The Golden Silence

by Paul Johnston

  Ricardo and the Son crossed the terrace close together.

  The bald man walked in the open door. ‘Yanni? Pano? Where are you?’

  ‘In here,’ came a deep voice from the room to the right.

  The Son looked over his shoulder and smiled nervously. The Father waved him forward, his breathing controlled and his heartbeat no faster than usual. He could handle whatever the fools threw at him. He’d been up against better men than them, he’d brought down the people who tried to destroy the nation.

  Going inside, he closed the door behind him. The moment he noticed the splintered wood around the lock, he heard a footstep in the room to his left. The Father pulled the gun from his pocket, slipped off the safety and thumbed back the hammer.

  Mavros stood up from behind the chair where Panos sat bound and gagged. He pointed the Glock at Ricardo and the heavily built young man who had come into the room behind him.

  ‘What the fuck?’ the bald man said, staring at him. ‘Mavros?’

  The shot from the hallway made all the men in the room flinch. There was a shout, the slam of a door, and then the sound of footsteps outside.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Mavros shouted, pointing the automatic at Ricardo. He heard a car start and then reverse away at speed. Ricardo and the other man had frozen, the former with his hand hovering above his chest and the latter still clutching a hold-all. ‘Drop the bag and raise your arms.’

  They complied, the hold-all landing with a thud on the wooden floor.

  Damis came in. ‘He got away,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘He almost hit me. Lucky I pulled back at the last moment.’ He took in the two men. ‘Ricardo and the Son,’ he said, running a hand over the bald man and removing an automatic from his jacket pocket. He did the same with the younger man and came up with a folded knife. He kicked the bag away. ‘Did you bring your fish spear tonight, asshole?’

  The Son gave a slack smile. ‘I never go anywhere without it.’

  Damis smiled back at him and then punched him in the midriff. The Son dropped to one knee, his face creased. ‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I first laid eyes on you.’

  Mavros looked beyond them. Dmitri had appeared in the doorway, his expression savage. Katia was behind him.

  ‘No, Papa!’ the young woman said, trying to get past him. She was held back by his arm. ‘No! We must call the police.’

  The Russian-Greek looked at Ricardo. ‘You and I are going down to the cellar where you kept my Katia.’

  The bald man turned to Mavros. ‘You…you can’t let him do that.’

  ‘Give me a reason.’

  ‘I…I’ll pay.’ His eyes moved from Mavros to Dmitri, but they kept off Katia. ‘I’ll pay you all. For God’s sake, stop him. You can’t—’

  There was the sound of breaking glass, immediately followed by a gunshot. Damis dropped like a stone. Mavros was immediately flattened by the weight of the Son, the Glock knocked away and a hand clawing at his throat. Katia screamed, her hands over her ears, as her father disappeared down the hallway. As more shots rang out, Ricardo grabbed Katia by the shoulders.

  ‘Shut up, you bitch!’ he screamed, his hand drawn back.

  ‘Don’t,’ ordered the Father from the doorway as Dmitri backed into the room with his hands raised. ‘You,’ he said to the Son. ‘Get up and find a weapon.’

  Mavros felt the weight roll off him and he gasped for breath. He looked across at Damis and saw no movement. There was a splash of blood on the floor around his head.

  ‘Who’s he?’ the Father asked, pointing at the bound man in the chair. ‘A Russian?’

  ‘No, he’s one of mine.’ Ricardo pushed Dmitri against the wall. ‘Did you really think you could beat me, you piece of shit?’

  ‘You’d better untie him,’ the Father said, his eyes still on Panos.

  ‘Screw him,’ the bald man said, looking round at the Son. ‘Get your spear out. I want you to use it on this fucker.’ He laughed. ‘You can use it on all of them.’ He glanced at the Father. ‘Unless, of course, you want to string them up with your hooks and lines first.’ He grabbed Katia’s arm. ‘Not this one, though. She’s mine.’

  The Son put down the automatic and emptied the contents of his bag on to the table. Mavros flinched when he saw the gleaming steel spear.

  ‘Wait,’ the Father said, kicking his own bag across to the Son. ‘There are things we need to find out from these people.’ He looked at Mavros. ‘Who are you?’

