“From my experience, you always end up with the same people in charge again,” Flavia said, vaguely aware that there might be a sort of under-conversation going on here. “However much you try to get rid of them.”
“Of course. But not all. And you can always recognize them. The style remains the same. Take my line of business.”
“Spying.”
“Trade, Flavia, trade. You don’t mind if I call you Flavia?”
“Not at all.”
“Gyorgos. Anyway, you see, in the good old days, we were worried about spies and communists and all that sort of thing. We knew what we were doing and why we were doing it. Guarding the flanks of Europe, I think. Then, pouf! All change. Strange things start to happen.”
“Such as?”
“It’s a bit odd. People lose their sense of orientation. The old certainties vanish, so they go back to even older ones. A traditional enemy vanishes, so they concentrate on one which is even more traditional. Do you see what I mean?”
“Not a clue.”
“Really? You surprise me.”
“Have another go.”
“Old Charanis. A strange man. What do you know about him?”
“Not much; I’ve only ever heard of him as an art collector and man about the galleries, although I thought he’d given that up. I remember a dealer complaining about it once. Didn’t he announce he’d more pictures than he knew what to do with?”
Fostiropoulos smiled. “That’s correct. He got old, began to think about mortality and became pious. And gave up old masters and has turned instead to donating works of art to churches. Such as icons. But he’s even given that up now.”
“Still, even you must admit it is something more than a coincidence.”
“Perhaps. He’s an odd man. The strangest thing about him is that he is a fervent democrat.”
“Why is that strange?”
“When we had the coup back in the sixties, he was against the colonels. About the only member of the hundred families who own Greece who was. Admittedly it was because he thought it was bad for business, but also because in his soul he’s a romantic. Greece the cradle of democracy. Virulently anti-communist, but no supporter of these nationalistic thugs who took over.”
“So he’s as pure as the driven snow.”
“Used to be an obsessive collector, so they say. With magnificent results, as well. The national museum is trying to get his collection left to them in his will. It’s a hard slog, not least because old habits die hard in someone like him. He wants so many tax breaks and concessions and contracts in return that it’s not yet certain it’ll work. On top of that, so I’m told, the director of the museum is balking a little at one or two pieces he owns.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Origins a bit doubtful. No one knows where they came from, or how they got there. Still, that’s irrelevant.”
“Is it?”
“It is. Because he hasn’t bought anything for five years or more and refuses absolutely even to consider buying more.”
“What a pity.”
“He spends all his time in retreat. Of course, because he’s a bit of a megalomaniac he has his own monastery, and a cell for meditation which is equipped with a satellite link and fax machine, but his heart is in the right place, as much as he has one.”
“Where is this?”
“Near Mount Athos. He spends more and more of his time there. Even dresses like something out of the Middle Ages. Rumour has it that he is repenting for his sins. He’s got a big job on his hands.”
“So we can forget him? Is that what you’re telling me? Same as this morning? So why this meeting?”
“For the selfish delight of your beautiful company, dear signorina. And to point out that you might, as computers tell us to do these days, refine your search a little.”
“I know I’m being obtuse …”
“Not at all. Not at all. You have been looking for someone called Charanis.”
“Oh, I see. Brother, son, daughter, cousin?”
“He has difficulties with his children, poor man, although I can’t imagine he was much fun to have as a father. Smothered them with material goods but, unfortunately, expected them to deserve it. He is absurdly competitive himself and, so it is said, took particular delight in winning, even when playing a little kid. When the poor boy was four, he used to try hard to beat him at table tennis. Of course, popular gossip says there are good—or at least understandable—reasons for this.”
“And? What does popular gossip say?”
“It says that nine months before Mikis was born his wife was more than a little indiscreet. Charanis at the time was having a passionate affair with some woman, and his wife did the same. Now, this is a great dilemma. To admit your wife is unfaithful is a shaming thing. To preserve your pride and bring up a cuckoo in your nest is as bad.”
“He did the latter and made the son pay for it?”
“Correct. Even after he divorced he kept the boy, largely, I suspect, to teach her a lesson. And Mikis has grown up with a very unfortunate personality and an unpleasant attitude towards authority. Of late, this has found its expression in politics.”
“Public service,” Flavia said. “Could be worse.”
Gyorgos grimaced. “I doubt it, unfortunately. He took up with the most venomous bunch of right-wing nationalists there are. The sort of people who make our old military junta seem like milksop liberals. Common pattern, I believe. A desire to impose order and discipline on the entire country and beat up foreigners to show you’re tougher than your father.”
“Lot of them about, these days. What does it mean in Greek terms?”
“As you’d expect. Don’t like Slavs, don’t like Arabs, don’t like immigrants of any form. A fervent desire to discipline the country and bring it back to true patriotism and order. The usual brew, but in his case, of course, it’s allied to our glorious historical past.”
“Athens?”
“Fraid not,” he said as he swept a bowl of nuts into his huge hand and thrust them into his mouth.
“Don’t tell me. Alexander the Great. He wants to conquer Persia.”
“A bit ambitious, even for someone as extreme as young Charanis,” Gyorgos continued after he had washed the remnants away with a large swallow of champagne and refilled his glass. “No; his past is the Christian empire. Byzantium, in other words. He and the motley collection of lunatics he associates with want to take back Istanbul. If Leningrad can become St Petersburg, why should Istanbul not become Constantinople again?”
Fostiropoulos picked up another fistful of nuts, then changed his mind and poured the entire bowlful into his palm and swept them all into his mouth and sat there chewing noisily and smiling at Flavia to reassure himself that she had got the point.
“He’s got a big project, then.”
“As I say, you go back to the old certainties. Don’t underestimate them. Religion, history and dreams of glory make a heady brew for some people.”
“You’re not concerned about this, are you?”
“Officially, no. Not least because he is still protected by his father, and he is not a man to annoy. Unofficially, five Muslims were burned to death in Thessaloniki a few months back, and we’re sure these people had something to do with it. There’s not many of them, they’re not powerful, but they are getting stronger. And yes, we are concerned.”
“Do you know where he is?”
He shook his head. “Not in Greece, that’s for sure. We know he was, that he made a three-day trip to London three weeks ago, came back to Athens and then vanished. No one’s seen him for over a week.”
“Went to London, did he?”
He nodded. “Does that concern you? Why?”