Santorini Caesars (9 page)

“You liar. You haven't even asked for my number.”

Petro smiled again. “Don't need it.” He held up a matchbook imprinted with the name and number of the restaurant.

“Quick recovery.” She pulled out a pen and scribbled on a paper napkin. “Here's my mobile number and e-mail address.”

Sappho stood straight up and nodded to Dimos and Francesco. “Night guys, a pleasure meeting you.” She crouched down, gave Petro a quick kiss on the lips, and scurried off into the kitchen.

Petros took out his phone and fiddled with it.

“My God,” said Francesco, “can't you at least wait until after we're out of here before putting your new girlfriend's number in your phone? Look at those guys at the other table. They're laughing at you.”

“Yep, they sure are,” said Petro still fidgeting with his phone. “It saves me from having to ask them to smile for the camera.”

“Camera?” said Francesco.

Dimos laughed. “Good move, kid.”

Petro smiled at Dimos. “I thought you might like that.” He put down his phone and placed his hand on Francesco's shoulder. “And I hope you realize, my friend, that with those photos I just took of all the military types gathered around that table, this meal is now officially a business expense.”

Francesco's face lit up. He swung around in his chair and waved to the owner. “Check, please. This is my treat. Don't even think of giving the bill to my buddies.”

Chapter Nine

The hike to the church from where they parked the motorcycle and car took a lot longer than Petro remembered from their middle-of-the-night treks up the hill the night before. Far steeper too. But that was in adrenalin-driven preparation for an operation, not an alcohol-impaired stagger off to bed under the glow of an almost full moon playing hide and seek among the clouds. Francesco and Dimos said hardly a word the whole way, concentrating instead on keeping their footing.

At least it wasn't raining.

Petro was the first to reach the church nestled at the crest of the hill. He lifted a rope blocking the few steps up to the church. A sign dangled from the rope: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS AND PAINTING.

“Nice touch,” said Dimos.

“We'll see if it works. The word ‘NO' seems to attract our countrymen.”

The steps led to a low-walled stone terrace abutting a blue-domed white church aligned with its front door facing west, and a complementing small all-white structure snug up against the church's north wall. Petro reached above the lintel, pulled down a key, and opened the church door. Inside, a soft flicker of light from an oil lamp reflected off a row of well-lacquered, hand-painted icons hung along a simple dark-wood iconostasis separating the main part of the freshly whitewashed church from the altar area behind it.

“I sort of feel funny about doing all this in a church,” said Dimos.

Petro nodded. “I said the same thing to the chief. He said the Church has always been there for our country in crisis, so he was volunteering its services for this one.”

Dimos rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. But does that mean no one from this church knows we're in here?”

“Somebody does, because someone left the key above the door.”

Dimos shook his head. “Whatever.”

“What's with Francesco? Why's he so quiet?”

“My guess is he's still recovering from the shock of paying the dinner check. It probably just hit him it's not as easy getting reimbursed as it used to be in the good old days of the EU picking up practically every tab.”

“Screw you. I'm just exhausted.” Francesco pulled a sleeping bag out from among three piled in a corner and unrolled it close by the door. “Is there a toilet around here or are we supposed to aim for the caldera as I did most of the morning?”

“There's one in that building next to us,” said Petro. “It was built for tourists hiking the trail.”

Francesco opened the door and went outside.

“I'm going to check the equipment,” said Dimos stepping behind the iconostasis.

“Using the altar area to set up our equipment is really testing the Church's dedication to the cause,” said Petro.

“It gives us the best angle on the hotel. The window aims right at it.”

Petro walked to the edge of the iconostasis. “That's a big sucker of a parabolic dish and mike you've got set up there.”

“It's our best shot at picking up conversations on the terrace overlooking the caldera.”

Petro nodded. “Seems a natural place for having a serious talk. Like planning coups.”

“Is that what you think this is all about? A
coup d'etat
?”

Petro scratched his ear. “Whatever it is, I doubt it's related to furthering the democratic process.”

Dimos smiled. “Are you one of those idealists who still believes we have a democratic process?”

“I'd like to think so.”

