The Silver Stain

the dope trade. Make sure you take her into custody.’ Then he had another thought: David Waggoner.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, going over to one of the local women who had gathered to support their men folk and asking where the Englishman’s house was. He followed her directions to the west.

‘Do you want us to come with you?’ Haris called. He was with his wife, while Niki was talking animatedly to Cara Parks. Maria Kondos was standing alone a few metres away.

‘I’ll be all right,’ Mavros answered, hurrying down the lane. Suddenly he had a bad feeling about Waggoner. How would he be reacting to the events in the village he’d lived in and helped for decades?

A narrow track led to a two-storey stone house a couple of hundred metres beyond the edge of the village. The blue shutters were open and the terrace was covered in floods of bougainvillea and oleander blossom.

‘Waggoner!’ Mavros shouted, as he approached. ‘Are you there?’

There was no reply. He climbed the steps and looked to each side. There were a table and chairs on his right, a tray containing a small coffee cup and a half-drunk glass of water on the former.

‘Waggoner!’ He stepped through the bead curtain and into the cool house. The living area to the right had dull-coloured floors and was sparsely furnished with antique dark-wood pieces. Animal heads and regimental shields hung on the walls.

‘The hands go up, fucker.’

He recognized the voice and turned to see the shaven-headed Petros Lagoudhakis, leader of the far-right Cretan Renaissance, shove David Waggoner into the room, a pistol pointing at Mavros.

‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ the Cretan said. ‘Two shitbags instead of one.’

Mavros glanced at the Englishman. His face was pale and beaded with sweat and he looked diminished from the last time they’d met.

‘You realize the village is teeming with police?’ Mavros said.

‘Won’t take me long to finish you two.’

‘I suppose I’m in your sights because I made you dig your own grave the other night.’

Lagoudhakis glared at him. ‘You don’t get over something like that easily. Besides, I heard what you did to Mr Roufos.’

Mavros sighed. He was about to die because he hadn’t kept hold of the antiquities dealer. Phoning the Cretan from the ship would have been easy.

‘And him?’ he said, inclining his head towards Waggoner.

‘Him? He persecuted Herr Kersten for years, never mind all the Germans he killed in the war.’

Mavros stared at him. ‘Rudolf Kersten told you to kill him?’

‘Who else? Herr Kersten supported my organization in many ways.’

‘Was Oskar Mesner involved?’

‘Leave him out of it.’

Which meant ‘yes’, as far as Mavros was concerned.

Lagoudhakis raised the pistol towards Waggoner. ‘And let’s not forget that the British blocked the union of Crete for years in the nineteenth century and screwed up Cyprus permanently. This piece of shit was responsible for the death of several Cypriot freedom fighters. So go to meet them, murderer.’

Then Lagoudhakis went flying forward, smothered by a heavily-built figure with a bandage on his head. The weapon skittered across the floor as the neo-Nazi’s hand was smashed against the tiles.

‘Miki?’ Mavros said, his heart halfway towards his mouth. ‘What the-’

The Cretan dragged the now cowering Lagoudhakis to his feet and then planted a heavy fist in his belly. He hit the floor again and started writhing.

David Waggoner limped forwards and handed the pistol that he’d picked up to Mavros. He looked like he was already in another dimension.

‘What’s the matter?’ Mavros asked.

‘Pancreatic cancer. I’ve got a few weeks if I’m lucky.’ The former SOE man grimaced. ‘Or less — the pain is terrible.’ He looked at Mavros curiously. ‘Why did you come?’

‘I had a feeling you’d do something. . foolish.’

‘You were behind what’s happened to the village?’

‘Not on my own.’ Mavros glanced at Mikis. ‘What are you doing out of hospital?’

The driver grinned. ‘Watching your back.’

‘Thanks, but aren’t you supposed to be resting?’

‘Nah. Anyway, some fuckers from Dopetown took my Colt, remember? I want it back.’

Mavros smiled. ‘You might have a job talking the cops into handing it over.’

‘I have several friends in the police force.’

‘What a surprise.’ Mavros looked back at Waggoner. The old man was picking something up from his desk.

‘I was trying to protect you when I told. . told you to stay away.’

‘Guilty conscience?’ Mavros asked, not prepared to let him off the hook.

‘Something like that.’ Waggoner stepped closer. ‘Here, these are for you. There are photographs, a pen and some papers.’

‘You took them from my father?’

‘From Kanellos, yes.’ The Englishman hung his head. ‘We. . we beat him to find out if he was the traitor. He didn’t say a word. Then we found out who the real rat was and Kanellos was taken back to the city at night. His possessions remained with me by mistake.’

‘Why did you keep them?’

Waggoner shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I thought he deserved that. He was. . he was a very brave man. I should never have written what I did about him.’

Mavros looked at the photos. They showed a young Spyros, his moustache even thicker than it was later, surrounded by men in incomplete military uniforms, some wearing the Cretan mandili and vraka. Their boots were in tatters and their weapons a mixture of elderly rifles and plundered German machine-pistols. But most striking were the smiles on their faces — they looked as if they truly believed they could defeat this and any other oppressor. The writing instrument was an old fountain pen made of dark-blue celluloid. He didn’t risk unscrewing it in case it was fragile. As for the writing, it was pages of text in a code he knew he would never be able to read — messages from the father he had scarcely known in a language legible only to long dead communist cipher clerks. At least, he thought, blinking back tears, Spyros had left a pen and not a weapon.

‘Thank you,’ he said to Waggoner. He couldn’t bring himself to shake the hand that had dealt pain to his father, but he gave him a restrained smile.

Mavros and the Cretan dragged Lagoudhakis on to the terrace, the former calling Kriaras to have the neo- Nazi picked up.

‘Right, Miki, let’s get you back to the bosom of your family.’

‘Speaking of bosoms, I heard your girlfriend was here. That means the delectable Cara Parks is up for grabs.’

‘I guess so. But bear in mind she’s a champion at kickboxing, karate and various other martial arts.’

Mikis grinned. ‘Some like them hot.’

Back in the village square, Mavros handed over the recording device to Kriaras. Haris had got one of his men to make a copy of the disk on a laptop, so they were covered.

‘Every single name Dhrakakis spouted better be arrested, Niko,’ Mavros said, ‘or I’m giving the disk to the press.’

‘What country do you think you’re living in?’ the policeman said, in a long-suffering voice. ‘Strings will be pulled, money will move between accounts, people will disappear. But don’t worry — there’ll be a big enough scandal.’ He caught Mavros’s eye. ‘Be thankful you haven’t been arrested for taking the law into your hands.’

Mavros laughed. ‘Hey, Hari,’ he called, ‘the commander wants to charge your men with damaging the Kornariates’ crops.’

The Cretan waved a hand in the air and went on talking to his wife and son.

‘The Tsifakis family is well connected, Niko.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ Kriaras snapped. ‘Want a lift back to Chania in the helicopter?’