The White Sea Page 10

  Dinos laughed. ‘I wish I’d thought of that. The old prick on the ground floor will eat his wig.’

  ‘Sit down, son. We’re going to have a heart-to-heart.’

  ‘And if I don’t.’

  Yiorgos pushed him on to the sofa and, after removing a couple of syringes, sat next to him.

  ‘Your sister told you to be helpful, didn’t she?’

  Dinos grunted.

  ‘That isn’t being helpful.’ The Fat Man grabbed the junkie’s left arm with both hands and held it over his knee. ‘Sorry, this is going to hurt.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You going to talk now?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘That’s better.’ Yiorgos sat watching, one hand still holding the arm.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Who kidnapped your grandfather?’

  The young man glared at him. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘So you loved the old man.’

  ‘Old fucker, more like.’

  ‘You had a falling out?’

  ‘He thought I was a waster.’

  ‘He obviously isn’t senile. Still, you’ve got this place.’

  ‘My mother bought it for me.’

  ‘Forgot to throw in a cleaner though.’

  ‘There have been a few.’ Dinos gave him a hollow grin. ‘They don’t like it when I get my cock out.’

  The Fat Man shook his head. ‘Rich young man like you. You have to get your wallet out first.’

  Another grin. ‘That works too, but only at the beginning of the month.’

  ‘Your allowance? Don’t you have any friends?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who might do it for free?’

  ‘’Course I’ve got friends.’

  ‘Names, please.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Dinos gasped as a second hand seized his arm and brought it over his interrogator’s knee. ‘No!’

  ‘Names.’

  ‘Agam … Agamemnon Pyrsos, Kirki Houkli – ow! – Jimmy Tzakos, Nadia Svolou.’

  ‘That’s your parea, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only there seem to be more males than females.’

  ‘Agam’s gay.’

  ‘Who does he – to use your favourite word – fuck? Jimmy or you?’

  ‘Not me! Please … let go of my arm.’

  Yiorgos obliged. ‘So Homer’s King of Mycenae takes it up the arse. What a come down. And who do you fuck?’

  ‘Both the girls.’ Dinos attempted a smile. ‘At the same time, if I’m lucky.’

  ‘I’m impressed. But aren’t you mostly stoned?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘There are enough syringes here to get the whole of Kolonaki high. Anyway, you and your grandfather didn’t get on.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for over three years,’ Dinos mumbled.

  ‘Who pays for your dope? The next time you bullshit me, I’ll break that arm.’

  ‘I … I deal.’

  ‘At least some of the Gatsos genes made it through to you. But dealers who sample the product usually end up in hospital or dead.’

  ‘My father helps out.’

  ‘How caring of him. Obviously you don’t have a job in the family group.’

  ‘No. They even took my shares from me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The old fucker and Uncle Pavlos.’

  ‘Is that right? Do you own a gun?’

  ‘The cops have already asked me that.’

  The Fat Man leaned closer. ‘I can hear that arm cracking.’

  Dinos’s eyes opened wide. ‘Yes, yes, I do have a pistol. A SIG Sauer. Most of us do, in case the anarchists come after us. The pigs took it. Anyway, you’re pissing up the wrong tree. I was cut off years ago. Why would I go after Pappous now?’

  ‘Why indeed? That doesn’t let you off the hook though. If you didn’t do it, who did? Come on, suggestions.’

  ‘The old fucker had lots of enemies – other shipowners, people he let go to the wall, girls he stuck his decrepit prick into …’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I don’t know about the business stuff. Loukas and Evi will fill you in. But I know about some of the girls. He was into Ukrainians, especially leggy ones with big knockers.’

  ‘And you know this how?’

  ‘Just because I didn’t see him doesn’t mean I don’t know what he got up to. People talk.’

  ‘Did you tell the cops?’

  Dinos dropped his head. ‘None of their business.’ He glared at Yiorgos. ‘They don’t have me down as a suspect.’

  ‘So you say. Keep talking. Where did he find these Ukrainians?’

  ‘Where do you find anyone to fu— ow! Sorry. Nightclubs. I heard from contacts that he often went to the Paradiso Bianco on Piraeus Street.’

