The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller)

by Johnston, Paul

  THRILLING ACCLAIM FOR

  THE LAST RED DEATH

  “The Last Red Death is that rare breed of thriller:

  a ripping page-turner that is also stylish and

  intelligent. The heart, passions and politics

  of Greece come absolutely alive under

  Johnston’s masterful touch.”

  Jeffery Deaver

  “The Last Red Death is a compelling, carefully

  crafted, top-notch thriller. Paul Johnston

  is playing at the top of his game.”

  George Pelecanos

  “Fast-moving yet aware of political history, this is a

  strong story that increases our understanding of

  modern Greece.”

  Independent

  “Tightly paced, it never fails to engage.”

  Herald

  “…all his characters are credible, and their

  experiences give his narrative a sharper edge than

  any conventional thriller… the character

  of Mavros and the portrait of Greece make

  The Last Red Death stand out from the crowd.”

  Times Literary Supplement

  “An intriguing story that reveals how

  past sins can never be erased.”

  Good Book Guide

  “Johnston brilliantly evokes Greece’s turbulent past

  and murky present. The beauty and horror are

  skilfully combined to make The Last Red Death

  a powerful and pacy thriller.”

  Mark Billingham

  Paul Johnston was born in Edinburgh, and educated there and at Oxford. He is the author of ten crime novels, the first of which, Body Politic, won the British Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey Memorial Dagger for Best First Novel. He also won the Sherlock Award for Best Detective Novel for The Last Red Death. He now spends much of his time in Greece. He is married to a Greek and has recently become a father for the third time.

  For more information about Paul, visit

  www.paul-johnston.co.uk

  Available from Paul Johnston

  Alex Mavros novels

  CRYING BLUE MURDER

  THE GOLDEN SILENCE

  THE LAST RED DEATH

  Matt Wells novels

  THE DEATH LIST

  THE SOUL COLLECTOR

  THE LAST RED DEATH

  PAUL JOHNSTON

  www.mirabooks.co.uk

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks again to the MIRA UK team and my

  superb editor, Catherine Burke, for republishing

  this old warhorse.

  And to my agent Broo Doherty, a true star.

  FOREWORD

  The Last Red Death is the second in the series of Alex Mavros novels, following on from Crying Blue Murder (originally titled A Deeper Shade of Blue). The action takes place before the euro was introduced, so don’t be surprised by the presence of the drachma.

  Part of my plan was to vary the settings within Greece in each novel. So, instead of an Aegean island, this time Mavros explores the Peloponnese, the southern mainland – though, since the digging of the Corinth Canal, it is theoretically an island too. I wanted to shake up the idea that Greece is permanently blessed by sunshine. The main meteorological feature in this novel is snow.

  I also wanted to change the form of the novel. The Last Red Death is more of a political thriller than a straight crime novel, with Mavros hunting a terrorist while at the same time being hunted himself, both by the said terrorist and by various other mysterious organisations. you can never have too much jeopardy in a thriller.

  The novel was written after the Twin Towers were destroyed, though not long after. Even then I had the idea that the only way to stop terrorism was by understanding the motivations behind it. Unlike serial killers, terrorists share the same emotions as ordinary mortals; indeed, as the novel suggests, they may actually have a greater capacity both for love as well as the more obvious one for hate. I also wanted to examine the historical roots of terrorism in Greece – as it turns out, the British didn’t have an unblemished record in that area. Rereading the novel five years on, with the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan still going on, it strikes me that some of my conclusions have held up pretty well. See what you think.

  The Last Red Death is a novel very close to my heart. I discovered after I’d finished the book that I had a very advanced and very aggressive cancer. in the months before first publication in 2003 I had a successful operation and underwent chemotherapy. That run-in with real-life death, so to speak, seemed to give the novel a greater depth. I was very grateful when it won the Sherlock Award for Best Detective Novel, not least because Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is one of my great heroes. I am also very grateful to MIRA Books for republishing the Mavros series.

  Modern Greek is less inaccessible to English speakers than many imagine, but readers will save themselves headaches by noting the following:

  1) Iraklis (stressed on the final syllable) is the Greek name that has come into English as Heracles. (The latin form, Hercules, is probably better known.)

  2) Greek masculine names ending in -os, -as, and -is lose the final -s in the vocative case: ‘Spyros, Kostas and Dhimitris are singing the national anthem.’ But, ‘Sing the national anthem, Spyro, Kosta and Dhimitri.’

  3) Feminine surnames differ from their masculine counterparts: Nikitas Palaiologos, but Veta Palaiologou.

  4) The consonant transliterated as ‘dh’ (e.g. Dhimitris, Argolidha) is pronounced ‘th’ as in English ‘these’.

  Paul Johnston, January 2009

  To the staff of the Polykliniki Athinon with

  boundless gratitude and respect; and, in particular,

  to Yannis Yiakoumelos, Haris Katsifotis and

  Miltos Seferlis, true heirs of Hippocrates.

