He glanced at the embossed rectangle of paper she was holding up and shook his head. ‘I’ve already seen your picture on the organisation’s website. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t an undercover operative.’
‘Call them,’ she repeated. ‘Ask them what I’ve been doing for the last five years. You’ll find that there hasn’t been much time for playing James frigging Bond.’ She looked away into the snow.
‘If your cover’s any good, all I’ll hear will be well-rehearsed lies,’ Mavros said, keeping the pressure on her.
Her shoulder was turned away from him. ‘I suppose you think that what I did last night was part of my orders too,’ she said. ‘Jesus, you—’
‘Maybe the guy who saved us was one of yours,’ he interrupted, eyes on the road.
Grace shifted round towards him. ‘Christ, you’ve been reading too many bullshit thrillers, Alex. You really think I’ve got a guardian angel looking out for my ass? Anyway, if he was one of ours, why didn’t he take Iraklis out when he had the chance?’
Mavros couldn’t think of an answer to that.
Soon afterwards they came down into the wooded plain under the old castle of Passava, the road surface clearing as they approached sea level.
‘Anyway,’ Mavros said, picking up his train of thought, ‘let’s say the Greeks and maybe the Americans are after us. Why? Because they expect us to lead them to the assassin?’
‘Maybe it’s more complicated than that,’ Grace said. ‘Maybe there are other people involved.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, rubbing her forehead in irritation. ‘Maybe things are out of control and nobody really knows what’s going on.’
‘That’s a reassuring thought,’ Mavros said. Then his face darkened as he looked into the mirror. ‘Whoever they are, it’s a fair assumption that at least one of them is on our tail. We haven’t got much chance of evading them in this car. Maybe it’s time for me to call Nikos Kriaras and tell him what we know.’
‘No!’ Grace grabbed his upper arm. ‘No, Alex. Not yet.’ She loosened her grip. ‘At least wait till we speak to the terrorist’s mother.’
He nodded slowly, still unsure of her motives.
Mavros filled up with petrol and picked up snow chains in a garage on the outskirts of Yithion. While he was paying he caught the weather forecast on the television. It would be touch and go. Some mountain villages in the northern Peloponnese were already cut off. He considered looking for a place to hire a four-by-four, but reckoned he’d be lucky to find any such establishment open in the winter. Besides, leaving the Fiat down here would get him into trouble with the dubious operator in Corinth who had rented it to him.
They swapped drivers. The road from Yithion to Sparta wasn’t too difficult as it traversed a low plain, but north of the Lakonian capital things got trickier. The highway traversing the Kleisoura Pass had recently been upgraded, its bends and ascents well engineered. That was just as well because the snow had been falling heavily on the stony heights and driving conditions were worsening. Grace coped without complaint, only shaking her head when fools in fast cars overtook the Fiat. As they approached Tripolis, Mavros tried to persuade her that staying the night there would be sensible.
‘Forget it,’ she said firmly. ‘You said these conditions are expected to prevail for the next couple of days. I want to get there tonight.’
‘Okay, but I’m going to drive for a bit.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ Grace asked, with a hint of a smile.
‘As soon as I have any doubt, I’ll give you back the wheel,’ he replied, unamused.
They exchanged seats on the Tripolis bypass. The small Fiat was handling surprisingly well on the mushy surface and they made reasonable time up the snaking road that led into Argolidha. He had considered going the long way round, following the motorway to the north, but had decided it wasn’t a better option—it climbed to a tunnel high on Mount Artemision and there was even more danger of disruption.
They progressed slowly but surely towards the Gulf of Argos, following the tail ghts of a lorry. There were few cars on the road now and there was no sign of anyone keeping their distance behind. Mavros was having to blink all the time as the wipers fought with the snow. Then the lights ahead vanished. He remembered a drive on this road with some friends during the summer vacation when he was a student—it had brought his heart to his mouth.
‘Oh, shit,’ he said, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.
