The Fat Man looked out over the opulent blocks around the park of Dhexameni. ‘What would your father have thought about you ending up in this platinum-coated sewer?’
‘Oh, thanks,’ Mavros replied, going back inside. ‘What would he have thought about you avoiding the comrades and coming here every day?’ He looked at the photographs of his family on the display table by the fireplace. His mother had taken most of them with her, but there were still portraits of his father, Spyros, with his thick black hair, hooked nose and piercing gaze: and of his brother, Andonis, a bright-faced version of the older man, who had been popular with the opposite sex from his early teens.
‘Let them go,’ the Fat Man said softly, going towards the kitchen with his tray.
Mavros thought about that. His father, a lawyer who was also a high-ranking official of the then illegal Communist Party, had died when he was five and he had few memories, mainly of a serious, prematurely aged man whose smile had been tinged with sadness, but who always greeted him with a tight hug. His brother Andonis, who disappeared during the Dictatorship aged twenty-one, had played a much larger part in his life, and was the reason he had become a missing persons specialist. But Andonis was the only failure in his career — every trace of his brother had led to dead ends and desolation.
‘I have let them go, Yiorgo,’ Mavros called. And it was true. Spyros, despite being a hero of the Party, had never been close enough to inspire him — whence his essentially apolitical stance — while Andonis had gradually ceased to influence him. Besides, he had sworn to his mother that he would concentrate on his own life and on Niki rather than his lost male relatives. ‘I have, believe me.’
The problem was, he didn’t always believe it himself.
Mavros was showered, his shoulder-length and still black hair damp on the shoulders of his denim shirt, and shaved, an activity he undertook once a week at most, when the landline rang.
‘You know who this is,’ said a gruff voice.
‘Do I?’ Mavros replied. ‘The Prime Minister? The ghost of Maria Callas with a bad cold?’
‘As funny as ever — you think.’ Nikos Kriaras, head of the Athens police organized crime division, was a man with no humour in his soul. ‘I have little time for this, so listen carefully. You will shortly have visitors. It would be a very good idea to take the job you will be offered. A very good idea indeed.’
‘I’ve had bad experience of your good ideas,’ Mavros said, immediately antagonistic to anything suggested by the well connected but less than straight cop.
‘Tell me why I should do what you say.’
Kriaras sighed. ‘Why are things never easy with you? All right, this is nothing to do with my current portfolio.’ The commander was terrified of phone taps and habitually spoke in a clipped mode he thought would be incomprehensible to outsiders. ‘My friends at the Concert Hall would like your input on this.’ A child could have broken that codename. Next to the main Athens music venue was the American embassy.
‘Oh, great,’ Mavros said, remembering a case involving the Americans and a terrorist that had nearly cost him his life. ‘I think I’d rather take in the May sunshine on my balcony, thanks.’
‘Don’t screw with me, smart-arse,’ Kriaras said. ‘Take the job. It’ll be well paid, it’s not dangerous and you’ll meet interesting people.’
The truth was that Mavros hadn’t had a case in two weeks and was as bored as a shark in the overfished Aegean. Not that he was going to tell the cop that.
‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he said languorously. ‘That sun, you know, it’s very-’
‘Take the fucking job, all right?’ yelled Kriaras, slamming down the old-style phone that Mavros had seen in his office.
‘Who was that?’ the Fat Man asked, his heavy face creased with curiosity.
‘Just one of my many admirers.’
‘That wanker Kriaras.’
Mavros laughed. ‘Very good, Yiorgo. He says I’m about to be offered a job. A good one.’
The Fat Man flicked his dish-towel at a fly with surprising dexterity. ‘Don’t take it. You can’t trust that murderous organ of the state further than you can-’
‘Toss him? Jesus, Yiorgo, lighten up with the Party terminology. Besides, we could do with some income.’
‘Income? Profit, you mean. You’re as bad as everyone else in this benighted country. Take what you can and deprive the needy.’
Mavros led the Fat Man to one of his mother’s antique armchairs. ‘Now, now, don’t get overexcited. You might burst — I don’t know — a belly?’
The doorbell rang, meaning that Mavros escaped verbal and possibly physical abuse. He looked at the miniature screen and saw a man in his late thirties, his thinning hair in a ponytail, and a young woman. Both were dressed in high-end casual clothes and the latter was carrying a laptop case. Although the man could have passed for Greek, the woman’s red hair and pale skin gave her away as a foreigner. Mavros decided to speak English.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Mr Mavros? We were told to contact you by a Mr Kriaras.’ The man mangled the stress on the cop’s name — it should have been on the final syllable — and his accent was American.
‘Come up to the sixth floor.’
Mavros turned to the Fat Man. ‘You’d better make yourself scarce. Sit in the kitchen and take notes if that turns you on.’
‘What if they want coffee?’
‘I’ll give you the order like you’re a Filipina and collect it myself. All right, Georgia?’
The Fat Man gave him a less than threatening glare — there were few things he liked better than overhearing Mavros’s clients — and withdrew.
Mavros went to the door, wondering what kind of fine mess he was about get himself into.
The young woman was now standing in front of the man.
‘Alex Mavros?’ she asked, with an accent that was East Coast, unlike the man’s Californian tones. ‘My name’s Alice Quincy. It’s my privilege and pleasure to introduce you to Mr Luke Jannet.’
The second name rang a faint bell, but Mavros played dumb. ‘Right,’ he said, extending a hand to the man, who had now pushed himself to the front, and then to the woman. ‘Come in.’
‘Cool place,’ Jannet said, walking into the open living area. ‘Kinda old-style furnishings, though.’
Mavros shrugged. ‘Care to park your backsides on that antique sofa?’ He’d never liked being talked down to and he wasn’t going to make an exception for this hotshot. There were spots of red on Alice Quincy’s high cheekbones, which made him perversely happy. She was one of those tall women with flat chests known to Greeks as ‘ironing-boards’, but her face was attractive enough.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Mavros asked, watching Luke Jannet. He hadn’t shown any sign of being affronted, but there was a watchfulness in his green eyes that suggested he didn’t miss much.
‘Coffee for us both,’ Jannet said. ‘Alice can make it.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Georgia?’
The Fat Men squeaked from behind the partially open kitchen door.
‘Coffee for two, please.’ Mavros looked at the Americans. ‘Cappuccino?’
They both nodded.
Mavros repeated the order, aware that Yiorgos would be swearing under his breath — his mother had bought a machine and the Fat Man knew how to operate it, but he regarded the frothy concoction as an abomination.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Mavros asked, deliberately directing his gaze at the young woman.
‘See, here’s the problem,’ Jannet said, leaning forwards. Pointed cowboy boots made of some exotic skin extended from his dark-blue chinos. ‘I’m directing a movie down in Crete.’
The bell rang louder in Mavros’s head, but he kept silent.
Alice Quincy couldn’t contain herself any longer. ‘Surely you’ve heard of Mr Jannet and the film? It’s been all over the media.’