  ‘He got his Ukrainians from a club with an Italian name.’

  ‘The owners aren’t Italian, you—’

  ‘Who are the owners, Dino? Don’t go all shy on me. They wouldn’t by any chance have anything to do with the dope you deal, would they? Thought so. Names?’

  ‘No fucking wa— ah!’

  ‘I promise you, I’ll break it.’

  ‘I … they’re … they’re Russians, man. You don’t … you don’t want to mess with them.’

  ‘I can look after myself. Names!’

  ‘Igor … Igor and Lavrenti Gogol.’

  The Fat Man hoped he concealed his shock. The Gogols had a big reputation in and beyond the criminal underworld. A Sunday newspaper had set its investigative team on them. One of them was blinded with acid, another had both legs broken and the third, a woman, was repeatedly sodomised. They were found a long way from the club with nothing to link them to the Russians, too terrified to talk about what had happened.

  Yiorgos got up and smiled at Dinos. ‘That’ll do for now.’

  ‘That’ll do full stop. I’m going to the UK tomorrow.’

  ‘After what you’ve told me, I very much doubt it. Stick around, Dino. Otherwise I might let the Gogols know you’ve been running your mouth.’

  Dinos suddenly looked like a vampire had drained every drop of his blood.

  Yiorgos made for the remains of the door. He didn’t feel a whole lot more sanguine himself.

  Jim Thomson looked through the curtains, took in the grey light of early dawn and closed them again. He needed sleep desperately, but every time he dropped off he would be woken by dreams. No, not dreams; the reality of his past lives and the people he had lost, most of them by choice. Like Pilita …

  He couldn’t fathom why he had to move on. It certainly wasn’t because he wanted to go home – he had managed to block Greece out completely, it lay deeper than the wreck of the Homeland and the skeletons of his crewmates. No, there was something in him that wanted another life. It was as if, having dispensed with his first life – family, friends, the Party – he was now cursed to make new ones for the rest of his life. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he had to leave. He didn’t even try to explain to Pilita. She wept, but somehow she seemed to understand. Her white man had arrived unexpectedly from the sea and he was destined to leave. They had no children so she was all he had to hold him back. And she, with her great soul, gave him her blessing. She even gave him their savings. But she would not say goodbye, staying in their hut when he left to catch the dawn bus to the local capital.

  In Tacloban he found badly paid work in a series of burger bars, eventually graduating to a hotel restaurant. And then fate intervened. He fell in with some Greek seamen whose ship had been towed to the port after losing its propeller. Their cook had either jumped or fallen overboard and there was a job for him. The captain didn’t care that he had no papers. He could use the dead man’s. Now he was Christos Karras, at thirty-six only two years older than he really was. They resembled each other enough to convince most officials; he grew a moustache to improve the likeness. The ship, a 10,000 tonne refrigerated carrier, was on long-term charter to a British co
mpany and sailed mainly from New Zealand to Europe with frozen lamb. Three years passed during which he acquired a reputation for standoffishness. The truth was, he didn’t want to spend his free time with the sailors. He bought books in English every time they were ashore and regained command of the language. He had women in the ports they called at regularly, but he confused their names.

  One day, when the Lutine Star was in Melbourne awaiting orders, he realised he’d enough of the sea. Taking Karras’s passport and seaman’s discharge book but leaving behind all but a change of clothes and a few books, he slipped off the ship one evening. He’d saved a fair amount of cash. Within two weeks he had a new identity as Jim Thomson, courtesy of some operators in the local underworld. He bought a bus ticket for the desert, his aim to get as far away from the sea as he could.

  ‘OK, Yiorgo, that’s useful. Go back to your place and see what you can dig up on the Russians.’

  Mavros ended the call, put away his notebook and asked the solicitous Filipina where he could find her employer. She led him to a door on the other side of the stairway.

  ‘Down there,’ she pointed. ‘Called den.’

  Mavros thanked her and went down well-worn steps. He found Vangelis Myronis bent over a full-sized snooker table. He was now dressed in white jeans and a yellow shirt. He had washed his hair, but he still looked like the over-aged playboy his wife had described.

  ‘Sorry to keep you from your work,’ Mavros said.

