Kostas Laskaris blinked, then coughed. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his voice almost inaudible. ‘I know how it feels.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Yes, it’s too late for lies. There is…there is something I can tell you.’
Mavros was studying him, trying to work out whether the poet was being straight with them. His limbs were slack, as if the tension resulting from years of self-imposed silence had finally been loosed.
‘I do know something that might help you.’ He met Mavros’s eyes without wavering. ‘I…I didn’t want to mention it before because the person concerned is very old.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Even older than me.’
Grace took the old man’s scrawny wrist. ‘Tell us,’ she said, her voice hard. ‘Tell us what you know.’
Laskaris froze, then swallowed. ‘I will, young woman. As soon as you release me.’ He looked at her ruefully. ‘You are very strong.’
‘Yeah. I’m also very impatient.’
Mavros twitched his head at her and she sat back.
‘Very well,’ Laskaris said. ‘There is a woman, a long-standing Party member who the man known as Iason Kolettis was linked to in the past.’
‘Was linked to,’ Grace repeated. ‘What does that mean?’
The old man stared at her, then dropped his gaze. ‘I think…I mean, I know…that she was his mother.’
‘What?’ Grace jumped to her feet, knocking over her chair.
Mavros raised his hand. ‘Hold it,’ he said, inclining his head towards the poet. ‘What’s her name?’ he asked quietly. ‘Where can we find her?’
Laskaris took a deep breath. ‘Stamatina Kastania,’ he said. ‘That is her husband’s surname. Even though we fought in the same ELAS band, I never knew her family name. She lives in Nafplion in Argolidha now.’
Mavros stared at him, still unsure how much to believe. ‘When was the last time you were in contact with her, Kosta?’
The old man held his gaze. ‘A week ago. I called her from Athens.’
‘A week ago?’ Grace said, her voice taut. ‘I don’t suppose you asked her if she had heard from her son recently?’
‘Actually, I did. And she had. She said she was expecting to see him before Christmas.’
Mavros caught Grace’s eye. He was wondering whether to believe the old Communist. The admission concerning the most wanted man in the country was so unexpected that he was almost convinced by it. ‘Kosta, why should we believe you now?’ he asked, trying to drive out his remaining doubts. ‘You kept things from us the last time we were here. You said you didn’t know anything about Kolettis.’
Grace was still standing. ‘For all we know you might be expecting him to show up here any minute. You might be sending us on a wild-goose chase.’
The poet frowned, unsure what she meant. ‘You are welcome to stay,’ he said, ‘though you will be wasting your time and I will not be good company. I must keep working on my poem, I must finish it before the pain finishes me. It is like a good Party member—it never gives up the struggle.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Mavros asked.
Laskaris shook his head. ‘I advise you to go to Kyra Stamatina without delay. She too is unwell. And it is only three days until the proto-Marxist Jesus Christ’s birthday, is it not?’
Mavros remembered that his mother and sister would be in Argolidha by now. The Palaiologos house was only a few kilometres from Nafplion. ‘I hope we can trust you, Kosta,’ he said. ‘This is very important for Grace.’
‘It is very important for you too, my boy,’ Laskaris said, switching to Greek. ‘You see, your brother stayed with Stamatina after he met Iason Kolettis here in November 1972.’
Mavros’s heart pounded. Andonis had forced his way into the case again and he didn’t know if he could handle it. At least he had no choice about what to do next. ‘I presume Stamatina Kastania’s number is in the phone book,’ he said in English, standing up and taking in the poet’s affirmative head movement. ‘Come on, Grace.’
‘What?’ she said, glancing at the old man. ‘What did he say to you? Do you trust him?’
Mavros looked at Laskaris once more, then beckoned to her. ‘I trust him.’ He turned to the door. ‘Good luck with the poem, Kosta,’ he said over his shoulder. He didn’t expect to see the old man again, and that hurt—he had been a comrade of his father’s, even though they had fallen out in the sixties. There wasn’t time to ask what had caused their disagreement. Andonis was the priority now, Andonis and the man he had met down here nearly thirty years ago.
Grace caught up with him outside. The first snowflakes were floating down, obscuring the ruined walls at the end of the peninsula.
