The Silver Stain

SEVENTEEN

Hildegard Kersten was at her husband’s desk in their apartment, papers and memorabilia all over it. Rudi had destroyed most of his wartime documentation, though he had kept his paratrooper’s jump badge, with the gilt eagle diving earthwards over a silvered oak leaf and acorn wreath. He’d never told her why he would often look at it, though she was sure he felt no residual loyalty to the unit — at the memorial services in the official cemetery, he kept away from the other survivors. Having read The Descent of Icarus, she was sure it reminded him of the woman he had been obsessed by. She’d never been jealous of that obsession, which dated from long before she knew Rudi and was not in any way erotic or sexual. He admired the woman, seeing her as a heroine who died for her homeland rather than allow it to be overrun by the invader; he wished that he could have been a defender of his homeland too, though not the ruined Germany he had fought in during the last months of the war. The false dream of the paratroopers had long vanished by then, as had most of the men.

She supposed she would have to get all Rudi’s things in some sort of order for the lawyer who would execute the will. There would be a pension and the use of the apartment till she died, but there was little of monetary value apart from the jump badge, which she would never sell, and his coin collection, which was to be donated to various museums in Crete and mainland Greece. Oskar would soon find that out — or perhaps Rudi had already told him, prompting his stealing of the thirty coins. No, Rudi would never have done that without telling her first. They didn’t have secrets. Those coins were only a small part of the total, which numbered over six hundred. Some were badly worn Roman sestertii of negligible value, but others — the magnificent Syracusan dekadrachms, the perfect Athenian ‘owls’, the Venetian ducats and scudos — were worth a lot of money. But that was of no concern to her. She would hand them over to the museums Rudi had indicated after his funeral.

Ah, the funeral, she thought, struggling to find the energy to proceed with the arrangements. Several of the hotel staff had offered to help. Rudi had always said that he wanted to be cremated and his ashes thrown to the winds, but that was not done in Greece and she didn’t want either the expense or the trouble involved in shipping his body to the nearest crematorium in Bulgaria, a country neither of them had ever visited. She wondered whether to ask the priest at Makrymari if her husband could be buried outside the cemetery wall. He had given plenty of money to the village over the years, even helped to rebuild the church, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to impose on the descendants of the massacre. It didn’t seem right. The easiest thing would be to bury Rudi in the grounds of the Heavenly Blue, but she had a feeling the new owners would not like that.

The phone started to ring. For a while she left it untouched, then picked it up and murmured her name.

‘Grandma?’ came Oskar’s voice. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been out of town. I only heard a few minutes ago. I’m on my way.’

‘No!’ Hildegard said, surprising herself by the strength of her voice. ‘No, Oskar, not tonight. I am. . I am very tired.’

‘You don’t sound tired.’

‘What’s that? I can hardly hear you. Where are you?’

‘In a bar,’ her grandson shouted. ‘Raising a glass to Grandpa’s memory.’

As if you ever cared about your grandfather, Hildegard thought.

‘I’ll come tomorrow and help you sort out the coin collection,’ he continued, making no effort to conceal his interest it. ‘You know Grandpa would have wanted me to have it.’

‘I know no such thing, Oskar. The collection is to be split between various museums.’

All she could hear was shouting and the thump of loud music.

‘That. . that cannot be,’ her grandson said, his voice cracking. ‘The coins are for me.’

‘Come over tomorrow and I’ll show you the will,’ Hildegard said firmly. ‘Goodnight.’

After she had replaced the handset, it struck her that she had put herself in a difficult, even dangerous position with Oskar. She would tell Mr Capaldi to let her know when Oskar entered the resort.

It was only when she kicked the bottom of the desk by mistake that a narrow drawer she had never seen before slipped silently open. Inside was a long knife in a canvas and steel sheath. Slowly she bent forward and picked it up, then pulled the silvery blade out. The pommel was in the rough shape of an eagle’s head and the grip was dark wood.

