The Silver Stain

ELEVEN

Back in his room in the hotel, Mavros booted up his laptop and checked his emails. The Fat Man had forwarded a large number of files in English — the old communist had never learned many words of the former imperial power’s language on principle. He had learned other things, which he asked Mavros to call him about.

‘How goes it, Yiorgo?’

‘Ah, the arse-licker of Hollywood. Still alive?’

Mavros told him about the dust-up with the men from Kornaria and the vendetta that had been proclaimed.

‘Marx, Engels and Lenin,’ the Fat Man said, with a groan, ‘you’ve been on the Great Island less than two days and already there’s a price on your head?’

‘Just doing my job. What about yours?’

‘Oh, I’m getting paid for this, am I? That’ll make a change.’

Mavros rolled his eyes. ‘As a matter of fact, the money is the only good part of this case. Make out an invoice. And talk.’

‘“Make out an invoice,” he says,’ Yiorgos said caustically. ‘Where do you think you are? Germany?’

The Fat Man wasn’t far from the truth, Mavros thought. The Heavenly Blue was an oasis of German order and calm, despite the staff in local costumes. Outside the perimeter fence, things were rather more fraught.

‘All right, let’s have it, Fat Man,’ he said, opening his notebook.

‘Who do you want first? There’s more on the Greek sites about Rudolf Kersten than the others. And — get this — he’s really popular for a German.’

As his friend spoke, Mavros was scrolling down the pages he’d been forwarded about the former paratrooper.

‘He made a fortune in the building trade in the Ruhr valley after the war,’ Yiorgos said, ‘starting off as a bricklayer and ending up as chief executive of the company.’ He grunted. ‘What we’d call a class traitor.’

Mavros ignored that, his eye having been caught by Kersten’s later war record. ‘He served on the Eastern Front,’ he noted, ‘wounded three times, twice seriously, and was both decorated and promoted several times.’

‘So he was an enemy of the Soviet motherland too,’ the Fat Man said sourly.

‘He passed through the denazification programme in 1947 and, having made his fortune, moved to Crete in 1964 to build the Heavenly Blue. He used only Greek architects, designers and labour, as well as donating large sums of money to villages that had suffered during the Axis occupation.’ He remembered what David Waggoner had said about blood money. That seemed a pretty uncharitable view.

‘He was in with the bastard Colonels, of course,’ Yiorgos said. ‘They were very happy to sell him permits to develop the hotel.’

‘Not sure if you can blame him for that,’ Mavros countered. ‘How many Greeks did the same thing?’

‘Greeks of the thieving, collaborating class.’

Yeah, yeah, Mavros thought. There was some truth in what the Fat Man said, but life wasn’t that simple. The dictatorship had lasted seven years and people had to feed their families somehow. He had a brief glimpse of his brother Andonis — long lost and a likely victim of the brutal regime — but, unlike in the past, the smiling face faded quickly.

‘Your problem, Yiorgo,’ he said, scrolling down more attachments, ‘is that Rudolf Kersten seems to be a genuinely good man, even though he’s a capitalist.’

‘And former Nazi. You should see what David Waggoner has to say about him.’

‘I’ve already heard him on the subject.’ Mavros found a file bearing the Briton’s name. There was a newspaper report of the sixtieth memorial of the Battle of Crete in 1941, when there had been tension between Allied and German veterans. A group of former SOE men, including Waggoner, had rounded on paratroop survivors and berated them for singing Nazi songs in the cemetery near Maleme. From what he could gather, Rudolf Kersten had stood apart with Hildegard and remained silent.

‘You see that story in the Free News?’ the Fat Man asked.

Waggoner had been interviewed following the death of one of his SOE comrades in Crete. He said that several Nazi war criminals, including one who had taken part in a massacre on the island, were still at large and had never been brought to justice — and one was even the head of a large enterprise near Chania.

‘Did you find anything else on that?’ Mavros asked.

