The Black Life

by Paul Johnston

  He shrugged. ‘Things have changed.’

  ‘No, they haven’t. I repeat, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You are aware of what is going on in our country?’

  ‘You mean Greece? It is no longer my country. I’m an American now.’

  Frizis laughed coarsely. ‘Once a Greek … Besides, what the comrades want is not confined to our homeland.’

  ‘What the comrades want? Of me?’ It was my turn to laugh. ‘They are in no position to make demands.’

  He raised his hands, then took out a filthy handkerchief and dried his face. ‘Hear me out, Mr Samuel. The dictators in Athens have many supporters in the USA. They raise funds, talk to politicians – not that the Americans need much persuading, as the CIA has been running our country for two decades – make money out of tourism and so on.’ The comrade gave me a hungry look. ‘Some of these men could profitably be … removed.’ He paused. ‘Such work being a speciality of yours.’

  I took out my weapon and pointed it at him. ‘What do you know about my work, as you put it?’

  He rolled off a list of our victims – incomplete, but largely accurate.

  ‘Where did you get that information?’

  The comrade raised his thin shoulders. ‘There’s always an intelligence trail. It’s just a question of who shares what with whom.’

  I thought about that. Had Zvi, Baruh or Shlomo been talking? It was unlikely, particularly with the last two. Zvi might have been persuaded, seeing the trade-off as part of his atonement. Then there was Mossad. Could they have passed information to the comrades? They’d warned us off in South America. Maybe they’d had second thoughts. There was also the KGB. They did deals with whoever furthered their aims.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for anyone.’

  ‘There will be no chain of command. We will pass you data on potential targets and you will decide what to do.’

  ‘Really? And if I don’t.’

  He wiped his face again. ‘Better not go into that. Besides, the comrades back home do not want to coerce you. They feel that you will want to be involved. These people in America have links with former collaborators in your home city. You remember the Merten trial? He was sneaked out of the country because the Greek government was scared that ministers’ unsavoury pasts would be unveiled.’

  I remembered Kalogirou, the pig who had taken our house and family business. Killing him had taken only part of the weight from my shoulders. I felt the blood course rapidly through my veins.

  ‘You are interested, I can see,’ the comrade said.

  I pointed the pistol at his groin. ‘There was an implicit threat in what you said earlier.’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘If you kill me, the full force of the international comrades will be directed at you.’

  ‘An open threat now.’ I raised the gun to his chest.

  That made him shut up, though his mouth was wide open.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, after letting him sweat for several minutes. ‘But I give no guarantees that I will act against the targets you select.’

  ‘When you read their files, you will.’

  ‘And I want all mention of me, present and past, removed from the party archives. There is a top-secret classification, is there not?’

  ‘The “hyper”, yes. We already had that in mind.’

  ‘Go, then.’ I pointed to a fallen tree. ‘On the third of every month I will look under the trunk.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you, comrade. Do you think … do you think I could have something to eat?’

  I stared at him. ‘I will not break bread with you. We are not comrades or friends. And find another codename. Frizis was a Jewish hero and is off limits for the likes of you.’

  He shuffled away. I knew he would have transport and probably backup in the vicinity, so he would not suffer. I was angry that my whereabouts had been uncovered, bitter that I would be working, even indirectly, for a totalitarian regime that I despised, but I was also excited. The taking of guilty blood was still my raison d’être.

  Three months later I flew to Philadelphia, where I stole a car and drove to the most significant target’s weekend home. The good thing about wealthy Americans is that they compete with each other over everything. He who has the most comfortable yet out-of-the-way country place wins. This man, Aristotle Pappas, was driven to his so-called cottage – you could have housed ten poor families in it – where he entertained businessmen, politicians, media personalities and even the odd Hollywood star. They all left on Sunday afternoons and he spent the evenings with high-class prostitutes, after sending away the servants. The job was almost too easy, though I had to shoot a large dog that launched itself at me near the back door. I had a suppressor on my pistol, so the occupants of the house heard nothing.

