The Black Life Page 23

  ‘And the newer buildings?’ Rachel asked, indicating the cream-coloured walls.

  He told her briefly. It had suddenly struck him that Andonis might have been taken there later during the dictatorship, even though he’d disappeared near Athens. There was no rationale in the actions of tyrants.

  ‘So this is a sad place for someone with your background,’ Rachel said.

  He nodded. ‘But it’s also appropriate for the conversation we’re about to have, interrogation being a major part of the prison’s heritage.’

  She gave him a probing look and slipped her hand into the laptop bag. ‘You’re going to interrogate me?’

  ‘As far as that’s feasible, given the weapon you’re currently fingering.’ He smiled slackly. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me where you got the weapon? You didn’t have it when we went through security at the airport in Athens.’

  ‘Obviously not. What makes you think I have to tell you anything?’

  ‘Because you need me, if only as an interpreter.’

  ‘You haven’t done much more than that, have you?’

  Mavros shrugged. ‘I worked with the materials available. When a client doesn’t tell me everything, there’s a limit to what I can achieve.’

  ‘What do you think I and my father haven’t told you?’

  ‘Having only met your old man once, I prefer to keep him out of this. Besides, his health isn’t very good, is it?’

  ‘You’re a funny man, Alex Mavros. What you’re really saying is that if I don’t talk, you’ll walk away.’

  ‘If you don’t shoot me in the leg. I have, as you know, pressing reasons to go home.’

  Rachel looked around the mélange of buildings. There was a cold breeze blowing and the place was desolate.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it easy. I ask, you answer, OK?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Ha! Question one: do you work for or with Mossad?’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘What?’ she said, her voice high.

  ‘They’re suspected of killing the Jordanian, Tareq Momani.’

  Rachel’s hand was still in her bag. ‘Is that what your policeman told you?’

  ‘More or less. Plus, I saw you coming back late the night of the murder.’

  ‘That’s hardly something that would stand up in court.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me about the pistol.’

  ‘I bought it here. How do you say … under the counter? For personal protection. You should be grateful.’

  He tried to catch her eye, but she looked away. It was possible to obtain weapons from dealers, although background checks were required. A bribe could make those disappear, and there were black-market suppliers – though how would a foreigner find out who they were?

  Rachel turned back to him. ‘You don’t seriously imagine I’m a Mossad agent.’

  ‘You’d hardly admit to being one, would you?’

  ‘I came here – with you, don’t forget – to find my great-uncle.’

  He thought about that. ‘Are you sure you didn’t come to have a go at the Phoenix Rises? You were very keen to go to the rally.’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘Know your enemy.’

  Mavros watched a small bird hopping around on the search for sustenance. He knew he was being manipulated by Kriaras, but there was nothing new in that and he could turn it to his advantage. He was also pretty sure he was being used by Rachel, but that was more complicated – together they’d uncovered aspects of her great-uncle’s life that he was sure she hadn’t known about. Something else was nagging him.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here’s how I see it. I’m off the case until you come clean.’ He walked towards the gate.

  Rachel didn’t follow. He saw a taxi in the square behind the walls and hailed it. As he was getting in, the clouds parted and the weak November sun shone down on the hilltop. He didn’t feel enlightened at all.

  Mavros’s first plan was to go back to the hotel, pick up his gear and head for the airport. That was encouraged by a call from his mother. She told him that Niki had just left.

  ‘I don’t want to interfere, dear—’

  ‘Yes, you do.’

  ‘Well, a bit. She’s very upset, Alex. Are you … are you sure you have to stay up there?’

  ‘I’m considering it.’

  ‘Good. Then there’s Yiorgos, as well. Is he all right?’

  ‘As far as I can tell. I presume you’re still on full security.’

  ‘Yes. Is that horrible man back?’

  ‘He could be.’ If the Son was involved, the case would turn into the Gordian knot.

  ‘How awful. I’ve a good mind to call Brigadier Kriaras—’

  ‘No!’ Mavros yelled, making the driver swerve and swear. ‘Sorry, my friend. Look, Mother, don’t phone anyone except Anna, OK? She’ll keep you right. I’ll be back when I can.’ He rang off and thought about calling his sister. The last thing he needed was pressure from her. She knew the lockdown system well enough and would be careful.

  He walked into the hotel and started to gather up his few possessions. If Rachel really wanted him to stay, she’d call. She didn’t. Before he left, he sat at the window and looked down at the square. People were walking in all directions, some alone, some – teenage girls, in particular – hand in hand. Such were the people of Thessaloniki: the young unaware of what had happened to the Jews and the old not remembering. That made him feel bad.

  Then the worm that had been wriggling in his subconscious surfaced, or rather the two worms: Allegra Harari and Shimon Raphael. The information they’d supplied about Aron Samuel had come in drip-feed fashion, almost as if it was organised to keep him and Rachel curious but not any closer to their target. They had been open enough about knowing each other, but hadn’t admitted to pooling their resources. Surely they would have discussed the matter.

  Mavros left his bag and ran downstairs. Shimon’s office was only ten minutes’ walk away. He got there in five.

