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  Yiorgos shrugged. ‘They did what they could. Don’t forget, Metaxas and his cronies had caught a lot of our people.’

  ‘True. When were you last up in Thessaloniki?’

  ‘Em …’

  Mavros smelled a rodent. ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘What, the kataïfi?’

  ‘Only if it’s absolutely essential. Come on. The story.’

  The Fat Man looked seriously abashed. He made a mess of folding his newspaper, then started to get up.

  ‘The story,’ Mavros insisted.

  ‘It’s classified.’

  ‘What, by the comrades who wanted to take a cut of your card games when you had the café? The same comrades who used you for decades and then turned their backs on you.’

  ‘I still have friends,’ Yiorgos said sulkily.

  Mavros realised he’d gone too far, but he’d been suspicious about his friend’s interest in his latest case from the moment he saw the book on Jewish Party members. ‘I know you have. Ask yourself this question. Do you know something that might help me … us … in this case?’

  ‘Oh, now it’s “us”, is it?’ the Fat Man said. ‘You’ll be up north on expenses with a fancy piece and I’ll be scratching my arse in this dump? Very “us”.’

  Mavros had known he wouldn’t get away with such a blatant appeal to his friend. ‘Seems to me that a shower and a general clean-up would solve both your problems.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Then you’d be able to concentrate on providing me with the backup I can’t live without.’

  Yiorgos was suspicious, but couldn’t resist the idea of being cut into the case. ‘All right, but keep it to yourself. It was fifteen years ago, anyway. I was sent on the train to put the fear of Lenin up a young cadre who’d lost his grip. He’d been arrested and had laid into the cops. They were sweating him for stuff he shouldn’t have known and our lawyer wanted—’

  ‘The line laid down by one of the party’s known enforcers.’

  The Fat Man grinned. ‘Was that a compliment?’

  ‘I mean, gutbuckets.’

  ‘Do you want to hear this or not?’

  Mavros kept quiet.

  ‘I did what I had to without any problem – told him what would happen to his family if he squealed. One of the local comrades had been ordered to put me up for the night. This was after the end of the dictatorship and we were legal again, but they wanted to save on a hotel bill. The cadre who met me in Aristotelous Square was a Jew.’

  Mavros listened more carefully.

  ‘Young chap, couldn’t have been over thirty. It was a Friday. I had to take part in the special dinner they have.’

  ‘Shabbat.’

  ‘Something like that. He didn’t believe, of course, but his wife did and she wanted the kids to grow up in the faith. Afterwards he—’

  ‘What was his name?’

  Yiorgos scratched his sparsely covered crown. ‘Shimon something … an Italian painter …’

  ‘Shimon Caravaggio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shimon Michelangelo?’

  ‘Uh-uh. I’ve got it – Shimon Raphael. What was I saying? Oh yes, he took me to his office under the flat – he was a customs broker – and started telling me all these stories about the Jews during the war. His father, who was about seventeen when the Nazis invaded, was sheltered by an Orthodox family and didn’t go outside for over two years.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Yiorgos shook his head. ‘That isn’t the worst. A week before the Germans left, they came looking for him. He managed to get out the back. They shot the couple and their young kids on the spot. Apparently Shimon’s father lost it completely. He disappeared for five years and never talked about where he’d been or what he’d done. But listen to this.’

  Mavros leant forward.

  ‘He wore a string of human teeth round his neck, night and day.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I don’t think he was much in evidence.’

  Mavros sat back. ‘Well, thanks for that. Sets me up nicely for the trip.’

  The Fat Man handed him a piece of paper. ‘Here’s Shimon’s address and number. He’s still alive and well – he called me on my name day this year. Maybe he’ll be able to help.’

  ‘Thanks. Hang on. You knew his name all along. What was that game with the artists’ names?’

  His friend laughed. ‘I wanted to see who you came up with. Caravaggio? Interesting …’

  Mavros extended both hands violently, fingers spread, and sent Yiorgos straight to the underworld.

