‘But remember,’ the Son said, leaning over the confined man. ‘It’s either agree to all those conditions or you’re handed over to me.’
Kostas waited as the restraints were loosed and then sat up stiffly. He did not speak as his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was pushed towards the door. He heard the words of Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’ over and over again – ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’.
For the first time he didn’t think he was going to be able to live up to them.
Mavros called Nondas as soon as he was back in the taxi with the Fat Man and Marianthi.
‘Have you got anything on Pavlos Gatsos?’
‘No smoking gun,’ his brother-in-law replied, ‘but he was definitely hiding things.’
‘Money.’
‘Of course, but not only that. He and Vangelis Myronis—’
‘Now deceased.’
‘Right. They set up a couple of companies that I’m checking out. Should have more by tonight.’
‘OK, call me when you do.’
‘Where to?’ asked Marianthi.
‘Kastella, Piraeus.’
‘So close,’ she said mournfully.
‘Come off it,’ said Yiorgos. ‘You’ve had the meter running.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
Mavros had his fingers in his ears. ‘Get your motor running, head out on the highway …’
‘Is that some decadent American band?’ the Fat Man demanded.
‘You know it is.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ said the driver.
‘Steppenwolf, “Born to Be Wild”,’ Mavros said. ‘Never seen Easy Rider?’
‘No,’ Marianthi replied. ‘I’ve done it though.’
Yiorgos guffawed while Mavros shook his head.
A few minutes later they were winding up a narrow street leading to the top of the small hill that overlooked the yacht harbours. Apart from the open air theatre and some park land, the area was as packed with apartment buildings as everywhere else in the port city. But the street they stopped on, near the small church on the summit, was definitely a cut above the others.
‘Come on,’ Mavros said to the Fat Man. ‘Marianthi, you’d better make yourself scarce. We’ll call you when we need you.’ He held his friend back. ‘No touching farewells, please. We shouldn’t be that long.’
Yiorgos blew a kiss at the driver as she pulled away. ‘That wasn’t very nice, sending her away.’
‘Needs must. What we’re about to do isn’t strictly legal.’
‘Strictly?’
‘It isn’t legal at all. See that block over there, the extremely luxurious one.’
‘In grey marble? So what?’
‘Pavlos Gatsos owned it. We’re going to break in.’
‘There’s police tape all over the street door. Why didn’t you get Lieutenant Baboulas to let us in?’
‘Because I don’t want him or his boss knowing what we’re up to.’
‘So how are we going to get in?’
‘The Party taught you how to get into the homes of the bourgeoisie, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, but that involved steel bars and we didn’t care about leaving prints or traces.’
Mavros handed him a pair of latex gloves and pulled on his own.
‘I happen to have with me a set of jemmies.’
‘How long is it since you last used them? Let me guess. Five and a bit years.’
‘Correct. You’re going to stand behind me, providing cover.’
‘This is crazy.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got my motor running.’
In the event, it took Mavros seven minutes to open the locks on the reinforced steel door. By that time the Fat Man had gushed litres of sweat.
TWENTY
‘Where are we going?’ Laura Moreno asked, as Santiago Rojas led her from the large hotel to a taxi.
‘To meet a very useful man.’
‘Is my presence essential?’
‘Certainly, my dear.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
Santiago gave her one of his patronising smiles, as if she were a skittish young woman who had to be given her head rather than the CEO of a major company.
‘I mean it. I’m not your dear and I never will be.’
Rojas gave a destination she didn’t catch to the driver, who looked puzzled but got going anyway.
‘A pleasant early evening drive, that’s all, Laura. And a profitable meeting, followed by drinks on the Grande Bretagne roof garden.’
Laura had stayed at the city’s finest central hotel before and enjoyed the glorious view of the Acropolis. She wasn’t sure why they’d been booked into the luxurious but anonymous American chain hotel, but couldn’t be bothered to ask. She looked out of the tinted windows at the rush of traffic on the wide avenue that led up from the sea. On the pavements people were walking slowly, the sun still beating down. She realised their clothing was less smart than she remembered and their expressions harried.
