The Golden Silence

by Paul Johnston

  Walking into the sunshine, Mavros decided that the orange juice he’d drunk was enough breakfast. If he stopped off at the Fat Man’s place, he’d only end up arguing and he couldn’t face that. The dead-ends in the hunt for Katia were oppressing him. He went to the station and took the urban railway up to the northern suburbs.

  Someone had left a morning paper on the seat and he cast an eye over it while the orange train was still underground. The police were trying to work out what had happened outside the Silver Lady Club on the coast road. It seemed that a sniper with a high-powered rifle had attempted to kill the well-known ‘businesswoman’ Rea Chioti. Mavros scoffed at the description, though the reality was that the family had indeed moved into legitimate lines of moneymaking, like criminal operations all over the world.

  The train came out of a musty tunnel into the open air. Mavros tossed the paper aside. It was obvious what was happening. The family were co-operating with the police, but no trace of the shooter would be found. In a few days, another naked and beaten body would turn up. Stratos Chiotis had always been rumoured to exact his own form of justice. No doubt his wife was the same, for all her sophisticated veneer.

  Mavros got off at Eirini Station and walked north from the Olympic stadium. He could see the cranes and columns that marked the route of the motorway extension. The noise grew louder as he approached, drills rattling and cement trucks manoeuvring into position. Having an audible conversation wasn’t going to be easy. Dmitri had told him to call again when he was in the vicinity so they could meet outside the site, but Mavros walked up to the perimeter fence. He wanted to see where the Russian-Greek spent his days.

  There was a crowd of workers gathered in front of a partially raised wall. They were being harangued by a man in a suit and a white hard hat, his words inaudible to Mavros because of the machines. He caught sight of his client. He too was wearing a white helmet, the rest of his stocky frame in dark blue overalls. But Dmitri wasn’t paying attention to the boss’s speech. He was behind a hut, talking intently to a man in a bomber jacket.

  Mavros moved behind the trunk of an orange tree that had escaped the attentions of the contractors. There was something about the way the various men were interacting that made him curious. He watched as they both looked around to check that they weren’t being observed. Then his client handed over an envelope and the other man gave him something wrapped in a dark cloth. The material snagged as Dmitri stuffed it into his pocket and Mavros clearly saw the butt of a handgun.

  The man in the bomber jacket turned quickly away and walked out of the gate. Mavros stayed where he was, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the tree as if he was waiting for someone. When he was a few meters away the man’s mobile phone rang. As he passed, Mavros heard him speaking what he was certain was Russian.

  Before he rang his client he thought about what he’d seen. What the hell was Dmitri doing with a handgun? Had his daughter’s disappearance spooked him so much that he wanted it for personal protection? Or was he involved with the Russian gangs who had been setting themselves up in Greece since the fall of the Soviet Union? Either way, it wasn’t a development Mavros was happy about.

  Uncertain how to handle the situation, he called Dmitri and arranged to meet him at the gate. He said he was on his way from the station. A few minutes later he moved away from the tree and went towards the gate. Now there was a security man on it. Had he been told to make himself scarce by Dmitri or had he been listening to the boss like the others?

  ‘Alex!’ the Russian-Greek said, extending a mud-encrusted hand. ‘Sorry, I need to wash.’ He was smiling beneath his beard. ‘You bring good news?’ He looked at Mavros’s face and started across the road. ‘Come, we drink coffee.’ He led Mavros into a small neighbourhood kafenion with the traditional marble-topped tables.

  ‘Listen, I need to ask you a question.’ He took a sip of water and steeled himself. ‘Did Katia have any reason to leave home?’

  Dmitri looked puzzled. ‘What you mean, Alex? Katia was happy girl, she—’ Then he stood up rapidly, his chair falling back with a crash that silenced the other customers. ‘What you mean, fucker?’ He leaned across the table, fist drawn back. ‘You think I do something to her? You think I…no! I love my daughter, but not that way.’