‘Are you buying this?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you think we should wait here for Iraklis? He’s probably close behind us.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ Mavros said, walking down the slope to the car. ‘You said it yourself. It’ll be better to meet the terrorist in a less out-of-the-way place. His mother lives in a large town.’ He glanced at her. ‘And he’s hardly likely to use his weapon on us in front of her.’
‘Maybe he’s already here,’ she said, looking down the track. ‘Maybe that’s his car.’ She pointed. ‘Where’s it gone?’
The red Lada was no longer where it had been in front of the gate.
Mavros held out his hand for the keys to the Fiat. ‘If that was him—and I don’t think it’s too likely that he goes around in a clapped-out heap, even a Soviet one—he’s gone now. Anyway, you stay if you want. I’m going to Nafplion.’
‘What did Laskaris say to you at the end, Alex?’ Grace asked, keeping hold of the keys.
He told her about Andonis.
‘Is this my case or yours?’ she asked.
Mavros shrugged. ‘I’ll quit if you want. I believe the old man. He’s dying. All he cares about is his poem. He’s not going to tell us anything else, even if he knows more about Kolettis. But the terrorist’s mother, she’s a different story. Especially if he’s going to visit her.’
‘And especially if she knows something about your brother.’ Grace handed him the keys. ‘All right, we’ll stick together. But you’d better be right. And I hope you can handle the car in this weather.’
‘Of course I can.’ Mavros glanced around the bushes, listening out for shotgun fire to confirm that the driver of the Lada really was a hunter who had moved elsewhere. There was none. After a few moments he got into the Fiat.
It was time to head north, into the storm.
‘That was a very good lunch, Veta,’ Dorothy Cochrane-Mavrou said, folding up her napkin.
The hostess smiled. ‘Thank you. My chef used to work on one of my father’s cruise ships. He’s been with us for years.’
‘Costs us a fortune,’ her husband muttered, provoking a smile from Nondas Chaniotakis.
‘Stop complaining, Nikita,’ Veta said sharply. ‘Who would like coffee?’
‘I’m sure the kids have things they want to do,’ Anna said, shooing her two away from the table with rapid movements of her fingers. ‘They seem to have been adversely affected by the journey down.’ Her children had been stifling giggles all through the meal, egged on by Veta’s pair, who were painfully spoiled, their manners already the subject of muted comments from Dorothy. ‘I’d love some coffee.’
‘Please excuse me, Veta,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’m going to lie down for an hour.’
Geoffrey Dearfield pulled himself to his feet. ‘I will, too, if you don’t mind. I didn’t have a good night.’
The others watched them follow the whooping children from the dining room, Flora giving her husband a curious look.
‘I don’t know what’s got into Geoff recently,’ she said, her hands spread wide. ‘Most of the time he’s in another world.’
‘Senility,’ said Nikitas Palaiologos. ‘My old man was the same and so was my father-in-law.’
‘Don’t be so disloyal,’ Veta said sternly. ‘Both our fathers went through times in their lives that haunt
ed them to the end.’
‘How do you mean?’ Anna asked, picking up the scent of a story but trying to disguise her interest. ‘Oh, the Axis occupation, I suppose.’ She knew that the Dhragoumis and Palaiologos families had begun to build up their wealth during the war.
‘The occupation and the civil war,’ Nikitas said, ignoring his wife’s disapproving expression. She didn’t like harking back to what she called ‘the savage years’. ‘They taught those Communist bastards a lesson they didn’t forget.’
‘Nikita,’ Nondas murmured, the chewing gum that he’d opened as soon as the meal was over lodged in his cheek. ‘Anna’s father.’
Their bald-headed host’s eyes sprang open. ‘Oh, sorry. I forgot that some of us come from left-wing families.’ He didn’t sound contrite. ‘They took my uncle and aunt hostage in Athens, the ELAS butchers—after the fighting in December ’forty-four. And do you know what they did? They marched them through the snow for days, then cut their throats.’
