Santorini Caesars (11 page)

A few seconds later Dimos said, “I overheard a maid making up a room say that two men are in the office waiting for more to arrive.”

“Do we have audio in the office?”

“Negative. We didn't have time to get in there and set anything up.”

Andreas picked up a pencil and began tapping the eraser end on his desktop. “Sounds like the party's about to begin.”

“And as soon as they make it over to the bar area we'll have video on them,” said Dimos.

“What if they don't go to the bar?” said Andreas.

“No problem, once they're on the terrace staring down at the caldera, we'll be in paparazzi heaven up here. No way they'll be able to resist that view.”

“Let's hope so. I want you sending me photos as soon as you take them.”

“Will do.”

“Good.”

Petro came back on the line. “Anything else, Chief?”

“Yeah, as soon as Francesco sends his newlyweds on their way, call me.”

“Ten-four on that.”

“Bye.” Andreas turned off the phone.

“Francesco is performing a wedding in the middle of a top secret surveillance operation?” Yianni laughed. “I can't wait to hear the story behind that one.”

Maggie smiled. “In his younger days he was an entertainer. Once he joined the force, his acting talent landed him playing undercover roles. He took a bullet that nearly killed him in an assassination attempt by a homegrown terrorist group he'd infiltrated.”

“How'd they find out he was a cop?” said Yianni.

“How do you think?” said Maggie. “Some asshole in the department tipped them off.”

“Bastard.”

“But once Francesco recovered, rather than walk away, he asked to be transferred to special crimes. That was before the chief's time. He gave up doing undercover work—his wife threatened to kill him before anyone else had the chance if he didn't—and teamed up with Dimos, our resident techno-geek, in finding ways to plant whatever we needed wherever we wanted it.”

“Did he ever find the bastard who turned him in?” said Yianni.

“If he did, he never said a word of it to anyone, as far as I know,” said Maggie.

“Smart move,” said Andreas. “That makes it so there's no way to suspect him if the bastard simply disappeared someday.”

“Is that how you'd handle it, Chief?” said Yianni with a smile.

Andreas grinned. “You'll just have to wait and see, though, with so many high-ranking folks out there gunning for me, it may not be that long a wait.”

Andreas' desk phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “It's Petro. Everybody get a box of popcorn, I think we're about to hear a story of epic legend potential.”

“If Francesco's telling it,” said Maggie, “make that two boxes.”

***

It turned out to be a rather pleasant day for December, and just overcast enough to be perfect for taking photographs. Virtually every arriving guest went straight to the edge of the caldera, cell phone camera at the ready. Within an hour of Francesco's telling his much-exaggerated tale of how he'd single-handedly saved the three of them from being marched down the hill in irons, Dimos had sent Andreas near portrait-quality photographs of two dozen men.

As the photos came in, Maggie and Yianni matched them up against military personnel records, and within another hour every face had an associated name, rank, and bio. It was a gathering of majors through generals, squadron leaders through air marshals, and lieutenant commanders through admirals from the Army, Air Force, and Navy. Each branch had four general officers and four seniors, with one general officer and one senior officer from each branch sharing the same villa.

The planted video and audio worked perfectly, capturing every private conversation, and when all twenty-four men met together for several hours in the late afternoon in the largest villa, not a word was missed.

Despite all that good fortune, Andreas wasn't smiling. For hours he'd been listening over the speakerphone to the live feed coming into the church from the late afternoon meeting in the villa, and his mood had progressively darkened in pace with the evening sky.

Maggie had made herself scarce, and Yianni sat on Andreas' couch snoozing through barely feigned interest in the eavesdropped conversations.

“This is going nowhere,” barked Andreas, slamming his hand on the desk.

Yianni jerked up on the couch. “Not what you expected?”

“It's like listening to a bunch of cops on a retreat planning for the next generation.”

“But they're criticizing the government.”

Andreas waved his hand at Yianni. “Stop trying to sound as if you were awake and paying attention. They're gossiping and guessing—the same as every other Greek on the planet. No one has any idea where this government is taking the country.” Andreas pointed at the phone. “These aren't guys planning to take over the country. They're looking to come up with a plan for keeping up with the current government's intentions, as incomprehensible as they may be.”