‘Not even in Rizospastis,’ Yiorgos replied, naming the Communist Party organ. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Kersten is friends with the capitalist press barons. Maybe he put his lawyers on our people.’

‘Or maybe they reckoned he was clean.’

‘What is he?’ the Fat Man demanded ‘Your new best friend?’

Mavros held back from mentioning the money he’d earned from the German.

‘No, but I’ve met him and he doesn’t strike me as a hypocrite, never mind the type that has his nose up the press magnates’ arses. There’s a look in his eyes-’

‘Oh, there’s a look in his eyes,’ Yiorgos said snidely. ‘A look that your hypersensitive antennae picked up, suggesting he never did anything wrong in his life. Despite being on the Eastern Front for over three years.’

‘You finished? Did you get anything else on Waggoner?’

The Fat Man paused. ‘I did actually,’ he said dramatically, like a magician pulling a halibut out of a hat. ‘I talked to one of the old comrades who was on Crete during the occupation. He said that Waggoner was a crazy man, always pushing for the most dangerous sabotage raids. It seems he was wounded during the original battle. The Germans took him to Athens for surgery — strangely decent of them — and some months later he escaped from a train in Yugoslavia, before getting himself sent back to Crete.’

‘A man on a mission.’

‘Looks that way. He was a hard-line anti-Communist as well, like most of the British agents, and our people suspected him of “disappearing” several EAM operatives.’ EAM had been the National Liberation Front, which was largely under Communist control. ‘Of course, we never had much influence in Crete. They have their own ideology down there.’

‘I’ve noticed. What’s this about Cyprus?’

‘I found that on one of the far-right sites so I don’t know how accurate it is, but they say he was in charge of a British undercover execution squad in the late Fifties, before independence. Several innocent citizens, including a young lad of seventeen, were left in the street with their brains blown out. Eventually Waggoner got thrown out for being too much of a headcase even for the occupiers.’

Mavros wondered about that. Could it be that the former SOE man had a worse past than the German he’d accused?

‘OK, Yiorgo, I’ll go through what you’ve sent. Thanks.’

‘Oh, it’s “thanks” now, is it? Well get this, weird eye. I made a galaktoboureko and it’s even better than the old woman’s.’

Mavros had a saliva rush. ‘Save me a couple of pieces.’

The Fat Man laughed. ‘What makes you think there are any pieces left?’

Mavros cut the connection and continued scrolling down the attachments. There was an article from one of the Chania provincial papers about the house Waggoner had built outside Kornaria — it had dark stone floors and was very Spartan, which wasn’t a major surprise. There were also several pieces saying how popular the ex-soldier was, acting as godfather to numerous villagers’ children. His exploits during the war were described in heroic terms — Waggoner had led plenty of ambushes on German patrols and was said to have personally killed over thirty of the enemy.

Mavros was interrupted by his phone.

‘This is Cara. I need you.’ The words were simple, but the tone less so. Mavros picked up more than a hint of flirtation. ‘I’m in my suite.’

‘And I’m in the middle of something,’ he said. ‘Give me a few minutes, please.’

‘All right,’ the actress replied, less silkily.

Mavros called Niki. He had to wait for her to answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, shit, were you asleep?’

‘It has been known to happen at this time of day.’

‘Sorry.’ Niki didn’t often take a siesta, but she was never delighted to be woken from one. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll be up to later in the evening.’

There was a rapid intake of breath. ‘If you go near any Hollywood actresses, your dick is doomed.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve found the missing woman. I should be home soon.’

‘Oh. Well done. Are they appropriately grateful?’

‘I’m supposed to be going out with the director and his people.’

‘Would they include one Cara Parks?’ Niki asked.

‘Don’t know. Look, her assistant is in a bit of a state. She’s not talking and she may have been mistreated. I think Cara. . I mean, Ms Parks has got other things on her mind.’

Niki instantly picked up on the vagueness in his voice. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. I hope she’s not too upset.’ Her voice hardened and rose in volume. ‘And doesn’t need consoling, especially from a man she only met the day before yesterday.’

