‘He will not listen. I have heard about the kapetanios who calls himself Iraklis. He is an ideologue as well as a common murderer. He has trained his men—and women like that bitch—to follow orders blindly. Besides, they view the British as imperialist oppressors who are no better than the Germans.’
‘Nevertheless, my orders are to make contact with him.’ Dearfield moved back from the edge. ‘There is no way to the north from the plateau. If we head south, we will meet them.’
Fivos looked nervous but he complied. In a couple of hours the Englishman encountered Kapetan Iraklis for the first time and set out on the long road that ended on the cross.
Geoffrey Dearfield came back to himself with a start and moved his head, trying to fathom where he was. When he saw his wife’s supine form in the neighbouring bed, he managed to get his breathing under control. He had not been good for her, he thought. He had loved her well enough when she was not much more than a girl after the war. He had taken her away from her studies when they went back to England, but she had kept at them when he was working. He’d admired her for that, but her ability to lose herself in her own world made her a less than ideal wife for an MP. And after they came back to Greece, Flora had managed to break into academia, no small achievement for a woman in the early sixties. Of course, she had her relatives and her contacts, the network of patrons and clients that everyone in Greece had to use if they were to make progress in their chosen field—even though she had never shown any affection for the surviving members of her family. She had always kept herself to herself, staying in her study late into the night.
Dearfield found himself thinking about his father-in-law. Petros Petrakis had been a banker with roots in the western Mani, a rich man who cared nothing for anyone outside his own class. During the war he had stayed in Athens, trying to keep what remained of the Greek banking system in operation. There had been rumours that he was too close to the Germans and the Greek collaborationist governments, that he had been involved in black-market activities, but nothing had ever stuck. That hadn’t stopped a Communist youth-organisation member blowing his brains out on a street corner soon after the war. He didn’t know what effect that had had on Flora. She’d never spoken of it or of her family life before the murder. Dearfield had the impression that she had had little love for her father.
Ah, Flora, he thought, you’ve been studying the myths and the history of this area since I knew you. But you never knew what happened here during the war, the brutality and the horror. You never knew the part your own husband played in the violence. Now, if my book is ever published, you will find out. But what will that do to us?
Dearfield felt himself slipping down a stony slope, his eyes rolling. Only when he was past the point of no return did he realise that a band of resistance fighters in ill-matching uniforms was waiting for him at the bottom, bayonets in hand. And this time there was no bearded leader to control them.
Mavros woke up with a jerk, one side of his body freezing. It was a little after 4:00 a.m. He got up and turned the heater back on. After Grace left he’d dispensed with it, but that obviously hadn’t been a good idea. He went to the small bathroom. When he got back into bed, he found that sleep had deserted him.
He lay there wondering what he was getting into. Grace Helmer was a stunning woman and she had pressed herself on him. There was no denying that he’d fancied her from the moment he opened his door to her in Athens. So what was he doing rejecting her? It wasn’t as if his relationship with Niki was exactly flourishing—she’d made clear what she thought of him when she’d belted him in the gut and it wasn’t as if she’d ever find out that he’d turned Grace down. But it wasn’t just a question of sex, no matter how much mutual attraction there was between him and the American woman. The basic problem was a professional one. Not just on the level he’d expressed to Grace, that investigators should stand back from their clients to keep their minds on the case. No, the underlying concern that held him back was that he didn’t fully trust her.
He pulled the rough blanket up to his chin and went over Grace’s moves. She’d gone into her room without giving him a second glance, then had appeared a few minutes later and come on to him. Why? Was she just trying to surprise him, as she’d said, or was she playing a more devious game? Sex without emotion didn’t seem to be a problem for her—maybe she’d got used to that because of her work in dangerous places, and besides, there was no shortage of women, these days, who fucked you and hit the road, as the journalist Bitsos had once stated in characteristically crude fashion. Men had been doing that for centuries, so why shouldn’t women? But Grace had come on to him in a way that was too calculating. It was almost as if she’d gone to her room and found an instruction saying, ‘Get back there and make him screw you.’ But why? What did she want from him?
