The Black Life Page 25

  ‘You can call him, can’t you?’ Mavros said.

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t maintain that kind of relationship with him.’

  ‘Get a minion to do it.’

  ‘And tell him what? “We hear you’ve kidnapped a Jewish woman. Kindly let her go”?’

  ‘Why not? It’s an illegal act and you’re the police.’

  ‘For God’s sake, the Phoenix Rises is a legal organisation. What proof have you got that they took the woman?’

  Mavros looked at Dan. ‘You do know who she works for.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Well, you were the one who told me there was a Mossad cell operating up here.’

  ‘What? Your client’s one of them?’

  Mavros stayed silent.

  ‘All right,’ Kriaras said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Good move.’

  ‘You realise that if I tell them that, they may become even more hostile towards her.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  This time the brigadier didn’t answer.

  ‘Let me know what happens,’ Mavros said, then terminated the call.

  ‘Well?’ Dan asked.

  Mavros told them the gist of the conversation.

  ‘How do they know there’s a Mossad cell up here?’ the agent asked.

  ‘That’s your people’s department.’ Mavros grinned. ‘Maybe a Palestinian has infiltrated.’

  Dan glared at him.

  ‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Raul. ‘Just sit and wait? We should go and torch the fucking Phoenix’s office.’

  ‘I don’t allow that sort of language in my home,’ Allegra said sternly.

  Mavros wondered if she meant the swear word or the neo-Nazi group’s name.

  ‘Calm down,’ Dan said. ‘We have no idea where they’ve taken her, so searching is futile. Provoking them is likely to be counter-productive.’

  Mavros sat on the sofa and tried to get his thoughts in order. Kriaras’s line of communication with Kalogirou wasn’t news, though it disgusted him. At least it didn’t seem that the brigadier had ordered the kidnapping. He considered what Dan had said about Rachel’s hunt for her great-uncle. It was her affair, so why was he still in Thessaloniki? Did his organisation have other Arab targets lined up? That idea revolted him too. Whatever had happened to their people in the past, the Israelis weren’t entitled to carry out assassinations in foreign countries any more than the Americans, the Russians or terrorist groups.

  Then Dan’s phone rang. Relief flooded his face. ‘Where are you?’ he said, in English, scribbling words on the pad Allegra handed him. ‘I’m coming.’ He showed what he’d written to the researcher. ‘Where is this?’

  ‘The Macedonia Pallas?’ Allegra said. ‘It’s a big, ugly hotel on the seafront, not far beyond the White Tower.’

  ‘I’ll direct you,’ volunteered Raul.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Mavros.

  Ten minutes later Dan stopped the Jeep and Rachel got in the back.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mavros asked, from the seat beside her. Her left ear was red and swollen.

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  ‘But they took your clothes.’

  She was wearing an old overcoat several sizes too large, socks but no shoes and what looked like a cotton nightie. She was holding her laptop bag.

  ‘Have you still got your weapon?’ Dan asked, looking in the mirror.

  ‘Yes. They removed the clip.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘No problem?’ she shouted. ‘They cut my clothes off with knives and threatened to sodomise me with bits of wood and metal.’

  Mavros put his hand over hers and waited for her to calm down.

  ‘Kalogirou was there, yes?’ he asked in a low voice.

  She nodded.

  ‘Did he take any calls?’

  ‘No.’

  Mavros stared at her. ‘How did you talk your way to freedom? I presume that’s what you did.’

  Rachel smiled tightly. ‘I can be very persuasive.’

  ‘I bet you can,’ he said, with a grin.

  As they were approaching the Electra Palace, his phone rang. It was Niki.

  Dieter Jahnel looked out over the city of Thessaloniki from the penthouse apartment that had been rented for him on the seafront. The sea, the distant mountains, the sun lancing through grey clouds made a striking panorama, but he wasn’t overly impressed. He was a Bavarian and glorious scenery was something he had grown up with – jagged mountain peaks, tree-lined lakes, woods that fed the soul. More to the point, he was a businessman, head of a consortium of manufacturers close to signing a deal with the Macedonian Development Council, backed by the Greek government and several state and private banks. All he was waiting for was agreement over some minor but significant details. The Development Minister, a Greek who had been educated in Germany and seemed more northern than southern European – apart from the bribes he expected – was already in Thessaloniki. The signing tomorrow afternoon should go ahead without any problems. There were jobs in it for the Greeks, as well as technical innovation; for the Germans, there was what any businessman lived and breathed – profit.

