The White Sea Page 7

  ‘It would only be speculation.’ The officer ran a finger over the empty plate, then licked the tip. ‘Do you think there’s any more galaktoboureko?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Mavros looked at his watch. Two hours to go. ‘The kitchen’s over there. I’m going to see how the Fat … Yiorgos is getting on.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘He doesn’t allow strangers in his bedroom, let alone cops.’ Mavros tapped his nose. ‘He’s embarrassed about the smell.’ He opened the door and closed it behind him.

  ‘Is the pig still here?’

  ‘He’s eating the rest of your galaktoboureko.’

  ‘Ha! There isn’t any.’

  Mavros looked over his friend’s shoulder. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘I’ll say this for your sister: she’s very thorough.’ The Fat Man and Anna had a relationship based on mutual disdain. ‘Unfortunately, there don’t seem to be too many cans of rotten sardines by shipowner standards.’

  ‘What about the grandson Dinos?’

  ‘The dopehead? Just a few references to him going to rehab in the UK. The rest of them seem to be pretty dull, as you’d expect with the soulless, thieving hyper-rich.’

  ‘Onassis had an exciting life.’

  ‘Bought the most expensive women he could find, that’s all.’

  ‘I hear Kostas Gatsos was a philanderer too.’

  ‘Your sister hints at that, but she’s obviously being careful – hardly surprising when the magazines she writes for are owned by friends of the old tosser.’

  ‘Could there be a cuckolded husband or an outraged father?’

  ‘Several, I’d say, but it’ll take time to check that.’ Yiorgos had become remarkably proficient on the computer in recent years – he claimed not only because of porn sites – and had picked up a fair amount of English.

  ‘What do you think? Should I go for this?’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’ve got anything to lose.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’ Mavros went over to the bed and called his brother-in-law. The Gatsos group’s finances were likely to be where the roots of the kidnapping lay.

  SEVEN

  The door slammed open and the usual figure in the balaclava stood in the light. Kostas Gatsos saw him put down a large chunk of bread and a litre bottle of water. His stomach flipped and he put his good hand over the damaged one. At least three days must have passed. Were they going to hurt him again? He tried to eat but couldn’t keep anything down. Even a sip of water was too much. Not much later his captor came back and tossed him a clean but ragged boiler suit to put on.

  ‘No!’ Kostas shouted, retreating to the mattress.

  The hefty figure shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He came across the room and grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘Come naked. People will enjoy seeing your cock shrivel.’

  ‘Wait!’ Kostas grabbed for the garment.

  ‘Fool,’ the guard said, propelling him down the passage. Soon he was in front of the masked people again, handcuffed and chained to the floor.

  ‘I protest,’ Kostas said. ‘You’ve broken the law by abducting me, let alone shooting my son. You have no right—’

  ‘No,’ said the man in the centre. ‘You have no rights. Be thankful we haven’t nailed you to a cross to follow these proceedings. Though that can easily be arranged.’

  The old man kept quiet.

  The man in the balaclava looked at the papers in front of him. ‘Kostas Gatsos is accused of arranging the sabotage of the vessel KEG Homeland, a 63,000 gross tonne bulk carrier, before its final voyage in March 1986. How does the accused plead?’

  ‘Not fucking guilty.’ Kostas yelped as the right side of his head was struck.

  ‘Repeat your plea.’

  ‘Not … guilty.’

  ‘Really?’ The accuser turned to the figure wearing the bird’s head. ‘My colleague here has evidence to the contrary.’

  The voice that came from the mask was deep and male, speaking Greek. ‘Before I start, I would point out to the defendant that I am here as an albatross.’ He moved his head to the side to display the long, crossed beak. ‘Have you any idea why?’

  ‘Because you like the work of Samuel Taylor Coleridge?’

  ‘That would be the wit that charmed so many society hostesses, I imagine. No, because the albatross flies over the vast expanses of the Pacific Ocean, where the KEG Homeland disappeared eight days into a voyage from Hay Point, Queensland, to Fukuyama, Japan. Do you remember the incident?’