To her annoyance Santiago had read her mind.
‘The Greeks are suffering,’ he said, pointing at a beggar in rags. ‘They overspent and now they have to pay the price.’
Laura had read more discerning reports. ‘They should never have joined the Euro zone. Their leaders sold them out and let the foreign banks flood the country with cheap loans. Now ordinary working people are paying the price for the corruption of the politicians and the tax evasion of the rich.’
‘I never had you down as a socialist.’
‘I never had you down as a FARC supporter.’
Rojas’s face darkened. ‘Surely you don’t believe those idiotic rumours. My company works in areas near the guerillas’ strongholds. Sometimes accommodations have to be made. That doesn’t make me a supporter of revolution.’
‘Maybe not,’ Laura said, as the taxi turned right and headed towards the slope of the city’s eastern mountain. ‘But they hardly make you the kind of man I want to do business with.’
There was silence as they drove upwards along narrow streets with apartment blocks on each side. Eventually they reached an open area covered in grass. Rojas told the driver to wait.
‘Come, we can walk here.’
Laura was wearing flat shoes and a mid-calf skirt. ‘What is this place?’
‘Behind that wall was a shooting range used by the Nazis during the Second World War. Apparently many Communists and resistance fighters were executed there.’
‘Charming place for a stroll.’
‘It wasn’t chosen by me. There’s our man.’
A burly figure had stepped out from behind a lamp post twenty metres ahead. He wore jeans and a green sweatshirt with the hood pulled up.
‘Not a banker then,’ Laura said.
‘Not exactly.’ Santiago strode ahead and shook the man’s hand. They watched as she approached. Laura introduced herself.
‘This is Igor,’ Rojas said. ‘You don’t need to know his surname.’
‘I don’t think I want to,’ she said, taking in the man’s scarred features. ‘Why are we here?’
‘Igor is in business like us,’ Santiago said, in English.
‘Can’t he speak for himself?’
‘I speak, lady, but maybe you no like what I say.’
‘Really?’ Laura tried to conceal her unease. She glanced at Rojas.
‘Igor has a sum of money he would like to invest in Colarmco. He has already taken a two per cent share in Maderera Jaguar and is very happy with the results.’
Laura twitched her head. ‘Why can’t Mr Igor make his offer for shares via the usual channels?’
‘Ah,’ said Santiago, smiling broadly. ‘He doesn’t like such channels. In fact, he avoids them completely.’
‘I’m going back to the taxi,’ she said. ‘This isn’t how I do business.’
The man called Igor took her arm and squeezed it. ‘Ms Moreno, you no have choice. But I honest with you. Greek police want me for murder
after raid my nightclub. I also big drug dealer.’ He raised his other hand and pointed to a figure on the other side of the park, who had a camera raised. ‘You photographed with me so police think we work together. Now you do business?’ He let go of her and she stumbled back.
‘What is this, Santiago?’ she gasped.
Her companion raised his shoulders. ‘Sometimes it’s best to go with the flow, my dear. Igor can confer many blessings on us.’
‘Screw you!’ she said and turned away.
‘Hey lady!’ Igor called. He was holding his hand like a pistol. ‘Bang bang.’
Laura Moreno strode back to the taxi, her heart pounding. When she reached it, she told the driver to take her to the Athens police headquarters, leaving Santiago where he belonged: with his gangster friend beside the old place of execution.
‘What if there’s an alarm?’ the Fat Man asked as Mavros ripped away the police tape and pushed the door open.
They cocked their heads.
‘As I suspected,’ Mavros said. ‘The cops turned it off.’
‘You might have mentioned that earlier. Christ, will you look at this place?’
The block had not been subdivided into separate apartments. The open-plan ground floor was filled with high-quality furniture. Paintings by well-known Greek artists covered the walls.
