The Silver Stain

TWO

From The Descent of Icarus:

I hit a piece of rough open ground very hard. It was the worst landing I’d ever made, but I hadn’t broken anything and I told myself to keep calm. Small arms fire came at me from the east and I could hear shouts from my comrades across the dry river-bed. I used the gravity knife to cut away my parachute and then the first of the Cretans was on me. He wasn’t much more than a boy and he came at me with a rock held in both hands. I twisted out of the way, still on my knees, then a spray of blood came from his forehead and he crashed to the flower-dotted earth.

‘Over here, Rudi!’

I saw Peter Wachter crouching behind an olive tree, replacing the magazine of his MP40. The motionless bodies of the Cretans I had seen from the air were between us. I looked to my right. A weapons canister was dangling from an olive tree about fifty metres away, the lower end close to the ground. I pointed at it.

‘No!’ Peter yelled. ‘You’ll never make it!’

Bullets flew past me, proving his point. Although the sky was full of Luftwaffe aircraft — Auntie Jus dropping men, 109s strafing gun emplacements — I was on my own, caught in clear ground. I wouldn’t last long with only my short-range machine-pistol and my Luger. I started crawling towards the tree, the first of a row. Earth and stones were flung into my face by gunfire, pinging against my helmet. Already my throat was parched and my stomach filled with acid. My training drove me on — the often-repeated words about sacrificing everything for the unit’s greater good, the insignificance of my own life compared with the paratroopers’ ultimate victory. Then I saw two of my comrades. One had landed in the tree beyond the canister, a line of large, bloody holes almost cutting him in half. The other was lying face down on the ground, arms still outstretched and parachute in rags, obviously hit by an anti-aircraft shell not long after it opened.

I stopped behind a low furrow in the earth to catch my breath. Fire was still being directed at me from the heights above the airfield and I had to press on. Then I caught a glimpse of rapid movement to my left. I rolled on to my right side, levelling the MP40. What I saw made my heart stop. A young woman dressed in black was running towards me, her long skirt flapping and her raven hair streaming behind her. She was screaming like a banshee, an old-fashioned rifle raised to her shoulder. There was a puff of smoke then a loud report and a heavy round smashed into the earth a few centimetres in front of my chest. Reloading was obviously not an option for her, but she kept charging, the rifle now reversed with the butt towards me.

I knew I had to kill her, but I couldn’t. For all the savagery in her expression and her glaring eyes, she was beautiful and so young. I loosed off a blast above her head, which did nothing to stop her. The sound of firing all around had disappeared and all I could hear was her gasping breath and the words — clearly full of hatred — that she was shrieking at me. I fired again. She was so close that I couldn’t fail to hit her. The ancient rifle flew from her grip and she crashed to the earth, clutching her shoulder. I crept over to her and she spat in my face. That was enough. I turned my attention back to the weapons canister. Just before I reached it, a grenade exploded in the tree and I was showered by branches, which reduced the force of the shrapnel.

Stretching up, I cut the shrouds from the canister and it dropped to the ground. It had been damaged and wouldn’t open. I heard a burst of MP40 fire and turned to see another group of Cretans — old men in black jodhpurs and tasselled headscarves, and boys in shorts — crash to the earth. I pulled out my bayonet and inserted the blade in the canister catch. At last it sprang open and I found what I wanted — an air-cooled MG34 with a bipod and plenty of ammunition. I took a good position behind a tree trunk and set up the weapon facing the open ground. Another group of Cretans was advancing towards me, but that wasn’t the first of my problems — it wasn’t even the second.

The young woman I had shot was on her feet again and charging me, the rifle raised with her good arm, while behind me I saw heavily-built figures slipping through the rows of trees, wearing battledress and slope hats. They were the enemy I least wanted to face. They were the New Zealand Maoris.

Mavros managed a whispered conversation with the Fat Man in the kitchen, asking him to keep the plants watered if he was delayed.

‘What about your girlfriend?’ Yiorgos asked, smiling slackly.

