‘You lost him?’ Grace said dully, her eyes following him across the room. ‘He won’t see us?’
Mavros told her what had been said. Then he picked up the phone again and called the Fat Man’s mother. Kyra Fedhra had still not seen her son. He comforted her as best he could, trying as he spoke to imagine what might have happened to his friend and what he could do to help him. Short of driving through the night to the Mani to check the area around Kostas Laskaris’s tower, he couldn’t come up with anything. No policeman would go out on a winter’s night unless Mavros came clean about what was going on and that would be the end of the case.
Grace was pulling on her jacket. ‘I’m going to the old woman’s,’ she said.
He managed to get to the door before she did. ‘Don’t, Grace. I told you what he said. Anyway, he’s too much of a professional to have called from there, I’m sure of it.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Please, let it go.’ He pressed buttons on his phone and wasn’t surprised to find that the last incoming call showed ‘Caller Identity Withheld’.
Grace sat down on the bed, one hand to her forehead. ‘We’re so close to him,’ she said. ‘He’s here, I know it.’
‘We can’t make him see us,’ Mavros said, as a wave of hopelessness washed over him. ‘I tried, but he wouldn’t go for it.’ He had a glimpse ofAndonis’s face: it was fading into the darkness. ‘Let it go,’ he repeated, to himself as much as to Grace.
They sat next to each other on the rumpled covers facing the windows, a gap between their bodies, the lights from the fortress of Palamidhi streaming through the windows. The great walls and bastions hovered above the town in the still air like a wreath on the brow of a fallen warrior.
Peter Jaeger stood in the door of the small office, beads of sweat on his forehead. His tuxedo was slung over his right shoulder and his expression was stern as the woman at the desk spun round in her chair. ‘You’re beginning to make a habit of this, Ms Forster. The ambassador must be wondering what we’re cooking up in the bowels of the building.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’ The words came in a rush. ‘But this is a hot one. I’ve taken a message from our man on Iraklis.’ Jane Forster’s face was taut, her expression showing barely contained excitement.
Her superior raised a hand. ‘Slow down. By “our man”, you mean Finn, not the Nafplion stringer?’
She nodded. ‘Our own man.’ She handed him a yellow pad.
‘Target observed and under surveillance,’ Jaeger read. ‘He is proceeding Palaiologos house. Local back-up uncontactable. Tiresias still on site. Advise course of action soonest.’ He looked up from the message. ‘And you took this at nineteen fourteen, that is…’ he checked his watch ‘…five minutes ago. Shit.’ He handed back the pad and smoothed his hair with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Shit. We’ve got to get Tiresias out of there.’
‘Tiresias?’ The young woman’s eyes were wide open. ‘Tiresias is at the Palaiologos house?’
‘Sure,’ her superior replied in a scathing voice. ‘Where did you think Tiresias would be?’
Forster dropped her gaze, her cheeks reddening. ‘But, sir—’
‘Let me think,’ Jaeger ordered. After a few moments, he glanced at his subordinate again. ‘What’s this about the local guy being out of the loop?’
Jane Forster shrugged her shoulders. ‘I tried him myself while I was waiting for you. There was no answer on his cellphone or his landline.’
Jaeger pursed his lips. ‘All right. We have to assume Iraklis has taken him out. It looks like things are moving ahead faster than we expected. We’d better get down there.’ He felt in his jacket pocket and handed her a key. ‘Go get my car up and wait for me at the gate. And, Ms Forster, bring your weapon.’ He watched as the young woman stood up.
After she had left the office, Jaeger sat down at the desk and called a number from the secure phone. ‘Finn, this is Ahab,’ he said, after he heard the response. ‘We are en route. Advise any change of location. Do not, repeat do not, advise any security personnel on site of target’s proximity. And do not, repeat do not, engage target.’ He listened for a few moments. ‘Yes, I am fully aware of that danger. Keep target under surveillance and keep me advised. Confirm.’ He listened again, his brow furrowing. ‘That is not acceptable at this time. Await my arrival. Out.’
