.”

The stiletto was out of new guy’s right jacket sleeve and in Punka’s heart before Punka could draw a puff. It was a smooth, quick thrust with just enough twisting force to ensure Punka would not survive. He eased Punka back onto the bench and turned to walk away, the stiletto no longer in sight.

It was Christina who reached new guy first, her gun drawn. “ Stop, police. Drop the knife.”

He nodded, and let the stiletto fall from inside his right sleeve.

“On the ground, hands behind your head.” It was Angelo coming up behind him.

New guy dropped to his knees.

That was when the shot came. It entered dead center into new guy’s forehead.

The cops scrambled for cover.

The shot had to come from a building across the square, down by Ermou Street. But which building?

“Christina, call for assistance and stay with the bodies.”

Angelo ran toward Ermou, looking for something, anything. He ran into buildings, tried doors, grabbed anyone who looked suspicious, and did whatever else he could think of to make himself believe he had a snowball’s chance in hell of catching the shooter. But he knew it was a waste of time.

Just then his phone rang. It was Kouros.

“Busy night.” Andreas’ elbows were on his desk, his head in his hands, and his fingers rubbing his forehead. He dropped his hands and stared at Kouros and Tassos sitting across the desk from him. The three of them had just spent two hours with Angelo and Christina going over what happened in Syntagma.

“That was no mugging,” said Tassos. “No matter what the guy with the stiletto might have hoped to make it look like.”