Bound by Mystery Page 15

  I finished what I was doing, put the tools away, wiped my hands, and headed out the door. Niko’s decades-old, faded-red Toyota Hilux sat on the far side of the tiny dirt parking lot, over by the beginning of my olive trees. A blond woman sat next to him in the front seat. She wasn’t his wife.

  As soon as Niko saw me he jumped out of his truck and met me halfway.

  “Kharon, I’m in sort of a delicate predicament with that girl in my truck and—”

  “Hold on right there, Niko. I’m not judgmental but I’m also not fool enough to get involved in whatever mess you might have with your wife. As far as I’m concerned I never saw you here with that woman, but that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.”

  Niko furrowed his brow, looked at his truck, and back at me. “That girl’s young enough to be my daughter.”

  I raised my hands. “Hey, like I said, I’m not judgmental.”

  He laughed. “You got it all wrong. She’s my niece, the daughter of my wife’s sister. She lives in the United States, in California, and just graduated from some big-time agricultural school.”

  “What’s all that got to do with needing a favor from me?”

  Niko rubbed his forehead. “Whenever I visited my wife’s family in the U.S., I’d brag about my olive operation and big-time connections.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a common experience.”

  “But I really went overboard. I told her if she ever came here I’d be able to hook her up with major players in the olive business.”

  “You know everybody in the valley better than I do.”

  “Not the part she’s interested in.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Marketing.”

  “What makes you think that I know anything about marketing?”

  “It’s not what I think, it’s what she thinks.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I told her you charged the lowest pressing fees in the valley, operated your business with old-fashioned equipment, and still managed to beat back your competitors’ efforts to drive you out of business.”

  I didn’t like the sound of where this was headed. “Is she looking to write something about a dinosaur olive farmer discovered alive and well in Delphi?”

  Niko signaled no in the Greek fashion with an upward jerk of his head. “Nothing like that. She just wants to know how you do business. Can’t you at least talk to her?”

  I stared at him. “Sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass.”

  He smiled and patted me on the back. “Great, I knew I could count on you.”

  Niko turned toward his truck. “Thalia, come out and meet my friend, Kharon.”

  If he hadn’t told me she was from California I’d probably have guessed it. Long legs clad in denim, big blond ponytail, blue eyes, and well, the kind of figure you had to work hard not to stare at. She came straight at me with her right hand extended and a big smile.

  “Hi, sir, Thalia Georges. Pleased to meet you.”

  I wished she hadn’t called me sir. We shook hands. She had a firm grip. “Likewise.”

  “I hope you’ll have some time for me. I’d love to learn how you operate your business so successfully.”

  “It’s easy with loyal customers like your uncle.”

  Niko smiled.

  “When’s convenient for you, sir?”

  “Please, it’s Kharon.”

  She smiled.

  Say good-bye to the rest of my morning. “How about now?”

  She looked at her uncle.

  “I’ve things to do back at my place that can’t wait.”

  I jumped in. “I’ll drop you off when we’re done, if that’s okay with you.”

  Another smile. “Sure.”

  Niko left and I gave Thalia a tour of the press. She said she’d never seen equipment quite like that before. Whether or not she meant it as a compliment, I decided to take it as one. We did the question-and-answer session while strolling north along a mat of green grass and brown dirt carpeting miles of ancient olive trees.

  She told me of her life from birth to now. When she asked about my past, I said I was an olive grower. She didn’t push for more, just said she too loved the land, always had, and guessed that’s all one needed to know about a person to understand his soul.

  She definitely was from California.

  Next came questions bombarding me on all things olives, including how I started in the business, overcame a close-knit community’s natural resistance to strangers, dealt with less than honorable competitors, and viewed the future of the olive industry in the valley. I answered every one, except for how I acquired the wherewithal to buy my trees and the press.

  At the edge of the village of Chrisso we climbed a steep hillside east toward a group of boulders perched above an aqueduct carrying water down from the mountains to the valley.

  We sat among the boulders looking south across the valley toward the Gulf of Corinth. From this height, none of the trees we’d just walked among stood out from any other, except for random cypresses spiking the sky. We saw only a broad canvas of olive green, framed on three sides in beige and chocolate brown, with touches of ochre and terra cotta, its far side bordered by sapphire blue sea and bright blue sky.

  Thalia leaned back on a boulder, and stared off into the sky. “I can smell the sea.”

  “If the wind’s right, you’ll catch a whiff of wild herbs and lavender mixed in.”

  She shut her eyes. “You’ve answered all my questions but one.”

  Here comes the zinger.

  “From everything you’ve said, it’s pretty clear growers like my uncle are doomed. It’s only a matter of time until the foreigners own it all. So, why do you remain on the deck of the Titanic waiting for it to hit the inevitable iceberg? Are you a fan of disasters?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “Okay, answer the first.”

  “Because I was waiting to meet you.”