Anna watched as Veta glared at him. ‘Really?’ she said quietly. ‘That’s terrible. But I don’t follow my father’s beliefs.’ She looked across the table at him. ‘Tell me, Nikita, is it true that your father sold produce that he confiscated from the families of EAM/ELAS members to the Germans and Italians at high profit?’
There was an icy silence as the sepulchral butler filled their coffee cups.
‘For God’s sake, Anna,’ Nondas said when the servant had gone.
Nikitas laughed. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. I’m not ashamed of what the old man did.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Veta’s father worked the market too, but she doesn’t like talking about it.’
The Member of Parliament got up. ‘Let’s take our coffee into the lounge, ladies,’ she said. ‘The men will no doubt welcome an opportunity to talk about important affairs.’ She moved away without waiting.
Anna raised an eyebrow at her husband and followed, Flora bringing up the rear.
‘Sorry about that, Nikita,’ Nondas said, ‘but you did ask for it. Anna’s pretty easy-going about politics, but sometimes she has to stick up for the side her father was on.’
‘Anna’s all right,’ Nikitas said, filling a brandy glass and shoving the decanter towards the Cretan, ‘unlike that brother of hers. What’s his name? Alex? I only met him once, at that party you gave a couple of years back, but he struck me as a long-haired layabout. Didn’t he kill someone on that island?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Nondas replied. ‘That was a massive case, the one on Trigono, and Alex cracked it on his own.’ He helped himself to brandy. ‘Be careful if you ever find him on your tail.’
Nikitas wasn’t paying attention. ‘I don’t regret what the old men did,’ he said, his fingers gripping the glass tightly. ‘I admire them. They were monarchists, true patriots. They knew that the mob only understands one thing and that’s violence. I wish the fools in Veta’s party could get that into their heads.’
Nondas looked at his friend. ‘It wasn’t only the Right that followed that line in the past. What about the terrorists who were operating at the end of the dictatorship? Take the Iraklis group. All they wanted to do was kill their enemy. Now it seems they’re back, but they’re not interested in politicians any more. They’re choosing targets from the business community. How does that make you feel? I can tell you, I’m shitting myself. I’ve got a wife I love, kids…’
Nikitas Palaiologos looked out of the windows to the wire fence beyond the garden. A security man in a Kevlar vest was on patrol. ‘How does that make me feel? Not very happy. But at least we can afford to pay for protection.’
Nondas swallowed the vintage Cognac. Given that he’d brought his family to stay in the Palaiologos house, he hoped the fruit and canning magnate was right.
*
Above them, in the sumptuously furnished bedroom she’d been given, Dorothy Cochrane-Mavrou was sitting at the dressing-table, her hand resting on a thick typescript. ‘This is not a good time, Geoff,’ she said. ‘I still have the last section of your memoir to read. Can’t we talk about it tomorrow? In the morning, when the others go on Flora’s tour of Tiryns?’
Dearfield was pacing up and down the broad room, his worn brogues sinking into the pile of a fine Persian carpet. ‘All right, Dorothy. I’m sorry, but I have to know what you think. I have to know that you’ll publish my memoir.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And I have to read the full script.’ She gave him a brief smile. ‘Anyway, I don’t usually respond in person. I wait until I am ready and then I send the author a letter.’
‘But, Dorothy,’ Dearfield said, desperation in his voice, ‘you’ve had it for nearly a month. For God’s sake, you must know whether it’s of interest.’ He came over to her and looked at her beseechingly. ‘You’re my only hope. No one in the U.K. will take on such a challenging book.’
‘It’s certainly written in a very…how can I describe it? A very intemperate style, Geoff. For goodness’ sake, stop marching up and down like a guardsman and leave me to finish it.’
Dearfield gave her a last look, his face contorted, then went out of the bedroom. Dorothy took her page-marker from the script.
Mavros drove back past Areopolis, the lights of the town glowing in the premature gloom that the snowclouds had brought. Grace checked the distance and told him that they should be in Nafplion by early evening—if the roads weren’t affected too much by the weather. As they went up the road that had been cut into the steep slope of Kouskouni, the peak’s summit lost in a blur of grey and white, he realised how vulnerable they were to the elements.