Mavros rolled on to his side and forced himself to close his eyes. He found himself back in the family house in Athens as a little kid, his brother, Andonis, whittling a boat for him out of a piece of firewood. It was a skill he had learned from their father—Spyros Mavros had sharpened the handle of a spoon into a blade when he was on the prison island of Makronisos and made driftwood figures with it when he couldn’t sleep; he could have used it against the guards, but violence had always been anathema to him. Andonis’s bright blue eyes were fixed on the blade of the knife as he moved it deftly across the surface of the wood, forming a curved hull. Then he raised his head and smiled at Alex.
Shaking his head to dispel the vision, Mavros tried to concentrate. He would soon have to decide on his priorities. Was he involved in this case for his client or for what he might discover about his brother? One thing he’d learned over the years was that working without a clear aim could be dangerous, even fatal. And that was without the presence of a master assassin in the wings.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IRAKLIS HAD left the car a kilometre from the village of Kainourgia Chora not long after five in the morning. The road was unmetalled and the Citroën’s tyres had left tracks in the muddy surface. There was nothing he could do about that. Curious locals might notice the unfamiliar vehicle if he hadn’t finished by daylight, but he had hired it using one of his false identities—that of a bookseller from Des Moines— so he wasn’t too concerned. Trudging up the sodden track in a dark blue raincoat and waterproof boots, he breathed in the clean air, colder here on the southern heights of Taygetos. At least it had stopped raining. The moon and stars were obscured by clouds and there were only a few lights visible from the small harbour far below. Up to his right the wind was rustling through the bushes, the harsh croak of a nocturnal bird of prey shutting off like a tap as he inadvertently kicked a stone. Although he had a torch, he preferred not to use it. His night vision had always been good and was unaffected by years in the bright lights of New York City.
The walls of the village appeared round a bend in the road, illuminated by a couple of dim street-lamps. Crouching down, he took out the plan he had drawn and shone the torch on it. The woman he’d telephoned, the cousin of his former comrade Babis Dhimitrakos, had been surprised when he’d asked how to find the house. She had shouted to her husband for help, explaining that they had only been there a few times. Fortunately he was the type who enjoyed giving directions and rattled off a detailed description of the small, underpopulated village. Dhimitrakos’s cousin had taken the phone back and asked who he was, openly curious. Iraklis mumbled that he was an old friend, then held the receiver closer to his ear. Apparently he wasn’t the first person to ask for her relative that day, though all she could tell him about the other caller was that he was male and spoke with what she described as a ‘city accent’. He’d been wondering who that could have been ever since he’d cut the connection. As he approached the first buildings, he put his hand on the silenced automatic in his coat pocket.
He found his old comrade’s house without difficulty, slipping through the deserted lanes to the far side of the village. His destination turned out to be a hovel rath
er than a house, the shutters dangling from the windows of the small single-storey building. It was relatively new, not built in stone in the traditional style but of cement blocks, the external layer of plaster coming off in several places. The blue paint on the wooden door was faded and cracked, a light with a broken shade above it. The assassin looked around to check that no one was observing him and tried the handle. It turned, but the door wouldn’t move. He slid his hand into his trouser pocket and took out a hooked steel rod. It took him under a minute to engage the lock. The hinges creaked as he pushed the panel so he slowed his movement and gradually inched it open far enough for him to squeeze in. He needn’t have bothered—the sound of heavy snoring was audible from a back room.
The house reeked of cigarettes and sewage, the cesspit clearly in need of emptying. Stepping forward silently, the shapes of the room’s meagre furniture easy to pick out in the light that was coming through the glass above the door, he entered the room at the rear. By the side of the single bed he made out a chair piled with clothing. Sweeping off the garments, he sat down. He brought the automatic forward in his right hand and turned on the torch, shining it into the sleeping man’s face.
Babis Dhimitrakos jerked forward with a start, blinking like a mole. ‘What—’ He fell silent when he felt the end of the silencer on his temple.
