Mavros groaned as Gleb raised the pistol.
‘You no talk us like this!’ the Russian shouted. ‘Friend Boris killed in villa.’
‘Put the gun down,’ Mavros said, moving his arm slowly towards it. ‘My friend wasn’t serious. Please forgive him.’
The Russians glared at Yiorgos and eventually Gleb put the pistol on the table.
‘Siatkas say we must talk you so OK. You only.’ He pointed at Mavros. ‘You friend fuck off.’
‘Go and find you know who,’ Mavros said, sighing with relief as the Fat Man headed down the corridor. ‘All right, Gleb and Vadim, tell me what happened at the villa.’ He raised a finger. ‘Before the kidnap.’
‘Before?’ said Gleb. ‘What mean?’
‘For a start, was it the first time you three went to Lesvos?’
‘No. We go last year. Mr Kostas, he friend us. He say we nasty, he nasty too.’
Mavros had looked at his notebook in the taxi and remembered the salient points of the police report.
‘You were assigned to Mr Gatsos in June last year, yes?’
‘True. We work him full time. Go Lesvos, Mykonos on Gatsos boat. London, New York, many places in Europe. Not always us three, sometime more.’
‘But you three at the villa.’
Gleb nodded. ‘And at Athens houses.’
Kostas Gatsos had properties in Dhionysos to the north of the city, Vouliagmeni to the southeast and in central Piraeus, as well as weekend homes on Aegina and Evia.
‘Going back to my first question, what happened at the villa before the kidnap?’
‘Nothing,’ Gleb said, glancing at his unconcerned colleague.
‘No strange people spying on the villa, taking photographs, coming close in boats, that kind of thing?’
‘Course not. We very careful.’
‘What about the town of Molyvos? Did Mr Kostas have friends there?’
‘Friends? Mr Kostas no have friends Lesvos.’
Mavros laughed. The bodyguard had a down-to-earth charm.
‘People they lick arse, they want money, but they hate him. I see this easy.’
The question and answer was going better than Mavros had imagined.
‘So Mr Kostas had enemies in Molyvos.’
‘No only Molyvos, Lesvos town too. Rich people feel small because he very more rich. He laugh their face.’
‘Names?’
‘I no know names. No my work.’
‘You got a computer here?’
‘Course. How else Vadim get porn?’
‘How else indeed?’ Mavros went over to the laptop that Gleb had taken from beneath his chair. He’d have liked to clean the keyboard and screen, but thought that wouldn’t go down well. He found the official Lesvos website and clicked on the link to ‘Notable Citizens’. There were various dead writers and artists, and then a list of prominent businessmen. He brought up their photos one by one and showed them to the Russians. By the end of the process, he had three names: Thanasis Gritsis, Makis Theotokis and Stelios Xenos.
‘You didn’t tell the police this?’
‘No, but send report employer Hightower. They give Siatkas, yes?’
‘They give Siatkas, maybe. He give me, no. Tell me about them.’
‘Nothing for tell. Mr Kostas shout them in business conference year ago. They say he not welcome Lesvos.’
‘Do you think they could be behind the kidnap?’
Gleb laughed. ‘Fat men, small balls. Gritsis most angry. He have house Molyvos.’
‘Did you see him this summer?’
‘Yes, one time in taverna. Mr Kostas order lobster for friends, Gritsis say he steal tax. Mr Kostas throw wine over Gritsis. He leave shouting.’
Mavros thought about that. Could a small-time island money businessman have been involved in the kidnap?
‘No,’ Gleb said, ahead of him. ‘Gritsis nothing. He no have kidnap money.’ He leaned forward. ‘You know, men who shoot Mr Pavlos and Boris professional. Why me and Vadim hit ground. People hire them have much money. If they check villa, we not see.’
That made sense. Reconnaissance would have been undertaken before the villa was occupied to confirm the information Dinos had blabbed to the Gogols.
‘Anything else you want to tell me? If I catch them, Boris’s killers will go to prison for a long time.’