‘Are you all right with this? We could hole up in Yithion and wait for the blizzard to pass.’
Grace’s eyes were on the road. ‘This is no problem so far. I want to get to the terrorist’s mother before he gets to us.’
He glanced at her. ‘There’s a lot of high ground between Sparta and Tripoli. Maybe we should buy snow chains when we stop for petrol.’
‘They sell snow chains around here?’
‘Taygetos is over seven thousand feet. You think snow is unusual?’
She smiled. ‘No, I suppose not. It’s just that I have this childhood vision of Greece as a land of burning sunlight.’
‘Yet another only partially correct myth.’
Grace tensed as Mavros slowed behind a lorry showing no lights, then accelerated round it. ‘Here’s another,’ she said. ‘The U.S. is a wicked imperialist state that tells smaller ones what to do.’
Mavros laughed. ‘That’s a myth, is it?’ When she stiffened he raised his hand to placate her. ‘Anyway, why don’t we talk about a figure from ancient myth?’
‘Let me guess. You wouldn’t by any chance be referring to Hercules, would you? I mean Iraklis. Why can’t you guys call people by their real names?’
‘Good question.’ He looked out into the snow. The flakes were almost overwhelming the Fiat’s feeble wipers. ‘What’s the assassin’s real name? It’s not Kolettis and it’s not Kastanias, you can be sure of that. He’s been covering his identity very successfully for decades. So how do we get beneath the layers of deception?’
‘By asking his mother?’
‘I think you can assume that, since the secret’s been kept for decades, the old woman Stamatina is well versed in the arts of deception. The old poet said she was in ELAS. Maybe she taught her son all he knows.’
Grace was staring at him. ‘We should have kept on at Laskaris. He knows who the killer is, I’m sure of it.’
‘Shit!’ Mavros jerked back in his seat as a dark form swooped down in front of the windscreen.
‘What the hell was that?’ Grace gasped.
‘Bird of prey, I think,’ he replied, trying to get his breathing under control. ‘A buzzard, probably. When the visibility drops they come looking for prey.’
‘As in a wing and a prayer?’ Grace quipped.
‘Very funny.’ He looked at her, her face given a weird hue by the dashboard light. ‘Forget Laskaris
. He’s said all he’s going to say. We were lucky to get this much out of him.’ He peered out into the flurries of snow, which were thickening. ‘There are more people than Iraklis involved in this, Grace. Who was on our tail in Athens? I suppose it could have been the terrorist group, but there are other more likely suspects.’
‘The Greek equivalent of the FBI?’
‘There’s a high-profile antiterrorist squad,’ Mavros agreed. ‘That’s what I thought initially. But why?’ He turned his eyes on her again. ‘It all comes back to you, Grace. We first spotted a tail when we went to see Randos. Why were they following us then?’ He hadn’t forgotten the points he found suspicious about her: her presence at the concert hall after the explosion, her extreme physical fitness, her attempted seduction of him and her familiarity with investigative and undercover techniques—in the valley where Dhimitrakos died, she hadn’t been disturbed by their assailant and the subsequent gunfire.
She held her gaze on the road. ‘The embassy could have put them on to me via that police commander Kriaras.’
‘Exactly,’ he agreed. ‘Because of your father, supposedly.’
This time she turned to him. ‘Yes.’ She looked puzzled. ‘Why else, Alex?’
‘You wouldn’t by any chance be working for a certain secretive government agency based in Langley, Virginia, would you?’
Grace was silent for a few seconds, then she laughed. ‘Are you serious? Me, work for the CIA? They’ve spent years getting exactly nowhere in the hunt for the man who killed my father. You’re crazy if you think I’m one of them.’
Mavros was still looking at her. ‘So they haven’t assigned you to hire me and make use of my contacts?’
‘No, they haven’t,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘For God’s sake, Alex, what kind of a guy are you? I’ve shown you my mother’s last letter, I’ve shared everything with you. Christ, I even began to fall for you, though that was a big mistake.’ She shook off the hand he’d put on her arm and swivelled round, clutching for her bag. ‘Here,’ she said, taking a card from her wallet. ‘Call my employers and ask them about me.’
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 26