“But why involve so many low-ranking officers in such a high-level operation?”

“Think of it as mentors and their protégés. From the bios I read, those twelve seniors are among the military's most talented, promising officers. Bringing them in early as participants in the planning stage ties them in at the grassroots. Don't forget, down the road those same senior officers will likely be the general officers called upon to implement decisions made this weekend.”

“Are you saying that what we're doing is a waste of time?” said Petro over the phone.

Andreas leaned in toward the speakerphone. “No, not a waste of time. Just that we're getting nothing out of this.”

“At least not yet,” said Petro.

“I admire your persistence,” said Andreas.

“You know, Chief,” said Yianni, “this is a hard crowd to be openly pitching revolution to. As you said, these are the military's best and brightest young minds. Most likely also its most loyal and patriotic. Only a fool would preach coup to these types right from the start.”

Andreas picked up a pencil and began tapping it on his desktop.

“You make it sound like a seduction,” said Petros.

“I like the analogy,” said Yianni.

“Yianni could be right, Chief. If a senior officer could be made to think it was his idea that a coup would be best for the country, and found the courage to raise the idea with a general officer he regarded as his mentor, the general officer would have hooked him for life.”

“A simple but diabolical variation on your mentor and protégé theme for the weekend,” said Yianni.

Andreas ran his fingers through his hair. “So you think all this unfocused, frustrated bullshit we've been listening to on how to plan for the country's future is actually intended to steer the seniors into suggesting a more aggressive strategy?”

“Could be,” said Petro. “Most of the talk we've heard has been from the general officers. The seniors have kept relatively quiet.”

“That's probably a big reason they've been so successful in their careers,” said Andreas.

“I'll try to keep that in mind,” said Yianni.

“But among themselves, Chief, the seniors are likely to talk more openly of tougher tactics. After all, it was colonels, not generals, who pulled off the coup in 1967,” said Petro.

Andreas stared at the phone. “Do you really believe that every general officer in that hotel room is somehow involved in orchestrating a conspiracy to have their seniors suggest a coup?”

“You don't need them all,” said Petro. “Just the ones steering the conversation. Those who have that view are looking for traveling companions. And those who don't probably won't pick up on what's happening. It's all buzzwords, innuendo, and gestures.”

“I think you've been watching too many spy movies,” said Yianni. “Besides, if it's all code words, how are we going to know when someone bites, let alone nibbles, at the bait?”

Andreas spoke up. “By continuing to listen to every word they utter.”

“Uh, Chief…”

“Yes, Dimos.”

“The meeting's about to break up.”

“Good. If Petro's theory has legs, the more aggressive talk will come in private.”

“But they're going off-property,” said Dimos.

“Where?”

“To a taverna they've taken over for the evening.”

Andreas slammed his hand on the desk. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Chief?”

“Yes, Petro?”

“I know the place, and there might be a chance for me to be inside while they're having dinner.”

Francesco could be heard laughing in the background.

“What's so funny?” said Andreas.

“He's an asshole at times,” said Petro. “He took us all to dinner the other night and by coincidence it's the same place they're headed to.”

“How's that going to get you inside?” said Andreas. “There'll be security for sure to keep the party private.”

“He's got a free pass,” yelled Francesco. “The owner's daughter is sweet on him.”

A muffled “Fuck you,” came across the phone from Petro.

“Enough,” said Andreas. “Is that true? Can you get inside?”

“I think so.”

“Then do it. I don't care what it takes, just do it. Dimos, can you wire the place for sound?”

“It'll be tough,” said Dimos.

“What about wiring Petro?”

“That will be really tough,” said Francesco. “To pull this off the kid's likely to be extensively searched from head to toe. Many times.” He laughed.

Another muffled, “Fuck you.”

“We'll try, Chief,” said Dimos. “But we'll have to go portable and set up our van close by the taverna.”

“Just do your best.”

“We could do better if we had satellites like the Americans.”

