The Black Life

by Paul Johnston

  ‘I … aaaah! Maybe … maybe Israelis …’

  The Russian laughed. ‘You think Mossad come to Thessaloniki? You have the dreams of a madman.’

  ‘Whoever … whoever it was … made fools out of you. Aaaah!’

  ‘How you learn that?’

  ‘Senior … senior police. Tasers …’

  ‘Mossad kill us, not use Tasers, fool. Last chance. Who did it?’

  ‘I don’t … honestly … I don’t … know.’

  ‘What do you think, Sergei?’

  ‘Judging from the stink, he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Nazi shits himself. Most unusual. So, we move to next stage.’

  ‘What … what’s that?’ said Kalogirou.

  The man with the knife looked at the portrait of Hitler. ‘I take it you like swastikas.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Yes or no?’ the Russian yelled.

  ‘Ye … yes.’

  ‘Good. How many would you like?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Three, I think. Forehead and both cheeks. Hold him down, Sergei.’

  He went to work with the combat knife.

  Mavros had been in the back of the van with Yosif for a long time. Initially it had moved around, stopping and starting as if rounds were being made. For some time it had been stationary.

  ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Aid and abet a murderer.’

  ‘You heard his story. There are things that cannot be allowed to happen unavenged.’

  ‘Sixty years have passed. Eventually the world has to move on.’

  Yosif gave him a sharp look. ‘The world moved on many years ago. That’s the problem. In Germany, by the mid-50s former Nazis were back in their jobs as judges, teachers, businessmen … And look what’s been happening in Austria with the far right.’

  ‘None of that justifies murder. Your father is no better than the people he’s persecuted. But you and your brother, you’re still young. You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘He hasn’t indoctrinated us, if that’s what you’re implying. We made our choices freely and we can stop any time.’

  ‘So stop now. He has a death wish, I can see it in his eyes.’

  Yosif laughed. ‘You have experience of death wishes, no doubt.’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes. But I sometimes think this whole country has a collective death wish, letting politicians do what they want in the mistaken belief that selling their votes will benefit them in the long run, maxing out half a dozen credit cards, destroying the environment …’

  ‘I’m not letting my father down and neither will Isaak.’

  Mavros picked up the flicker of doubt.

  ‘What happened to Baruh Natzari?’

  ‘You saw him. He hanged himself.’

  ‘But why? What did Isaak say to him in the taverna?’

  ‘Nothing. At least, nothing that would have driven him to that.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Who cares what you believe?’ Yosif paused. ‘Isaak told me he thought Baruh was only just holding on psychologically.’

  Mavros thought back to the meeting he and Rachel had with the old man. If anything, he’d been agile, both mentally and physically.

  ‘Isaak must have said something that got to him.’

  Yosif shrugged. ‘He told him that my father was back and wanted him to take part in one last operation.’

  ‘But no one is to be killed.’

  ‘He was told that. He was shocked and thought the old man had gone soft.’

  ‘So you’re saying Baruh committed suicide because he was disillusioned by your father?’

  ‘Maybe everything got too much for him. He was an Auschwitz survivor, after all, and many of them kill themselves sooner or later.’

  Mavros sat back and looked at the American. They were both wearing Greek police uniforms. He felt like a traitor to his father and brother when he’d put the dark blue dress uniform on, but he didn’t have much choice. The plan outlined to him by Aron Samuel was non-violent and their holsters contained fake pistols. But what if he’d been tricked and only his was a toy?

  The engine started and the van moved off. Yosif was checking his uniform. It looked like zero hour was imminent.

  Rachel and Dan had left the hotel separately, having gone over the details of their mission for the last time. The Town Hall was nearby, but she would not approach it until a few minutes before the group of VIPs came out to face the press. Dan had reconnoitred his position earlier. It was still unoccupied; if that was no longer the case, he was perfectly capable of overcoming any resistance.