  Rachel Samuel was sitting on the balcony of her room in the Grand Bretagne. Although the wind was a chill northerly, she was in the lee of it and the sun was strong enough to give her pleasure. Paris in November was much drearier, not that she spent all her time there. In the last two years she’d been on trips to different parts of the world, working only part-time for her father. She had gained expertise in fields that he suspected, but had been careful not to ask about. He knew she’d become ‘a competent’, though, and it angered her that he’d insisted on employing the investigator who looked like an ageing rock star. Still, she could never be angry with her father for long. He had the kind of soul that wasn’t satisfied with starting his own company from scratch and making it into a great success. He was generous to charities – not only Jewish ones – loved music from opera (apart from Wagner) to bebop, collected Fauvist art, and was devoted to his family. Rachel didn’t spend much time with her brother David – he didn’t approve of her activities – but she was close to their mother, who had suffered a stroke and lost the use of one arm and leg.

  ‘Ah, Maman,’ she said in a low voice, ‘what would you think of me if you knew? Your parents escaped the transports from Paris by hiding beneath a barn in the Auvergne. They suffered cold and hunger, but they went unnoticed on the high plateau. It cost them all they had to buy the locals’ food and silence, and Papi carried messages for the Résistance. A heavy price was exacted even from the Jews who survived the Nazis. Maman, you have lived in your husband’s shadow, but you are wiser than him. He closed his mind to past horrors and fashioned a new world for himself and for us. Now, late in life, he is driven to confront what he has always avoided. If his Uncle Aron is alive, what story will he have to tell?’

  If, she thought, pulling her skirt up her thighs and feeling the skin tingle in the sun – if he is alive; if it really was him who had been seen; if Alex Mavros could find him. She hadn’t been impressed by the missing-persons specialist, despite the fact that he had done his homework – that was hardly difficult on the Internet. She was frustrated that she’d had to wait till Monday to fly to Thessaloniki. Her father had told her to go earlier if she wished, but she had spent her time in Athens profitably. She had gathered information – though none was of direct help regarding her great-uncle – and she had arranged for a weapon. Her contact had been helpful and the supplier a model of efficiency.

  There was also the fact that she wanted to keep a close eye on Mavros from the minute he started work in Thessaloniki. She had read the file her contact had provided, which was considerably more detailed than what her father’s secretary had put together. She knew Mavros’s long-dead father had been a leading Communist and that he had indirect access to the party, even though he seemed to have no political allegiance. That might prove useful. She was also aware that Mavros was deeply unpopular both with organised criminals, though he seemed to have steered clear of them in recent years, and with the murky elite that ran Greece. That suggested he was his own man.

  The question was, would he become her man on the search for her elderly relative? To guarantee his loyalty, she might have to get close to him. That didn’t worry her, though she wondered if he would be circumspect. He had a long-standing lover. She had seen Andhroniki – known as Niki – Glezou’s photo. The woman was attractive enough, but no serious competition. Mavros would be as easy a conquest as other men.

  Rachel Samuel, under
her own name and others, had done that and worse in the past and she felt no remorse. The cause was all.

  ‘Have you seen this?’ Niki asked, waving the Sunday paper at Mavros.

  He was only half awake. ‘Which rag is it?’

  ‘No, this story about the Nazis in Thessaloniki.’

  ‘Nazis?’ he mumbled, his mouth dry from the previous night’s beer, wine and brandy. There was another taste he couldn’t immediately identify.

  ‘The Phoenix Rises.’

  ‘Oh, those tossers. Em, did we … did I …’

  ‘What?’ Niki watched him tentatively licking his lips. ‘Yes, you did, thank you very much.’ She smiled. ‘It was wonderful, though I won’t get pregnant that way. And if you make that joke about little girls and anchovies …’

  ‘Don’t need to now.’

  She dug her elbow into his ribs. ‘Listen to this. “The Phoenix Rises’ leader Makis Kalogirou said that party members in Thessaloniki had acted in self-defence when illegal immigrants attacked the organisation’s local office. The police are questioning witnesses. Meanwhile, three Iraqis and a Sri Lankan remain in extensive care and twelve others have been treated for less serious injuries.’ Bastards. As if immigrants ever start trouble with steroid-addled skinheads in black shirts and big boots.’