  Mavros watched in horror as the Son took out a cluster of fish hooks and a spool of line from the second hold-all. He looked back at the old man. This was his chance. ‘The name’s Alex Mavros,’ he said, his mouth dry. He thought he saw a hint of recognition in the Father’s eyes. ‘My brother was Andonis Mavros, the resistance leader during the dictatorship. Did you ever torture him?’

  The old man licked his lips. ‘You aren’t in a position to ask me questions,’ he said in a cold voice. He looked at the Son. ‘Be careful with those probes, you fool. They’re new.’

  Everyone in the room looked at the pointed implements. Everyone except Damis, whose eyes were sticky with blood.

  That didn’t stop him loosing off a series of shots from the weapon he’d fallen on.

  Rea was standing over her husband. She’d sent the nurse away, telling her that she would stay with him for the next two hours. But she knew she wouldn’t be in the bedroom for as long as that.

  Everything was at an end, she thought. Stratos’s life was ebbing away, but it had been for months. It was only tonight that she’d realised hers was over as well. It was built on a lie, deep down she’d always known that. She’d thought she was hard and unfeeling like the Father. But seeing the woman she’d betrayed, the woman whose life she’d ruined, whose degradation she’d taken pleasure from and whose voice she’d silenced, had made her see that she was weak.

  She leaned closer and looked at her husband’s milky eyes. The lids closed slowly and then opened again. She wondered if that was an attempt to communicate.

  ‘You’re ready, aren’t you?’ Rea said in a low voice. ‘I am too. This is a world of pain. You taught me that the only way to escape pain was to hurt other people, to live from their misery. I knew that before I met you. It was in my character. I drank it in, growing up in the parts of the city where poor people slaved to stay alive. Then the Father showed me that pain was power. I understood that instinctively. You showed me that human weakness is the other part of the equation—weakness for drugs, for sex, for status, for anything that can be sold.’ She touched his scrawny arm. ‘But it’s all a lie.’ She felt tears on her cheeks. ‘My old comrade Era lives in agony. She lost everything, but she hasn’t become like us.’ She saw her husband’s eyes flicker and realised that she was gripping his arm hard. ‘You and I are monsters. The Father’s a monster. We don’t deserve to live.’

  Rea let her husband’s arm go. She pulled back the sheet and ran her eyes over his twisted limbs. This deformed body was what he’d earned from a life time of cruelty and violence. As she put the pillow over his face and pressed down on it, she thought of his victims—the drug-addicts, the dancers and prostitutes, the assassinated gang-members, the politicians and policemen he’d corrupted, the civil servants he’d bribed, the families that mourned. At least she was making some recompense for the suffering he’d caused.

  When her husband’s feeble struggles stopped, Rea went out of the bedroom. She crossed the terrace to the main block, vaguely aware that there was moonlight on the flagstones. When she was young she’d loved the moon. She caught a glimpse of herself walking back from a youth party meeting with the silvery light on her face, her heart full of revolutionary dreams. That must have been before the agony had started, before the jealousy she felt for poor, innocent Era had poisoned her. She’d always carried a seed of guilt. Why else had she chosen to call herself Rea when she changed her identity? Something in the depths of her being had made her take the name that was an anagram of Era, though she’d
never admitted it to herself. Rea and Era. They were the same ruined creatures.

  She went into the study and locked the door. Kicking off her shoes, she took the phones off the hook and switched off her mobiles. Then she stepped over to the fireplace and opened the safe behind the painting.

  Rea looked at the mask, the blood freezing in her veins as she took in the bulging eyes and the disfigured face. She’d taken the woman beneath the carefully worked surface to be an image of herself, lips sewn to keep the past secret. But now she understood that the golden silence was not hers. It belonged to Era and all the other strong souls who hadn’t allowed the pain of life to defeat them.

  The head of the Chiotis family took the mask from the safe and went to the centre of the room. After she’d lain down, she placed the cold metal over her face. Then, in a decisive movement, she drew her husband’s razor across her throat.

  * * *

  The room resounded with the shots, and then with shouts and screams. Damis let go of the automatic when the clip was emptied, his head slumping to the floor again. Mavros reached for the Glock. The Son was staring at a spatter of red on his lower arm. The Father stood motionless, his revolver pointed at Katia and the automatic he’d taken from Dmitri pointing at Damis.