“And I'd honestly hoped the new guys in power would back away from corruption and favoritism and actually care about what happens to us. But nothing's changed. Just different faces on the same sort of crooked politicians saying whatever they need to say to stay in power and screw the country blind.”

“You sound like you'd rather be hanging out with the guys we're supposed to be watching.”

Dimos gestured no. “Not a chance. At least the bastards we elected to run the country have to follow the rules if they want to put their opposition into prison. From the track record of our military, I don't see dissenters getting much of a break.” He smiled. “Except, of course, their legs. Oh, screw it all. I just wish there were some way of getting better people to run the government and not just the same old family names, generation after generation.”

“You sound like an American,” smiled Petro.

“Or an Englishman, Frenchman, Italian, Spaniard, you name it.”

“Seems about the only ones these days not complaining about their leader are the Russians.”

“Which only proves my point about militants in power. Everyone knows how the Russians really feel about ex-KGB chief Putin, but they're too afraid to say anything, worried if they do that the next thing they'll likely hear is, ‘Welcome to Siberia.'”

The front door swung open and Francesco stepped inside. “There was a couple sleeping inside the bathroom.”

“What?” said Dimos.

“You heard me. Young Australians looking to spend a night on the caldera but they couldn't find an open place to stay they could afford.”

“What did you tell them?” said Petro.

“To wait outside until I was done.”

“That's it?”

“What was I supposed to do, chase them away because we're on a secret mission for God? They'll be gone by tomorrow. Just knock before you enter if you need to use the facilities. The romance of the setting might just bring on an overwhelming rush of passion in them.”

“Remind me not to sleep next to you,” said Dimos.

“Don't worry, honey,” said Francesco climbing into his sleeping bag. “I'm too tired. Which reminds me to ask, what time do we start tomorrow?”

“You mean today,” said Petro. “It's nearly four. By ten we need to be up and running, just in case our guests show up earlier than expected. Military types can be like that. They like to surprise.”

“Great,” said Francesco, curled up in the sleeping bag. “You two can set up and take the first watch.”

“Why us?” said Dimos.

Francesco extended a hand from his sleeping bag and flipped Dimos off. “Because I paid for dinner.”

***

Petro wondered why church bells were ringing so early. In fact, why were they ringing at all? He lifted his head out from inside the sleeping bag and squinted at the light.
What time is it
?

Nothing moved in the other sleeping bags. The bells had stopped. He looked at his watch. Seven forty-five. Damn.
Who goes to church that early?
The bells started up again. They were ringing in his pants on the floor next to the sleeping bag. He grabbed for the pants and pulled out his phone. He looked at the caller ID and sat up.

“Yes, Chief.”

The other bags moved.

“Did I wake you?” said Andreas.

“Not really. There's not much happening yet so we're just hanging out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hold on.” Petro jumped out of his sleeping bag, kicked the shapes still buried in the other two bags, and ran behind the iconostasis to the window looking down at the hotel.

He lifted a pair of binoculars off a small table and, standing back from the window, held them up to his eyes. Uniformed military were all over the hotel.

“Francesco, Dimos
, get the hell in here, now
.” Petro put the phone back to his ear and swallowed. “When did they get here?”

“My guess is just before daybreak.”

“They're early.”

“They obviously believe in the old adage about the early bird getting the worm. Let's hope that doesn't apply to Francesco's and Dimos' handiwork.”

“How did you know they were here?”

“Someone else apparently is watching that hotel and is an early riser. She and her husband called Santorini's police chief at home to complain about a military invasion of their neighbor's property. Luckily, it just so happens the chief's an old friend of mine. Even luckier, he's the same old friend who arranged for you to get that key to the church and is making sure you're left alone. He figured this was just too much of a coincidence not to have something to do with me.”

Francesco and Dimos poked their heads in the doorway.

“Sorry, Chief.” Petro pointed at the window and silently mouthed the words,
They're here
.

“It's not about sorry. We didn't expect them this early. I assume they're out there for security reasons, and searching for listening devices, for sure.”

“Francesco and Dimos should hear this. I'll put you on speakerphone.”

“Good morning, Bright-Eyes.”

“Morning, Chief.”

“So tell me, guys, are they going to find what you left for them?”

“Not a chance,” said Francesco.