  ‘Of course. It was a nightmare. The wrangling with Lloyd’s took years.’

  ‘You were concerned only by the question of insurance?’

  ‘Certainly not. The company lost a good captain and crew. We did what we could for their families.’

  ‘I have details of those settlements. The sums involved are hardly high.’

  ‘My lawyers handled that.’

  ‘No doubt. But to return to the question of sabotage. You will recall that there were rumours of foul play after the ship sank.’

  ‘Standard Lloyd’s tactics.’

  ‘So you know nothing about the deliberate weakening of the vessel’s hull in the centre section?’ The speaker raised a hand. ‘Remember what happened to your fingernails at the last hearing.’

  Kostas swallowed hard, his damaged fingers tingling. ‘The last survey showed the ship’s hull to be in excellent condition.’

  ‘That was nine months earlier. The ship was in dry dock in South Korea before she returned to Australia.’

  ‘To replace the propeller.’

  ‘According to the reports, yes.’ The man in the bird mask lifted a file. ‘But that wasn’t the only work done, was it? A trio of engineers from Greece also visited the ship to carry out what was described as “routine hull maintenance”. In fact, what those men did was install a large quantity of high explosive in the double bottom. I presume you bought the silence of the dry dock operators, as well as that of the engineers.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Two of whom have since died.’

  ‘I know nothing of that.’

  ‘Of course not. You are also unaware that the third of those men, currently in the terminal stage of bladder cancer, has sworn an affidavit describing what was done, as well as supplying photographs.’ The lights dimmed and an image appeared on the wall behind the platform. ‘This is the timing device, a highly sophisticated one for the time. It was activated shortly before the ship left Australia with its cargo, by the man who is now on his death bed – he sailed on the Homeland from South Korea to monitor the new propeller’s performance and disembarked at Hay Point.’

  More images appeared, showing sections of the hull and blocks wrapped in heavy plastic.

  ‘I repeat, I know nothing of this,’ Kostas said.

  ‘But it is the case that the Gatsos group was in financial difficulties at the time, is it not? Sinking one of its newest ships provided a useful influx of funds.’

  ‘Except it cost a fortune in interest payments on the loans we had to take out before the insurers eventually paid.’

  The albatross picked up another file. ‘You also sued the builders of the Homeland and received a large settlement.’

  ‘Again, after a considerable delay.’

  ‘So you deny all knowledge of the sabotage, despite the affidavit.’

  ‘The ramblings of a dying man.’

  The man in the centre stood up. ‘You took a big risk. What if there had been any survivors? What if there had been other ships in the vicinity?’

  ‘Shipping is all about risk.’

  ‘Your bravado is admirable,’ said the man with the albatross head. ‘But in this case misplaced.’ Another image appeared on the wall. It was a photograph of Kostas Gatsos with three men in a taverna. Glasses were being raised.

  ‘The engineers in question with you on their return to Greece.’ A button was clicked. ‘This is the reverse of the photograph. You can see the date it was developed printed clea
rly. April 29th 1986.’

  ‘It’s a fake. I never meet engineers.’

  ‘You did on this occasion.’ The accuser sat down.

  ‘I think we can come to a verdict,’ said the man in the centre.

  All pronounced the defendant guilty. Kostas sat trembling, waiting for the pliers to reappear, but they didn’t.

  ‘Take him back to his hole,’ the man in the centre ordered. ‘And remove his right ear.’

  ‘This is gold dust,’ Nondas Chaniotakis said, over the phone. ‘Did the Gatsos family really give you it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mavros replied, ‘but you can’t use anything. You promised.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not into shipping. They’re all thieving bastards and I don’t trust them a centimetre. Besides, the CD-ROM is copy protected and there’s a limit to how much I can note down.’

  ‘This from a card-carrying capitalist.’