  ‘I’ll kill them all,’ the old man said to Mavros, showing uneven teeth beneath the nicotine-stained moustache. He glanced at Ricardo. He was flat on the floor, his chest a basin of blood. He looked back at Mavros. ‘Put the weapon down.’

  Mavros stepped back, empty-handed.

  ‘Which one shall I do first?’ the Son said, lifting the spear with his good hand.

  ‘Wait, fool,’ the Father said. ‘We need to find out what’s going on here.’ He was still looking at Mavros. ‘You think I know something about your brother, do you?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Have you any idea how many of those Communist scum I worked on?’

  Mavros took a deep breath. ‘Tell me if Andonis was one of them. Please.’

  The Father held his gaze. ‘No.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t one of them or no, you’re not going to tell me?’ Mavros asked, his voice breaking.

  The Father glanced at Damis. ‘Check that he’s dead,’ he said to the Son.

  Mavros gave an agonised groan when he realised he wasn’t going to get an answer. He watched as the Son knelt down and rolled Damis over. There was blood all over his face. What happened next was so quick that the Father couldn’t react in time. There was a crash as the Son was pulled head first to the floor, then Damis manoeuvred him in front as a shield. He’d grabbed the spear and was holding it to the Son’s throat.

  The Father still had one gun on Katia. The other was now on Mavros. ‘You took a risk, young man,’ he said to Damis, his voice level. ‘How did you know I wouldn’t shoot?’

  ‘Because you aren’t a killer,’ Damis said, breathing heavily. ‘This bastard is, but you aren’t. You prefer to watch people suffer.’

  Mavros looked at Damis. The shot that had come in the window must only have grazed his scalp. He glanced at Dmitri. He’d got up and was clutching his daughter, eyes wide. ‘Nobody do anything,’ he said, raising his hands. ‘There’s been enough killing.’

  ‘I agree,’ the Father said, stepping backwards. ‘Come here,’ he said to Mavros. He was still holding the revolver on Dmitri and Katia. ‘I’m going to leave with him,’ he said, indicating the Son. ‘I give you my word that I won’t harm any of you once we’re in the car.’

  Mavros glanced at the small part of Damis that he could see behind the Son. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Let’s try it,’ Damis said in a weak voice. ‘I can hold the spear on this bastard.’

  Dmitri’s mouth was open, but no words came from it. He was pushing Katia gently along the wall.

  Mavros got up and moved slowly towards the Father. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m in your hands.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘And the Son’s in mine,’ Damis said. He walked his captive forward, the point of the spear touching the sticking-plaster on his throat. ‘Don’t try anything.’

  The Father put his hand on Mavros’s shoulder and pushed him out of the door. Mavros could hear the breath catching in the old man’s throat and the heavy steps of the Son to the rear.

  Outside, there was no sign of the Audi. The Father must have left it down the track before he doubled back. Mavros was forced round to the driver’s seat of the Mercedes. He could see the keys in the ignition.

  ‘We’ll take this one,’ the Father said to the Son. ‘Get in.’

  Mavros watched as Damis opened the passenger door and sat the Son down, the spear still at his neck. The Father got in, the gun on Mavros, and turned the key. Damis pressed the window button and then shut the door, moving the spear quickly back to the Son’s throat through the open space.

  Mavros realised then that there was a chance they were going to make it. But that meant he would lose the trail to Andonis.

  ‘Did you…did you work on my brother?’ he asked.

  The Father engaged first gear, the gun still pointing at Mavros’s chest. ‘No,’ he said, letting out the clutch. ‘I didn’t.’

  Mavros and Damis stood where they were as the Mercedes swung round and jerked to a halt. The gun was on them, but the Father was looking beyond. Out of the corner of his eye, Mavros saw Dmitri coming down the hallway, a weapon in his hand.

  ‘No!’ Mavros shouted, raising his arms. ‘No!’

  The Mercedes disappeared in a cloud of dust before the Russian-Greek got to the terrace.

  The three of them listened as the engine noise faded behind the mass of rock.

  Mavros felt the tension leave his body, his shoulders sagging.

  Katia came out of the house. Her face lit up when she saw that the three of them were safe.

