down by two ladies in capri pants and Chanel sunglasses.Andthatwasmymistake–notthekillingofhim,thewomen.Igenuinelyhadn’tgivenita thought,Ijustsentthebestpeopleforthejob,but,asIhavetokeeprelearning,it’stheunquestioned assumptionsthatgetyoueverytime.
In the villages of northern Greece, where decisions are taken only in the councils of men, that somebodyhadassignedwomentodothekillingwasworseinawaythanthedeathitself.Itwasan
insult .Fortheoldman,itwasasifthekillersweretellinghimthatChristoswassuchano-account castratohewasn’tevenworthamatador.
Maybe Patros, the ruthless enforcer and father, would have ridden out of his compound for vengeanceanyway,butwhenhelearnedthecircumstances,forhisdignityasaman,forhishonour–
forgetthat,givenhispast,hehadnoneofthesethings–hebelievedhehadnochoice.
Thewomanagentwaswrongabouttheothercasualtytoo:despitethespandex,shewasn’trented
assatall.ShewasChristos’syoungersister.AsIwouldlearnlater,foroneofthefewtimesinher adultlife she wasrelatively clean andsober in Rastoni. Whilethe other patronsraced for the exits, shescrambledacrosstheshatteredglass,bendingoverherbrother,tryingtotalkhimintonotdying.
Realizing it was failing, she grabbed her cellphone and made a call. Despite all her years of relentlesssex,itwastotheonlyrealmaninherlife–herfather.Asaresult,Patrosandhisphalanxof AlbaniansheardbeforeIdidexactlywhatmypeoplehadwroughtthatafternoon.
Ihadn’tmovedfrommycornerneartheOldTownwhenIgotacalltenminutesafterhedid.Itwas
atextmessagegivingmethepriceofa Léon DVDonAmazon–itmeantChristoswasdead,theteam was safe on board the boats, there was no sign of pursuit. I put the phone away and looked at my watch.EighteenminuteshadpassedsinceIhadmadethecallinitiatingthewholeevent.
In the interim, I’d phoned through orders deploying smaller teams to arrest the other six named collaborators,andnowtheeventsthatstartedseveralyearsagoinRedSquarewerefinallydrawingto aclose.IsupposeIcouldhavetakenamomentforquietcongratulation,allowedmyselfsomesmall
feelingoftriumph,butI’mpronetoself-doubt–alwaysdoubting,I’mafraid.
As I adjusted my briefcase – an anonymous young businessman stepping out of the shadows and into the faceless foreign crowd – it was a dead British orator and writer who was on my mind.
Edmund Burke said the problem with war is that it usually consumes the very things that you’re fighting for – justice, decency, humanity – and I couldn’t help but think of how many times I had violatedournation’sdeepestvaluesinordertoprotectthem.
Lostinthought,Iheadedforthesmallbridgethatcrossedtheriver.Itiseighthundredpacesfrom theedgeoftheOldTowntothehotelinwhichIwasstaying.Eighthundredpaces,aboutfourminutes
–intermsofhistory,noteventheblinkofaneye,really–andyetinthatmomentalloursoulswere turninginafewmadmen’shands.
ChapterThirteen
THE HOTEL DU Rhône was deserted when I walked in. the doormen had gone, the concierge wasn’t at his post and the front desk was unattended. More disturbing was the silence. I called out, and when nobodyansweredImademywaytothebaratonesideofthelobby.
The staff were all there, standing with the patrons, watching a TV screen. It was a few minutes before3p.m.inGeneva,9a.m.inNewYork.ThedatewasSeptembertheeleventh.
ThefirstplanehadjusthitthenorthtoweroftheWorldTradeCenter,andalreadythefootagewas
being replayed over and over again. A couple of news anchors started speculating that it might be anti-US terrorists, and this theory was met with cheering from several Swiss idiots at the bar. They werespeakingFrench,butmysummersinParismeantIwasfluentenoughtounderstandtheywere
praisingthecourageandingenuityofwhoeverwasresponsible.
