The Green Lady Page 21

  Mavros picked up a jacket and trousers. ‘Not exactly camouflage gear, this.’

  The fisherman laughed. ‘We’ll take it off before we go on dry land.’

  They kitted up. Akis had his fish spears wrapped in a piece of tarpaulin and the bag over one shoulder. At least there was no sign of the shotgun.

  ‘Are you sure you need that?’ Mavros asked, in a low voice.

  ‘You’ll see.’ Akis led them to the front door.

  The trio walked to the small harbour. There were only a few lights and the water beyond was now dark, the HMC plant shrouded in red.

  ‘It’s weird how the lights over there react with the smoke,’ Akis said, pulling on the bowline of a small fishing boat.

  ‘Weird?’ Bitsos said, hoisting the bag with his camera and other gear on board. ‘It looks like hell.’

  Mavros smiled, then answered his phone. It was the Fat Man again.

  ‘The BMW went to the HMC plant,’ he said. ‘I stopped about a hundred metres from the gate. They didn’t see me. There are plenty of other cars. The shift must be changing.’

  ‘Fine. If you think you can conceal yourself somewhere in the rocks nearby, do so. Otherwise, call it a night and come over to Kypseli. My friend Akis’s house is on the front. It’s the only one with a bougainvillea surrounding the door. The key’s under the second tile on the left.’

  ‘Right. Where are you going to be?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Never mind? I bust my ass getting down here and—’

  ‘Lovely image. Go to the good.’

  Mavros cut the connection and clambered aboard the boat.

  The Son had turned off the national highway and driven into Ekali, one of the northernmost suburbs of Athens. It was like entering a billionaires’ enclave in Switzerland or an ultra-exclusive area outside Washington DC. The houses were large and surrounded by gardens and trees. Private security guards were posted at some of the gates and police officers were patrolling outside the homes of politicians. Mount Pendeli to the east glowed in the sunset and planes glinted above the new airport at Spata. The air was clear and cool, far enough from the city centre and the crowded Olympic venues for the neighbourhood to seem completely disconnected. In any case, the Son was so tuned to the job that he was in a zone of his own. He drove the Fiat to a junction, turned right and approached the target’s house. He parked on the street and went up to the heavy blue gate, broad-brimmed hat concealing his face from the numerous cameras. He was carrying the rake and spade that he’d put in the car’s boot in gloved hands. For as long at it mattered, he was a gardener. There was a smaller door for pedestrians. He pressed the sequence of numbers he’d been given and it swung open. The sun had dropped behind the western mountains and he was well concealed by the heavy foliage at the edge of the asphalt drive. The door closed quietly behind him and he headed for the house.

  He had memorised the layout and knew that at this time of day the target was usually to be found in the tinted glass extension by the swimming pool. The only other person in the house at this time would be a Filipina cook. If she kept out of the way, she would live. The Son slipped round the corner of the pristine wall, brushing past hibiscus and oleanders. When he approached the next corner, he leaned the spade and rake against the warm stone and took the silenced Glock from the waist of his jeans. Slowly moving his head round, he saw the woman. Angela Poulou was lying on a recliner, one foot dipping in the water. She was a fine looking woman, her legs long and smooth and her upper body generously proportioned beneath the zebra-striped swimming costume. The Son felt a pang of sadness. He would have liked to sample this one either before or after killing her, but his orders were clear. It had to look like an accident – or, even better, suicide. He could easily have drowned her, but that would have left marks on her body from the struggle. Instead, he had to get the woman upstairs.

  He walked slowly towards her, the soles of his worn yachting shoes silent on the marble. Two cats sprang up from beneath the recliner and ran away. He had the muzzle of the silencer against the side of Mrs Poulou’s head before her eyes opened and his hand over her mouth before she could make a sound.

  TWENTY

  Mavros sat next to Akis at the stern, while Bitsos tried to hold on to his last meal nearer the bow. There was a swell out in the bay and their protective clothing was soon drenched. As they got closer to the plant, the air became more acrid and Mavros felt his lungs burn.

  ‘How come the workers survive more than a few months?’ he yelled.

