‘At the front.’
‘Let’s get clear of this fucking chaos,’ Nondas said, with an uncharacteristically nervous laugh. ‘There’s a bar called Pineapple on—’
‘I know it,’ Mavros interrupted. ‘I’m on my way.’
Bitsos was staring at him. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his journalist’s nose picking up the scent of a story.
Mavros told him, not mentioning Anna’s name. The crime reporter had no time for what he’d once called flatter-the-rich journalism.
‘Christ, you had relatives in there?’ Bitsos chewed his lower lip. ‘I’d better stay here in the hope that they eventually let me through, but can I ring them later? Get their story?’
‘I’ll give them your number,’ Mavros said, certain that Anna would be writing her own story about the evening’s main event and that Nondas would be under orders to keep quiet until it was published.
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘Lambi?’ Mavros said, looking round and drawing closer. This wasn’t the time or the place to consult the reporter about Iason Kolettis, but he wanted to put down a marker for the future. ‘I might have something hot for you,’ he said. ‘Stand by for my call.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Bitsos said, his eyes fixed on the scene behind the riot policeman. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’
Mavros turned to go, then stopped abruptly. He had caught sight of two people he knew. The first was the Greek police commander Nikos Kriaras, his expression even more guarded than usual, stepping out of an unmarked car with a tall man in a well-cut dark blue suit. His appearance at the concert hall struck Mavros as strange—Kriaras was a senior administrator, not an operational-unit leader. He watched as the policeman went up the steps to meet the uniformed officer in charge. Mavros struggled to identify Kriaras’s companion and finally put a name to the impassive face. His name was Peter Jaeger and he worked at the American embassy. It was the fair hair plastered down over the scalp that did it—when they’d been introduced to each other at a Christmas party, Mavros had immediately got the impression that the guy was trying hard to make himself look like a diplomat. He joined the police commanders and immediately fell into animated conversation.
Lambis Bitsos was watching the men avidly. ‘So much for progress,’ he said in a low voice, nodding towards the high fence that surrounded the U.S. embassy further down the road. ‘Who says their influence receded after the end of the dictatorship?’
Mavros shrugged. ‘You can’t blame them for being concerned about the security implications.’ Then he focused on the crowd behind the car that Kriaras and Jaeger had arrived in, having caught a glimpse of another person he recognised behind the barrier. Her eyes were fixed on the tableau before her, upper body sheathed in her denim jacket and hair now tied back, but Grace Helmer was as striking as ever. Why was she rubbernecking outside the concert hall with what looked like great interest?
Mavros’s face was creased in thought as he went to meet the survivors.
In the house above the plain of Argos in the north-eastern Peloponnese, Veta Palaiologou had been watching a TV debate in which one of her party’s more right-wing spokesmen was relentlessly mauled by a young presenter out to make his mark. She was about to turn it off and go to bed with the shipping newspapers when the emergency bulletin cut in. She watched it with her heart in her mouth, certain that many people she knew would have been at the opening night of the opera. She would have been there herself if she hadn’t decided to take a few days away from the city in advance of the Christmas break.
Her husband appeared at the door of the expensively decorated saloni with a scowl on his face. He had been to dinner in the nearby town of Nafplion with a delegation of Ukrainian fruit importers. ‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ he said with a groan. ‘Those people only know one thing and that’s how to drink.’ He noticed that his wife was pressing buttons on the phone, her face tense. ‘What’s the matter?’
She raised a fleshy arm to the TV, the volume lowered so that she could make her calls. As she tried and failed to get in touch with people in Athens, Nikitas Palaiologos stared at the screen with his mouth open. He was still standing in the same position in the middle of the room when she put the phone down.
‘They’re all engaged,’ Veta said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. ‘Family and other friends trying to find out if they’re all right, I suppose.’
‘Bastard terrorists!’ Nikitas shouted. ‘Why can’t the useless wankers in the police catch them? Why do I pay my fucking taxes?’
Veta gave him a cold stare. ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t use that language. Besides, you employ a team of tax consultants to minimise the tax you pay.’