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ said the black-haired young woman at the nearest desk, taken aback by his damaged face. ‘Mr Raphael’s on a business trip.’

  ‘When will he back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked at one of her colleagues.

  ‘Would you tell me, please? I’m a friend of Shimon’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman said uneasily. ‘I really can’t say.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be Israel, by any chance?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I … I really can’t say.’

  Mavros smiled and left. He called Shimon’s mobile, but it went to voicemail. He couldn’t think of an appropriate message to leave.

  He hailed a passing taxi and directed the driver to Allegra’s building. He could have walked, but he suddenly had the feeling that time was essential.

  Rachel watched Mavros leave the Eptapyrgio. She waited a few minutes before calling her contact, arranging to meet on the far side of the square. She checked that there was no surveillance.

  A black Land Cruiser with darkened windows came towards her, the door swinging open. She got in before it came to a halt.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked the driver. He was unshaven, most of his thick curls under a cap.

  ‘Mavros has walked.’

  ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. The order is to keep him on board.’

  ‘Why? We can handle the job ourselves.’

  ‘You think so?’

  He glanced at her. ‘What more can he find out?’

  ‘I don’t know. He has his own sources.’

  ‘What about Allegra Harari?’

  ‘I doubt he’ll go back there.’

  ‘I think we’d better make sure.’

  Rachel raised her shoulders. ‘You’re probably right.’

  The 4x4 shook as it went quickly down the narrow roads to the centre, forcing mothers w
ith buggies and old ladies carrying shopping bags to the side. Then it turned a corner and was confronted by a removal van that took up all the space.

  ‘Shit!’ said the driver, looking over his shoulder. ‘Reversing back up is going to take some time.’

  ‘It isn’t far,’ Rachel said, picking up her laptop bag. ‘I’ll go on foot. Text me when you get there. Don’t show yourself without confirmation.’ She walked away at speed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the contact said sardonically.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  So we come to my return to Thessaloniki. I’d been back in Greece several times, my American passport attracting no attention. Or perhaps it did and the authorities either let me get on with what I was doing or failed to track me down. I took care to arrive and depart by boat, often small ones that served routes between Greece and Turkey.

  1999 was the last time both Shlomo and Baruh joined me. Earlier in the decade the country had been in turmoil over the new state of Macedonia, as the former Yugoslavian republic wanted to call itself. Although the rabble-rousing Greek foreign minister was gone and the so-called socialists were back in power, the rumpus had brought several ultra-nationalist former Nazi collaborators out of their holes. The comrades wanted us to deal with one of them and we had no objection.

  Christos Papakis was a few years older than me, in his late seventies. He had owned tobacco estates and cigarette factories in the north, and was thus responsible for many of his fellow citizens dying riddled with cancer. His son now ran the businesses and he had retired to a house on the coast near Kavala, about 145 kilometres east of my home city. We chartered a yacht in Piraeus from a company recommended by the comrades – even some purveyors of luxury goods have Communist sympathies. Yosif and Isaak sailed it northwards competently, without approaching land once we were beyond the islands near Attica. We anchored and came ashore about ten minutes’ walk from Papakis’s villa. The sun was going down behind Mount Athos – a spectacular site, I might say. Shlomo and Baruh were waiting for us in the latter’s car.

  We three old fighters embraced. Shlomo had lost a lot of weight and breathed noisily.

  ‘You don’t have to come with us, my friend,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling him, but does he listen?’ said Baruh. He was the same build as he’d always been and the wrinkles he’d acquired on his face when he was young were no deeper.

  They both shook hands enthusiastically with my sons.

  ‘We must walk, not drive,’ Yosif said.

  ‘I know that,’ Shlomo said gruffly. ‘I can keep up.’

  And he did, with Isaak’s help. We walked along the water’s edge, our footprints instantly disappearing. There were houses to our right, but no lights were on. It was a weekday in September and the properties were owned by the well-to-do of Kavala, who were back at work after the summer break. All except the retired Christos Papakis.

  Isaak left Shlomo with us behind some tamarisk bushes, while he and Yosif reconnoitred. They came back a quarter of an hour later.

  ‘They’re on their own, the target and his wife,’ Isaak said.

  ‘Both on the front terrace,’ added Yosif. ‘There’s a mobile phone on the table between them. If one of you could take it …’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Shlomo said eagerly.

  I nodded. ‘We need to get them inside and close the shutters. After that, events will take their usual course.’

  There were some grim smiles, then we pulled down our balaclavas and moved slowly towards the house, following my sons. There was a moon, so the absence of lights in the vicinity didn’t impede us.

  Baruh demonstrated seniority by taking out his pistol with the suppressor and walking coolly on to the wooden terrace. ‘Raise your hands,’ he ordered. ‘No noise.’

  A few seconds later more guns were aimed at the couple. The woman was whimpering. Shlomo came up and reached for the phone, but it slipped from his grasp. He swore under his breath, then kicked Papakis viciously on the shin, provoking a yelp. We moved inside and secured the shutters.

  ‘What is this?’ Papakis demanded. ‘A robbery?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You are the thief and it’s time to pay what you owe.’