‘Keep the noise down, Odhyssea,’ Iraklis said, using the other man’s old terrorist code-name. ‘Keep the noise down and I’ll turn on the light. Understood?’
Dhimitrakos’s eyes were wide, the dark rings on the skin around them and the bloodshot pupils standing out in the torch’s beam. His head fell forward and he raised his hand in a weak gesture of assent.
The intruder felt for the bedside light and switched it on. A dim yellow glow illuminated the evil-smelling room and the blankets that the occupant had heaped over himself. ‘My God, you look terrible, Babi. And you stink.’
‘You!’ Dhimitrakos gasped. ‘I thought you were dead.’ His face was covered in grey stubble, the skin beneath it sallow. His hair was greasy and unkempt, standing up in patches like the feathers of a carrion crow that had been run over. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was told you’ve been in hospital,’ the terrorist said, ignoring the question. ‘Problems with your heart?’ He pressed the muzzle harder into the skin. ‘Is the guilt finally getting to you?’ He leaned closer. ‘I know you betrayed me, Babi.’
The man in the bed was panting now, the breath catching in his throat. ‘No, it wasn’t me. It was the others, it was Thyella and Markos.’
Iraklis smiled but his eyes were steely. ‘Really? Well, they paid for their sins, didn’t they?’
Dhimitrakos was swallowing repeatedly. ‘So…so it was you who did for them.’
The man on the chair shrugged. ‘They were both killed by hit-and-run drivers who were never traced, weren’t they?’ Then he shook his head. ‘I had other things on my mind.’ He recounted his escape from the security forces. ‘There were Americans involved,’ he said. ‘Did you talk to them? Have you seen them since?’
Dhimitrakos shuddered. ‘No…I—I was told you were the one who sold us out.’ His eyes bulged as Iraklis stood up and moved the pistol nearer his mouth. ‘Don’t—please don’t.’
‘Admit you betrayed me and I’ll take the gun away.’ Iraklis leaned closer. ‘Admit it.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Dhimitrakos whispered. ‘I did it. I told them where to find you, I told them.’ He let out a sob. ‘They…they hurt me.’
‘What about the others?’ The assassin had a flash of the other two members of the Iraklis group, the young man with the wispy beard and the dark-eyed girl, whose father had lived in exile in Yugoslavia since 1949. ‘Did they open up too?’
The man in the bed turned away. ‘I don’t know. We were kept separate.’ He looked back, his eyes damp. ‘Don’t kill me,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m going to die soon—the doctors only give me a couple of years at most. Please. Let me tend my goats in peace.’ The stench of his fear seeped out from the bed.
‘Tend your goats?’ the assassin said ruefully. ‘Is this what the struggle has come to? What happened to your commitment to the Party? Why did you take part in all those murders? You coward, you’re worse than the comrades who went into coalition with the Right in ’eighty-nine. You’ve been working for them, haven’t you, you louse?’
Babis Dhimitrakos was staring at him. ‘You’ve started again, haven’t you? You’re behind those killings in Athens. Why, after all these years?’
‘You think so?’ Iraklis said, sitting down. ‘Have you not considered that maybe your friends are playing a game? That brings me to the reason for my visit to this hideaway of yours.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘I need to make sure you don’t open your mouth about me again. You’re not still in contact with the enemy, are you?’ He watched as the man in the bed quivered. ‘No, you’re too sick to do their dirty work any more. Have you had any visitors from the big city recently?’
Dhimitrakos shook his head.
‘Well, given the Iraklis group’s apparent reappearance, it won’t be long before someone remembers you.’ He ran his left hand down the silencer. ‘How can I be sure you won’t betray me again?’ He moved the automatic away. ‘There’s only one way. But first I want you to tell me every little thing you let slip to the bastards when they grilled you.’
The former getaway driver pulled the blankets around him and started to talk in a breathless voice.
Mavros met Grace outside her room at eight. She smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about last night, Alex,’ she said. ‘Business as usual.’
