The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller)

by Johnston, Paul

  Laskaris dragged himself to his knees, taking the key from his pocket with a shaking hand. With the last of his strength he turned it in the lock, then fell to the floor. As the light faded from him, he was vaguely aware of a heavy form bending over him, mouthing inaudible words. At least the captive would go free now; at least he would escape an unjust fate.

  The light was gone, the rush of air that was filling his ears had receded. Silence, cold stone all around. He was alone, as he had been after Iraklis had vanished from the cross. When he came round he and Comrade Stamatina had been taken by a fresh-faced Englishman with tortured eyes from the compound, then consigned to the prisons with thousands of other resistance fighters, thrown into the maelstrom of repression for years without word of the man they had loved and followed—but alive. Stamatina’s single scream from inside the blockhouse—as if she had awoken from a nightmare into a world that was even more horrific—had haunted him for years. Until she contacted him in the fifties during a brief spell of freedom and told him about her son, the son by Kapetan Iraklis who had been born in the prison camp and whom the Party had managed to spirit away to Kitta. Comrade Stamatina, her face marked and her eyes hard, rejoiced that the boy had a lifetime of struggle before him; she called on Laskaris for the sake of their lost kapetanios to watch over young Michalis until he had made his way in the Party. And he had done so, had kept the son’s identity secret, despite all the crimes that he went on to commit…

  Suddenly there was a host of empty war towers around him, their grey stone walls taking on a reddish hue as the last sun erupted across the gulf.

  Then a deeper silence took him down.

  Yiorgos Pandazopoulos, the Fat Man, stood outside the room where he’d been confined. Blinking away tears, he bent over the motionless body and closed the old poet’s eyes with his fleshy thumbs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SILENCE fell as the occupants of the drawing room took in the scene at the door. Then Veta Palaiologou moved forward slowly, blinking in time with each step. As she and the man close behind her came further in, Mavros realised there was another figure—one he couldn’t make out—bringing up the rear, a heavy revolver in his hand. But he had recognised the first armed man immediately: he was the one who had fired the shots to scare off Grace’s and his assailant near Babis Dhimitrakos’s village in the Mani.

  ‘Are they all here?’ the man in the scarf asked over his shoulder.

  The butler stepped up and ran his eye round the saloni. ‘Yes,’ he said with a nod, his voice low. ‘Those two are the latest arrivals.’ He pointed out Mavros and Grace.

  ‘He’s got a gun,’ Veta said, her voice hoarse. ‘He says he’ll kill me if anyone moves.’

  The man in the scarf moved his arm quickly round the politician’s neck, then held up a black automatic pistol. ‘In case anyone’s wondering,’ he said, almost apologetically, ‘I am Iraklis.’

  There was a series of gasps around the room, Mavros’s niece, Evridhiki, whimpering as she buried her head in Nondas’s chest.

  ‘Let my wife go,’ Nikitas Palaiologos demanded, his voice weak and his face ashen.

  ‘Certainly,’ the assassin said. ‘If you are prepared to come over here and take her place.’ The prisoner’s husband stayed where he was. ‘Rich and afraid. The combination has never been unusual.’ He glanced behind him. ‘Take their mobile phones. And make sure they aren’t concealing anything like Swiss Army knives or keys.’

  Loudhovikos the butler, the armed man behind him, moved around, feeling in pockets and on belts. Mavros, Nondas and Nikitas had phones, as did all the children, but the women—Flora, Anna, Dorothy and Grace—were not equipped. That didn’t stop him running his hands over the two younger women’s bodies.

  ‘You pathetic creep,’ Grace said, her eyes locked on the man as he dropped the phones into a plastic bag.

  ‘Sit down and be quiet,’ Iraklis said in English, staring at her. He nudged Veta forward and pushed her into an armchair, putting the muzzle of the automatic against her head. ‘I’m going to continue in English so that you understand what’s happening, Ms Helmer.’ His accent was American, the pronunciation precise.

  ‘Here are the phones,’ his accomplice said, brandishing the bag. ‘No weapons.’

  ‘Turn them all off,’ the assassin said. He looked around the company. ‘Be aware that shouting for help is useless. I have neutralised the alarm system and the security guards.’