  She tilted her head toward me and opened her eyes. “Are you making a pass?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “No, at least not yet. I’ve been waiting for someone to show up who cares enough about this valley to fight for it.”

  She sat up. “And you think that’s me? You must have taken too much sun on our walk. I’m only here for a few weeks to visit my family.”

  “This valley’s in your heart. The same as it’s in mine.”

  “This valley’s not my home.”

  “Of course it is. Your roots go even deeper into its soil than mine.” I waved a hand out toward the sea. “Look out across this valley and tell me honestly whether you believe there could be a more beautiful place anywhere on Earth.”

  She shook her head. “No, I won’t lie. But what could I possibly do to change things?”

  I stood up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. “That my dear, we’ll discuss on the way back.”

  ***

  Our walk began with Thalia listing the reasons why she could not possibly stay: a lucrative job offer from an international mega-agricultural company, her family, and a new boyfriend. I pointed out that her new job had her moving to Canada, away from her family and boyfriend, but that in this valley she at least had family.

  She countered with the difficulty of earning a living in Greece, and that no matter how things worked out with her uncle, she could never expect to inherit his land or business. That would go to his son.

  I said her fortune in the valley lay in a different direction, one which involved her using her skills and education to establish a cooperative marketing venture among the valley’s growers, aimed at creating a unique brand for the lucrative high-end market abroad.

  “Like Sunkist?” she said.

  “Sunkist?”

  “Everyone in the United States knows Sunkist. Most th
ink it’s a company, but it’s a not-for-profit marketing cooperative of independent California and Arizona citrus growers.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m talking about. You could be the person who brings that concept here.”

  She shook her head. “It requires growers willing to work together for the common good, and that doesn’t exactly fit the Greek business model.”

  “I didn’t say it would be easy, but look at the upside for anyone willing to take on the challenge.”

  She smiled. “Stop selling me.”

  “Nope.”

  “It takes a lot of capital to get that sort of marketing program up and running.”

  I smiled. “Not to mention the packaging operations.”

  “You expect me to do that too?”

  “Of course. That’s where the real money is.”

  “So, where in this fairy tale of yours does the wizard appear with the cash needed to make the project fly? And don’t say the Greek banks.”

  “No, but there are investors looking to cherry-pick great opportunities in Greece, and I know you’re the perfect one to sell them on this.”

  She shook her head from side to side. “From the hustle you’re running on me, I’d say you’re pretty good yourself. Why don’t you take this on and leave my life alone?”

  I smiled. “I don’t have your blue eyes.”

  “I get it. You don’t want to tell me your real reason.”

  “No, that is the reason. Looking into my eyes draws a very different reaction.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They tend to discourage the sort of long-term commitments we’ll need for this to work.” I nodded toward my olive press. “We’re back.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “That’s my ride.” I pointed at a vintage BMW motorcycle.

  She smiled. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  I locked up the building. I’d finish what I’d been working on tomorrow. Ah, yes, Greece’s unofficial national motto, Avrio. Tomorrow, there’s always tomorrow.

  The ride to Niko’s took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of Thalia’s arms around my chest, her body pressed against mine, the engine vibrating between our legs. I wished Niko lived farther away.

  “Call me tomorrow,” she said when I dropped her off. “I want to talk with my uncle about your ideas.”

  “If you want me to speak with him, just ask.”

  “Thanks.” She kissed me on both cheeks and ran toward the house.

  I watched her until she disappeared, and thought of her as I drifted back along the road toward my place at the base of Mount Parnassus, mythical home to the nine muses.

  Oh, joyful muse of comedy and favorite of Delphi’s protector, Apollo, have you returned to once again enchant, dear Thalia?

  ***

  Not only did Thalia’s uncle agree with the plan, it fired him into organizing a meeting of every independent grower in the valley, and cajoling all of them into pledging their oil to the new cooperative. Next, her uncle compiled a list of everyone he could think of who might be interested in funding an independent olives-to-bottle operation in the valley.

  Over the next several months, Thalia and her uncle travelled across Greece from one investor meeting to another, gathering enthusiastic commitments to back the project. Delphi Valley Olive Oil Cooperative stood poised to forever change the way business was done in our valley.

  The night before the scheduled contract-signing with investors, I heard a horn blaring away in the parking lot outside my press. People didn’t honk like that around here, especially in the middle of a chilly March evening. A lost stranger would knock on the door; a friend would just walk inside. I peeked out the window. Niko’s truck sat in the middle of the parking lot aimed straight at the front door. I couldn’t tell who sat inside. But someone definitely wanted me out there.

  I left through a rear window, made my way into the olive grove, and circled around to come up on the truck from behind, the horn still blaring. I recognized the driver and tapped twice on the top of the cab. Thalia lurched forward against the steering wheel. The horn stopped—replaced by her screams.

  I stepped to where she could see me. “It’s me, Kharon,” I yelled.

