I thought the descent of Icarus was about to reach a premature end, but in fact that Cretan morning was only the beginning.
The Fat Man brought two cups of unsweetened Greek coffee on a tray to the balcony and delved into a paper bag.
‘It’s not the same,’ Mavros said, suspiciously eyeing the pastry he had just been handed.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ the Fat Man demanded. ‘Bring the old woman back from the dead?’
That terminated conversation for as long as it took Yiorgos to wolf down his double helping of galaktoboureko. His mother, Kyra Fedhra, had daily produced pastries that were the mainstay of the café run by the Fat Man until he too had been forced out by a ridiculous rent rise. Kyra Fedhra had expressed annoyance that her sixty-year-old son would be permanently under her feet and died of heart failure shortly afterwards – leaving the Fat Man with a valuable property on the other side of Lykavettos and nothing whatsoever to do. Although he had been a foot soldier in the Communist Party since his teens, he was no longer on good terms with the comrades after they had told him his duty was to sell the house and donate half the profits to the party.
That was the other reason Mavros had moved to his mother’s flat. Without the Fat Man’s café down the road, his old flat was substantially less appealing. He had used it as an office, judging potential clients by their reaction to such a downmarket place in the heart of tourist-land. And while the much-missed Kyra Fedhra had made the best pastries in Athens, Yiorgos made the best coffee, without which Mavros struggled to start the day.
Mavros finished his shop-bought galakotoboureko – which was actually not bad – and washed it down with cold water.
‘Heard anything from that cop?’ the Fat Man asked.
‘That cop who has a name?’
Yiorgos sank his chin into the soft flesh of his neck. ‘I forget . . . Damis?’
‘You forget, my arse. No, I haven’t. Calm down. What you fondly imagine is your job is safe.’
Mavros swallowed a smile. Damis Ganas had been his partner for a few months the previous year, but he had returned to the island of Evia when his heroin addict girlfriend was released from psychiatric care. In the meantime, the Fat Man had combined his daily visits to provide breakfast with acting as Mavros’s unofficial secretary and office manager. Years of grinding through the Communist Party’s multiple layers of bureaucracy had made Yiorgos a remarkably competent record keeper. The fact that – with off-white shirts stretching over his paunch and threadbare trousers – he was hardly presentable to clients was a way of controlling his involvement in cases.
The Fat Man looked out over the opulent blocks around the park of Dhexameni. ‘What would your father have thought about you ending up in this platinum-coated sewer?’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Mavros replied, going back inside. ‘What would he have thought about you avoiding the comrades and coming here every day?’ He looked at the photographs of his family on the display table by the fireplace. His mother had taken most of them with her, but there were still portraits of his father, Spyros, with his thick black hair, hooked nose and piercing gaze: and of his brother, Andonis, a bright-faced version of the older man, who had been popular with the opposite sex from his early teens.
‘Let them go,’ the Fat Man said softly, going towards the kitchen with his tray.
Mavros thought about that. His father, a lawyer who was also a high-ranking official of the then illegal Communist Party, had died when he was five and he had few memories, mainly of a serious, prematurely aged man whose smile had been tinged with sadness, but who always greeted him with a tight hug. His brother Andonis, who disappeared during the Dictatorship aged twenty-one, had played a much larger part in his life, and was the reason he had become a missing persons specialist. But Andonis was the only failure in his career – every trace of his brother had led to dead ends and desolation.
‘I have let them go, Yiorgo,’ Mavros called. And it was true. Spyros, despite being a hero of the Party, had never been close enough to inspire him – whence his essentially apolitical stance – while Andonis had gradually ceased to influence him. Besides, he had sworn to his mother that he would concentrate on his own life and on Niki rather than his lost male relatives. ‘I have, believe me.’
The problem was, he didn’t always believe it himself.
Mavros was showered, his shoulder-length and still black hair damp on the shoulders of his denim shirt, and shaved, an activity he undertook once a week at most, when the landline rang.
‘You know who this is,’ said a gruff voice.