  Mavros nodded. Every week Niki saw the results of unprovoked attacks on her clients. ‘Those lunatics have always been around. I read that some of them carry photos of Papadopoulos, as well as using the Junta’s phoenix symbol.’

  ‘Not just the sadly deceased dictator. They actually worship Hitler and his mad sidekicks.’

  ‘Excuse me while I take a shower. I suddenly seem to be covered in phoenix crap. As well as—’

  ‘Don’t mention fish of any kind.’

  ‘My lips are … scaled over.’ A pillow hit him as he went to the door.

  Later they went for a walk to the top of Lykavittos, having gone through the back streets before starting on the hill.

  ‘I’m sick of all this skulking around,’ Niki said. ‘What if I do get pregnant? Am I supposed to walk in circles before I wheel the buggy to the park?’

  Mavros remembered the damage the Son had done to his numerous victims. ‘We’ll work something out,’ he mumbled.

  ‘We? It’s your fault that madman’s in our lives.’

  They stopped at the road end and looked over Athens. The air was clear and the island of Aegina with its triangular peak seemed to be within arm’s reach.

  ‘And now you’re going to leave me on my own.’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘It won’t be for long. Maria will pick you up for work every morning, won’t she?’

  ‘And bring me home, yes. She’s very good about it, but I hate imposing.’

  ‘She’s your friend. You could always give her some petrol money.’

  ‘She won’t take it.’ Niki blinked away tears. ‘Alex, this is no life, especially not to bring a child into. If I … if I even can.’

  He put his arms around her. ‘Of course you can. The clinic will sort things out. Nothing can stand in the way of Mavros sperm.’

  She laughed and dried her face. ‘Delightful.’ Then she frowned. ‘If you so much as touch one of those sultry women up north, I’ll chop it off.’

  ‘That would rather defeat the object.’

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it? But my honour would be avenged.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  They continued up the concrete pathway to the small church on the summit. The Greek flag was cracking in the wind. Mavros took in the panorama of the capital, mountains to east, west and north enclosing the packed conurbation. All things considered, it was as well he hadn’t told Niki that the stunning, if not exactly sultry, Rachel Samuel would be with him in Thessaloniki.

  ‘You’ll call every day?’ she said, clutching his arm.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied, aware that he’d often failed to do so in the past.

  Niki looked at him dubiously then kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘I love you, Alex.’

  ‘I love you.’ Her body felt slight, a vulnerable frame of breath, flesh and bone. He couldn’t stop himself shivering.

  ‘Yes, it’s chilly up here,’ she said, moving towards the church wall. For a moment he thought she was going to enter the building. Had her longing for a baby reawakened the long-lost religious devotion that her foster-parents instilled? But she stayed outside, clenched in her thin coat.

  Mavros was on the point of calling off the case – Niki needed looking after. But she was ahead of him.

  ‘I’ll be all right. Get the job done, take the money and come back as soon as you can,’ she said, with a smile that he suspected had been hard for her to summon up.

  He nodded, not for the first time feeling inadequate and boxed in. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ he said, turning to the café.

  ‘In that overpriced tourist trap? Forget it. You can make me something hot at home.’ She smiled again, this time with little reserve. ‘And bring it to bed.’

  There was no arguing with that.

  SIX

  It wasn’t till 1942 that the Germans really showed their yellowing lupine teeth in Thessaloniki. Previously they’d made our lives difficult by shutting down Jewish papers and encouraging anti-Semitic activities, as well as looting synagogues. There were some executions, supposedly of Jewish Communists. The party knew the men were only the former.

  I had been developing my skills as a clandestine operator, sneaking around the streets avoiding Germans both in uniform and in plain clothes that were much better quality than any Greek’s. My brown hair and pale skin meant I could pass for a gentile. I was sixteen and still at school, though I paid little attention to lessons and frequently played truant. The teachers told my parents.