  Jahnel dealt with a phone call from his secretary and then stripped naked. He had been neglecting his exercise regime because of his various work responsibilities – his family company manufactured telephone systems and he was also a non-executive director of two companies listed on the Xetra DAX. In recent weeks he had spent more time in the air than on the ground, not least because Jahnel Industries had taken over a failing American operation in Milwaukee. As he got back into the regime of squats and push-ups that he had kept going since his years on the university rowing team, he made himself focus on a single objective. Sometimes that would be one of his children: Erich, nineteen, was doing well at Heidelberg, Monika was in Grade 11 at gymnasium and fighting off the boys, while thirteen-year-old Max was a fully qualified assassin in several computer games. This time, though, Jahnel was thinking about his paternal grandfather, Helmut. He had set up the business in the hard years after the war and it was at exactly the right stage of development when West Germany’s US-supported economy really took off. Opa, though he preferred to be called Grossvater, was a strong-willed man, who regarded his own son, Jan, as little better than an average manager. He had seen promise in Dieter from an early age, watching with relish as he scythed the legs from opposition players on the football pitch. He had always confided in Dieter, and it was when he was fifteen that Opa told him he had been in northern Greece with the Waffen-SS in 1943, before his unit was sent to the Eastern Front. Almost all were killed there and Opa had lost a lung. He still smoked his pipe till the day he died, aged eighty-eight, only three years earlier.

  Jahnel got up and stretched his arms as he got his breathing in check. He went to the window and looked down at the people on the pavements. Opa had never expanded on his activities in this country, but Dieter was a good student. He always did his research before planning deals and he knew what had happened in Thessaloniki, not only to the Jews but to the Christian residents, during the Axis occupation. None of the Greeks he had done business with had ever mentioned the war. Perhaps some of their families had been collaborators. More likely, they were ignorant, preferring to concentrate on increasing their fortunes. That was how the world worked.

  On the way to the shower, Dieter Jahnel ran a hand over his close-cropped blond hair. It occurred to him that, in a uniform rather than a suit, he would have looked very similar to Opa in his wartime photos. Only he wasn’t a Nazi; he wasn’t even a Christian Democrat; he was one of the few members of the Greens to prosper in big business. His wife Greta’s grandfather, a senior member of the Communist Party of Germany, had died in Dachau, and they had taken care to ensure their children were fully aware of their country’s terrible history.

  Why, then, did he feel ashamed to be staying in a luxurious apartment only a few hundred metres from the square that h
ad hosted the first humiliation of Thessaloniki’s Jews?

  ‘Alex, this is your last chance,’ Niki said. ‘If you’re not back tonight, we’re finished.’

  Mavros glanced at Rachel, then turned away. ‘You’re being unreasonable. Besides, there’s every chance that I’ll be on a plane by this evening.’

  ‘My darling, that’s wonderful news. Is everything finished up there?’

  ‘No, but I’ve had enough. I’ll tell you when I get back.’

  Niki was crying and laughing at the same time. ‘Thank you … thank you, Alex. Call me … call me when you land. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too. Kisses.’

  Raul, the only Greek-speaker in the Cherokee, gave no sign of having heard his words. Soon afterwards they were dropped off at the hotel, Dan telling Rachel that he’d be in touch.

  ‘I need some clothes,’ Rachel said, walking towards the shop.

  ‘I’m going up,’ Mavros said, unwilling to talk in public.

  ‘Oh no you don’t. I had to supervise your new wardrobe, so you can return the favour.’

  ‘Haven’t you got a change of clothes in your case?’

  She smiled unusually widely. ‘No, it’s full of secret equipment.’

  He wasn’t sure how to read that. Was it an admission of her status as a Mossad agent? Asking her in a shop full of American tourists wasn’t feasible. She held up blouses, pullovers and trousers, all dark-coloured, and he nodded unenthusiastically. Then she chose a leather blouson similar to the one she’d bought him.

  ‘We’ll look like twins,’ she said, with a laugh.

  They took the lift because of her numerous bags.

  ‘I have to talk to you,’ Mavros said.

  ‘I know. Come to my room.’

  He followed her down the corridor. Should he stay or should he go?

  ‘Let’s order room service,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m starving.’

  She had a shower as they waited for the food. Mavros considered rifling through her things, but didn’t have the energy. He’d had enough of the case, even if there was one – or at least one that he could do anything about.

  The food appeared and they ate, Rachel in a robe with her hair in a towel.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘I must take some olives home.’

  ‘Home? And where’s that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I presume you have at least a pied-à-terre in Tel Aviv.’

  Rachel sat back. ‘What’s Dan been saying?’

  ‘Nothing much. He did mention that you weren’t only French.’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘So what? Dual nationality isn’t a crime.’

  ‘A foreigner carrying a firearm is, even in this Balkan balls-up of a country.’

  She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand what your problem is.’

  ‘Let me explain. You hired me to find your great-uncle Aron, aged eighty – if he’s alive. He’s such a ghost that now I’m beginning to think Ester Broudo really was mistaken. All the other information we turned up leads nowhere.’

  ‘What about Baruh Natzari? He killed himself in front of that terrible photo.’

  ‘Which proves only that your great-uncle was alive in the 50s.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stay up here any longer. You haven’t been honest with me and I have other priorities.’

  She got up and gripped his arm tightly. ‘Ask me anything.’

  ‘All right. Do you really believe he’s alive and in the city?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, without hesitating.

  ‘Did you kill Tareq Momani?’

  ‘No.’

  He caught her gaze. ‘Are you a member of Mossad?’

  Like Dan, she kept silent.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said, heading for the door.

  At least Rachel didn’t try to stop him. By phone he booked a seat on a flight departing at five in the afternoon and checked out. Instead of getting the hotel to order a cab, he walked down to the seafront. In the distance he could see the peninsula with the low buildings of Ayia Triadha. He had a flash of his brother Andonis on the beach there.

