The Silver Stain (11 page)

We were the elite, so inevitably my comrades dealt death to many of the attackers, but they were not discouraged. The tanks ran to a stop, their crews killed – at least so we thought, until a stocky officer with fair hair leapt from the turret and emptied his pistol into a paratrooper who had foolishly gone forward. He then seized the dead man’s weapons and took cover behind the vehicle, waiting for the charge to reach him.

Machine-gun fire rang out from all around the square. I saw Wachter, his face set hard, discharge drum after drum. That didn’t save him. He was skewered by a pair of burly Maoris, one of whose bayonets broke off when it pinned him to the ground.

‘Direct your fire!’ Lieutenant Horsmann yelled, but it was too late.

The wave of attackers dashed over us, New Zealanders trampling paratroopers with their heavy boots, the Greeks, who I later found were gendarmes, cutting throats and smashing heads open with the butts of German rifles they had taken from the dead. Then came the locals, old men throwing rocks at downed men, boys handing them more, and women . . . it was then that I saw her, the woman I had left on the ground before we retreated to the Tavronitis. There was a bloodied bandage over her shoulders, but she was firing an MP40 from the hip. Her hair was tangled and raised by the wind – she could have been a Gorgon or a Fury, come to claim our bodies for the death god.

Fire from my comrades was minimal now. The lieutenant charged forward with an MG34, but was cut down by a blow from a curved sword wielded by a bearded man in baggy trousers. His head was almost severed.

Panicked, I tried to fire, but my machine-pistol jammed. I took out my bayonet and pistol, ready to face what was coming to me as the last of the unit. I hit a gendarme in the leg and a hail of fire was directed at me. By some miracle, I escaped injury. Then a Maori leapt on me and knocked the weapons from my hands. He heaved me up and threw me against the wall, pulling back his rifle with its awful bayonet.

‘No!’ came a scream from the window.

I looked past the New Zealander and saw the woman I had spared, her face spattered with blood.

‘This man, mine!’ she said in a crude English accent, coming through the window frame. Beyond her I saw the fair-haired British officer. He was shooting our wounded in the head with the Luger he had plundered.

The Maori shrugged and strode away, while the woman raised the MP40 at me. The irony of being executed with a German weapon didn’t escape me, but I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to leave this world of fire and slaughter.

She fired above my head, pieces of plaster falling past my eyes. Then she stepped up, eyes burning into mine all the while, and beckoned me to take off my helmet. She swung back the machine-pistol and smashed the butt into the side of my head.

Before I went into the darkness I saw her lips form into a smile that wasn’t completely full of hate.

There was no alternative, Mavros realized, to going into the Black Eagle and asking Oskar Mesner to come outside with no more than one sidekick. Tempting him financially seemed the most likely method to work, so he fumbled with the money-belt and took out a thousand euros.

The bar was smoky and the music ear-shredding metal – it was making many of the customers nod their shaven heads like demented puppets. Mesner was at a table with three men, two of whom had bare skulls and the other a crew cut that the US Marine Corps would have approved. Mavros wondered how the Kerstens’ grandson, with his unshaved head and sparse moustache, fitted in.

Moving slowly closer, he held up the money and slipped it into the German’s shirt pocket. That obtained him a degree of interest.

He leant close. ‘There’s more waiting for you outside, Oskar,’ he said in English, having been told Mesner spoke the language. ‘You don’t have to come on your own, but a tough guy like you doesn’t need more than one bodyguard, does he?’

The German looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust – he no doubt disapproved of shoulder-length hair. ‘Karl,’ he said, angling his head to the front of the bar.

One of the skinheads got up, banging his large backside into a young man wearing a Greek national football shirt. Words – probably incomprehensible to each of them – were exchanged, before he pushed his way out of the place. Mavros beckoned Mesner to follow and took up the rear.

‘What’s this about?’ the German demanded, as soon as they hit fresh air.

‘You know what it’s about, Oskar,’ Mavros replied, leading the incongruous pair towards the doorway where Mikis was concealed and stopping a few paces away from it. ‘You have something your grandfather wants.’

‘Oh, that old
arschloch
,’ Mesner said, his voice unnaturally high. ‘He can go fuck himself.’

‘Except that he’s authorized me to pay you another nine thousand euros,’ Mavros said, with a smile.

