End Game by David Hagberg Page A

someone. Is this business for you?”
    â€œWe want to have a little chat with him,” McGarvey said.
    â€œMay I know what you wish to discuss with him?”
    â€œHe used to work for us, and something has come up we’d like to ask him about.”
    â€œThe service would want a more detailed answer.”
    Pete came the rest of the way into the sitting room. “Do you know where this man is?”
    â€œOf course. I was the one responsible for putting him there,” Moshonas said. “If you’ll give me something I can report, any little thing, I’ll take you to him.”
    â€œHe’s wanted for questioning in the murders of two CIA employees a few days ago.”
    â€œThat would be impossible,” Moshonas said. “Mr. Cooke was convicted of trafficking in stolen artifacts last year. At the moment he’s serving time at Korydallos prison in Piraeus.”
    For just a moment McGarvey allowed himself to be surprised, until he realized what was wrong. Coffin would never have allowed himself to be caught doing something so simple. “Did he plead guilty?”
    Moshonas’s eyes narrowed. “In fact, he did.”
    â€œWas he offered a plea bargain, maybe if he named his sources?”
    â€œHe turned it down.”
    â€œMaybe a fine instead of a prison sentence?”
    â€œHe turned that down as well, though he was living in a very expensive home, without a mortgage. He wanted to go to prison, which none of us understood.”
    â€œLet’s go talk to him, and I’ll tell you what I can on the way down.”
    â€œWould you like to see his house?”
    â€œNo,” McGarvey said. “There’d be nothing there of any interest to us.”
    Moshonas nodded. “I’ll bring you to him, but I want to sit in on the interview, and there are a few questions I’ll have to ask you afterward.”

 
    TEN
    Coffin, wearing gray scrubs of the sort used by doctors in hospitals, walked down the corridor of the maximum-security section for men, his eyes lowered, a slight scowl on his face. No guard accompanied him; he was treated more or less as a special guest because of his generous contributions to the warden’s pension fund, and funds for the families of guards who were out of work because of injuries or illness. He was well liked here and practically had the run of the place.
    He’d been convicted and sentenced as an antiquities thief, but he’d presented himself, complete with diplomas, as a clinical psychiatrist specializing in the mental disorders of habitual offenders—especially females, of which there were still a few in Korydallos.
    The prison, which was infamous with Amnesty International for its horrible conditions, maintained a vastly out-of-date and underequipped hospital and mental clinic. Always short of money and personnel, the medical director was initially overjoyed to have Coffin’s help. And no one ever bothered to question his credentials, even though some of the staff had their suspicions.
    At the end of the long corridor, he was admitted through a steel door into the medical section that divided the women’s cellblock from the rest of the complex.
    â€œGood morning, Doc,” the guard said in Greek, a language Coffin had managed to become reasonably proficient in over the past couple of years.
    â€œHow is your child?”
    â€œIt was very close. Without your help, his appendix would have burst and he would have died.”
    â€œIs he out of hospital?”
    â€œTwo days ago, and he’ll start back to school on Monday.”
    â€œGlad to hear it,” Coffin said, patting the man on the arm.
    Dr. Vasilis Lampros, the prison’s medical director, was waiting at Coffin’s office door when he came into the clinic. He was a stern, rough-looking old man who’d worked in Greek prisons all his medical career. He looked more like a rock cutter in a marble quarry than a doctor,