  I watched through the window, wondering what to do about the girl. She was tall, blonde and ridiculously statuesque, but she didn’t deserve to die. In the event, I pulled down my balaclava and knocked her out while she was giving her client a blow job. He screamed as I tied him up, blood dripping from his groin.

  ‘Be quiet,’ I ordered, shoving the suppressor into his mouth.

  Pappas complied.

  ‘Confirm to me that you met these individuals on your recent trip to Athens.’ I spoke the names of most of the Colonels and their sidekicks.

  He nodded.

  ‘And you provided them with funds.’ I pulled the pistol back slightly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, in Americanised Greek. ‘Investment opportunities … abound.’

  ‘Are you doing business with the following …’ The party had provided me with a list of Thessaloniki businessmen, known Nazi collaborators or sons of the same, to make sure I would act.

  He nodded again.

  ‘You realise that all of them obtained Jewish property at minimal cost after the war and threw people who came back from Auschwitz on the street?’

  He glared at me. ‘And I should care?’

  I shot him three times in the mouth.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Mavros woke to find Rachel doing push-ups. She was wearing tight grey gym gear and there were sweat stains in abundance.

  ‘I thought you preferred swimming,’ he said, wincing as his abdomen reminded him what had been done to it.

  ‘In ten minutes,’ she said, her breathing easy. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I need drugs.’

  ‘I checked your wounds while you were asleep. They’re in reasonable condition. There are painkillers in the bathroom, but don’t take more than two – unless you want to spend the day in bed.’

  ‘I definitely do not,’ he said, getting up stiffly. ‘I’m going back to my room.’

  ‘All right. See you for breakfast in half an hour. You can borrow my robe.’

  Mavros put on the white towelling garment, gathered up his clothes and left. In the mirror in his bathroom he saw the discoloured swellings around his eyes. Children would take him for the bogeyman.

  Getting dressed was impossible, given the state of his clothes. He phoned down to the hotel shop and asked for a selection of trousers, shirts and pullovers to be brought up. His leather jacket needed cleaning and he didn’t want to impose on Rachel’s generosity by buying another. With basic apparel, he could find a cheap coat in the backstreet stalls. There wasn’t much he wanted from the clothes that appeared, but he settled on a pair of black trousers, a blue shirt and a black sweater. His boots were wearable.

  Before going down, he called the Fat Man and told him what had happened.

  ‘Fuckers!’ his friend said. ‘Shouldn’t you be in hospital?’

  ‘I’ll survive. Rachel patched me up.’

  ‘Did she now? I won’t tell Niki.’ There was a pause. ‘Look, Alex, I’m sorry about last night. They’re letting me out of here today and I’ll be all right. I’m going to stay with Apostolos for the time being. Don’t come back for me.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that. Though I doubt Niki will see it that w
ay.’

  ‘May your Marx and Lenin go with you.’

  Mavros rang his lover.

  ‘Have you landed?’ she asked.

  He recounted the previous evening’s events, up to the point where he went to Rachel’s room.

  ‘That’s awful, Alex,’ she said. ‘Even more reason to come back.’

  He sighed. ‘Listen, I know you’re feeling down and I know I don’t pay enough attention to you—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But … I’ve got to sort things out up here. I’m not letting the Phoenix Rises get away with it.’ He played his last card. ‘Don’t forget they’re organised down there too. They might come after us. They may even have torched the Fat Man’s house.’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Alex?’

  ‘Get what?’

  There was a frustrated scream. ‘I love you. I need you here. If that’s beyond your comprehension, then forget it.’ She put the phone down.

  Mavros shook his head. There were times when he couldn’t communicate with the woman he loved. Maybe she was right. Maybe his work was more important than anything else in his life.

  Rachel raised her eyes from her laptop when he reached the table in the restaurant. ‘Man about Thessaloniki. I presume I’ll be paying for that outfit.’

  He shrugged. ‘Only if you think it’s a reasonable expense.’