They drank a quick and unpleasant coffee in the hotel’s deserted dining room and settled the bill. Before getting into the Fiat, Mavros picked up a loaf of bread and a couple of tiropites from a nearby bakery.
‘Cheese pie for breakfast?’ Grace asked, wrinkling her nose.
‘Suit yourself.’ He’d have preferred one of the Fat Man’s sweet pastries, but he hadn’t liked the look of the Areopolis equivalent.
While Mavros ate, Grace drove down the main road to the south, the wheels spraying water from the puddles that had formed at the side. The morning was grey and overcast, the summits of the hills shrouded again, but the rain was keeping off. As they passed Kitta, Mavros glanced to his right. Tigani promontory wasn’t visible because of the contours of the land, but the top of Kostas Laskaris’s tower was. He couldn’t stop thinking of the conversation he’d had with the old poet about his brother. The fact that Andonis had been down here, at the tower and on the rugged peninsula, had made a deep impression on him. He felt the need to go down to the ruined walls of the castle and touch the stones to see if he could establish some connection with his long-lost sibling. Maybe there would be time for that later.
At Alika they took a left turn and the road narrowed immediately as it started to wind up the hillside. After passing through a windswept village and a desolate valley, they reached a junction.
‘According to the map, that’s our road to the right,’ Mavros said. ‘It’s supposed to be unmetalled.’
They followed the sign to Korogonianika down a strip of asphalt that looked like it had been laid recently.
‘They’ve been doing this all over the country,’ he said. ‘Using European Union money to improve the infrastructure. You can be sure the local council members and the construction companies take their cuts.’
‘How cynical,’ Grace said.
‘How true.’ Mavros looked ahead. ‘Ah, this is more like it.’
The asphalt suddenly ran out, but the road ahead was a surprisingly firm mixture of gravel and mud. Soon they saw a huddle of houses and towers to their left marking the village that had been signposted.
‘Another couple of kilometres,’ Mavros said.
They passed a junction with a road that twisted down the hillside in a series of hairpins and Grace stopped.
‘Will you look at that view?’ she said, getting out of the car.
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p; Mavros joined her and took in the panorama of sea, indented bays and rolling hills to the south. Narrow promontories ran out into the grey-blue water like the snouts of huge amphibian creatures and, far out, a line of clouds marked the horizon.
‘The way to hell,’ Mavros said.
‘What?’
‘Cape Tainaron is beyond the last hill,’ he explained. ‘Also known as Matapan. The most southerly point on mainland Greece. It was there that Iraklis descended to the underworld to capture Cerberus.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Iraklis the mythical figure rather than Iraklis the terrorist group, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ Mavros registered her tone and stared back at her. ‘Look, Grace, if you’re going to check out every place that the ancient hero went because of potential links to the modern-day Iraklis, forget it. He performed labours all over the Peloponnese, let alone the rest of Greece and the Mediterranean.’
‘Okay, Alex. Calm down.’ She took a final look at the view and got back into the car.
A few minutes later they drove up to the dead-end village of Kainourgia Chora, the approach road clear of moving and stationary vehicles. The small collection of houses seemed uninhabited and Mavros wondered if he was going to have to phone Babis Dhimitrakos’s cousin for directions after all— he’d presumed someone on the spot would help. Then there was a clatter of heavy boots and an old man came round the corner between two run-down houses. Mavros asked him where Dhimitrakos lived.
‘Down the road towards the cemetery. Second-last house on the left.’ The villager peered at them with sticky eyes. ‘It stinks,’ he added, before he trudged off.
Mavros led the way to a house that was more dilapidated than the rest of the buildings. ‘I think this is it.’ There was a short unpaved path leading from the track, several footprints visible in the mud. He went up to the door. Before knocking he squatted down in front of it and looked at the lock as he pulled on a pair of leather gloves. ‘Either Mr Dhimitrakos has a very shaky hand or someone’s jemmied the lock recently.’ He pointed to the scores in the metal round the keyhole then thumped on the faded panelling. ‘Kyrie Dhimitrako?’
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 23