“Christmas is coming, Dimos. Put it on your wish list.”

“What time's dinner?” said Yianni.

“Ten,” said Dimos.

Andreas looked at is watch. “You better get moving, it's almost eight.”

“Uh, Chief…”

Andreas put his head in his hands. “Yes, Francesco. What is it now?”

“Speaking on behalf of those of us tightly gathered together in shared, close quarters, may I suggest that we get Petro to a hotel for a shower before his big date?”

Yianni burst out laughing.

“Laugh all you want, Yianni,” said Francesco, “but remember for the want of a nail a kingdom was lost. Do we want to risk all that for the want of a bar of soap?”

Andreas dropped his hands from his face, shook his head, and smiled. “As I said, whatever it takes. Even soap.”

“And don't forget to shave,” said Yianni.

Over the phone came a clear as a bell and very loud, “Fuck you.”

Chapter Eleven

“Hi, Sappho, it's—”

“It took you long enough. My phone's grown cobwebs waiting for you to call.”

Petro laughed. “I just got off work. It's the first chance I had.”

“I'm not even close to believing that line. Try another.”

“My dog ate my phone.”

“Better. But keep going.”

“I didn't want to call until I had the perfect words to say to you to convince you to see me again.”

Silence.

“Sappho, are you there?”

“I didn't want to interrupt you. You're on a roll, man.”

Petro laughed again. “Does that mean we're on for tonight?”

“Tonight? No can do. We're booked solid for a big party.”

“I'm not looking for a reservation. I just want to see you.”

“Sadly, my life is here. If you want to see me between six at night and whenever, it can only be here.”

“That's fine. I'm willing to just sit with you while you work.”

More silence. “Are you for real? Or did you run out today and buy one of those books with a title like
Ten Perfect Things to Say to a Woman
?”

“It was actually twelve. I've ten more to tell you.” Petro paused. “So, can I see you tonight?”

“You're too much. But I don't know how I can pull this off. I'll have to ask my father.”

“But I thought your father liked me?”

“He does, and my mother
loves
you. But this is a sort of special dinner and no strangers are allowed.”

“No strangers, huh?”

“Before you say it, okay, you're not a stranger. At least not a total stranger. How about tomorrow night?”

“I may have to go back to Athens.”

“Oh.”

“Or I may not. Just not sure. And I want to see you.”

“I think there's only nine lines left from your book.”

“That wasn't a line.”

“Make that eight. Give me a minute so I can speak to my father.”

Petro stood in front of the iconostasis staring at the icons of the saints. He felt badly about lying to the woman.
But the fate of my country could be on the line. I must do my duty.
Thinking those thoughts didn't make him feel any better about lying to her. But he did want to see her. So it wasn't a total lie. She was different from all the other women he knew. Not sure if that was good or bad.

“Hey, hotshot, do you have your working papers with you?” Sappho was back on the phone.

“Sure, why?”

“My father didn't think it was a good idea, but mother made him see the light.”

“What light?”

“We have twenty-five hungry men coming for dinner all at the same time at the same table. There's no way we pull that off effectively with just my mother cooking, my father taking orders, and me serving. We need another hand. Congratulations, you're our busboy for tonight.”

“Will it give me time to hang out with the cashier?”

“Don't worry, honey, we'll be bumping into each other all night. Twenty-five guests all wanting to be treated like royalty will turn the place into a madhouse.”

“I'm sure it will be a wonderful evening. How could it not now that I get to spend it with you?”

“Please do bring that book with you. I can't wait to see what you're holding back for later.”

“Quite a bit.”

“
Enough
. I've got to concentrate on the place cards.”

“Place cards?”

“There's assigned seating, with a chart we have to follow. As I said, twenty-five men wanting to be treated as royalty.”

“What time should I be there?”

“Can you make it in an hour?”

“I'll try, but it will be tight. I need to take a shower.”

“We have a shower here. You're free to use it. Hurry. Bye.”

Petro stared at the phone.

“So what did she say?”

“I'll be bussing tables this evening for twenty-five guests.”

“Twenty-five?” said Dimos.

