The White Sea Read online

  Then the vessel put to sea again, this time moving for only about an hour. After a stop of maybe three hours – he couldn’t see his watch – another voyage, this one much longer, maybe twelve hours. And then more stops and starts, till he’d lost count. Where were they? Off the coast of Turkey? Or had they gone west towards the Sporades or south to the Cyclades and Crete? He had no idea and that distressed him. He was used to being in possession of all the relevant facts.

  When he called, one of the men took him to the toilet and pulled down his trousers and pants. It was a small cabinet and his feet were against the walls. They put wads of paper in his joined hands, leaving him to wipe himself as best he could. They fed him bread and water, one of them lifting the hood up to his nose and another stuffing bits of bread into his mouth and pressing a water bottle against his lips. That was all he got in his place of imprisonment too – never enough to assuage his raging hunger and thirst. Why were they treating him like this? He was a valuable commodity.

  Then the boat reached land again and this time he was taken off, the bottom of the thick hood tightened with a drawstring so he couldn’t tell if it was day or night. This time the vehicle he was put in was older, the engine sound much louder. They drove for a long time, the road getting progressively rougher. Between the seats, his head was knocked around and his nose hit the floor hard once. He felt blood pool in the hood and cried out. That earned him a slap on the back of the head.

  At last the vehicle stopped and he was dragged out. He was lifted up by a large man and carried over a hundred paces, some of them downstairs. Then the handcuffs were finally unlocked, relief crashing over him.

  ‘Feel that?’ said a familiar male voice speaking Greek. He hadn’t heard it on the boat. ‘It’s the barrel of the gun that ended your son’s life and it’s against the back of your head. I can guarantee the bullet will take your eye out too – after ploughing through your oh-so-smart brain. So don’t try anything, Kosta.’ The first name was pronounced as if it were a particularly crude insult.

  His clothes were removed; the linen Brooks Brothers jacket, the Indian silk shirt, the chinos. And they took the Patek Philippe watch he’d bought after his first major contract – grain from the US east coast to Antwerp. His 700 euro loafers had gone not long after he was taken on board the boat. A rough garment was pulled over his limbs and body.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A boiler suit. We know how much regard you have for engineers.’

  The words puzzled him. He had never had much interest in the men who tended his vessels’ propulsion units. What did the gunman mean?

  Then he was pushed into the cell, basement, hole, whatever it was that had been his home for what seemed liked months. The hood was removed as he went and he found himself in total darkness.

  ‘You’ll find a bucket to void yourself into, old man,’ said his captor. ‘I hope you like your own stink.’

  Kostas Gatsos reckoned they emptied it every ten meals, but how that related to days he had no idea. He had been fastidious about cleaning himself ever since he started earning. Being left with his excreta, very little paper and no running water was torture. He was sure his captors knew that very well.

  Mavros was dropped off outside his mother’s place.

  ‘I’ll be here at 9 a.m.,’ said the beefy driver. ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

  The officer grinned. ‘Not when there are criminals to be nailed to the wall. Oh, and citizens to be protected.’ He drove off at speed.

  ‘One of Kriaras’s finest,’ Mavros muttered, as he went in the street door. There was a camera and a code. They’d been installed when the Son was a threat and were still in operation, though the private security guards had been dispensed with. Too expensive. A quarter of a million would change that, though maybe the Son had been nailed, to use the cop’s delicate term. He doubted it.

  In the flat he checked that his mother was soundly asleep and went to his room. It was a mess, like that of a teenager – clothes all over the floor, books and CDs piled precariously on table top, chest and shelves, framed posters for exhibitions at the National Gallery hanging askew. This was his domain, though he knew his mother looked in when he was away. She was long-suffering enough not to comment. She just told the cleaner to ignore it, forcing him to tidy up every few weeks.

  He pushed the manuscript of a book he’d been reading off the bed and lay down, only taking off his leather jacket, boots and jeans when he was horizontal. Anything to make life more difficult. The Fat Man had suggested he become a Catholic, so guilty had he become since Niki’s death. As if religion would have helped a lifelong atheist. He’d almost been tempted to do it to see the look on his friend’s face.

  There were five hours before he had to get up, but sleep wouldn’t come. He wallowed in semi-consciousness, wondering how to get back at Kriaras for his display of force; trying to imagine who could possibly be offering 250,000 euros up front and failing; then – inevitably – thinking about Niki. There were no photos of her in his room, though he had plenty stashed away, and none in his laptop or phone. It wasn’t that he was trying to forget her, rather that she was always with him. Their relationship had been seriously erratic, as she was; they’d broken up several times but always got back together. When she died they were trying for a baby, although she had gynaecological issues. She’d been worried by that, but she wasn’t depressed. It would have taken more than a photo of Mavros and his admittedly very attractive female client in Thessaloniki to have driven her to suicide. He’d spoken to her on the phone not long before he found her and she sounded fine. No, he was sure she’d been murdered. The only candidate was the Son. Working with Kriaras, or at least doing what he wanted, might enable him to put the squeeze on the brigadier. He was sure the bastard knew more than he was telling about the professional assassin.