  Myronis looked round. ‘Don’t get smart.’

  Mavros sat in a battered armchair. There was an open bottle of Jim Beam on the table in front of it, but no glasses.

  ‘Have a drink if you like.’ There was the clack of balls connecting then his host came over, still holding the cue.

  Mavros waited till he had sat down.

  ‘Do you know a nightclub called the Paradiso Bianco?’

  That got Myronis’s attention. ‘I … yes, I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘Ever been?’

  There was a long pause ‘A few times.’ He took a swig from the bottle.

  ‘With your son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You help him with his drug dealing.’

  Myronis stood up. ‘Get the hell out of—’

  ‘Do you want me to invite your wife to join us?’

  ‘I …’ Myronis sat down again. ‘I don’t help him. I just give him cash from time to time.’

  ‘Even though Kostas Gatsos forbade that.’

  ‘Dinos is my son, for God’s sake. He’s got problems. Anyway, what I do is nothing compared with Eirini. She bought him his flat.’

  ‘Do the police know about this little sideline of yours?’

  Myronis hung his head. ‘No. I’d prefer if it stayed that way.’

  ‘That depends on you answering my questions. Truthfully.’

  His host drank more Jim Beam. ‘All right,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What kind of relationship did you have with the missing man?’

  ‘An obedient one.’

  ‘Meaning he could turn off the cash whenever he wanted.’

  ‘Well, he could tell Eirini to keep me on even more of a pittance.’ Myronis’s eyes flashed.

  ‘I understand your father-in-law could have saved your family business.’

  ‘Did she tell you that? It was decades ago and I didn’t have a clue. You think I still harbour a grudge?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Is there anything else you’re unhappy about? For instance, the way your son’s been treated.’

  Myronis lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘Dinos had his chances. The truth is, he never fitted in. The old man doesn’t like failures.’

  ‘That must have angered you.’

  ‘It did at the time but Dinos was cut loose years ago.’

  ‘Do you own a firearm?’

  ‘Why, do you? Oh, all right. Yes, I do. A Browning Cynergy shotgun and a Heckler and Koch USP. I do some hunting in the winter, but mainly they’re for personal protection. All licensed, of course.’

  ‘Did you get Dinos his SIG Sauer?’

  ‘What? He’s been blabbing. Yes, it’s an old model. I bought it from a friend years ago.’

  Mavros looked at him. For the first time Vangelis Myronis held his gaze.

  ‘What? It’s a dangerous world, with terrorists, anarchists, all those scum.’

  ‘How did you get on with your wife’s half-brother Pavlos?’

  The change of subject surprised Myronis. ‘All right, I suppose.’

  ‘There weren’t any problems between you?’

  ‘I … no, not really. He was a wanker, to be honest. Tried to be the voice of his father, but the old man stomped all over him on a daily basis.’

  Mavros leaned forward. ‘So you have no idea who’s behind the kidnapping and murder?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Nothing to do with the Gogol brothers?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who I mean. You didn’t tell the police you know them, did you?’ Mavros took out his phone. ‘I’m calling Brigadier Kriaras.’

  ‘No, please don’t. You’re right, I know them. But only as a customer.’

  ‘Of overpriced booze and Ukrainian sex-slaves or of drug consignments?’

  Myronis was paler than a week-old squid. ‘I … I’ve had a drink there occasionally. I don’t know anything about drugs. I only give Dinos money. I go elsewhere for girls. Those Ukrainians are too skinny for me.’

  ‘Probably because they’re starved. So you see no profit from Dinos’s dealing?’

  ‘I don’t think he does either.’

  ‘Could this be what this is all about? Your son owes the Gogol brothers so they decide to grab the golden goose?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I mean … the old man had bodyguards.’

  ‘Russian bodyguards.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  Mavros got up.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Talk to my employers.’

  ‘You mean Loukas and Evi? All right, but please don’t tell Eirini. She’ll have my balls.’

  Mavros left the den and the house without further comment. The Russian connection was interesting, but he was wondering about something else. Why had Pavlos Gatsos been shot?