  She smiled. ‘Of course. You’ll need a jacket too.’

  Mavros couldn’t help thinking how easier it was to deal with her than with Niki. After eating, they went to the shop and Rachel bought him an Italian leather blouson that was well beyond his price range.

  He mumbled his thanks, feeling awkward. He wasn’t used to being treated by a female client in that way.

  ‘OK,’ she said, as they walked into the reception area. ‘What are we doing today? Leaving Thessaloniki like the Nazis said?’

  He shook his head. ‘No chance. I’m going to strike back. The Phoenix Rises has a reason to scare us off. I want to know what it is. You don’t have to come along.’

  ‘After what happened last night, you need a bodyguard. I’m going to brush my teeth and then I’ll be down.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better do the same. But I’m taking the lift.’

  ‘See you shortly.’ Rachel set off up the stairs at speed.

  Mavros cleaned his teeth, then consulted the phone directory. Predictably, the Phoenix Rises had an office near the church of St Dhimitrios, the patron saint of the city. There was no guarantee that Makis Kalogirou would be present, considering he had a company to run, but he would soon hear of their visit. Long experience had taught Mavros that drawing out an opponent made them prone to mistakes. Then again, there would probably be plenty of skinheads in heavy boots around. He came up with a plan to deal with them. It involved his toilet bag, a tube of toothpaste, containers of deodorant and shaving cream, and his alarm clock. Professional security personnel wouldn’t be fooled, but blockheads might.

  ‘What’s that under your jacket?’ Rachel asked when they met in the hall. She was wearing the black clothes and boots she’d had on at the rally, and carrying her laptop case as usual.

  ‘A bomb.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not a real one. A dummy for dummies.’

  She smiled. ‘I like the sound of that. Car or walking?’

  ‘The latter.’ Mavros led the way.

  ‘If I liked churches, I’d be impressed by this one,’ Rachel said, taking in the long basilica with the uneven towers.

  ‘Ayios Dhimitrios.’

  ‘No dome, for a change.’

  ‘What have you got against domes?’

  ‘I prefer straight lines to curves.’

  He glanced at her. ‘I don’t.’

  There was a hint of amusement on her lips. ‘Is that it?’ she asked, pointing at a first-floor balcony festooned with Greek flags and the Phoenix Rises’ emblem.

  ‘You could hardly miss it.’

  ‘Plan?’

  ‘Let’s play it by ear.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See how it goes.’

  ‘My life is in your hands.’

  Mavros remembered the fight she’d put up at the demonstration. ‘Ditto.’

  They went into the building. There was a shop selling lingerie in the small arcade, which made him laugh.

  ‘I’ll bet they’re all transvestites.’

  ‘I’m not taking that.’ She looked around. ‘There’s a curious lack of men with no hair.’

  ‘They must all be upstairs. Or maybe they don’t work in daylight.’

  They walked slowly to the first floor, taking in the surroundings. There was a strong smell of fresh paint. The door at the end of the corridor was open, it and the frame bright blue. There was large image of a phoenix rising from the flames on the far wall.

  ‘Still no one on guard,’ Rachel said, right hand in her bag.

  ‘I’m not complaining. Ready?’

  They walked past the ‘Wet Paint’ signs and into the outer office. A middle-aged man in a black shirt was at a desk. He was wearing a Phoenix Rises cap and an incongruous multicoloured woollen scarf.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, with a sniffle.

  ‘Bad time of year for colds,’ Mavros said.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ the man said suspiciously.

  ‘Fucking Commies.’

  ‘You were at the rally?’

  Rachel and Mavros both nodded.

  ‘I’ve got a delivery for the chief. Is he in?’

  ‘Er …’

  Mavros smiled at him patiently.

  The man pressed a button and the steel door to his rear opened. A skinhead with bulging biceps looked out.

  ‘You!’ he said, staring at Mavros.

  ‘Bomb!’ Mavros yelled, holding up his toilet bag. ‘Get back!’

  Rachel slammed the man at the desk’s head down, knocking him out.