‘Love you, dearest,’ Mavros said. ‘Got to go.’ She wouldn’t like that rapid exit, but he had a lot on his mind — not least, the growing sense that finding Maria Kondos had opened several large and evil-smelling Pandora’s Boxes.

‘How is Maria?’

Cara Parks, seated in her usual place on the sofa and wearing a short denim skirt and multicoloured silk blouse, looked at him uncertainly. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,’ she replied, beckoning him to join her and pointing to the tray of drinks on the table. ‘Give me a vodka tonic, will you? Two of the former to one of the latter, a single rock.’

Mavros obliged and poured himself a shot of Wild Turkey.

‘The doctor. . how do you pronounce his name?’

‘Stavrakakis,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘Cheers, and thanks, Alex. I really appreciate what you’ve done. Anyway, the doctor says the tests are all clear. She hasn’t sustained any head or internal injuries. She hasn’t been raped or anything like that.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah, but she’s obviously suffered some pretty major psychological damage.’

‘She still isn’t talking? Not even to you?’

Cara Parks looked down. ‘No. I’m just back from the clinic. She turned her head to the wall. The last person I saw do that was my grandfather. He’d had chemotherapy too many times and he wanted it all to end.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Mavros watched her eyes. ‘Do you know anything about Kornaria, the village she escaped from?’

‘Only what you told me earlier.’ The reply was quick. ‘Why? Is it a nest of perverts as well as being Dopeville, Crete?’

‘Not that I know of. Stavrakakis seems like a competent type. I’m sure they’ll have English-speaking shrinks on hand.’

Cara nodded. ‘They do. But-’

There was the sound of voices in the hall. Luke Jannet came in unsteadily, followed by Alice Quincy and Rosie Yellenberg. Presumably the gorilla had admitted them.

‘Two little love birds. . how does that song go?’ the director said, heading for the drinks tray.

Alice and Rosie exchanged a glance and shook their heads.

‘So, Mavros,’ Jannet said, raising a highball glass full of Glenfiddich, ‘whatcha think of the airplanes?’

‘They were cool. Glad I wasn’t on the ground when the 109s’ bullets were real.’

The director laughed. ‘That’s what the old Brit said.’

‘Waggoner? He was wounded during the battle.’

‘Is that right? I heard he took plenty of Krauts out later.’

Mavros sipped his drink. ‘Still, making a film’s not the same as being in a war.’

There was a prolonged silence, broken by Cara Parks.

‘Luke, Maria’s still not talking.’

‘I heard that from Rosie. She’ll come round.’ Jannet’s face tightened. ‘You telling me you’re not going to show up tomorrow? Jesus, Cara, it’s the fucking massacre scene.’

Rosie Yellenberg, who had confined herself to a small glass of red wine, intervened. ‘I’ve spoken to Cara, Luke. She will be on set tomorrow.’

‘Well, thank Christ for that,’ the director said, emptying his glass. ‘Come on, we’re all going into Chania. There’s a restaurant on the harbour-front that does ace lobster.’

Mavros glanced at Cara.

‘I want to talk to Alex,’ the actress said. ‘We’ll find you later.’

Jannet raised an eye and grinned. ‘OK, you two do what ya gotta do. Come on, ladies. I get the feeling we’re cramping their style.’

‘Asshole,’ Cara said, after the trio had left.

Mavros raised his shoulders. ‘I’ve worked for worse.’

The actress held her glass out. ‘Same again, bartender. Have a refill yourself.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She laughed and then a shadow fell over her face.

‘Maria will be OK,’ Mavros said, ‘I’m sure of that.’

‘How can you be sure?’ Cara demanded. ‘You aren’t a fucking brain doctor.’

‘Em, no, I’m not,’ he replied, taken aback by her venom.

‘Oh, shit.’ She bent forward, resting her forehead on her upper arm, and started to sob.