  Mavros held his gaze on the Russian-Greek. Then he raised his hand, the palm forward. ‘Sit down, Dmitri. Sit down.’ He waited till the chair had been picked up. ‘That’s better. No, I don’t think you did anything to her. Not now. But I had to find out. You see, your wife doesn’t speak enough Greek or I would have asked her. It’s standard procedure in cases like this.’

  ‘Bastard. What you learn? What I pay you for, Alex?’ He drained his glass of water in one.

  Mavros was satisfied that his client had spoken the truth. If he’d taken a punch, he’d have retained doubts. ‘All right,’ he said, and told him about Katia’s boyfriend.

  Dmitri heard him out and then came closer. ‘Where does this filthy drug-taker live?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, no. I don’t want you going round there and beating the shit out of him. I know you hurt him once before.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to touch my Katia.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, my friend. I’m going to keep an eye on Sifis to see if he leads me somewhere. On my own, okay?’

  The Russian-Greek nodded reluctantly. ‘What about the others? They know anything?’

  ‘No one yet.’ He ran through the list of people he had spoken to. ‘Is there anyone you might have forgotten?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Mavros caught his eye. ‘Why is it that Katia didn’t spend time with any Russian-Greeks? Don’t you people keep in touch?’

  ‘No. I want Katia to be Greek, not immigrant. We don’t have friends from old Soviet Union.’

  Mavros thought about the Russian in the bomber jacket. After Dmitri’s violent objection to his first question, he decided not to reveal that he’d witnessed the exchange.

  ‘I have to go now, Alex.’ His client fumbled in a pocket inside his overalls.

  Mavros took out his wallet and put a five-Euro note on the table. ‘I’m buying.’

  His client stared at him as if he was unused to being treated, then gave a tentative smile. ‘You keep in touch?’

  Mavros nodded. ‘One more thing. Did Katia ever say anything about wanting to go on TV or act in the theatre?’

  Dmitri blinked. ‘What? No, of course not. She want to be doctor. Why you ask?’

  ‘It’s not important,’ Mavros said, giving him a wave as he turned away.

  On his way back to the station, he thought about the construction site where he’d seen his client take possession of what he was sure was an unlicensed weapon. The most recent victim of the war that was raging in the criminal underworld had been dumped in a similar site less than a kilometre away.

  Could Dmitri have had anything to do with that?

  The Father and Son had been picked up in the evening as arranged. A nondescript car driven by a silent man in a suit took them away from the back streets of the city centre without attracting attention. The two men sat in the rear, each with a hold-all. Neither spoke. They never did before a job and the driver knew better than to disturb them.

  The urban landscape gradually became more rundown as they headed west. Gleaming new office buildings and showrooms were replaced by ramshackle apartment blocks, shops with steel shutters and noise-blighted schools. They reached an area that was the location of an SS prison during the Second World War. It hadn’t moved much up the desirability league since then.

  They were let off in a secluded cul-de-sac in front of a derelict building. The corrugated-iron sheeting that covered the windows and doors was so caked with muck that even the graffiti-artists had given up on it. The Son watched as the car disappeared round the corner. It would be back later. A single streetlamp cast the Father’s shadow across the filthy asphalt, his legs the length of a giraffe’s. The
Son swallowed a laugh. A cat let out a screech from beneath the shell of a wrecked pickup truck. The road surface was pocked with pools of water from broken drains and the stench was pungent. Traffic throbbed relentlessly in the distance, but there was no sign of anyone nearby.

  Perfect, thought the Son.

  The Father knocked three times, then once more on the shutter beneath a sign that showed the place had once been a tannery. The metal panel, obviously oiled recently, swung open. The two men stepped inside and stood in the dark after it was closed behind them.

  ‘Welcome to the house of pain,’ said the man who had admitted them, switching on a torch and shining it in the Son’s face. ‘Aah!’ he gasped, as the Son’s hand crushed his fingers. The torchlight jerked away, illuminating the Father’s craggy features.

  ‘It isn’t for you to say this is the house of pain,’ the old man said, stepping closer. ‘You aren’t the subject of our work.’

