The Silver Stain (7 page)

‘Civilians?’ he barked. ‘Armed with what?’

‘Rifles that looked at least a hundred years old,’ I replied.

‘And axes,’ Wachter put in animatedly. ‘And knives, frying pans, spades, whatever you like.’

The captain glanced at Lieutenant Horsmann, who had sensibly kept his helmet on. ‘Did these savages account for any of our men, Private?’ he asked, his eyes boring into Wachter’s.

‘They certainly did, sir. I saw two old women cut Heini Stentzler’s throat and a priest with a long white beard ran Wolf Dietrich through with a knife tied to a broom handle.’

‘
Franc-tireurs
,’ Blatter said in a voice that combined hatred and disgust. I found out later that his father had been shot by a Belgian irregular at the beginning of the Great War. ‘Men, gather round,’ he shouted. ‘I hear the civilians of this benighted island have allied themselves with Churchill’s minions. You remember what our commandments have to say about that?’

‘Fight with chivalry against an honest foe,’ bellowed the sergeant. ‘Armed irregulars deserve no quarter.’

‘Indeed,’ Blatter said, turning back to us. ‘I take it you dispatched these scum.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Wachter said proudly, and at that moment any comradely feeling I’d ever had for him vanished. ‘Kersten here shot a young woman.’

I felt my hollow belly somersault – not because I’d spared the woman, but because the idea of killing civilians, even those opposing us, was utterly repellent to me. Having been led to understand that the Cretans would welcome us with open arms, I had never thought that I might have to kill them. Wachter wouldn’t have either, but for him it didn’t matter. His fellow soldiers were in danger, so the opposition merited the magazines he had emptied into them.

‘Did you, Private?’ Blatter asked, his grey eyes locking on to mine.

I hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’

He slapped me hard on the back. ‘Good man! You set a fine example.’

Then he turned away and started talking about tactics with Lieutenant Horsmann and the sergeant.

Wachter and I drank deeply. He ate some bread, but I couldn’t have forced anything solid down. I was thinking about the woman who charged me – the hatred and harshness in her eyes and expression, even when she was on the ground and helpless. She reminded me of the woman in Delacroix’s painting
Liberty Leading the People
, which had been a favourite of my history teacher, even though her black clothes had not slipped down her shoulders. I suppose there was something sexual in the way I thought of her, despite her clear abhorrence of me and all I stood for, but I could no more have raped her than I could have killed her. I knew she was a worthier human being than I was, a better person than all the men around me.

‘Very well, paratroopers,’ Captain Blatter called. ‘We move on the airfield. Radio contact has not been established, but I hope to join up with other units on the way. Even if not, there are enough of us to clear the skulking British out of their positions.’ He looked around us, his eyes bright in the early summer sun. ‘Remember, the landing strip at Maleme is the key to this part of the assault on Crete. Take it and there will be thousands of our comrades on the island in hours.’

We made ready to move off, heavily laden with weapons and ammunition, but the captain hadn’t finished.

‘Remember this also,’ he said firmly. ‘This is a battle. There is no place for mercy when the stakes are so high. Until further orders, no prisoners will be taken. Scouts, move out!’

I watched as lightly armed men headed towards the bridge. Glancing around, I saw that none of the others seemed unduly affected by Blatter’s penultimate order. Was I the only one who found the sudden cancellation of one of our commandments sickening?

As it turned out, I wasn’t, but that made no difference at all.

Mavros was walking across the wide reception area when another elderly man accosted him. Unlike Kersten, he was of scarcely medium height and heavily built, walking at a brisk pace over the marble.

‘David Waggoner,’ he said, extending a hand. The accent was Queen’s English and the words clipped.

Mavros took it, feeling strong pressure, and introduced himself.

‘You’re wondering who I am, old chap. Come over to that sofa and all will be revealed.’ Waggoner smiled beneath a tidy pepper-and-salt moustache. His hair, which was considerably whiter, was short at the back and sides.

Mavros followed him, noting perfectly polished brown shoes, cream cavalry twill trousers and a dark-blue jacket. The old man had obviously been in the services.

‘I hear you’re looking for Maria Kondos,’ Waggoner said, after they’d sat down together. ‘Gin and tonic,’ he called to a passing waiter. ‘Join me?’

Mavros shook his head. ‘Too early for me. Water, please.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know what I’m doing?’

‘My dear boy, everyone on the crew knows why you’re here.’