Mavros put her refilled glass on the table. He considered comforting her by word or touch, but decided against it. She was, in effect, his client, and besides, there was something he didn’t fully trust about her — he couldn’t always clearly see the line between her acting persona and her real one.

Cara sat up after a few minutes and wiped her face with a tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just. . I rely on Maria so much. I can’t function without her.’

‘Can I ask a personal question?’

She took a pull of her drink. ‘As long as the answer won’t appear in some showbiz rag.’

He smiled. ‘I take client confidentiality seriously.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Were there any problems between you and Maria before she left?’

Cara stared at him. ‘Problems? What do you mean?’

He was almost convinced, but he needed to be sure. ‘The young man who was killed by your car back in LA. You were driving, weren’t you?’

The surprise on the actress’s face was genuine, but was that because the question was out of the blue or because the accusation was well founded, Mavros wondered. For a time, it looked as if she was summoning up the strength to bawl him out, but then her shoulders slumped.

‘How did you know?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘I didn’t, till now.’ He sipped Wild Turkey. ‘But I had my suspicions when we spoke about it before.’

‘Like you say, client confidentiality. You can’t tell anyone.’

He nodded. ‘Wasn’t thinking of doing so. But I would like to get to the bottom of the case I was hired to handle. Was Maria kidnapped or did she go to Kornaria willingly? What happened to her when she was there? Why isn’t she talking, even to you?’

Cara stood up quickly. ‘I can’t answer any of those questions. Come on, I need some fresh air.’

‘The front in Chania is pollution-free.’

‘Screw that,’ she said, picking up a denim jacket from the chair opposite. ‘I’ve had enough of Luke and Rosie and the crowd. There’s a bar here down by the sea. Come with me?’

The look on her face was that of a little girl asking her father to accompany her. Mavros thought about their ages — she was twenty-four and he was forty-one. At a stretch, he could be her father.

He decided against holding her hand.

From The Descent of Icarus:

In the days that followed the slaughter at Galatsi, everything passed in a blur — perhaps because of my head wound, but more likely because my spirit, my soul, whatever you might call it, was trying to withdraw into a safer, more childlike world.

I must have collapsed, because I came round in what had been an enemy hospital encampment, the British flags in shreds and the swastika on its white and red background flapping in the strong wind.

Although my head was aching, I picked up information from the men around me. Some were silent — either in exhausted sleep or drug-induced oblivion — but others were chattering excitedly.

‘The Tommies are running,’ one wheezed, his chest completely covered in bloodstained bandages. ‘Our fly boys will pick them off on the road south.’

Another one spat noisily. ‘The New Zealanders fought well. I wouldn’t like to face those Maoris again.’

‘They did a lot of bayonet work,’ a loudmouth at the end of the open tent said. ‘But we did more with our MG34s. The crows are eating the black bastards now.’

‘And the peasants who cut our boys up,’ said the first man. ‘Savages! One of them stuck a fork in my friend Willi’s neck.’

‘I hope you executed him on the spot, Private.’

There was a brief silence as the men realized who had spoken. I recognized Captain Blatter’s voice immediately.

‘Yes, sir! Except it was an old woman, sir, and I took her head off with my MP40.’

‘Good man!’ Blatter moved down the passage between the camp beds. I tried to shrink into my bed, but it was no good. ‘Ah, Private Kersten. The hero of Galatsi.’ His tone was ironic in the extreme. ‘Men, let’s have a round of applause for the sole survivor of that disaster.’ He began to clap slowly and the wounded men who were able joined in, fully aware that I was being humiliated.

I saw the doctor standing at the end of the tent. His face was expressionless, but I felt his disapproval of Blatter.

‘So, my hero, are you ready for some more of Reichsmarshall Goring’s work?’ The captain leaned over me, inspecting my bandage with a curled lip. ‘You seem well enough.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Doctor, can I have this man?’

I saw the medic raise his shoulders. ‘If you feel it’s completely necessary, Captain.’