  Nikitas translated the words to his children. ‘How did you do that?’ he demanded. ‘There are three of them, for Christ’s sake. And what happened to the dogs?’

  ‘Loudhovikos took care of them, and the chef. Your highly trained fools are currently locked in the cellar, having been relieved of their weapons and communication equipment. And the meat we gave the dogs will keep them asleep till morning.’

  ‘How did you disable the alarm system?’ Palaiologos asked.

  ‘That does not concern you.’ The terrorist put his hand inside his jacket and took out what looked like a pen. He looked around the occupants of the room again. ‘You,’ he said, pointing to Anna, ‘come here.’

  Mavros watched as his sister walked slowly towards the man with the gun, a disdainful expression on her face. He was hoping that she wouldn’t goad the assassin into violent action—she was certainly capable of it. Fortunately she caught Dorothy’s eye as she passed and held her tongue.

  ‘This is a highly sophisticated device,’ Iraklis said, giving his weapon to the butler and turning the casing of the silver tube carefully. He held it upright when he’d finished. ‘The security people downstairs are looking after one for me too.’

  ‘You used another to kill the entrepreneur Stasinopoulos at the concert hall in Athens, didn’t you?’ Mavros said.

  There was another shocked intake of breath around the saloni.

  Iraklis looked at him curiously. ‘That’s what you were meant to think, certainly.’

  Mavros tried to make sense of that. He took a step forward, stopping when the muzzle of the automatic turned towards him. ‘Leave my sister out of this,’ he said. ‘I’ll do whatever it is that you want.’

  The assassin studied him for a few moments. ‘Oh, you’ll do what I want, there’s no question about that, Alex Mavros. But I prefer someone without experience as an investigator to act as guarantor.’ He held out the metal object to Anna, taking care to keep it vertical. ‘Do not be deceived by its size. This device contains enough explosive to kill everyone in this room. It is equipped with a tilt fuse. All you have to do is hold it upright and nothing will happen.’ He ran his eyes round the room again. ‘I strongly recommend that no one does anything to distract our friend here.’

  ‘At least let my daughter sit down,’ Dorothy said, her voice cracking. Mavros watched as Grace touched his mother’s arm to comfort her.

  ‘It will concentrate her mind and everyone else’s if she remains standing.’ Iraklis waved his hand at Anna. ‘Go into the centre of the room,’ he added, watching as she backed slowly away. ‘Good. Stop there.’

  Silence fell again, broken only by swallowed sobs from Mavros’s niece.

  ‘All right,’ Mavros said. ‘You’ve got us where you want us. What next?’

  The assassin looked at him, his lips set in a tight line. ‘Indeed, Alex Mavros, what next?’ He took the automatic back from the butler. ‘The simple fact is that I have come here tonight to kill someone.’ He raised the weapon to Veta’s head again. ‘If you all keep quiet, I will explain why.’ He gave a vacant smile. ‘In fact, I will give the object of my attentions the opportunity to justify the crimes that were committed before I proceed.’ He raised his shoulders. ‘Let no one say that Iraklis kills indiscriminately.’

  The terrified expressions on most of the company’s faces suggested the assassin hadn’t come close to convincing them of that.

  ‘How long till we reach Tiryns?’ Peter Jaeger demanded from the wheel, his eyes on the tail lights of the car on the motorway ahead.r />
  ‘Um, I estimate thirty minutes,’ Jane Forster answered, her head bent over a map that she was lighting with a small torch.

  ‘You estimate?’ her superior said acidly.

  She glanced at him, taking in the sweat-drenched features that had turned green in the dashboard light. ‘Well, it’s difficult to be sure, sir. The highway leading from the motorway is single track. We might meet slow-moving traffic.’

  Jaeger grunted. ‘Still no contact with the local man?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He’s gone, definitely.’ He looked at a large sign. ‘Two kilometres to the exit. Let’s just hope that Finn is on top of his game.’

  ‘Shall I call him to confirm his position?’ his subordinate asked.

  ‘No, Ms Forster, you will not call him to confirm his fucking position. He is in close proximity to the target. Do you want to compromise him?’

  She looked from the side window into the darkness. ‘I assumed he had his communication device on vibrate mode.’

