The Golden Silence

by Paul Johnston

  Niki’s voice was tremulous. ‘From what you’re saying, you could have been killed more than once.’ She was sitting on the sofa in his front room, a hand to her eyes. ‘Why do you do these things, Alex? I don’t know how much more of this I can take.’

  ‘Not all my cases turn out like this one.’

  ‘It’s not the first that has,’ she said reproachfully.

  Mavros put his arm round her. ‘I’m sorry you ended up in the middle of it. The doctors seem to think you’ll be all right.’

  ‘If I can get the sound of that machine-gun out of my head.’ She turned to him. ‘I’m glad you found Katia. I hope she’ll recover from what she went through.’

  ‘So do I.’ He remembered the joyful look on the young woman’s face. ‘I think she will, with time. Fortunately, Dmitri came out in one piece. He came close to losing his cool more than once.’

  Niki smiled. ‘He’s a good man, Alex.’ Her expression darkened. ‘But those awful torturers, they got away.’

  ‘They did.’ Mavros stood up. ‘But I haven’t finished with them yet.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To talk to Nikos Kriaras. He owes me a favour after what’s happened.’ He bent down and kissed her. ‘Get some rest. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Take care, Alex. And don’t be late. You know how bored I get when I’m not at work.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I need to be entertained.’

  He laughed. ‘I promise I’ll entertain you, madam.’

  Mavros spent most of the taxi-ride on the phone to his mother and his sister. A TV news bulletin had shown him in the background at the Chiotis villa.

  Damis was waiting for him outside police headquarters. His head had been shaved around the bullet wound and a bandage patched on.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be lying down?’

  ‘What, here?’ Damis looked at the armed policemen on the doors. ‘The doctor did recommend that, but I’m not going to miss wrapping this up.’

  Mavros followed him in and went through the procedure of obtaining a visitor’s ID card. They took the lift to the eleventh floor of the concrete and glass block. The head of the organised crime division’s office was at the end of a long corridor. They were shown straight in.

  Kriaras was sitting at a wide desk that was stacked with files. He stood up when they approached, but he didn’t extend a hand to either of them.

  ‘Cheer up, Niko,’ Mavros said. ‘This should be the happiest day of your life.’

  The commander stared at him and then motioned them to sit down. ‘Yes, yes, the Chiotis family’s operations are in disarray.’ He pursed his lips. ‘What bothers me is that I was kept out of things until the last moment. I’d expect that from a self-centred private investigator like Alex Mavros, but not from an undercover operative like Officer Ganas.’ He gave Damis an icy look. ‘How do you explain your actions?’

  Damis returned his gaze and smiled. ‘Ganas. I’d almost forgotten that was my name.’ The smile disappeared. ‘Excuse me, Commander, but I’ve learned to be very careful about who I report to. The Chiotis family owns plenty of my colleagues.’

  ‘I hope you aren’t including me among them,’ Kriaras said sharply.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s too early to say.’

  Mavros stifled a laugh. He admired Damis’s spirit, but it wasn’t likely to prolong his career. ‘Aren’t you being a bit hard on the officer who almost singlehandedly disposed of the city’s worst criminal gang?’

  ‘It’s too early to say that,’ the commander said. ‘Besides, the family has diversified in recent years. Many of its legitimate companies will survive. The Russian gangs will fill the gaps soon enough.’

  ‘Give us some credit,’ Mavros said angrily. ‘Ricardo was a murdering bastard. He was involved in the Father and Son killings. He kidnapped and confined a young woman in horrific conditions. Your people did nothing to find her. Can you blame us for taking things into our own hands?’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Kriaras said, slapping his hand on the desktop. ‘You’re authorised to conduct missing persons investigations within the law, not take on heavily armed criminals.’ He turned to Damis. ‘And you weren’t authorised to take any action concerning Ricardo Zannis or the two men we found tied up in his house.’

  ‘The one called Yannis murdered the drug dealer Sifis Skourtis,’ Mavros said. ‘Damis can testify to that.’

  ‘All right,’ the commander said, raising a hand to placate him. ‘We’ll need a full statement from you, Alex. And I mean full.’ He stood up. ‘Please leave us now. I want to speak to this officer alone.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ Mavros said, staying where he was. ‘We aren’t finished. You know Lambis Bitsos?’

  An expression of distaste passed across Kriaras’s features at the mention of the crime reporter. ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  ‘Well,’ Mavros continued, ‘he’s a good friend of mine and I owe him a story. I’ll give him everything on this, including plenty about police incompetence and collusion with the Chiotis family…’

  The commander eyed him dubiously. ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless you give me the Father’s real name.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘What makes you think I know the Father’s name?’ Kriaras asked, his gaze directed at the wall behind Mavros.

