Текст книги "The Silver Stain"

Автор книги: Paul Johnston

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Mavros was woken by the sound of a key in the lock. He had left his own in there, so the door would not open. Still semi-submerged in sleep, he stumbled out of the bedroom,

‘Who is it?’

‘Ah, Mr Alex, it is you?’

Barba-Yannis stood on the landing, a tattered straw hat on the back of his head. ‘I always come on Thursdays to water the plants on the back balconies. I wasn’t sure if. .’

‘Don’t worry,’ Mavros said, admitting the old man. ‘It’s time I was up anyway. Would you like coffee?’

‘I should be making you coffee, Mr Alex.’

‘No, no. You do your watering and I’ll make the coffee. How do you take it?’

‘ Varyglyko, my child. I always had a sweet tooth.’

Mavros had a quick shower, then found the briki. He made the old man’s sugar-laden brew in the long-handled metal pot first, followed by his own unsweetened cup. He found Barba-Yannis sitting at a small table on the balcony to the rear of the living room, water dripping off the marble floor to the unused space below.

‘Thank you, my child,’ the old man said, drinking from the glass of water Mavros had brought with the coffee. ‘I can hardly walk down the street now without needing to sit down.’

‘You look very well.’

Barba-Yannis threw up his wrinkled arms. ‘I am on my own, like many of my generation. My wife died last year and my children and grandchildren are in Germany. They have done very well. They say I will soon be a great-grandfather.’

‘May they live for you,’ Mavros said, calculating that the old man would have been in his early twenties during the war. ‘Tell me, why did they go to that country?’

‘I went there first myself,’ Barba-Yannis said. ‘In the Fifties things were not good here and I had a record – I was in EAM during the war. I wasn’t a communist, mind – I never liked the party’s hard-line stance. But it was better to be absent for some years, especially since there were jobs in the factories up there.’

Mavros looked into the rheumy brown eyes. ‘But didn’t you feel bad after everything the Germans did here?’

‘Of course I felt bad!’ the old man said, slapping the balcony rail. ‘I lost relatives and friends – comrades. .’ His voice failed.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Barba-Yannis drew his forearm across his eyes. ‘No, my child, it is good to remember the past. The younger generations do not like to – they prefer to make money rather than honour our sacrifices. Besides, there is no benefit in hating. The German soldiers paid a heavy price too.’

‘One of them even put back a lot into the local economy.’

‘You mean Rudolf Kersten? Yes, he is greatly admired.’

Mavros caught a hint of disapproval. ‘But?’

The old Cretan rubbed his thinning hair. ‘But some people say he took part in one of the massacres. Even though he denies it, I’ve never been able to see him as the repentant do-gooder most people do.’

‘Makrymari,’ Mavros said, in a low voice.

‘You’ve been doing your homework, my boy,’ Barba-Yannis said, nodding in approval.

‘I’m trying,’ Mavros smiled. ‘I hear there was a Jewish population in Chania.’

‘Ach, the Jews. They kept themselves to themselves, but we didn’t mind them.’ The old man lowered his head. ‘You can imagine what happened to them.’

‘Sent to the camps?’ Mavros said, aware that many thousands of mainland Greek Jews had been gassed.

‘Worse. They were loaded on a ship in Iraklio with Italian soldiers who had surrendered. For years, it was thought that the Germans had sunk it themselves, but not long ago I heard it was torpedoed by a British submarine. No survivors.’

A chill ran through Mavros. War really was hell, not only because of the slaughter of combatants and non-combatants, but because of the ghastly twists of fate leading to ‘accidents’ that destroyed the lives of countless families – including those left to mourn.

He roused himself. Barba-Yannis was a potentially useful source about resistance activities.

‘Did you know an EAM man called Kanellos?’

‘Did I know Kanellos?’ the old man asked, with a gap-toothed smile.

‘Kanellos was that rare thing – a hero who cared about other people. After the first days of the invasion, he swore he would never fire a gun again.’

‘What happened?’

‘I wasn’t here – I’d been sent with a message to the EAM commander in Rethymno the day before the landings started and got caught up in the fighting there. But what we heard was that Kanellos was in the killing grounds outside the city with a band of fighters. They slaughtered the paratroopers with knives when they landed and then took their own weapons to fire on them. I still don’t understand how the airfield at Maleme was lost. The British generals were fools.’