‘Call her and tell her I’ve left her for a willowy American.’ Mavros shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it. I’ll talk to her. And she’s not my girlfriend, she’s the woman of my life.’

The Fat Man looked like he was going to vomit. ‘Keep in touch, young Alex,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll need a sidekick down there. You know how nasty the Cretans can be.’

In your dreams, Mavros thought. The last time Yiorgos had got involved in a case, he nearly ended up dead.

‘Let’s go, fella,’ Luke Jannet called from the saloni. ‘I’ve got a scene to shoot this afternoon.’

Mavros picked up the small bag he’d filled. Travelling light was essential to him, even if it meant buying clothes — they could always be put on expenses. He made sure he had his laptop and his phone charger. Niki had a tendency to punish him severely if he was out of touch for more than a day.

‘So what’s your story, man?’ Jannet asked, after they had crowded into the small lift.

Mavros looked at him. He was pretty sure Kriaras had passed over the salient details, but for 2000 Euros a day, his client deserved a mini-biography.

‘Father Greek, mother Scottish. Degree in law and criminology from Edinburgh, worked in the Ministry of Justice here, set myself up as a missing persons investigator nine years ago. Never failed to find a misper.’

Jannet raised an eyebrow. ‘Never failed, huh? That’s what your cop friend said. How d’you do that? Keep away from the real hard cases?’

Mavros had already decided that the director was a dick — the kind of powerful man who got a kick out of needling his minions. ‘I can’t talk about previous cases — client confidentiality. You got that in the States?’

Alice Quincy’s eyes sprang open, then she looked down in embarrassment.

‘Yeah, we got that. We got smart-arses too and I don’t like them. Watch yourself, Alex Mavros.’

They went out into the sunlight. A long black Mercedes was blocking the street, a chauffeur in a grey suit standing by the rear door.

A leather-clad man on a powerful motorbike tried to squeeze past the car unsuccessfully. He flipped up his visor and started cursing; something along the lines of rich masturbators being the ruin of Greece.

‘Excuse me,’ Mavros said, stepping towards him. On the long list of Athenian pains in the arse, he placed motorbike riders near the top. ‘Have you any idea who you’re yelling at?’

‘Should I?’ the biker demanded, his belligerence undiluted. ‘Looks like a pimp with his latest tart to me.’

Mavros laughed. ‘I’ll be decent and not pass that on. No, that’s Luke Jannet, the director of Freedom or Death.’ It was immediately obvious that leather man had heard about the film. ‘He was telling me he needed experienced bikers as extras to ride replica German machines.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Looks like you’ve completely blown that gig.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Jannet asked, after Mavros had got into the front seat.

‘Don’t worry, your name didn’t come up,’ Mavros lied. He saw no reason to keep his client informed about anything not directly related to Maria Kondos.

The driver knew his job and soon they were heading out of the centre on Mesogeion Avenue. Jannet and Alice Quincy were on their mobiles, talking intently, so Mavros decided to make his own calls.

‘Hello, Mother.’

‘Alex, dear.’ Dorothy Cochrane-Mavrou’s voice was weaker than it had been, but she was still in full command of her intellect. ‘Are you coming to Kifissia?’

‘Afraid not. I’m off to Crete on a case.’

There was a pause.

‘Mother?’

‘Yes, dear. Sorry, I was thinking. .’

Mavros knew that tone. She had come to terms with the losses of her husband and elder son long ago, but she still had vivid memories.

‘Thinking what?’

‘Your father. . he was in Crete during the war. He hardly ever spoke of it, but. . but I think he saw some terrible things.’

Mavros was surprised. He had never heard that Spyros had been on the Great Island, as it was known. In fact, he knew very little about his father’s wartime activities and the Party had hidden away the relevant papers in its archive.

‘Tell me more, Mother.’

‘I can’t, Alex. That’s all I know.’

Mavros felt instantly deflated. The moment he thought he might find out more about his old man, the hope turned out to be illusory.

‘All right, I’ll talk to you soon,’ he said. ‘Is Anna there?’

His sister wrote features for several glossy magazines, but was spending more time at home now their mother was in residence.