“Yeah, I wondered about that too. We've only got twenty-four in the hotel.”

“Maybe she was just speaking in rough numbers?” said Francesco.

Petro shook his head. “I don't think so. She said she was given a list of assigned seats. Restaurateurs count seats.”

“That's good news,” said Dimos. “With that list and you working the table, we can plant our equipment close to the most likely coup-planning candidates.”

“And who would they be?” said Petro.

Dimos shrugged. “That's why we have a chief. We'll let him make the call.”

“Good idea, but make it fast because we've got to get lover boy to a hotel for a shower,” said Francesco.

Petro shook his head. “That won't be necessary.”

“I thought we resolved all that in our talk with the chief?”

“We did, but Sappho told me I could take a shower at the taverna.”

Francesco's face lit up.

“Don't even think of saying what I know is on your mind,” said Petro.

Francesco, put up his hands. “Hey, I admire what you're doing for our country. I'm just worried you might be martyred in action.”

“How's that going to happen taking a shower?”

“Showers are known to be dangerous places. Just be careful who hands you the soap.”

Dimos nodded and forced a serious expression. “Especially if there happens to be a father with a shotgun nearby.”

“That's not martyrdom,” said Francesco. “That's marriage.”

***

There were a lot more vehicles on the roads than Petro expected for the off-season, but then again it was an unusually warm Friday night and unlike most places in Greece, locals on Santorini had money to spend. Drivers didn't seem as unpredictable here as in wild party places like Mykonos during tourist season or in Athens at any time of year, so he drove without fear of triggering a macho reaction in those he flew up behind, then passed. His only concern was an unlikely run-in with a cop for ignoring just about every speeding and no-passing law on the books.

Getting stopped wasn't what concerned Petro. He worried he'd need to identify himself to avoid arrest, and that risked word getting out that a special-crimes unit cop was on the island. If the military brass he was supposed to be serving tonight should happen to get wind of that, and bother to pull his photo, for sure he'd be recognized from the taverna. Still, Petro saw getting to the taverna ASAP as his primary concern. Dimos and Francesco left in the van at the same time he did, but they didn't have to hurry. They had plenty of time to find a spot close by the taverna and set up the equipment. But Petro had a lot to do beyond taking a shower.

He hadn't worked in a restaurant for years but, like riding a bike, it wasn't something he'd forgotten. He just had to come up with a believable background story for himself in case one of the customers, or more likely, their security folks quizzed him. Plus he'd have to coordinate his answers with what Sappho, her father, and mother might say.

***

“Right on time,” said Sappho looking at her phone as Petro came through the front door carrying a small gym bag and heading straight for her. “I like employees like that.”

“As a matter of fact, I'm early.” He stopped a foot in front of her.

She nodded. “So you are.” She leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

“That's it?”

“We've work to do.”

“What about my shower?”

“Later. You've got more sweating to do to earn it.”

Petro shrugged. “You're the boss.”

“More words to quicken a lady's heart.” She smacked Petro lightly on his belly with the back of her hand. “What's in the bag?”

“A change of clothes and a razor.”

She nodded. “If you know how to set up a table, the plates, glasses, and silverware are in the big cabinet behind me next to the kitchen door. Salt, pepper, olive oil, vinegar, and napkins are on trays just inside the kitchen. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, I think I'll cry.”

“Don't worry, I can handle it.”

“Finally, my knight has arrived.”

“Which table?”

She pointed. “The long one set up in the middle of the room. The linen is already on it. They want only chairs, no banquettes. Twelve on the side facing into the room, thirteen on the side facing the banquettes.”

“No settings at the heads of the table?”

Sappho gestured no. “That's how they wanted it, that's how they'll get it.”

“Okay, let me get to it.” Petro walked to the banquette closest to the table and laid his gym bag on it. He walked back to the cabinet behind Sappho and began quietly shuttling piles of dinner and bread plates to the table.

Sappho watched him with a smile on her face. “I see you like to concentrate on your work.”

“I figure the sooner I get done with this the faster I can start flirting with the cashier.”