  PROLOGUE

  19 December 1976

  THERE was a hunter’s moon. During the day, the north of Athens had been caught in the clear air and chilled like the stony bottom of a mountain lake. Snow gave the upper slopes of the surrounding mountains a deceptive glaze, their pitted surfaces and lethal chasms hidden beneath a soft white carpet. But when the sun had sunk behind the massifs of the Peloponnese, the cold tightened its grip even more, and the moonlight sucked colour and substance from the buildings. People hurried home, their backs bent and their breath flaring, anxious to get inside, as if the city had suddenly become a realm of ghosts.

  The suburb of Psychiko, characterised by diplomats’ residences and the mansions of wealthy businessmen, was near the imposing mass of the Pentagon, the American-inspired headquarters of the Greek Ministry of Defence. There was no shortage of senior military personnel in the neighbourhood, the tree-lined pavements ringing with the regular pace of well-polished shoes every morning and evening. But not now. It was almost midnight and the street named after the former King Paul was quiet, the moon glinting between the street-lamps off the roofs of luxury cars that were beyond the pockets of all but the best-connected Athenians.

  Squeezed between a Mercedes station wagon and a dusty Land Rover whose door was emblazoned with the words ‘British School at Athens’, the stolen Honda 250cc motorbike was almost invisible, its rider and passenger crouching low.

  ‘What do you think?’ The bearded young man at the controls looked round at his companion. ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘Maybe less. The traffic isn’t too heavy tonight.’ The pillion-rider glanced at his watch. ‘Are you ready?’ His dark eyes glistened in the reflected light as he examined the other’s face. ‘Are you ready to strike a blow for your people?’

  The driver’s eyes dropped for a moment, then me
t the passenger’s again. ‘Of course, Michali.’ He gasped as he felt a sharp pain in his side.

  ‘No names, Odhyssea.’ The dark-eyed man’s expression was unchanged, the skin still loose around his heavy moustache. ‘At least, no real names.’ His lips formed an empty smile. ‘I am Iraklis, the hero, fighting for his birthright against injustice and the forces of reaction.’ He withdrew the knife and watched as the man at the controls went slack, his breathing gradually coming under control. ‘I am Iraklis, and together we are undertaking the twelve labours.’ He nudged the man in front. ‘Isn’t that right, Odhyssea?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The rider didn’t turn round.

  Iraklis raised his head cautiously and looked up at the apartment block on the right-hand side down the street. The target’s home. The lights on the second floor were on behind thick curtains; he could see faint lines at the edges of the balcony doors. The wife was there, along with the child and a Filipina servant—the watcher had confirmed that earlier. He tried to suppress the apprehension that had been mounting in him. Not about the mission: he had no misgivings about what they were about to do. His parents and their unjustly slaughtered comrades were entitled to a lifetime of missions. Nor was it the target that concerned him—the American was an invader, an enemy of the people. It was her. He steeled himself as he thought of the woman he had seduced, the woman who, in turn, had broken down his defences and almost diverted him from his purpose. Until his controller, hard and unwavering, had made him see reason. Iraklis picked up a sound to his rear. ‘Keep down,’ he whispered. ‘They’re coming.’

  The pair dropped lower, their ears cocked, as the sibilant engine noise of a Chevrolet approached. As soon as the car was past them, its lights moving slowly down Vasileos Pavlou Street, they took black balaclavas from the pockets of their jackets and pulled them down over their faces. The pillion rider leaned forward and looked round the Land Rover’s tail. The Chevrolet driver was inching into a space in front of the apartment block. The second the lights were switched off and the doors opened, the motorbike roared into life and swerved out into the street, skidding to a halt by the American car.

  Both men jumped off the bike, the rider running round the front towards the chauffeur, who was fumbling under his jacket for a weapon. Iraklis went to the back of the car and grabbed the occupant of the rear seat by the collar of his raincoat, dragging him out on to the pavement. Before the American could offer any resistance, the blade of a combat knife was at his throat.

  ‘Deal with him,’ Iraklis said to his comrade, nodding at the chauffeur.

  Odhysseas had already relieved the bulky man with the crew cut of his service automatic. Without hesitating, he smashed the butt of his revolver into the American’s face, then clubbed him on the back of the neck as he went down. He sprawled motionless on the pavement.

  ‘Bravo,’ Iraklis said.

  ‘Do it,’ Odhysseas said hoarsely. ‘Get it over with.’

  The American was kneeling on the ground, his head twisted round at Iraklis. ‘What do you want?’ he said in English. ‘I’m a diplomat.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Eimai Amerikanos… dhiplomatis.’

  Iraklis gripped the man’s fair hair with his left hand and forced his head back, the flat of the blade pressed hard against his throat. ‘I know who you are, Trent Helmer,’ he said, in heavily accented English.

