He thought of Ulysses, leaving ‘the sceptre and the isle’ to his son before setting out on a final voyage, ‘To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought’. But what was the knowledge Kostas wanted, what new experiences could he expect? Was lying in a darkened room with antiseptic on his mutilated head and fingers going to provide a deeper understanding?
That was it. He would discover more about how his devious mind worked, he would go through his life and examine what he had done in a different light. ‘Old age hath yet his honour and his toil’ – for him that would be to rationalise his deeds. Why had he broken the South Africans sanctions and done away with the whistleblower? Why had he fucked Tefkros Svolos’s wife and driven the older man’s company to the wall? Why had he sunk the Homeland and had the complainer from the Dolphin thrown overboard? For personal gain and the profit of the group, of course, but there was more to it than that. Something in him wanted to triumph in every situation, even now, with his fingers and head stinging and aching. But why? Was it the hardship he had suffered as a child? His parents had been through much worse during their escape from Turkey. Was it in his genes? Neither his father nor his mother had been fighters, let alone visionaries. It was all they could do to put food on the table every day – a battle in itself, he accepted. Fortunately his brains had got him out of poverty at an early age.
Destiny. That was what it was. He had always felt he was better than others and that he would do great things. So it had proved, but he wasn’t finished yet. It wasn’t his fate to die in this hole after being mutilated over and over again. ‘Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done.’ In the first instance that work meant staying alive until he was rescued – he was sure Loukas and Evi would be doing everything they could. He would survive and he would know himself better.
Then the world would really have to look out.
‘Police have captured one of the Gogols.’
‘Which?’ asked the presiding judge.
‘Lavrenti. He not talk.’
‘You hope.’
‘Is more. Myronis killed in shooting.’
‘He wasn’t a Gatsos by blood, but his death may make them try harder to find the old man.’
‘This happens already.’
‘What?’
‘Man name of Alex Mavros. Loukas hired him.’
‘That is interesting. I thought he’d retired from missing persons work.’
‘Big money paid.’
‘I know Mavros.’
‘You tried kill him, yes?’
‘No, I’ve been making him hide behind steel doors for years. I was the reason he gave up missing persons work.’
‘You want kill him now?’
‘Why not?’
‘No. Direct order. Only if Mavros find you. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Work quick with Gatsos now.’
‘I thought the point was to make him suffer as long as possible.’
‘Do next trial soon. More orders after.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The connection was cut. ‘And fuck you.’
SEVENTEEN
Mavros went back to his mother’s and crashed out. He slept badly, plagued by dreams of Niki and, unusually, of his brother Andonis. The latter, rather than smiling at him as he had in the past, was a shadow of himself, his hair white and his face heavily lined. Mavros woke, feeling nauseous, to the sound of his phone at 6.30 a.m.
‘It’s me.’
‘Shit, what do you want so early, Lambi?’
‘It’s not what I want, my friend. Didn’t you ask me to let you know if anything went down at the Paradiso Bianco?’
Mavros sat up, his mind clearing fast. Lambis Bitsos was crime editor on one of the daily papers and on a private TV channel.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Kriaras’s lot raided the place around 4 a.m. They took heavy casualties. Lavrenti Gogol was shot and is in hospital. His wounds aren’t life-threatening. His brother got away. The police took a large haul of drugs, mainly coke. Hello? Have you died?’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘It better be about what you’re going to give me in return.’
‘Now isn’t the time.’
‘I hoped that five years being a publisher might have made you more appreciative of the services people provide.’
‘You’ll get a story sooner or later.’
‘How about a sniff?’
Mavros considered that. The brigadier had acted without dropping him a hint, so he didn’t feel obliged to keep his mouth shut.
‘Try this: “A source has revealed that the raid is linked to the investigation into the disappearance of leading shipowner, Kostas Gatsos.” Juicy enough for you?’
‘Juicier than the choicest footballer’s wife. Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Out of interest, how much did the family cough up to get you out of retirement?’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll get some of it if your services continue in this vein.’
‘Right you are. I’ll be on air in half-an-hour.’
‘Breakfast with Bitsos: crime, sex and deep fried aubergines.’ The journalist was an inveterate consumer of pornography and, despite his lean build, a major gourmand.
‘Not a bad idea. May your cock always swing loose.’ The call was terminated.
‘Wanker,’ Mavros said, aware that he wouldn’t go back to sleep.
He got up and pottered around the kitchen. Years of living alone meant that he could fend for himself, but today he couldn’t be bothered. Besides, he wanted to see what had gone down at the Fat Man’s.
Half an hour later he was at the door, leaning on the bell push.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mr Marianthi.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Come on, Yiorgo. I haven’t had breakfast.’
The chain rattled and the door opened. Mavros went in like a sniffer dog.
‘She’s not here,’ the Fat Man said. He was wearing only a sagging pair of underpants. ‘But she was until four-thirty.’
