Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) Page 26

  The barman gave him a half-nervous, half-mocking look and raised his shoulders. ‘I’m busy with my customers. How about later?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ Mavros said.

  Rinus smiled weakly. ‘Whatever. Dhimitra would like you both to join her. What are you drinking?’

  Eleni’s face was set hard. ‘You go, Alex,’ she said. ‘I see enough of that woman.’

  Mavros didn’t want to miss the opportunity of talking to Dhimitra without her husband. ‘I’ll see you later too,’ he said. ‘Brandy,’ he added, turning to Rinus. ‘Seven stars, since the rich lady’s buying.’

  The barman grunted, eyes on the glasses he was filling.

  As Mavros approached the table, he heard Aris’s voice thunder out.

  ‘Where’s Barbara? Where’s her wimp of a husband? They’re always here by now.’

  Rinus shrugged as he arrived with the tray of drinks. ‘Don’t know. I haven’t seen either of them all—’ He broke off as he picked up Mavros’s questioning glance. ‘I haven’t seen either of them this evening.’ This time he didn’t hang around to make conversation.

  ‘So, Alex,’ Dhimitra said in her throaty voice. ‘What have you been up to today?’ The question sounded innocent, but Mavros got the immediate impression that he was being probed.

  He raised the cognac glass to her, aware that Aris was staring at him bullishly. ‘Me? I’ve been doing what tourists do. Exploring the locale, sampling the food and drink—’

  ‘And asking questions,’ the bald man interrupted.

  Mavros held his gaze and then nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve been asking questions. I’m going to ask Mrs Theocharis one now. A friend of mine was here earlier in the year. She hasn’t been seen since.’ He took the photo of Rosa from his pocket and held it up in front of the woman opposite him. ‘I don’t suppose you met her in June?’

  Dhimitra waved away the pungent smoke from her untipped Assos and stared at the image. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I never saw her. I…’ She looked at Mavros and smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t get out of the estate as much as I’d like. My husband is very—’

  ‘Demanding,’ Aris Theocharis interrupted again, laughing coarsely. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your husband could have met her?’ Mavros asked Dhimitra.

  The former nightclub singer laughed, the smoke pluming from her nostrils. In the low lights of the Astrapi her blonde hair looked almost natural and the heavy foundation covering the wrinkles on her face and neck were less visible. ‘Panos? No, he keeps himself very much to himself these days.’

  ‘Beating his ancient meat in front of tsondes,’ Aris said with a guffaw.

  ‘What?’ Mavros asked, feigning incomprehension.

  ‘Tsondes?’ Aris looked at him as if he were a moron. ‘Blue movies, porn, shagfests. You get my meaning?’

  Mavros caught his eye and held it. Aris Theocharis had a big mouth, but he wasn’t sure what lay beneath the bravado. The big man dropped his gaze after a few seconds. Nothing much, maybe.

  ‘My husband…’ Dhimitra began, her heavy hand with its immaculate purple nails suddenly on Mavros’s forearm. ‘My husband lives for the past, as you understand from the collection he showed you. His sexual interests are—how shall I put it?—restricted.’

  Aris grunted. ‘At least the guys in the movies stay hard.’

  ‘Stop it, Ari,’ Dhimitra said, flashing him a stern look. ‘Alex doesn’t want to know about your father’s private life.’

  ‘Doesn’t he?’ Aris demanded, glancing at Mavros. ‘Excuse me. I have to talk to Rinus.’

  They watched him shamble over to the bar, his bulky frame looming over the Dutchman.

  ‘I must apologise for my stepson,’ Dhimitra said, lips parting over gleaming capped teeth. ‘He can be very crude.’ She smiled expansively and Mavros suddenly felt the weight of her hand on his thigh under the table. ‘You, on the other hand, are sensitive, are you not?’ The tips of her fingers approached his groin.

  Mavros pushed his chair back and nodded. ‘Yes, I’m very sensitive,’ he said. ‘And I know how to avoid trouble.’ He looked across at the heavily made-up woman, wondering if she was after him for sex or if she had another agenda. Maybe Theocharis had told her to find out if he was in the antiquities trade. If he played along, he might pick up information about Rosa—but he couldn’t face getting closer to the vulpine Dhimitra.