‘Do I?’ Mavros replied. ‘The Prime Minister? The ghost of Maria Callas with a bad cold?’
‘As funny as ever – you think.’ Nikos Kriaras, head of the Athens police organized crime division, was a man with no humour in his soul. ‘I have little time for this, so listen carefully. You will shortly have visitors. It would be a very good idea to take the job you will be offered. A very good idea indeed.’
‘I’ve had bad experience of your good ideas,’ Mavros said, immediately antagonistic to anything suggested by the well connected but less than straight cop.
‘Tell me why I should do what you say.’
Kriaras sighed. ‘Why are things never easy with you? All right, this is nothing to do with my current portfolio.’ The commander was terrified of phone taps and habitually spoke in a clipped mode he thought would be incomprehensible to outsiders. ‘My friends at the Concert Hall would like your input on this.’ A child could have broken that codename. Next to the main Athens music venue was the American embassy.
‘Oh, great,’ Mavros said, remembering a case involving the Americans and a terrorist that had nearly cost him his life. ‘I think I’d rather take in the May sunshine on my balcony, thanks.’
‘Don’t screw with me, smart-arse,’ Kriaras said. ‘Take the job. It’ll be well paid, it’s not dangerous and you’ll meet interesting people.’
The truth was that Mavros hadn’t had a case in two weeks and was as bored as a shark in the overfished Aegean. Not that he was going to tell the cop that.
‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he said languorously. ‘That sun, you know, it’s very—’
‘Take the fucking job, all right?’ yelled Kriaras, slamming down the old-style phone that Mavros had seen in his office.
‘Who was that?’ the Fat Man asked, his heavy face creased with curiosity.
‘Just one of my many admirers.’
‘That wanker Kriaras.’
Mavros laughed. ‘Very good, Yiorgo. He says I’m about to be offered a job. A good one.’
The Fat Man flicked his dish-towel at a fly with surprising dexterity. ‘Don’t take it. You can’t trust that murderous organ of the state further than you can—’
‘Toss him? Jesus, Yiorgo, lighten up with the Party terminology. Besides, we could do with some income.’
‘Income? Profit, you mean. You’re as bad as everyone else in this benighted country. Take what you can and deprive the needy.’
Mavros led the Fat Man to one of his mother’s antique armchairs. ‘Now, now, don’t get overexcited. You might burst – I don’t know – a belly?’
The doorbell rang, meaning that Mavros escaped verbal and possibly physical abuse. He looked at the miniature screen and saw a man in his late thirties, his thinning hair in a ponytail, and a young woman. Both were dressed in high-end casual clothes and the latter was carrying a laptop case. Although the man could have passed for Greek, the woman’s red hair and pale skin gave her away as a foreigner. Mavros decided to speak English.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mr Mavros? We were told to contact you by a Mr Kriaras.’ The man mangled the stress on the cop’s name – it should have been on the final syllable – and his accent was American.
‘Come up to the sixth floor.’
Mavros turned to the Fat Man. ‘You’d better make yourself scarce. Sit in the kitchen and take notes if that turns you on.’
‘What if they want coffee?’
‘I’ll give you the order like you’re a Filipina and collect it myself. All right, Georgia?’
The Fat Man gave him a less than threatening glare – there were few things he liked better than overhearing Mavros’s clients – and withdrew.
Mavros went to the door, wondering what kind of fine mess he was about get himself into.
The young woman was now standing in front of the man.
‘Alex Mavros?’ she asked, with an accent that was East Coast, unlike the man’s Californian tones. ‘My name’s Alice Quincy. It’s my privilege and pleasure to introduce you to Mr Luke Jannet.’
The second name rang a faint bell, but Mavros played dumb. ‘Right,’ he said, extending a hand to the man, who had now pushed himself to the front, and then to the woman. ‘Come in.’
‘Cool place,’ Jannet said, walking into the open living area. ‘Kinda old-style furnishings, though.’
