The White Sea

by Paul Johnston

  The big man’s face had turned red.

  ‘Thought not. Know how many bones there are in your wrist? No? The answer’s eight. Then there are the ends of the radius and ulna, plus the beginnings of the five metacarpals. Making a total of fifteen.’ He caught his captive’s eye. ‘The real question is, how many do you want me to break?’

  ‘None,’ the big man squeaked.

  ‘None, what?’

  ‘None, Mr Gogol.’

  ‘Your wrist survives. For now. Where’s the fucking car?’

  On the drive inland, the heavy Jeep bouncing over potholes, Igor ran through how he was going to play things again. The Son – what kind of idiotic handle was that? – was supposed to have softened up old Gatsos. The shipowner was to think he would be signing papers to set up his foundation and pay tax and compensation, but in reality he’d be handing over his shares to Potemkin via the Colombian Rojas. After that, there were loose ends to be tied – lines had been overstepped and excesses perpetrated. The Son himself would soon be a target.

  Igor sat back and touched the marks on his face. He saw the driver glance at him uneasily, which was the point. He considered stripping off his shirt and giving the foot soldier the full show – his back had not only been tattooed in the prison outside Moscow, but heavily scarred by the beatings he’d taken when he was in his early twenties. They had turned him into a man, they and the reading he had done. The experienced ‘thief-in-law’ who had taken him under his wing recommended spending as much time as he could with the classics – not just the Russians, though Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky were essential, but the ancient writer Homer. He taught you about physical courage and endurance, although more important were perspicacity, caution, daring and cunning. Igor’s hero was Odysseus. Not only had he led his men through ten years of vicious fighting and in-fighting – the Greek kings were like gang bosses, greedy and quick to violence – but he had designed the Wooden Horse that brought down the Trojans. Then he had spent ten years getting home, although many of them were spent with females hungry for him, the witch Circe and the immortal Calypso. Igor thought about the women in his life: a succession of whores, in his early days drug-addicts with addled minds and more recently the pick of the girls conned into leaving home for jobs in the west. But Greece didn’t count as a western country. It was Middle Eastern in its levels of graft and corruption – which had suited Igor and Lavrenty fine. He briefly wondered how his brother was getting on in the police cells or prison. He’d have to find a way of getting him out. A helicopter would do it.

  Then, as they pulled up behind the dilapidated building, Igor Gogol remembered the woman he’d met by the old execution ground. Laura Moreno. She was one sweet piece of half-breed Colombian ass. And, best of all, Santiago Rojas said he could have her when everything was finished. Rojas wanted her taught a lesson, her and that cocksucker of a private investigator Mavros.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Igor demanded, as the driver turned off the engine.

  ‘Lev,’ came the muted reply.

  ‘You know what it means?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, try to be more of a lion then.’ Igor opened the door. ‘But not when I’m around.’

  The photographer in Molyvos hadn’t needed to blow up Laura’s image of the Theophilos painting. Instead he downloaded it and zoomed in on the writing along the top.

  ‘Feast of St George at the Theotokis factory,’ Mavros read.

  ‘Bloody Christians,’ muttered the Fat Man, when they got outside, ‘taking my name in vain.’

  ‘Theotokis,’ Mavros repeated. ‘He’s one of Gritsis’s friends.’ He flicked through his notebook. ‘Yes, Makis Theotokis.’

  Elisavet Latsou was already accessing the police files. ‘Here he is. Thomas Theotokis, son of Ion, aged sixty-two, landowner and farmer.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘There’s an address in Mytilene and one in Plomari.’

  ‘Lot of ouzo-making there,’ Yiorgos said, licking his lips.

  ‘Thank you for that contribution,’ Mavros said. ‘What is it, Babi?’

  The lieutenant was looking at him pensively. ‘You don’t suppose …?’

  ‘Kostas Gatsos could be there?’ Mavros completed. ‘I was just thinking that. Maybe that’s why the painting was taken. Although all that’s done is make us suspicious.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot,’ Yiorgos said. ‘There must be dozens of old factories on this island.’

