‘I suppose so. But what about Rachel? Don’t you have any desire to see her?’
Aron Samuel sat back in the rickety chair. ‘My great-niece? I imagine she’ll be in the vicinity today.’
Then he told Mavros what they were going to do.
THIRTY-NINE
Rachel had followed Mavros out of the Electra Palace in the hope of persuading him to stay on the case. She was puzzled when he didn’t get straight into a taxi, but walked to the seafront. She ran towards the van when she saw what was happening, but wasn’t quick enough to obstruct his kidnap. She got the registration number, though. Was it the Phoenix Rises? It was hard to believe they’d pick up her investigator after she’d put the fear of the agency into them. She called Dan and told him to trace the number. By the time she got back to her room, he had the information.
‘It’s a rental from a company on Egnatias Street. The name on the papers is Henry James Whitworth, American passport number 2964783946, credit card in that name, home address 1781 Sunset Avenue, Phoenix, Arizona. It’s being checked now … wait … it’s a fake.’
‘What the hell?’
‘Yeah. The credit card’s been cloned.’
Rachel sat down on the bed. ‘At least it isn’t the neo-Nazis.’
‘Those idiots? No, we’re up against serious opposition now.’
‘Tareq Momani’s people?’
‘Remember who was babysitting him.’
‘Shit. The Russians.’
‘I’d say they’re the most likely candidates.’
‘What do we do?’
‘I’ve asked control.’
‘You’d better get over here. We should stick together.’
‘We should. Go into lockdown mode.’
‘Right.’ She broke the connection. Their phones were protected, but not against the kind of serious hardware the Russians would have.
Rachel checked the door locks, wedged a chair under the handle and drew the curtains. There was no point in her going on to the encrypted site since Dan was already in contact with their command team. She screwed a suppressor on to her pistol and sat in the dark, against the wall at right angles to the door.
Then she started to think. If the Russians, or any other major players, had taken Mavros, he would soon talk. That was manageable. He didn’t know about the Momani hit, despite his suspicions that she and Dan were Mossad. If he passed on the latter, nobody would be surprised. The question was, did his capture compromise the next part of their mission? She suspected that control would judge it didn’t. That left the issue of her great-uncle. She’d hoped they would have found him by now. There were records of his activities up to the previous year, but he and his sons, neither of whom was at home although their families were, had evaded border checks. They had probably crossed illicitly into Mexico.
A thought struck her. Was Henry James Whitworth the cover of Aron Samuel or one of his sons? Had they abducted Mavros? No, it was ridiculous. There was little he could tell them that they didn’t already know.
Then she understood. Her great-uncle had taken Mavros to make a point to her. He knew she was after him and had made progress in tracking him down – so he’d removed her Greek expert. Which raised two issues. The first was family loyalty. It seemed obvious that he had no interest in meeting her – he could have approached her at any time over the last few days. But worse: he was planning one of his executions. If he succeeded while she was in the same city, her career in intelligence would explode like a pheasant hit by several simultaneous shots.
Makis Kalogirou was happier than he’d been a few minutes earlier. Confirmation of the final details of the deal with the German-led consortium had been accepted by the government. He had two reasons to celebrate. The family company was going to survive – even prosper – after foreign investment, and that would give the Phoenix Rises a solid financial base.
‘Yiota!’ he shouted.
His wife appeared, her expression even more curdled than usual. She had been badly frightened by the way the abduction of the Jew woman had ended and was taking it out on her husband.
‘I want my best suit for tomorrow, the dark blue one.’
‘It’s in the wardrobe.’
Kalogirou gave her a sharp look. ‘Make sure it’s pressed. And I’ll need a white shirt. Come on, hurry up!’
Yiota shared her husband’s politics, but she didn’t like the way women were kept in the background. They had no children and she wasn’t interested in either cakes or the kitchen.
