The Silver Stain

FOUR

Mavros went down to the second floor and found the missing woman’s room. There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and he made a note to ask housekeeping if it had been there since Monday morning. Then he pulled on the latex gloves he kept in his back pocket. The place had a similar lay out to his own but it was in a considerable state of chaos, with files all over the floor and clothes draped across the furniture. It took him a few minutes to satisfy himself that this was the way Maria Kondos lived, not least when he found the bathroom messier than a teenage boy’s. If someone had turned the place over, it had been done very subtly — which didn’t mean that someone hadn’t been through it and covered his or her steps. But he doubted it. The open tubes of make-up and the heaps of unwashed clothes suggested a life with time only to think about the important things, and there was no obvious sign of a struggle.

The question was, where to start? There was a desk in the living area, on which Maria Kondos seemed to have maintained a modicum of order. On the left side was a pile of papers, some bound together. They turned out to be the script for Freedom or Death, with additional dialogue on separate sheets. Cara Parks’ lines were highlighted. In the centre was a mobile phone, the battery discharged, an American passport in the missing woman’s name, a wallet containing credit cards and a California driving licence in her name, as well as over five hundred euros, and a small leather clutch bag with mascara, lipstick and the like. There were also two condoms.

After plugging the phone into its charger, Mavros sat back in the velvet-covered chair. The condoms suggested that Maria Kondos had a least some interest in the male sex, while the lack of a key card for the room gave the impression that she’d left willingly, expecting to return. On the other hand, she had taken no ID or means of payment. Had she expected not to need any? That could have meant she wasn’t going outside the resort area, or that she had left with someone who would pay on her behalf. But would a woman go anywhere without the other items in the clutch bag?

He turned to the right side of the desk. There were several small framed photos, showing a very Greek-looking elderly couple and some small children. Then it struck Mavros what he hadn’t seen — any form of computer. He checked the desk drawer and the rest of the suite. Under the bed, he found a charger for a laptop, but no sign anywhere of the machine itself. There were no diskettes or external memory devices to be seen either. Which left him with the suspicion that Maria Kondos had gone somewhere in the hotel with her laptop — perhaps leaving her phone behind by mistake. Searching a hotel the size of this one would be a hell of a job, especially with all its outbuildings.

The buzz of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. He moved as quietly as he could across the marble floor and looked through the spyhole. A tall but stooping elderly man with a walking stick was in the corridor. He definitely wasn’t from housekeeping.

Mavros opened the door.

‘So sorry to bother you,’ the man said in Greek, his voice surprisingly strong and his accent only slightly foreign. His nose was misshapen. ‘I take it you are Mr Mavros?’

‘Em, yes. . and you are?’

The old man handed him a card. ‘Rudolf Kersten,’ he said. ‘I created the Heavenly Blue.’ The way he put it almost made Mavros laugh: as if he was an Eastern potentate — or the proprietor of a Chinese restaurant. ‘Ms Cara Parks just called me. I wondered if I might be of assistance.’

‘Ah, right.’ Mavros looked over his shoulder, reluctant to invite the man into what might be of interest to the authorities if the woman never returned. ‘Actually, there are some things you could help me with. Could we go down to my room?’

‘No, no, come to my residence,’ Kersten said, turning away. ‘I insist. It isn’t far.’

They went down to the ground floor in the lift, the old man asking a couple of exhausted guys in high-visibility jackets and shorts if everything was satisfactory. They looked at Kersten sullenly and nodded.

‘I see it as my duty to talk to all my guests,’ Kersten said, leading Mavros to a door beside reception. The staff nodded to the owner punctiliously. ‘Even the less than polite technicians on the film crew.’

The mixture of conscientiousness and condescension silenced Mavros for a few seconds. The old man’s residence was literally behind the shop. A short corridor led to a large living area with a view across the grounds to the sea.

‘Please be seated. I will arrange coffee.’

‘No, I. .’ Mavros tried to stop him, not being a fan of that beverage in the afternoon, but Kersten headed away without paying attention.

‘There,’ he said, returning almost immediately. ‘Hildegard will be with us shortly.’ He sat down in what was obviously a favourite armchair, his walking stick fitting into a groove on the side. ‘Ms Parks is most distressed about her friend Maria, Mr Mavro. I understand you have undertaken to find her.’

‘I have.’ Mavros looked at his notebook. ‘Actually, there are some specifics you could pass on to your people.’ He paused, wondering if the old man would call a secretary or take notes of his own.