  As far as Mavros was concerned, that made everything he’d been through worthwhile.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JENNY IKONOMOU WAS at the window of her bedroom in the Pink Palace. She was sipping from a glass of cognac. It was after three a.m. and the street below was quiet. She could see the moon above the radio masts on the mountain to the east

  Since they’d got back from Rea Chioti’s house, a feeling of well-being had spread through her. She’d done the right thing. Era hadn’t been disturbed by the sight of her old comrade Roza Arseni. And, though Rea had been shocked, Jenny had no doubt that meeting Era again would have done her good. The three childless women had to acknowledge their past. Except, in Era’s case, there had been no words. Jenny had a faint hope that the experience would shock Era out of her silence, but she wasn’t expecting a miracle. This was real life, not one of her TV melodramas.

  She lit a cigarette and blew smoke against the windowpane. There was no sign of her brother. It was too early for him to come home. Recently he’d taken to spending the whole night out. It was a long time since she’d asked him about his activities. It was obvious he was up to no good—anyone trusted by the Chiotis family would have crossed the line many times. In the past she hadn’t cared, but meeting Alex Mavros had made her think again. She wondered if he’d gone out to Ricardo’s house. She’d never been invited. He probably took his women there.

  She drained her glass. The Mavros men. She’d tried to block them from her mind when she cut her ties with the Party. The father, Spyros, had been an inspiring speaker, a lawyer who fought against injustice and drove himself to an early grave. And Andonis, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. She fell for him the first time he spoke at a youth party gathering. Even though he was distracted by the struggle against the dictators, he’d allowed her to pursue him and had finally given in to her advances. Why hadn’t she admitted that to the younger Mavros? Despite his long hair and strange, imperfect eye, he reminded her of Andonis. That was probably why she’d kept quiet. She’d suppressed that part of her life so well that thinking of Andonis was agony. Their brief romance ended before she was arrested and she’d never seen him again. And
Alex was still looking for him. She felt a dampness in her eyes.

  There was a tap on her door. The nurse came in. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Ikonomou. Era’s agitated. I think you might be able to comfort her.’

  Jenny walked to the guest room where she’d put her old comrade. It was only as she went in that she remembered it was the one that Katia had occupied. She hoped she’d see the promising young woman again. Era was sitting on the bed, her bare feet on the rug. She extended her arms when she saw Jenny and for a moment the actress thought she was going to speak. Her mouth was opening and closing, her forehead lined in concentration.

  ‘What is it, my dear?’ Jenny said, sitting down and putting an arm round her. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back on the island soon. I know you want your room and the view of the mountains across the water.’ She watched as the shrunken woman next to her continued to work her mouth, but no sound came.

  ‘Was it difficult to see Roza Arseni after so many years?’ Jenny continued, after a pause. ‘I know it must have been. But I think she understands the consequences of what she did to you and Manos now.’

  Era leaned her head against the actress’s shoulder and they sat motionless for some time, the nurse watching them with a smile on her lips.

  Then came the sound of the doorbell.

  ‘Who can that be at this time of night?’ Jenny said, smiling at Era and getting up. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She looked at the screen by the lift.

  Alex Mavros was at the door, his expression grave. ‘I need to talk to you, Mrs Ikonomou,’ he said. ‘It’s about your brother. And Rea Chioti.’

  Shivering with apprehension, the actress let him in.

  Before Mavros went to collect Niki from the hospital, he managed to sleep for a couple of hours. He’d insisted on breaking the news to Jenny Ikonomou in person. She was very emotional, as much over Rea Chioti’s suicide as Ricardo’s death, which puzzled him. After the Father and Son disappeared into the night, Damis had called a police unit to the house on the hill, as well as an ambulance to take Katia to hospital. As soon as they arrived, Mavros and he drove to the Chiotis villa to confront the head of the family. They found her in a pool of her own blood with what looked like a Mycenaean death mask over her face. According to the guards, she’d been visited by Jenny Ikonomou and two other women earlier in the evening. Damis called in more police. The family’s men slipped away when they saw the line of cars coming up the hill. As Commander Kriaras walked on to the terrace a nurse appeared, screaming that Stratos Chiotis had been suffocated.