  ‘Stop playing games, Niko. Either he kept his own name, in which case you’ll have it on file. Or he got a new identity, in which case it’ll be in another file.’

  ‘He and the Son are animals,’ Damis said. ‘I saw them at work.’

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t call us in at the time,’ Kriaras said coldly.

  Damis returned his superior’s glare.

  ‘The name,’ Mavros said. ‘You don’t have to do anything else. Damis and I will bring them in.’

  Kriaras looked at him sceptically. ‘Is this about your brother?’

  Mavros didn’t answer. The torturer had said he hadn’t worked on Andonis and Mavros was inclined to believe him. That didn’t mean he might not have other information from the time of the dictatorship that would help in the search.

  The commander turned away. ‘I’m sorry. Even if such information existed, it would be impossible for me to pass it to you, Alex.’

  Mavros looked at Damis. ‘That’s it then,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’m late for an appointment with the press.’

  ‘Where are you going, officer?’ Kriaras demanded.

  ‘With him,’ Damis replied coldly. ‘I’m finished with the service.’

  They walked away together and took the lift down to the ground floor.

  ‘Is Damis a false name too?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘No, I kept my own first name. Too confusing otherwise.’ ‘Come on, then, Dami. I’ll buy you the best cup of coffee in Athens.’

  The sunlight was beating down on the roofs of the cars and the orange trees at the roadside. It was a fine day. The streets would soon empty as Athenians headed for the mountains and islands to celebrate Easter.

  Mavros wondered about taking Niki away to a deserted spot: somewhere the vultures in the media, maddened by the story he was about to give Bitsos, wouldn’t be able to track them down. He twitched his head to dispel the idea. There weren’t any such places.

  It was evening when the Father drove along the lakeside towards the northern town. Its lights were shining out across the water. Under the bright moon, the surrounding mountains were drained of perspective. They looked like the walls of a cell, the old man thought. Or a coffin. He looked in the mirror. The Son was curled up on the back seat of the BMW. They’d left the Mercedes in a side-street in Athens before picking their own car up from the underground garage. The Son’s arm was giving him trouble, though the painkillers the Father got from a chemist had kept him quiet for most of the long journey.

  As they entered the outskirts of Kastoria, the Father ran over the decisions he’d taken. They had to get out of the house without delay. He’d heard on the radio that Stra
tos Chiotis and the woman had been found dead. He hadn’t given them much thought. They were only the latest in the long line of people he’d known to predecease him. But he was worried that the new identity Stratos had arranged for him might slip out into the open. There were senior policemen who knew it, though most of them were dead. The investigator Mavros was the kind who’d get on to that. The Son had whined that they should have killed him and the others. The fool. He’d already forgotten that his own spear was at his throat before they got away.

  They had to leave the country. There was no shortage of destinations. The Father had a Swiss bank account, as well as a suitcase hidden away. It contained half-a-dozen gold bars and $200,000 US. They could drive into Albania, Macedonia or Bulgaria, sell the car, and vanish. He considered the Son. His arm needed treatment. The old man didn’t want to use a Greek doctor. They could bribe one to keep quiet about the gunshot wound or they could do away with him, but that would take time. The Father thought about killing the Son—he was unreliable, he couldn’t keep himself under control, and traveling with him would be a constant risk. No, he told himself finally. The fool had learned his lesson—but if he did anything to attract attention when they were on the road, that would be the end of him.

  ‘Pack a suitcase,’ the Father said, after he drove the BMW into the garage beneath the house. ‘We’ll be leaving in half-an-hour.’

  The house was cold, but there was no point in turning on the heating. The Father threw a few clothes into a bag, listening as the Son staggered around in the bedroom above. Then he got down on his knees and eased up the floorboards in front of the fireplace. The case with his money and gold was intact. He’d wrapped it securely in plastic sheeting. He opened it and ran his fingers over the crisp notes and cold metal.

  ‘Jesus,’ came the Son’s voice from behind him. ‘You never told me you had so much.’

  ‘I never told you a lot of things, boy. Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Son put a hand to his forehead. ‘My head hurts. I need some water.’

  The Father followed him into the kitchen. A mist was rising over the lake. He thought of the time he’d spent in the boat out there. It must have amounted to months, maybe years. It was a pity to lose his fishing gear. The lake was the only place he’d been at peace with the world, the only place he’d felt a bond with the Son.

  He turned to see what his offspring was doing—and took the carving-knife full in his chest. As his eyes flickered and the last darkness came down, he found himself back in the cell with the woman who became Rea Chioti—on top of her, her thighs pressing against his sides. She was laughing and crying at the same time. The Father died with that image in his eyes.