Hildegard Kirsten shivered. She had no idea why her husband had kept the fearsome Wehrmacht bayonet, nor why its blade was so brightly polished. Then she noticed something else in the drawer — a silver double axe head about ten centimetres across. She recognized it as a Minoan labrys and was aware that Rudi had donated several to museums of Crete and the mainland. She also knew that it had religious significance related to the moon and the mother goddess. But why had her husband kept this one? She was almost certain it was because of his obsession with the woman in the war. That made her feel small and insignificant.

Mavros and Mikis looked round the corner towards the Black Eagle. There were a few misguided tourists sitting outside the bar, but no skinheads.

‘Clear about what we’re going to do?’ Mavros asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

The Cretan nodded, the large pistol under his shirt, which hung loosely over his jeans.

‘All right. . action!’

They walked down the narrow street, keeping close to the walls on the same side as the Black Eagle. When they got to the edge of the bar, Mikis took a cautious look inside.

‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘All three of the bastards who wrapped you up plus that German tosser we took the coins from.’

‘Any other neo-Nazi types?’

‘Not as many as last time. Maybe ten.’

‘So it’s fourteen to two,’ Mavros said, his blood up. ‘Or rather three, including Mr Colt.’

‘Mr Colt has an eight-round clip,’ Mikis said, smiling wickedly.

‘Fourteen to ten, then. Piece of piss. Your move.’

The Cretan steeled himself, and then marched quickly into the bar. Mavros kept close behind him. The three men were seated round a metal table, bottles of lager in front of them. Mikis reached the shortest of them before anyone noticed and stuck the pistol’s muzzle in his ribs.

‘Outside,’ he shouted, above the din of the music. ‘Only you.’

The other two had started to get up, but they sat down again when they saw the Colt. Meanwhile, Mavros leaned over Oskar Mesner, who was at another table, and spoke into his ear loudly.

‘You see the pistol my friend’s holding on that fucker over there?’

Mesner nodded rapidly.

‘Well, I’ve got another one,’ Mavros said, patting his waist. ‘Get up and walk slowly to the street.’

The German obeyed, but as they reached the gaping French windows, he squealed for help in his own language. Mavros pushed him out, while Mikis turned back to the occupants of the Black Eagle, left arm wrapped round his captive’s neck.

‘Come on, if you’ve got the balls!’ he challenged, holding up the pistol.

One of the Greek skinheads stood up, shouting, ‘At them, boys, there are only two-’

The blast of the Colt was thunderous, despite the death metal that had been playing and which abruptly stopped. The skinhead looked at the large hole that had appeared in the plaster behind him and crashed back down on his chair.

‘Seven more rounds,’ Mikis said. ‘Anyone fancy his chances?’ He looked around at the cowed young men. ‘What a surprise. And don’t even think about coming after us.’

Mavros had stuffed a handkerchief into Mesner’s mouth as the tourists outside the Black Eagle scurried away down the street. He and Mikis, who had gagged the other man, went the other way. The Jeep had been left as close as possible and they were soon there, with no one on their tails.

‘Put your hands out,’ Mavros ordered the two men. ‘Remember this?’ he said to the Greek. He wrapped duct tape around the proffered wrists as Mikis did the same with Oskar Mesner. Then the two men were shoved into the back of the Jeep.

‘Here,’ Mikis said, handing the Colt to Mavros. ‘If they move, shoot them in the knee. At this range, they’ll lose a leg, but they’ll still have time to spill their guts.’

Mesner and the shaven-headed Cretan sat stiller than statues, even when Mikis went round corners. Ten minutes later they were out of the urban sprawl and in another ten were bumping over a rough track between lines of olive trees. Mikis stopped the Jeep in a small clearing and went to the back of the vehicle. He returned with two spades.

‘Out!’ he said, hauling the Greek from the back seat.

Mesner followed meekly, his eyes bulging.

Mikis led them into the beam of the headlights and cut the tape from their wrists, laughing as they winced when he ripped the strips off. Mavros was to the rear, covering them with the pistol. Mikis gave each of the captives a spade and stepped back.

