The Silver Stain

by Paul Johnston

  ‘Now that’s helpful,’ Mavros said. ‘You’ve moved the conversation on to my next topic. Why was Maria Kondos kidnapped?’

  ‘Maria who?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I mean Maria Kondoyanni. Daughter of Michael “the Bat”, that well known Florida mobster who I’m sure you’ve had dealings with.’

  ‘Haven’t,’ Roufos whispered.

  ‘Now I come to think of it, you’ve probably had dealings with Eugene Tzannetakis too.’

  ‘Who?’ The antiquities dealer’s voice was almost inaudible.

  ‘You heard. As it happens, he’s the father of Luke Tzannetakis, also known as Luke Jannet, director of Cara here’s movie.’ Mavros moved the key up to Roufos’s right eye and pressed it against the closed lid.

  ‘All right!’ the dealer squealed. ‘I’ve sent shipments to them both in containers, along with the drugs.’

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  Cara was up quickly and on her way to look through the spyhole. She stepped back with a wide smile on her face. ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, in a loud whisper.

  ‘Jannet?’ Mavros returned. ‘Is he on his own?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Let him in.’

  Cara undid the chain and lock, then pulled the door open. As Jannet entered, a slack smile on his face, she kneed him hard in the groin. He went down on one knee, then gradually hauled himself up.

  ‘What the fuck was that for, bitch?’ he asked, pulling a pistol from above his backside and pointing it in her face.

  ‘Behind the sofa!’ Mavros yelled at Niki, heaving Roufos up and using him as a shield.

  Stalemate.

  David Waggoner stood on the terrace of his house to the west of Kornaria and watched the last of the sun ebb away from the mountainsides into the distant sea. He had seen the same sight in his twenties, when his group of andartes came down from the high caves to stock up on supplies. There was always a glendi, a feast with sheep being killed and roasted, and barrels of wine broached. Scouts were posted on the almost impassable tracks, but the Germans knew better than to send patrols up there, especially at night. He took a sip of the raki that had been distilled from the stems of his own vines and tried to set what was left of his life in order.

  The former SOE man knew that he’d made several mistakes recently. The first of those was trusting Tryfon Roufos. Contacts in Athens had told him that the antiquities dealer was a snake with only his own interests at heart, but the temptation to prise Rudolf Kersten’s precious coins from him was overwhelming. And the truth was that the coins should have been sent to Egypt by submarine and never fallen into the German’s hands after the war. He thought about the lies he had written in his memoirs. Why had he accused the EAM man known as Kanellos of betraying them? With hindsight, the reason didn’t make him proud, but he had always been headstrong. The idea of admitting in public that one of his own men had been a traitor was abhorrent, even though he had personally put a bullet in the bastard’s head and made sure his wife and children were driven from the village. He was an uncle of the Kondoyannis who was now in jail in Florida.

  Waggoner shook his head to dislodge those images. His second mistake had been to underestimate Alex Mavros. The same Athenian contacts had told him to be careful – the investigator had a reputation for doggedness. That was why he had approached the long-haired, unshaven man in Kersten’s hotel and told him not to trust the German. That scheme had backfired spectacularly. Now Mavros was trying to find out what happened to Kersten, even though the local authorities had been bribed to declare his death suicide. The reach of Kornaria was long and well established.

  ‘You are worried, my friend.’

  The Englishman looked down and saw the mayor, Dhrakakis, standing beneath the terrace. ‘Good evening to you, Vasili,’ he replied. ‘Worried, no. Concerned, of course.’

  When the black-clad figure had come up the steps, he handed him a glass of the spirit.

  ‘To our health,’ the mayor said. ‘Ours and Kornaria’s.’

  Waggoner led him to the table, where his housekeeper had laid out an array of mezedhes – small plates of cucumber, tomato, cheese and cured pork. Dhrakakis speared a piece of the latter with a toothpick and drained his glass.

  ‘You have been greedy,’ the Englishman said. ‘Establishing links with the Kondoyannis family in Florida was a bad move.’

  The mayor raised his heavy shoulders. ‘We made a lot of money. And what else were we to do with our products? They were far too much for the Greek market.’

