The Black Life

by Paul Johnston

  ‘The rest of my clothes, not to mention my phone and wallet, are casualties of war. I tried to talk Kriaras into buying me a new outfit, but all he did was give me this jacket. Are you sure …’

  ‘I’m … fine.’

  ‘In that case, give me your phone.’

  ‘Pocket nearest you.’

  Mavros took out the device and pressed buttons.

  ‘Niki? I’m sorry I couldn’t talk much before. What is it? Don’t cry, my love. It’s true, what I told you. I’m on the way to the airport now. We’ll be back in a couple of hours. We? Yiorgos and I. Yes, he came to find me. Touching, don’t you think? Yes, I’ll call you when we land. Love you.’

  ‘Screw touching,’ the Fat Man said. ‘You’re paying me by the hour.’

  Mavros laughed, then called his mother to tell her he was fine. Half an hour later they were at the boarding gate, the pair of Thessaloniki cops waiting to see that they got on the plane. They were wasting their time. He’d had enough of the co-capital. He wanted to be back in Athens with Niki.

  Maria Orfanou was sitting on the sofa with her arm round Niki, who was crying.

  ‘Come on, darling. He’s on his way. The case is over.’ They had seen the TV news. Although Mavros’s name wasn’t mentioned, they were both sure he’d been involved in some way with the events at the Town Hall. ‘Cheer up, dearest. You might even get pregnant tonight.’

  Niki buried her face into her friend’s chest, then sat up. ‘I can’t … take it,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Alex disappearing all the time … running out on me … ignoring me.’

  Maria looked at her. ‘Niki, get a grip. I’m not Alex’s biggest admirer, but what you’re saying isn’t fair and you know it. It’s not as if he gets involved with other women or drinks or does drugs.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Maria groaned. ‘You’re not yourself. Go and have a shower and tidy up. Your man’s coming home. You know he loves you.’

  Niki wiped her face with her sleeve. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Get in the shower,’ Maria said firmly. ‘If he sees you like this, he really will hit the road.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Niki said, after a long pause. ‘He deserves to see me at my best.’

  Maria watched her walk away. Not for the first time, she thought her friend needed therapy from a psychiatrist rather than a fertility specialist.

  FORTY-THREE

  Mavros was at the window. The plane wasn’t full so there was a seat between him and the Fat Man who, unusually, had passed up the opportunity to buy food at the airport shop. His friend’s abdomen was giving the seat belt some trouble and his face was drenched in sweat as they took off.

  ‘You don’t look at all well.’

  ‘Another brilliant observation … from Greece’s foremost dick,’ Yiorgos wheezed.

  ‘Sorry I care.’ Mavros turned to the window and looked down. It was a clear night and the lights of the peninsula below shone brightly. He made out the road that led to Ayia Triadha and then the resort itself. That made him think of Baruh Natzari’s trip to the taverna there. The old man hadn’t struck him as a potential suicide, but Aron Samuel’s plan must have been the last straw.

  Then he had a flash of his brother – Andonis sprinting across the sand like a bronzed ancient athlete. The trip to Thessaloniki had brought him back more vividly than for some time. Was that good or bad? Mavros wasn’t sure.

  The Fat Man groaned as the aircraft hit turbulence off the eastern flank of Mount Olympus. Mavros didn’t like the look of him at all – his face was sallow under the runnels of sweat and one hand was supporting his head as if it might roll off. He would have said something, but he didn’t want to be snapped at again.

  Besides, he was still trying to tie together elements of the case. Aron Samuel had devoted several hours to telling his story. Why was that? Did he want Mavros to get it out to the world? Surely that was his sons’ job. Then again, he might have been concerned that they wouldn’t live long enough to do so. Would they carry on with Aron’s work? Mavros hoped not. He wasn’t going to put any more of the old man’s story into the statement Kriaras would take from him in Athens. That meant Yosif and Isaak would be in the clear at least as regards earlier executions – though the CIA might well have them in their sights. If the sheik had been funding terrorists, his assassination was understandable enough. But what about Aron’s? Had the Americans finally had enough of the old man’s renegade actions? They’d agreed to give him citizenship back in the 50s. Perhaps they’d only recently discovered his links with the Communists.

  Then Mavros thought of Rachel. She’d been betrayed by her controllers, whichever agency she was working for. He wondered if she would leave, or even go after Dan. She was a strange woman and he had never succeeded in breaking her armoured carapace. Maybe Kriaras had been right – maybe she and Dan were working for Mossad all along. The world of espionage didn’t provide easy answers, only shadows, mirrors and stabbings in the back. Who had cut Makis Kalogirou’s face? Was that Dan? Could it have been Rachel? Or maybe there really were other players. It was hard to believe the Russians were involved too, but anything was possible – especially in the city that had once been the melting-pot of the Balkans.

  He sat back as the plane began its approach to Athens airport. Aron Samuel. He hadn’t always lived the black life, but he had been swallowed up by it far too young. Who could say how they themselves would react in similar circumstances? Except that wasn’t right. The overwhelming majority of death-camp survivors lived ordinary, if troubled, lives after liberation. And it wasn’t just the experience of the Sonderkommando; Samuel had become a killer even before he left his home city – the killer of another Jew. There was something harder than titanium in him. It had kept him alive, but had consumed his soul. Mavros remembered how he had no particular desire to meet his great-niece, and had never been in touch with his nephew. Still, despite all the horror Aron had been responsible for, Mavros couldn’t help respecting him. He had made a stand against an evil much greater than himself and refused to let it prevail. He had also brought the issue of collaboration, long dormant in Greece, to the fore, though that was a lesser achievement. There would be a period of recrimination and accusations, then the media that were controlled by the special interests would start to bury the story. At least the foreign press would have taken note. Aron Samuel’s last mission had not been in vain, even if the killing of the Arab would steal some of his glory. As for the investment consortium, how likely was it that its members – mostly German – would feel like going ahead after they’d been symbolically sprinkled by the ashes of their ancestors’ victims?