  ELEVEN

  Despite his rage over the trials and what had been done to him, Kostas Gatsos found himself questioning some of his actions. In the constant dark – he was aware it was a standard disorientation tactic, he’d known members of the security forces during the dictatorship – his past came back to him. He didn’t regret anything, but he did wonder whether he could have been less heavy-handed; less vicious, if truth be told. Inevitably his memory settled on Tefkros Svolos. Kostas despised him from the first time they met at a shipowners’ function in the mid 50s.

  ‘This is the young wolf who’s snapping at our heels,’ Svolos said, cigarette holder in the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re making quite a name for yourself, Mr Gatso.’

  Kostas was immediately aware of the latter sentence’s real meaning: we’ve been rich for generations and your family name is shit-stained.

  ‘I don’t snap,’ he replied haughtily. ‘I bite legs off – as with the Australian coal charter.’

  Svolos stared at him and then laughed. ‘Anyone can make a few good deals, my lad. The question is, have you got the stamina for decades of success?’

  Kostas looked at the overweight figure in evening dress. ‘The question is, have you?’ He smiled and walked away.

  From the next day he did everything in his power to stymie the Svolos group’s operations. At first he paid brokers and employees to ensure he was always ahead of the game. Then he outbid Svolos for new buildings in the yards in the Far East, meaning the older man had to pay premium prices for European vessels. Then … he got nasty. That took two forms.

  It was common knowledge that Svolos’s third wife, Ariadhni, who was twenty-five years younger,
had a wandering eye. Kostas made sure it landed on him. They would meet in discreet hotels and screw each other senseless. As time went by that was no longer enough for him. He wanted them to fuck in Svolos’s bed. Ariadhni was reluctant because of the servants, but finally she gave most of them the afternoon off and bribed the few that remained. Kostas still wasn’t satisfied. He deliberately arrived an hour late, then took much more time than usual in pleasuring Ariadhni and himself. There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Kyria Ariadhni! Your husband is back!’ called the maid.

  Kostas smiled, then pinned his lover to the bed.

  ‘Let me go. He’ll divorce me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.’ Kostas was hard again, excited by the danger. He plunged into her.

  ‘No!’ she cried.

  ‘Yes!’

  She fell into the rhythm he established and threw her head back. Kostas was hitting her pleasure spot and she was powerless to resist. He held back until the door opened then abandoned himself to the final strokes, bellowing as he came.

  ‘Ariadhni!’ Svolos shouted. ‘Is he raping you? Gatso?’

  ‘Raping her?’ Kostas pulled out and turned so that his naked front was fully visible. ‘We’ve been doing this for months.’

  ‘You filthy gutter-rat!’ Svolos said, raising the cane he always carried.

  Kostas rushed him, knocking it from his grasp.

  ‘Old man, I can put you on the floor and smash your skull. Is she worth it?’ He gathered up his clothes and went into the hall. He heard his lover wail as the cane was brought down on her repeatedly. He let himself out of the house and walked, whistling, to his Oldsmobile.

  Tefkros Svolos didn’t divorce his wife. She was found that night by the butler at the foot of the marble staircase with her neck broken. The pathologist made no mention of the weals on the dead woman’s shoulders, arms and back, ruling that death was accidental. His silence and that of the servants were bought. Kostas was happy. He wouldn’t have done anything for Ariadhni anyway. There was gossip in their circle, of course, but he managed to convince Marguerite, his wife at the time, that he was being slandered.

  He wasn’t finished with Svolos. He wanted his rival’s business to go to the wall, no matter how long established it was. He continued his harassment tactics, but there were enough cargoes to go around, though he picked up the most lucrative ones. He needed to cripple the Svolos Group once and for all. He lay in wait for several years, but the opportunity never arose; so he constructed his own. Svolos owned some of the largest tankers in the world. By making large payments to officers and crewmen, he managed to set up two catastrophic ‘accidents’ within a month. First, the Svolos Challenger, carrying over 100,000 tonnes of crude oil, ran aground near Land’s End. It was an environmental disaster and the inquiry showed that the ship’s steering system was faulty. For good measure, the officer of the watch had made a basic navigational error. Svolos’s insurers contested the claim and he was badly hit by the damages awarded the British government.