  He stared at me, mouth gaping, while his wife started to cry.

  ‘Take her upstairs and secure her to a bed,’ I said to Isaak. ‘Don’t be too gentle. She knew about her husband’s activities and fully supported them. Leave the door open so she can hear.’

  I stood in front of Papakis and uncovered my face, as did all the others.

  ‘No,’ he gasped, looking down. ‘I don’t see you, I don’t know you.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter, collaborator,’ Shlomo said, spittle flying from his lips.

  ‘What?’ Papakis said feebly. ‘What … what is this?’

  I took a thick file out of Isaak’s backpack. ‘As you are aware, though no doubt you’ve done your best to forget, one thousand eight hundred Jews from Kavala were handed over to the Nazi allies the Bulgarians in 1943. Some of them were tobacco merchants. You bought their businesses and warehouses at ridiculously low prices, though no doubt it cost you something to pay off the enemy. What do you have to say?’

  The old man raised his head. ‘The Jews were gone. Someone would have taken their property. You can’t steal from dead people.’

  ‘That is a debatable point of law. In any case, you were a high-ranking member of the most anti-Semitic organization in Kavala before the Jews were taken.’

  ‘I was not.’

  I showed him original documents that bore his name and signature.

  ‘Tell us what you did when the few survivors returned to Kavala,’ Baruh said, his pistol still aimed at the seated man.

  ‘I did nothing.’

  Baruh laughed. ‘It is certainly true that you did nothing to help them. You wouldn’t even give them jobs. But nothing is not throwing a seventeen-year-old girl who couldn’t swim in the sea because she asked for a job, any job.’

  ‘I … I didn’t know she couldn’t swim.’

  ‘Nor did you try to help her,’ I said. ‘In fact, when men who worked for you reached out their arms, you expressly forbade them to save her.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  I showed him a statement made by a witness. It had been removed from the police file.

  ‘You paid this man off, yes?’

  Papakis would not speak.

  Shlomo hit him surprisingly hard on the side of the head. After that he was more eloquent. He eventually accepted all the charges laid against him.

  ‘You realise there can be only one end to this conversation,’ I said.

  ‘No … you can’t …’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Baruh said. ‘We’ll help you.’

  ‘What … what do you mean?’

  Isaak came up behind me. ‘Shlomo’s blow will leave a bruise. Hanging him isn’t a good idea.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I replied quietly. ‘We’ll take the body, tie an anchor to it and dump it at sea. There’s some kind of poetic justice in that – for the poor girl.’

  He nodded. I could see Yosif in the sitting room. He’d taken the rope from his pack and tied it to the hook that supported the lamp. They usually held.

  ‘Any last words?’ Shlomo asked as Papakis was lifted on to a chair and the noose tightened round his neck.

  ‘My sons … I want … I want to talk to them.’

  Baruh stared up at him. ‘You think our people were allowed to make their farewells? Be thankful we don’t force your wife to watch.’

  ‘I’m … I’m sorry,’ the doomed man said.

  ‘Too little, too late,’ Shlomo said, pulling the chair away.

  Papakis’s hands had been tied behind his back and we stepped away from his kicking legs. Gradually the movements slowed and then stopped altogether. The sounds we’d grown used to over the decades got quieter. Baruh was looking at his watch.

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ he said.

  Yosif cut th
e rope and Isaak lowered the body to the floor. I felt for a pulse.

  ‘So die all collaborators,’ I said.

  An hour later we were back on the yacht. I’d said farewell to Baruh and Shlomo – it was to be the last time I saw the latter and we both knew that. They were driving to Alexandhroupolis, near the border with Turkey, for a few days of relaxation. Neither of them fancied a trip to Bulgaria.

  Papakis’s wife died a few weeks later, we were told. It was assumed that the rich man had been kidnapped for ransom, her story taken to be the babbling of an old woman in shock, and the lack of a ransom demand down to the kidnappers losing their nerve, having accidentally killed the old man. What’s that? You think we were harsh to make her listen to her husband’s demise? I don’t agree. Marika Papaki’s father was a notorious army officer, who tortured Communist prisoners during the Civil War. She herself supported Queen Frederica’s children’s camps – indoctrination centres, according to the party. But Papakis’s wife went further. She established a home for the children of Communist fighters and ran it like a prison. She personally beat and starved the inmates, and may even have killed a small boy. Don’t imagine we target innocents.

  What about the women and children in Knaus’s town? I’ve told you before, they were as guilty as any collaborator. Very few Germans were unstained by Nazism. The present pope was in the Hitler Jugend, was he not?

  It’s all right, leave him be. He can’t understand. He isn’t one of us.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Mavros looked around as he got out of the taxi. There was no one loitering in the vicinity of Allegra Harari’s apartment block, unless they were disguised as a lottery-ticket man or a bread-ring salesman. The ground-floor lobby was empty and the lift available. For once he took it, ribs still aching. Again, there was no one in the hallway. He went to Allegra’s door and rang the bell.

  ‘Alex, your face!’ the researcher exclaimed, as she ushered him in.