‘The tax we pay,’ her husband corrected. ‘What’s mine is yours, dearest.’ He finally snapped out of his frozen pose and stepped over to the drinks cabinet. ‘My God, this country is going to hell faster than a lift with a broken cable.’
Veta looked away from him. ‘I suppose we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It might not have been a bomb.’ She raised the volume and followed what the TV was showing. Over a sea of heads, people were coming out of the Megaro Mousikis, their arms supporting each other, their eyes jerking around nervously. ‘There’s Kostas and that wife of his. And there’s Ioanna. She looks all right.’
‘Is that a good thing?’ Nikitas said snidely, then emptied his glass.
‘Stop drinking,’ his wife ordered. ‘You’re no better than those Ukrainians you were complaining about.’
Nikitas Palaiologos went back to the well-stocked bar and lifted a bottle, then had second thoughts. ‘What am I supposed to do, Veta? The worst terrorists of all are back in action again, I’m sure of it.’ He started walking up and down the wide room, rubbing his hands together distractedly. ‘Don’t you remember what they did to their first victims? They cut their throats.’
‘Sit down, Nikita,’ Veta snapped. ‘I’m trying to watch the TV. Anyway, why are you so convinced that Iraklis is involved? Because your friend Vernardhakis was found with a piece of olivewood on his body?’
‘That,’ her husband said, running a hand over his bald patch, ‘and the fact that tycoons like him were exactly the targets the animals used to hit—money-making machines with all the trappings of capitalism.’ He gave her an anxious glance. ‘Don’t forget that I did a lot of business with him.’
‘So you think they’ll be after you next, do you?’ Veta asked scornfully. ‘When all’s said and done, you’re only a fruit and vegetable wholesaler, Nikita. Why would anyone bother to assassinate you?’
Nikitas’s look turned vicious. ‘I’m also married to a senior conservative politician who comes from one of the country’s leading shipping families. Fruit and vegetable wholesaler be damned. We make a tempting double target. You’d better remember that, Veta. If they come looking for me, they’ll take you out as well.’
Veta looked away from the screen. ‘And vice versa.’ Then she let her shoulders slacken. ‘All right, I’m sorry I said that about you. We have to stick together, don’t we?’ She gave her husband an encouraging smile.
‘I suppose so.’ He always came out on the losing side when his wife played tough because his bluster wasn’t backed up by any real strength of character. He knew well enough that she was the major player in their relationship.
Veta continued to follow the TV pictures, marking the appearance of friends and colleagues, as well as several opponents. She kept her eyes off her husband. He was weak, fearful at the first hint of trouble. What did he have to worry about? He had much less to lose than she did if the Iraklis group really was back on the scene.
And then she remembered the guests she was expecting in a couple of days. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said, ‘Anna and Nondas. They were going to Macbeth tonight, I’m sure she said so.’ She glanced back at Nikitas. ‘Have you seen them?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen them come out?’
Her husband was pulled out of his self-concern by her words. Nondas Chaniotakis w
as one of his financial advisers as well as a friend. The fears he and his colleagues, the businessmen of Greece, had buried for years were resurfacing. His father’s generation had saved the country from the threat of Communist-led mob rule, but now it seemed their bitterest enemy was back. Could it be that the grinding horror of the old wars had been in vain after all?
The Pineapple Bar in the backstreet on the slope above the concert hall acted as a magnet for people who had been forced to leave by the rear emergency exit. Its restricted inside space was full and the small terrace to the left was crowded despite the chill night air. Mavros fought his way to the bar and ordered a half-bottle of Metaxas. When he saw that the waiters had their hands full, he took it and three glasses to the corner that his sister and brother-in-law had occupied outside under a bougainvillea.
‘Thanks, Alex,’ Anna said, after she’d drained her glass. Her eyes were damp, but her make-up and her expensive outfit were largely unscathed. ‘I needed that.’
Nondas nodded to Mavros for a refill. ‘Well, that was a novel way to spend an evening.’ He put his arm round his wife’s waist.
Mavros wanted to find out what they’d seen, but there were family matters to finalise first. ‘You spoke to Mother?’ he asked.