Gleb grinned, showing uneven yellow teeth. ‘You no catch them. You get close, they catch you. Then …’ He drew his hand across his throat.
Mavros got up. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘Hey, you tell Gatsos family give us other job or let us go. We bored.’
‘I’ll mention it.’ He had no intention of doing so – the Russians were staying where they were until he found Gatsos.
‘What?’
‘I tell them, OK?’
‘OK, friend.’
On their way down the stairs, Mavros called the Fat Man.
‘Where are you? I want some lunch.’
‘That’s what we’re eating. There’s a taverna on the far side of the square.’
Yiorgos might have lost weight, but he was doing all he could to pile it back on. Of course, as of last night, he was getting a lot more exercise.
EIGHTEEN
Kostas Gatsos sat facing the masked judges, the guard by his side.
‘I want to make a statement,’ he said, his voice unwavering.
‘Really?’ The presiding judge glanced left and right. ‘Very well, but be aware that any display of truculence will be summarily punished.’
‘I am guilty of all the crimes you have so far outlined and of whatever Mr Octopus is about to hit me with. I am also guilty of numerous others you don’t know about, though most of those are less serious than what you’ve accused me of. You hear? I’m guilty of everything. Now what are you going to do?’
The person in the octopus mask stood up. ‘Let us be clear about this.’ The voice was that of a woman, speaking heavily accented English. ‘You admit that you brought the Colombians Laura Moreno and Santiago Rojas into the Gatsos group in order to get into the South American drugs and arms businesses?’
Kostas stared at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘And that the Greenland Reefer, currently under arrest in South Korea, was carrying arms for the FARC guerillas in Colombia.’
‘My … my son Pavlos supervised day-to-day business.’
‘The arrest of a vessel caught breaking UN sanctions is hardly day-to-day business, Mr Gatsos.’
‘Well, I know nothing about it.’
The octopus tentacles swung as she turned to the other judges. ‘He’s lying, of course. It’s one of the things he does very well.’
‘Who are you?’ Kostas shouted, immediately feeling the heavy hand of the guard on his shoulder. ‘How do you know all this? Show yourself, coward. All of you, show yourselves!’
‘You do not give us orders,’ said the man in the centre. ‘Consider this. These trials have been recorded and the transcripts will soon be published around the world.’
‘So what? These so-called trials are illegal. You kidnapped me. I’m saying anything to get better treatment, to be freed. You pulled out my fingernails, you cut off my ear. How’s that going to make you look?’
‘You’re an intelligent man. You can imagine that skilful editing will emphasise your criminality, as well as avoiding your wounds.’
‘Bastards! They’ll catch you, you know they will!’ Kostas fell silent after he was slapped hard on the cheek by the guard.
‘I doubt it,’ said the man in the balaclava. ‘But even if they do, your wickedness will be ample justification.’
‘What are you going to do to me now? Cut off my other ear? Pull out my toe nails.’
‘Both those options have been considered, but we have decided on a far more excruciating punishment, one that applies to all your crimes and not just this latest one.’
Kostas was silent. He was trying to imagine what could be worse than the agonies he had s
uffered. Then the lights were dimmed and an image flashed up on the screen behind the judges.
‘Do you recognise that?’ the presiding judge asked. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘I … no, it doesn’t. What is it?’
‘Lying again. It really is second nature to you. Surely you remember the late, unlamented Stratos Chiotis, Athenian underworld boss from the 60s to the early years of the new millennium.’
‘I … I met him from time to time at receptions. He had legitimate business interests.’
‘Some of which you invested in, although blackmailing popular singers who were gay and forcing girls from mountain villages and islands into prostitution are hardly legal. Anyway, as you know very well, during the dictatorship Stratos Chiotis was introduced to an unusually savage Security Police torturer.’ The man in the centre stood up, walked to the end of the table and stepped down from the dais. He came up to Kostas and grabbed his chin. ‘You had extensive contacts with Papadhopoulos and his gang of fools, of course. They provided you with numerous business opportunities and you weren’t shy to bolster their bank accounts and property portfolios.’