  ‘Michael Kondoyannis has no self control,’ Waggoner countered. ‘You saw that when he came here. That poor girl almost died.’

  ‘Her family was paid well.’

  ‘But now they want to do worse to “the Bat’s” daughter, Maria. How do you think he will react to that, especially if he finds out you tricked her to come up here and then had her kidnapped? He still runs his business from prison, you know.’

  Dhrakakis laughed harshly. ‘He may think he does, but he has serious competition.’

  ‘You mean the Tzannetakis family? How can they control a drugs operation across the American South when they’re holding down high-profile jobs in Hollywood?’

  ‘Ach, Lambi,’ the mayor said, using the Englishman’s old cover name, ‘you forget that Greek families raise many children. Luke and Rosa have three younger brothers and they all learned the business from their father.’

  ‘So you intend to switch to them?’

  Dhrakakis stared at him. ‘Do not forget that you are a guest here, Lambi. You have no say in how we make our living. You used to facilitate our dealings with the bureaucrats on the coast and with the Germans, but those days are over.’

  Despite the burning of the spirit, Waggoner felt a chill run through his body. What the mayor said was true. His wartime heroics meant nothing any more. He was an old man who had connived at the villagers’ illegal drug production and trading for years, and now there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘Do not do anything that could endanger us,’ Dhrakakis said, the soles of his boots clicking across tiles. ‘Good evening.’

  David Waggoner watched him strut down the path that led to Kornaria. The mayor was too young to have experienced the fight against the Germans, but he had survived many vendettas and attempts to oust him. His soul was tainted by the violence that lay beneath the surface in mountain villages. The Englishman knew himself well enough to see that his character too had been blemished by the sordid reality of the war – shooting wounded prisoners, driving pathetically equipped gendarmes and ordinary citizens into the fire of the paratroopers, countering the communists’ scheming with summary justice. He was ashamed of it all, but it was far too late to change the way he was.

  The former SOE man went into his house and opened a wooden trunk in his study. Among the contents were things that he knew would keep Alex Mavros off his back for the rest of his life.

  A sudden rush of blood to the head forced him to stagger to an armchair. Was this it, the end he had seen overtake so many comrades and enemies? The doctors had told him he had anything between a month and six months. He wanted to die in peace, as the sun rose over the east and flooded his terrace for the last time. If throwing Mavros into the pit was the only way to achieve that, he was ready.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Luke Jannet had one arm round Cara Parks’ neck.

  ‘Nice to feel your ass against my dick at last,’ he said, grunting. ‘Even if my dick is in agony. I say again, why the fuck did you knee me, Twin Peaks?’

  Mavros glanced to the side, checking that Niki was completely out of sight. Roufos struggled in his grip, but with little strength.

  ‘Whatcha gonna do now, tough guy?’ Cara asked. ‘Cop a feel of my tits?’

  ‘Tempting, but I’ve got to hold this fine weapon on your friend Mavros.’ He looked over her head. ‘Hey, Scotsman, Greekman, whatever the fuck you are? This here’s a Sig Sauer P239. It’s carrying nine .3
57 Parabellum rounds. You think that beanpole will stop them blowing you apart?’

  Mavros considered that and didn’t feel optimistic. He needed to buy some time. ‘You’re going to shoot Tryfon Roufos to get me? You came up here to see him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Jannet said, tightening his grip on Cara. ‘What makes you think I wasn’t going to send him straight to hell?’

  Mavros felt Roufos stiffen, but he wasn’t convinced the director had come with that in mind. The dealer had seemed to slump in relief when Jannet appeared.

  ‘Interesting,’ Mavros said enigmatically.

  ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That a drug trafficker’s also concerned with antiquities smuggling.’

  Jannet glared at Roufos. ‘You been talking, you piece of snake shit?’

  The dealer shook his head frantically. ‘No, Luke, no, I—’ He shut up when he saw the even fiercer look on the gunman’s face.

  ‘Clever,’ Jannet said, grinning at Mavros. ‘Except you’ve now signed everyone else in here’s death warrant. How do you feel about that, dick?’