  She walked down to the seafront and looked out across the water. There were several ships at anchor, one of them a rusty old freighter. She found herself thinking of her family – her father would have been smuggled out of Greece on a ship like that; Aron had no doubt made many trips by sea over the years. Would she really see him at last today? Control was certain he and his sons would be at the press conference outside the Town Hall, without stating their source. Could one of her cousins be a traitor? But who was he betraying? A man who had murdered more people than all but the most psychotic Nazis. The time for revenge was long gone.

  As for their target, she had no qualms. The man was a disgrace to humankind and his death would do only good. The people he funded had killed women and children in Afghanistan, Iraq and Yemen. Then it struck her that she was thinking like her great-uncle. Enemies had to be struck down – there could be no middle way, no attempt at reconciliation or understanding. She shivered as the north wind blew past her and over the choppy water. What was the name Mavros had told her? And where was the missing-persons specialist? She couldn’t help thinking that he would have a part to play in the denouement.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a large man, in execrable English. ‘I am Yiorgos Pandazopoulos. You are Rachel, yes?’

  She stared at him in amazement, not just because of his corpulent form. ‘How did you find me?’

  He held up printed sheets, some with her photograph on them.

  ‘Internet. You know where is Alex?’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘Somebody took him.’

  ‘This I understand for myself. Who?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  The Fat Man moved with surprising speed, securing a handcuff to her wrist. The other was on one of his. ‘We find out together, yes?’

  Rachel looked around, considering her options. Despite the presence of several people, she could shoot Mavros’s partner, not necessarily fatally, retrieve the key and run for it.

  ‘See,’ he said, tossing a small key into the water when she turned to him. ‘Other one not here.’

  Rachel swore in several languages, which made her captor laugh heartily.

  Yiota Kalogirou came round and scrambled to her feet, reaching out for the wall. She pulled off her gag and called her husband’s name, at first in a low voice and then in a scream.

  ‘Here,’ he said. It sounded like he’d spat at her.

  She tumbled into his office, clutching her shattered nose, and shrieked. Makis was tied to a chair, a curtain of blood covering his face.

  ‘What … what have they done … to you?’ Yiota said, extending a hand.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ he squealed.

  She went closer, smelling the voiding of his bowels, and stared at him. Beneath the blood she could see the angular shapes that had been cut into his skin.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered.

  ‘There is … no God,’ he hissed. ‘Only the Führer. I bear his mark with pride.’

  Despite her broken nose and searing headache, Yiota Kalogirou laughed. Only a madman could rejoice in the carnage that had been wrought on his face. She had just seen the light.

  FORTY-ONE

  Dan looked down from the fifth-floor window in the block opposite the Town Hall. The shutters were closed, but he had removed two of the slats and
could see clearly. It was a curious building to house the city’s administration, a great block on Venizelou Street that had apparently originally been built as a hotel and was still known as the Karavan Saraï. Next to it was the Hamza Bey mosque, dating from the fifteenth century but more recently a cinema. The grey dome and dirty red tiles surmounted a building in serious need of reconstruction. Still, it gave the scene a Middle Eastern feel that southern Greek cities didn’t possess. That was appropriate, considering what he was about to do.

  He wondered if he’d get the shot. The police had already blocked off the road and there were many of them present, including some from the riot squad. So far no demonstrators had turned up. Dan couldn’t see why they would. The agreement would bring much-needed investment to the city and region. No one seemed to care that the consortium was primarily German – the Second World War was ancient history as far as the Greeks were concerned, even though the city had suffered during the Axis occupation. As for funding from a Muslim state in the Persian Gulf, people were unconcerned. That would soon change.

  Dan looked at the watch he had set up next to the SR-99 sniper’s rifle. The Israel Military Industries weapon wasn’t his favourite, but it was perfectly serviceable. It also had specific relevance to this mission, including the part Rachel wasn’t aware of. It wasn’t time for her to arrive, so he wasn’t concerned by her absence. She was very precise about everything. He wondered how she would react when he carried out the secret order. Practically, it made no difference as their exit routes were different, but for an instant he felt sorry for her.

