The Green Lady (25 page)

‘Why pomegranate seeds, then?'

‘Well, they're among the few seeds with liquid as well as solid content, so they can be construed as life-giving. The ancient Egyptians believed they symbolized fertility and prosperity. Conversely, our ancestors saw them as the fruit of the dead because of the Persephone myth. In more recent times we have deviated from ancient knowledge and use the fruit at weddings as well as funerals, on religious feast days, and to bring luck to new houses.' Phis stepped back as the cabinet came away from the wall. ‘Be careful, these pieces are worth a fortune.'

Which begs the question, how did you come by them on a professor's salary, Yiorgos asked himself.

‘Ah, I see the problem,' he said aloud. ‘Some of the wires have come unspliced. Tut, tut, this is very shoddy workmanship.'

‘But you can fix it?'

‘Oh, yes. Fifty euros should cover it.'

‘Thirty.'

The Fat Man moved away and put his screwdriver into the tool box. It was always the rich who argued over money. ‘Nice meeting you,' he said, heading for the door.

‘Wait,' Phis said, coming after him. ‘All right, we'll say forty.'

‘Forty-five.' Yiorgos didn't care about the money, he was enjoying winding the old skinflint up.

‘Oh, very well. I have people coming this afternoon and I need everything to be in perfect order. But for that price you'll tighten the screws on all the other cabinets.'

‘All right.' Yiorgos had to be acquiescent. There were some framed photos on a table by the French windows that he wanted to check out.

The professor was the kind of employer who wanted to oversee everything.

That was good because it meant he could be questioned.

‘Did you dig these things up yourself?' Yiorgos asked, as he respliced the junction wires.

‘Some of them,' the professor said guardedly. Then he seemed to remember he was talking to a nobody. ‘But most I bought.'

‘You must be loaded.'

All but the most wealthy liked to be complimented on their prosperity. ‘I inherited some money and –' the old man grinned lopsidedly – ‘I made a killing on the stock market.'

That would be the same stock market that ate up the savings of many misguided Greeks, the Fat Man thought.

‘Right, let's try these lights,' he said. ‘There you are. Perfect.' He moved the cabinet carefully back to the wall and reinserted the screws. Phis then followed him around the room as he checked the other display cases' fixings. They were fine – the old man was paranoid. Then he got to the last cabinet and casually cast glances at the photos. He got several shocks. One showed the professor with the ex-king, another with Aristotle Onassis, another with Melina Mercouri and yet another with the bastard antiquities dealer Tryfon Roufos. Alex would be happy to know about that connection, while he himself had to hold back from belting the old fool.

Phis saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, I knew the king,' he said. ‘Are you a monarchist?'

Mouth filling with bile, Yiorgos said he was – the sacrifices he made for Mavros.

‘I'm glad to hear it. What this country needs is the ancient model – gods who inspire fear and kings who apply order. Parliament is full of swine.'

He was right on the last count, Yiorgos thought – apart from a few honourable Communists. Then it struck him that the old lunatic had used the present tense when he talked about gods and kings. He discounted the latter as there was no chance of the monarchy being restored, but there were people openly believing in the Olympian gods. Was Phis one of them after all?

He hung around as long as he could, even checking the professor's kitchen and bathroom drains, but he wasn't allowed into the majority of the rooms and eventually he took his leave. Phis tried to stiff him on his fee, handing over forty euros, so he put his large foot down.

Back on the street, he knew he had to wait – who were the people the old man was expecting? He was lucky. He found a parking space near the apartment block and sat back to await the arrival of Phis's guests. At least the old fool hadn't known who he was.

Angeliki took Ourania into the back room and closed the door behind them. Mavros sat down with Lykos and Bitsos. The former had a curious smile on his face, while the latter was shovelling the contents of tins of
mousakas
and
dolmadhes
into his mouth, having decided against the sole café-restaurant in Kypseli.

‘Stuffed vine leaves are good for your sex drive, my old man always said.'

Mavros glared at him. ‘Lambi, that girl's been abused. Cut it out.'