  Mavros smiled as credibly as he could. ‘You think we came here without protection?’ He was hoping Niki would get on her phone and search for Tsifakis’s number, then text for help.

  ‘Bullshit,’ the director said, squeezing Cara’s left breast. ‘If you had backup, they’d already be here.’

  ‘You planning on killing the star of your movie, asshole?’ Cara demanded, trying to shake him off.

  ‘It won’t look like that, darlin’. It’ll look like Mavros here went crazy and took all of you out before he plugged himself.’ Jannet laughed. ‘One of my better storylines. And before you get all uppity, TP, consider this – pumped-up lookers like you are ten a dollar in LA. What, you think you got the job because you can act?’

  Mavros kept on with the time-gaining tactic. ‘You into silver coins, Luke?’

  The director stared at him blankly. ‘Hell, no. I got enough of those. I’m interested in the really old shit – Minoan axe heads, clay figures, bull’s heads, like in the Iraklion museum. People pay serious top dollar for that.’

  ‘And our slimy friend here has been helping you get your hands on it.’ He pressed the key against Roufos’s forehead again. ‘He won’t be much use to you without eyes.’

  Tryfon Roufos let out a petrified yelp. ‘Please,’ he gasped, ‘do something, Luke. I can get you more Minoan objects, many more.’

  The pistol in Jannet’s hand moved around as he tried to lock on to Mavros’s body. ‘You so much as twitch, TP, and you’ll be next,’ he said, his other arm tightening round her neck.

  The noise of the door being smashed in was deafening. The top of it caught the director on the shoulder and made him let Cara go. She fell forwards, sprawling on the floor as Mikis’s friends Yannis and Christos forced their way into the suite, the former carrying a thick metal cylinder with handles that he had obviously used as a battering ram. Luke Jannet scrambled to his feet and dived towards the corridor, the pistol still in his hand. The Pig was waiting for him and relieved him of the weapon with a sharp downward movement of his hand.

  ‘Agh!’ the director screamed. ‘You broke my fucking arm!’

  The Cretan grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back into the suite. This time Cara Parks landed her foot between Jannet’s legs, extracting an even higher pitched squeal.

  ‘Dope-dealing fucker,’ she said, leaning over him, her face suffused with joy. ‘Happy you rubbed up against my ass now?’

  Christos put down the ram and pulled her back gently.

  Mavros handed Roufos over to Yannis and went to Niki, who was standing behind the sofa.

  ‘You were on your phone long before I dropped that hint, weren’t you?’ he said, kissing her.

  ‘I’m not a complete idiot, Alex.’ She looked over his shoulder. ‘What next?’

  ‘Good question.’ Mavros looked at Yannis. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  The burly young man nodded. ‘Mr Tsifakis is talking to the hotel owner.’ He sat Roufos down in the armchair as if he was a rag doll. ‘This wanker will be paying for the damages.’

  ‘Agreed?’ Mavros asked the antiquities dealer.

  ‘If you leave me alone, agreed.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll leave you alone – as long as you’re on the night boat to Piraeus.’

  Roufos signalled his agreement with a sullen nod.

  ‘What about this piece of shit?’ Cara demanded, glaring at Luke Jannet.

  ‘Another customer for the clinic,’ Mavros replied, then switched to Greek. ‘One of you guys can keep an eye on him. I don’t trust the police, at least not till I’ve got to the bottom of his ties with Kornaria.’

  They left Tryfon Roufos in his now less-than-private suite, Mavros taking the cardboard file with him. That would slow his business dealings down, though he had no doubt he’d be back to work as soon as he got back to his office in Athens. He also relived him of his mobile phones, as he did with Jannet. Holding people incommunicado was a useful way of finding which rats came out of the sewers to help them, although in the director’s case it was obvious who the first one would be – his sister, Rosie Yellenberg.

  ‘Where to now, Saint Peter?’ Cara asked as they walked back to the Jeep, the Cretans having headed off to their pickup with Jannet, to take him to the clinic.

  ‘You like early Elton John?’ Mavros said, impressed. ‘You must have been about minus five when Tumbleweed Connection came out.’

  ‘Good music is good . . . what the hell?’