  ‘Your husband is one of this country’s most influential and powerful men,’ he added. ‘Find someone else to drop in the shit.’ He turned away and headed for the door, aware that Eleni’s eyes were on him but not intending to stop. He’d made the rebuff of Dhimitra as unsubtle as he could. It was time he showed his teeth to people other than Rinus.

  Outside, he stood in the light for a time, trying to get his thoughts in order. Aris talked tougher than he was, Dhimitra was a scheming nymphomaniac, Eleni was a lesbian who tried it on with men, and Rinus was a dope dealer with wandering eyes and hands. There was no shortage of suspicious characters who either knew or could have known Rosa Ozal, but none of them was about to tell him what caused her to leave before she’d planned to. He stepped into the darkness, the constellations higher now and the cotton-wool traces of distant galaxies more faint. He knew it was time to make things happen. Rather than waiting for Rinus to close up, he decided to see if he could get into his flat. That was the most likely place to find something linking the Dutchman to Rosa.

  Before he was more than ten metres down the track he heard the long-drawn-out screech of an owl. Seconds later there was a heavy blow on the back of his head.

  ‘Ah!’ Mavros heard himself exclaim, the sound of his voice somehow insulated. He dropped to the ground and felt sharp stones pierce the skin on his kneecaps.

  More blows followed, a narrow torch beam playing over his head and shoulders to direct the hits. Some were random, rebounding off his shoulders and upper arms, but others were well aimed, fists making contact with his chin and temples. He began to sink into unconsciousness, his eyes filling with sticky blood and his breath rushing in his throat. Then, as if from far away, he heard voices. Loud voices.

  Male. ‘Oi, what are you doing?’

  Female. ‘Get off him. Go on, get away.’

  Male. ‘Grab him, Norm. Quick, he’s getting over the wall. No, Trace, don’t.’

  Mavros heard a sharp blow and a gasp.

  Female. ‘That’ll teach you, two of you ganging up on a defenceless guy. Oh, shit, I’ve broken my heel on the bastard.’

  Stones rattled around, thudding on to the ground near Mavros. He heard rapid footsteps moving away.

  Male. ‘They’ve cleared off. How many were there?’

  Female. ‘Two on the track, I think, Roy. There might have been someone else behind the wall. This travel torch of mine’s not too bright.’

  The other female. ‘Here, it’s the bloke from the restaurant. He was in the bar last night and all.’

  Male. ‘Oh yeah, so it is. We’d better get him up to the Astrapi.’

  Another male. ‘No, no.’ Mavros realised it was his own voice. ‘Get me to my place. House on the street leading to the square. Blue door with yellow panels.’ He felt himself fall away again. ‘Please.’

  He was vaguely aware of being lifted up as his head was smothered in darkness, his breathing loud, far too loud. Then everything went completely silent.

  January 5th, 1943

  We have struck our first blow and the blood is running quick in our veins!

  I won’t pretend things have been easy. In fact, I’ve been so busy organising the operation and wrangling with the Greeks that I have been unable to keep this diary for weeks. And unwilling in case Agamemnon or his men should discover it, which would be catastrophic for Maro and me. But now we have holed up on Vigla again and I have more time. I have even seen Maro, though only briefly and in the presence of her brother. My love for her still burns strong, so strong. How I wish we could slip away to our secret place and
lose ourselves in each other, but the mission is what counts now. We have blooded the Italians and it will not be long before we must do so again.