Barba-Yannis emptied his water glass, and Mavros passed his across.

‘Thank you, my son. And then Kanellos was at the village of Galatsi. Almost all his men had been killed. The British – well, most of the fighting men were those big New Zealanders – decided to charge the Germans up the main street, with a couple of tin-can tanks at the front.’

Waggoner, Mavros thought. There was mention of his role in the battle on the Internet sites he’d trawled and in extracts from his books.

‘Kanellos realized from the start that it was a suicide mission, because the Germans had landed thousands of men by then. He tried to talk the gendarmes and the local citizens out of taking part, saying their efforts and their lives would be much more valuable in the future.’ The old Cretan blinked away tears. ‘He was right about that. The initial charge was a success, but within an hour they had all been cut down by Germans on the higher ground. Apart from a few wounded British at the rear, there were hardly any survivors. It was a tragedy and it is to Kanellos’s honour that he tried to avert it.’

‘Presumably Kanellos wasn’t his real name,’ Mavros said, his voice unsteady.

‘Of course not. The senior men all used aliases, even before the war.’

Mavros nodded. ‘And after that? Kanellos stayed throughout the occupation?’

‘Till the German surrender in Chania.’

Mavros looked across the space to the flat opposite, trying to keep calm. An old woman in a nightgown was playing listlessly with an overweight cat.

‘Did you ever hear of a hoard of silver that was found in a cave up in the mountains?’

Barba-Yannis gave him a sharp look. ‘How do you know about that, Mr Alex?’

Mavros gave him a shortened version of the story in Waggoner’s memoir.

‘Kanellos betrayed them?’ the old man said, his voice breaking. ‘Ridiculous. He would never have done a thing like that. He worked by persuasion, not betrayal. Some of those British agents were madmen,’ he continued. ‘Lambis – Waggoner – was one of the worst. He used to come down from the mountains and shoot Germans with the andartes. There were many reprisals.’

‘I thought the Cretans generally were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice to get rid of the Germans?’

Barba-Yannis looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You know, that’s the kind of bravado the mountain men still come out with. Of course, people were prepared to die for the cause of freedom. But not everyone agreed with old men and boys being put against a wall. That was Kanellos’s message: no sabotage unless it was a major target – most of those were so well guarded that you couldn’t get near them – and no civilian lives to be put at risk. Some of the British – Waggoner, especially – had different priorities.’

Mavros looked down. ‘Kanellos – describe him, will you?’

‘Medium height, thick black hair brushed back from his forehead, a hooked nose and a thick moustache.’ The old man raised a hand. ‘But most striking of all were his eyes – they were dark-blue and penetrating. You felt they could see all the way inside your soul. He was a wonderful man. I never saw him again after he left the island.’

Mavros’s phone chirruped. There was a message from the Fat Man asking him to call urgently. Mavros didn’t need to. He already knew Kanellos’s real name.

FOURTEEN

After the old caretaker had gone, Mavros called the Fat Man.

‘Kanellos was my father,’ he said, without any preamble.

‘How the hell did you. .’ Yiorgos broke off. ‘Oh, I get it. You do the work and get me to confirm it. That’s typ-’

‘Shut up!’ Mavros yelled. ‘Have you. . have you any idea what this means to me? I hardly knew my father before he died, none of us knew anything about what he did in the war. . or did you, Yiorgo?’

‘I swear on my mother’s grave I didn’t, Alex.’ The Fat Man’s tone was sombre now. ‘You know what the Party’s like about past operations. I only got a steer on Kanellos because someone owed me a very big favour.’

Mavros sat back in the armchair by the phone, his heart rate gradually slowing. He had been speaking to a man who had worked with his father, who had seen him when he was in his prime and who admired him. It was as if a familiar ghost that always kept its distance had suddenly come up behind him and whispered in his ear. The problem was, he couldn’t understand the words.

‘Alex? Are you all right?’

‘What do you think? My mind’s doing a passable imitation of a washing machine on spin cycle.’