  Mavros looked ahead and his gut performed a somersault. A crowd of skinheads was moving rapidly towards them down the narrow backstreet.

  ‘Don’t think that bunch of keys is going to work this time,’ Cara said.

  ‘Back to the harbour,’ Mavros said, taking her and Niki by the hand and running.

  Before they got there another line of far-right scumbags blocked the way.

  Petros Lagoudhakis, the Cretan Renaissance leader forced to dig his own grave by Mavros and Mikis, was in the centre.

  ‘Roufos,’ Mavros said under his breath. ‘The bastard must have called in the troops on a landline.’

  Then the punches started raining down on his head. He ducked as low as he could and kept driving forward. He had no idea how long the uneven contest lasted, but suddenly he found himself round the corner, the harbour and its busy cafés only a few yards away. Cara was on one knee, her chest heaving and her hair loose.

  Of Niki and their attackers, after he had cleared the blood from his eyes, there was no sign at all.

  Hildegard Kersten looked through the spyhole and saw her grandson outside the apartment. She undid the chain and opened the door.

  ‘Hallo, Grandma,’ the young man said, embracing her. ‘I’m so sorry about Grandpa.’

  Hildegard held him close, unsure how real the display of emotion was. Oskar had never been demonstrative, even as a small boy.

  ‘Come in, child,’ she said, pushing him gently away and closing the door. ‘Did Alex Mavros give you the message to come?’

  ‘Mavros?’ Mesner recoiled as if he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. ‘Why would I have seen him?’

  ‘He’s looking into your grandfather’s death. It wasn’t suicide, you know.’

  Oskar stared at her. ‘But the police . . .’

  ‘The police are controlled by other interests. You’re not in Germany now.’

  ‘What other interests?’ he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

  ‘Never mind. You won’t be here for long. It doesn’t concern you.’ Hildegard busied herself with preparing coffee.

  Her grandson followed her into the kitchen. ‘Who said I wouldn’t be staying? With Grandpa gone, I thought I could look after you.’

  Hildegard smiled. ‘I can look after myself. It’s time you went back to work. I know about the people you spend your time with. Fortunately for yo
u, I didn’t tell your grandfather. He had no time for Nazis and even less for their modern followers.’

  ‘The war made Grandpa crazy,’ Oskar said, in a low voice.

  ‘Wrong!’ Hildegard said shrilly, trying to convince herself as much as Oskar. ‘The war made him a true human being, one who understood the sufferings and plight of others. It is you who betrayed his values.’ She bustled through to the living room with a full tray.

  Oskar sat opposite her, his head hanging. ‘I can’t find work in Germany, Grandma. I’m not cut out for the way people work today.’

  ‘You’re not cut out to work at all, you mean,’ she replied tartly. ‘Well, I hope you aren’t expecting anything from your grandfather’s will.’

  He lifted his head, his face white. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s nothing apart from the coins – and they are going to museums.’

  Hildegard took out the paper she’d found in her husband’s pocket. ‘Explain this to me, Oskar. “Waggoner – Oskar to dispose of with contacts. Coins value 100K”. And don’t tell me Rudi didn’t write it – I know his hand like my own.’

  ‘I . . . will I still get the one hundred thousand euros’ worth of coins?’

  ‘I might consider it,’ she replied. ‘If you tell me what happened.’

  Oskar suddenly looked less pale. ‘It was after I stole the thirty coins. He called me and told me he’d give me more, but I had to arrange for the Englishman to . . . to have an accident.’ He smiled weakly. ‘A fatal one.’

  Hildegard put her hand to her heart. It was as she had feared. Rudi had crossed the line from victim to killer as regards their long-term tormentor. She felt sick, but managed to conceal that from her grandson.

  ‘And how was that to be achieved?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I have some pretty dangerous friends. The plan was to burst into his place in Chania and rip it up, so it looked like a burglary that had gone wrong. But we got distracted.’

  ‘And were you the one who was going to kill the Englishman?’

  ‘I . . .’ He looked away. ‘No. One of my friends from Rostock has finished off more than one ni— I mean immigrant. He likes killing.’