  I have to say that Agamemnon and his squad have been less than helpful. As soon as I outlined my plan to blow up the enemy garrison’s stores depot and an electricity substation in Parikia, the main town of Paros, the Sacred Band turned its collective face against me. Agamemnon had obviously been working on Ajax as well. The local men refused to take any part in the sabotage operation, following the position established by the captain—that any subversive action would bring the wrath of the enemy down upon innocent islanders’ heads. I tried in vain to convince them that we would leave no traces, that the Italians would be unable to establish any connection with Trigono, but it was no good. Many of the Trigoniotes have relatives on Paros and the threat of reprisals against the population of the neighbouring island disturbed them just as much. It was pointless to remind them that the Italians are in no way as vindictive as the Germans on the mainland, and that we would make sure our activities injured no enemy personnel. They were adamant. Agamemnon has heard reports of Cretan peasants being forced to dig their own graves, of women and children being herded into churches and burned to death, and those accounts seemed to scare even the redoubtable Ajax. So much for the spirit of resistance. I understood their fears—my God, I have Maro to think about—but the struggle has to take precedence. Being in love is wonderful, but standing up to tyranny is the greater glory. Byron knew both and he chose to die in the Greeks’ own war of independence rather than in the arms of a woman.

  But I had an ace up my sleeve. I informed base of the stalemate we had reached and they supported my line. In the brass hats’ view, civilian casualties, though regrettable, are sometimes unavoidable. So they ordered Agamemnon to keep his distance and sent me a pair of experienced sabotage hands to back me up. From now on this would be an all-British operation. I had enough local knowledge to get us to the target area and the fact that we would be wearing army-issue boots and using British weapons would get the locals off the hook.

  Corporals Rees and Griffin of the Royal Marines duly arrived on the supply kaïki on Boxing Day, the former a wiry, red-faced Welshman and the latter a monosyllabic Yorkshireman with a vicious glint in his eye. They are both explosives experts and apparently Griffin is well versed in the black arts of silent killing. I told him that he was unlikely to have to use those on the somnolent Italian detachment on Paros and that he was only to strike on my direct order. He raised a sceptical eyebrow and went on checking his kit. My God, I’m glad he’s on our side!

  And so the day of the operation dawned, the sun bright over the eastern islands and the north wind no more than Force 3 as I looked out of the herdsman’s hut below the ridge. I had left the hut in the Kambos when the other two arrived, thinking it best to be out of the way of the islanders who worked the land. The move meant that I saw less of Maro, but she seemed to understand. She even came to the cave the night after Rees and Griffin landed. I don’t think they saw her—she is always very careful—or heard the cries we couldn’t silence. Ah, Maro!

  I made my final preparations independently of Agamemnon, using Ajax only to find us a small fishing boat. Rees was a fisherman before the war and he was quite capable of getting us to a deserted cove on the south coast of Paros. Ajax had the boat brought to the inlet of Vathy and the three of us filed down the track in the afternoon, feeling the eyes of the Sacred Band men on us from the scrub. Their officer was waiting for us in the deserted village at the head of the inlet, his expression grim and disapproving.

  ‘I ask you to reconsider your operation, Lieutenant,’ he said, taking my arm and drawing me aside. His English is excellent, the fruit, no doubt, of expensive tutors. ‘The dangers to the local population must be obvious to you. In a week our people will have completed their reconnaissance of Naxos and Amorgos. I will gladly assist you in operations there.’

  ‘And what about the danger of reprisals to the populations of those islands?’ I demanded. ‘Why are they any less important? Because your family happens to own an estate on Trigono?’

  That took the wind from his sails. He glared at me and then marched away, his face set hard. I don’t think I’ll be having any more trouble from that quarter.

  Rees and Griffin stored the equipment below deck and we cast off. The Ersi was a battered old hulk, her timbers heavily scraped and her hull in need of several coats of paint, but her engine sounded healthy enough and Ajax had managed to obtain a supply of diesel from the black market on Paros. The light was fading over the western islands as we steered between Mavronisi and Aspronisi at the opening of the inlet. Eschati, the last island, floated like a piece of eggshell on the darkening waters and we turned to the west, Rees handling the boat with the light hand of a born seaman. I felt my heart pound in my chest. What more could a man ask from life than to sail through the most beautiful archipelago in the world and wage war on an unjust enemy? The last of the sun’s rays were turning the sheer cliffs of Trigono a lambent red and I blinked the tears from my eyes before the gruff Yorkshireman beside me noticed. I was in my element at last. I felt then that not even the joy Maro brought me could compare with this.