‘Start digging,’ he ordered, and then made the appropriate movement to enlighten Mesner. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he said, in English. ‘Your fucking soldiers made resistance fighters and civilians do this often enough in the war.’

Mesner looked at Mavros for help, but all he got was a stony stare. He couldn’t speak as the gags were still in their mouths, but the sounds he made were piteous.

‘Dig!’ Mikis said, examining the clasp knife he had just opened. ‘Or I’ll cut your eyelids off.’

They dug, flinging up spadefuls of dusty earth and small stones. After ten minutes, Mavros nodded to Mikis, who told the skinhead to stop.

‘You keep going,’ he said to the German. ‘That grave isn’t nearly deep enough for two.’

A dark stain appeared in Mesner’s groin and he sobbed through the gag as he dug on, Mikis standing near him with the second spade in his hands.

‘On your knees,’ Mavros ordered the other man, lowering the pistol till it was pointed at his face. Then he leaned forward and pulled out the handkerchief.

‘Please,’ the Cretan gasped, ‘please, I’ll tell you. . anything you want to know.’

‘I have no doubt about that,’ Mavros said. ‘The question is, will it be enough to keep you out of that hole?’

The skinhead looked over his shoulder at Mesner, who was up to his knees in the earth. ‘Anything,’ he pleaded. ‘Ask me anything.’

‘Name?’

‘Petros Lagoudhakis.’

‘Who told you to cut me?’

The man’s head dropped. ‘They’ll kill me,’ he mumbled. ‘And then they’ll kill you.’

‘Wrong. I’ll kill you and then take my chances.’ He paused and looked over at Mikis. ‘Actually, we won’t kill you.’

Relief flooded the skinhead’s face.

‘The weight of the sweet Cretan earth will.’

The man’s head dropped again. ‘Roufos,’ he muttered. ‘Tryfon Roufos.’

Mavros hadn’t been expecting the antiquities dealer to be so directly involved. ‘No one else?’ he asked, thinking of David Waggoner.

‘No.’

‘How did Roufos find you?’

‘He. . he’s involved in our organization. He gives money.’

That was less of a surprise. Tryfon Roufos was exactly the kind of slimeball who would use far-right crazies to do his dirty work — he probably agreed with their vile ideology as well.

‘And did he give you a reason?’

The skinhead looked up. ‘Didn’t need one. I was in the Black Eagle when you and your heavy caused chaos the other night. We’ve been looking for you ever since.’

‘Where’s Roufos staying?’

‘Don’t know.’ The defeated tone convinced Mavros he was telling the truth.

‘How does he contact you?’

‘From public phones.’

The sleazy Athenian knew how to handle himself, Mavros thought. Then he wondered about his captive’s background.

‘Where are you from?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Tavronitis.’

Mikis looked over. ‘It’s a village near Maleme.’

‘Know anyone from Kornaria?’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘You must be joking. I’ve never been near the place. Those people are fucking insane.’

‘Even by your standards, eh?’

‘Hey, they kill people.’

Mavros leaned close. ‘While what you do is get your goons to run a knife across my throat. Miki, this piece of shit is ready to start digging again. Bring the German over here.’

Mesner was dragged across and his gag removed, while the other sodden handkerchief was reinserted into the skinhead’s mouth.

‘So, Oskar,’ Mavros said to the kneeling man, in English. ‘What have you got to say for yourself?’

‘Please, I don’t know anything about what they did to you.’

Mavros brought the Colt’s muzzle up to the German’s forehead. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Well. . well, I heard someone was going to teach you a lesson, but I wasn’t involved.’

‘Uh-huh. And who was that someone?’

‘The person Petros named.’

‘Tryfon Roufos the antiquities dealer?’

Mesner was shaking. ‘I. . I know who he is, but I’ve never met him.’

‘You haven’t talked to him about your grandfather’s coin collection on the telephone, by any chance?’

‘I. . yes, I have.’

‘When?’

‘Last week.’

‘You know he’s on Crete?’

‘Ye. . yes.’

Mavros reckoned he was being told the truth.