Mavros shrugged. ‘Care to park your backsides on that antique sofa?’ He’d never liked being talked down to and he wasn’t going to make an exception for this hotshot. There were spots of red on Alice Quincy’s high cheekbones, which made him perversely happy. She was one of those tall women with flat chests known to Greeks as ‘ironing-boards’, but her face was attractive enough.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Mavros asked, watching Luke Jannet. He hadn’t shown any sign of being affronted, but there was a watchfulness in his green eyes that suggested he didn’t miss much.
‘Coffee for us both,’ Jannet said. ‘Alice can make it.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Georgia?’
The Fat Men squeaked from behind the partially open kitchen door.
‘Coffee for two, please.’ Mavros looked at the Americans. ‘Cappuccino?’
They both nodded.
Mavros repeated the order, aware that Yiorgos would be swearing under his breath – his mother had bought a machine and the Fat Man knew how to operate it, but he regarded the frothy concoction as an abomination.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Mavros asked, deliberately directing his gaze at the young woman.
‘See, here’s the problem,’ Jannet said, leaning forwards. Pointed cowboy boots made of some exotic skin extended from his dark-blue chinos. ‘I’m directing a movie down in Crete.’
The bell rang louder in Mavros’s head, but he kept silent.
Alice Quincy couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Surely you’ve heard of Mr Jannet and the film? It’s been all over the media.’
‘I don’t really follow the film world,’ Mavros lied. He was a big fan of classic noir and modern crime movies, but he suspected Jannet didn’t direct that kind of thing.
‘Freedom or Death?’ the young woman persisted. ‘About the Battle of Crete in 1941?’
‘Captain Corelli meets Zorba the Greek, with a touch of Cross of Iron,’ Luke Jannet interposed. ‘It’ll be out in time for the Olympics and it’ll make a mint.’
Mavros had read about the production without paying attention to who was directing it. The Greek Ministry of Culture had been prominent in its efforts to attract a big budget American movie that would put Greece even more in the global eye in 2004. The fact that ‘Freedom or Death’ was the motto of the modern Greek state hadn’t put off any politicians except extreme nationalists from licensing it to Hollywood.
‘Kind of a new version of Ill Met by Moonlight?’ Mavros said, remembering the Dirk Bogarde movie about the kidnapping of a German general on Crete.
‘What?’ Jannet asked, his expression blank.
‘Mr Mavro?’ came a high voice from the kitchen.
He went to collect the coffees. ‘I hope you didn’t spit in them,’ he whispered.
The Fat Man was a dogged anti-American, as were all the comrades, and he regarded film-makers as the cream on the cake of worker exploitation.
‘No, but that can be arranged,’ Yiorgos riposted.
‘Let’s wait and see what the job is,’ Mavros said, grabbing the tray.
The Americans watched curiously as he handed over their cups and saucers.
‘My maid’s a bit shy,’ he said. ‘She was abused in her last position.’
‘How awful,’ Alice said, glancing towards the kitchen.
‘Here’s the thing,’ Jannet said, ignoring her. ‘I’ve got an actress – in fact, the female lead – who’s giving me the runaround. Cara Parks? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of her?’
Mavros wasn’t going to play that dumb. Cara Parks was the next big thing in Hollywood, combining the physical allure of Kate Winslet with the smouldering looks of Sharon Stone.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I saw her in Spring Surprise.’ The low-budget horror movie set in a machine factory had given the actress plenty of opportunities to exercise both her vocal chords and her stunning body.
‘That was nothing,’ Jannet said scathingly. ‘Freedom or Death is going to make her into a global star.’
‘OK,’ Mavros said. ‘And what’s her problem?’
‘Tell him, Alice,’ the director said, as if the details were beneath him.
‘Yes, Mr Jannet.’ The young woman looked at Mavros. ‘Like all actors in major roles, Ms Parks has a personal assistant, in her case a woman called Maria Kondos.’
‘A Greek-American?’ Mavros asked. The surname for a female would have been Kondou if she’d been a Greek native.
Alice Quincy nodded. ‘The problem is, Maria disappeared yesterday and no one has any idea where she is.’