“So, you
have
worked in restaurants before.”

Petro smiled but didn't reply and started arranging plates on the table.

Sappho walked behind her desk, picked up an envelope and a sheet of paper, and held them out to Petro. “Here, now that I see you're an experienced table setter, I'm promoting you to card placer. There are place cards inside the envelope. Put them on the table in precisely the order set out on this seating chart.” She waved the paper.

Petro walked over and took them from her. He bowed. “Thank you for your confidence in me.”

She nodded. “Don't mention it. I'll be in the kitchen helping my mother. Just yell if you need me.”

“Maybe I should say hello to her.”

Sappho held up her hand. “Later. I know she's sweet on you, but she's really busy. Even has my father cooking. I'll give them your regards.”

Petro watched her walk into the kitchen. She sashayed through the doorway the same as she had the night he met her, but this time she threw no wisecrack over her shoulder. Maybe she needed an audience. Or maybe something else.

As soon as Sappho was gone, Petro's eyes raced over the chart. His eyes fixed on one entry.
That would be my pick
. He walked over to the table and with his back to the kitchen took a picture of the chart with his phone and sent it off to the chief and Dimos. He went back to setting the table as he waited for a response.

He'd just about finished when he felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket.

It was a message from Andreas. BE SURE TO COVER THE ONE NAMED “GUEST,” AND EVERYONE BESIDE AND ACROSS FROM GUEST.

It was his pick too. Petro smiled at the message.

“Is your wife wondering where you are?”

Petro didn't even look up. “Nah, she wants to know what I've done with our dozen children.”

Sappho didn't move from the kitchen doorway. “Are you married?”

He looked up. “No. Are you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Kids?”

She gestured no. “He was an asshole. He'd drive me to work, hang around here long enough to pick up tourist girls he could take down to the beach by the airport to fuck, and be back in time to take me home.”

“Ouch. How long have you been divorced?”

“Six months.”

“I hear it takes about two years to get back to where you were before.”

“Why would I want to get back there? I want nothing more to do with the life that got me into that mess in the first place.”

“I hear ya.”

“You seem like a nice guy.”

Petro held up his right hand. “Cross my heart, I am.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “But that doesn't mean I'm perfect. Far from it.”

“If both of us were perfect that would be a problem.”

“Well, I hear opposites attract.”

Sappho nodded. “Yeah, the trouble with that is, when they separate it's an explosion.”

Petro laughed.

She waved her hand off into the air. “Just keep setting the table and don't try to figure out what's going on in this screwed-up bitch's mind.”

Petro smiled. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

She feigned a slap, followed by a wink, and turned back to the kitchen.

Petro stared at the empty doorway for a couple of seconds before looking at the chart. The word GUEST appeared in the seventh position on the thirteen-seat side of the table. No name, just a seat in the very center of the action.

He took his bag from the banquette and set it on a chair shielded from the kitchen by the table. He unzipped it and took out seven thin, shiny metal clamps, each looking vaguely like a square-shaped question mark. They were the classic form of clamp used in virtually every taverna in Greece to hold tablecloths in place.

But these clamps were special. Dimos had developed them as his go-to mikes for on-the-run surveillance. You could quickly switch them for the real clamps, and only someone looking very closely at one might notice a mottled rather than smooth pattern on the side facing up.

Petro had to hand it Dimos. The guy probably could actually hide an elephant under a tablecloth. With microphones hidden in the tablecloth for good measure.

Petro staggered the new clamps in among the old in a zig-zag pattern, starting on the twelve-seat side with new clamps placed between seats two and three, six and seven, and ten and eleven, and on the thirteen-seat side between seats four and five, eight and nine, and twelve and thirteen. The final clamp he tucked to the immediate left of “Guest,” between seats six and seven.

Dimos had come up with that pattern for giving them maximum coverage for their equipment in that table arrangement. He'd given Petro several patterns, each for a different table configuration. Dimos said it was like designing football plays to counter anticipated defenses. He liked doing that sort of thing.

Petro had just slipped the clamps taken off the table into his bag when he heard, “Are you finished yet?”