  ‘Well, good for you, Ms Forster,’ Jaeger said with a mocking laugh. ‘Do me a favour. Let me do the assuming around here, okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, sounding dispirited. Then she turned back to her superior. ‘Sir, what exactly are we going to do when we arrive on the scene?’

  This time Jaeger did not answer immediately. He took his foot off the accelerator as he approached the exit. ‘Good question,’ he said, giving her a quick look. ‘Keep cool. I know what I’m doing.’

  The expression on his subordinate’s face suggested that she didn’t.

  Shortly afterwards they ran down the slope on to the plain, the lights of the fortifications above Argos and Nafplion shining out like beacons welcoming home a victorious army. Jane Forster had read up on the ancient myths. She was thinking that Mycenae, where King Agamemnon had been slaughtered in his bath by his wife and her lover, lay only a few kilometres to their left.

  What was about to go down at the ancient stronghold on the other side of Argolidha where Hercules had been born?

  *

  Iraklis nodded as they sat down slowly, the children on the floor with their fathers beside the sofa where Geoffrey and Flora Dearfield were, the old man staring at the captive Veta with his mouth open. Mavros and Grace were on either side of the armchair where Dorothy sat. Only Anna and the two armed men remained on their feet.

  ‘Very good,’ the terrorist said. ‘Now, where shall we begin?’

  ‘How about during the war?’ Mavros said. He had been wrestling over how to handle the confrontation. His family’s safety was paramount, but the fact was that they were already in mortal danger—he was praying to the God he didn’t believe in that Anna would keep a steady hand—and he reckoned that if he didn’t take the lead, then Grace would: he couldn’t be sure how much she would antagonise the terrorist. His strategy was to draw Iraklis away from the present to the historical background—that way maybe he could distract him enough to give them a chance. ‘This nightmare you’re putting us through has its roots in the occupation, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Kostas Laskaris told me your mother was in the resistance with him.’

  ‘I told you before to keep my mother out of this,’ the assassin said.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Mavros said, raising his hands. ‘What I mean to say is that your family suffered during the war and its aftermath.’

  ‘Everyone suffered during the war,’ Geoffrey Dearfield said.

  ‘What’s that, old man?’ Iraklis said, leaning forward. ‘Is there something you want to say about the war?’ Suddenly there was tension in his voice.

  Flora nudged her husband. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘This is your chance to set yourself free from the memories that have been tormenting you.’

  Mavros looked up at his mother, trying to catch her attention, but she was staring at the couple on the sofa, an expression of deep foreboding on her wrinkled face. ‘Maybe this is a blind alley,’ he said, realising that his tactics had been counterproductive. ‘Let’s leave the ancient history alone.’

  The terrorist glanced at Mavros, then turned his gaze back on Flora and her husband. ‘History is what this country is all about, my friend. I will come back to it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But now we must move on.’ He pushed the automatic into the side of Veta Palaiologou’s head. ‘It’s time to discuss my prisoner. A leading opposition spokesperson, daughter of a family that made its money from the black market during the war.’ He glanced at Mavros. ‘You see, there’s no getting away from the past.’

  ‘Leave my mother alone!’ the teenager Prokopis shouted, pulling his arm away from Nikitas’s ineffectual grasp. ‘Let her go!’

  The assassin gave another sad smile. ‘I like your spirit, boy,’ he said in Greek. ‘But the next time you raise your voice your mother will suffer, do you understand?’

  ‘It’s all right, Prokopi,’ Veta said, her voice steady.

  ‘As I was saying,’ Iraklis continued in English, ‘my prisoner, my target. Who could be more appropriate than a major conservative figure, a figurehead—if I can put it that way—of the thieving ship-owner class that has ruined this country?’ His tone hardened. ‘A person whose father was something worse than a war criminal.’

  ‘And that gives you the right to go around killing people, does it?’ Grace was leaning forward, ignoring Mavros’s warning look. ‘That gives you the right to cut people’s throats in front of their children?’

  The assassin kept his gaze off her. ‘I tried to make amends to you by saving you from the gunman in the Mani, Ms Helmer. This is not the time to discuss your father. He represented the imperialist foreign power that exterminated thousands of Greeks during the so-called civil war.’ He looked at Dorothy and Anna, then at Mavros. ‘You people can understand this, can’t you? Spyros Mavros was a brave fighter for the rights of the people.’