  The Son laughed softly and moved the light on to the man. He was dressed in a black polo-neck sweater and trousers, his perfectly bald head making his age unclear.

  ‘Christ,’ he said, pulling his hand away and massaging it. ‘You could have broken something.’

  ‘You’re right,’ the Son agreed. ‘But I chose not to.’

  Their guide shook his head and led them down a narrow corridor to another door. He opened it and light flooded out.

  The Father and Son stepped into a large room and ran their eyes around it. There were steel vats and draining trays against walls that were strung with dust-laden cobwebs. The smell inside was even more acrid than on the street, the chemicals used by the tanners having soaked into the bricks and floor. A pair of portable lamps had been set up on either side of a metal table, the light from them directed on to a naked middle-aged man. He’d been tightly bound to the surface with chains, his mouth sealed with a strip of silver duct tape. His eyes widened as he took in the two figures and their bags.

  The Father went up to the table and placed his hold-all on the captive’s chest. Bending forward, he examined the man’s face. It was drizzled with beads of sweat, the skin on the forehead broken in a bloody welt.

  The bald man went round to the other side. ‘Do you know who this is, fucker?’ he asked, spittle raining over the captive’s nose and cheeks. ‘This is the Father.’ He watched as the man started to blink frantically, then inclined his head to the second figure. ‘And that is the Son.’ He took a rapid step back. ‘Christ, he’s pissing himself.’ He raised his hand, then lowered it quickly when he felt the Father’s eyes on him.

  ‘What happened?’ the old man said, pointing to the captive’s forehead.

  The bald man licked his lips. ‘When we were getting him out of the car boot, he—’

  ‘You know our requirements,’ the Father interrupted. ‘No physical damage to subjects.’

  ‘That’s our job,’ the Son said, grinning.

  The Father turned his gaze on him. ‘Be quiet,’ he said. He was less scathing in public, but he never hesitated to put him in his place. ‘No physical damage to subjects,’ he repeated to the bald man. ‘Don’t let it happen again.’ He looked back at the Son. ‘Bring that over here.’

  The Son dragged a heavy table over without breaking into a sweat and watched as the Father laid out his tools on a towel he’d taken from his bag. He started to do the same further down the uneven surface.

  ‘Who is he?’ the Father asked, unrolling his yellow fisherman’s overalls.

  ‘Right,’ the bald man said, the bluster returning to his voice. ‘This piece of shit works for the Russians. Fyodor’s lot. You know them?’

  ‘Of course we know them,’ the Son said, drawing a warning glare from the Father.

  The old man held a probe up to the light, turning it between thumb and forefinger. He paid no attention to the terrified captive. ‘Fyodor started off with a single nightclub ten years ago, but now he’s expanded all over the city. He handles drugs, prostitution, protection, smuggling, illegal construction work and so on.’ He looked across the table. ‘All the businesses that Stratos Chiotis used to regard as his own.’

  ‘You’re a walking encyclopaedia,’ the bald man said respectfully. ‘Now, this wanker isn’t a hard man. In fact, he’s a fucking accountant. But he knows plenty about the Russians’ set-up.’ He took a small tape-recorder from his pocket. ‘And we want him to sing a song about it.’

  ‘Have you got a list of questions?’ the Son asked, pulling up the zip of his protective jacket.

  The bald man took a sheaf of papers from his back pocket. ‘This should get you started. It’s pretty technical, about bank accounts and dummy companies, that sort of thing. He is going to tell us everything he knows once you get going, isn’t he?’

  The Father was pulling on purple latex gloves. ‘You can be sure of that.’

  ‘Can we be sure he’s telling the truth?’

  The Father looked at him as if he was a child who’d forgotten the two-times table. He emptied the hooks out of the toothpaste tube and started pulling pieces of cork from the barbs.

  The bald man nodded. ‘Yes, we can be sure.’ His smile faded when he saw the avid look on the Son’s face.

  The Father beckoned to the son. ‘Remove the gag.’ He glanced at the bald man. ‘Step away. I’ve told you before, this isn’t a spectator sport.’

  ‘You think I enjoy being here?’ But he didn’t retreat far.

  The man on the table had been emitting high-pitched sounds beneath the duct tape but, as the Son leaned over, knife in hand, he went quiet.

  ‘Lie very still,’ the Son said, ‘or I might slit more than your gag.’

  The Father watched as the blade cut through the tape. He reached out and tore it apart, freeing the mouth below. ‘Turn on the tape-recorder,’ he ordered.

  The Son complied and they set to work.

  Mavros had been watching Sifis’s apartment block for three hours. There was a disused doorway about twenty metres down the street on the opposite side where he had been able to conceal himself. The faint line of light round the closed shutters of the flat suggested that Katia’s friend was in, as did the large motorbike on the pavement beneath the steps. The street was quiet enough, a few mothers with children returning home in the early evening and a couple of men parking their cars later. The only person who’d noticed Mavros was the drunk from Sifis’s block. He stared into the unlit doorway and moved quickly away, as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Mavros took the opportunity to steal out from his hiding place when there was no one around. Kneeling by the motorbike he presumed to be Sifis’s—there weren’t any others near the building—he took a long builder’s nail from his pocket. He’d picked it up from the road outside his client’s place of work. As he had no transport of his own, tailing the young man would be impossible unless he disabled his bike. He put the point of the nail against the rear tyre and hammered it down with a half-brick he’d found in the doorway. Then he pulled it out to allow the air to escape.

  At last the street door opened and slammed to. Sifis, wearing a torn leather jacket and dirty jeans, came down the steps unsteadily and glanced in each direction. He went to his bike.

  ‘Fuck!’

  From the shadows Mavros had a good view of the young man kicking the rear wheel, then dropping to his knees. A string of curses came from behind the bike, tailing off into a desperate sob. Then Sifis was back on his feet. He started towards the avenue at the end of the street, his head down.

  Mavros gave him a start. He’d tied his hair back to change his appearance and he was wearing a different jacket from the one he’d had on when he visited Sifis. The young man’s distracted air suggested that those precautions hadn’t been necessary. He watched as Sifis took up a position on the corner and started hailing cabs. Although it was almost midnight, the three lanes in each direction were packed with traffic and many of the cabs were occupied, even though their For Hire signs were illuminated. A couple of vehicles with other customers on
board slowed, but the young man waved them on. Obviously he didn’t want to share.

  Mavros was lurking behind a palm tree. This was going to take split-second timing and a fair amount of good fortune. A yellow Mercedes pulled in and Sifis fell into the back seat. Mavros sprinted forward as the cab moved away, waving his arm. He was in luck. A Honda with a damaged front wing swung across from the middle lane and ground to a halt, the driver oblivious to the blast of horns he had provoked.

  ‘Follow that Mercedes,’ Mavros ordered.

  The driver glanced in the mirror as he pulled away. ‘You a cop?’

  ‘No,’ Mavros said, catching the hostility in the unshaven man’s tone. ‘All you need to know is that you’re in line for a big tip if you don’t lose him.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ The driver accelerated, cutting in front of a bus.

  ‘Don’t get too close.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’ There was a No Smoking sign on the dashboard, but that didn’t stop the guy lighting a cigarette.

  Clouds of smoke drifted past Mavros to the window that he’d opened. After initially hesitating, he inhaled. It was over a year since he’d given up, but he wasn’t free from temptation. The dark blue worry-beads that he used to distract himself were in the front pocket of his jeans. He took them out and, gradually, the urge to bum a cigarette from the driver passed.

  They went through the centre, the lights of the department stores and banks blazing out. Mavros could see Sifis in the Mercedes ahead. His head was slumped back on the seat and he looked dead to the world. He probably needed to replenish his stock of dope. The traffic was heavy, but once they got on to the wide avenue that led to the sea the speed of both cabs increased.

  ‘Perverts,’ the driver said, glancing to the right.