  People started moving across the space between the barriers, many of them festooned with TV cameras and concomitant equipment. More police had arrived too, including a pair of officers in full-dress uniform that he recognised. So that was how they were gaining access. Good thinking. But where were the other two? He panned around with the scope. No sign of them. Had they hidden inside the Town Hall earlier? That could make the scenario even more interesting.

  Dan started to inhale deeply. He’d carried out the routine so often that it was almost second nature, but he made sure he never got complacent. It was easy, as the execution of Tareq Momani had been. Think of your sister, she who died in the bus bomb. Think of your brother, he who was killed on the Lebanon border. Strike to avenge them. Strike again and again.

  ‘I have to go to the toilet,’ Rachel said.

  The Fat Man grunted. ‘Old … how say … trick?’

  ‘It may be old, but I’m desperate. I’m going back to the hotel. Or do you want me to start screaming?’

  ‘Do it and I stand on your toes.’

  She tried to pull away.

  ‘Exact. You not walking for many months. All right, lead way.’

  They barrelled into the lobby of the Electra Palace like a pair of extremely ill-matched lovers holding hands.

  ‘You’ll have to let me go,’ Rachel whined. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘No key.’

  ‘Of course you have a key. What were you going to do when we’re finished? Tear the cuffs off with your bare hands?’

  ‘Could do.’

  She groaned. ‘Please.’

  Yiorgos walked her over to the toilets, then took a key from his shoe and freed her. ‘Two minutes then I coming in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, moving quickly away.

  Two minutes passed. The Fat Man shook his head and walked into the Ladies, provoking a squeak from an elderly woman with blue hair on her way out.

  ‘Where you?’ he shouted, looking below the cubicle doors.

  ‘Here,’ Rachel said, bringing down her right hand in a rabbit punch that she only slightly pulled. Yiorgos collapsed like a bull stunned by a bolt gun. She turned and left, briefly hoping he wasn’t too badly injured.

  On the walk to the Town Hall, she took the foreign press ID from her pocket and hung it round her neck. Her weapons were in her bra, which was a larger size than she usually wore. Men on the street looked at her differently.

  ‘Le Figaro,’ she said to the policeman at the barrier by the old mosque. Control had checked that the French paper wasn’t sending a reporter. It was late afternoon now and the streetlights were coming on. There were extra lights around the platform where the VIPs would appear, as well as a lectern bearing the logos of Thessaloniki and the Development Ministry in Greek and English.

  Edging her way through the journalists, she got to the front, only a couple of metres from the lectern. It was amazing what a smile and a large bosom could do. Then she started to look around. Was her great-uncle here? Control had assumed that the combined presence of Germans, some of whom had Nazi forebears, and Greeks with collaborators in their families would be too tempting for him to miss. She shared that opinion, but she had seen no sign of either him or his sons. Their disguise must be effective – unless they were going for long shots like Dan. She glanced up at the building on the other side of the road. The balconies were all devoid of people because of the early evening chill. Then again, a decent sniper would be concealed. She wasn’t convinced. In all the kills attributed to Aron Samuel, he got close to his victims. It was hard to see him changing his modus operandi so late in life.

  Then she saw a familiar face and blinked in astonishment.

  ‘Remember,’ Yosif said, ‘do nothing to disrupt proceedings and you’ll be home and free.’ He gave Mavros the eye. ‘Try to intervene and I’ll cut your liver out.’ He pointed to the haft of the knife in his belt under the uniform jacket.

  ‘All right. But if anything happens that I haven’t been told about, my agreement with your father is null and void.’

  The van stopped and the front door slammed shut.

  Yosif went to the rear doors. He motioned Mavros towards him and put on his own police cap, before winding the investigator’s long hair up and jamming the hat over it.

  ‘Pity you didn’t have a shave this morning.’

  ‘Your fault.’

  ‘It’s not important. Nobody will be paying attention to us.’

  He opened the doors and they got down. They were outside the mosque, the Town Hall visible behind. The driver had already disappeared.

  ‘Come on,’ Yosif said. ‘I’ll be one step behind you.’