IthoughtofthepeopleathomeinNewYorkwatchingthesamefootageasus,knowingthattheir
loved ones were somewhere in the burning building and desperately praying that, somehow, they wouldmakeitout.Maybethereareworsethingsthanwatchingyourfamilydieonlivetelevision,but
In the villages of northern Greece, where decisions are taken only in the councils of men, that somebodyhadassignedwomentodothekillingwasworseinawaythanthedeathitself.Itwasan
insult .Fortheoldman,itwasasifthekillersweretellinghimthatChristoswassuchano-account castratohewasn’tevenworthamatador.
Maybe Patros, the ruthless enforcer and father, would have ridden out of his compound for vengeanceanyway,butwhenhelearnedthecircumstances,forhisdignityasaman,forhishonour–
forgetthat,givenhispast,hehadnoneofthesethings–hebelievedhehadnochoice.
Thewomanagentwaswrongabouttheothercasualtytoo:despitethespandex,shewasn’trented
assatall.ShewasChristos’syoungersister.AsIwouldlearnlater,foroneofthefewtimesinher adultlife she wasrelatively clean andsober in Rastoni. Whilethe other patronsraced for the exits, shescrambledacrosstheshatteredglass,bendingoverherbrother,tryingtotalkhimintonotdying.
Realizing it was failing, she grabbed her cellphone and made a call. Despite all her years of relentlesssex,itwastotheonlyrealmaninherlife–herfather.Asaresult,Patrosandhisphalanxof AlbaniansheardbeforeIdidexactlywhatmypeoplehadwroughtthatafternoon.
Ihadn’tmovedfrommycornerneartheOldTownwhenIgotacalltenminutesafterhedid.Itwas
atextmessagegivingmethepriceofa Léon DVDonAmazon–itmeantChristoswasdead,theteam was safe on board the boats, there was no sign of pursuit. I put the phone away and looked at my watch.EighteenminuteshadpassedsinceIhadmadethecallinitiatingthewholeevent.
In the interim, I’d phoned through orders deploying smaller teams to arrest the other six named collaborators,andnowtheeventsthatstartedseveralyearsagoinRedSquarewerefinallydrawingto aclose.IsupposeIcouldhavetakenamomentforquietcongratulation,allowedmyselfsomesmall
feelingoftriumph,butI’mpronetoself-doubt–alwaysdoubting,I’mafraid.
As I adjusted my briefcase – an anonymous young businessman stepping out of the shadows and into the faceless foreign crowd – it was a dead British orator and writer who was on my mind.
Edmund Burke said the problem with war is that it usually consumes the very things that you’re fighting for – justice, decency, humanity – and I couldn’t help but think of how many times I had violatedournation’sdeepestvaluesinordertoprotectthem.
Lostinthought,Iheadedforthesmallbridgethatcrossedtheriver.Itiseighthundredpacesfrom theedgeoftheOldTowntothehotelinwhichIwasstaying.Eighthundredpaces,aboutfourminutes
–intermsofhistory,noteventheblinkofaneye,really–andyetinthatmomentalloursoulswere turninginafewmadmen’shands.
ChapterThirteen
THE HOTEL DU Rhône was deserted when I walked in. the doormen had gone, the concierge wasn’t at his post and the front desk was unattended. More disturbing was the silence. I called out, and when nobodyansweredImademywaytothebaratonesideofthelobby.
The staff were all there, standing with the patrons, watching a TV screen. It was a few minutes before3p.m.inGeneva,9a.m.inNewYork.ThedatewasSeptembertheeleventh.
ThefirstplanehadjusthitthenorthtoweroftheWorldTradeCenter,andalreadythefootagewas
being replayed over and over again. A couple of news anchors started speculating that it might be anti-US terrorists, and this theory was met with cheering from several Swiss idiots at the bar. They werespeakingFrench,butmysummersinParismeantIwasfluentenoughtounderstandtheywere
praisingthecourageandingenuityofwhoeverwasresponsible.
IthoughtofthepeopleathomeinNewYorkwatchingthesamefootageasus,knowingthattheir
loved ones were somewhere in the burning building and desperately praying that, somehow, they wouldmakeitout.Maybethereareworsethingsthanwatchingyourfamilydieonlivetelevision,but
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