The Golden Silence Read online

  ‘Good morning, Pandeli,’ Mavros said, catching him up.

  ‘Aleko, my boy!’ Pikros stopped and seized his hand. He’d always refused to address Alex by what he saw as a foreign diminutive of Alexandhros. ‘Thank God you rang and gave me a reason to get out of the house. The wife’s driving me crazy. She wants me to fit new shelves in the kitchen, would you believe? I don’t have time for that sort of idiocy. Why do we have joiners?’

  Mavros smiled. Before he called, he’d been worried that the old man would refuse to help. He was congenitally awkward and had fallen out with the Party years ago. Since then he’d spent his time compiling a vast archive that documented the struggle of the Left. Pikros had worked with Mavros’s father for years and he’d known his brother too.

  ‘Why indeed?’ he agreed. ‘The workers have a right to jobs.’

  The old man grimaced. ‘Not that you can find a joiner these days. They’re all money-grabbing capitalists who need a month’s notice just to show up and give you an estimate.’

  They came on to Mavros’s street.

  ‘We can either go to my place or to a neighbourhood café,’ Mavros said. He was unsure about introducing Pikros to the Fat Man. They might find more to argue about than to agree on.

  ‘Your place.’ An ironic smile appeared beneath the moustache that was stained dark yellow by tobacco. ‘I want to see how a successful private investigator lives.’

  Mavros led him in. He opened the windows and looked around for an ashtray.

  ‘Don’t bother.’ Pikros put his hand on his chest. ‘I’ve been warned off. Apparently I’ve got a time bomb in here.’ He gave a gruff laugh. ‘I told the doctor—you’d better report me to the police then, the government’s got a real downer on terrorists.’

  Mavros looked at him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Can they do anything?’

  ‘I’m not in pain,’ the old man said, sitting down. ‘They’ve given me drugs. Which reminds me. I’d better have a glass of water to wash the next one down. I’m not allowed coffee any more either, you know. If it wasn’t for the archive, I’d have slit my wrists.’

  Mavros went into the kitchen and got the water. He felt bad. Pikros wasn’t well. He shouldn’t burden him with more work, but he really needed his help. This wasn’t just about Katia. It might be about his brother too.

  The old man popped his pill and washed it down. ‘So, my boy, what do you need to know?’ He had the archivist’s trademark curiosity.

  Mavros wanted to sustain that interest, so he started on the past rather than the present. ‘I’m working on a case that’s leading me back to the dictatorship.’

  Pikros’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘You know the actress Jenny Ikonomou?’

  ‘I can’t say I care much for the theatre or the TV, but I know of her.’

  ‘She was in the Communist youth during the dictatorship.’ ‘Which organisation?’

  ‘The main party’s.’

  The old man stroked his moustache. ‘First I’ve heard of it.’

  Mavros remembered what the Fat Man had told him. ‘Her surname then was Zanni. She was involved with Manos Floros’s group.’

  ‘Ah!’ Pikros moved forward to the edge of the sofa and rubbed his hands together. ‘Manos Floros! He was one of the best.’ He glanced at Mavros. ‘Along with your brother Andonis.’ His expression darkened. ‘The filthy murderers did for him. Tossed him into the sea like a sack of garbage. Jenny Ikonomou was in his circle?’ He took out a small black notebook. ‘Zanni was her family name, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Manos Floros was tortured before he was dumped overboard, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right. The brave doctor who saw his body on the beach made a list of his wounds and smuggled it out to one of the Italian papers. There was international outrage.’ The old man shook his head. ‘The fuckers. They were worse than jackals.’

  Mavros blinked, expecting his brother’s face to flash up. But, again, Andonis stayed away. ‘What do you know about the torturers?’

  ‘Those cowards? Not much. Who would want to waste time on them? Anyway, I was out of the Party by then. I hadn’t set up my network of contacts.’

  ‘Did you ever hear of one called the Father?’