  ‘Then we’ll search them all,’ said Elisavet firmly.

  ‘We should get hold of Theotokis first,’ Mavros said. ‘I’m heading to Gritsis’s place. Perhaps the pair of them did some kind of deal to get at Kostas Gatsos. The rest of you, go back to the guest house and get ready for a rapid departure.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Babis said. ‘That’s not negotiable.’

  Mavros shrugged.

  ‘Me too,’ added the sergeant.

  Mavros led the way to the well-appointed house halfway up the hill. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s about lunch time.’

  ‘Hungry?’ Babis asked.

  ‘Not particularly, but it increases the possibility he’ll be home.’

  When they got there Babis applied a heavy hand to the pale blue door.

  ‘Mr Gritsis, please,’ he said to the wizened woman who answered after some time.

  ‘We’re eating.’

  ‘Never mind that.’

  They pushed past her and found Gritsis with a napkin round his neck and a plate of stuffed tomatoes in front of him.

  ‘Take his mobile,’ Mavros suggested.

  Sergeant Latsou held out her hand.

  ‘What is this?’ Gritsis demanded.

  ‘You’re under arrest for withholding information pertaining to the Gatsos kidnapping case.’ Elisavet turned to the seated man’s wife. ‘And so are you. No phone calls.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where’s Makis Theotokis?’ the lieutenant asked.

  ‘He left this morning. Back home in Mytilene by now, I should think. How dare you—’

  The sergeant deftly handcuffed him and his wife.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ Elisavet said.

  They went out into the sun, Gritsis’s napkin still covering his chest.

  ‘Meet you in a quarter of an hour at the parking place,’ Mavros said. ‘And don’t let him talk to anyone.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Babis said, under his breath.

  The pain still racked him, even though the hooks had been removed some time before. Kostas Gatsos was back in his cell, in the dark. Although his skin hadn’t been pierced by all the sharp instruments, he’d let out muffled screams despite the tape over his mouth. He hadn’t been lifted up on the terrible apparatus either, but that was only a small mercy.

  Still he wouldn’t give up. They’d put papers in front of him before he was pierced, but he refused even to look at them, never mind add his signature. He told them to suck their cocks. The Son laughed at that, then told him that his punishment would be spread out over several days.

  Could he take it, Kostas asked himself. Yes, he could. That might have been in question before he’d seen his ungrateful cow of a daughter and the two gold diggers on the platform. There had been times he’d been beaten by men, though not many, but he would never allow women to get the better of him. He’d rather die.

  Suddenly he started to cry, though he made sure no sound passed his lips.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mavros and the others headed down the cobbled lanes to the parking place at the bottom of the town. Laura slipped and he put out a hand quickly.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.

  ‘I’m a knight in shining armour.’

  ‘Your hair’s long enough.’

  ‘That makes you Queen Guinevere.’

  She looked around. ‘Doesn’t look much like Camelot here. I liked it though.’

  ‘Better than the Villa Gatsos?’

  ‘Actually, yes. The
nights were dull there.’

  ‘And you raise your eyebrows about us,’ the Fat Man said, from behind.

  They found the lieutenant on the phone outside the unmarked car, while Sergeant Latsou kept an eye on the elderly couple in the back seat.

  ‘Does he know anything about Theotokis’s properties?’ Mavros asked Elisavet.

  ‘Claims he only owns the two we have on file.’

  ‘Maybe he sold one or more others.’

  She nodded. ‘It would be helpful if this country had a digital land register.’

  ‘Among other things.’

  Babis finished his call. ‘The brigadier says we’re not to involve the Lesvos police. He thinks the kidnappers may have got at someone in a senior position. He’s bringing a team over as soon as possible.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘By late evening.’

  ‘Are you prepared to wait that long? Kostas Gatsos is over eighty. He might be close to death.’

  The lieutenant glanced at his companion. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘You pick up Theotokis in Mytilene and squeeze him as hard as you can,’ Mavros said. ‘If he sold the place to outsiders we may have cracked the case. We’ll go to Plomari and wait for you to confirm that.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘We can hardly go barging into a private citizen’s house and drag him out, can we? That’s your job.’

