The White Sea

by Paul Johnston

  ‘All right.’ Her hand disappeared beneath the table and squeezed his thigh. ‘But I need to show you something first.’ She got up, leaving a half-eaten roll, and walked elegantly to the staircase.

  ‘And I need to check if Loukas has sent back anything on the boat,’ Mavros said, leaving at speed.

  Laura’s door was ajar. He knocked and went in. She was naked on the bed, her skin glowing against the white sheet.

  ‘I’ve seen that before,’ he said, closing and locking the door, then struggling out of his trousers.

  ‘Not in daylight,’ she said, putting a hand between her legs.

  Their pleasure was quick and torrid, a need that both had to satisfy without delay.

  After catching his breath, Mavros booted up his laptop. There was a message from Loukas:

  Meltemi Rider 7 – Manhattan 66 model, built Gibraltar 2006, length 22.10 metres, breadth 5.20 m, draft 1.50 m, top speed 31 knots, sleeps eight comfortably, value around one million euros, chartered from August 1st to September 30th to company owned by Pyotr Alenov, suspected front man of Russian oligarch Sergei Potemkin, redelivered on latter date to Alimos marina. Potemkin has interests in Black Sea and global shipping and trade; he is also suspected of drug dealing by Interpol and Europol, but no charges have been brought. He is close to Russian leadership. Why interest in boat? Where are you?

  Mavros felt Laura’s warm breath on his shoulder.

  ‘Sergei Potemkin? I’ve met him. He’s a friend of Santiago’s. Kostas Gatsos knows him too. I’ve never heard of the other man.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Loukas probably had to pay a lot for the link to Potemkin. Oligarchs keep their operatives at arm’s length in public.’ Mavros sat back and ran his hand over his stubble.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m thinking about whether to tell Loukas we’re here. I think I will. There’s no point in lying to my—’ He broke off.

  Laura leaned closer. ‘Worrying if you can trust me? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’ She laughed softly. ‘Especially not Santiago.’

  ‘That would be a very bad idea. I’m now wondering if his playmate Igor Gogol is involved with this Potemkin as well.’

  ‘That might explain why Santiago has been so successful in persuading shareholders – he has the Russian’s capital behind him.’ She shivered. ‘Sergei Potemkin is a very cold man.’

  ‘Nice. If he had Kostas Gastos kidnapped, that would explain why there’s been no ransom demand.’

  Laura stepped away. ‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’

  ‘Every day that passes it becomes more likely.’

  ‘Poor Kostas. He wasn’t the monster people make him out to be. Well, not entirely.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Evi feels that way too, but not many others do.’

  Laura nodded. ‘She’s sweet, but there is fire in her.’

  Mavros replied to Loukas, saying that he was in Lesvos and would report back later in the day.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we’d better get going. What? Again?’

  They left after they’d briefly gone back to the Happy Isles where the ancient heroes took their post-mortem leisure, although there was no sign of the great Achilles.

  Lieutenant Haralambidhis and Sergeant Latsou were in a guest house a hundred metres down the cobbled track from the one Mavros and his group occupied. They had split up the previous evening, Elisavet watching the taverna from across the harbour while Babis kept an eye on the car Mavros had hired. They met up after the targets had returned to their guest house.

  ‘She fancies him,’ Elisavet said. ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘I wonder if they spent the night together,’ he said wistfully. ‘Unlike us.’ The sergeant had accepted the need for them to share a room, but had wrapped herself up in a sheet and gone straight to sleep.

  ‘What did you expect?’ she demanded. ‘You’re my senior officer.’

  ‘So what?’

  Elisavet Latsou sighed. ‘God, you’re thick, sir. Haven’t you noticed? I only have eyes for women.’

  Babis groaned. ‘Well, you’re on the right island.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, smiling. ‘Molyvos has quite a reputation.’

  They were sitting on the terrace, which provided a view up the road to the other guest house.

  ‘They’re not exactly making an early start,’ the sergeant said, adjusting her sunglasses.