‘What, my sex drive? I'll need a bigger knife. Anyway, when am I going to get to talk to her? You told me her story's hot.'

‘I think I'd better tell you,' Mavros said, getting the nod from Lykos. ‘She won't be able to cope with you.'

‘I'm not a paedophile,' Bitsos said indignantly.

‘Are you sure all the girls in the magazines you salivate on are over fifteen?' Mavros give him a bitter smile. ‘Thought not.' Then he told him what had happened to Ourania.

‘I always thought Bekakos was a slimy specimen,' the journo said, when Mavros finished.

‘Takes one to know one.'

Lykos laughed.

Bitsos turned to him. ‘Quiet, sonny. This is an adult conversation.'

The young man smiled knowingly and went on tapping at his keyboard.

‘You know I can't use it.'

Mavros nodded. ‘Bekakos has friends everywhere.'

‘Including in my management. But it might lead to something that even they can't shut up.'

‘That's what I'm hoping. Ourania may have seen Paschos Poulos in Paradheisos earlier today. She thinks Bekakos and his boss were chasing her.'

‘Why would they do that?'

‘The lawyer smiled at her.'

‘Ah. He wanted another go.'

‘Maybe.' Mavros turned to Lykos. ‘You said you'd heard of other girls being abused.'

‘Not exactly.'

‘What the fuck does that mean?' Bitsos exploded.

‘Keep it down, Lambi,' Mavros said, frowning.

‘Not exactly as in girls aged fourteen, i.e. under the age of consent. I have heard rumours of sex parties involving girls over fifteen – not illegal, but morally reprehensible, considering the people who supposedly take part.'

Mavros and Bitsos exchanged glances.

‘Who might they be?' the journalist asked.

‘Who do you think?'

‘HMC management?' Mavros guessed.

Lykos nodded slowly and then looked outside – a van had drawn up in a cloud of dust.

‘Oh-oh,' Bitsos said, taking in the well-built young men in T-shirts and jeans who were getting out.

‘Don't worry,' Lykos said. ‘My aunt sent them down from Athens. Party cadres.'

‘His aunt's Tatiana Roubani,' Mavros explained.

‘Oh.' The tension left the journo's skinny frame. ‘Good.'

The four men came in and nodded to Lykos, then turned to Mavros and Bitsos.

‘It's OK,' Lykos said to the cadres. ‘They're on our side. I think.'

One of the men stepped forward. ‘We are to act as your personal bodyguards. Where you go, we go.'

The door to the rear opened and Angeliki came out.

‘Hello, boys,' she said, smiling widely.

‘They've obviously worked together before,' Mavros said to Bitsos.

‘Yes, we have,' Lykos said. ‘The Communist Party has ecological aims too – especially when those are being compromised by a plant that has expelled the union.'

Mavros introduced himself.

The young men looked at him and then at each other.

‘Spyros Mavros's son? Andonis Mavros's brother?' asked one. There was admiration in his voice.

‘The same. Not that I'm like them. I'm not in the Party, for a start. What do I call you guys?'

‘Em, I'm Cadre One, he's Cadre Two, he's—'

‘I get it. Anonymity in case of problems. Don't worry, my old man had a code name during the war – Kanellos. Slightly more imaginative than yours.'

Akis Exarchos came in, fish spears in both hands. He shook hands with the cadres, obviously having met them before.

‘So you think you're safe now,' Mavros said. ‘But unless your friends have had Special Forces training and are armed to the teeth, the Son is still a big danger.'

‘We can look after ourselves,' said Cadre Two.

‘Using what?' Bitsos asked.

‘Our fists. And we have clubs in the van.'

Mavros scratched his stubble. ‘Well, they're better than nothing. I still think you'd all be better off in Athens.'

‘What, even me?' Akis asked.

‘Er, no. We have plans for later, don't we?'

Bitsos missed nothing. ‘Count me in.'

Mavros looked at the journalist. He was well into his fifties, out of condition and an inveterate moaner. Then again, he had a camera and the experience to sniff out criminal activity at long range.

‘All right, Lambi.' He ran his eyes over the others. ‘The rest of you hold the fort. Now, is there somewhere Bitsos and I can get some sleep?'