  ‘Besides, this stuff doesn’t tell the whole story. They’d never give that to outsiders. What it does is point to how complex their operations are. There are hundreds of companies, some of them owning only one ship – most of those are registered in Panama or Liberia, of course. That’s interesting enough, not least because of references that I’m pretty sure are to off-shore banks and other tax havens.’

  ‘What a surprise. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes!’ Nondas sounded like a boy with a new ball. ‘For a start, they’re in bed with plenty of dodgy regimes – in the Middle East, Africa, the Far East …’

  ‘Again, hardly a bolt from the deep blue sea.’

  ‘But get this, Alex. They’re also doing business with Arab countries and with the Israelis.’

  Mavros immediately thought of his last case. What he had thought was a search for a Holocaust victim turned into something much more complex – and lethal. ‘I suppose that’s also standard in their world.’

  ‘The relevant people will have two passports, sure. But here’s the real cracker. Gatsos group shares aren’t only owned by family members and carefully selected investors. They’ve got Colombians on board too.’

  Mavros’s heart missed a beat. ‘What kind of Colombians?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to find out. Nothing’s visible on the surface, but I know how to read between the lines. There are two Colombian-registered companies in the group and they’re not one-ship concerns. There’s an arms manufacturer and a logging company. I’ve got no idea if they’re clean, but I’m harbouring doubts.’

  ‘Any names I can use?’

  ‘With caution, I’d recommend. There’s Laura Moreno – she’s the CEO of Colarmco – and Santiago Rojas, if that’s how you pronounce it. He runs Maderera Jaguar, a big logging company. I haven’t had time to check them out.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I need that CD-ROM back by midnight. I’ll send a courier.’

  ‘I’ll bring it over, Alex. I could do with getting out of the house.’

  Mavros gave him the address and rang off, wondering what Anna had said or done.

  ‘What was that about Colombians?’ the Fat Man said, looking up. ‘Only there’s a photo of Pavlos Gatsos with a spectacular Colombian woman. Hang on …’

  Mavros went over. An article dated August 12th 2009 came up on the screen. It was his sister’s usual summer round-up of high society comings and goings. There was a group on the deck of a large motor-yacht.

  ‘“Kostas, Pavlos and Loukas Gatsos with Laura Moreno, a Colombian beauty whose sultry looks they clearly approve of.” Christ, I hope Anna doesn’t write the captions.’

  ‘Bet she does.’

  Mavros ran his eye down the text, but there was no mention of what Ms Moreno did for a living. She certainly was stunning, her black hair long and shiny, her cheekbones pronounced and the glory of her figure brought out by a well cut dark red dress.

  ‘Keep this to yourself,’ he said to Yiorgos, wishing he hadn’t mentioned the Colombian connection aloud. Was Loukas assuming he didn’t have the financial knowledge to go below the surface of the group’s affairs, or did he have nothing to hide? The magazine photo suggested the latter – the Gatsos family could easily have had it pulled if they wanted.

  He wondered if Nikos Kriaras knew about it. He didn’t openly move in such exalted circles, but he had a deep knowledge of the people who ran the country from behind the scenes. There was one thing he was sure of: Colombians or their hired help could easily have pulled off the kidnap of Kostas and the murder of Pavlos.

  It was after eleven.

  ‘What do you think then?’ he asked the Fat Man. ‘Should I take the job and its tainted lucre?’

  ‘Why not? Looks like we’re going to be able to dig up all kinds of shit about these tossers.’

  Mavros twisted Yiorgos’s ear. ‘You do want a cut of the lucre, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll give it straight to the Party.’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘It’s me, the lieutenant. Can I come in?’

  ‘No!’ the Fat Man yelled.

  ‘Only I think I may have broken your TV control.’

  ‘Useless fucking cops,’ Yiorgos said, looking up at Mavros. ‘Go and tell him to pay for a new one, will you?’

  ‘With pleasure.’ As Mavros walked out, it occurred to him that the cop might have been listening at the door and was using the broken zapper to distract them.