‘I thought she had kids.’
‘Babysitter stayed over.’
‘So you—’
‘Yes, we did. Twice.’ Yiorgos started to dance, but soon stopped. ‘Need to conserve my energy. She’s coming back later.’
‘I’m very happy for you. Now can you make the coffee?’
‘Your wish is my command. Hope you don’t want any galaktoboureko. I didn’t have time to make it.’
‘This gets better and better.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some toast-bread. Should be honey too.’
Mavros followed him to the kitchen and told him about the raid on the nightclub. Kriaras and Lieutenant Babis still weren’t answering their phones.
‘Might shake things up,’ the Fat Man said.
‘Might do worse than that.’
‘How did your meeting with the Gatsos siblings go last night?’
‘Step-siblings. Nondas hit them with some stuff he’d dug up on the Colombians. They claimed ignorance.’
‘Where does that leave us?’
Mavros breathed in the scent of coffee as the Fat Man stirred the contents of the briki. ‘We still have two things to do. First, talk to the surviving bodyguards from the villa on Lesvos. I got their address from Siatkas. Apparently one of them speaks reasonable Greek.’
Yiorgos slid a plate of toast and honey towards him. ‘And second, check out Kostas Gatsos’s recent girlfriends.’
‘Well spotted. Evi knows some names. To be honest, I doubt they’ll talk. Their pimps will have them under pressure after what’s happened to the Gogols.’
‘Do you want to split up?’
‘No. The Russians might turn nasty and there’s no way I’m letting you loose on young women in your current state.’
‘What state?’ Yiorgos looked down. ‘I’m not engorged.’
‘Good to kno
w. Are you sure you aren’t going to strain your heart with Marianthi?’
‘As sure as toast is toast,’ the Fat Man said, taking the last piece. ‘I’ll have a shower, change clothes—’
‘What, on the same day?’
‘And call our delectable driver.’
‘Old love,’ said Mavros. ‘It’s so touching.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
Yiorgos was right.
The jumbo jet was in the final stages of its approach to Athens airport. Jim Thomson looked down at the roads and fields. He recognised nothing. The new airport was to the east of Athens and he had never been familiar with the area. He recognised the summit ridge of Mount Imittos, even though it was the wrong way round. There were many more TV and radio transmitters than when he’d been a student. The terminal buildings were the standard modern style and could have been anywhere. His stomach was churning, not because he was home but because he seemed at the same time to be in a foreign country. The wheels touched the runway and the big plane started to slow. A few Greeks of the older generation applauded the pilot.
He let people stream past him and was the last passenger to get his hand luggage down. The stewardesses waited for him patiently, though their smiles were strained by the time he wished them good day. Then he went along sterile passages with advertising in English. He felt utterly disconnected from the images of the Acropolis and other ancient sites. This is your heritage, he told himself. Why aren’t you moved? He knew the answer. It was too late. He should either have come back when he was still young or stayed away forever. The latter had been his intention, but he had to fulfil Ivy’s last wish.
He presented his Australian passport. It was stamped without question. Then he collected the suitcase that contained the urn and went through customs without being stopped. There were five hours till his flight to Lesvos and he had planned to wait in the airport, but he found the place so soulless that he decided to put his bags in left luggage and take a taxi into the city. He would have time to see the place that he now couldn’t keep out of his mind, even though he’d suppressed it for decades. He owed it to his mutilated and murdered comrades.
The driver was morose. Jim spoke only English and the other man had little. They moved swiftly along wide highways, rising to the flank of Imittos from where the city, much bigger than he remembered, spread across the enclosed plain as if all the grey-white building bricks in the world had been thrown about by a particularly active child. The sea spread out southwards, pale blue between the island of Aegina and the peaks of the Peloponnese. Still nothing stirred in him. They drove down into the crowded streets and he read the signs and placards in the language he had tried unsuccessfully to forget. But the computer and phone shops and the multiplicity of banks caught his eye more than the buildings that had been there when he was a resident. They headed down Alexandhras Avenue past the ragged old Panathanaikos stadium. He’d never been interested in football. His priorities back then had been much more high-minded – or so he thought.
And finally they were there, on the corner of the street that ran parallel to Bouboulinas. He paid the driver, struggling with the new currency. Then he walked down to the road that ran past the rear of the Polytechnic and the National Archaeological Museum. There were so many wonders in the latter – the gold masks of Mycenae, the marble youths and maidens, the bronze figures of Poseidon and the little jockey – but they meant nothing to him. Instead he was consumed by the horror he had experienced in number 18, the headquarters of the Security Police during the dictatorship. He found he couldn’t approach the building, his ears suddenly filled by his screams and those of others, and the revving of motorbikes that drowned the noise; the tapping on the walls of the cells that some prisoners used to communicate – he had never done that. After his failure to keep silent, after the agony of the fish hooks that had been inserted into his arms, sides and legs before the lines were stretched by a pulley till his body was raised into the air, after he had talked and talked, betraying everyone he knew, giving names, addresses, everything he was asked … after that he was broken, no longer himself, a different creature. And he himself had been betrayed. Instead of being sent to a camp, he was thrown into the night sea to drown.