Jaeger replaced the handset and went to his own office. He unlocked the door, then the bottom drawer of his desk, removed a holstered automatic pistol and a set of ammunition clips. Then he exchanged his tuxedo for the leather jacket that was hanging on the back of the door and headed for the elevator.
It looked like Iraklis was about to do as he’d been told, but there was no point in taking any chances.
Mavros drove the Fiat up the narrow road past ancient Tiryns, the floodlights on the ruins making the titanic blocks of stone look unreal. He pointed them out to Grace but she showed little interest. He’d had a struggle to get her to accompany him to the Palaiologos house, the terrorist’s call making her change her mind. But he wasn’t going to leave her alone in case she took independent and potentially suicidal action. Eventually Grace had agreed, won over by his suggestion that she should find out how well the politician had known her father. For his part, he wanted to find out if Veta or her husband knew the terrorist’s mother, however unlikely that seemed. The region’s most powerful family had provoked his curiosity, as had the broken old man Dearfield, whose book had disturbed his mother so much.
‘Listen, we don’t have to stay long,’ Mavros said as they came to a junction at the end of the orange groves. Ahead of them a road snaked up the hillside, leading to the large patch of light that marked the politician’s country residence. ‘We’ll eat and then leave them to it, okay?’
Grace, lost in thought, didn’t reply and he drove on without pressing her. The road got even narrower, the raised part between the tyre furrows scraping the hire car’s chassis. At the last hairpin before the compound, Mavros stopped and looked down over the plain. Beyond the prow of the Mycenaean citadel, the lights of Nafplion shone brightly in the distance, Palamidhi floating above the town in its tangle of ramparts. On the other side of the gulf, a line of street-lamps and villages led down the coast to Astros and the coastal section of Arkadhia.
Grace roused herself. ‘Christ, this country’s beautiful,’ she said, ‘but why has it always been so violent?’ She looked down at the glow of Tiryns. ‘Fortifications everywhere, walls to keep out the enemy, tombs and destruction in every part of the country.’ She turned to him. ‘Why, Alex? Why have people never been able to live here in peace?’
‘Big question, Grace. Maybe they’ll finally manage to achieve that in the twenty-first century. Maybe they’ll finally learn something from the divisions of the past.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ she said ironically. ‘It’s twenty-five years since my father was executed on the street in Athens. And it’s only a few days since the same bastards who killed him blew that businessman to pieces.’ She looked down again. ‘People haven’t learned a fucking thing.’
Mavros wanted to explain that Greece had been torn apart for centuries, the people enslaved and tyrannised first by external powers and then by their own leaders, but he didn’t think Grace would understand. He had the impression that her life had been defined by the horror she had witnessed from her bedroom window as a child. Was her need to meet the man who murdered her father really inspired by a desire for understanding? He was afraid that she had a bitter heart, like the old Communists he’d met as a child—the ones who had rotted on the prison islands and could never forgive their tormentors.
He drove on towards the house and saw that there was a barrier across the road in front of the lights. When he slowed to a stop, a heavily built guard in a dark anorak stepped up to his side of the car. ‘Your names, please,’ he asked, one hand on his belt as he looked in.
Mavros saw a holster and a walkie-talkie at eye-level, a bulletproof vest above. He identified himself and Grace, wondering how
many security personnel there were around the compound.
The guard asked for ID, scrutinising Mavros’s card and Grace’s passport before he pressed a button on a remote-control handset. ‘Park to the right of the buildings,’ he said. ‘My colleagues will search you and your vehicle.’
‘Jesus,’ Mavros said, as they passed into the compound. ‘This is like a fortress.’
‘What did I tell you?’ Grace said, looking up at the imposing house with its tower-like main block and whitewashed annexes. ‘The war’s still going on.’
They got out and watched as another security man checked the Fiat’s boot and interior.
‘What’s in the packages?’ he asked.
‘Christmas presents,’ Mavros said, pointing to the wrapping paper.
The guard started running a portable scanner over the parcels. A woman joined him.
‘They’re going to search us as well,’ Mavros said.
Grace shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’
The dark-uniformed guards ran the scanner and their hands over them, nodding when they’d finished. ‘That entrance over there,’ the female operative said.