‘What? Oh, I see. Look, I can try to find out more if you-’

‘Not now, Yiorgo. I’ve got enough to think about. I should really phone my mother, but that’ll have to wait. I need to talk to her in person.’

‘It isn’t bad news, Alex. From what I heard, Spyros did great work for the movement, like he did before and after the war. Your father was a hero, I’ve always told you that.’

‘A hero I didn’t know,’ Mavros muttered, ‘like my brother.’

‘Well, it seems you know him better now. Isn’t that a good thing?’

‘I need time to think about that. I’ll talk to you later.’ Mavros cut the connection and called Niki.

‘Hello, how are you?’ he asked.

She heard immediately that something had got to him. ‘What’s happened, Alex? Are you all right?’

‘Of course,’ he replied. He still wasn’t going to tell her anything about the men from Kornaria and the vendetta. ‘Tired, though. Listen, I might have to stay on a bit longer here. There are some more things I have to check out.’

Although Niki could be self-centred, she was good at picking up other people’s moods. ‘I thought you’d found the woman, Alex. Why don’t you come home? I’ll look after you, my love, I promise.’

Mavros was touched. ‘It won’t be long, I promise. Listen, I have to dash now. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘I love you,’ she said.

He repeated the words, with enough feeling to reassure her. He did love her, but he’d loved his father – the sad-eyed phantom – for much longer.

His mobile rang.

‘Do you want me to pick you up?’ Mikis asked. ‘I’m in the area.’

They arranged to meet at the corner of the street.

‘Christ and the Holy Mother, what’s happened to you?’ the young Cretan asked, as Mavros got into the Jeep.

‘Must have been something I ate.’

Mikis glanced at him dubiously before driving on. ‘Anything you feel like sharing?’

‘Not right now. Can you take me to the clinic?’

‘I’m heading there to check on the boys. I’ve talked the old man into letting me stick with you today. The film people are mostly over at the fake village they’ve built anyway.’

Mavros remembered the massacre scene that was due to be filmed. ‘Thanks. Maybe we’ll go there later.’ He kept silent for the rest of the short trip, trying to get his mind back on the Maria Kondos case.

There was a black Mercedes outside the clinic, with two bulky, besuited men inside, while the watchers’ Range Rover was in its usual place across the street. Mikis went over to talk to his friends.

Going up the stairs, Mavros knocked on the door of the private room. It was opened by Cara Parks.

‘Good morning, Alex,’ she said, the smile freezing on her lips. ‘What is it?’

‘Erm, some family news. Don’t worry, it won’t get in the way of anything.’

‘Well, you’re finished here, anyway,’ the actress said, extending an arm towards the patient, who was in a wheelchair. ‘Maria’s talking again and Dr Stavra. . Stavra. .’

‘Stavrakakis,’ he completed, with a weak smile.

‘Yes, he says that Maria can come back with me to the Heavenly Blue.’ Cara leaned over her assistant and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Not that she’s going to work, of course.’ She introduced Mavros and explained his role.

Maria Kondos nodded her thanks, though it was unclear if she recognized him, then turned to the actress. ‘I willwork,’ she said, her voice surprisingly strong. ‘The only thing that’s wrong with me is my feet.’

‘Hold on a moment,’ Mavros said, stepping forwards. ‘What did the doctor say about your temporary inability to speak?’

Maria looked at Cara. ‘That it was shock-induced. Can we go now?’

Mavros was beginning to understand why the woman was disliked among the crew. She was haughty and brusque, clearly regarding him as a low-level servant.

He turned to the actress. ‘I’d like to ask your assistant some questions. I’m still unclear about what happened in the village.’

‘I can’t remember,’ Maria Kondos said firmly. ‘The police inspector was here this morning. He didn’t ask many questions.’

‘Margaritis?’

Cara Parks nodded.

Mavros wondered about that. Then again, the police hadn’t been told about the fight on the road, so his interest in a forbidding woman who remembered nothing about her disappearance wouldn’t have been huge.

‘Do you speak Greek?’ he asked, trying another angle.

‘A bit,’ Maria replied. ‘My parents spoke it at home, but I lost most of it when I went to the West Coast. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you’d heard anything when you were in Kornaria.’

‘I told you, I can’t remember a thing.’

‘Even why you walked out of the resort on your own on Sunday evening?’