  She didn’t seem to hear me. I opened the door and touched her arm. “It’s Kharon.”

  She screamed louder, her eyes clenched shut, her hands locked on the steering wheel.

  “Thalia, it’s me!”

  She kept screaming, rocking back and forth in the seat. I stepped back and waited. That’s when I noticed she wore no coat…her blouse torn open…she wore no pants…or underpants.

  I took off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled it off and laid it across her waist, still rocking, but no longer screaming.

  When she stopped rocking, I said, “Let’s go inside. It’s too cold out here.”

  She didn’t look at me. I held out my hand. She reached for it with one hand, clutching my jacket around her waist with the other. I led her inside and sat her in my office chair.

  “Wait here.”

  Her eyes widened. “Don’t leave me, please.”

  “I won’t, I’m just getting you a blanket.”

  I brought her the blanket and a cup of coffee; and sat holding her hand. I didn’t ask what happened. She would tell me when she wanted to.

  An hour later she did.

  Late that morning she’d received a call from a man who described himself as the representative of the valley’s foreign press owners. He said he knew the closing on the Cooperative was scheduled for the next day and he had a proposition to discuss with her.

  She said it would be a waste of everyone’s time.

  He said she should contact her investors, and that he’d call back in thirty minutes. She hadn’t had time to make the first call when an investor called to apologize for backing out at the last moment, saying unanticipated business developments made it impossible for him to invest. He refused to elaborate.

  Within that half-hour she learned every investor had withdrawn, each giving a similar bullshit reason for the change of heart.

  Precisely thirty minutes had passed when the representative called back. She agreed to meet him and his foreign press owners at one of their facilities later that afternoon.

  Thalia recognized every foreign press owner at the meeting, but not the nattily dressed, self-proclaimed representative. He introduced himself as the chairman of the board of a cooperative venture similar to the one she now advocated for the valley, and said he had an offer intended to address her cooperative’s potential competition with his.

  She asked if it was the same deal as he’d offered her investors to scare them away. He said they needed no persuading beyond a simple explanation of the terminal risks they faced should they not invest their capital elsewhere.

  He offered her one hundred thousand euros to walk away and do nothing further to organize the valley. She said no. He said she should reconsider, as this was no business for a woman.

  She told him to go to hell and stormed out of the building. Two bull-like men leaned against a van parked beside her uncle’s truck. It was one of many vehicles in the parking lot. One of the men answered a cell phone as she approached the truck. An instant later the other man grabbed her and both men forced her into the rear of the van.

  That’s when she began screaming. They didn’t bother to gag her or drive away, and she didn’t stop until they threw her out of the van and drove off.

  The only vehicle left in the parking lot was her uncle’s truck. Everyone from the meeting had left, ignoring her screams as they did.

  That’s when she drove to my place.

  She sat quietly staring off into the middle distance.

  I asked no questions, just drove her home in silence in her uncle’s truck. I told Niko I would
be away for a few days, and left Thalia to decide what she wanted to do next.

  He offered me a ride back to my motorcycle. I said no.

  I needed the walk to decide what I’d do next.

  ***

  The first of the foreign oil press owners disappeared three days later. The next day another vanished, followed by another. By the end of the week all but one had disappeared from the valley without a trace.

  The nattily dressed man now went nowhere without his two bodyguards. He was with the lone remaining foreign press owner when a text message came through on his cell phone:

  IT IS TIME TO MAKE A DEAL

  WHO ARE YOU? he replied.

  LOOK OUT THE WINDOW AT YOUR CAR.

  He looked out the window at the black BMW 750.

  I SEE NOTHING.

  WATCH.

  Five seconds later the BMW exploded.

  Another ten seconds passed.

  THAT WAS A SIGN OF MY GOOD INTENTIONS. IF I WANTED YOU DEAD YOU’D HAVE BEEN INSIDE.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT?

  I replied:

  JUST TO MEET AND CHAT ABOUT A BUSINESS PROPOSITION

  WHEN AND WHERE?

  I told him, and tossed away a missing owner’s phone.

  ***

  It was a pitch-black, new moon night when the nattily dressed man drove up to the pressing facility of the first foreign owner to disappear.

  I’d watched his two bodyguards arrive an hour earlier, creeping in through the adjacent olive groves, wearing black military camouflage and state-of-the art night-vision goggles, both men armed to the teeth. They took up positions designed to triangulate on me, once their boss drew me out of the shadows.

  Nattily Dressed stepped out of his car into a deadly still night, his head swiveling as if on ball bearings, an unlit flashlight in his hand.

  “Over here.” I said in a stage whisper from a corner of the building.

  He swung the flashlight my way, turned it on, and showered me in light.

  I didn’t react, just stood perfectly still, holding one hand behind my back. “Are you finished with the spotlight? Aim it at the ground and walk toward me. Otherwise…” My hand swung out from behind my back gripping a Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun.