She felt around in the impervious black until her hands landed on food—bread, a piece torn from a large round loaf like the last time, and something wrapped in foil. She pulled it open and raised it to her face. Something roasted. She took a tentative bite, tasting skin and strands of meat. Chicken. She ate greedily.
It was as she sat back, having put the blanket between herself and the rough wall, that the hairs on her neck rose. She froze, inclining her head to take in any sound. There wasn’t much to go on, the enclosed space seeming to soak up all the traces that her senses were straining to identify. She held her breath for as long as she could but all she heard was a faint susurrus, a continuous high-pitched scratching in the distance. Did it come from some kind of insect? She remembered now. The noise she heard as she walked to the beach, the noise that came back as soon as she shook the water from her ears after swimming. Crickets rubbing away in the burning heat. Yes, now she could picture the beach.
The woman sat still and tried to bring more back, fingers to her forehead. The beach, a line of dusty bushes and in the middle distance a cluster of white houses. The beach and the water that deepened quickly when she stepped into it, tiny fish nibbling at her legs and submerged stones that hurt her feet. But that was all. She could see no people, no one to help her recover who she was or where the seashore was located. Had she been on holiday there?
She tugged at the ropes in frustration, her wrists stinging, and began to sob as she realised that she still had no grasp on her identity. She felt for the bottle and tipped it to her lips again. She no longer cared if there was something narcotic in it. Oblivion was better than struggling in the dark.
Her eyelids twitched and she felt a numbness spread through her limbs. So when the circle of light suddenly appeared on the ground in front of her, she could not move, could only watch as it moved over her legs and up her abdomen to her face. Then she heard a voice, a soft voice that whispered comforting words, wished her a peaceful sleep. She wanted to float away, lose her senses, but the faint hum of the camera came to her and she tried to scream, felt heavy hands on her midriff again, screamed but knew no sound was coming from her throat.
Screamed as she fell into the abyss, its demons thrusting and prising her apart.
Mavros woke early by his standards. It wasn’t yet eight when he became aware of the birdsong in the courtyard and the grid of sunlight shining through the shutters on to his bedroom wall. He sat up in bed and thought about what he had discovered the previous night, flicking his worry beads with his thumb. After spraying himself with cold water in the uncurtained shower, he put on jeans and a clean T-shirt, this time a darker-coloured one, and secreted the beads in his bag. He wanted to pass as a tourist and his way with them was too practised. He opened the door and saw his landlady across the yard.
‘Kali mera, Mister Alex,’ she said, throwing some bread- crumbs to the birds.
‘Good morning to you.’ Mavros ran his eye over Rena’s neat black outfit. Her eyes were ringed and she seemed downcast. He wanted to ask her about the things in the chimney, but this didn’t look like the right time.
‘You need anything?’ she asked. ‘Coffee?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll go out.’
Rena pursed her lips. ‘No shop open this morning,’ she said. She seemed to have lost her command of English. ‘Everyone going to the church. A boy and a girl—’ She broke off, drawing her hand across her eyes.
‘Oh yes, the funerals.’
She looked at him. ‘You hear about them?’
Mavros nodded. ‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said, feeling awkward as he stood under the pergola. He intended to follow the funerals—everyone would be there and he would get an insight into how the island functioned—but he didn’t want Rena to think he was prying.
‘I’m leaving now,’ she said. ‘I have to help an old lady get ready. If you need coffee or anything else, please take from my kitchen.’ She gave him a quick smile and then turned away down the passage that led to the street door.
Mavros raised a hand after her. He felt comfortable with her restrained hospitality. It was a lot more genuine than the disguised rapacity he’d experienced on Zakynthos. No doubt there were plenty of smiling thieves on Trigono too, but he didn’t think Rena was one of them. She would be right about everywhere being closed, so he went into the kitchen that led directly off the courtyard. There was a briki, a small metal coffee pot with a long handle, on the gas ring, so he rooted around in the spotless cupboards for coffee, spoon and cup. A plastic canister of drinking water was standing on the marble top. He might as well make the coffee here rather than in his own place. The kitchen was old-fashioned, without the gadgets beloved of Athenians, but it was well enough equipped and stocked. Vegetables and sprays of drying herbs hung from the walls, their bright colours matched by the chequered plastic table covers and floral curtains. The open door was hung with muslin against insects.
He stirred the coffee until it came to the boil and took it out into the yard. There was a wooden table under the branches that hung from the pergola, wooden chairs with wicker bases around it. Although there were houses on either side, only one window overlooked Rena’s courtyard so she had a quiet oasis to herself in the middle of the village. Mavros glanced up at the upper floor of her house, the shutters of the window where he’d seen what he presumed was her shadowy figure still hooked half open. If he was true to his profession he’d go and have a look upstairs, but he dismissed the idea. What could Rena have that would help him? Later on he’d show her the photo of Rosa Ozal and ask if she’d seen the Turkish-American woman since June.
Mavros finished his coffee and took the cup back into the kitchen. He noticed the local telephone directory there and took the opportunity to locate the number of the Olympic Airways office and that of a travel company, both on Paros. Going back to his room, he switched on his mobile phone. He’d turned it off the previous evening because the signal on Trigono was variable. It was strong enough now. He wasn’t surprised to find that he had a message from Niki.
‘Alex? Where are you?’ She sounded even more exasperated than he’d anticipated. ‘Why haven’t you got your phone on? Well, anyway, give me a call.’ Her tone hardened. ‘Call me, you fugitive. Or I’ll do worse than put honey in your hallway.’
Mavros shook his head and wondered what was he going to do about Niki. Then again, she’d called him a fugitive. Maybe she’d already realised that he was trying to break free.
Before he spoke to her, he rang the airline and tried to find out whether Rosa Ozal had flown in or out in the past three months. He wasn’t surprised to be told that such information was confidential. He considered taking the boat back across the straits and flashing his investigator’s card at the woman who’d brushed him off, but he suspected she’d only laugh at him and demand an official request. The man who answered the phone in the travel agency actually did laugh at him, wondering if he had any idea how many people travelled to and from Paros every day in the summer. When Mavros pointed out that the ferry companies were legally required to record the names of all passengers on their tickets, the connection was cut. He might have been able to bribe the information out of a more compliant clerk, but it looked like a waste of time— passenger names were often omitted, and even if he found confirmation that Rosa had arrived or left at some stage, she might easily have done so again. Collating information on Trigono would be a better bet.
Taking a deep breath, Mavros returned Niki’s call.
‘There you are at last,’ she said hurriedly. ‘To hell with you, wanker.’
‘What?’
‘I’m in the car. Some lunatic just cut me up.’
‘Maybe I should call back later.’
‘No, I want to talk to you now, Alex. Where are you?’
‘Em, on an island.’
‘What?’ she screamed. ‘Which island?’
‘A tourist island,’ he prevaricated.
‘Which island, Alex? Tell me or
I swear I’ll accuse you of rape.’
‘Niki, for God’s sake…’
‘I was joking,’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘So, which island?’
Mavros felt bad about what he was about to do, but he didn’t want to give Niki the chance to land on him out of the blue. ‘Em, Zakynthos,’ he said. ‘I had a case a couple of years back, a farmer who shut his wife up in a cowshed. It looks like another guy has done the same thing, except this time no one knows where.’ The fluency of the lie depressed him.
‘That’s men for you,’ Niki said. ‘Come on, Alex, isn’t that a job for the police?’
‘Yes. But I’m acting for the woman’s parents, trying to avoid any mistakes… Look, Niki, I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ve got to go now, my clients are here. I’ll talk to you soon.’ He broke the connection before she could remonstrate further.
So much for his private life. Now for the private life of Trigono.
October 21st, 1942
At last I’m organised. The last few days have been hard, but now everything is in place. The explosives and the wireless along with its batteries are in a well-hidden cave, and I’ve taken up residence in a hut on the ridge that even the goatherds have abandoned. I thought I was beginning to turn into a nocturnal creature like a follower of Bela Lugosi in that ridiculous film as all the work had to be done under the light of the moon. There’s an Italian post on the southern slopes of Paros and I couldn’t take the chance of them spotting me in their binoculars. It’s five miles or more, but the visibility here is so good that you can make things out from incredible distances. Now I’m ensconced, I don’t need to skulk about so much. I have my peasant clothes and my heavy shepherd’s cloak so I shouldn’t attract much attention during the day. And I have finally made contact with the locals, or rather they made contact with me. I was beginning to get concerned and wondered if they’d had second thoughts about working with me. But on the third night Ajax came up to the ridge with a couple of burly companions, relatives judging by the resemblance they bore to the resistance leader.
Things were a bit sticky at first—I think they feared I was going to start ordering them about—but when they heard me speak Greek, they loosened up. We drank some of the local spirit, which made my eyes water but I suppose you can get used to anything, and went over the plans for the base. As I experienced, Vathy inlet is the perfect hidden landing point and the brass in Beirut were right to single it out. As soon as a regular kaïki link is established, we’ll be able to stockpile supplies and forward them to underground groups all over the central Aegean and eventually, I hope, to the mainland. That’s not all. I mentioned my ideas about sabotage on the neighbouring islands to Ajax. He was keen, telling me he’d already given the Eyeties—makaronadhes, he called them, spaghetti-eaters—a beating on the Albanian front and would enjoy a repeat performance. He didn’t seem unduly concerned about the threat of reprisals, unlike some of the Greek officers in Egypt. As long as we did as little as possible to implicate the people on Trigono, he said. That was very encouraging.
Now I have only to wait for the team from base. I’ve signalled that all is ready here. I’m expecting a small squad of Greeks, members of the Ieros Lochos, one of the so-called Sacred Band units modelled on the Theban warriors who died for each other on the battlefields of the ancient country. They should have been here with me from the beginning but there was some wrangle in Cairo and they’ve only recently been given the green light by Greek high command. Fortunately I wasn’t delayed and here I am, holed up on a ridge in the Aegean like an Olympian god surveying his domain. Ah, this country! The sun-scorched fields, the dun-coloured hillsides mottled with bushes like the flanks of gigantic leopards, the hum of contented bees. And around it all, the endless blue deepening into the distance. If anything is worth fighting for, it’s this place.
Now I must sleep. Tomorrow Ajax will be back with bread, olives and wine, the soldier’s simple fare. What more could I ask?
The procession moved slowly towards the square, headed by three old women in black carrying the wine that would be poured into the grave and the food that would be distributed to the mourners later. Alongside were three boys bearing a cross and staffs surmounted with round metal representations of cherubim, their eyes flicking from side to side nervously. Behind them came the priest in his round black hat, a decorated golden cape over his robes, and then the coffin borne by male relatives with tear-stained faces. The women around them had their heads bowed, many unable to restrain their wailing.
Mavros was standing in an arched passage that led into the kastro, trying to keep out of the way as the multitude moved across the square to the church. Earlier he’d overheard a conversation between two women. The boy Yiangos was to be buried first; the girl Nafsika’s service would follow in the afternoon. It had been many years since there had been two funerals on the same day in Trigono. Not since the war, they thought, not since the hard years. ‘Ach, Yiango, ach, Nafsika,’ one moaned. ‘Say farewell to these streets that you played in only a few years ago.’
As the priest began to chant over the open coffin inside the crammed church, his voice amplified by speakers on the roof, Mavros went into the old castle and climbed worn steps to a vantage point that took in the village and its surroundings. The great massif of the southern hills was shimmering in the haze. Then he saw a large vehicle come down the street at speed past Rena’s house. He’d noticed ‘No Entry’ signs on all the central roads when he arrived, but the locals didn’t seem to pay much attention to them. He recognised the car. It was the Jeep that had delayed the ferry yesterday. It pulled into the square and parked outside the kafeneion. The bald- headed Aris, his face grim, helped a tall old man with a full white beard get out. Then he went round to the other side and opened the front door for a statuesque woman wearing a dark blue ensemble and wide hat. Eleni the archaeologist stepped out from the rear, her hair pulled back from her face.
‘Look at Aris. Do you think he’d rather be somewhere else?’
Mavros looked over the edge and realised that he was standing above a small wooden balcony set into the wall. He stepped back but kept listening.
‘Of course he’d rather be somewhere else, Barbara.’ The voice was that of the barman Rinus. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere else right now?’
‘I’d rather be on the beach,’ said the tight-faced German woman Mavros had seen in the corner of the bar. ‘But I didn’t have the nerve to swim this morning. It didn’t seem right after the drownings.’
‘It’s unlike you to lose your nerve,’ Rinus said sardonically. ‘Why aren’t you down in the church if you feel so bad about it?’
‘I’m not Orthodox, am I? And anyway, Yiangos, well, Yiangos was a—’
‘Never mind what Yiangos was,’ interrupted the Dutchman. ‘Some more wine?’
‘A funeral libation?’ Mikkel’s voice was more faint. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pour it on the ground.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded Rinus.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Barbara said derisively. ‘He’s been reading too many ancient history books. Look. Isn’t that a touching scene? Eleni listening obediently to her master’s every word.’ Her words were harsh but her voice wavered, giving the impression of barely controlled tension.
Mavros watched as the group from the Jeep moved slowly—reluctantly, it seemed—towards the church. He recognised the old man as Panos Theocharis, the museum founder, although he looked much older than he did in newspaper and magazine photos. The pointed beard gave him the look of an ancient god, Zeus or Poseidon, but this effect was marred by the stick that he was leaning on heavily. Eleni was at his side, her head inclined towards him. The woman in the designer clothes—he couldn’t make out her face under the brim of her hat—stepped across the flagstones elegantly, shod in high-heeled shoes that made a clicking noise he could hear from the top of the kastro. Barbara was right about Aris. He was slouching along behind the others, a look of distaste on his fles
hy face. At least he wasn’t wearing the green sun visor.
‘I thought Eleni said she was going to the excavations today,’ Rinus said.
‘Her orders were obviously amended,’ Barbara said. ‘It’ll do her good to get out of those holes she spends her time in. And to follow orders. It makes a change from her ordering everybody else about.’
Rinus laughed. ‘You’re too hard on her. She’s an educated Greek woman. They have to impose themselves whenever they can. You know how chauvinist most men are in this country.’
‘That doesn’t mean she’s entitled to treat me like dirt.’ Now Barbara’s voice was sharp, full of what struck Mavros as extreme loathing. He remembered the way she’d looked at the Englishman in the bar.
‘She has a problem with foreigners who inflate the price of land and tempt the locals into selling off their family plots,’ the barman said. ‘You can’t blame her. After all, that’s what happened on the east of this island, isn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘Where your house is.’ Although Rinus was a foreigner himself, he was being uncomplimentary about his fellow strangers. Mavros was struggling to grasp the dynamics of the barman’s relations with the German woman.
‘Stop it, Rinus,’ Barbara snapped. ‘Eleni’s a loudmouthed bitch and you know it. Anyway, you used to have a house on the east coast. Until your ex-wife took it away from you.’
‘And sold it,’ Rinus said bitterly. ‘The cow. And now she’s making a fortune from her fucking tapestries back in the UK.’
Now Barbara was the one to laugh. ‘While you pretend to write the great novel during the day and provide the tourists with whatever they want at night.’
A flock of pigeons soared over the square towards the kastro, the sudden clatter of their wings making Rinus move forward on the balcony and look up into the sky. Mavros, one eye on the church, wasn’t quick enough to change position.
‘Alex!’ the Dutchman called. ‘Good morning. Watching the local customs?’
Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) Page 11