‘Fear not, my memory is still excellent,’ Kersten said, with a smile. His face was leathery and his hair sparse, but the sparkle in his pale blue eyes gave him the look of a younger man.

‘All right. Could you find out from housekeeping when the “Do Not Disturb” sign was first noticed on room 243?’

‘That is easy. I have already ascertained that the sign has been on the door since Ms Kondos arrived nearly two weeks ago. It seems the lady likes to look after herself.’

Or not, Mavros thought. ‘Right. Did any of your people see Ms Kondos on Sunday evening?’

‘As far as I have been able to ascertain — and I have been working on this since Ms Parks first called me yesterday morning — none of them did.’ He looked down briefly. ‘That isn’t to say that one or more of them might not have been paid for their silence. It is my experience that people in the film business, especially Americans, can demonstrate remarkable largesse when the mood takes them.’

Mavros sensed the wisdom in the old man’s words — he had clearly seen much in his years as host to the rich and powerful. ‘Do you have CCTV?’

‘Outside the perimeter, yes, but not inside. I am not enamoured of today’s surveillance society.’ He looked across at Mavros. ‘I came of age in Hitler’s Germany.’

‘Rudi?’

Mavros looked round to see a short woman in an unseasonably thick skirt coming towards them with a tray between her hands. Although she must have been in her seventies, her hair was pale gold and plaited elaborately at the back of her head. He stood up to help, but she tutted him away, putting the coffee pot and cups on the mahogany table.

‘This is Mr Mavros,’ Kersten said, continuing in Greek. ‘My dear wife, Hildegard.’

Mavros shook hands with her and watched as the old couple kissed each other on the lips.

‘How do you take your coffee?’ the woman asked.

‘White, no sugar,’ Mavros replied, wanting to dilute the caffeine hit.

‘Mr Mavros has come to find Maria Kondos, Hildegard,’ Kersten said. ‘I’m giving him all the help I can.’

‘I’m sure you are. It’s a shame the people making the film haven’t shown more interest.’

The hotel owner looked surprised. ‘But they brought Mr Mavros from Athens. He’s the best in the business.’

Hildegard Kersten turned her eyes back on Mavros. ‘Is that so? Well, I wish you luck. They are all crazy, those people. It’s only Ms Parks who really wants her friend back.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Mavros asked. He had seen that Rudolf Kersten gave his guests a more personalized service than that of most hotel-keepers, but he didn’t want him and his wife to retreat behind the shield of confidentiality. He had also picked up a hint of tension as the old woman had come in — when her husband had mentioned Hitler’s Germany.

‘I’ve seen them together,’ Hildegard replied. ‘They have a high level of dependency on each other.’

‘But you haven’t seen Maria since. .?’

‘Sunday afternoon,’ she replied instantly. ‘When the limousine brought them back from the shoot.’

‘We were in the car behind,’ Rudolf Kersten added.

‘My husband is the film’s official consultant regarding the Fallschirmjager — the German paratroops.’

Something had stirred in Mavros’s memory, a newspaper article with photographs from a previous May when the Battle of Crete memorial was attended by veterans from all sides.

‘You were one of them, weren’t you?’

The old man nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I was,’ he said, his voice weaker. ‘It was the worst experience of my life — and later I fought on the Eastern Front.’

‘Hush,’ Hildegard said, going to her husband and taking his hand. ‘I told you the film would bring back too many painful memories.’

Kersten smiled sadly. ‘But that is precisely the point, my dear. The film will lay the memories that have been tormenting me at last. The film will make me free.’

Mavros felt like a child that had strayed into a room where the big people were doings things far beyond his ken.

From The Descent of Icarus:

Allied resistance around the Tavronitis river-bed had been subdued, at least for the time being, by bombing and strafing. Peter Wachter and I made our way across the rock-strewn watercourse, keeping our heads down as the 109s streaked overhead. One of our gliders had crashed into the west bank, the aircraft’s flimsy frame crumpled like a dirty handkerchief. Bodies were strewn around it, limbs at crazy angles and faces already swollen in the heat.

‘What now?’ I asked, after gulping from a water flask I’d picked up from a dead man.

Peter was peering through the trees that lined the dry river. ‘I reckon Maleme airfield’s a couple of kilometres to the north.’ He pointed. ‘See the bridge? It’s beyond that, on the other side.’

I took in the fragile metal structure. ‘You’d have thought the Brits would have blown it.’