‘It’s going to take days to search the whole building,’ Yiorgos said.
‘Maybe.’
‘Definitely.’
Mavros smiled. ‘On the other hand, we can use our brains.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Where’s the least likely place someone would look for secrets?’
The Fat Man looked around. ‘I don’t know … behind the paintings?’
‘Bit of a crime movie staple.’
‘No, I mean between the canvas and the backing panel.’
‘That’s not a bad thought. Go ahead, hack open those valuable works of art.’
‘Maybe we should get permission from Loukas Gatsos.’
‘I’d rather he didn’t know what we’re up to.’ Mavros went over to a large desk. ‘Ever read an Edgar Allan Poe story called “The Purloined Letter”?’
‘It wasn’t on the Party’s approved list.’
‘And you were such an obedient member. Doesn’t matter; the point is, a compromising letter is stolen and then hidden in plain sight, so to speak.’
‘You think Pavlos Gatsos was a Poe fan and the information we want – whatever that might be – is somewhere obvious?’
Mavros laughed. ‘Not necessarily the former, but the latter’s worth a shot. You take this floor and I’ll go upstairs. When you’ve finished, take the second floor. Check the magazines on the coffee table, the books on those shelves and so on. If we’re lucky, he’ll have backed up his files on a CD-ROM – check that pile of CDs and DVDs. Otherwise there might be a memory stick, which could be anywhere, or a paper folder. Follow your nose, and I don’t mean to the kitchen. Though maybe that’s as good a place as any.’
Yiorgos groaned and then got started.
Mavros went up the solid wooden staircase, deciding against the lift to the right of it. He found himself in another open space, this time with a large dining table. There was an imposing wooden dresser full of glasses, plates and bowls. He opened it and ran his hand around the contents, finding nothing out of place. From what he’d heard, Pavlos Gatsos was a dull man, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t possessed a secret sense of humour. So he felt the cushions on each of the dining chairs in case the dead man found it amusing to have his guests’ backsides on his secrets. He didn’t.
The Fat Man didn’t come up so Mavros took the second floor. This time there were separate rooms. Guest bedrooms, he surmised, after opening each door. The Poe method seemed overstretched here; it was unlikely Gatsos would have risked his secrets being discovered by the people he had to stay. Still, he checked the few books on each bedside table and ran an eye around the well-appointed en suite bathrooms. The third floor was again open plan, the walls lined with steel filing cabinets. The leads from computers lay beneath several desks, while three TV screens were suspended from the ceiling. There was a row of clocks on the right wall, showing the time in eight global cities. The desk was piled with yellow cardboard folders. He opened each one, but found nothing that was suggestive. There were budgets, vessel statistics, voyage reports and copies of charter parties. He took the budget folders to show Nondas.
The fifth floor, the penthouse, was the dead man’s bedroom. There was a walk-in wardrobe full of suits and other clothing, a large en suite bath and shower room, and a dressing room with ceiling-high mirrors on every wall. Mavros stuck his tongue out at the four reflections of himself, the thrill of the hunt fading fast. He went over to the bed, an emperor-sized explosion of multi-coloured quilt, sheets and pillows. The view from the windows was superb, down the Attic coast to Cape Sounion and the shadowy islands beyond. He sat on the bed and considered the rich man’s house. Where would he have secreted his most private documents?
Then it struck him that there were no photos of Loukas or his sister Nana on any of the floors he’d been on. He had been told that Pavlos’s wife Myrto was estranged from him, living in Paris, but surely he had feelings for his children. He called the Fat Man’s mobile.
‘Anything?’
‘Just a lot of dirty DVDs. The hyper-rich, eh?’
‘Wondered what was delaying you. Any family photos?’
There was a pause.
‘Oddly, no.’
‘What about in the kitchen?’
‘Hang on.’ There was the sound of heavy footsteps. ‘No, I don’t see any.’
‘Not even on the fridge?’