  Dorothy gave him a withering stare. ‘My husband was a revolutionary, not a killer. He never advocated violence outside wartime.’

  ‘And that’s why the revolution failed.’ Iraklis turned back to the woman beside him. ‘But enough of this. Veta Dhragoumi-Palaiologou, defend yourself. Convince me that you are not an enemy of the people. I have learned that your father certainly was.’

  The politician gave a long sigh. ‘What would be the point?’ she asked, her eyes on her children. ‘Why don’t you just get it over with? But, please—’ she looked round with an agonised expression ‘—don’t do it in front of them. Please.’

  The girls, Klio and Evridhiki, couldn’t contain their weeping any longer, their tear-stained faces turning desperately to their fathers. The boys were crying too. Mavros opened his eyes wide at Nondas and shook his head to forestall any reaction.

  ‘She’s right,’ Mavros said to Iraklis. ‘What’s the point? What’s the point of her defending herself and her father? But what’s the point of you going on with your campaign?’ He took a deep breath. ‘You might as well admit it’s been a failure.’

  The assassin blinked. ‘A failure?’

  Mavros shrugged. ‘Of course. Greece has changed. I can just about understand the rationale behind terrorist attacks during the dictatorship, but now? The country’s moved on. No one cares about the old ideologies any longer. People just want to make money and have a good time.’

  ‘Those are poisonous lies and you know it, Alex Mavros.’ The shrill voice came from the far side of the room.

  Everyone’s gaze settled on Flora Dearfield. She had risen to her feet, her left arm extended in Veta’s direction. ‘Here is the final instalment of the truth I promised you, Irakli. Her father raped your mother. Her father and this bastard’s.’ She broke off and swung her arm towards the cowering Nikitas Palaiologos. ‘They were the battalionist commanders who tortured your father.’ She looked back at her husband. ‘You want proof? Ask Geoff. He was there when your father died.’

  There was a shocked silence. Mavros put his hand cautiously on his mother’s knee and she nodded, lips apart, breath co
ming quickly.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Dorothy said faintly. ‘Oh, no.’ She sat forward. ‘Don’t, Geoff. Don’t tell him.’

  Dearfield stared ahead, the dark blue veins on his hands pulsing.

  ‘Well, old man?’ the terrorist asked. ‘What is this?’

  Dearfield stood up unsteadily, glancing at Dorothy, then at Veta. ‘I was present, it’s true.’ Then he looked at his wife. ‘You’re saying that the woman Stamatina was this man’s mother? That the guerrilla leader was his father? How do you—’

  ‘Never mind that now,’ Iraklis interrupted. ‘Tell me, old man. What happened there?’

  Geoffrey Dearfield bowed his head, then seemed to summon a last reserve of strength. He began to speak, slowly at first then faster, as if the words were taking control of him. He described his role as liaison officer, the betrayal of the ELAS unit to the Germans and the Security Battalions, and the final scene in the compound. He raised his head, stared into the assassin’s eyes and said, ‘I executed Kapetan Iraklis on the cross.’

  Anna looked over her shoulder at Dearfield, the explosive device wavering in her hands. Mavros felt his heart pound.

  ‘Be careful,’ the terrorist said to her. ‘I am not ready to die yet.’

  Anna turned to the front again, her face pale. Mavros could see that the tension was close to overwhelming her. He was struggling to find a way out for her and the rest of them.

  Dearfield explained how horrified he’d been by the monarchist Greeks’ maltreatment of their countrymen. He had seen several other ELAS fighters killed after brutal torture over the previous days and he wanted to spare the brave Kapetan Iraklis that fate. But he had also seen the ELAS band slaughter prisoners, and he felt bitter about his guide Fivos’s death. He couldn’t be sure that a desire for vengeance hadn’t blinded him, driving him to disclose the fighters’ dispositions at Loutsa to the enemy. Over the years he had managed to block out the guilt and shame, he had even continued to work for the anti-Communist side, had shared information with the Americans. But since he’d retired the pressure to make some atonement, to admit the mistakes he and his superiors had made, had led him to write a memoir.