  Yiorgos clutched the arm rest with his free hand until the plane stopped taxiing. There was the usual stampede for the exit and they waited till it abated.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Mavros said, undoing his friend’s seat belt.

  The Fat Man looked up at him, eyes initially unfocused. Then he got up with difficulty and moved down the aisle. Mavros followed, asking for his phone as they went into the terminal.

  ‘Niki, we’ve landed. I’ll see you in about an hour.’

  ‘Alex, I’m so happy,’ she said. ‘Hurry back, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  ‘Is that right? It wouldn’t have anything to do with lingerie, would it?’

  ‘Might.’

  ‘Hold me back.’

  ‘I love you.’

  Mavros looked at Yiorgos, who was lumbering along, his breathing heavy.

  ‘Love you, too. Bye.’ He put the phone in his pocket and took the Fat Man’s arm. ‘You’d better sit down for a minute.’ He led him to a seat. ‘Why are you propping up your head? I don’t remember hearing that you’d injured it in the fire.’

  ‘I … didn’t.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘That bitch … client of yours. She … she hit me from behind.’

  ‘Rachel hit you?’ Mavros looked at the back of Yiorgo
s’s head. There was bruising below his neck.

  ‘I was trying … to get her … to find you.’ Then the Fat Man passed out and keeled over, nearly sending Mavros to the floor under him.

  ‘Help!’ He waved to a uniformed woman. ‘My friend’s in trouble.’

  The airport personnel were efficient and swift – it was run by a German company. Within a quarter of an hour, Mavros and Yiorgos were in an ambulance, heading for the KAT hospital in the northern suburb of Kifissia. It was motorway all the way and the paramedics radioed ahead with a report on the patient’s condition. Emergency staff were waiting for the ambulance. A junior doctor took the Fat Man’s details from Mavros and pointed to the waiting area.

  In the rush it was an hour before Mavros remembered to call.

  ‘It’s all right, Alex, I understand,’ Niki said. ‘Take as long as you need. At least find out what they’re going to do for the lump of lard.’

  ‘Charming.’

  She laughed. ‘I won’t take off what I’m wearing till you arrive. But I’m going to bed now, all right?’

  ‘The very thought’s making me salivate.’

  ‘Careful, they’ll diagnose you with rabies.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m not rabid for you?’ He paused. ‘Niki, we will have a baby. I promise.’

  ‘Thank you, my love. But for that to happen, there’s something you have to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. Several times.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  ‘Kisses on the mouth and elsewhere.’

  Niki laughed as if all the cares had been lifted from her and vanished on the wind.

  It was after three when a white-coated doctor arrived and told Mavros not to worry. Yiorgos was stable, his neck in a brace. He’d been lucky. The strain of holding his head up had caused a hairline crack in his second cervical vertebra and could have led to permanent nerve damage, but they’d been able to pre-empt that. The patient would be on his back for some time. He was asleep, so Mavros could go.

  ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘Just for a few moments and don’t wake him.’

  Mavros had an ulterior motive, though the sight of the Fat Man in a large brace, his hands attached to the side of the bed, was disturbing. He opened the wardrobe and removed his friend’s wallet from his trouser pocket. Arriving home and having to ask Niki to pay the taxi would somewhat shatter the romantic dream. He touched Yiorgos’s hand lightly and left.

  In the taxi Mavros considered calling ahead, but decided to let Niki sleep. The roads were clear and he was on the slopes of Lykavittos forty minutes later.

  The politician’s guard was asleep in his box, not for the first time. Mavros considered banging on the glass, but couldn’t be bothered. If someone wanted to sneak in and hammer on the money-grabbing pig’s door, all the better. He was going to take the stairs, but his legs ached even from the three steps to the hall. Sleep deprivation was beginning to overwhelm the lengthy adrenaline rush that had kept him going. The lift smelled of perfume and cigar smoke.

  On the fifth floor, all was quiet. He tapped on the numerical pad outside their door, then inserted his key. It struck him the Niki might have put on the chain without thinking and he’d have to wake her anyway. Thankfully she hadn’t.

  The light was on in the living room. Maybe she was on the sofa under a blanket. Mavros took off the ill-fitting black shoes Aron Samuel’s sons had given him and padded inside.

  The first thing he saw as he went towards the end of the hall was a broken vase, roses spread around the pool of water like dead goldfish. Then he saw a chair from the dining table on its side.

  Acid gushing into his stomach, Mavros went on. He gasped and stepped towards Niki’s hanging form. She was in red and white underwear, her toes pointing to the floor. He wrapped his arms round her thighs and looked up. Her head was to the side, a large knot by her upper ear and the other end of the rope on the ceiling hook from which the lamp was suspended. He felt for a pulse in her wrist.

  Then he became aware that he was saying her name over and over. Leaving her for a few seconds he dragged the coffee table closer and stepped on to it. He held on to her, hand now touching her throat. The tip of her tongue extended from blue lips, drops of blood on her chin.

  Eventually, when the pain in his chest became too great, Mavros let his lover go and called the police. He wanted to cut her down, but the apartment was potentially a crime scene and he shouldn’t touch anything else. Then he saw a photograph on the floor by the chair. It showed him and Rachel at the restaurant in the Electra Palace, both of them laughing.

  Alex Mavros had stared into the abyss of the twentieth century’s greatest crime, without realising how great a price there would be to pay. He squatted in a corner and felt his life turn everlastingly, indelibly black.