‘Who are you? His
schoassniessen
?’

The skinhead guffawed.

‘Which means?’ Mavros asked politely.

‘How you say in this fucking language . . . ? Person who sneezes shit.’

‘No, I’m his person who sneezes euros.’

Mesner looked around – the street was deserted.

‘You have this money with you?’ he asked.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’ Mavros had considered leaving the funds in Nondas’s place, but had decided he could handle it, especially with Mikis in reserve. ‘You give me the coins, I’ll take you to the cash.’

‘Fuck that,’ the German said, then his face froze. ‘What coins?’

Mavros laughed. ‘Too late. Besides, you were seen. You should be thankful your grandfather didn’t tell the police.’

‘He’d never do that,’ Oskar Mesner bragged.

‘Yes, he will. This is the last time you get let off. Look on the bright side – you’ve just made ten grand.’

The German glared at him. ‘Do you know how much the . . . the merchandise is worth?’

Mavros nodded. ‘But twenty per cent is better than nothing.’

‘What if we make you take us to where you’ve got the money?’ Mesner said, glancing at his bulky comrade.

‘Go ahead and try,’ Mavros said.

Mikis, whose English was clearly as good as he’d said it was, stepped into the street, his arms crossed to demonstrate the size of his biceps.

‘Of course, you can also call your friends in the bar,’ Mavros said, ‘but I’m not sure how much cash you’ll be left with once they get a sniff of it.’

The look on Mesner’s face suggested he wasn’t convinced of that either.

‘All right,’ the German said. ‘I’ve got the coins. Where’s the money?’

Mavros disguised his surprise. He hadn’t imagined Oskar would be as stupid as to carry the coins on him. Then again, they weren’t bulky. He handed over the note Rudolf Kersten had given him. Mesner looked at it, scoffed and dropped it to the ground. That made Mavros’s mind up for him – the arsehole would never leave his grandparents alone.

He raised the shirt to show the belt, opening a pocket stuffed with banknotes.

‘You lied,’ the German said, his voice even higher than before.

‘It happens.’ Mavros undid the belt, aware that the skinhead’s eyes were locked on it. He raised an eyebrow at Mikis, whose face remained as impassive as a statue’s. Meanwhile, Mesner had taken a crumpled plastic bag from the pocket of his jeans. ‘Let me see.’

Mavros didn’t know anything about ancient coins, but he didn’t think the German was smart enough to substitute thirty worthless coins when he’d had no idea an exchange was on the cards. Not that it mattered, considering what he now had in mind.

‘Thirty of them because your grandfather’s a Judas, eh?’

Mesner nodded. ‘For a Greek, you’re unusually smart.’

Mavros let that go – for the moment. ‘One,’ he counted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mikis move closer to the skinhead.

‘Two.’ Oskar Mesner licked his lips.

‘Three.’ Mavros held out the money-belt – then grabbed the bag of coins, pulled back the belt and kneed Mesner in the groin.

‘Smart and nasty,’ he said, with a grin.

Mikis had his fingers round the sidekick’s throat.

‘I think it’s time this pair went for a short flight,’ Mavros said, nodding towards the bar.

They dragged the Germans over to the entrance. Mikis flung the big man towards the Greek nationalists, then Mavros launched Mesner at the barman.

‘Time to go,’ he said, turning on his heel.

They stopped briefly at the end of the street. The music had stopped and had been replaced by yelling and the sound of breaking furniture.

‘Thanks,’ he said to the Cretan.

‘My pleasure. I hate those bastard Nazis.’

It was only after they got back to the Jeep and were heading for the resort that Mavros had a disturbing thought. What if Oskar Mesner wasn’t the weak-minded scumbag his body suggested he was? What if he took other steps against his grandfather?

As they drove out into the sweet-smelling night beyond the city, he reckoned that was unlikely. He had saved Rudolf Kersten nine thousand Euros, got his precious coins back and made himself a grand.

Result.

EIGHT

M
avros woke up at eight, his head and body heavy. He had to report back to the Kerstens before he continued the search for Maria Kondos, although he had called after he got back to confirm that he had the coins. After a shower, a couple of excellent croissants and a Greek coffee that wasn’t a complete disgrace, he called the Fat Man’s flat in Athens.

‘Oh, boss, I was so worried about you.’