‘I imagine I wanted some fresh air.’

Mavros kept on at her. ‘Someone called your mobile from a phone registered to Vasilios Dhrakakis in Kornaria on Sunday evening, not long before you left the Heavenly Blue. Have you no recollection of that?’

‘The name means nothing to me,’ Maria replied, her eyes meeting his.

Mistake, he thought. She thought she could take him on, but he had too much experience of liars. He let it go for the time being and turned the heat up another way.

‘Are you aware that the driver who helped me get you away from the men who were pursuing you is now involved in a vendetta? As am I.’

‘Alex!’ the actress said, shocked. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Not your problem. Besides, what could you do?’

She glared at him. ‘Get the production’s lawyers involved, the American consul.’

‘Yeah, that’s going to help.’

‘All right, if it’s money you need, I’ll give you it.’ She glanced at the other woman. ‘After all, you saved my precious Maria.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out,’ Mavros said, with considerably more bluster than he felt. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on set?’

‘This afternoon,’ Cara said. ‘Now I’m going to take Maria back to the hotel.’

‘Let me escort you down.’

‘No, that’s not your job,’ the actress said, calling her bodyguards on her phone.

Mavros looked at Maria Kondos. Why wasn’t she talking? Was she protecting someone in Kornaria? Or could it be that she was less of a victim than she appeared?

He didn’t have a clue.

Mavros watched as one of the gorillas loaded the wheelchair into the boot of the Mercedes, while the other helped Maria into the back seat.

As Mikis was on the way across the street, Mavros’s mobile rang.

‘This is Hildegard Kersten, Alex. I really need your help.’ The old woman sounded close to panic.

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s Rudi. He’s slipped away from the resort. Don’t worry, it’s not like that woman. I know where he’s heading – to that damned massacre set. But he won’t answer his phone and I don’t know who’s driving him.’

Mavros moved to the Jeep, beckoning to Mikis to follow.

‘I’ll check with the car-hire company while we’re on our way to the set. I’ll let you know as soon as I see him.’

‘Thank you,’ Hildegard said. ‘I’m going over there now myself.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Your husband presumably wants to be there without you.’

There was a pause. ‘Very well. You are correct. I will stay in the apartment. Goodbye.’

Mavros addressed Mikis. ‘Can you ask your old man if any of your drivers is taking Rudolf Kersten to the massacre set?’

‘My mother’s in charge of dispatch,’ Mikis said. It took him under a minute to confirm that Yerasimos had been hailed by Kersten outside the hotel. He had advised that they were at the Black Bird.

‘The Black Bird?’ Mavros said. ‘What’s that?’

‘The German paratroopers’ memorial on the way to Maleme. It was put up during the war.’

‘And it’s still there?’ Mavros asked, amazed.

‘Yes. People left it as a memorial of Cretan suffering, I think, even though some call it the Evil Bird. The only thing they did was knock off the swastika the bird was holding.’

Mikis answered his phone and spoke briefly. ‘That was Yerasimos. They’re on the move again, heading west.’

Mavros considered calling Kersten, but he had the feeling the old man had reasons of his own for attending the filming and he didn’t think it was his place to interfere. He wanted to see the shoot himself, and he was also interested to see if David Waggoner would be present. He wasn’t going to tell him that Kanellos was his father, but he might be able to get more information about Spyros’s activities on Crete, even from a biased participant. He rang Hildegard Kersten and said that her husband was in a Tsifakis company car and being well looked after. She didn’t sound happy, but she was grateful for the news.

Mikis’s phone rang again several minutes later.

‘Yerasimos again,’ he said, after cutting the connection. ‘Mr Kersten is at Makrymari.’

‘The real massacre village?’

‘Correct. Do you want me to head there?’

‘If you can get us there without him seeing me.’

‘Done.’ Mikis took the next left off the main road and followed a narrow track through the orange trees. ‘This takes us round the back of the village.’

The leaves filtered the bright sunlight and the temperature was suddenly lower. It was a bucolic scene, the plump oranges weighing down the branches and the ground beneath covered with dark-red dust. Mavros thought of the early days of the war, when the paratroopers had been caught in the foliage and killed before they could untangle themselves. In the midst of beauty had been death. And his father. .