‘So?’ Kostas said, his eyes blazing.
‘You met the torturer in question and used him on some of the people that got in your way – union representatives, whistleblowers, even, I understand, a mistress whose mouth was bigger than was good for her. I have just one question. What was the individual in question known as?’
Sweat poured down Kostas’s face, but still the grip on his chin tightened like a vice.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t make that out.’
‘The … the Father,’ Kostas gasped.
‘That’s right.’ The man let go and stepped to the side. ‘And he was the designer of the method illustrated on the wall, correct?’
‘Yes,’ Kostas said weakly.
‘Which involves?’
‘Fish … fish hooks and … and lines.’
‘Correct. You’ll be glad to hear that the Father didn’t have your constitution and has been walking the realm of the shades for some years now.’
‘Good,’ muttered Kostas.
‘But never fear. Or rather, always fear.’ The man pulled off his balaclava, revealing a thin face and crew-cut hair. His eyes were closer to black than dark brown. ‘I am the Son.’
Kostas Gatsos closed his eyes. He knew that nothing would save him from the offspring of the persecutor he had paid so well.
Mavros, the Fat Man and Marianthi had finished eating when the call came.
‘Evi and I, her mother and Dinos have all received them. It’s disgusting, you have to do something …’
‘Slow down, Louka, what’s happened?’
‘Nails, my grandfather’s nails. Two each. What shall we do?’
‘How do you know they’re the old man’s?’
‘I … whose else would they be?’
‘It could be a hoax. Contact Brigadier Kriaras and ask him to send them for DNA testing as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll do that. But they must be his, surely.’
‘Let’s hold off on that. How did they arrive?’
‘By courier. We all got them in the last half-hour with personal signature required. I called my mother in Paris and my sister in New York. They didn’t get anything.’
‘Kriaras’s people will follow up the courier angle – give them the documents and wrapping when they pick up the nails. Wear gloves.’
‘Right. God, Alex, it was disgusting … dried blood and … they’re crushed at the ends, I guess from pliers or something similar … it must have hurt him terribly.’
For the first time Mavros heard something approaching empathy from Kostas Gatsos’s grandson. That angered him, but not as much as Kriaras’s botched raid on the Gogol brothers’ club. He was sure there was a connection. He assured Loukas he’d be at the office as soon as he could.
‘There’s something else,’ the young man said. ‘Evi’s father. He went out last night to meet some friends and he hasn’t come back.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Apparently so. He always returns by dawn.’
‘Tell Kriaras about that too.’ Mavros rang off and filled Yiorgos in on what had happened.
‘We got too close?’
‘We may have nudged the kidnappers into action, or rather Kriaras has. Come on, we need to get down to Phalero.’
‘More kilometres for you, Marianthi,’ the Fat Man said.
She smiled. ‘I could get to like you even more than I do already.’
‘Same here.’
Mavros batted the back of Yiorgos’s head and called Dinos.
‘I hear something nasty was delivered.’
‘I almost threw up.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘Went back to bed.’
‘All right, we’ll pick you up in about 20 minutes. Bring the nails and the packaging with you. Pick them up with a plastic bag on your hand and put them into another one.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do as I say. Come down when I ring the bell.’
Mavros then called Eirini Myroni. ‘About the nails.’
‘Oh, God. Loukas told me to wait for the police to pick them and the package up.’
‘Good. To clarify, there was a package for you alone?’
‘Yes. My poor father. Bloody sadists.’
‘We’re dealing with professionals.’
‘Have you heard my husband’s gone missing?’
‘You’ve no idea where he might be?’
‘Asleep after some all-night poker game, probably. Though he makes a rule of coming home.’
‘Talk to the police when they come – they’ve been advised.’ Mavros cut the connection.
A few minutes later his mother called.
‘Hello, dear. How are you?’
‘Fine.’ Mavros always tried to retain a degree of calm with Dorothy. ‘You?’
‘All right. You might like to know that a courier delivered a package for you about half-an-hour ago.’