  A metallic noise close by made all three men look round.

  ‘Trent?’ The woman’s voice was discordant. ‘Oh, my God, Trent.’ She stopped on the marble tiles outside the apartment block when she saw her husband’s attacker tense, her hands moving to her mouth and her face contorted in horror. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. She leaned forward, the flaps of her dressing-gown parting to reveal a pink silk nightgown.

  ‘Stay back, Laura,’ the American croaked.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ his wife repeated, in a whisper. But her eyes were no longer on the kneeling man. They were fixed on his attacker. ‘No, it can’t be,’ she said, stepping forward unsteadily. ‘It isn’t you, it can’t—’ She broke off as she saw the masked man with the knife raise his gaze from her.

  ‘No,’ she groaned, when she realised her daughter was watching from the bedroom window above. ‘No, Grace, no, no…’

  Iraklis took in the little girl. Her face and braided blonde hair were all that showed between the curtains. Her skin was pallid in the moonlight, the expression on her face vacant and unreadable. Her eyes were on the well-honed knife held to her father’s throat.

  ‘Do it,’ Odhysseas said, swinging the gun towards the woman. ‘Do it now or I swear I’ll take out his wife.’

  For a few seconds Iraklis was motionless. Then he lowered his eyes from the upper storey and shook his head at the woman.

  Before anyone could move—the child at the window, the woman on the tiles outside, the masked rider beside the comatose chauffeur, the diplomat on his knees—the assassin whipped his knife along the bared throat. His victim toppled slowly forward, blood jetting out over his white shirt and grey suit, and on to the smooth paving stones.

  As Iraklis stepped away, he took a small piece of carved wood from his pocket and dropped it on to the diplomat’s juddering back. Then, with the screams of the widow in his ears and the solemn stare of the child burning in his eyes, he swung his leg over the pillion and wrapped his arms round the driver.

  In a few seconds they were swallowed up by the moon-stained night.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Afterword

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  18 December 2001

  ALEX MAVROS was sitting at the window with the curtains half-drawn. In the weak morning light the shapes on the Acropolis were unclear, columns jutting up like the bones of a whale that had somehow beached itself on this rocky prominence five kilometres from the coast. The sun was over the ridge of Mount Imittos but its rays were struggling to break through the layer of pollution hanging over Athens, the year-round traffic fumes boosted by the heating oil burned in thousands of apartment blocks throughout the winter. Mavros shook his head as he watched a gangly kid on a moped accelerate hard up Pikilis, exhaust blaring.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Mavros turned his head towards the bed. Andhroniki Glezou’s tousled, highlighted hair had appeared above the covers, her eyes sticky with sleep but restless as ever.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, in a low voice. ‘You’d better get going, Niki. It’s after seven.’

  ‘Shit. I’ve got a meeting at eight.’ Niki stood up and came over to the window, her legs bare under a T-shirt with the logo ‘Olympic Games, Athens 2004—Game Over’. ‘What is it, Alex?’ she asked, an edge to her voice. ‘Let me guess. Your job? Your brother? The city? Me? Which one’s bugging you today? Or is it all of them?’ She gave him a sardonic glance and pulled the T-shirt over her head.

  Mavros tried to keep his eyes off Niki’s firm breasts and white thighs as she got dressed. He didn’t want to make it too obvious that he still found her physically attractive. Their relationship had always been stormy, but recently it had bee
n going off the top end of the Beaufort scale too frequently for comfort.

  ‘Well?’ Niki demanded. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, grow up, Alex. What have you got to complain about? I have clients with real problems, life-and-death problems.’ She was a social worker who was involved with immigrants and refugees.

  ‘Give me a break, will you?’ he said lamely, aware that nothing he came up with would strike a chord with her when she was in this mood. ‘So I’ve got a melancholic side. I’m not asking for sympathy.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Niki said, moving to the door. ‘I haven’t got time for sympathy.’ She stopped, came back and picked up a file from the bedside table. ‘I’m going to my place tonight. I need some clean clothes.’ Her expression softened and there was a hint of a smile. ‘I’ll expect you by nine.’ She moved away again. ‘Don’t let me down, Alex.’

  Mavros watched her go, then sat down on the bed. Niki was always setting him challenges. It was the way she exerted control and he didn’t like it. Maybe he’d stay away from her flat by the sea in Palaio Faliro tonight for all the hassle that would bring. It was about time he made a stand.

  He felt his eyes closing. This had been happening to him a lot in the last couple of months. Ever since he’d come back from a gut-wrenching case in the islands, he’d been waking up in the small hours and unable to get back to sleep. Then, as soon as Niki left for work, he would sink into vivid dreams, dreams from which his long-lost brother Andonis with his piercing blue eyes and sad smile was rarely absent. Recently he had been plagued by scenes of his early childhood—the park, streets around their home, the beach—when he had clung to his older brother’s hand for all he was worth.