Dimos nodded. “They'd have to get lucky. We expected them to run a sweep. That's why we're not turning on any equipment until after they're done with their games. And when we do, what we installed won't read as anything out of the ordinary.”

“But won't they check in the same places where you hid your equipment?”

“Not likely, but if they do the mikes are designed to look like part of the wiring, and the repeaters are buried where they look like they belong, unless you happen to know what runs a Jacuzzi.”

“So, you're saying it would take some really skilled guys to find your work?”

“Magicians,” said Francesco.

“Sort of like military-intelligence experts?” said Andreas.

“An oxymoron,” said Francesco. “They don't do that sort of work. It's our civilian counterintelligence boys we'd have to worry about, and even they would have to physically look for our stuff to find it. They won't pick it up on instruments.”

“Chief, it's Dimos, and if this is a routine sweep of the sort the military does, they'll miss it. I can say that because we helped train them.”

“It's comforting,” said Andreas, “to know you're holding back secrets from those you're supposed to be helping keep our country secure.”

“We're like master chefs. We hold back some ingredients from our published recipes,” said Francesco.

“It makes us seem indispensable.”

“Okay guys, just consider this a multi-purpose wakeup call. Those people you're watching obviously aren't afraid to let folks know they're out and about. Which means they'll probably have security stationed in places to keep an eyeball on the hotel. There may be competition for your church. Be prepared. And don't get spotted peeking out the window.”

“Will do, Chief.”

“Now stay alert. More importantly, stay safe. If these are the bad guys, they're very bad guys. And don't forget to check in every half hour. Sooner, if something goes down. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Petro.

“Great. Bye.”

Petro closed his eyes as he shut off his phone. He pinched his fingers nearly together and opened his eyes. “We came this close to seriously screwing up.”

“Eh, close only counts in horseshoes,” said Francesco.

“Bzzzzzz. Wrong answer,” said Dimos. “Close is also highly effective with hand grenades.”

“Francesco, you and Dimos are not going to leave that window until we know the equipment is secure and operational.”

“But, we just told the chief—”

“I heard what you told the chief, Francesco, but shit happens, and
no more shit
is going to happen on an operation that has my head on the line. Understand?”

Francesco chuckled and slapped Dimos on the arm. “See, I told you someday we'd end up working for the kid. I just didn't expect it to be so soon.”

Dimos smiled at Petro. “He's trying to say we like you. Especially the way you didn't try to push what happened last night off on us.”

“Last night? What last night?” said Petro.

“I like that sort of thinking, kid,” said Francesco.

“Good,” Petro walked past them, picked up his pants, and started putting them on. “I hope you'll remember that when the time comes for you to put in for reimbursement for a dinner that never took place.”

Dimos laughed.

Francesco didn't.

***

Andreas hung up his mobile phone, and lay on the bed staring up at the ceiling.

“Is everything okay?” said Lila peeking out from under the duvet cover.

“As okay as anyone on watch aboard the good ship
Titanic
could be.”

“Sounding a bit dramatic, are we?”

“We're using shoestring budget equipment, improvising as we go, to eavesdrop on some of our nation's top military brass planning God knows what. Of course, we have absolutely no authorization for any of it, so dare I need explain what's likely to happen should we get caught?”

“I see an iceberg analogy on the horizon.”

“Hitting an iceberg head-on would be a great kindness compared to what the minister and his boys will put us through should this achieve its full cluster-fuck potential.”

“How elegantly put.”

“Just think of a swan dive off the rim of Santorini's caldera as far less painful.”

“Yes, I far prefer that image. So romantic. We should go there.”

“Assuming I'm not locked up, we'll go in the spring, after the baby's born.”

“If worse comes to worst, I'll send you a postcard from there.” Lila rubbed her belly.

“I can't believe that in less than a month Tassaki will have a little sister.”

“He's so excited.”

“I know, he insisted on helping me paint her room.”

“Tell me about it. Remember who supervised the cleanup?”

“Hey, artistic expression isn't always neat.”

“It's why the good Lord invented housepainters.”

“I'll always remember that room as a father and son engaged in a labor of love.”

“Great, and this soon to be mother in labor will remember it as a latex paint-remover nightmare.”