Byron's Shadow Page 21

  A dry hollowness began to undermine the words of the Greek, ‘As I said, it was so long ago.’

  ‘Let me get the story straight. You found out that Sofia was being held by the local branch of Organisation Chi and you led Byron Nichols to her. Once you knew how valuable she was, you betrayed Nichols and had the fascists pretend to lead you off to be executed. Only Nichols was too smart for your gang, he escaped and so did Sofia. Why did you betray him? Was it for money, or to impress Organisation Chi?’

  ‘Angry Englishman. We should have been friends!’

  Somehow, Flint thought that he was not the one being addressed. ‘You killed Byron Nichols and you killed your father.’

  Deep black eyes sank further into hell.

  ‘Sofia told me why Nichols went back: he had one last job to do. He was going to tell your father that you were dead, correct? Then you reappeared, back from the dead a second time. Byron Nichols was a smart guy, he could put two and two together and you knew it. It would be very convenient if he were to disappear and lo, he disappeared.’

  ‘You have never been in a Civil War. You could never understand.’

  ‘Oh I understand, facts lead to understanding. By an odd coincidence, your father vanished two days after Nichols left Athens. But that’s not so odd, is it? Your father would never have tolerated a son who was a traitor. So you brought your chums down from the hills and arranged an ambush, where, surprise surprise, you had your third miracle escape from death. You should have been a cat.’

  Pain, bitterness, fear and anger suddenly boiled over as Boukaris’ hands clenched on the brandy glass. It shattered.

  ‘You are making this up!’

  ‘You shot all of them and threw the bodies in a pit. Your big mistake was to suddenly discover decency. You couldn’t strip the dead, not the man who saved your life, not your father’s corpse…’

  Boukaris gripped the chair, ‘I shot no one…’

  Flint took out the golden pen. ‘Behold, the treasure of Palaeokastro. There will, of course, be other identifiable artefacts buried under that convenient chunk of concrete. Your failing, Boukaris, was an excess of sentiment.’

  When was Boukaris going to say something incriminating? Flint began to wonder. What the hell was he going to do when he ran out of insults?

  ‘I bet it was a real big plus having a hero for a father. All those favours he was owed could be called in. All those debts of honour would be yours. His body was never found, so the myths grew. You couldn’t spoil the glamour by having the bodies exhumed and you couldn’t risk someone else stumbling on the mass grave in case reality contradicted the legend. Did you mean to kill Sebastian Embury or simply warn him off?’

  The accused said nothing.

  ‘So who did it? Your men? Your goons? Costas? The war is over, Boukaris. Plotting and kidnapping and killing, it’s all over! Now tell me what you’ve done with Lisa!’

  ‘Lisa, Lisa, who cares about Lisa?’

  Flint wished the gun was real, wished he had the power to impose his will. His anger was rising, he was running short on empty threats. Pacifism was forgotten and he lunged forward in a fury, intent on battering Boukaris with the toy that would not fire.

  ‘Where is Lisa? Tell me! Tell me!’

  A rustling halted his motion. The curtains moved. A man with a gun, a real gun, a slick black automatic, advanced through the curtain. Flint dropped the toy instantly and raised his hands to shoulder height.

  The moustached man in the blazer and tan slacks ran the fingers of his left hand up and down Flint’s ribcage and hips.

  ‘Sit down.’ The man kicked a leather pouf beside where Boukaris sat.

  Flint dropped onto the pouf, hands on head. The intruder picked up the Taiwanese .38.

  ‘A toy gun, Doctor Flint?’ His English was immaculate. ‘Rather foolish, but then there is a narrow line drawn between the fool and the hero.’

  Boukaris demanded something in a flurry of Greek.

  ‘Shall we keep the conversation in English?’ The man said smoothly.

  Boukaris had regained some of his composure. He smiled, a quiet, almost monastic smile. He looked at where the brandy glass had cut his hand, and watched a trickle of blood drip onto his armchair.

  ‘They say you are a communist, Doctor Flint,’ the intruder began. ‘Ironic, isn’t it, Mr Boukaris?’

  ‘I left politics a long time ago.’

  ‘Politics is bloodless war — right, Doctor Flint?’