  By five in the morning Mavros had convinced himself that taking the job would be a way of finally laying Niki to rest. He remembered the dull autumn day when her coffin had been lowered into the grave in the cemetery on the slopes of Mount Imittos. His family had been there, as had the Fat Man – who hated Niki but was doing a good job of looking repentant – and others of his friends. There was no one from Niki’s family because she had none; she’d been adopted by a kindly couple who were long dead. She had friends and colleagues from her office – she was a social worker doing what she could to improve the lives of immigrants – and one of them, Maria, was so upset that she nearly jumped into the grave. In one of her better moods, Niki might have raised a smile at that, if only because Maria was an even more committed atheist than Mavros. For some reason, probably linked to her general insecurity, Niki had stipulated a full Orthodox service in her will. At the gathering afterwards the company drank cheap brandy and ate sweet cake. Mavros couldn’t get away quickly enough.

  At least Nikos Kriaras hadn’t had the nerve to show up. Given what Mavros knew about his previous links with the Son, he might have brought about the brigadier’s own funeral. In the five years since then, he had moderated his position slightly. The Son was capable of running rings round even as calculating and politically savvy an operator as Kriaras. That didn’t mean Mavros trusted him, but the fact was he had come to Mavros offering a case, meaning the balance of power between them had shifted in Mavros’s favour.

  On that happy if debatable thought he finally fell asleep.

  THREE

  The colossus was standing by the unmarked car when Mavros appeared.

  ‘You’re late,’ he said, getting into the driver’s seat.

  Mavros walked to the front passenger door. ‘Unlike you I don’t work shifts.’

  ‘Unlike me you can get a slap.’

  ‘Long live police brutality. Where are we going?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ the policeman said, as he went down Lykavittos.

  ‘OK, how about this? You got a name?’

  ‘Yes.’ There were traces of a smile on the big
man’s fleshy lips.

  Mavros sighed. ‘You going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re required to show me ID if I ask.’

  ‘So ask.’

  ‘Show me your ID, please.’

  The driver took one hand off the wheel and took out his wallet.

  ‘Haralambos Haralambidhis,’ Mavros read. ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘Lieutenant.’

  Mavros laughed. ‘Lieutenant Haris? Lieutenant Lambis? Lieutenant Babis?’

  ‘Just lieutenant.’

  ‘Don’t your colleagues get confused?’

  ‘I don’t have any colleagues. I’m the brigadier’s special assistant.’

  ‘That must be fun.’

  ‘Can be. Not enough truncheon use for my liking.’

  ‘You’re not by any chance a member of an extreme rightwing organisation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just checking. Because if you had been, I’d have had to get out.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  They were now driving at speed down Syngrou Avenue towards the sea.

  ‘You mean you were lying about being a Nazi?’

  ‘I never lie.’

  Mavros laughed long and loud. ‘That makes you a unique Greek policeman.’

  The big man shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  They turned towards Piraeus on the multi-lane highway, leaving it about two kilometres before the port. The lieutenant pulled up outside a modern building covered in green glass. ‘Fifth floor,’ he said. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Loukas Gatsos and Ms Evi Gatsou.’ He pulled the door shut and drove to the parking area.

  Shit, Mavros thought. The Gatsos case. It had been all over the media for the last month. Now he knew why he hadn’t been told earlier. There had been no sign of the old shipowner since he’d disappeared from his palatial villa on Lesvos and no ransom demand, at least in public. The police had been busting a collective gut but had got nowhere. What did they expect him to do? He stood in the shade of a palm tree and weighed up his choices. He could walk away without seeing the family members, he could see them and refuse the case, or he could take their money and run into the same cyclopean walls that the cops had. The first option was the most attractive, despite the lure of the cash. He looked towards the hill of Kastella and the sunken roof of the Stadium of Peace and Friendship. There was a train station near it. He took a step …

  And was grabbed by the left arm.

  ‘Are you Alex Mavros? You are, aren’t you? Please, help us. Please.’

  He turned and took in an expensively dressed young woman who had been unlucky when the genes that brought about beauty had been allocated. She was much shorter than him, even though she was wearing high heels. What got through his guard was her broad face. Copious tears had made her mascara run and she looked like a bereaved queen from an ancient tragedy.

  The one thing that really got to Mavros was a crying woman. He let himself be tugged into the unsightly green building.

  Jim Thomson had delayed confirming the date of his flight to Greece. In recent weeks he’d felt becalmed; Ivy’s death had left him bobbing aimlessly on the waves like a ship with engine failure. He would only leave the house to buy beer and food, not much of the latter. He could hear people’s voices as they walked down the pavement outside the house, but he had no desire for company. His boss at the gallery had rung a couple of times then given up, assuming he would come back when he finished grieving. He was a good man; he’d keep Jim’s job open even though he’d have to hire a replacement.