Makrymari was a small village, the white houses shaded by vines and oleanders. The buildings were all in good condition. A few hens clucked to their chicks.

‘There isn’t much to see here,’ Mikis said, pulling in behind a bulky pickup. ‘Only the memorial.’

Mavros walked forward slowly, taking in a curved wall in the middle of the fourth, open side of the square. Rudolf Kersten was on his knees in front of it, his head bowed. Mavros retreated behind a eucalyptus tree and waited until the old man had got up unsteadily and left a small bunch of wild flowers on the ground in front of the wall. The German then went back to the Mercedes at the far end of the square and got in, Yerasimos holding the rear door open.

When the car had turned and disappeared, Mavros walked through the uncut grass, past the spot where Kersten’s knees had crushed it, to the rough stone wall. Looking along, he realized what it represented. There were names at chest height every metre or so. Beneath them were dates of birth and death, the latter all being June 3rd 1941.

‘It’s the line of the executed,’ Mikis said.

‘I got that.’ Mavros looked at the name above the flowers – poppies that were already wilting, crown daisies and a couple of gladioli – and got a shock. ‘Aikaterini tou Pavlou Alivizaki,’ he read. A woman.

‘Black Katina, they call her,’ Mikis said. ‘Her father died before the war and she was in mourning. She also killed over twenty Germans and was one of the few who survived the Battle of Galatsi. They found recoil marks on her shoulder.’

Mavros put a hand out and touched the wall. He wondered if his father had met her when he was trying to dissuade the Cretans from the charge. He felt closer to him by thinking that he had.

‘Who carried out the massacre?’ he asked.

‘Paratroopers. There was a Captain Blatter who hated civilians who resisted. Not only that, but Goring had authorized summary executions.’

‘Do you think Kersten was here?’

‘He’s never confirmed or denied it, but he paid for the memorial wall and gave plenty of money to the families of the fallen – to the whole village, in fact.’

‘Jesus,’ Mavros said. Maybe Waggoner had been right – maybe Rudolf Kersten really had paid blood money.

Mikis’s phone rang.

‘That was Yerasimos,’ he said, after he’d finished. ‘They’re at the shoot.’

Mavros followed him back to the Jeep, wondering what kind of man could go straight from the place where he’d witnessed a massacre to a film set?

A large parking lot had been set up in a dusty field. After showing their passes, Mavros and the Cretan were admitted through the chain gate that marked off the shoot area. There were trailers, generators and cameras all over the place, men and women in caps and shorts running between them. Beyond, there were old buildings that had been supplemented with painted wooden facades and plants in pots.

‘They filmed some combat scenes here last week,’ Mikis said. ‘I guess they’re getting their money’s worth by staging the massacre in the same place.’

Mavros caught sight of Luke Jannet, surrounded by technicians at a large camera on a track. A raised platform under a sunshade had been set up behind the machines. Rosie Yellenberg was standing on it, wearing headphones and speaking constantly into a mouthpiece. David Waggoner was a few seats along, in blazer and dark glasses, while Rudolf Kersten was sitting outside a caravan with a security guy on the door. Mavros watched as Cara Parks appeared in a shabby but well-cut black dress, a black wig covering her blonde locks. She had been made up to have unnaturally rosy cheeks, though her arms were dirty and there was a fake bloodstain on her right shoulder. As she came out, Kersten got to his feet and spoke to her, an urgent look on his face. The actress nodded and then patted his arm. She was led by a production assistant to the edge of the set. There was no sign of Maria Kondos, though she may have been in the trailer.

A woman with a stentorian voice started bellowing instructions through a megaphone. Men in Fallschirmjageruniforms, several wearing shorts, started pushing extras dressed in Cretan costume and peasant clothing towards an open space in front of the trees. Before they got there, a heavily-built officer raised his hand and strode to Cara. He ripped her dress down from the neck, uncovering a bloody bandage on the right side and what was supposed to be heavy bruising on the left. No doubt deliberately, the costume had been sewn so that both her heavy breasts became visible. She crossed her arms over them and walked to the line that the old men and boys had already formed. She stood in the centre and then shouted in a clear voice, ‘Freedom or Death!’