  ‘The Father? As in “Our Father which art in heaven”?’ The old man looked blank. ‘No. I only ever heard of the scum who were put on trial. And that one who was shot by the terrorists in ’74. I’ve never come across anyone called the Father.’

  ‘Do you think you could take a look at Manos Floros’s circle? I’m interested in Jenny Ikonomou—Zanni as it was—and any other people he was close to. She was arrested. There must have been others. I’d like to know what happened to them.’ Mavros caught his eyes. ‘And who interrogated them.’

  ‘Who tortured them, you mean. All right, my boy. I’ll see if I can find any hint of this Father.’

  ‘And, Pandeli? If there’s any connection with Andonis…’

  The old man got up and put his notebook in his pocket. ‘That goes without saying. Your mother is well? Your sister?’

  ‘Both blooming.’

  ‘Women,’ Pikros said, with a sigh. ‘They bloom, but we men are condemned to fade away.’

  Mavros smiled. ‘I’ll see if I can help you pay for those shelves,’ he said, as they went to the door.

  ‘No, no. I don’t want money for working on a hero like Manos Floros. Ring me tomorrow, my boy.’

  Mavros watched the old man go down the stairs. Pikros had fought the Germans when he was a teenager and the enemies of the Left ever since, but what could he do against the power of the criminal underworld?

  He walked back into the sitting-room and turned on the TV, to be confronted by a white-faced young woman who was struggling to hold her microphone steady.

  ‘…something unimaginable this morning. A neighbour across the street saw a human head on the balcony of the apartment above me. According to the forensic surgeon, it belongs to a middle-aged man with fair hair and blue eyes. Police are as yet unable to make an identification.’

  Mavros found himself thinking of the horrors his father and Pandelis Pikros had lived through. Their generation had fought for a better world, as had his brother’s, but they’d wasted their time. People were still cutting off each other’s heads, shooting each other’s sons, stealing each other’s daughters, and there was nothing anybody could do to stop them.

  Damis was woken by the phone at midday. Ricardo had dropped him at the hotel and gone off on his own with the severed head in the boot of the Audi, giving him a hostile look. Damis knew that his comment about Mrs Chioti hadn’t gone down well with him or the Son. At least the Father hadn’t been there.

  He’d fallen into a disturbed sleep, seeing the Russian gangster writhing in the chair he’d been tied to in the remote cottage, then his inert, headless body and the Son’s sick smile. But the dream had got worse, the slumped and blood-drenched corpse suddenly topped with Martha’s ravaged face. He felt himself trying to fight his way back to the real world, but he hadn’t been able to surface. He was powerless to resist the compulsion that drove him to his lost lover, lowering his head to kiss her cracked and bleeding lips. Martha, he screamed. But she remained silent, imprisoned in the vacant world that the Chiotis family’s pushers had sent her to.

  The personal assistant’s voice on the phone was businesslike. ‘Mrs Chioti is expecting you at the villa in an hour. Take your belongings. You’ll be staying there.’ She gave him directions.

  Damis got ready, trying to damp down the unease that had gripped him. He should have been pleased. Only the family’s most trusted people were invited to the villa. Old man Chiotis was confined there, and the best security men were assigned to it. This was what he’d been waiting for, the chance to get into the family’s inner sanctum. But it had all happened too quickly. He was making enemies, not least the man who ran the Silver Lady. Antagonising Ricardo Zannis was as dangerous as it got.

  He cleared his f
ew possessions from the room and went down to the underground car park. It was deserted, the dark blue Japanese four-by-four that he’d been given in the corner where he’d left it. He drove into the sunshine and headed for the coast road, stopping halfway down the avenue to buy a newspaper. The gunfight in the parking lot was on the front page. He read the article and then made a call from the phone at the kiosk.

  The traffic thinned as he got beyond the last of the suburbs. To his right the sea stretched away, its surface pale blue in the sunlight. Ships were ploughing through the water, the ridges of the southern mountains visible in the distance. For a moment he wished he was away from the trouble he was in, up on the heights with the wind in his hair. But that only reminded him of the times he had spent on the hills back home with Martha. He had to finish the job. He was doing it for her.

  The road narrowed after he turned off at Lagonisi. He passed another four-by-four that had pulled into the side, two men in sunglasses watching him. They were the first of the Chiotis guards. Further on he was checked by two more men in dark suits, a chain stretched across the road behind them. There were others at the gate to the walled compound. If he hadn’t been expected, there was no way he could have got close to the villa.

  A servant in a white jacket was standing at the top of the steps that led to the main door. The house was a series of rectangular blocks, some connected and some separate, that had been built into the hillside. Trees and bushes had grown up against the white walls and the windows were shaded by pergolas and shutters. It was tasteful, but it was also very secure. There were no vantage points in the vicinity and no cover for snipers.

  The servant showed him into a book-lined room.

  ‘Good day,’ Rea Chioti said, looking up from an antique desk. Her expression was neutral. ‘I presume you don’t mind staying here.’

  ‘Of course not, Mrs Chioti.’ He felt her eyes on him.

  She stood up and walked towards him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She was wearing a knee-length skirt and a low-cut top. ‘Tell me about last night,’ she said, going over to the fireplace and standing in front of it with her back to him.

  Damis took a deep breath. He’d decided what he was going to do. ‘I didn’t like it,’ he said, watching as she turned to him, her face still impassive. ‘Ricardo’s planning was faulty. The Russian was picked up in a very public place and a lot of shots were fired. The police might easily have arrived earlier. As for the victim, well…I understand we’re at war, but decapitating him was too much. The Son’s out of control.’

  ‘Out of control?’ Rea Chioti said, her voice betraying a trace of concern. ‘The Father tells him what to do.’

  Damis realised he had the advantage of her. ‘The Father wasn’t there.’

  Rea stepped back to the desk and picked up one of the phones. ‘Send Ricardo in.’

  Damis stood still and fought to keep his breathing regular. He hadn’t expected Ricardo to be in close proximity. He saw that Mrs Chioti was playing them off against each other.

  The bald man walked in with his customary arrogance. He gave Damis a disparaging look and then nodded to the head of the family. ‘Good—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ Rea interrupted. ‘I’ve just been told that the Father wasn’t present last night. It didn’t occur to you to inform me of that?’

  Ricardo blanched. ‘Ah, I…I didn’t want to bother you during the night. It wasn’t a problem. The Son did a good job.’

  Rea glanced at Damis. ‘I wonder about your planning, Ricardo. The shoot-out, the risk you took planting the head on the Russian’s own balcony.’

  The bald man clenched his fists. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my planning. You wanted all-out war and that’s what you’ve got.’ He turned his eyes on Damis. ‘No matter what some jumped-up bouncer has been saying.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Rea said, looking at his hands. ‘Damis put his life on the line. Maybe he’s due for another promotion. Now, get back to work. We can expect the Russians to respond. Make sure all your people are alert to the threat.’ She glanced at Damis. ‘Wait outside. I’ll be needing you shortly.’

  Ricardo’s mouth was opening and closing, as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t get any words out. Damis walked past him to the door. When he was in the wide hall, he heard rapid footsteps behind him.

  ‘Outside, asshole,’ Ricardo said in a low voice. ‘Now.’

  Damis smiled at the white-coated servant and followed the bald man into the walled compound.

  ‘What the fuck have you been saying to her?’

  Damis raised his shoulders. ‘She asked for my opinion about last night and I gave it.’ He caught the smaller man’s eyes. ‘You screwed up, Ricardo. Too much noise, too many risks. As for the Son, the guy’s a psycho.’ He stepped closer. ‘And you’re not much better.’

  Ricardo drew his fist back, his face red. Then he glanced around and took in the guards, machine-pistols in their hands. ‘I’ll rip your guts out. And another thing. What the fuck were you doing letting that cocksucker Mavros go?’

  Damis looked back at him. So Yannis and Panos had talked. He’d been expecting that. ‘Do you want to cut his head off as well? He’s looking for a girl, that’s all. None of us has seen her.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you? Is that the problem?’