‘Cut the crap, Yiorgo. I’ve been away for under twenty-four hours.’

‘And suddenly you find you need me.’

Mavros laughed. ‘As it happens, yes. I want you to do an Internet search on some people.’

‘Great,’ the Fat Man groaned. ‘You know how much I adore modern technology.’

‘You fool no one. Ever since your blessed mother departed this life of sorrows, you’ve hardly been off that laptop you bought.’

‘One word,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Girls.’

‘And the odd, I mean huge number of conspiracy theories.’

‘Are you saying the CIA doesn’t run the world?’

Mavros sighed. ‘Check out the following please: Rudolf Kersten and David Waggoner.’

‘Waggoner?’ the Fat Man repeated. ‘Wasn’t he one of those British agents who screwed up the patriotic struggle in Crete?’

‘Try to keep an open mind till after the search, will you? Email me whatever you get asap.’

‘Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.’

‘Long live the revolution,’ Mavros replied, then cut the connection. He picked up the bag containing the coins and the money-belt and headed for the stairs.

Downstairs, Renzo Capaldi was again hovering around the door to the Kerstens’ apartment.

‘Still here?’ Mavros asked cheerfully, as he knocked.

‘How is Mr Kersten?’ the security chief asked, keeping his distance.

‘Ask me when I come out.’ Mavros followed a maid in a black dress into the living area. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the elderly couple, who rose politely from their places on the sofa.

‘Good . . .’ Rudolf Kersten broke off, his eyes on the objects in Mavros’s hands. ‘What have you there?’

Mavros opened the plastic bag and let the German pour the coins on to the glass table. Then he laid the money-belt down beside them.

‘I gave a thousand to your grandson,’ he said, ‘and I’ve taken a thousand for myself, as agreed.’ Although Mikis Tsifakis had refused to accept any payment for his part in the previous night’s events, Mavros was going to give him some cash. ‘I take it those are the missing coins.’

Kersten nodded slowly, then glanced at his wife. ‘What happened with the money? I can’t imagine Oskar turned it down.’

‘He didn’t.’

Hildegard leaned forward. ‘Did you hurt him, Mr Mavros?’

‘Not more than he would have hurt me. He may try to get in here again, though. I recommend you tell Mr Capaldi to check the shutters and doors, and to set up a patrol outside.’

‘Quite remarkable,’ Kersten said, his voice low. ‘We have much to thank you for.’

Mavros shook his head. ‘It was no problem and I’ve been very well recompensed. If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my original job.’ He glanced at the glistening coins. ‘I’d also recommend you put those and the rest of your collection in the hotel safe or – better – a bank’s. Presumably your grandson won’t be here for too much longer.’

‘We’re not sure about that,’ Hildegard said. ‘He’s fascinated by the film and the anniversary of the battle next week. The last we heard, he had no work back in Germany.’

‘If you want him to leave, you’re right not to give him any more money. That thousand should get him home. Now, I have to get back to my original case.’

Rudolf Kersten got up and followed him towards the door. ‘Dine with us tonight, Alex,’ he said. ‘I’m more grateful than I can say.’

‘Let me see how my schedule pans out.’ Mavros found himself touched by the old man’s gratitude – though the Fat Man would have said it was no more than relief that he’d got his ill-gotten possessions back.

Outside, he nodded to the bulky Italian. ‘Don’t go away. I think you’re about to be called in.’ He grinned. ‘Don’t panic. I put in a good word for you.’

One case down, another harder one to go, he thought, as he walked to the stairs. This time he was going to arrive panting whether Cara Parks liked it or not.

As it happened, the actress was breathing more heavily than Mavros when he was let into her suite. She was in a leopard skin leotard that left little to the imagination, performing high kicks. He was relieved to see that Rosie Yellenberg wasn’t present.

‘Sit down,’ Cara said. ‘Let me get a towel.’ She reappeared with one over her shoulders.

Mavros tried not to stare at her well-toned thighs, but found himself looking at her breasts before he glanced away. ‘I need you to set something up.’

‘Shoot.’ The actress poured herself a glass of water and drained it in one.

‘There’s a driver from the company servicing the crew—’

Cara Parks let out a peal of laughter.

‘Let me rephrase that,’ Mavros said, wondering if she was flirting with him. She certainly seemed less uptight.

‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘What about him? Or is it her?’