‘What is it?’ Grace asked.
‘Nothing,’ he muttered, and embarked on the series of hairpin bends, nothing other than white flakes to be seen. He recalled the spectacular view across the bay to Nafplion and the mountains beyond, islands as far as Spetses to the southeast floating on the rippled dark blue. After a while he lost track of time, and found himself back in his childhood on a beach somewhere. His mother was reading a typescript under pine trees whose molten sap tickled his nostrils. Anna was playing with her dolls in the shade nearby and he was scrambling up a low rock face, head back as he looked into his brother’s smiling face above. Andonis had disappeared the following winter, but he had never really left Mavros—and now there was a chance that he might at last discover what happened to his brother.
Mavros forced himself to concentrate on the road. At last it levelled out. He drove along the last stretch to the sea and turned left towards Argos. The snow was much less dense now they were at sea level and the asphalt was wet rather than layered in white. Then he caught sight of a sign to Lerni and his heart thudded. Lerni, ancient Lerna, was where Iraklis, helped by his comrade Iolaos, had conquered the Hydra. They had reached the home territory of the ancient hero.
Iraklis drove slowly down the track and parked the Citroën below Kostas Laskaris’s war tower. When he got out, he squatted down and examined the tyre tracks, recognising them as fresh despite the sprinkling of snow that lay on the ground. Then he walked down towards the gate and looked out towards the promontory of Tigani, remembering the meeting he had out there with Andonis Mavros. So many years ago, but suddenly it was clear in his mind again. He noticed different tracks in the mud there before he walked back to the tower.
The old poet admitted him as soon as he heard his voice. They greeted each other formally, then sat on either side of the blazing fire at the end of the long hall. They had much to discuss after so many years—the murders in Athens that had been designed to look like Iraklis red deaths, Babis Dhimitrakos, the visits of Alex Mavros and Trent Helmer’s daughter. Kostas Laskaris looked worn and exhausted, lacking the sharp wit and quick tongue that Iraklis remembered, though their last meeting had been a long time ago. He said he was writing his final poem, the one that posterity would remember him by; the one that would finally set straight the record of the struggle after so many wrong turnings and obfuscations.
‘I can’t believe that Randos is dead,’ the old man said, his voice cracking.
‘He will be mourned,’ the terrorist agreed.
Laskaris stared at him. ‘He is already being mourned by the smart fools in Athens who think they understood him.’ Suddenly the passion had returned. ‘We were the only ones who could fathom his talent, we who fought alongside him.’
‘I don’t recall Randos on the street carrying a placard,’ Iraklis said ironically. ‘Or charging the police lines during the dictatorship.’
‘You always had a tendency to cynicism,’ the poet complained. ‘You wouldn’t listen to those who knew better. Randos influenced more ordinary people than you ever did with your killings and your proclamations. Randos was—’
‘Let him lie in peace,’ the visitor interrupted. Kostas Laskaris was changed. He was evasive, he wouldn’t meet his eye. He was obviously failing. ‘I must go now. The snow is getting heavy.’
‘Tell your mother I was thinking of her,’ Laskaris said, struggling to his feet. ‘And, Michali?’
Iraklis flinched. It was many years since he’d
been addressed by that name, even by his mother.
‘Are you still fighting for what your parents believed in?’ the old man asked, his eyes on him now, though only briefly. ‘Do you remember when I took you to the place of slaughter and told you what we went through?’
Iraklis nodded.
‘Your father was a great leader, a hero, Michali. I hope your struggle is the same one that he laboured for. I hope you find out what happened to him at the end.’ His voice was almost inaudible. ‘But perhaps the time for revenge is over.’
The man who had been Iason Kolettis looked at him. He thought the poet was going to say more, but he slumped down again, his breath rasping in his throat. For a moment he wanted to comfort his father’s old comrade, but Kostas’s last words had reawoken the doubts that had assailed him. Was he entitled to pursue the families of the people who were responsible for his father’s death? Could it be that revenge was no longer justifiable?