‘I have work of my own to do,’ she said, turning on her heel. She was a lawyer and her earnings had kept both the family and the party going as Kalogirou SA plunged ever deeper into debt. She was surprised that foreigners would invest in such a company – the furniture factory and equipment were in poor condition and the ceramics off-shoot had never made money.
Her husband pounded after her and grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t!’ she said, jabbing her pen at his eye, but not making contact.
He fell backwards in a heap.
‘Woman, you can’t treat me like that,’ he said, struggling to his feet.
‘You may be the führer of the party, but you don’t order me about,’ she said, walking away. ‘You don’t frighten me either.’
Kalogirou went back to his study and eyed the picture of Hitler behind his desk.
‘You never allowed Eva to talk to you like that, did you?’ he said, picking up the baseball bat he kept in the umbrella stand.
On his way downstairs he smiled. When Yiota woke up, she’d be spread-eagled on the bed, arse up like the Jewish bitch. She might even enjoy it – not that he cared.
Yiorgos Pandazopoulos picked up his mobile phone with a groan. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in Apostolos’s spartan flat and his burns were still painful. The comrade’s wife had gone to stay with her sister, so he was welcome, at least for a short time.
‘This is Niki.’
The Fat Man steeled himself. ‘How are you?’ he asked, preparing for the storm.
‘It’s Alex. Have you heard from him?’
‘Not since … when was it? Yesterday morning. What about you?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. He told me he was on his way home.’
‘Good.’
‘No, it’s not good. He hasn’t arrived.’
Yiorgos’s considerable abdomen clenched. ‘What?’
‘I’ve been calling him since yesterday evening. His phone goes straight to voice mail. I must have left twenty messages.’
‘What the hell? Have you called the hotel?’
‘He checked out yesterday at 1.35 in the afternoon.’
‘That’s … worrying.’
The word set Niki off. Her sobs were long and loud.
‘Calm down,’ the Fat Man said, completely out of his emotional depth. ‘There’s bound to be a logical explanation.’
‘Yes … he’s been grabbed by … the Phoenix Rises …’
‘I doubt it,’ he lied. ‘They’re pathetic cowards.’
‘They … they may have been … the ones who burned down … your house.’
That was true. Yiorgos was still bothered by the young man who had taken him to hospital. Why was he familiar?
‘What … what are we going to do?’
He didn’t like the sound of ‘we’ at all. ‘Have you spoken to Alex’s family?’
‘His mother … and his sister haven’t … haven’t heard from him either …’
He let her howl for a bit longer, considering his options. Shimon Raphael. He would be able to help.
‘Listen, Niki … take a deep breath … and another one … All right, I’ve got a contact in Thessaloniki. I’ll call him and see what he says. I’ll be in touch.’ He broke the connection. He felt sorry for Niki, despite his general dislike of her. Alex had been playing hard ball with her over this case.
The Fat Man found Shimon’s office number. He was told that Mr Raphael was abroad, so he used the mobile number
he had.
‘Shalom aleichem.’
‘What? Shimon, this is Yiorgos.’
‘Yiorgos Pandazopoulos? How are you, my friend? Out of hospital?’
‘Yes. What did you say before?’
‘Oh, that was Hebrew. I’m in Tel Aviv.’
‘Shit.’
‘Actually, it’s not that bad. I’m visiting family.’
‘No, I mean I hoped you were in the co-capital?’
‘Why?’
‘Alex Mavros seems to have fallen off the radar.’
‘What?’
The Fat Man explained.
‘Well, he was all right when I last saw him,’ Shimon said. ‘Though he managed to get the Phoenix Rises on his back.’
‘That’s what I was wondering. Could they have grabbed him?’
‘It’s possible. I don’t know what we can do about it.’
‘I do. Shalom.’ Yiorgos cut the connection and took out his wallet. It had been in his back pocket and had survived the fire. He kept a card with essential numbers on it.
‘Yes?’ Nikos Kriaras said brusquely.
‘This is Yiorgos Pandazopoulos.’
‘Who?’