‘Yes, dear, I’ll call her. Take care.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ he said dutifully. ‘Hi, Anna.’ He spoke Greek for privacy, even though they normally used English. ‘I’m going to Crete on a case.’

‘Oh, lucky you. Whereabouts?’

‘Good question.’ Mavros raised a hand to interrupt Alice Quincy. ‘Where are we going exactly?’

‘The shoot’s in the vicinity of Chania,’ the young woman answered, stressing the first syllable rather than the last.

‘I heard that,’ Anna said. ‘Do you want to use the flat?’

His sister’s husband Nondas was from Chania and had a family property in the old city.

‘Let me think about that,’ he replied, suspecting that a hideaway might be useful — clients, especially rich ones, often became unacceptably demanding.

‘Well, you know where to get the keys. Barba-Yannis is still looking after the place.’

Mavros remembered the old man — he still wore the traditional baggy trousers and high boots. He lived in the same street and had known Nondas since he was a baby.

‘OK, thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Very likely.’ Anna rang off. She was five years older and was often curt with him, regarding his work as less than respectable. The fact that she and her family had been involved in the terrorism case that had almost cost the Fat Man his life hadn’t made her change that view.

The Mercedes joined the Attica motorway and Mavros summoned up the strength to call Niki. She wasn’t particularly bothered by the fact that he was going to Crete, having passed an unhappy holiday there when she was young. But when he said that he was going to be involved with the film, she became animated.

‘But Cara Parks is starring. She’s very. . very attractive.’

Mavros was using his hands-free, so Jannet and his assistant couldn’t hear what Niki was saying. He had to be careful, though, after what he’d said about client confidentiality.

‘So?’

‘What do you mean “so”?’ Niki demanded. ‘Every man on the planet wants to get inside her knickers. And her bra. She’s known as Twin Peaks.’

‘Really, my love? I doubt she’ll have the slightest interest in me.’ He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d been hired to find the actress’s beloved assistant.

‘What about if I come over at the weekend? We could have fun in your time off.’

‘Today’s Tuesday. You know how good I am. I’ll probably have things wrapped by tomorrow.’

‘All right,’ Niki said reluctantly. ‘But no playing around, promise?’

‘Promise. Got to go.’

‘I love you,’ she said, the stark declaration taking his breath away.

‘Ditto.’

‘That better be because you can’t speak openly.’

‘Of course it is. Bye.’ He cut the connection and looked out over the green slopes of Imittos and the spring flowers nearer the highway. He did love Niki, he had no doubts about that, but she wasn’t the kind of woman who made her man’s life easy. Then again, considering the shit storms he got into with his work, he was hardly one to complain.

The airport’s control tower rose up ahead and Mavros suddenly realized what he was about to get into — a small aircraft. The last time he had boarded one of those, he had nearly fainted.

Fear of flying wasn’t something he put on his curriculum vitae.

As it turned out, the Learjet was a lot less terrifying than the propeller plane he had taken to a small island on a case a few years back. Being ushered through the VIP gate and across the tarmac was neat too. A bronzed pilot in an immaculate uniform saluted Jannet, who was then led to his seat by an impossibly attractive stewardess. Mavros didn’t get a salute, but the middle-aged fly-boy did give him an avuncular nod.

Alice Quincy sat opposite him at the front of the plane, while Jannet had the rear to himself. As soon as the door was closed and they had belted up, she handed him a red plastic folder.

‘That contains everything you should need to acquaint yourself with the movie and the people you’ll need to talk to.’

Mavros concentrated on extracting his blue worry beads from the back pocket of his jeans. He had given up smoking several years ago and found the komboloi a helpful distraction at times of stress. A couple of red beads among the blue ones were supposed to guarantee good health, while a silver hand pointed to good fortune. Not that they had always been a huge help.

He looked up as the plane began to taxi towards the runway, surprised by how little noise the engines made. The seat was plush leather and there was no shortage of legroom. Glancing at Alice Quincy, he saw that she was looking at his left eye. Most women did.