  The Son waited until after midnight. He’d wrapped the Father in a tarpaulin, then lashed an anchor and chains round it. The quay was deserted. He got the bundle into the boat without difficulty. His arm gave him no pain now. He was exultant. It was the start of a new life. He rowed out into the middle of the mist-covered water and edged the old man over the side.

  ‘To hell with you,’ he said, as the Father disappeared into the chill water. The ripples extended and soon all was silent again.

  An hour later the Son was on the road to Albania, the money and gold hidden in various places around the BMW. As he approached the customs post, bribe folded in his wallet, he wondered when he would return to Greece. Two faces flashed up before him: the tall man called Damis and the long-haired investigator Mavros.

  Sooner or later he’d be back for them.

  It was nearly midday when Mavros led Damis into the Fat Man’s.

  ‘Nice place, Alex,’ Damis said, looking round the café. The only other customers were two wolfish men smoking at a table.

  ‘No media stars in here,’ Yiorgos called from behind the chill cabinet. ‘I mean it, Alex. You’re a disgrace.’ He held up a copy of The Free News. ‘According to that arsehole Bitsos you’re responsible for smashing the Chiotis family operations. And the tossers in the police did precious little to help.’ He screwed his eyes up at Damis. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Damis Ganas,’ Mavros said, with a smile. ‘He’s a policeman.’

  Two chairs creaked as they were pushed back rapidly. The men who’d been sitting on them made for the door.

  ‘You’re doing wonders for my trade,’ the Fat Man said, scowling. ‘You know how much market traders like the law.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mavros said, sitting down at his usual table and beckoning Damis to join him. ‘We’ll buy everything you’ve got.’ He gave Yiorgos an inquisitive look. ‘Is there any galaktoboureko? I was just telling Damis how good your mother’s pastries are.’

  The Fat Man looked dejected. ‘I was keeping the last two pieces for myself.’

  ‘Paying customers take priority,’ Damis said. ‘That’s what I learned at the police academy.’

  ‘Where did you find this smartarse?’ the café owner asked as he unwrapped the custard pie.

  ‘On the case. Do you want to hear about it?’ Mavros always told him about his jobs when they were over. It was a kind of confession. Even though Yiorgos was a Communist and an atheist, he would never break the confidence.

  ‘I’ve read the paper.’

  Mavros laughed. ‘You think that’s everything? Damis here wanted to keep his name out of it.’

  The Fat man came over, an avid expression on his sagging features. ‘Come on, then. Tell me what really happened. It says you’re a hero because you never gave up looking for that girl.’ He turned to Damis. ‘Tell me that isn’t true. I couldn’t live with a hero coming in here every morning.’

  ‘It’s true all right,’ Damis replied. ‘Of course, he wasn’t the only one.’

  Yiorgos stared at them and lumbered away from the table. ‘And what kind of coffee do you take, second hero?’ he asked sarcastically.

  ‘Sketo.’

  ‘Sugar-free like the other one,’ the Fat Man said. ‘Why aren’t there any overweight heroes?’

  Mavros leaned towards Damis while the coffee was being made. ‘Were you serious about quitting the job?’

  ‘Why do you doubt it?’

  ‘It’s a big decision. You could shoot up the promotion ladder after this.’

  ‘No, I’ve had enough. I did what I had to.’

  ‘What are you planning next?’

  Damis watched the Fat Man stirring the coffee over the gas. ‘I’m going to visit Martha,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘The woman the drugs took?’

  ‘Yes.’ Damis picked up his fork and took a mouthful. ‘Christ, this is amazing.’

  ‘The coffee isn’t bad either,’ Mavros said as Yiorgos came toward the table with his tray.

  ‘Then what?’

  Damis shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Any ideas?’

  Mavros took the hint. ‘You mean work? With me?’

  ‘We were reasonably effective together this time.’

  ‘I don’t know. A lot of the time I don’t have enough work to keep myself going, never mind two of us.’

  ‘Maybe I could help you find more.’

  ‘Maybe you could.’ Mavros stuck out his right hand. ‘All right. Let’s give it a try.’

  The café owner put the tray down with a crash. ‘Now he’s shaking hands with the policeman,’ he said in disgust.

  ‘Ex-policeman,’ said Mavros and Damis in unison.

  The Fat Man still wasn’t impressed.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the im agination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole orin part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electron
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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

  Published in Great Britain 2009.

  MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

  Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

  © Paul Johnston 2004

  Originally published by Hodder and Stoughton

  ISBN: 978-1-4089-1098-6