‘I'll take you to my place,' the fisherman said. ‘It's still reasonably clean.'

‘Not for long,' Mavros said, glancing at the journalist.

The Son was puzzled by the latest order he'd received. He wasn't to target the ecologists any more, at least for the time being. That irritated him, as he had unfinished business with the skinny guy who'd erupted out of nowhere and run into him. Belting him in quick succession on the mouth and the side of the head had been no problem – his reactions were lightning-fast – but being forced to leave the scene with the job unfinished counted as failure in the mental ledger he kept of his performance. Plus, the young woman inside the office had attracted his attention. He'd have killed her partner after interrogating him, but he had seriously considered keeping her alive, at least until he tired of her. Then she'd have gone the same way as the others.

Now he was to go back to Athens and deal with another woman, this one not as young though, if the photos were accurate, still striking. Perhaps he'd have the chance to get to know her intimately, though the timetable he'd been given was tight and her death was to appear an accident. He'd already left the pickup in the garage of the safe house in Paradheisos and was driving an unremarkable Fiat towards Dhistomo. He'd been told to stay overnight as an over-enthusiastic police commander had set up roadblocks following the failed mission in Kypseli. He didn't care. The detached pink house at the end of a road was out of the way and there was no one else in it. That was the good thing about a company town. The HMC could more or less do what it liked, although someone had screwed up with the over-enthusiastic policeman.

Driving into Dhistomo, the Son saw the signs to the museum and massacre memorial. The Father would have insisted on stopping and paying his respects, even though some of the victims would have been commies or similar scum. The old man had been strange like that. He hated the war-time resistance because of its left-wing bias but, as soon as they were dead, they became heroes. That didn't apply to the bedraggled remnants who had fought the Civil War against the British- and then American-backed national army. They were traitors in life and in death. The Son couldn't give a shit. People who threw away their lives for shadowy ideals like fatherland or resistance were fools. Even the Father had been seduced by the Junta's semi-literate ideology of Greece rising phoenix-like from the flames, its contradictory ancient and Christian elements somehow expected to co-exist. Money was all that mattered, as Greece's population had showed in recent years. Everyone was on the yellow brick road to affluence – two or more cars in every family, a house by the sea and another in the mountains, credit cards, Italian fashions.

He drove quickly towards the main highway, though he was tempted to take the turn into Livadheia and deal with the troublesome policeman. No, he needed to control himself. His employer had things in hand. All he had to do was get to the address in the Athens suburb, deal with the woman and get back to Paradheisos. If ever there was a place less deserving of that name. Then again, the road from paradise to the halls of Hades wasn't long. The Elysian Fields themselves were in the underworld. Whether his next victim ended up there or in the punishment park of Tartarus was of no concern to him.

M
avros had fallen into a deep sleep on the sofa in Akis's
saloni
. It had taken some time, as Bitsos had insisted on loudly making himself a toasted sandwich in the adjoining kitchen, before crashing out upstairs.

In his dream he was walking across a dusty plain, a hot wind whipping his hair and distant screams all around. Then he heard a familiar voice say his first name. It was Niki, his former lover. She sounded close, but he couldn't see her through dirty clouds that suddenly rose up all around. He heard himself call her name several times. His arms were extended and his hands touched something soft: flesh, bare and drenched in sweat. He embraced the body, feeling her breasts against his inner forearms. Then the dust storm cleared and she turned into a picture of horror. He jerked awake, the worm-ridden face still in front of him.

‘Welcome back to the land of the living,' Akis Exarchos said, from the table at the other side of the room.

‘What . . . where am I?'

The fisherman told him.

Mavros got up, limbs stiff, and went over.

‘What the hell is that?'

‘A Webley .38 Mark 4 British officer's service revolver. My father got his hands on it in the war. He never told me how.'

Mavros watched as Akis wiped oil from the hammer and cylinder. ‘You're seriously taking that with you across the water tonight?'

‘Seriously is the word, my friend. The HMC security men are armed with Glocks. I had big trouble finding rounds. Eventually a guy in Crete sold me twenty.'