  Why was this hitman quoting Mao Tse Tung?

  ‘...and war is the politics of bloodshed,’ the quotation continued. ‘I suppose even a Marxist would appreciate that if one had wealth, position and family, one would not be willing to lose it all for some obstinate foreigner who likes digging little holes. One would suggest, even insist, that he dig his holes somewhere else. This has been a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare: by his vanity, Mr Embury brought about his own death. By his ambition, Mr Boukaris brought about his own nemesis.’

  Flint was confused by the cross-play of incongruous images.

  ‘Costas Zoides has kindly explained what happened to Mr Embury.’

  ‘Costas!’ Boukaris bellowed.

  ‘He has signed a full confession, for due consideration by the Prosecutor.’ The man slipped the automatic back into his shoulder-holster. Reaching into the opposite pocket of his blazer, he drew out an identity card.

  ‘Thymios Angelos, State Security.’

  ‘White Citroën.’ Flint murmured in awe.

  Angelos gave a smile of self-satisfaction and the spell broke.

  ‘Where is Lisa?’

  ‘Elizabeth Canelopoulos and Maximillian Halleck the second are in safe hands, they have been relating an interesting tale. As have Dr Torpevitch and Mr Owlett.’

  ‘You have Jules too?’

  The smile on Angelos’ face broadened. ‘We are not amateurs, Dr Flint. Your modus operandi became obvious, after a while. I read Philosophy at Oxford, you know.’

  He turned to Boukaris, but continued to speak English. ‘We have some very useful photographs, wonderful charts drawn by a computer and a small bag of bones. Costas was very impressed by the bones. I think it would be very instructive if tomorrow, we could all drive to Palaeokastro and allow Dr Flint to show us how to dig a hole.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Angelos was at the wheel of his white Citroën, throwing up dust on the road to Palaeokastro. Lisa and Max had already been sent to Athens, but Jeffrey Flint was being driven back to where the drama had begun, still unsure whether some complex twist was waiting to catapult him back into jail.

  ‘I thought you were a gangster,’ Flint stated. ‘Some kind of hitman sent by Boukaris to hunt me down.’

  This amused Angelos. ‘He was not so powerful. He thought he was rid of you when he sent your passport. Then when you came back to Nauplion, I thought I would give him a friendly, but anonymous telephone call just to see what he would do.’

  ‘Oh wonderful. Suppose he decided to have me rubbed out?’

  ‘I don’t think his friends in the police, even his son-in-law, would have liked another mysterious murder in Nauplion. You were safe.’

  ‘Son-in-law?’

  ‘You met him; he suffers from a very poor complexion.’

  ‘Scarface?’

  ‘Don’t look shocked; it is a small town, he has friends and relatives in all the good positions.’

  ‘So how long have you known I was innocent?’ Flint asked.

  Angelos grinned broadly, ‘We became suspicious when we found you were in Athens. You were asking too many questions. If you had been guilty, you would have tried to escape. Indeed, you would never have returned at all.’

  ‘But if you knew I was innocent, why not just broadcast the fact, instead of sending people to tail Owlett.’

  ‘We had to understand what was happening. The local police were making a bad job of catching you, then your journalist friends started writing about cover-ups. It did not look good.’ />
  ‘So the newspapers embarrassed someone high up, and that someone had your people find me?’

  ‘Doctor Flint, have you read about the Nazi occupation of Greece?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A tragedy. Have you read of the Civil War?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Another tragedy. You know of the Colonels’ regime?’

  ‘Yes. What point are you making?’

  ‘So many Greek tragedies.’ Angelos seemed to enjoy his own wit. ‘We are the world’s oldest democracy, so people say, yet we have had democracy only since 1974.’ He took his eyes off the road. ‘We have rid ourselves of the Junta, we are in the EC, we want our rightful place in the modern world recognised.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Old ways die hard. Corruption, money, influence.’ Angelos rubbed fingers and thumb together. ‘That is the Greece of Vassilis Boukaris. It is the Greece we have to forget.’

  The car sped past Taverna Mikos and on towards the olive grove. A police car stood idle and the area had been roped off, but no further action had been taken. Angelos braked sharply, his tyres grinding loose gravel as the car jerked to a halt. He pulled the handbrake with a vicious creak.