Just before the machine-pistols started to rattle blanks, Cara stepped backwards and the men in the line joined up to cover her. Cameras on rails and pickups followed her as she sprinted to the trees and disappeared behind them, by which time the men were spurting fake blood and twitching on the ground. Paratroopers ran after her, the officer screaming orders impotently.

‘Cut!’ the women with the megaphone yelled.

Mavros watched as Luke Jannet went into a huddle with his sidekicks. Shortly afterwards, the woman started ordering people around again – the scene with the victims being chosen and sent to the line-up was to be shot again, which involved a long delay as their clothes were changed and new blood packets and squibs attached. During that time, Cara Parks ran to the trees several times as she was filmed from different angles. Mavros began to get bored with the process and moved away.

He heard his name called from the raised platform. David Waggoner was waving to him.

‘What did you think of that?’ the former SOE man asked, when Mavros had joined him.

‘Pretty powerful, I suppose.’

‘Nothing like the real thing, of course.’ Waggoner wiped his brow. He looked rather unwell.

‘You witnessed one?’

‘In a way of speaking.’ The old man looked into Mavros’s eyes.

‘You took part in one.’

‘Not as large as this, but we had to dispose of Germans and traitors.’

Mavros held his gaze. ‘You killed enemy soldiers in cold blood?’

Waggoner looked back at the set. ‘Cold blood, hot blood – those distinctions don’t exist in war. As you just saw, they certainly didn’t exist for the Krauts.’

His use of the term showed how little the passage of time had changed old prejudices, though Mavros doubted Rudolf Kersten would have used equivalent language about his war-time enemies.

‘Anyway, my point was that the real massacre at Makrymari didn’t happen as in the film.’

Mavros nodded. ‘Black Katina didn’t make it to the trees.’

The old soldier raised an eyebrow. ‘You havebeen digging.’

‘You met her, didn’t you?’

‘Indeed I did. At Galatsi. There was a charge and she led the locals.’ The wrinkled face slackened for a few moments. ‘My God, she was magnificent. We were under heavy fire from the Fallschirmjagers. My tank was knocked out and I found myself fighting alongside her. She led a charmed life – although she’d been wounded in the shoulder previously – and she was merciless. We killed the lot of them.’

‘So how did she end up in the execution line?’

‘I’m not sure. I was wounded when the enemy started firing from the higher ground – they cut down almost all the survivors. I presume Katina was captured at some point. You should ask that bastard Kersten. He was at Galatsi and he was in the firing squad at Makrymari.’

If what Waggoner said was true, how could Kersten bear to watch the reconstruction of the massacre? That he was plagued by guilt had been shown by his kneeling in front of the memorial wall at the village, but attending the shoot was incredible. Mavros’s Greek side, reinforced by the involvement of his father in the battle, was overwhelming the reserve he had inherited from his mother.

Leaving Waggoner without a word, he went in search of the German. He was no longer outside Cara Parks’ trailer. Mavros asked the security guard if he’d seen him.

‘He went over there,’ the big man said, pointing towards a grove of orange trees.

‘How long ago?’

‘About half an hour, I guess.’

So Kersten hadn’t witnessed the execution scene, Mavros thought, his anger still raging. He’d gone to hide; but he would have heard the sound of the machine-pistols. Served the bastard right.

‘Kersten?’ Mavros shouted, running through the first line of trees. ‘Where are you? Ker-’ He broke off and slowed down, but his heart continued to pump hard.

The old man was hanging from a branch, his belt round his neck. His knees were partially bent and the points of his shoes touched the earth, his trousers having slipped down his thin hips. His eyes were bulging, but his face was its normal tanned colour.

Mavros knew he shouldn’t interfere with the scene, but there was a chance Rudolf Kersten was still alive – hanging yourself that way took a lot longer than the clean break of a gallows. He turned to the left and approached the body from the rear. Putting his arms under the old man’s, he lifted him up, then struggled to open the belt enough to slip the head through the noose. He dragged Kersten to the rear and laid him down, ripping open his shirt and putting his ear to his chest. There was no heart beat. He was about to start artificial respiration when the old man’s head flopped to the side slackly.

Rudolf Kersten had managed to break his neck even though the tips of his feet were still on the ground.