‘You would. And you’d have thought they’d be defending it on both sides, but we seem to be in the clear here.’

I caught the unmistakable low rumble of Auntie Jus, coming toward us from the sea. One of the leading aircraft was hit in the port wing and dropped to the ground like a lead weight before anyone could jump. The others ploughed on through the storm of fire and parachutes started to appear.

‘They’re going to come down ahead of us,’ Wachter said, clutching my arm. I saw that he’d been badly scared by what he’d been through. I hadn’t had time to be afraid. ‘Come on.’

I followed him through the trees and we came upon a comrade cutting away his parachute lines. We exchanged unit numbers with him as more men came down, most of them escaping the machine-gun fire from the hill across the Tavronitis.

‘You’d better come with us,’ a gnarled sergeant said, handing Peter drums of MG ammo from a canister. ‘Our officers have made it.’

I recognized the leaders of the company. Lieutenant Kurt Horsmann was a decent enough type, but Captain Horst Blatter, his face marked by duelling scars, was the kind of stiff-necked Prussian who led by instilling terror in his men. He glared at Wachter and me as if we were deserters.

‘You say you’re the only survivors of your unit?’ he demanded. ‘That’s impossible.’

Wachter nodded to the hill. ‘We came down in open ground to the rear of that, sir. There are New Zealanders all over it. And that’s not all.’ He stopped and looked at me, expecting me to continue the story.

‘There are civilians, sir,’ I said. ‘Armed civilians.’

Blatter removed his helmet and put on his peaked cap — he was even more of a crazed Prussian than I’d imagined, showing no fear of the bullets that were cutting through the trees.

‘Civilians?’ he barked. ‘Armed with what?’

‘Rifles that looked at least a hundred years old,’ I replied.

‘And axes,’ Wachter put in animatedly. ‘And knives, frying pans, spades, whatever you like.’

The captain glanced at Lieutenant Horsmann, who had sensibly kept his helmet on. ‘Did these savages account for any of our men, Private?’ he asked, his eyes boring into Wachter’s.

‘They certainly did, sir. I saw two old women cut Heini Stentzler’s throat and a priest with a long white beard ran Wolf Dietrich through with a knife tied to a broom handle.’

‘Franc-tireurs,’ Blatter said in a voice that combined hatred and disgust. I found out later that his father had been shot by a Belgian irregular at the beginning of the Great War. ‘Men, gather round,’ he shouted. ‘I hear the civilians of this benighted island have allied themselves with Churchill’s minions. You remember what our commandments have to say about that?’

‘Fight with chivalry against an honest foe,’ bellowed the sergeant. ‘Armed irregulars deserve no quarter.’

‘Indeed,’ Blatter said, turning back to us. ‘I take it you dispatched these scum.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wachter said proudly, and at that moment any comradely feeling I’d ever had for him vanished. ‘Kersten here shot a young woman.’

I felt my hollow belly somersault — not because I’d spared the woman, but because the idea of killing civilians, even those opposing us, was utterly repellent to me. Having been led to understand that the Cretans would welcome us with open arms, I had never thought that I might have to kill them. Wachter wouldn’t have either, but for him it didn’t matter. His fellow soldiers were in danger, so the opposition merited the magazines he had emptied into them.

‘Did you, Private?’ Blatter asked, his grey eyes locking on to mine.

I hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’

He slapped me hard on the back. ‘Good man! You set a fine example.’

Then he turned away and started talking about tactics with Lieutenant Horsmann and the sergeant.

Wachter and I drank deeply. He ate some bread, but I couldn’t have forced anything solid down. I was thinking about the woman who charged me — the hatred and harshness in her eyes and expression, even when she was on the ground and helpless. She reminded me of the woman in Delacroix’s painting Liberty Leading the People, which had been a favourite of my history teacher, even though her black clothes had not slipped down her shoulders. I suppose there was something sexual in the way I thought of her, despite her clear abhorrence of me and all I stood for, but I could no more have raped her than I could have killed her. I knew she was a worthier human being than I was, a better person than all the men around me.

‘Very well, paratroopers,’ Captain Blatter called. ‘We move on the airfield. Radio contact has not been established, but I hope to join up with other units on the way. Even if not, there are enough of us to clear the skulking British out of their positions.’ He looked around us, his eyes bright in the early summer sun. ‘Remember, the landing strip at Maleme is the key to this part of the assault on Crete. Take it and there will be thousands of our comrades on the island in hours.’