‘Farewell, comrade,’ he said.
Back at the Citroën, Iraklis stood by the door and looked at new footprints that had appeared in the white layer on the ground. Large feet, male, shoes rather than boots. They’d come down the track towards the car, then gone back the same way. He slipped his hand into his coat pocket, removed the automatic and screwed on the silencer. Then he moved slowly back up the road, leaning forward to follow the returning prints. About twenty metres ahead they veered into the side, fallen earth showing that the person had scrambled up the bank and through the line of unkempt bushes. He took a deep breath, pulled up his scarf to cover his nose and mouth, then broke into a run and went up the same way. The bulky figure the terrorist came upon had only managed a few strides across the neighbouring field.
‘Hands up, my friend,’ he said, pointing the weapon at his prisoner’s chest.
‘Please, please,’ the big man jabbered. ‘I’m only hunting.’
‘In a snowstorm, without a weapon, wearing city clothes?’ Iraklis asked. ‘Tell me your name. Better still, give me your ID card.’
The other man obliged, holding his wallet out.
‘Pandazopoulos, Yiorgos,’ the gunman read. ‘What are you doing so far from Athens?’ He looked closer at the address on the plastic-covered card. ‘You live in Neapolis?’ A less fleshy face from the past was flashing up before him. ‘Yiorgos Pandazopoulos,’ he repeated, stepping closer and examining the other man’s features. ‘Oh, my friend, this is very unfortunate. For you, at least. Turn round.’
‘No, please,’ the victim gasped. ‘Don’t hurt me. I don’t know who you are. I didn’t see your face.’
‘But how can I be sure of that, comrade?’ Iraklis asked softly. ‘How can I trust you?’
When he had finished with the fat man, he went back down the slope to the Citroën and drove away. By the time he got to Areopolis the weather had closed in completely. The drive to Yithion was almost impossible, the big car slipping and sliding like a bar of soap. Before he reached the port on the eastern side of the mountains, he’d decided what to do. He was lucky. Beyond the main harbour road he found a new Suzuki off-road vehicle. There was no one around in the early-evening chill. It took him only a short time to open the door and start the engine, glad that the skills he’d learned decades ago were still with him. He left the Citroën where he’d parked it on the seafront road. He’d worn gloves all the time when he’d been driving and he wasn’t worried about the hire company: the false identity and the credit card that came with it would stop them in their tracks, and he’d be surprised if the clerk remembered anything specific about his appearance.
Iraklis set off up the Sparta road, having bought a set of snow chains from the garage where he filled up with petrol. With any luck he’d be across the mountains and into Argolidha before the night was over. Then he’d be able to concentrate on the mission.
It was time he paid more attention to the people who had drawn him back to his native land. Soon all the debts that had been building up for years would be repaid in full. Kostas Laskaris was wrong about revenge. The old poet should have known better. He had forgotten the traditions of the Mani. Family honour could never be forgotten.
But he needed to hold his nerve. Otherwise the pallid features of the woman he’d loved, the woman whose name he couldn’t speak, would drag him into the abyss before his time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAVROS and Grace reached Nafplion around ten o’clock, the lights on the crag behind the town forming a beacon that drew them round the curve of the bay.
‘What is that place?’ she asked.
‘The Venetian fortress of Palamidhi,’ Mavros replied. He remembered climbing a tortuous and thigh-cracking staircase to reach it when he was a student. ‘It was supposedly impregnable. Latterly they used it as a prison.’
‘You know all the good stuff from Greek history, don’t you?’ she said ironically.
‘Isn’t your country the world leader in incarceration?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
The streets were unusually wide for a Greek town, the open spaces filled with trees. They found a reasonable-looking hotel and parked on the street in front of it. They were given the keys to adjoining rooms on the first floor and agreed to meet in half an hour. Mavros went back downstairs. He found a local phone directory in a booth in the reception hall. As Laskaris had said, ‘Kastania, Stamatina’ was listed. He took a note of the number and the address. The man at the desk gave him a photocopied town map and he located the street without difficulty—Potamianou was only a few minutes’ walk.