He stepped backwards and knocked into someone.
‘Careful,’ said an old woman in black. ‘You nearly sent me flying.’
‘Sorry,’ he replied, in Greek. ‘I … I don’t feel very well.’
She looked at him curiously, her clothes dirty and shopping basket full of what appeared to be balls of old newspapers.
‘Are you one of them?’ she asked. ‘You’re the right age.’
‘One of them?’ he mumbled.
‘The wretched people who were tortured.’
Suddenly he couldn’t stand to be there. He ran along the back of the Polytechnic, where the dictators had sent tanks against unarmed students, and turned left into Exarcheia Square. Although one side was lined with trendy cafés, there was still graffiti on the walls and a palpable air of resistance. That cleared his mind.
He had to find them, the ones he’d deserted. Not his former comrades, he could never face them, but his family. Was his mother still alive? His brother and sister should be. Then he looked at his watch. There wasn’t time before his flight. But he swore he would look for them on his return from Lesvos. He owed them at least a short visit. Anything else was beyond him.
In the taxi Jim Thomson asked himself what the hell he was doing. He was in Greece to dispose of Ivy’s ashes, not to dig up the rotting remains of his past. When he came back from the island, he would stay in the airport until his connection to Singapore.
Athens was as dead as his father had been for decades.
‘What are these gorillas called?’ the Fat Man asked from the front passenger seat.
‘Vadim and Gleb,’ Mavros replied.
‘Wasn’t there someone in Hollywood called Vadim?’ Marianthi asked, as she turned on to Mesoyeion Avenue and headed for Ayia Paraskevi.
‘You’re thinking of Roger Vadim,’ Mavros said. ‘I think he might have been of Russian descent, but he lived in France. He was the husband of Brigitte Bardot and Jane Fonda – not at the same time – and director of such young man’s classics as And God Created Women and Barbarella.’
‘I remember both of those,’ Yiorgos said, nudging Marianthi. ‘Plenty of flesh on display.’
The driver laughed and leaned over to kiss the Fat Man. The vehicle swerved, almost hitting another before she got it under control.
Mavros was gripping the back of the seat. ‘Bad time to display my inner movie geek.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Yiorgos. ‘So, Vadim and Gleb. What are we going to ask them?’
‘The usual stuff – what’s their favourite breakfast cereal, do they take sugar in their coffee, were they bribed to give the kidnappers safe passage …?’
‘Ha ha.’ The Fat Man looked over his shoulder. ‘Really?’
‘Possibly with a bit more subtlety regarding the latter.’
Marianthi found the backstreet in the suburb without using her satnav. ‘I had an aunt who lived in this neighbourhood,’ she said. ‘We used to stay with her in the summer. It’s cooler up here.’
Mavros looked at the wall of Mount Imittos, the vegetation having already turned green after the rains of late September. The street was narrow and the apartment buildings scruffier than much of the area. He looked at the panel by the door. There was a button with no name and that was the one he pressed.
‘Who is?’ said a man.
‘From Siatkas,’ Mavros said, hoping the lawyer’s name would carry more weight than his own. There was a pause, then he was buzzed in.
‘I’m going for a coffee in the square,’ Marianthi said. ‘Call when you need me.’
Yiorgos waved her off.
‘Come on, you love-sick lump, we’ve got work to do.’
They took the lift to the fifth floor.
‘Do you want me to
do the talking?’ the Fat Man asked.
‘I don’t think you’ll scare these guys like you did Dinos.’
‘Suit yourself.’
Mavros thumped on the only door without a name next to it. He saw the spyhole darken on the other side.
‘Come on, I told you – we’re from Siatkas.’
The door was opened by a large man with a shaved head and biceps bursting out of his T-shirt. There was a pistol in his right hand.
‘Got a licence for that?’ Mavros asked.
‘You police?’
‘No, I private investigator. Maybe English is better?’
‘Nyet.’
Mavros shrugged and went in. After the door was closed behind them, they were led down a dark corridor.
‘This Vadim,’ the Russian said, nodding to the similarly muscle-bound hulk on the sofa. The room was cramped even though there was little furniture.
‘And you’re Gleb.’ Mavros introduced himself and Yiorgos.
‘Why you here? We talk to Mr Siatkas and police.’
Mavros remembered the sparse police file. ‘You didn’t say much. I was hoping you could be more expansive with us.’
‘What?’
‘Tell us more,’ the Fat Man said. ‘Like were you bribed to let the kidnappers in and out without a fight?’
The White Sea Page 17