  ‘I don’t like it. This operation is under police control.’

  Mavros glared at him. ‘Is that right? What’s its name? Operation Screw-Up? Because that’s what you people did at the Gogol brothers’ place. Besides, I’m not taking control. You told me Kriaras said the locals have to be kept out of the loop. I’m making the best use of the available man- and woman-power.’

  ‘All right,’ Babis said. ‘But I want your word you won’t do anything until we get down there.’

  ‘Done,’ Mavros said, turning away.

  ‘No. Give me your word.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ Mavros did as he was told.

  Shortly afterwards they left in convoy, Elisavet driving the front car. They stayed together until the junction beyond the Gulf of Kalloni, where Marianthi turned south.

  ‘Look at those olive trees,’ Laura said. ‘I love the grey-green glints from them.’

  ‘So do I,’ Mavros said.

  ‘Do you have any Lesbian blood?’ she asked.

  Mavros laughed and translated for the others.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not a drop.’

  ‘What’s so fun … oh, I see. You realise that’s horribly narrow-minded and bigoted?’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  She did, but not for long.

  The clatter of feet down the narrow street hadn’t escaped Jim Thomson’s attention. He had returned to the villa across the fields that morning, stopping short when he saw cars outside the building and people going in and out. The old man he’d seen at the far side of the garden the day before was present again, talking to the long-haired Alex Mavros, as well as to a solid man dressed as a tourist who was obviously a cop.

  Thomson’s time in Molyvos was over and he was ready to go. He’d been thinking of driving down to the strange rock pinnacle at Petra, but when he heard the commotion he decided to tag along. Something was obviously happening. If Kostas Gatsos was to be found, he wanted to be there. He didn’t rationalise why, it just felt right. The old bastard had done away with the Homeland and he wanted to confront him about that. No, he said, under his breath, as he reached the hire car. There’s more to it than that. You want to see what Alex Mavros will do. He’s haunting you …

  He put his suitcase in the boot, but kept his hand luggage in the passenger’s side footwell. The Russian grenade was wrapped in a T-shirt, along with a small stone he’d found between the rocks where he parted from Ivy.

  Marianthi stopped outside a café on the sea front in Plomari. Mavros looked round as he stretched his back.

  ‘Pretty place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘Maybe we could come back when this is all over.’

  ‘Don’t you have to get back to Colombia?’

  ‘Business brings me to Europe every few months.’

  ‘Good. Wish I could say the same about Colombia.’

  ‘Plenty of missing people there.’

  ‘Not much Spanish in here,’ he said, tapping his head.

  ‘Languages can be learned.’

  Mavros led her and the others inside, disturbed by the turn the conversation had taken. They’d only spent one night together and Laura was already building a future for them?

  The Fat Man went to the bar and started dictating how he wanted the coffee to be made.

  ‘Thanks for asking what we wanted,’ Mavros said, when his friend came to the table they’d chosen.

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘I’d like a Manhattan.’

  ‘You’re getting unsweetened Greek coffee, end of conversation.’

  ‘But I like sugar in mine,’ Marianthi protested.

  ‘Traitor. Besides, sugar’s bad for you.’ Yiorgos pointed at Mavros. ‘He told me that.’

  Mavros raised his hands. ‘Guilty, but only as regards him. You should have seen him when he really was the Fat Man.’

  ‘I wish I had,’ Marianthi said, with a sweet smile.

  Yiorgos kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry, yours has got sugar.’

  Mavros shook his head. When the waiter arrived with the coffees, he asked the young man with the shaven head if there were any disused factories in the vicinity.

  He laughed. ‘Dozens. Why are you interested?’

  ‘We’re researching a location for a film,’ the Fat Man put in. ‘We need somewhere with a chimney on one end.’

  ‘That doesn’t narrow it down much.’

  ‘We heard something about a place owned by the Theotokis family.’