  ‘Maybe they’re …’

  ‘Maybe. I think we should go and talk to Mr Gritsis. How do you know he didn’t tell Mavros more than he told our colleagues last month?’

  ‘Because he’s a slimebag. The local people told me he has a grudge against old Gatsos, but he hasn’t the wherewithal to do anything about it.’

  ‘We should grill him. Maybe he shot him and dumped his body in a sea cave.’

  ‘What, having also shot the guard and Pavlos Gatsos with his old pals wearing balaclavas? Not very likely.’

  ‘I still think he knows something.’ Elisavet Latsou watched as a white-haired man with a deeply lined face walked down the cobbles. ‘He was in the taverna last night. Do you think he made contact with Mavros?’

  ‘Do you want to grill him too?’ Babis asked ironically. ‘He’s a tourist, for God’s sake.’

  The sergeant watched the man with the damp shirt and trousers go by. ‘He omitted to take his clothes off when he had his morning swim,’ she said.

  ‘Forget him. There’s movement up there.’

  They watched the two couples emerge from the guest house’s gate.

  ‘What do you think?’ Babis said. ‘Off to the villa?’

  ‘I wish I was a detective.’

  ‘That can be arranged. Or could have been.’

  They picked up their bags, put on the baseball caps they’d bought at Athens airport and headed out.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Marianthi followed the road round the eastern part of Molyvos, the Genoese castle rising above them like a stone wave, then drove towards Eftalou. Three kilometres later there was an imposing arch on the left. Police tape was wound through both halves of the steel gate, but there didn’t seem to be any locks or chains.

  ‘Surely it can’t have been left open,’ Laura said.

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Mavros said, getting out. ‘The local police would have been the last ones here. They probably assumed the family would send someone to lock up.’

  Laura had joined him at the side of the road. ‘It’s unlike Loukas to have forgotten such an important thing.’

  ‘He is running a multi-billion-dollar business.’

  ‘There is another possibility,’ the Fat Man said across the vehicle’s bonnet.

  ‘Someone’s broken in.’

  ‘Smartarse,’ he said, glowering at Mavros.

  ‘It isn’t hugely likely as a burglar wouldn’t bother to wind the tape between the bars so diligently.’

  ‘Not impossible,’ Yiorgos said grumpily.

  ‘True. You go first.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Your hands.’

  There was a box of rubber gloves in the boot. The Fat Man handed them around.

  Marianthi declined. ‘I’m not touching anything. I’m the driver, remember?’

  ‘Among other things,’ said Yiorgos, moving swiftly away. He started to undo the strips of blue-and-white tape. Mavros helped him and soon the gate was clear.

  ‘Here goes,’ the Fat Man said and put his shoulder to the left side.

  It opened without difficulty. Mavros did the same with the other half. They stepped through and looked down the long drive. It was lined with oleanders, alternately pink and white. There were taller trees, some of them palms, in the background. The driveway had been asphalted.

  ‘You get back in,’ Mavros said to the others. ‘I’ll close up and drape the tape around.’

  Marianthi drove through, waited for Laura and Yiorgos to get in and then floored the accelerator.

  ‘Hey!’ Mavro
s shouted.

  The brakes were applied heavily, then the 4x4 reversed towards him.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said.

  ‘It was his idea,’ the driver said, angling her head towards the Fat Man.

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘He has a mental age of nine,’ Marianthi said. ‘It’s sad.’

  Laura was still laughing.

  ‘Can we get on, please?’ Mavros said testily.

  They passed flower beds and a wide lawn, before the house came into view. The architect had clearly been given a free hand.

  ‘Corbusier meets Frank Lloyd Wright,’ Laura said. ‘That’s what Kostas told me.’

  ‘I’ve seen more attractive bus stations,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Whoah!’

  Marianthi braked hard, stopping a few centimetres in front of a bearded old man holding a garden fork towards them as if it were a weapon. It is a weapon, Mavros thought.

  ‘Who are you?’ the local demanded. ‘Arsehole press?’

  Mavros got out but kept his distance. He identified himself and explained that he worked for the family.