‘Alex Mavros’s partner.’
‘Oh, the Fat … What do you want?’
Again, Yiorgos explained.
‘So?’ the brigadier said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Alex told me you had a link to Makis Kalogirou. Tell the wanker to let him go.’
‘Why?’
The Fat Man laughed. ‘I know all about you. The independent press and the comrades would be very interested.’
There was a silence. ‘I don’t take well to threats.’
‘Me neither. If anything happens to me, a file is automatically sent to three national newspapers. As well as to the comrades, of course.’
‘You’re taking a big risk,’ Kriaras said. ‘I’ll call you back.’
Yiorgos sat back and wiped his brow. One day he really had to get round to writing up everything Alex had told him about the brigadier.
Ten minutes later, Kriaras rang back.
‘They don’t have him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Don’t push your luck.’ The brigadier hung up.
Now the Fat Man felt seriously lost. Shimon was out of the country, the most likely suspects were out of the equation and Alex was still not answering his phone – he’d rung and left a message of his own.
‘Niki?’
‘Did you get anywhere?’
‘In a sense.’ A very negative one, Yiorgos thought. ‘Listen, leave it with me. I’ve got leads I can follow.’
‘I’ve … I’ve been thinking … about going to Thessaloniki.’
‘Bad idea. I said leave it with me, Niki. All right?’
She agreed reluctantly.
The Fat Man broke the connection and called the airport. Three minutes later he had a booking on the plane that left for the co-capital in two hours. Despite the sting of his burns and the worry about Alex, he felt good. He was the heavy cavalry, riding to save the day.
While Rachel was in the shower, Dan accessed the encrypted site. She had already received information for their mission in the evening and shared it with him. He had personal instructions to confirm. As he waited for control to respond, he kept an ear directed towards the bathroom. Water was still running.
He’d had doubts about their partnership from the beginning. Not because of Rachel as an agent. He’d worked with her before and she’d proved herself to be capable and committed. The problem was the dual nature of this operation. Dealing with Tareq Momani had been both justified and straightforward. True, they’d potentially kicked open a Russian hornets’ nest, but the blame for that had been put at another door. No, the problem was the issue of Rachel’s great-uncle. He’d read the old man’s file. It was an amazing document. Dan had plenty of hits to his name, but Aron Samuel made him look like a babe in arms. The Auschwitz survivor was a stone killer and a genuine hero. Eighty years old and still taking the bad guys down – it was remarkable. But also sad. Was that how he was going to end up, Dan thought. Killing with a colostomy bag and a catheter?
He shrugged. Why not? It would be better than playing golf with a bunch of wrinkled old farts in Florida. Only that wasn’t how it worked. Stone killers didn’t die in their beds. It was against their natures – he could understand that.
The water in the bathroom had stopped. Dan looked at the screen, ready to log out. He heard Rachel brushing her teeth, then confirmation came through. It was as he had expected.
FORTY
Dieter Jahnel had asked his German colleagues to come to his apartment before three o’clock. The sheik’s security detail duly arrived at that hour and carried out both a technical and hands-on check of the place and its occupants. Given the amount of money that was coming from the Gulf, the businessmen and women were prepared to submit to that minor invasion of their privacy. Muhammed bin Zayed arrived with his two bodyguards when the all-clear was given.
Dieter went to meet him at the door, bowing as he shook his hand. The sheik was in white robes, his thick black curls almost reaching his shoulders and his sleek beard making him look more like a rock star than one of the world’s shrewdest investors – and he was only thirty-five. The only significant blemish on his reputation – who cared about gambling and rumours of high-end call girls? – was his secret funding of Islamic clerics with suspected links to Al-Qaeda cells, some of which had been active recently. A woman from the secret service had visited him at his office in Munich and informed him that the sheik was out of favour with the Americans, even though they allowed him to conduct business in New York without hindrance. The BND file was submitted to the Minister of Economic Cooperation and Development, who approved the consortium’s involvement with the sheik.