  ‘How are you going to be a doctor if you don’t study hard?’ my mother demanded, when she was ladling out the soup one evening. Food was scarce and my father had to use all his contacts to obtain even basic supplies.

  ‘Who said I wanted to be a doctor?’

  ‘Oh, so clever, my son. What about a lawyer or a professor?’

  I glanced at my father.

  ‘You can work your way up in the business,’ he said, almost apologetically.

  I didn’t favour the suggestion with a reply.

  ‘Albertos was a lawyer,’ my sister said. She was only partly in contact with the real world and had little interest in Golda, the daughter she’d given birth to a year earlier. My mother and her sisters took care of the cheerful little mite.

  Dario Alalouf, whose parents were dead, had become a regular at our table. ‘And a very good one, from what I heard,’ he said, smiling at Miriam tentatively. It was obvious to everyone except my sister that he was head over backside in love with her. He limped because one of his feet had failed to recover from wounds sustained in the Italian war.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the jewellery trade,’ my brother said. He was working as a salesman, though his missing hand put some customers off.

  ‘Really?’ I said, with no doubt irritating petulance. ‘The Nazis take what they want without paying and all’s well?’

  ‘We … get by,’ Isaak responded meekly. Since his injury, he’d gone into himself. Mother had to get him up in the morning and make sure he washed.

  In my arrogance and innocence I thought I knew it all. The party was doing what it could against the occupiers – the defeated Italians were present too – and the resistance movement EAM had spawned an armed wing called ELAS. Many older comrades had slipped away to the mountains to fight and I was waiting to be given permission by the youth organisation. Yes, I was full of myself, but I soon found that my imagination was limited. At dawn on Saturday July 11th (the Shabbat, of course – the Germans were masters at arranging things on their victims’ significant days and festivals), all Jewish men between eighteen and forty-five were ordered to report to the Freedom Square (a carefully chosen location) for registration. Father was in his e
arly fifties and I was too young, but Isaak and Dario had to go, despite their medical incapacities. I followed them, slipping into the large crowd of Christian Greeks that was gathering to watch. It was already hot and our men were ordered to remove their hats – another blow against Jewish tradition on the Shabbat. I later heard that there were over ten thousand men and they were made to stand in lines for many hours. Those who collapsed were beaten and had water poured over them. Then German soldiers demonstrated physical exercises, forcing their malnourished victims to follow suit. I saw Dario crumple to the ground and receive several kicks. Eventually he got back to his feet. It was then that a tall Christian in a good suit and hat near me started to laugh.

  ‘Beat the shit out them!’ he yelled. ‘The Yids are lice on the skin of Greece.’

  People around him cheered.

  I saw red, but managed to keep a grip on myself. When our men were finally dismissed, I pushed my way through the crowd to help Dario and my brother. As I passed the man, I managed to plant my elbow in his groin. His breath was expelled in a loud vocal fart. Looking back, I see that as my first act of revenge.

  I helped Isaak and Dario back home, struggling with the weight, thin though they were. They collapsed in the hall, croaking for water.

  ‘What have the animals done to them?’ Mother shrieked, as she ran to the kitchen.

  Miriam stood halfway down the stairs in her usual distracted state. Then she seemed to come back to herself and moved to help Dario. From that moment they became close and a few months later were married. You could say that was one good thing to come out of the mass humiliation. But the Germans didn’t stop there. Our men were sent to work on roads and other building projects. Doctors that my father knew managed to get Isaak and Dario declared unfit – I don’t know how much he had to pay. Many of the workers died. Those who survived did so only because the Jewish communities in Thessaloniki and other cities raised an enormous ransom. I realised then that the Nazis – masters of the world in their own eyes – were common thieves. But that wasn’t all.

  Although the city authorities had been trying for years to take over the huge Jewish cemetery to the east of the centre, no one expected them to act suddenly. The Nazis stiffened their spines and soon acres of marble tombs were bulldozed, the stone carted away for reuse.