  ‘Yeia sas,’ Laura said, smiling at the old man.

  ‘Ach, Kyria Laura,’ he said, launching into a string of Greek.

  ‘He says he’s very pleased to see you again and he’s very sorry about what happened to Mr Kostas and if he’d been on duty that day he’d have sent the coward kidnappers on their way with spades up their … rear ends, and—’ Mavros held up a hand and asked the speaker to stop.

  ‘His name is Yannis,’ Laura said. ‘He showed me the flowers in the summer, not that I could understand their names.’

  ‘Yannis Kipouros,’ the old man said, hearing his first name. ‘And I don’t need any comments about my surname.’

  ‘Yannis the gardener, in name and deed,’ the Fat Man said.

  ‘I said, no comments!’

  ‘Kyrie Yanni,’ Mavros said, ‘did you know the main gate is unlocked?’

  ‘Since the guards left there are no keys. I’ve told the estate manager, but he’s in Athens now. I come in through a side gate – which I keep locked, understand?’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Mavros said emolliently. ‘Can you show us around the place? If you like, I can call Kyrios Loukas.’

  ‘Not necessary. Kyria Laura is all the authority I need. What do you want to see?’

  ‘Inside the villa. Do you have keys?’

  ‘Of course. I water the plants inside too. Follow me.’

  Marianthi stayed in the car while the others went up the wide marble steps to the main entrance. The doors were steel, the light streaming in through palm-sized pieces of diamond-shaped glass.

  ‘How did the kidnappers get in?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘From what I heard,’ said Yiannis, ‘one of the doors was left ajar. The police interviewed the staff and one of the maids admitted she’d been outside for a cigarette. I know her, Gogo, she’s a good girl. I don’t think she was lying.’

  ‘You don’t think she’d been bribed?’

  The old man turned to Mavros and thought about that. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t noticed her wearing expensive clothes or anything. This was where the guard was shot,’ he said, pointing to a red-black stain on the white marble floor. ‘I asked if I could clean it – none of the other staff will come in – but the police said no.’

  Mavros looked to both sides and then ahead to an ornate stone staircase.

  ‘Left to the library and sunroom,’ Laura said, ‘and right is the formal drawing room. But Kostas didn’t like this floor. He spent all his time on the first and second levels.’

  ‘Notice anything different?’

  She turned her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘What’s upstairs?’

  ‘Bedrooms on the next floor, and on the top the dining room and terrace. We usually ate outside in the evenings. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Did Kyrios Kostas sleep on this floor?’ Mavros asked Yiannis.

  ‘No, he had the only bedroom up top.’

  ‘Take us there, please.’

  The old man hesitated. ‘I don’t know if the master would like that.’

  Mavros held out his phone. ‘Call Kyrios Loukas.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No, it’s all right. Kyria Laura knows the way. I have things to do.’

  ‘You’ve been in Kostas’s bedroom?’ Mavros asked, after the gardener had gone downstairs.

  She laughed. ‘He wasn’t shy about showing it off. He even told me some of the famous women he’d had in there. My lips are zipped.’

  He followed her through a partly open door. The room was huge, even the large bed dwarfed. The windows looked west and north, bougainvillea hanging from pergolas on the terrace.

  ‘What did he do in here? Hold a polo championship?’

  ‘More like show jumping,’ Laura said, pointing at the antique furniture that was dotted about.

  ‘I suppose you ride.’

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?’

  ‘Not even a motorbike.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing. You should come to Colombia. There are places you need a horse. Oh.’

  Mavros stepped closer. ‘What is it?’

  She pointed to a gilded escritoire against the wall to their right and went over.

  ‘There was a painting up here.’

  ‘I can see the outline.’

  ‘It was a naïf painting by a local, I forget his name …’

  ‘Theophilos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s well known. We passed the museum of his work near the airport.’

  Laura’s fingers were on her smart phone. ‘I thought I’d snapped it. Here it is.’

  She held up the device and Mavros took in a colourful landscape against which people were dancing. There was a large brown building in the rear, a tall chimney rising from its left side.