  The fisherman pursed his lips. ‘Most of them wear masks. Not all do survive.’

  Anger coursed through Mavros. How was such a lethal plant allowed to operate? If what he’d read was correct, the HMC had observed safety regulations sufficiently in the decades before Paschos Poulos bought the company, but in recent years standards had been flouted.

  Akis pointed past a large ship moored alongside a pier. ‘There’s a quiet cove round there beyond the lights. That’s where we’re heading.’

  It took another twenty minutes. Then they were in the dark on the other side of a steep promontory and the fisherman cut the engine revs. Mavros went forward and took the coiled rope. Akis had told him there was a securing ring hidden beneath an outcrop of rock. Akis manoeuvred the boat expertly and Mavros found it, slipping the rope through. A few minutes later they were ashore, having discarded the yellow gear.

  ‘We have to climb a bit,’ the fisherman said.

  ‘Oh, great,’ said Bitsos.

  ‘It isn’t far. The temple’s on this side of the plant. It shouldn’t take us more than a quarter of an hour.’ Akis selected a spear from the tarpaulin shoulder-bag across his chest. ‘Help yourselves,’ he said to the others.

  Mavros declined. The journalist was tempted, but decided his camera was enough to worry about. They set off up a scree-ridden slope, the lights from the plant shining beyond a ridge. That meant they could see where to put their feet, but were unable to make out anything in the distance. Mavros struggled for breath, the air even fouler here, and he could hear Bitsos wheezing like an aged steam engine to the rear. Akis was quick on his feet and kept having to wait for them. Finally, they reached a large boulder rooted in the hill’s stony flank.

  Akis beckoned them forward and they looked over the ridge. The sight was breathtaking, and not only because of the tinted pollution cloud. It reminded Mavros of Hieronymus Bosch and of the nocturnal cityscape at the beginning of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner. Hadn’t that been called Hades? If so, this was Hades in spades – and they hadn’t even reached the death god’s temple. The front part of the space in the triangular plain between two mountainsides and the sea – measuring perhaps three by two by three kilometres – was filled by furnaces and chimneys, long rolling plants and loading yards. Tall cranes stood over the ship on the waterfront, trucks constantly moving beneath them as they brought finished batches of aluminium for the deep holds. But it was the rear of the plant that had the real look of the infernal. The mountain had been scoured away, access roads circling it and great heaps of red ore dully reflecting the lights. Huge earthmovers ground up the roads, while the whole area was strung with electrical wires, as if a colony of gargantuan spiders had spun their webs over the factories and machines.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Bitsos said, coughing harshly. ‘I’ve seen photos of this kind of place in Russia and China. I didn’t know we had our own version.’ He started clicking away.

  Akis turned to Mavros. ‘Look beyond the towers there,’ he said, raising a hand. ‘See the four-storey building? That’s where Bekakos will be meeting the workers’ representatives.’

  Mavros saw it, cars parked in a space behind it. He thought he could make out the lawyer’s Porsche.

  ‘See the lights on the hill?’ Akis said, moving his head to the rear of the plain.

  Mavros looked towards a dimly lit area about five hundred metres away at about the same height they were. A narrow track led up to
it.

  ‘That’s the temple.’

  ‘It’s more like a cave,’ Mavros said, struggling to focus on the small number of columns and pitched roof.

  ‘It was built into the mountainside.’

  Mavros ran his eye over the plant again. ‘Seems strange the ancients put a temple to Hades on a hill when there was a perfectly good plain below.’

  ‘Maybe they found something valuable up there – you know, Hades as Plouton, the Rich One.’

  Maybe they did, Mavros thought, only dimly registering the fisherman’s knowledge of mythology. And maybe there’s a rich man’s daughter there too.

  ‘Is there a guard on it?’

  Akis grinned. ‘Only one way to find out.’ He moved off.

  The other two followed, out in the open now although they were under the shadow of night. Suddenly a loud siren screamed and they froze. It stopped after what must have been half a minute. Then there was a boom from further up the valley.