Jannet put his empty cup down with a crack. ‘And Cara Parks, the self-centred bitch, won’t do anything until she’s found. She won’t even come out of her suite.’
Mavros wasn’t attracted to the case. The Greek-American had probably had a row with the star and gone voluntarily AWOL. Kriaras obviously wanted him on the job because of the production’s significance to the country and the Culture Ministry, not necessarily in that order.
‘We’re prepared to pay you two thousand euros per day plus expenses,’ Alice Quincy said.
Mavros heard a stifled exclamation from the kitchen. Years of extracting money from unsuspecting tourists who had wandered into the café had given the Fat Man a good command of numbers in English, and Mavros’s standard rate was 500 euros a day.
‘What’s more,’ Luke Jannet said, ‘we’ve got a limo waiting in the street and a Learjet at the airport.’ He caught Mavros’s eye. ‘You coming? We gotta haul ass.’
Mavros thought about it for a couple of seconds. Niki would be pissed off, but she’d approve of the money. The Fat Man would sulk because he wasn’t coming along. Tough.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Give me a few seconds to toss some things in a bag.’
TWO
From The Descent of Icarus:
I hit a piece of rough open ground very hard. It was the worst landing I’d ever made, but I hadn’t broken anything and I told myself to keep calm. Small arms fire came at me from the east and I could hear shouts from my comrades across the dry river-bed. I used the gravity knife to cut away my parachute and then the first of the Cretans was on me. He wasn’t much more than a boy and he came at me with a rock held in both hands. I twisted out of the way, still on my knees, then a spray of blood came from his forehead and he crashed to the flower-dotted earth.
‘Over here, Rudi!’
I saw Peter Wachter crouching behind an olive tree, replacing the magazine of his MP40. The motionless bodies of the Cretans I had seen from the air were between us. I looked to my right. A weapons canister was dangling from an olive tree about fifty metres away, the lower end close to the ground. I pointed at it.
‘No!’ Peter yelled. ‘You’ll never make it!’
Bullets flew past me, proving his point. Although the sky was full of Luftwaffe aircraft – Auntie Jus dropping men, 109s strafing gun emplacements – I was on my own, caught in clear ground. I wouldn’t last long with only my short-range machine-pistol and my Luger. I started crawling towar
ds the tree, the first of a row. Earth and stones were flung into my face by gunfire, pinging against my helmet. Already my throat was parched and my stomach filled with acid. My training drove me on – the often-repeated words about sacrificing everything for the unit’s greater good, the insignificance of my own life compared with the paratroopers’ ultimate victory. Then I saw two of my comrades. One had landed in the tree beyond the canister, a line of large, bloody holes almost cutting him in half. The other was lying face down on the ground, arms still outstretched and parachute in rags, obviously hit by an anti-aircraft shell not long after it opened.
I stopped behind a low furrow in the earth to catch my breath. Fire was still being directed at me from the heights above the airfield and I had to press on. Then I caught a glimpse of rapid movement to my left. I rolled on to my right side, levelling the MP40. What I saw made my heart stop. A young woman dressed in black was running towards me, her long skirt flapping and her raven hair streaming behind her. She was screaming like a banshee, an old-fashioned rifle raised to her shoulder. There was a puff of smoke then a loud report and a heavy round smashed into the earth a few centimetres in front of my chest. Reloading was obviously not an option for her, but she kept charging, the rifle now reversed with the butt towards me.
I knew I had to kill her, but I couldn’t. For all the savagery in her expression and her glaring eyes, she was beautiful and so young. I loosed off a blast above her head, which did nothing to stop her. The sound of firing all around had disappeared and all I could hear was her gasping breath and the words – clearly full of hatred – that she was shrieking at me. I fired again. She was so close that I couldn’t fail to hit her. The ancient rifle flew from her grip and she crashed to the earth, clutching her shoulder. I crept over to her and she spat in my face. That was enough. I turned my attention back to the weapons canister. Just before I reached it, a grenade exploded in the tree and I was showered by branches, which reduced the force of the shrapnel.
The Silver Stain Page 2