‘Jesus. What size and shape is it?’
‘It’s in a padded envelope but I can feel a small box inside. It’s not a bomb, is it?’
Since the threat of the Son years ago, Mavros’s family had lived too close to potential danger.
‘No, I don’t think so, but stay away from it all the same.’ He had a thought. ‘Didn’t the courier ask for a personal signature?’
‘He did, but I forged it.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t want him coming back later. I’ve got work to do.’
‘I’ve never known you do anything like that.’
‘Shows how little you know me, dear.’
‘All right, I’ll be round shortly.’ He rang off. ‘Fuck!’
Marianthi glanced at him in the mirror. ‘That’s hardly feasible now.’
‘I don’t know,’ said the Fat Man.
‘Shut up! Something’s been couriered to me at the old dear’s.’
‘Ah,’ Yiorgos said, his grin disappearing.
Mavros called Loukas and asked him to tell the police that he was bringing Dinos and his package. He didn’t mention his own delivery. It was conceivable it wasn’t related to the case.
Dinos appeared with a supermarket carrier bag, his face grey.
‘This isn’t my idea of Christmas,’ he said.
‘You want to complain,’ said Mavros. ‘At least you’ve opened yours.’
It was only a couple of minutes to his mother’s. He ran up the stairs and waited to be let in. Dorothy pointed to the package in the corner. Mavros went into the kitchen and picked up a plastic bag and a pair of latex gloves.
‘See you later,’ he said, kissing his mother on the cheek.
‘Is everything all right, dear. You seem a bit—’
He was out of the door before she finished. When he got to the stairwell, he pulled on the gloves and opened the envelope, which had only a standard shipping no
te on it, the sender’s name Ioannidhis – hardly uncommon, but it was also the name of the most hard line member of the military junta from 1967-74. Was that significant? He took out his penknife and ran it along the tape that secured the cardboard box. It was from a cake shop with numerous branches. Mavros knew full well he should have taken it to police HQ and had it X-rayed, but he didn’t think it was dangerous.
He tugged open the box, his breathing rapid. A bundle wrapped in paper napkins. He pulled them apart and his head shot back.
The human ear was damp, having presumably been frozen. It looked like a blue and red bird that had crumpled up and died. A pair of damaged fingernails lay alongside it.
The plane crossed over southern Evia and then there was only the Aegean below, the pale blue dotted by white. Jim Thomson looked down and shivered. There it was, the element that had almost done for him all those years ago; the blood-chilling, heart-stopping sea that he had ridden to Ikaria and Marigo. But now he was headed west rather than southwest. His wife’s bones would have long since been exhumed and placed in a tin box in the ossuary.
As the aircraft started to lose height, he took in Lesvos to the left. There were a couple of large, narrow-necked bays and in the far distance a mountain massif. Lepetymnos was its name, according to the guidebook he’d picked up at the airport. The wind buffeted the plane as it turned north for the final approach. As they got lower, Jim saw that the coast was fringed by white, as if the island had put on lace for the arrival of Ivy’s ashes. The urn was in bubble-wrap in his suitcase. It struck him that he would soon have to make his last farewells to the woman who had loved him and whom he had cherished – though his ability to love had never fully recovered from what had been done to him by the torturers. He had a girlfriend back then, her name escaped him. Was she still alive? Did she ever think of him? He had blocked her from his memory and the thought of the pain he must have caused by disappearing made him bow his head.
He had hired a car online and found the small blue Citroen in the airport car park. His intention was to spend the night in Mytiline, the capital, before driving to the place where Ivy’s family had come from. Across the water to the east was the dim outline of the Turkish coast. He had been to the country several times on the ships and found the people welcoming, even in the harbour dives. The music sounded too much like that in Greece for comfort and he confined himself to eating places that echoed only to the sound of customers’ voices. Turkey had its own problems with military governments and the mistreatment of political prisoners, but he’d never allowed himself to think about that. Politics had meant nothing to him from the moment he hit the White Sea.
The White Sea Page 18