Great, thought Mavros – though maybe he could turn that to his advantage. ‘So you’re on the crew?’

‘Indeed I am,’ the old man said proudly. ‘Allied forces consultant. I was in the Hussars here during the battle, and then came back with SOE. The Special—’

‘Operations Executive,’ Mavros completed.

‘Smart fellow. Do you have British blood?’

The tone of the question irritated Mavros and he was tempted to play the well-educated Greek. He restrained himself, needing to keep Waggoner cooperative.

Perhaps he had information about the missing woman to pass on.

‘My mother,’ he said.

‘Ah, I see.’ The former military man’s eyes were slightly clouded, perhaps from incipient cataracts. Their softness was in marked contrast to his hand movements, which were rapid and percussive. ‘Thank you, my man,’ he said, signing the bill and rewarding the waiter with a five-euro tip before taking a heavy pull from his drink. ‘I can use the film production’s tab,’ he explained.

‘I take it you know Mr Kersten,’ Mavros said, before he had finished drinking. That provoked the abrupt removal of the glass from Waggoner’s lips.

‘
Oberleutnant
Rudolf Kersten? Winner of the Iron Cross, First Class? Indeed I do, Mr Mavros. In fact, he’s the reason I wanted to have this little chat.’

‘Really?’ Mavros tried to keep the pricking up of his ears metaphorical. ‘How so?’

‘Don’t trust him,’ David Waggoner said, the words a clear order.

Mavros’s glanced down at the old soldier’s tie, regimental with a very tight knot, before rising again to meet the hazy blue eyes. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I say.’ Waggoner took another slug of gin and tonic.

‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Mavros asked, suddenly aware that he was unintentionally copying his interlocutor’s formal English. ‘Does this have anything to do with Maria Kondos’s disappearance?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, but anything’s possible.’

‘Did you know Ms Kondos?’

‘By sight, yes. I deal with the production assistants and the scriptwriters most of the time, but I saw her on location with the big star.’

Mavros picked up on the sarcasm. ‘You don’t like Cara Parks?’

‘Fine-looking young woman, but not my idea of a Cretan peasant girl.’ Waggoner twitched his head. ‘Then again, this film doesn’t greatly concern itself with historical accuracy.’

‘That must be frustrating for a veteran like you,’ Mavros said. ‘And for Mr Kersten.’

David Waggoner’s lips twisted. ‘That old fraud has never cared for historical accuracy, I can assure you. He’s never cared for anything or anyone except himself.’

Mavros waited for more, but the volcano seemed to have exhausted itself.

‘Anyway, I wanted to make your acquaintance,’ the old soldier said, getting up and handing over a card. ‘Feel free to ring me if you need any help on the island. I gather you’re an Athenian. You’ll find things are rather different down here. I built up a lot of contacts during the war and I live here year round.’

Mavros watched David Waggoner march away across the hall – another one to be checked out.

FIVE

A
fter eating a sandwich in one of the Heavenly Blue’s numerous bars, Mavros spent the afternoon following up leads. He was called by the hotel’s security manager, one Renzo Capaldi, and told that Maria Kondos had not left in any of the hire car company’s vehicles. He went back to room 243 and checked the mobile phone. Although it was an advanced model, the messaging service hadn’t been activated, which seemed odd – unless she never turned it off and answered every call. There were no texts in either the in- or out-box, which also struck Mavros as unusual, though, again, maybe she always spoke rather than wrote. The possibility that someone – perhaps the missing woman herself – had deleted texts couldn’t be discounted, though the fact that none had been received recently suggested it wasn’t a mode she employed much.

Then he got somewhere. There was a missed call, timed at 9.21 on Sunday evening. He checked the code with the switchboard – it was that of a village called Kornaria, about thirty kilometres away in the foothills of the White Mountains, he was told. He came up with a cover story and pressed ‘Call Back’ on Maria Kondos’s mobile.

‘Yes?’ answered a deep male voice in Greek.

‘I’m a friend of Maria’s. Is she there?’

‘A friend of whose?’ the man asked, but the pause before he spoke gave Mavros the firm impression that he was prevaricating.

‘Don’t mess me around, friend,’ he said brusquely. ‘Maria Kondos gave me this number. Tell her to come to the phone.’

There was more hesitation. ‘Who are you?’ the man demanded, his tone also more aggressive. ‘I don’t know any Maria Kondos.’