  ‘You know him?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not an art expert, but he’s the foremost Greek traditional painter. He died before the Second World War.’

  Laura was ahead of him. ‘Read this.’

  Mavros ran down the online encyclopedia page, which told him that Theophilos Hatzimichail or Kephalas had lived between 1870 and 1934, had been mocked for wearing the traditional kilt and had spent much of his life in Volos on the mainland. He worked for food and wine, and it was only after his death that his paintings ended up in the Louvre and other major galleries.

  ‘I took the photo because I liked the figures in old-fashioned costume,’ Laura said. ‘They reminded me of my own people in the mountains.’

  ‘Did the kidnappers take it?’ Mavros said. ‘And if so, why?’

  ‘Maybe we can help with that.’

  They turned quickly. Lieutenant Haralambidhis and Sergeant Latsou were standing a few metres inside the capacious room. The latter was taking a laptop from her backpack.

  ‘Have you been following us?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘Have you been crossing police tape without authority?’ was Babis’s riposte.

  ‘Here it is,’ the sergeant said. ‘The housekeeper stated that a Theophilos painting had been taken from the master bedroom. She definitely saw it the morning of the kidnap because she dusted the frame.’

  ‘I wondered when you were going to get your files on computer,’ Mavros said, though he was annoyed that he hadn’t noticed the report about the missing art work himself.

  ‘Laura Moreno,’ Babis said, nodding at the Colombian.

  ‘Impressive,’ Mavros said. ‘The airline manifest?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You’re the least convincing pair of tourists I’ve ever seen.’ Mavros looked away when he heard the Fat Man’s voice on the stairs. Shortly afterwards he and Marianthi appeared.

  ‘Great,’ said Yiorgos. ‘Undercover cops who wouldn’t fool a five-year-old.’

  The sergeant scowled but her superior ignored the gibe.

  ‘Can I see?’ he asked.

  Mavro
s nodded and Laura captured the image again.

  ‘I can’t make out the writing along the top.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Mavros. ‘Maybe there’s a photo shop in Molyvos that can blow it up.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ the lieutenant said.

  The group moved downstairs. As Mavros reached the 4x4 the old gardener came up to him, waving his arm.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘Someone was here yesterday.’

  Babis identified himself.

  ‘Haven’t found the master yet, have you?’ Yiannis said, spitting on the gravel.

  ‘Who did you see?’ the lieutenant said impassively.

  ‘A man with white hair. He swam round the wire and went up the stairs from the jetty. I was on the far side of the garden and he’d gone by the time I came across. I don’t think he took anything. Probably just a nosy bastard.’

  Elisavet looked meaningfully at Babis, while Mavros, Laura and the Fat Man watched.

  ‘We’ll follow you,’ Babis said.

  Mavros shrugged. ‘It’s a free country.’

  ‘Unless your name’s Kostas Gatsos,’ said Sergeant Latsou.

  Igor Gogol eased down the throttles of the speedboat as he approached the breakwater at Plomari on the southern coast of Lesvos. The town had a pleasing look, rising up a hill with trees covering the top. At this time of year it was settling down to the quiet days of winter, those who had work in the surviving distilleries and olive-presses thankful for their good fortune. Not that Igor cared. He had flown in on the early morning flight, his fake Greek ID card arousing no suspicions. The rental boat was perhaps a touch attention-seeking, but he had learned that it paid to impress the super-rich and Sergei Potemkin was in the premier league of oligarchs. He hoped he would finally get to meet him. Alenov was a fixer who didn’t like to get his hands dirty. That was why he’d hired the Greek psycho to run the kidnap. The Son scared even Igor.

  He saw one of the Russian’s hard men on the quay, or rather, one of the men who thought they were hard. Putting the engines in neutral, he tossed a mooring rope to the gorilla and completed the docking procedure.

  ‘The boss was expecting you by car, Gogol.’

  Igor seized his wrist and pulled him close. ‘As I’ll tell the Greek, you can never have too many modes of escape. Know what “mode” means?’