‘Indeed I do.’ Blatter seized my arm and pulled me up. ‘Boots on and outside in one minute, Private,’ he ordered, turning on his heel.

I fumbled with the laces of my jump boots and tugged on my jacket.

The captain was waiting for me outside, surrounded by a group of under-officers and sergeants. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is Private Kersten, the heroic survivor of Galatsi. Fortunately, his head wound isn’t severe enough to have prevented him from volunteering for this afternoon’s mission.’

The others regarded me with contempt bordering on revulsion. It was clear that Blatter had told them I was a coward, who had inflicted the head wound on myself. None spoke as we marched out to a line of vehicles, the smaller of which must have been landed by the Luftwaffe. The absence of gunfire confirmed what I had heard in the hospital tent — the battle was over and the enemy absent from the area around Maleme.

I was told to climb up into a captured British lorry full of paratroopers. They were all armed with rifles or machine-pistols, while I didn’t even have my gravity knife. It must have been stolen when I was unconscious — or perhaps the doctor thought I might be suicidal. We drove for about half an hour, but it was impossible to see anything out of the uncovered rear because of the dust raised by the lorry’s large wheels.

‘Out!’ shouted a sergeant.

The men jumped down, brushing past me. Whatever the oper-ation was, they were avid for it. Most of them were wearing shorts — supplies of equipment and weapons were abundant now.

I climbed down slowly, my head spinning. When it cleared, I saw that we had pulled up in an olive grove outside a village. Paratroopers were already breaking down doors and pushing people out into the single unpaved street — old men, women in black, children.

‘Kersten!’ Blatter roared. ‘Over here, now!’

I went, a black curtain descending over my eyes as I tried to keep a regular pace. I blinked, but still could only see fleeting visions of my surroundings.

‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ the captain demanded. ‘Give him an MP40, sergeant.’

The weapon was shoved into my hands and ammunition clips stuffed into my pockets.

‘Follow me, at the double.’

By the time Blatter and I got to the three-sided square in the centre of the village, a large crowd had gathered. I saw wizened elderly faces and the smooth cheeks of boys. There were no young men — they would have been conscripted when the Italians invaded mainland Greece. But there were young women. And she was one of them.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, nausea flooding through me, and then opened them again. Her dark hair was matted and unwashed, and her black dress looked like it had been pulled through a thorn bush, but her eyes were as haughty as ever. She saw me and gave me a look of such untamed courage that I had to lower my eyes.

‘Every tenth man over there!’ Blatter ordered, pointing to the open field on the square’s fourth side. It was lined with eucalyptus trees, presumably watered by a stream to the rear.

Paratroopers started grabbing men from the crowd and sending them stumbling across the tall grass. I couldn’t make out any system in the count — whoever the soldiers wanted was chosen.

‘Now the women!’ Blatter screamed. ‘Check them for recoil marks.’

There was uproar from the villagers as paratroopers tore down the dresses of the women, some of them obviously grandmothers. When one of my comrades came to my saviour, he slapped her face when she held her eyes on his, and then ripped the top of her dress away. I saw her firm breasts and then my heart stopped. While the wound on her right shoulder was covered by a bloodstained bandage, her left shoulder was heavily bruised. She had managed to use a weapon even on the wrong side.

‘Over there!’ the captain ordered, pushing her towards the line of men in the meadow.

Twenty of our men had already formed a firing squad.

‘What is this?’ I stuttered. ‘These are civilians.’

‘The Reichsmarshall has ordered that exemplary measures be taken against all who dared to resist us.’ Blatter gave a tight smile. ‘Without any further process of law. Makrymari is home to many murderers and francs-tireurs. Private, join the execution detail. Immediately!’

I tried to keep my balance as I walked over. I had it in my mind to give the woman a quick death, but the order came too soon for my befuddled mind and the firing started before I could even pull back the slide on my weapon.

She was already on her back, her arms flung wide and her head an explosion of crimson.

Darkness came over me and I collapsed.