We made ready to move off, heavily laden with weapons and ammunition, but the captain hadn’t finished.

‘Remember this also,’ he said firmly. ‘This is a battle. There is no place for mercy when the stakes are so high. Until further orders, no prisoners will be taken. Scouts, move out!’

I watched as lightly armed men headed towards the bridge. Glancing around, I saw that none of the others seemed unduly affected by Blatter’s penultimate order. Was I the only one who found the sudden cancellation of one of our commandments sickening?

As it turned out, I wasn’t, but that made no difference at all.

Mavros was walking across the wide reception area when another elderly man accosted him. Unlike Kersten, he was of scarcely medium height and heavily built, walking at a brisk pace over the marble.

‘David Waggoner,’ he said, extending a hand. The accent was Queen’s English and the words clipped.

Mavros took it, feeling strong pressure, and introduced himself.

‘You’re wondering who I am, old chap. Come over to that sofa and all will be revealed.’ Waggoner smiled beneath a tidy pepper-and-salt moustache. His hair, which was considerably whiter, was short at the back and sides.

Mavros followed him, noting perfectly polished brown shoes, cream cavalry twill trousers and a dark-blue jacket. The old man had obviously been in the services.

‘I hear you’re looking for Maria Kondos,’ Waggoner said, after they’d sat down together. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he called to a passing waiter. ‘Join me?’

Mavros shook his head. ‘Too early for me. Water, please.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know what I’m doing?’

‘My dear boy, everyone on the crew knows why you’re here.’

Great, thought Mavros — though maybe he could turn that to his advantage. ‘So you’re on the crew?’

‘Indeed I am,’ the old man said proudly. ‘Allied forces consultant. I was in the Hussars here during the battle, and then came back with SOE. The Special-’

‘Operations Executive,’ Mavros completed.

‘Smart fellow. Do you have British blood?’

The tone of the question irritated Mavros and he was tempted to play the well-educated Greek. He restrained himself, needing to keep Waggoner cooperative.

Perhaps he had information about the missing woman to pass on.

‘My mother,’ he said.

‘Ah, I see.’ The former military man’s eyes were slightly clouded, perhaps from incipient cataracts. Their softness was in marked contrast to his hand movements, which were rapid and percussive. ‘Thank you, my man,’ he said, signing the bill and rewarding the waiter with a five-euro tip before taking a heavy pull from his drink. ‘I can use the film production’s tab,’ he explained.

‘I take it you know Mr Kersten,’ Mavros said, before he had finished drinking. That provoked the abrupt removal of the glass from Waggoner’s lips.

‘Oberleutnant Rudolf Kersten? Winner of the Iron Cross, First Class? Indeed I do, Mr Mavros. In fact, he’s the reason I wanted to have this little chat.’

‘Really?’ Mavros tried to keep the pricking up of his ears metaphorical. ‘How so?’

‘Don’t trust him,’ David Waggoner said, the words a clear order.

Mavros’s glanced down at the old soldier’s tie, regimental with a very tight knot, before rising again to meet the hazy blue eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I say.’ Waggoner took another slug of gin and tonic.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Mavros asked, suddenly aware that he was unintentionally copying his interlocutor’s formal English. ‘Does this have anything to do with Maria Kondos’s disappearance?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, but anything’s possible.’

‘Did you know Ms Kondos?’

‘By sight, yes. I deal with the production assistants and the scriptwriters most of the time, but I saw her on location with the big star.’

Mavros picked up on the sarcasm. ‘You don’t like Cara Parks?’

‘Fine-looking young woman, but not my idea of a Cretan peasant girl.’ Waggoner twitched his head. ‘Then again, this film doesn’t greatly concern itself with historical accuracy.’

‘That must be frustrating for a veteran like you,’ Mavros said. ‘And for Mr Kersten.’

David Waggoner’s lips twisted. ‘That old fraud has never cared for historical accuracy, I can assure you. He’s never cared for anything or anyone except himself.’

Mavros waited for more, but the volcano seemed to have exhausted itself.

‘Anyway, I wanted to make your acquaintance,’ the old soldier said, getting up and handing over a card. ‘Feel free to ring me if you need any help on the island. I gather you’re an Athenian. You’ll find things are rather different down here. I built up a lot of contacts during the war and I live here year round.’

Mavros watched David Waggoner march away across the hall — another one to be checked out.