  ‘Ah, now you’re talking. Old Thomas sold it about a year ago. It was an olive pressing plant. My father used to work there. Apparently someone was going to fix it up, but nothing’s happened. I think it has a chimney on the right as it comes into view.’

  Mavros tried to disguise his interest. ‘Is that so? Whereabouts is it?’

  ‘Go east past Playia and a couple of kilometres further on there’s a turn off on the left. It’s pretty overgrown but the place is under a kilometre inland.’

  Mavros gave him a large tip. ‘We have competitors, so I’d be glad if you didn’t mention to anyone that you sent us there.’

  ‘No problem,’ the young man said, pocketing the cash.

  ‘What do we do?’ Yiorgos asked. ‘Wait for the cops or check it out ourselves?’

  Mavros glanced at Laura. She could scarcely contain her excitement. Marianthi looked more circumspect.

  ‘Consider this,’ he said. ‘If Kostas Gatsos really is there he’ll be under guard, armed guard. Remember what happened to Pavlos and the Russian at the villa.’

  ‘All right,’ said the Fat Man. ‘We can just find the factory and keep an eye on it till the cops turn up.’

  ‘Let’s do that,’ Laura said, draining her coffee cup overenthus‌iastically and spitting grounds into a paper napkin.

  Mavros’s belly somersaulted as he remembered his suspicions about her. Could Santiago Rojas have planted her as a spy? Would they be walking into a trap? He hadn’t seen her make any calls, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t equipped with a tracking device. No, he couldn’t believe it. Her fear on the evening she showed up at Yiorgos’s had been genuine enough. Which brought someone else to mind – Igor Gogol: was he involved with the kidnap or even on Lesvos now? Mavros sincerely hoped not. Then again if the Russians were behind the kidnap, Pyotr Alenov would probably have plenty of hard men of his own. Gogol might even be one of them.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll go. Marianthi, you can drop us off at the junction.’

  ‘No chance. I’m going with my man.’

  Yiorgos beame
d.

  ‘Me too,’ said Laura.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be nicer if we just had a double dinner date?’ Mavros asked.

  Laura looked hurt. ‘There’s no need to be ironic.’

  ‘I think you’ll find there is, but never mind.’

  Marianthi drove along the coast and then followed the road to the village of Playia. She missed the left turn and had to reverse when Mavros yelled. The bushes on either side were thick, but the branches nearest the pitted asphalt showed signs of having been brushed by vehicles recently.

  ‘Slowly,’ Mavros cautioned.

  The road widened after the first fifty metres, olive trees planted at regular intervals in the fields on either side.

  ‘There!’ Laura cried.

  The top of a chimney was visible above the leaves.

  ‘Pull in here,’ Mavros said.

  Marianthi took the 4x4 deep into the olives where it wouldn’t be visible from the road, then switched off the engine.

  ‘Right then,’ said the Fat Man, opening his door.

  ‘No,’ Mavros said firmly. ‘I’m calling Lieutenant Babis.’ He did so and listened to the policeman, asking some questions. Then he rang off.

  ‘So?’ Yiorgos asked.

  ‘Jesus, what’s got into you?’ Mavros demanded. ‘Trying to be a hero in front of Marianthi?’

  The Fat Man frowned. ‘Just trying to help.’

  ‘Getting yourself killed is decidedly not helpful.’

  Laura touched his hand. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Theotokis told them he sold the olive press via an estate agent to an unknown buyer. Babis and the sergeant are on their way. They should be here in about an hour. But Brigadier Kriaras has ordered that no action is to be taken until his team arrives later tonight.’

  ‘Great,’ Yiorgos said. ‘What if old Gatsos dies in the next few hours?’

  ‘Old Gatsos might have died weeks ago,’ Mavros replied. ‘There’s no hard evidence he’s here.’

  The Fat Man sighed. ‘OK, how about this? If any vehicle goes up or down the road to the factory, we go and have a look.’

  ‘Leaving the women behind.’

  ‘No!’ Laura and Marianthi exclaimed with one voice.

  ‘We’ll be safer with our heroes,’ Marianthi said.