Mavros picked up the presents and led Grace towards a heavy oak door at the front of the main building. In the area enclosed by a high fence he made out a swimming pool, covered for the winter, and a full-size basketball court, as well as tables and chairs in a sheltered alcove.
‘Good evening, sir, madam,’ said the funereal man who opened the door. ‘Can I take the packages? Your…coats?’ He gave Grace’s fleece a cursory look, then turned an even more supercilious eye on Mavros’s leather jacket.
‘No, thanks,’ Mavros replied, glancing around the wide hallway. The house was warm, but he didn’t want to lose track of the mobile in his jacket pocket. ‘Where do we go?’
‘I was coming to that, sir,’ the servant replied impassively. ‘The family and their guests are in the—’
‘Don’t worry, I can hear them,’ Mavros said, beckoning to Grace and walking past him. Butlers were rare in Greece and he felt uncomfortable with this representative of the species. He wasn’t surprised that a notorious snob like Nikitas Palaiologos would employ one.
They entered the large drawing room and the volume of voices dropped for a few seconds, then went up again as Mavros’s niece and nephew greeted him with squeals when they saw the presents in his arms. It took him some time to fight them off and introduce Grace to his mother. The only person in the party whom he didn’t recognise was a well-preserved older woman.
Geoffrey Dearfield still looked tormented. ‘My wife, Flora,’ he said in a low voice.
‘So, Alex Mavro,’ the woman said, as she shook his hand, ‘you are the famous detective.’
‘Neither famous nor a detective,’ he replied. ‘I prefer infamous private investigator.’ He switched to English. ‘This is Grace Helmer, Mrs Dearfield.’
The two women shook hands, Flora looking thoughtfully at the American before asking her what she thought of Argolidha in winter.
‘She’s very pretty, Alex.’
Mavros, dumping the packages by a large and sumptuously decorated tree, turned to find his mother behind him. He kissed the cheek she presented then took her to an armchair. ‘Are you feeling better now?’
‘I’m all right, dear,’ Dorothy said, smiling at him. ‘A little trouble that I’ll tell you about another time, but that’s all over now. Don’t you agree that she’s very pretty?’
Mavros gave her an exasperated look. ‘She’s a client, Mother.’ He watched asAnna went up to Grace and Flora, and started talking animatedly. Behind them Nikitas and Veta were conversing in a curious huddle, paying no attention to their guests. The children had gone back to the Monopoly board on the carpet behind the sofa, less interested inAlex since he’d told them that the presents were not to be opened till Christmas Day. Finally Veta looked at him and came across, stopping to greet Grace on the way and bringing her over.
‘Good evening, Alex,’ the politician said smoothly. ‘Forgive me, I had some arrangements to finalise with my husband.’ Although her voice was level, her eyes were restless and she looked much less at ease than she had in Nafplion that morning. ‘Dorothy, have you met Alex’s friend Grace?’ she said in English. ‘Please forgive me, I must talk to the butler about the arrangements for dinner.’
They watched Veta’s bulky form, in an expensive evening gown, move away. Mavros wondered if she was always so short with her guests—probably not if they were well-heeled potential donors to her party rather than scruffy passers-by.
‘Sit down, Grace,’ Dorothy said, indicating a neighbouring chair. ‘I hope my son has been looking after you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Grace replied, giving Mavros a sharp smile. ‘He’s been doing that all right.’
‘And what exactly is it that Alex has been doing for you?’
Mavros looked beyond his mother towards the works of modern art on the far wall. ‘You know that my cases are confidential,’ he said wearily.
‘No, no,’ Grace said to Dorothy. ‘I don’t mind talking about it.’
Mavros turned his eyes on her. ‘I don’t think—’
‘We’re trying to track down the man who killed my father,’ his client said, talking over him. ‘My father, Trent, was at the U.S. embassy in Athens in the seventies.’
‘Oh, my dear,’ said Dorothy, clutching the younger woman’s wrist. ‘I think I remember him. He was—he was assassinated by the Iraklis group, was he not?’
Grace nodded slowly. ‘And we thought we had him,’ she added, glancing at Mavros, ‘but he slipped away.’