  But Jim wasn’t grieving – he’d pushed Ivy’s death to the back of his mind – and he didn’t think he’d be going back to the gallery. The idea of returning to the old country had thrown him out of kilter and brought back memories he hadn’t allowed to surface for decades. Now he was living in the past all day and most of every night. He was …

  … back in the water after they’d thrown him from the ship, his wounds initially stinging, but then going numb like the rest of his body in the chill winter Aegean. He was barely conscious after the shock of hitting the dark surface. As he came back up, he saw the lights of the navy transport moving steadily away. There was a half-moon and its light cast a ghostly path on the water. He tried to get his breathing under control and then started swimming slowly, his arms and legs like oars rather than limbs, so disconnected did he feel from them. He made slow progress along the moon path he thought would lead him somewhere, then allowed the waves to carry him into the darkness. Let it go, he heard a voice tell him, give it up. He was about to do that when he recognised the speaker. It was the fucker who had tortured him, the security police animal who’d stuck fish hooks into him and pulled the lines attached to them as if he were a catch being reeled in. The pain … he still heard himself screaming … telling them everything them wanted to know … names, addresses, contacts … he didn’t care about the Party any more, the student resistance groups could go to hell … all he wanted was relief from the pain. Eventually it came, though the wounds in his skin and flesh still throbbed back in the stinking cell.

  After days, maybe as many as ten, he could hardly remember who he was, never mind who the people he had worked with were. The torturer had moved on to other victims, no doubt the ones he’d betrayed. He was left to rot until he was taken to the shower and forced to clean himself. The cuts and weals had partially scabbed over and he avoided touching them. Even the dribble of water in the open stall made them smart; but not as much as the hurt in his soul, the agony of failed responsibility. He would never be able to look anyone he knew in the face again …

  The officer behind the desk was friendly, offered him a cigarette. He ignored it.

  ‘Don’t worry, young man. You’ve been brave. No one has lasted so long against the Father. He’s been getting people like you to talk since the Civil War.’

  He sat with his head down, the flattery dashing over him like the contents of a cess pit.

  ‘There’s one more thing we need you to tell us.’

  He might have known. The colonels’ specialists never gave up.

  The officer with the pencil moustache blew out smoke. ‘And I do hope we won’t have to send you back to the Father for further … persuasion. It’s simply this. If we let you go free, will you work for us? You can easily pin leaks of information on other comrades. You’ll be paid, of course.’

  He suffered moments of indecision. To his shame he gave the idea consideration, so low had he sunk. But he had reached his limit.

  ‘Never,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He kept his head down, eyes to the floor.

  ‘Well, it was worth a try. Don’t worry, we won’t send you back to him. You’re in luck. You’re going on holiday. There’s a ship leaving for Rhodes tonight. We have a centre for your type there. It’s really quite comfortable.’

  He hadn’t believed the Bureaucrat of Pain even after he was put in a van with blacked out windows, to emerge in what he smelled was a port, presumably Piraeus – he couldn’t see because there was a blanket over his head. He was led up a gangway that shifted from side to side and then along metal corridors. The blanket was pulled off and thrown at him when he was shoved into a small room. In the dim light he touched his wounds. Two of them had reopened. He put a finger on each, oblivious to the risk of infection.

  No one gave him anything to eat or drink. He fell into a disturbed sleep, hooks and lines looming before him, then the former burrowing into his flesh like malevolent worms. He was woken by the clang of the door.

  ‘On deck for some fresh air,’ said the first of a pair of uniformed security policemen.

  They dragged him to his feet and led him along a corridor to a steel stairway. Then he was outside, the ship’s lights illuminating white-capped waves.

  ‘Commie shit,’ said one of his guards, seizing his arms from behind. ‘Have a good swim.’
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br />   Between them they picked him up and heaved him over the side.

  Jim came back to himself, panting and quivering. Gradually the familiar shapes of the living-room’s furniture reformed before him. The water … He touched his clothes. He was dry, but he had let the past pour back into his life. He didn’t think he’d be able to survive seeing the white sea again.

  ‘I’m Evi Gatsou, well, Gatsou-Myroni, but I don’t bother with my father’s name at work,’ the woman said, stopping outside the front door of the green building to wipe her face. ‘God, I must look a mess.’

  Mavros offered another tissue. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’

  ‘You don’t know how …’ She broke off. ‘I’m sorry, of course you do. I’ve read about you.’

  He stiffened. ‘Courtesy of Brigadier Kriaras.’

  ‘Partly.’ She put the used tissues into a waste bin and pushed open the door. ‘There’s no shortage of information about you on the internet. I’m so sorry about Niki.’

  Mavros didn’t know whether to be offended or touched by the over-familiarity. The young woman gave the impression of being emotionally gauche. Then again, she was from a shipping family. How to dissemble was drummed into them when they were toddlers.

  She led him to the lift and they went up to the fifth floor. People were hunched over desks, talking on the phone or hammering keyboards.

  ‘Your business is going well,’ Mavros offered.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  He glanced around. ‘In the middle of the crisis, every desk is taken. There can’t be many Greek companies who can say that.’ He decided to show his teeth. ‘Of course, shipping has its own ways of doing business and paying tax. Not much of the latter.’

  Evi Gatsou didn’t rise to the gibe. ‘Come and meet my brother. He’s taken over from my grandfather and my father, God rest his soul.’

  ‘My commiserations.’ Mavros had forgotten that the missing shipowner’s son, Pavlos, had been killed during the abduction.