  Mavros headed for the end of the barrier. There was a plastic name tag – Athanasopoulos – on his right breast pocket. He wondered if it would get him through. He could raise the alarm, but he was sure Yosif would carry out his threat. His eyes weren’t as dead as his father’s, but they would be soon.

  The officer at the barrier waved them past and they walked at regular pace to the platform, as Mavros had been told they would do earlier. The air was full of the gossip and laughter of media people, a cloud of cigarette smoke rising in the lights. Mavros suddenly thought of the last remains of the death-camp victims as they blew away in black clouds. It was then that Aron Samuel’s plan made complete sense. He almost wished he had a functioning pistol.

  The main doors of the Town Hall opened and security men came out, their eyes studying the crowd. Then the Development Minister, the Mayor and the Minister of Macedonia and Thrace came forward, a group of business people behind them. In the middle of that, surrounded by men who were considerably taller than him, walked a man in Arab costume, his white robe reaching what looked like very expensive black shoes, and a red and gold turban on his head.

  Yosif nudged him and climbed up on to the platform, nudging officers of lower rank aside. None of them objected. They were on the right of the lectern, only a few metres from the Development Minister, who had started to speak.

  Then Mavros saw Rachel. She was right below the platform, with an identification tag round her neck. It was resting on her chest, which was larger than it had been when he’d last seen her. She was staring at him, in control as ever, but clearly puzzled. He moved his eyes to the speaker and waited.

  The Development Minister, a relative of the Prime Minister, was extolling the virtues of northern Greece, in particular M
acedonia, whose name the neighbouring country had no right to use. He gave thanks to his colleagues, smiling crookedly at the Minister for Macedonia and Thrace. Mavros knew they hated each other and presumed the ceremony wasn’t taking place at the more imposing building that housed the other man’s ministry because he’d lost the power struggle. The Mayor seemed happy about that, smirking in the background. The speech droned on and the smiles of the foreign visitors became more forced, while the Greek businessmen, used to such affairs, stood to sullen attention. At last the minister finished and invited Dieter Jahnel, head of the investment consortium, to speak a few words.

  Clearly at ease, the German congratulated his hosts in unaccented English. He started to outline the virtues of the agreement but, as the first of the ash began to fall, he lost concentration.

  Mavros looked up. Aron Samuel’s plan was working like a Swiss clock, even though he wouldn’t approve of that simile.

  Then the banners unfurled from the balconies on the third floor of the Town Hall and mayhem duly broke out.

  Aron was on the third floor, looking at the sudden chaos below. It had been a masterstroke to involve the local anarchists in his plan. The young men had even washed their hair and cut off their beards so they would look like convincing cleaning staff, the real ones having been paid off. The women had baulked at the gaudy yellow coats, but had soon seen sense. This was going to be the most talked-about display of opposition to the government and big business in decades. They weren’t particularly interested in the story of Thessaloniki’s Jews – their older relatives had either kept silent or didn’t know about it – but they liked the idea of throwing ashes over the podium. The ashes themselves were a mixture of the residue of log fires and human remains that had been bought from a crematorium in Bulgaria. Aron wanted the VIPs to experience the real thing, at least in part.

  People started looking up as the flow of ash increased – there were anarchists up on the fourth floor too, with Isaak overseeing. They released the banners, which unrolled smoothly, their lower ends a couple of metres above the heads of those on the podium. There were five banners, each with a large colour image of the subject, their family background and crimes printed in large red letters below. The Development Minister’s father had made his fortune from former Jewish-owned leather factories bought cheaply; the Mayor’s grandfather had been a senior Thessaloniki police officer, who had enthusiastically taken part in the persecution of the Jews; the leader of the German consortium, Dieter Jahnel, had a grandfather in the Waffen-SS, who had killed many Greeks, including Jews; another of the German investors was related to Max Merten, the wartime civilian commandant of the city, whose arrest in the late 50s had caused an international scandal; and Makis Kalogirou, businessman and neo-Nazi, grandson of a collaborator and soon to be one of the recipients of the consortium’s largesse – though it appeared he wasn’t present.