Dorothy turned to her son. ‘Is this right, Alex? Surely you haven’t been getting close to those madmen.’
Mavros paused as his brother-in-law, Nondas, let out a loud cheer from the Monopoly board. Nikitas Palaiologos was also there, his bald head visible above the sofa. ‘I told you, Mother,’ he said, ‘my work is confidential, whatever the client thinks.’ He gave Grace a pained look.
‘The client’s paying so the client thinks what she likes,’ Grace observed caustically.
Dorothy was following the exchange closely but, before she could speak, her daughter arrived on the scene.
‘Is everything all right?’ Anna asked, her eyes moving between Mavros and Grace. ‘Dinner should be ready soon. Veta’s gone to see what’s happening in the kitchen. Loudhovikos, the cheerful butler, seems to have absented himself.’
Mavros turned towards the door, a frisson of uncertainty that he couldn’t explain running up his spine. The windows were unshuttered, the glass covered by criss-crossed metal strips, and it struck him that he hadn’t seen the security guard, who had been pacing up and down in the compound, for some time.
Before he could take a step forward, the lights dimmed, both inside the house and in the fenced area outside. The power was reduced for only a few seconds before it came back on at full strength, but that was long enough for the atmosphere to change.
Veta Palaiologou appeared haltingly at the door of the saloni, her face pale and her mouth open. Behind her, almost obscured by her portly frame, stood a tall man. There was a black cashmere scarf round his neck. The eyes that quickly took in every occupant of the room were dark and empty, the smile as cold as the moonlight on a ruined mountain redoubt.
Kostas Laskaris knew that he had reached the last stage of his journey, that after this effort there would be no more agony to bear. He had got to the bottom of the staircase without too much difficulty, managing to drag his legs across the stone slabs. Then the weight began to crush him, the breath rushing down his airway but seeming not to reach his lungs. He felt himself suffocating as he hauled himself to the first floor of the tower. Pausing there for a length of time he could not calculate, he regained control of his breathing. He started the crawl to the second storey, aware of splinters from the wooden steps needling into the skin of his fingers and palms. But he felt no pain—the pills he had swallowed with a gulp of Savvas’s win
e were doing their work. No pain, only a cascade of images that he seemed to be swimming through, his arms feebly trying to bat them away as he pulled himself to the next level.
Kapetan Iraklis gone from the cross, nothing left of him but the blood on the wood and fragments of battledress on the wire: that had been the sight before him when he came round from the beating he’d been given by the battalionists. My Irakli, he was thinking. That it should have come to this, all the fighting, the brilliant leadership, the victories. A Communist on a cross, then nothing, only the absence of a god who has left the world of men. No doubt the bastards found the irony irresistible. My Irakli, I had so much to say to you, I wanted to tell you that I loved you from boyhood, that I didn’t care what you did with the woman Stamatina, that you were more to me than just a man with the needs that other men have. You were a hero to me, I wanted to tell you that, a hero as great as your ancient namesake, a hero who fought against oppression and injustice, and who didn’t deserve to disappear into the void.
Kostas Laskaris made it to the top floor of the tower, too exhausted to raise his hand to the door. Despite the pills he had taken, the familiar lancing in his abdomen had now returned, making him roll desperately against the wall. Iraklis, he told himself, concentrate on Iraklis. You succeeded, you finished the poem: you have given the hero eternal life. The original Iraklis died on the pyre in a shirt of fire, a red death like those for which his modern counterpart was responsible. His betrayed wife, Deianeira, sent him the garment as a love charm, having soaked it in the blood and semen of the treacherous centaur Nessos, unaware that the centaur, dying from one of Iraklis’s own arrows that had been soaked in the lethal gore of the Hydra, had woven a web of deceit around them. So the great hero died in agony, burned by the blood of his victims, as Kapetan Iraklis had suffered at the hands of his fellow countrymen, enraged by the violence and hatred caused by decades of oppression and fear. ‘The Fire Shirt’. The poem was finished, but would anyone read it? Would anyone understand its message, that love is stronger than war, stronger even than death itself?
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 37