You don’t know any Maria Kondos, Mavros thought, but you repeat her name in its ungrammatical form without hesitation. ‘Do I have to come over and drag her out of there?’ he shouted. ‘She owes me money and I need it now!’

The gears in his interlocutor’s mind were grinding almost audibly. The sensible thing for him to have done would have been to cut the connection, but his Cretan machismo wouldn’t permit that.

‘She owes you money? I don’t believe you! I’ll find you and cut your balls off!’

‘Not if I find you first,’ Mavros countered, wondering how to get Maria to the phone.

‘Fuck your mother and your sister,’ the man said.

The line went dead. When he tried again, it was engaged. Someone had stepped in before the Cretan bull had said too much, or perhaps he’d come to his senses. Mavros had seen a map of the island on top of one of the piles of papers on the floor. He scanned it and found Kornaria. It was isolated and at the end of a very windy, unsurfaced road, and seemed like an improbable place for a Greek-American to be. The impression that the man knew her didn’t mean she was in the village, and setting out on a long and tricky drive on the off-chance didn’t seem like the best use of his time at that juncture.

Besides, he still had a suspicion that Maria had never left the hotel. There was one way to confirm that, at least in terms of the land side of the resort – he would check later if boats came and went from the beach. He went down to reception and asked where the security office was. A young lad in Cretan costume led him, his high boots squeaking on the marble.

A large man in a suit whose tenor voice Mavros recognized opened the door.

‘Mr Capaldi,’ he said, smiling.

‘Ah, hello.’ The door stayed only half-open. ‘You need something else?’

‘I want to see the CCTV recordings from Sunday evening.’

The Italian stood motionless. ‘You have authorization for this?’

Mavros shrugged. ‘Call Mr Kersten.’ He took out his mobile. ‘Better still, I’ll call him.’

Capaldi’s hand came up quickly. ‘Not necessary. Come inside.’

They went down a passage and into a small room. The Italian squeezed into a desk chair and waved Mavros to a battered armchair.

‘No, thanks. Tell me, did you check the Sunday evening traffic recorded at the main gate?’

Renzo Capaldi suddenly looked like a schoolboy caught with his hand down his trousers. ‘No. I was not told to.’

‘It didn’t occur to you that Ms Kondos might have left on foot?’

The Italian laughed dismissively. ‘People do not walk out of the Heavenly Blue, especially not the film crew. There is the press, the photographers.’

‘So you won’t mind if I check?’

Capaldi accepted that without enthusiasm and installed Mavros at a screen connected to a large server. He showed him which keys to use to stop and restart the sequence of images, and to speed up or slow them down. Mavros decided to start from nine thirty on Sunday evening, shortly after Cara Parks had last seen the missing woman. At first he found the pixelated images hard to make out, but soon he became accustomed to them. There were regular processions of cars turning in and out of the gate. Those entering mainly came from the west, presumably film personnel coming back from the airfield at Maleme. Those leaving mostly turned east, probably heading for the bars and restaurants of Chania.

Then, when the timer at the top right of the screen showed 22.17:23, he caught sight of a female form in a knee-length black dress approaching the gate. Her face wasn’t visible, but her hair was similar to Maria Kondos’s. She waited until a van came in and left on the opposite side of it from the camera, speeding up to remain obscured. She disappeared into the darkness beyond the furthest light just over a minute later. Mavros spoke Capaldi’s name as he went back to the first sight of the missing woman.

‘See this?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ the Italian said apprehensively.

‘Is it her?’

‘Could be. Can’t see face.’

‘“Could be” will do for me,’ Mavros said. ‘I want you to do the following – take the number of every car that turned east for an hour after she left. If you have a record of the driver or registered owner, I need that too. All right? Call me on 171 as soon as you can.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Renzo Capaldi said, without irony. He seemed to have realized the seriousness of the situation.

Back in his room, Mavros booted up his laptop and went on to the Internet, accessing a site that illicitly provided a reverse phone directory. The number he had called in Kornaria was registered to a Vasilios Dhrakakis, farmer. Then he entered the missing woman’s name in a search engine. There were plenty of references, but as he went through them it became clear they were all articles about Cara Parks that referred to her assistant en passant – which made Mavros wonder. He was no connoisseur of glossy magazine-style journalism, but he was pretty sure that the hired help didn’t often get namechecked. Then, on the third page of listings, he found something much more interesting.