  I will not write about the operation in too much detail. I have already taken a chance by consigning my thoughts to print. Suffice to say that it was a resounding success. After mooring the boat in a cut that was almost invisible from land or sea, we marched through the night to the hillside above the town and holed up in an overgrown watercourse during the day. At nightfall we slipped silently down to the outskirts and flitted like ghosts between the shuttered houses. There seemed to be no one about and the only danger came from dogs that growled when they heard unfamiliar footsteps and from chickens squawking on their roosts. We located the Italian depot without difficulty and the only tricky moment came when a sentry walked within a foot of Rees’s crouching body. But he disappeared round a corner soon enough and we didn’t see him again. Griffin went after him to make sure he kept walking away from us. The charges were laid, the timer set for 4:00 a.m. By then we would be long gone.

  Soon afterwards we moved on to the electricity substation, which lay to the north of the silent town. There were no sentries on it and we had no alarms as the corporals repeated their actions with the explosives. Then we were away into the darkness, our legs straining as we scaled the flank of the marble mountain, the gorse tugging at our trousers. We heard the explosions when we were a mile or so from the boat. Time passed in a flash and we were soon back on the gentle swell, carving an arc round the long tail of Oura at the southeastern point of Trig. The sun came up as we swung into Vathy inlet and I shook hands with my men. We were home and dry.

  Tomorrow, January 6th, is Twelfth Night. In the Orthodox Church it is the Fota, the blessing of the waters. Ajax has already taken the trusty Ersi back to the village so she isn’t missed during the festival. The young men dive into the sea to fetch the cross thrown in by the priest and there is great rejoicing. We are already celebrating, Griffin having cracked open a bottle of whisky that he brought, against orders, from base. Maro will not come tonight as the women will be preparing for the feast day. I miss her already, but I have enough to console myself with.

  Agamemnon gave us the same stony glare when we returned, the fool. We have achieved something, we have struck a blow. What have he and his precious Sacred Band done to rid Greece of the invader?

  Mavros struggled to get himself into a sitting position, gasping as the pain in his ribs knifed in. He was still woozy, and the owl’s shrill call that he’d heard before he was attacked was running through his mind like a record that had stuck. The owl. In Greek popular belief, its cry was an evil omen, a harbinger of death. He blinked to dispel the thought. The bedside light in his room at Rena’s was on and he could make out his face in the mirror. It could have been worse. There was a large black swelling above his left eye and a bloody scrape along the line of his jaw on the other side. His head
was pounding and he badly needed something to drink. Reaching out for the glass on the cabinet, he misjudged the distance and watched helplessly as it toppled on to the tiled floor.

  The crash brought his landlady running.

  ‘Alex, what are you doing?’ she said, an expression of alarm on her face as she came in the door. ‘You must lie down. The doctor said that—’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Mavros said, raising an arm and wincing.

  ‘The doctor said that you might have a—’ The widow broke off and searched for the word. ‘A concussion?’

  ‘Very good,’ Mavros said with a weak smile. ‘Where did you learn that difficult piece of English vocabulary?’

  ‘From the dictionary,’ she said, not returning the smile. ‘I looked it up a few minutes ago.’ She frowned and pushed him gently back on to the bed. ‘You should be careful, Alex,’ she warned. ‘You must tell me if you are dizzy so I can call the doctor back.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s drunk, of course. He always is. But he knows his work.’

  ‘Where are the people who brought me here?’ he asked, swallowing hard as he felt the throb of pain in his head worsen. He wasn’t going to mention it to Rena. She’d probably tie him to the bed till the doctor returned. It was then that he realised he’d been undressed. Had she done that? He glanced over to the chair where his clothes had been draped and saw his satchel. Although it was buckled, he wondered if anyone had looked inside it.

  ‘The English?’ Rena twitched her nose. ‘I thought they were horrible people when I first saw them. They smelled of beer. But they helped you and they were very friendly. They went away when the doctor came.’

  Mavros nodded slowly, the ache still there. ‘I wanted to thank them.’

  ‘They said some people attacked you, Alex.’ Rena’s eyes were wide. ‘Who could have done that? You must talk to the policeman tomorrow.’