‘So the thirty coins you stole weren’t anything to do with your grandfather’s actions, but a taster for Roufos?’

Mesner scowled. ‘You screwed that up.’

‘Had a visit from Inspector Margaritis yet?’

‘What?’

‘There’s a chance your grandfather was murdered. Where were you this afternoon?’

Oskar Mesner shook his head violently. ‘I. . I didn’t do it. I was in Rethymno.’

‘Hope you’ve got some witnesses.’

‘Yes, yes, I have. I was with some of the German boys.’

Mavros laughed. ‘They’ll be convincing.’

‘But I thought my grandfather killed himself.’

‘I don’t think so, though having a grandson like you could have driven him to it. Three more questions. Do you know David Waggoner?’

‘Of course not. I read one of his books. That man hates Germans.’

Mavros believed him. ‘How about Maria Kondos?’

‘From the film crew? I saw a missing person sign about her.’

Again, Mavros didn’t catch any hint of a lie. ‘And, last but not least, have you ever been to Kornaria?’

‘The drug-growing village? No. I heard they’re all madmen up there.’

Mavros nodded. ‘Miki,’ he called, ‘give this shithead his spade back.’

‘No, please,’ Mesner stammered. ‘There’s something else I can tell you. The film director, Luke Jannet. A friend of mine buys dope from a guy from Kornaria. He told him that Jannet’s family was originally from the village.’

Mavros took a step back and lowered the pistol. That was a surprise. Could it be that the director’s interest in Maria Kondos was more complicated than he had assumed? After all, he had come to Athens in person to hire him.

‘Can we stop now?’ Lagoudhakis asked, breathing heavily. He was up to his thighs in the hole.

‘Tape up their hands,’ Mavros said to Mikis, then gave the skinhead a tight smile. ‘And that asshole’s mouth. I want their mobiles as well.’

Mikis came back with the spades and phones.

‘How long will it take them to get back to civilization?’ Mavros asked as the Jeep was turned round.

‘If they follow us, an hour or so.’

‘Maybe we should have tied them to a tree.’

‘Showing mercy often has its own rewards,’ the Cretan said. ‘That’s what my grandfather said.’

‘The shepherd?’

‘No, the one on my mother’s side, but I don’t think he followed his own advice very often — he was an andartis.’

Mavros shrank down in his seat as the adrenaline ebbed away. He wasn’t a violent man, but Crete seemed to be turning him into one. Where would it end?

He decided to spend the night in Nondas’s place in Chania. Although he didn’t have his laptop with him, there was a desktop computer in the flat.

‘You want me to stay with you?’ Mikis asked, as he pulled up at the end of the street.

‘Haven’t you got a woman waiting?’

The Cretan smiled. ‘Possibly.’

‘All right, so go and do your thing. I’ll call you in the morning.’

‘Don’t open the door to any strange people. Sure you don’t want to take the Colt?’

‘Definitely not. There’s a decent selection of kitchen knives up there. Goodnight — and thanks for your help.’

‘A pleasure. Pity we didn’t bury those scumbags though.’ Mikis waited until Mavros opened the street door and then waved as he drove off.

Logging on, Mavros reflected on how lucky he had been to find Mikis — he had local knowledge and connections, as well as the local propensity for strong arm tactics. He’d have to make sure he was suitably recompensed when it was all over. Not that he was at all clear where the latest information was going to lead.

He found numerous sites with information about Luke Jannet — his films, his brief affairs with actresses, his ranch in northern California, but nothing about a Greek family background. He thought about the surname. There was no single letter corresponding to the ‘j’ sound in Greek — it was formed by the pairing of ‘t’ and ‘z’. He tried to think of names beginning ‘Tzannet’ and one immediately came to mind: there had been a politician who briefly served as prime minister in the late 80s called Tzanis Tzannetakis, although he hadn’t been a Cretan. The ‘-akis’ suffix was, however, a standard one on the island.

He typed the surname into a search engine, ignoring all the references to the politician, who had been imprisoned by the Junta and was not the standard money-and-headline-grabbing piece of shit. There was nothing relevant in the first ten pages, after which more random information started to appear. He added the first name ‘Luke’ to the surname and immediately got a hit — as well as a frisson that ran all the way up his spine.