  ‘Fuck you, dick,’ the gorilla said, stepping closer and raising a fist.

  ‘What is it, Kosta?’ came Kalogirou’s piping voice from within.

  ‘That Mavros wanker. He says he’s got a bomb.’

  ‘What? Close the door, then.’

  ‘On the floor!’ Rachel ordered.

  Mavros looked to his left and saw the black pistol she was pointing at the skinhead. Jesus, he thought, what have I uncaged?

  The bodyguard thought about it, but not for long. Rachel clubbed him across the back of the head as he was getting down and he crashed on to the parquet floor.

  ‘No!’ Kalogirou said, his voice more like a squeak now. ‘No, I can explain!’ He was on his feet, his short, square frame in front of a poster of Metaxas, the pre-war dictator. There was a bust of Hitler on his desk.

  Mavros looked over his shoulder. Rachel had stayed at the door and was facing the main entrance.

  ‘Only one gorilla for the party leader? That’s a bit careless.’

  ‘There are more. They’ll be back any minute.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Well, this won’t take long. Let me just fix the timer.’ He unzipped his toilet bag and showed enough of the clock to convince the quivering fascist.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he said, smiling. ‘Though of course I can detonate it by hand if anyone gets too close. And it’ll go off if anyone who doesn’t know what they’re doing touches it.’

  ‘You’re … you’re insane.’

  ‘You would know. Actually, I was fine until last night.’

  Kalogirou sat down heavily. ‘That … that was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘You’re fucking right it was. You’ve got a simple choice. Either you tell me what I want to know or I blow you and your pathetic headquarters to tiny pieces. You’ve got good, secure windows, I see.’ Mavros pocketed the keys from the frames. ‘And a solid door, which I’ll lock from the outside – leaving you with Comrade Semtex.’

  ‘What … what do you want to know?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not advanced calculus. Who did you call l
ast night? Who told you to let me go?’

  ‘I … I can’t …’

  Mavros walked backwards and put his toilet bag on the floor by the door. ‘Send my regards to the Führer.’ Rachel turned to him from the entrance. ‘The fool prefers to be liquidised.’

  ‘Fine by me. Come on, then.’

  ‘No …’ Kalogirou’s scream was ear-splitting. ‘I’ll tell you … I’ll … Oh God … It was Nikos Kriaras.’

  Mavros stared at him and then nodded slowly. Then he took the key from the door, walked out, and closed and locked it.

  ‘That should give him a bowel-shredding few minutes.’ He stared at Rachel. ‘Is that gun real?’

  ‘That would be telling,’ she said, stepping over the still comatose skinhead.

  There was loud banging on the door behind them.

  ‘Time to go,’ Mavros said, leading her out. ‘You owe me toiletries, a nice leather bag and an alarm clock.’

  There was the sound of pounding feet below.

  ‘Let’s settle up later,’ Rachel said, handing him the laptop bag and raising her weapon.

  ‘Shit,’ Mavros said, stuffing the keys into his underwear. ‘Should have dealt with his phones.’

  ‘Merde, indeed.’ She smiled and inclined her head to a Greek flag on a pole. ‘You might want to grab that. Perhaps they won’t sully it with their filthy hands.’

  Mavros laughed. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘It’s me, Dorothy,’ Niki said, looking up at the camera outside the heavy door.

  After a lot of rattling and clunking, Mavros’s mother opened up.

  ‘Come in, my dear. Oh, what’s the matter?’

  Niki had started crying and Dorothy put a thin arm round her shoulders.

  ‘Sit down and I’ll make us some tea. That always helps.’ She was speaking Greek, although Niki’s English was good and they often conversed in that language. When Alex’s long-standing girlfriend was emotional, she always reverted to her mother tongue.

  Dorothy brought a tray into the saloni and found Niki with her head in her hands. She sat down beside her and asked, ‘What’s my errant son done now?’

  ‘He won’t … he won’t … come back to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s … completely wrapped up … in a case … in—’