  Then there was a screech of brakes and a black van stopped ahead of him. Two men in rolled-down balaclavas jumped out of the back and grabbed him. It was only a matter of seconds before the van moved forward. Then a sack or the like was pulled over his head and his hands tied behind his back.

  ‘I’m sorry about the rough treatment, Mr Mavros,’ came a voice from the front, speaking English with an American accent. ‘I believe you’ve been looking for me.’

  Mavros breathed in through the fabric over his mouth. It sounded like Aron Samuel was alive, well and in Thessaloniki after all.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ‘Wake up now, please.’

  Mavros opened his eyes. The old man was sitting by the bed, as he had been when he told the story of his life.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Six in the morning. Isaak is making your breakfast. Yosif will take you to the bathroom.’

  The grip on his arms was vice-like, so he didn’t resist. After emptying his bladder and washing his face and hands, he looked in the cracked mirror. The bruising around his eyes was at its worst, but there were no new marks on his face. That made him ashamed. He should at least have struggled, if not fought back. But it was too late now.

  On the way back he took in the room. It was in disrepair, the yellow paint on the walls faded and the wooden floors rough and uncovered. The shutters were closed and no light filtered through the slats. His ankles were bound and the rope secured to the end of the bed, while one of his wrists was tied to the bed frame, the old man pushing his chair out of range.

  ‘It’s miserable, I know, but my family used to live in this area,’ Samuel said. ‘In a finer house, I gather – not that I have any memory of it.’

  Isaak came in with a tray. When Mavros finished eating and drinking – fresh bread and good filter coffee – his free arm was bound like the other one, while the chair was pulled closer.

  ‘You will remember that I made you a proposition last night.’

  Mavros stared at him. The skin on Aron Samuel’s face was unusually tight for an eighty-year-old – surely he hadn’t had plastic surgery? It was tanned and marked with liver spots, the long nose broken and misshapen. But the eyes were the main feature beneath the thick white hair. They were grey and cold, dimly lit as if by a star that had long been extinguished.

  ‘I remember you wanted my agreement to participate in an unspecified action. Were you serious?’

  ‘Deadly serious.’ The old man’s voice was low, making it all the more threatening. ‘Why do you think I told you my story? To educate you? Yes. To elicit sympathy? No. To make you realise that some things cannot be allowed to pass? Very much so. These things are still flourishing. You must make a principled decision, Alex Mavros. As your father did many times in his life.’

  ‘My father didn’t kill people by the dozen.’

  Samuel gave him a sad look. ‘But can you be sure of that? He was undercover on Crete during the Axis occupation. How do you know he didn’t kill the oppressors with his own hands? How do you know he didn’t plan attacks?’ He raised his still wide shoulders. ‘You cannot have any certainty.’

  ‘I don’t believe that the party supplied you with targets.’

  ‘Believe what you like. Consider me a liar as regards what I did myself. But you cannot deny the general truth of what I said. You have read too widely in the history of this country and the continent of which it is part. What the Nazis did was wrong. What their protectors – open and secret – did was also wrong. What their successors did and continue to do is wrong. I do not use the word “evil” because it suggests some external agency, either religious or ideological, that takes the focus away from men – and women, of course. Mankind. That is why I ask you to make a principled stand against those who do wrong. Can you refuse?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Of cours
e. I am not a savage. You will be left here bound to the bed and, when the time is right, an anonymous call will be made to the authorities.’

  ‘What happens if you and your sons are … don’t survive this great statement you’re going to make?’

  Aron Samuel looked over his shoulder to Yosif and smiled. ‘The opposition will have to be very good to kill all three of us. Still, if they do you’ll have to take your chances. This building is unoccupied and you will, of course, be gagged.’

  ‘How am I supposed to eat and drink?’

  ‘We will devise something with a bottle and a straw at the side of the gag. Though that won’t keep you going for long.’

  Mavros shook his head. ‘You expect me to make a principled decision when the alternative is a slow and agonising death?’

  ‘Yes. Principles stand above material considerations. Will you make a stand against people who treat others as dirt?’

  Mavros thought about it. He couldn’t argue with the old man’s thinking, even though he suspected it would lead to problems later. Besides, he had to get out of captivity.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I agree to take a stand against people who treat others as dirt.’

  ‘And count their lives as nothing.’

  He repeated the words, seeing lines of old people and the disabled at Auschwitz railway station.

  ‘That wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ Samuel said, touching his hand.

  The skin was like greaseproof paper, more manufactured than human.

  ‘I know,’ the old man said. ‘Gavriella made me use moisturiser. Since she left us, I’ve given that up.’

  ‘Are you going to untie me now?’ Mavros demanded. ‘And I want to call my partner in Athens. She was expecting me last night.’

  ‘Not yet, as regards the first. We know about Niki because she called your phone many times. There are messages too.’

  ‘I need to hear them.’

  ‘And I need your mind to be clear. The battery has been removed from your phone. You’ll get them both back later.’

  Mavros shook his head. ‘You aren’t making it easy for me.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know what you’ve agreed to participate in?’