  ‘Blasting,’ the fisherman said. ‘It goes on all the time. Fortunately we only hear it when the wind’s from the east, which is rare.’

  It didn’t take them long to get to the temple. There was a barbed wire fence around it, but it was only knee-high.

  ‘The workers know not to come up here and who else would?’ Akis said, lifting his leg.

  Mavros went after him and then helped the less agile Bitsos over.

  ‘This is all I need,’ the journalist gasped. ‘Kneecaps shredded for a story my editor will never print.’

  Mavros left him and approached the ruins. They were in such good condition that the term was hardly appropriate. There were spades, wheelbarrows and other equipment around, showing that work was still underway, but little sign of imminent dismantling. The glow from the valley was sufficient for him to make out traces of dark marks on the columns. Had the temple to the underworld deities been painted black?

  ‘How do we know this was dedicated to Hades and his bimbo?’ Bitsos asked, as he took pictures.

  ‘Come inside,’ Akis said, taking a torch from his bag. He shone it towards the inner recesses of the building. They had been hewn from the rock. The floor was tiled with marble and there was a strange smell – damp combined with a ripe, fruity odour.

  ‘The statues are in perfect condition,’ Mavros said, approaching the larger than life-size figures. The male, stern and forbidding though his eyes were blank, stood in the centre, while the female, slightly smaller, was on his right side. Her head was shrouded and there was an expression of infinite sadness on her beautiful face.

  She held a round object in her left hand.

  ‘Grenade?’ the journalist suggested.

  ‘Not far off etymologically,’ Mavros replied. ‘A pomegranate.’

  ‘Well, well.’

  There were strands of vegetation and fruit on the floor beneath the statues. The plinths were stained red. Akis bent down and sniffed.

  ‘Wine,’ he said. ‘Nothing worse.’

  Mavros extended a hand. ‘Give me the torch, will you?’ He went round the back of Hades and shone the light. A tunnel had been cut into the rock, which was spotted with red bauxite ore. ‘When do you think this was done?’

  The fisherman went forward and ran his hand over the stone surfaces. ‘Not recently. It’s smooth.’ He looked up. ‘Water’s been dripping over it for a long time.’

  Mavros was seized by the idea that Lia Poulou was down there. ‘I want to see how far it goes.’

  Bitsos ran up, his eyes bulging. ‘We’ve got company. We need to get out.’ He followed the direction of the beam. ‘Or in.’

  Akis went to the temple entrance and peered out cautiously. ‘Three plant pickups,’ he said, on his return. ‘Only 4x4s will get up that track. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’m for going down the tunnel,’ Mavros said. ‘We’ll get caught in the headlights if they’re that close.’

  Bitsos stared at him. ‘Why do I think you haven’t told me everything?’

  ‘The Son could be in one of those pickups,’ Mavros said. ‘The last time Akis here saw him, he had a silenced rifle.’

  ‘Let’s go down the tunnel,’ the journo said.

  Mavros led them a few metres down and stopped. ‘I want to see and hear what happens. If we’re lucky, they won’t come down here.’

  ‘And if we’re not, I’ve got this.’ The fisherman took out the Webley.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bitsos gasped. ‘No shooting!’

  ‘Quiet,’ Mavros said. He listened as the engines slowed and then stopped all together. There was a slamming of doors and the sound of footsteps approaching. Then lights were lit in the temple – brands burning in sockets on the walls. Pushing the others further down, Mavros edged forwards, trying to see who was in front of Hades and his bride. Then the voices started, low and chanting. He struggled to make out the words.

  ‘. . . lord of darkness . . . ruler of all souls . . . and your queen, dark Persephone, bringer of beauty to those beyond all hope . . . accept, we beseech you, these humble offerings.’

  There was the splash of libations on the floor and the rustle of flowers and dried grass.

  Then a cracked and elderly male voice began to speak alone.

  ‘Great Hades Aidoneus, wearer of the cap of invisibility, grant success to our endeavours. Do not turn away from us now, oh Powerful One, in our hour of need. Accept these live offerings as more evidence of our devotion.’

  Mavros found Akis’s hand in the dark and took the revolver from him. He wasn’t going to let the Son or anyone else kill again. He looked between the statues and saw the thug named Kloutsis and another of the men who’d attacked him in Paradheisos carry a large sack towards the deities. Whoever was inside it was jerking about.

  Whispering to the fisherman to back him up with the harpoon, he prepared to move into the light.

  The target froze, her eyes wide. The Son smiled at her.

  ‘Get up,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Slowly.’ He put the hand that wasn’t holding the Glock under her arm and helped her up. ‘Now, Mrs Poulou, we’re going for a walk. Inside and upstairs. If you cry out or make any sound whatsoever, I’ll shoot you in the lower abdomen. Believe me, the pain will be appalling. I’ll disable your cook in the same way if you manage to alert her.’

  Angie Poulou shivered, her swimsuit damp.

  ‘You don’t need your robe,’ the Son said, with a slack smile. ‘You don’t need anything at all.’ He kicked away the wooden-soled sandals that would have made a noise on the stone floors. ‘Lead the way.’

  The target walked slowly into the glass-walled extension, her feet initially leaving wet prints. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and her arm twitching in the gunman’s grip. The door to the wide hall was open, the staircase on the left.

  ‘Up!’ urged the Son.

  She complied, pausing on the landing.

  ‘Your bedroom,’ her captor whispered.

  She whimpered.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to rape you. Though it is tempting.’ The Son poked a finger into her left breast. ‘Move.’

  Angie walked down the corridor to the master bedroom at the end. The Son looked around it, then closed the door behind them and locked it. He pointed her to the nearer bed and went into the en suite bathroom to check it was empty. Then he sat next to the target.

  ‘Right, Mrs Poulou, here’s the situation.’ He smiled at her again, this time more reassuringly. ‘You’re going to die. What we have to decide is how.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ Angie asked, her voice faint but even. ‘My husband?’

  ‘Does it matter? Now, you can jump from the window, though there’s a good chance that won’t kill you unless you go headfirst. Can you do that?’

  ‘This is about my daughter, isn’t it? You piece of shit, what have you done to her?’

  The Son raised his shoulders and ran the muzzle of the silencer over her right nipple. ‘Another possibility is the stairs. You could fall down the
m – but again, it would have to be headfirst. Do you fancy that?’

  Angie Poulou sat very still. ‘It’s because of Alex Mavros, isn’t it? You’re killing me because I hired him.’

  The Son’s eyes opened wide. ‘Alex Mavros? What do you mean you hired him?’

  ‘To find my daughter.’

  ‘Alex Mavros with the long hair and the weird eye?’

  ‘Yes.’ Angie gave him a scathing look. ‘You don’t seem to know very much.’

  ‘Watch it, bitch. Tell me about Mavros.’

  ‘I just did. He’s looking for my daughter, Lia.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. The last time I saw him was on the TV, at a demonstration outside the HMC plant near Paradheisos in Viotia.’

  ‘Ecologists for a Better Viotia,’ the Son muttered. What was the fucker doing down there? He suddenly had the impression that he was being played for a very large fool. His beef with Mavros was well known to the person who’d hired him, but that individual had kept the PI’s involvement in the pomegranate seeds case secret. He would pay for that.

  ‘When did you last speak to him?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Did he have any progress to report?’

  ‘Not really. He seems convinced there’s some connection between Lia and the HMC plant.’

  Maybe there is, the Son thought. He would have to investigate that himself. He took a deep breath and got himself back into the zone.

  ‘Another option,’ he said, looking her in the eye, ‘is cutting your wrists. You can do it in the bath. It doesn’t hurt much if the water’s very hot.’

  ‘Please,’ Angie said, her eyes damp. ‘All I want is my Lia back.’

  The Son shook his head. ‘Some things are too expensive, even for a member of the hyper-rich.’

  Mavros was about make his move when Akis put a hand on his arm.

  ‘Wait,’ he whispered.

  Squeaking noises were coming from the sack. Kloutsis took out a knife and opened one end, grabbing the pink animal that appeared. Five more followed, each seized by one of the company.