‘I don’t even know where the fridge is. All the fittings look the same.’
‘Hold on.’ Mavros cut the connection and took the lift down.
‘Found it,’ Yiorgos said, holding open a wide door. He closed it. There was nothing on the outside.
Mavros started opening the cupboards both above and below the work surfaces, the Fat Man following suit. There were plates, cups, pans and food supplies, most of the latter unopened.
‘What about those?’ Yiorgos said.
Mavros looked up and saw a line of blue and white hooped storage jars with ‘Flour’, ‘Tea’, ‘Sugar’ and the like, on the top of the cupboards.
‘Cornishware,’ he said. ‘My mother has some like that.’
‘You don’t suppose …’
Mavros grabbed a chair from the breakfast bar and clambered up.
‘Here,’ he said, handing the first one to the Fat Man.
In a few minutes all were on the bar. Mavros got down and went over, his heart beginning to pound.
‘What have we got?’ He looked along the row, taking in the names. ‘Bollocks, we’ll have to check them all.’ He took the lid off the Meal jar, but it was empty.
Yiorgos stuck his hand into kidney beans.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
The tea and sugar jars were empty. Mavros opened the Flour jar, which was nearly full of the white powder. His stomach flipped. Could this be a link to the cocaine dealt by the Gogols and Dinos? He examined the rim of the jar. There was a dusting of white dust on it. He tasted it gingerly; it was flour.
‘What are you doing?’ the Fat Man asked, as Mavros cleared the other jars away with one arm.
‘Stand by to become a ghost.’ He upended the jar and enveloped them in a cloud of flour. There was a muffled click as something heavier hit the surface of the breakfast bar.
Waving his hands, Mavros looked at the object in a clear plastic bag partially covered by flour. It was a dark blue memory stick.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Edgar Allan was right.’
‘That was hardly in plain sight,’ Yiorgos said, coughing.
‘It’ll do for me. Let’s get out of here.’
They left the house and walked quickly down the hill, brushing flour off as they went. The Fat Man called Marian
thi and asked her to meet them on the front at Pasalimani.
‘You won’t miss us,’ he said. ‘We’ve become albinos.’
Mavros kept on slapping away the white powder, wondering why there hadn’t been any family photos. Had Pavlos’s children turned against him as his wife had?
Jim Thomson drove to Molyvos the next morning. It was a fine day, the blue sky broken only by scattered high cloud. Lesvos was fertile, animals on either side of the road, even horses in some fields. There were olive trees and chimneys from the pressing factories, many of them disused. Inland from the Gulf of Kalloni the road turned north and the mountain massif on the east grew more imposing. At Petra a thin volcanic outcrop rose behind the modern village and then the Genoese castle above Molyvos became visible, a stone shout of defiance to the Ottomans who eventually captured the island.
He left the car outside the old town and walked round the cobbled alleyways, looking for somewhere to stay. He was still struggling with the idea of casting Ivy’s remains to the waves and needed time to prepare himself. Eventually he found an old merchant’s house that was still taking guests. He pretended he spoke no Greek and let the elderly black-clothed owner, Kyria Stella, practice her hit-and-miss English on him. She showed him to a large room on the first floor, the windows providing a fine view of the lower town and the sea beyond. She told him there was a good taverna at the harbour, pointing out the small sea wall and an old warehouse. Then she left him alone. His bag was in the car but he needed to lie down for a while. When he woke it was nearly dark. He hadn’t dreamed, which was a relief. He was still uneasy at being back in Greece, even though he’d never been to the island before. Perhaps his familiar ghosts – his family, the friends he had deserted – would stay away from this eastern outpost of the country. He had noticed people who were obviously illegal immigrants being herded into a bus in Mytiline as he was leaving. The proximity to Turkey meant that Lesvos was first stop in Europe for many of the Middle and Far East’s unfortunates. It was a transition point, just as it would be for Ivy to the next world she had believed in and he most definitely did not.
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