‘She’s fine,’ his sister replied. ‘And so’s the babysitter. She told the kids not to worry.’
Nondas laughed. ‘Just as well you didn’t let her know what was going on, Alex. My niece is as skittish as it comes.’
‘It runs in your family,’ Mavros said drily. The Chaniotakis family was about as laid-back as it was possible to be in Greece.
‘Thanks for coming down, little brother,’ Anna said, blinking two or three times. ‘It was good to see a friendly face.’
‘No problem,’ Mavros said, feeling uncomfortable. It was rare for his sister to let the mask slip. ‘So what happened in there?’
Anna glanced around the covered terrace, lights from it shining on to the thick foliage of the small park’s evergreens, and shivered. ‘God, it’s good to be outside. That auditorium is a big enough space, but I felt like I couldn’t breathe as soon as the alarm went off.’
Mavros turned to Nondas. It seemed that his sister’s journalistic objectivity was still absent without leave. ‘Did you hear anything before the alarm?’ he asked his brother-in-law.
‘That was the funny thing,’ Nondas said. ‘We were in seats in the middle with some of my investment colleagues. I don’t know if you’ve been to the Megaro, the Friends of Music concert hall?’
‘Once, to see Theodhorakis, but I couldn’t afford the good seats.’
Nondas nodded. ‘The company paid for ours. From where we were I could see a lot of well-known people close by. Including Paschalis Stasinopoulos.’
‘The property mogul?’
‘Among other things,’ Anna put in. ‘Stock Exchange player, conservative party supporter, arms dealer—’
‘And all-round-shit,’ concluded Nondas.
‘He has a reputation for being dirty but untouchable because of his political contacts and his lawyers,’ said Mavros.
‘Had such a reputation,’ his brother-in-law corrected.
Mavros pricked up his ears. ‘What happened to him? Was he near the explosion?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Nondas said. ‘I happened to look in that direction a few moments before the bomb went off—I’m not much of an opera fan and the production wasn’t exactly captivating, all soldiers in pinstripe suits and witches in bikinis—and I saw Stasinopoulos put his hand in his inside jacket pocket. I don’t know, perhaps he was worried he’d dropped his wallet. Suddenly it looked like his upper body was too big for his clothes. Then there was a blast—Christ, you could hear it above the orchestra.’
‘It was a relatively quiet moment,’ Anna said. ‘Lady Macbeth trying to convince her man to do the deed.’
Mavros looked at each of them. Neither seemed keen to continue the story. ‘And then what? What did you see next?’
Anna raised her bony shoulders. ‘Me, nothing. Thank God. The people around Stasinopoulos leaped to their feet.’
‘Yes, you were lucky, all right,’ Nondas said ruefully. ‘I… I saw blood and pieces of him spray out. Then the alarms kicked in and people moved with amazing self-control towards the exits.’
‘Shit,’ Mavros said. ‘You’re sure it was a bomb rather than a gunshot? You didn’t see anyone with a weapon?’
Nondas shook his head.
‘I think the police will be wanting to talk to you,’ Mavros warned him.
‘I’ll call them tomorrow,’ Nondas said. ‘I can’t face them to—’ He broke off as his wife’s mobile went off.
‘Oh, yes, hello, Veta,’ Anna said. ‘No, don’t worry, we’re both fine.’ She looked at her husband, then at Mavros. ‘No, I don’t know what happened exactly. Look, can I call you tomorrow?… What?… Oh, I don’t know…. Yes, I imagine we’ll still be coming down. I’ll let you know…. Yes, all right, Veta.’ She twitched her head in annoyance. ‘Bye.’
‘Madame Dhragoumi-Palaiologou?’ Nondas said. ‘Worried that her Christmas plans are in jeopardy?’
Anna grimaced. ‘Honestly, she could have waited. You know what Veta’s like. Everything arranged to the last detail, no deviations allowed.’
Her husband squeezed her waist. ‘Don’t worry, my love. You’ll feel better in the morning.’ He laughed. ‘After you’ve filed your eyewitness report with the highest-paying newspaper.’