‘David Bowie,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Almost — except it’s the size of his irises that’s different, not the colour.’

‘Uh-huh. It’s some sort of genetic defect. My father’s eyes were dark-blue, but some of my mother’s brown got into one of them.’

Alice smiled. ‘Weird.’

‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’

She pursed her lips. ‘No, I mean your father, the Greek, having blue eyes and your Scottish mother having brown.’

‘Scots are more Mediterranean than the natives.’

That seemed to be beyond her. ‘You’d better start reading,’ she said. ‘The flight’s only half an hour.’

So he read. Fortunately he was quick at taking in facts and, even more fortunately, the Learjet flew like a dream. In fifteen minutes, after drinking a cup of coffee that could have come from the Ritz, he had mastered the file, at least with regards to what would be of significance in tracing the missing woman.

Maria Kondos was a third generation Greek-American, but the photo showed she could have passed for a Greek of the dark-haired and rings-beneath-the-eyes variety — presumably the family had made sure her father married a woman of Greek heritage. She was thirty-five, born in Queens, New York, but had moved to Los Angeles after college. She’d worked her way up the ladder as a personal assistant with actresses — most of whom Mavros had never heard of — until striking lucky with Cara Parks. She had been with her since Spring Surprise and was an integral part of her team.

‘OK,’ Mavros said, leaning towards Alice Quincy. ‘Tell me what isn’t in the file.’

She pressed herself back in her seat. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Alice. You’re the director’s number one girl. You know what goes on behind the scenes, so to speak.’

Spots of red appeared on her cheeks. ‘Well, it would be fair to say that Ms Kondos isn’t the most popular person in the crew.’

She stopped, making Mavros give her an encouraging smile.

‘Her job is to look after Ms Parks and she does it very effectively — but sometimes with a distinct lack of diplomacy.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘She can be very blunt, even to Mr Jannet and the producers. And there are rumours that she provides certain special services for Ms Parks.’

Mavros raised an eyebrow. ‘What are we talking about here? Middle of the night omelettes? Drugs? Sexual favours?’

Alice Quincy looked queasy. ‘I wouldn’t know about the first and second, but perhaps the third. I repeat, these are rumours.’

‘Any particular quarrels that might have driven someone on the crew to get violent with her?’

The American woman’s doe eyes widened. ‘Good Lord, that’s ridiculous. Film shoots are full of clashing egos.’

Mavros wondered how Alice survived in such an atmosphere — there must have been steel beneath the soft exterior.

‘Have the local police been involved?’

She nodded. ‘An Inspector Margaritis came to the shoot hotel and expressed concern, but Mr Jannet thought he was just going through the motions.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘Which is where you come in.’

‘Hey, Al!’ Jannet’s voice sounded from the rear of the plane.

‘Excuse me,’ Alice said, adapting into slave mode, though Mavros noticed she wasn’t keen on that form of her name.

He looked out of the window and saw a lengthy mass of rock topped by snow. The White Mountains were as striking as ever. He remembered staying with Anna and Nondas one summer and snow-covered areas still being visible. As the Learjet lost height on its way to the private airport at Maleme, a conversation he’d had with Nondas came back to him.

‘The Germans should never have been allowed to capture the airfield,’ his brother-in-law said. ‘The Allies made so many mistakes. As it was, the invaders only made it by the skin of their Nazi teeth.’

They had been looking around the battlefield sites and memorials. Thousands of paratroopers had been killed in the first days of the assault, Nondas had told him, but still they came. If Freyburg, the Allied commander, had armed the gendarmerie or taken on the locals as irregulars, the result could have been very different.

The model/hostess checked that he had his safety belt on with a stunningly fake smile. Alice Quincy did not return, presumably now nailed to a seat opposite her boss. As the plane slowed, three things struck Mavros. The first was that he was out of his comfort zone on an island whose inhabitants, apart from Nondas, had always seemed to him very unlike other Greeks. The second was that Hollywood film people were unlike any other human beings. And the last was a question — why had a major director broken into his schedule to spend a morning flying to and from Athens when Alice Quincy could easily have done the job on her own?