  Ricardo was quivering with rage. ‘Screw you. Mavros is finished.’ He dropped his arm. ‘Stay away from me. I’ll be waiting, you fucking brown nose. When Mrs C gets bored with you, I’ll be waiting for you.’

  Damis nodded. ‘It’s a date.’ As he walked back to the impregnable villa, he wondered what was in store for the private investigator.

  Mavros tried to contact Bitsos to find out more about the gunfight and the severed head, but he couldn’t reach him and had to leave messages. He paced up and down his living-room, a sense of foreboding settling over him. Where was Katia? He’d done everything he could to find her. Ricardo was involved, he was convinced of that, but the bald man wasn’t going to admit it. He couldn’t confront Jenny Ikonomou again until the archivist checked out what had happened to her during the dictatorship. If he pushed her too early he might scare her into clamming up. Eventually the frustration was too much for him. He took a chance and rang Kriaras.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Mavros said when the commander answered monosyllabically.

  ‘It had better be good.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  Kriaras groaned. ‘Have you any idea how busy I am? All right, where are you?’

  ‘At my place.’

  ‘I’m not risking being seen there. You know the road under the flagpole on the Acropolis?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Half-an-hour.’

  Mavros worked out how much he was going to tell Kriaras without compromising the search for Katia, then set off up the hill. As he got higher, the large neoclassical townhouses that had become hyper-trendy and ludicrously expensive in recent years were replaced by single-storey whitewashed buildings. The narrow lanes kept the number of cars down and made the area one of the most peaceful in the city centre. The flank of the citadel reared above the small houses, the blue-and-white flag flapping from a high pole.

  Mavros saw the Citroen he’d been in before and went over.

  ‘I like this place,’ Kriaras said, looking out of the darkened glass. ‘It’s stamped with heroism. Those guys who climbed up there during the war and replaced the swastika with our flag were crazy, but at least they believed in something worthwhile.’ He grunted. ‘Now all that people believe in is shopping and getting high.’

  ‘Live and let live,’ Mavros said.

  The commander gave him a disapproving look. ‘Let’s have it, then.’

  Mavros took a deep breath and told him about Ricardo, the tall man and their soon-to-be-dead captive in the Audi.

  Kriaras’s expression was stony. ‘Anything else?’

  Mavros was surprised
that he wasn’t being savaged for the delay in passing on that information. He shrugged and started to describe what had happened to him and his client outside the Silver Lady. ‘Three of them grabbed us. There were a couple of gorillas called Yannis and Panos. I saw them in the nightclub before. And there was the guy who was with Ricardo. He was called Damis.’

  The commander stiffened. He leaned forward to the bullnecked driver. ‘Take a walk,’ he ordered, then turned to Mavros. ‘Damis, you say? What happened then?’

  ‘They warned us off and chucked us out of the car. The one called Damis gave me a pretty minor thump in the belly. Then, when they were driving off, I heard Yannis mention the Father and Son.’ He was studying the commander’s face, which remained unreadable. ‘He said they would have given us some real pain.’

  ‘The Father and Son,’ Kriaras repeated. ‘First time you’ve heard of them?’

  ‘Yes. How about you?’

  The policeman picked a piece of fluff from his uniform jacket. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re playing games with me?’

  ‘I was asking myself the same question about you, Niko. Come on, give me a break. Who are they?’

  Kriaras looked him in the eye. ‘As if you haven’t done your research.’

  Mavros decided to give him a bit more. ‘All right. They’re enforcers, torturers working for the Chiotis family.’

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’

  Mavros went for the jugular. ‘The Father was one of your lot during the Colonels’ regime.’

  Kriaras drew himself up. ‘The torturers were in the Military Police, not under civil command.’

  ‘All of them?’ Mavros said sarcastically. ‘You don’t know who the Father and Son are?’

  ‘No. There are only underworld rumours. The Chiotis family has taken great care to protect them. Not just from us, but from their rivals.’