‘Dieter,’ said the Arab, in English, taking his hand, ‘how very good to see you again. I do apologise for this rigmarole. One can never be too careful.’
The sheik had been educated at public school and Oxford, but seemed to have learned his English from the works of P.G. Wodehouse. Fortunately Wodehouse was one of Dieter’s favourite authors, an addiction he had picked up on an exchange visit to a college in Gloucestershire.
‘You don’t mind if I have a cigar? I know you don’t partake.’
‘Be my guest,’ the German replied, with a liberal gesture. His wife would have been unimpressed. Smoking was banned in their home.
Shortly afterwards, the Greek contingent arrived. The Development Minister dispensed handshakes and smiles with his usual aplomb, while the businessmen did their best to disguise their excitement. Several had already told the press that Thessaloniki and the surrounding area would be economically transformed by the deal. Local MPs and politicians crowded in, at a loss over how to address the sheik. Dieter found most of them boorish and grasping. They made local politicians in Germany seem like models of probity. There was only one person missing.
‘At least that idiot Kalogirou hasn’t shown up,’ the Minister said to Dieter, hand shielding his mouth. ‘He’s an embarrassment to both us and your delegation.’
The German wasn’t going to make a fuss an hour before the signing of the agreement, but he wanted to ask what the leader of the Phoenix Rises had to do with his team of business people.
Ursula, Dieter’s hyper-efficient assistant, came over and told him it was time to start moving to the town hall, where the ceremony would take place. The cars were waiting below. He went over to the sheik.
‘The signing hour is almost upon us.’
‘Very good,’ said the Arab. ‘No witching hours around here, at least.’ He laughed. ‘At least I hope not.’
Dieter Jahnel watched as the security personnel gathered around the sheik in a human shield. He was glad he had no need of such protection. Then again, he was worth about a thousandth of the man. He glanced out of the window as he went to chivvy the Greeks along. Mount Olympus and its snowy cap
glinted in the distance. Not even Zeus could have matched the wealth of the Gulf states. But Zeus’s thunderbolts could level all people, rich and poor.
‘No!’ Yiota Kalogirou shrieked. ‘Let me go!’
The man in the balaclava punched her in the face, sending her flying through the hall. Her head hit the parquet floor hard and she lay still.
‘What … what have you done?’ her husband said.
‘Gag her,’ the second man said, in heavily accented Greek. ‘But you, we want you to talk.’ He pushed the Greek into the sitting room and told him to pull the blinds down, pistol aimed at his midriff.
‘Now, Mr Kalogirou, come and sit beside me.’ The second man’s teeth were visible in the gap in his balaclava. They were grey.
‘What … what are you going to do to me?’
‘Fascists,’ the man said over his shoulder. ‘Have you ever met one who isn’t a coward?’
‘There was that Bulgarian.’
‘Oh yes. Shooting him in the balls made him squeal like the others, though.’
Kalogirou whimpered. The pistol’s muzzle was jammed into his side.
‘You’ll notice I’m not worried about making a noise. What does that tell you, leader of the neo-Nazi Phoenix Rises?’
‘That … that you don’t care who hears.’
‘Correct. So talk.’
‘What … what about?’
‘You hear that, Sergei?’
‘I hear it.’
‘Give me your knife.’
Sergei handed over the weapon, a combat model with a well-honed edge, then rammed his own pistol into the nape of the Greek’s neck. His colleague ran the knife over Kalogirou’s leg.
‘Talk!’
‘I don’t understand. Please! Ach!’
The Russian had sliced into the flesh of his left thigh.
‘Tareq Momani. Your group of pathetic nationalists shot him, yes?’
‘No. We were … we were framed.’
The man with the knife laughed. ‘Someone else sprayed swastika on the dead man and gate? Who?’
‘I don’t … I don’t know … Please!’
‘Don’t know is no good.’ The blade cut deeper.
The Black Life Page 26