  Dawn’s faint red fingers came through Jim Thomson’s window. He had opened the curtains earlier. The beginning of the day had been his favourite time since his years in Eastern Samar. But they too had begun with water and another immersion in the night sea …

  If only he could have stayed on Ikaria with Marigo, looking out across the waves every day as he worked the land or minded the goats, but never getting into the water, not even when August’s burning sun drenched his clothes in sweat. No, he was never tempted, but he would watch his wife gambol in the sea like a child, sleek as a dolphin. She stopped going in when her belly swelled. He tried to make her do less work, but her parents were ailing and even then she had more stamina than him. His wounds had healed, leaving small raised scars on his forearms and lower legs. They heard on the radio that the dictatorship had fallen after a lunatic attempt to overturn the government in Cyprus that resulted in Turkish invasion and the loss of the eastern part of the island. He never felt the urge to join up as many young men across Greece did. He no longer had any interest in his country or its tarnished ideals. The return of democracy was a good thing, but he had no faith that it would benefit ordinary people. Occasionally he considered getting in touch with his family. They would have been grieving for him since he’d been taken, tantalised by his disappearance, as would the comrades. He couldn’t do it. The torture and shame that he’d been broken had erased their faces from his memory, even those of his parents and siblings. That was the old life and it had nearly destroyed him. He had a different future now with Marigo and the first of many children.

  But she died in childbirth, even though they got her to the health centre in the town as quickly as they could. The doctor was inexperienced and bungled the emergency Caesarean. The baby was a boy. He held its sticky still body for a few moments, kissed Marigo on the forehead – he couldn’t get the salt from her sweat from his mouth for weeks – and, three weeks later, joined the crew of a cargo ship in Piraeus; one of Marigo’s cousins went to sea every winter and managed to fix his papers with the union. He started as an assistant cook, learning on the job, and found he had an aptitude for the work, even when the ship was plunging up and down like a horse crossing a river in spate. After three years he was put in charge of the galley, then gradually worked his way up to larger ships.

  The last of which was the KEG Homeland. He was completely in command of his job now, instructing his junior how to produce the quality dishes required when management or customers visited, though still doing more of the daily hands-on work than he needed to. It soothed him, kept his mind off the li
ves he’d left behind, both his own and those of others. Marigo … he could hardly see her any more, as if she had been swallowed up by the darkness he’d brought with him to her island. He had flashes of her – leaping naked from the sea, shuddering as they climaxed, screaming in fear before the anaesthetic put her under forever.

  At night he would go to the stern and smoke, looking down at the wash of water from the propeller. Many times he was close to going over the rail, but the thought of immersion in the salt element put him off. Besides, there were plenty of knives in the galley. Except that, by the time he got there, the impulse had left him and he was back to being the grim-faced, unfeeling creature he had become. The crew called him to teras – the beast – but only behind his back. They were frightened of him and, besides, they liked his food.

  When the Homeland’s spine broke, he was in his cabin, only half asleep. The alarms started to blare. He was on deck, carrying his life jacket, before most of the others. There were ineffective attempts to launch the lifeboats and rafts. They all seemed to have jammed, which was odd in a relatively new ship. Then the vessel’s bow and stern went up in a V-shape and men were sent scrabbling down to the seething maelstrom in the middle. He held on to a stanchion near the stern, struggling to put on the life jacket. Men were yelling, the younger ones crying; no one knew what to do. He felt the stern rise steeply and realised it would be too high to jump. He managed to get a bit lower, sliding from post to post, then – eyes shut and heart thundering – he rolled under the wire and dropped into the black water.

  He lost consciousness immediately.

  EIGHT

  Lieutenant Babis was sitting in front of the TV, the remains of the handset on the table.

  ‘Interesting?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The news on CNN.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You do speak English?’

  ‘Yers, seer, I learn eet from books.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You’ll have to pay for that. Ten euros should do it.’

  The cop took out his wallet and put a bank note on the table. ‘Find out anything that attracts you to the job?’