The site was that of the Sons of Daedalus, Florida Division, a registered charity run by Americans of Cretan origin. On the page recording events in 1991, there was a photograph of major benefactors, the Tzannetakis family — father Eugene — ‘owner of a well-known automobile parts supply chain’ — mother Koula, son Luke — ‘an up-and-coming film director’ — and daughter Rosa. Luke Jannet was a younger version of his current self, his hair in a ponytail even then. It was Rosa who drew his attention most. Although her face was less hard and her body less fleshy, there was no question that she was the woman who was now known as Rosie Yellenberg. Another search revealed that she had married a Hollywood producer called Pete and that the marriage had ended in divorce four years ago; there had been no children.

Mavros sat back in his chair. So Luke and his producer were siblings. Was that significant? It was certainly suggestive that they hadn’t made their family status clear to him, though maybe some of the film crew knew — as it was that they hadn’t declared their Cretan background, though it was quite possible they didn’t speak the language and had no particular interest in their heritage. Then again, they had chosen to make a film on the island.

He typed in Eugene Tzannetakis and hit the motherlode on the first page. According to the Florida Sun-Times, the car parts dealer had been arrested in 1998 on suspicion of using his chain of stores to facilitate the trafficking of drugs. His family was said to be from a mountain village in Crete called Kornaria, and Michael ‘the Bat’ Kondoyannis was cited as one of his associates. The lawyers had fought hard, citing his charitable work and donations, and he was sentenced to only eight years, partly because the FBI had mishandled some of the evidence.

So what exactly was going on here? Luke Jannet and his sister were descended from a Kornaria family and their father was a jailed drug trafficker. Maria Kondos’s father, who was also from Kornaria, had been a full-on mobster based in Florida before being convicted of involvement in the drugs trade. Why had Maria been in the village and what had happened to her? And where was she now?

Mavros called the Fat Man.

‘What time do you call this, demi-Scot?’

‘Time for you to tell me what you found out about Kondoyannis.’

‘Oh, that,’ Yiorgos said, dismissively. ‘I sent you an email. Remember those?’

Mavros kicked himself for not having checked. Now the Fat Man was one up on him. He went to his inbox.

‘I don’t know, I do the work but he just ignores it.’

‘Shut up, Yiorgo, I’m reading.’ He ran his eye down the page, which was a series of extracts from Cretan and Athenian newspapers, mostly dated from the time of the gangster’s arrest.

‘He’s reading, is he?’ the Fat Man continued. ‘There was me thinking he was running around the Great Island waving a huge great pistol.’

‘I was actually.’

‘Really?’ Yiorgos’s tone changed instantly. ‘Did you shoot someone? What kind is it?’

‘No, and a Colt Double Eagle.’

‘A forty-five?’ The Fat Man had always been fascinated by firearms, mainly because he’d never been allowed to use one by the Party.

‘Yes, a forty-five. Will you let me read this?’

‘I’ll save you the bother. The only thing linking “the Bat” to Crete is a trip he made there in 1995. He was given a hero’s welcome in Kornaria.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘During which he met that well-known agent of imperialism David Waggoner.’ The Fat Man mangled the Englishman’s surname with relish.

Mavros stared at the extract, which said that Kondoyannis had visited the house of the ‘wartime British commander’, along with the Mayor, Vasilios Dhrakakis.

‘Are you still awake?’ Yiorgos demanded.

‘What? Of course I’m awake. Thanks, Fat Man, this is useful.’

‘No chance of you telling me in what way?’

‘Er, no. Talk to you tomorrow.’ He knew his reticence would drive his friend to distraction.

Too bad. He was even more convinced that everything he was doing on Crete was linked, but he couldn’t see exactly how. The idea that the highly decorated former SOE man had got involved in the international drugs trade was surprisingly easy to swallow.

Then his mobile rang. Niki’s number was on the screen. He answered with apprehension.