Mikis thought about Mavros. He was different, to put it mildly, and not just because of his long hair and weird eye. He was subtle and understated, perhaps from his Scottish genes, but he didn’t give up, and he was decisive when he had to be — as when he’d hit the shotgun-wielding hard man on the head with that rock. But he was secretive as well, something which wasn’t a good idea when armed men were after you. Mikis knew there were aspects to the Maria Kondos case the detective hadn’t shared, and he suspected the same applied to Rudolf Kersten.
Then he saw them — three men in black shirts and trousers coming out of the hotel. Their pockets were bulging and one of them had failed to conceal the haft of a knife up his sleeve. All three had hair cut almost to their scalps and he recognized the shortest of them. He took out his mobile and called Mavros. No answer. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the large red pickup they were getting into and noted its registration number. Then he ran like hell for the hotel.
Mavros heard the pounding on his door from the floor, where he had managed to slide from the sofa. He tried to shout through the duct tape, but all that came out was a stifled moan.
Then he heard Mikis’s voice, saying he was going to get help. While he was waiting, he tried to wriggle across the floor, but the blood on the tiles scared him and he rolled on to his back to reduce the flow.
Eventually — though it couldn’t have been long — he heard voices in the hall and a key card slip into the slot above the handle. Mikis pushed past the hulking figure of Renzo Capaldi and knelt down beside him.
‘Jesus Christ, Alex,’ he said, bending over. ‘Are you all right? This is going to hurt.’ He picked off a corner of the tape and then ripped it from Mavros’s mouth.
‘Fuck!’
‘Told you.’ Mikis looked over his shoulder. ‘Find a knife or some scissors.’ Capaldi went to the desk against the wall and came back with a pair of the latter.
‘You’ve lost a lot of blood,’ the Cretan said.
Capaldi, who was cutting through the tape on Mavros’s chest, shook his head. ‘Throat wounds look worse than they are, as long as the jugular veins aren’t affected, and his are OK.’
‘And you know this how?’ Mikis asked, easing Mavros into a sitting position.
‘Ten years in the Fifth Alpini.’ The Italian smiled. ‘Elite mountain regiment.’
‘Really?’ Mikis said, unimpressed. ‘How do you feel, Alex?’
‘I’m. . I’m all right apart from my throat. Can you get a cloth or something?’
Mikis came back from the bathroom with a pile of luxurious white towels. Capaldi raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
‘We’re going to the clinic,’ Mikis said, helping Mavros to his feet.
Capaldi followed them out and closed the room door. ‘Anything else I can do?’
‘Yes,’ Mavros said. ‘Call Rosie Yellenberg and get her to advise the West Crete Clinic to expect us.’ He had an afterthought. ‘And don’t tell Mrs Kersten about this.’
‘Didn’t you see three men in black come in?’ Mikis demanded, as they reached the lift. ‘Three arseholes with “bad man” written all over their shaven heads?’
Capaldi shook his head. ‘I can check the gate cameras.’
‘Forget it,’ the Cretan said. ‘I’ll handle it.’
‘So masterful,’ Mavros said, as they went out into the evening.
‘Don’t talk,’ Mikis ordered, getting him into the Jeep and then heading for the gate at speed. ‘Here’s what I saw.’ He told Mavros about the three men as they pulled away past a line of cars — the press pack was present in even greater strength. ‘Unfortunately I didn’t see them go in or I’d have been on their tails in a flash.’
‘They had a knife,’ Mavros croaked.
‘I noticed. I’ve got their pickup’s number, but I already know who the short guy was.’
‘The leader.’
‘Yeah.’ Mikis glanced at him. ‘Keep that towel tight on the wound or you’ll have a nasty scar.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Petros Lagoudhakis. A far-right scumbag who runs his own band of crazies. They call themselves the Cretan Renaissance, but they’re too dumb to do anything other than shout insults outside the Jewish Museum and goose-step around the backstreets. He was in the Black Eagle the night we created mayhem.’
Mavros told him about the threat that he leave Crete that night.
‘It doesn’t sound like the kind of thing they’d do themselves. Someone’s paying them.’
Mavros thought about that. Oskar Mesner was into neo-Nazi shit, but why would he want him off the island? Did he think his grandfather’s coin collection would be an easier target now the old man was dead? Or could Tryfon Roufos, the bent antiquities trader, be using local muscle? If that was the case, was David Waggoner involved too, given their close huddle at dinner in the taverna? And Waggoner was a link back to Kornaria, with his house up there.
‘You don’t think our friends in the mountains might have subcontracted the work?’
‘If they had, I doubt you’d be talking to me now. Keep quiet!’
He pulled up to the clinic entrance. A few minutes later, Mavros was under the lights, having been sprayed with a local anaesthetic, while stitches were skilfully applied. One thing he was sure of — no way was he leaving the island. This was all getting far too personal.
Mavros emerged from the room where he’d been treated half an hour later.
‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ Mikis said, crossing himself. ‘If they’d put a couple of bolts on, you’d be a dead ringer for Boris Karloff.’
‘Highly amusing. Come on.’
‘Don’t you have to rest? They shot you full of drugs, didn’t they?’
Mavros nodded. ‘See, I can move my head without it falling off.’ He touched the dressing that ran from under one ear to the other. ‘For the time being. Which means there’s no time to lose.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Mavros said, pointing towards the centre of Chania.
‘You’re not serious.’
Mavros looked at his watch. ‘Coming up to ten. They should be in the Black Eagle by now.’
Mikis opened the door of the Jeep for him. ‘They and about twenty others of their species.’
‘I take it you’ve got that Colt with you.’
The Cretan stared at him as he put the key into the ignition. ‘You’ve lost your mind, my friend. I can’t go into a bar in the centre of Chania waving it around.’
Mavros smiled. ‘No, of course not.’ He waited till Mikis had driven away from the clinic. ‘But I can.’
There was a squeal of burning rubber as Mikis hit the brakes. There was a loud horn blast from the car behind. He drove on, shaking his head.
‘I’m not giving you it, Alex. You’re so doped up you’ll hardly be able to lift it.’
‘Too bad. I’m serious, Miki. How do you feel about what those wankers did to me?’
That hit the spot. Cretans took hospitality and the safety of those under their protection very seriously.
‘All right,’ the driver said, ‘but I’m doing the shooting.’
‘Who knows?’ Mavros said, with a smile. ‘Maybe it won’t even come to that.’
Mikis glanced at him. ‘You want a bet?’
SEVENTEEN
Hildegard Kersten was at her husband’s desk in their apartment, papers and memorabilia all over it. Rudi had destroyed most of his wartime documentation, though he had kept his paratrooper’s jump badge, with the gilt eagle diving earthwards over a silvered oak leaf and acorn wreath. He’d never told her why he would often look at it, though she was sure he felt no residual loyalty to the unit — at the memorial services in the official cemetery, he kept away from the other survivors. Having read The Descent of Icarus, she was sure it reminded him of the woman he had been obsessed by. She’d never been jealous of that obsession, which dated from long before she knew Rudi and was not in any way erotic or sexual. He admired the woman, seeing her as a heroine who died for her homeland rather than allow it to be overrun by the invader; he wished that he could have been a defender of his homeland too, though not the ruined Germany he had fought in during the last months of the war. The false dream of the paratroopers had long vanished by then, as had most of the men.