When they met up, Mavros led Grace into the old section of the town, the buildings crammed up against the northern slopes of Akronafplia, the town’s lower hill. Christmas decorations and lights had been strung everywhere. He wanted to see the street where Kyra Stamatina lived. That was easy enough. It turned out to be a stepped lane leading up from a small square with a church at the far end.
‘This is Saint Spiridhon,’ Grace said, holding the guidebook in the glow from a street-lamp. ‘Apparently Greece’s first president was murdered here in 1831.’
‘That’s right. Capodhistrias. He was assassinated by a pair of brothers from the Mani, would you believe?’
Grace narrowed her eyes. ‘Shot and stabbed, it says here, by kinsmen of the great Petrobey Mavromichalis.’ She looked up. ‘Wasn’t that the guy whose statue we saw in Areopolis?’
‘You have been paying attention.’
‘Iraklis is keeping their murderous tradition alive.’
He took in the tension in her face. ‘That’s the street where the old woman lives.’
She looked up the precipitous steps. ‘Shall we go and knock on her door?’
‘Not now. She’s probably in bed. Let’s go and eat. We can talk over dinner.’
There was a taverna open on the street below the church and they were ushered in by an obsequious waiter. Although the place was almost empty, there was a good selection of food. They settled on a platter of mezedhes and half a grilled chicken. The waiter claimed the owner’s wine was good so Mavros ordered a carafe, his expectations low. It turned out to be a subtle, unresinated white that went well with the assorted starters.
‘All right,’ Grace said, after he had refilled her glass. ‘Where do we go from here? Iraklis—’ She broke off and looked around. There was no one nearby, the waiter standing in the middle of the street trying to snare the few people who were about on the cold evening. ‘The assassin might be here already, Alex. Why are we waiting?’
He put down his glass. ‘He might be. Laskaris said he was going to visit the old woman before Christmas so there are another three days to go. Even if he’s here, if he was the one coming for us with the gun, he’ll only just have made it.’
‘Maybe he’s watching us,’ she said, peering out into the street.
‘In which case going to his mother’s place will make him even more likely to attack.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to rush in. The chances are that the old woman will be even harder to
break down than Kostas Laskaris and this time I haven’t got a family connection to smooth the way.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘Kyra Stamatina is our trump card. He doesn’t know that we know about her.’
‘Unless the old poet’s told him,’ Grace responded. ‘I don’t trust Laskaris. He knows more than he said.’
‘But he told us about the terrorist’s mother,’ Mavros countered. ‘I should already have handed this whole case over to the police. They’ll cut my head off if anything drastic happens because of what we’ve kept from them.’
Grace was staring at him. ‘You’re not going to do that, Alex,’ she said, sliding her hand over his. ‘What about your brother? You’re not going to miss this chance to find out what happened to him.’
He couldn’t argue with that. He’d glanced at the newspapers on a periptero on the way from the hotel. The government was still pretending that things were under control, but it was easy enough to discern the panic beneath the surface. The police had made no progress with the terrorist murders—the Iraklis proclamation Bitsos had told him about after the explosion that killed Stasinopoulos in the concert hall had been made public, and they were adamant, at least in public, that no one else had been involved in Randos’s death. There was nothing he could tell them now that would get them any further with that. If he told them that Iraklis’s mother lived in Nafplion and was expecting him before Christmas, the antiterrorist squad would turn the town into a no-go area and the assassin would stay away. That might save Mavros and Grace from further attack, but it would put Iraklis beyond their reach, probably permanently.
‘So what do we do?’ Grace asked, picking up a piece of kalamari with her fork.
Mavros ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin. ‘Can you draw?’ he asked. ‘Or paint?’ He had remembered her mother’s talent in that field.
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 27
