Paul Johnston - The Silver Stain

I knew I had to kill her, but I couldn’t. For all the savagery in her expression and her glaring eyes, she was beautiful and so young. I loosed off a blast above her head, which did nothing to stop her. The sound of firing all around had disappeared and all I could hear was her gasping breath and the words — clearly full of hatred — that she was shrieking at me. I fired again. She was so close that I couldn’t fail to hit her. The ancient rifle flew from her grip and she crashed to the earth, clutching her shoulder. I crept over to her and she spat in my face. That was enough. I turned my attention back to the weapons canister. Just before I reached it, a grenade exploded in the tree and I was showered by branches, which reduced the force of the shrapnel.

Stretching up, I cut the shrouds from the canister and it dropped to the ground. It had been damaged and wouldn’t open. I heard a burst of MP40 fire and turned to see another group of Cretans — old men in black jodhpurs and tasselled headscarves, and boys in shorts — crash to the earth. I pulled out my bayonet and inserted the blade in the canister catch. At last it sprang open and I found what I wanted — an air-cooled MG34 with a bipod and plenty of ammunition. I took a good position behind a tree trunk and set up the weapon facing the open ground. Another group of Cretans was advancing towards me, but that wasn’t the first of my problems — it wasn’t even the second.

The young woman I had shot was on her feet again and charging me, the rifle raised with her good arm, while behind me I saw heavily-built figures slipping through the rows of trees, wearing battledress and slope hats. They were the enemy I least wanted to face. They were the New Zealand Maoris.

Mavros managed a whispered conversation with the Fat Man in the kitchen, asking him to keep the plants watered if he was delayed.

‘What about your girlfriend?’ Yiorgos asked, smiling slackly.

‘Call her and tell her I’ve left her for a willowy American.’ Mavros shook his head. ‘Don’t even think about it. I’ll talk to her. And she’s not my girlfriend, she’s the woman of my life.’

The Fat Man looked like he was going to vomit. ‘Keep in touch, young Alex,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll need a sidekick down there. You know how nasty the Cretans can be.’

In your dreams, Mavros thought. The last time Yiorgos had got involved in a case, he nearly ended up dead.

‘Let’s go, fella,’ Luke Jannet called from the saloni . ‘I’ve got a scene to shoot this afternoon.’

Mavros picked up the small bag he’d filled. Travelling light was essential to him, even if it meant buying clothes — they could always be put on expenses. He made sure he had his laptop and his phone charger. Niki had a tendency to punish him severely if he was out of touch for more than a day.

‘So what’s your story, man?’ Jannet asked, after they had crowded into the small lift.

Mavros looked at him. He was pretty sure Kriaras had passed over the salient details, but for 2000 Euros a day, his client deserved a mini-biography.

‘Father Greek, mother Scottish. Degree in law and criminology from Edinburgh, worked in the Ministry of Justice here, set myself up as a missing persons investigator nine years ago. Never failed to find a misper.’

Jannet raised an eyebrow. ‘Never failed, huh? That’s what your cop friend said. How d’you do that? Keep away from the real hard cases?’

Mavros had already decided that the director was a dick — the kind of powerful man who got a kick out of needling his minions. ‘I can’t talk about previous cases — client confidentiality. You got that in the States?’

Alice Quincy’s eyes sprang open, then she looked down in embarrassment.

‘Yeah, we got that. We got smart-arses too and I don’t like them. Watch yourself, Alex Mavros.’

They went out into the sunlight. A long black Mercedes was blocking the street, a chauffeur in a grey suit standing by the rear door.

A leather-clad man on a powerful motorbike tried to squeeze past the car unsuccessfully. He flipped up his visor and started cursing; something along the lines of rich masturbators being the ruin of Greece.

‘Excuse me,’ Mavros said, stepping towards him. On the long list of Athenian pains in the arse, he placed motorbike riders near the top. ‘Have you any idea who you’re yelling at?’

‘Should I?’ the biker demanded, his belligerence undiluted. ‘Looks like a pimp with his latest tart to me.’

Mavros laughed. ‘I’ll be decent and not pass that on. No, that’s Luke Jannet, the director of Freedom or Death .’ It was immediately obvious that leather man had heard about the film. ‘He was telling me he needed experienced bikers as extras to ride replica German machines.’ He smiled tightly. ‘Looks like you’ve completely blown that gig.’

‘What did you say to him?’ Jannet asked, after Mavros had got into the front seat.

‘Don’t worry, your name didn’t come up,’ Mavros lied. He saw no reason to keep his client informed about anything not directly related to Maria Kondos.

The driver knew his job and soon they were heading out of the centre on Mesogeion Avenue. Jannet and Alice Quincy were on their mobiles, talking intently, so Mavros decided to make his own calls.

‘Hello, Mother.’

‘Alex, dear.’ Dorothy Cochrane-Mavrou’s voice was weaker than it had been, but she was still in full command of her intellect. ‘Are you coming to Kifissia?’

‘Afraid not. I’m off to Crete on a case.’

There was a pause.

‘Mother?’

‘Yes, dear. Sorry, I was thinking. .’

Mavros knew that tone. She had come to terms with the losses of her husband and elder son long ago, but she still had vivid memories.

‘Thinking what?’

‘Your father. . he was in Crete during the war. He hardly ever spoke of it, but. . but I think he saw some terrible things.’

Mavros was surprised. He had never heard that Spyros had been on the Great Island, as it was known. In fact, he knew very little about his father’s wartime activities and the Party had hidden away the relevant papers in its archive.

‘Tell me more, Mother.’

‘I can’t, Alex. That’s all I know.’

Mavros felt instantly deflated. The moment he thought he might find out more about his old man, the hope turned out to be illusory.

‘All right, I’ll talk to you soon,’ he said. ‘Is Anna there?’

His sister wrote features for several glossy magazines, but was spending more time at home now their mother was in residence.

‘Yes, dear, I’ll call her. Take care.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ he said dutifully. ‘Hi, Anna.’ He spoke Greek for privacy, even though they normally used English. ‘I’m going to Crete on a case.’

‘Oh, lucky you. Whereabouts?’

‘Good question.’ Mavros raised a hand to interrupt Alice Quincy. ‘Where are we going exactly?’

‘The shoot’s in the vicinity of Chania,’ the young woman answered, stressing the first syllable rather than the last.

‘I heard that,’ Anna said. ‘Do you want to use the flat?’

His sister’s husband Nondas was from Chania and had a family property in the old city.

‘Let me think about that,’ he replied, suspecting that a hideaway might be useful — clients, especially rich ones, often became unacceptably demanding.

‘Well, you know where to get the keys. Barba-Yannis is still looking after the place.’

Mavros remembered the old man — he still wore the traditional baggy trousers and high boots. He lived in the same street and had known Nondas since he was a baby.

‘OK, thanks. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Very likely.’ Anna rang off. She was five years older and was often curt with him, regarding his work as less than respectable. The fact that she and her family had been involved in the terrorism case that had almost cost the Fat Man his life hadn’t made her change that view.