Anna jammed her elbow into his gut.
Mavros swallowed the last of the brandy. ‘I think it’s time for bed, children.’
The hit man waited in a darkened doorway down the street from the newspaper’s offices, his dark jacket, polo-neck sweater and jeans making him almost invisible. As planned, his return to the hotel had passed unnoticed, the beggar’s clothes dumped in a backstreet waste bin after he had left again. There were plenty of people around Omonia and he had merged into the crowds, though he had made sure no one saw him get rid of the unwanted garments. Now, in the deserted street west of the old parliament building, he was ready to make the drop. The sirens had faded into the night and he reckoned that things would have quietened down at the concert hall. It was time to tighten the screw again.
He raised his collar and wrapped a tartan scarf round the lower part of his face, then stepped noiselessly on to the pavement. There was a night-watchman in a booth inside the entrance to the country’s leading independent paper, but he was engrossed in a black-and-white film on a miniature TV. The envelope was in the post-box before the watchman was aware of any noise, the killer stepping out on his way to the next side street. He kept walking quickly for five minutes, his head bowed, then turned without warning into another doorway. Apart from a pair of entwined lovers weaving up the pavement and the blur of taxis taking advantage of the sparser late-night traffic to speed up the central avenues, he was on his own. The mission had been accomplished without any hitches.
The woman he picked up in a bar off Omonia Square was Russian, that much he could tell from her accent. She was surprised when he answered in her own language. It was years since he’d spoken it, though he’d heard it in the street markets in New York. He was a young man when he had learned the alphabet and taken his first stumbling steps in the tongue of the Party’s wise men. By the time he’d finished the training course and been given his first posting, he was able to strike up conversation with a pretty girl on the bus in Moscow, and able to talk his way into her narrow bed in the tiny apartment in the frozen suburb. The girl’s face swam up before him for a few seconds, then was replaced by the haggard features of the woman next to him now, her platinum hair dark at the roots and her lips bruised.
‘Turn round,’ he ordered, unable to look at her any longer. He glanced around the shabby room she’d taken him to, the walls peeling and undecorated apart from a single faded photograph of a featureless town. The woman’s life was even emptier than his, he realised, his erection gone.
; ‘Forget it,’ he said, stepping back.
The woman stood up, keeping her back to him. ‘You don’t like me?’ she asked, in a defeated tone.
He extended a hand but withdrew it before he made contact with her ashen skin. In the past he’d always needed a woman after a job. He needed to lose himself, even if only for a few seconds. But he had failed with the Filipina he’d gone with after the Vernardhakis hit and now he’d failed again. He gave her a wad of notes and waved away her smile of gratitude, but it was too late. The woman whose name he couldn’t say was suddenly in front of him, blocking out the Russian. He blinked hard and left the room quickly, sweat on his forehead. She was haunting him, had done so ever since he’d first laid eyes on her at the embassy reception over a quarter of a century ago. She would have his soul before he could finish the labours.
Back in the hotel room, he stripped off his clothes and stood under the shower, having opened the cold tap as far as it would go. Then he towelled himself down, turned on the television and emptied the single miniature of good whisky that he was allowing himself. The channels were full of garbled news reports, most showing harassed-looking reporters outside the police line at the concert hall—harassed because they had little to report, he soon gathered. The authorities had made no statement beyond confirming that an explosion had occurred in the buildings and that there had been a single unnamed fatal casualty. Either the target had found the extra pen in his pocket or the much-vaunted device had exploded early.
The killer lay down on the uncomfortable bed. He could break cover and head back to the flat, but the boss wouldn’t be pleased. Better to stick to the plan. Christ, the plan. What kind of chance were they taking? The government might fall, the country might be torn apart. Then he clenched his fists and got a grip on himself. No, the plan was good, even if his motivation was a lot more personal than the others’. The woman. It all came back to her. Trent Helmer’s beautiful, faithless wife. She had destroyed people’s lives without realising it; she was still destroying them years after her death. Christ, the power of the woman. It made his own power seem feeble and insignificant, even though he had wielded it mercilessly over his many victims.
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 12