  ‘Let us take a walk.’ Angelos was grinning, but sincere.

  Flint happily got out of the car, checked around himself for a few moments, then led the detective onto the square of concrete beside the rustling olive trees.

  ‘What was Dracopoulos up to?’ Flint asked, wanting all the facts squared.

  ‘He wanted to be on the winning side. Mister Embury brought him a complaint that he was being harassed, so he passed it on to Athens. Mister Boukaris discovered this and Dracopoulos was told to keep quiet. Seven years later, you started asking questions, so the doctor tipped off his old friend. Finally, he let me know the whole story.’

  ‘And he lured Lisa to Andreas’ place?’

  ‘Sorry. I asked him to do that; it was time to wrap up the case.’

  Flint paused by the edge of the gully, stamping his feet on the concrete, below which Max predicted the mass grave would lie. ‘If I interpret the story correctly, there could be half a dozen bodies buried there. You’ll be able to identify Stylanos Boukaris...’

  ‘...by his wooden leg.’ Angelos still held his Cheshire Cat grin.

  Flint scrambled down the side of the gully, explaining where he had found the loose bones and the pen. Angelos remained at the top.

  ‘So when does the digging start?’ Flint asked, looking up the broken bank for clues.

  ‘That is not for me to decide.’

  ‘Decide? You make it sound as if you’re not going to bother.’

  ‘Some things are best left undisturbed.’

  Flint pointed an accusing finger. ‘There is at least one dead Englishman and a heap of dead Greeks under that bank. They were murdered...’

  ‘A long time ago. It was war, we cannot re-open such a case.’ Angelos held his unflappable calm and secure expression. He waved away atrocity with one dismissive sweep of his hands.

  ‘I suppose that wouldn’t look good in the papers either, would it?’

  ‘One can become a little too cynical, Doctor Flint.’

  ‘So okay, you have a Statute of Limitations which says that you can’t try people for war crimes, but what about Sebastian Embury? This site holds the motive for his murder. Opening this bank is essential if you’re going to try the case.’

  He was met by one of those Greek shrugs, an action which lost much of its effect when cushioned by padded shoulders.

  ‘Find me a spade and I’ll do it myself.’

  ‘Come back to the car.’

  Slowly, Jeffrey Flint’s stomach began to sink. ‘You’re going to let Boukaris off.’

  Angelos turned to walk away.

  ‘After all this, you’re going to let him off!’ Flint scrambled after him, protesting and repeating his accusations.

  On reaching the Citroën, Angelos opened the door and lay across the front seat. He pulled the local paper from the glove compartment and offered it to the incensed archaeologist. Angelos showed just a tiny streak of irritation.

  ‘Do you read Greek?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Flint took the paper and recognised the photograph below the headline. ‘It’s Boukaris — you have arrested him! What does the headline say?’

  ‘Son of local hero takes his own life.’

  ‘What?’

  Angelos was still sitting in the car, giving attention to a smudge of dirt soiling one shoe. ‘After we had taken a statement from Mr Boukaris last night, he said he was unwell and went to his room to fetch some pills. It appears that he had an old German automatic, a Luger nine millimetre. I would say it was probably one of his wartime souvenirs.’

  Unflappable, Angelos wetted a finger and rubbed the shoe back to pristine blackness, whilst Flint absorbed the impact of what he had said.

  ‘He shot himself? Jesus! That was a bit unnecessary.’

  ‘In Greek we call it philotimo. In Latin it is dignitas; your honour, your respect for your own position in society.’

  Many heavy hand gestures came with the philosophy. ‘He had family and standing, he was the son of the war hero. In Greece, a man’s first loyalty is to his family. What would his rich friends do when they discovered he murdered his own father? Vassilis Boukaris would be destroyed in an instant.’ Angelos clicked his fingers. ‘That man had lived with this crime for so many years and he chose the way he would pay.’

  ‘So there will be no trial?’

  Angelos shook his head. ‘No trial.’

  ‘But Boukaris didn’t kill Embury with his own hands, he must have had help to steal the minibus, then arrange the killing. Arrest his accomplices!’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Costas for one.’

  Angelos adopted a friendly, patronising tone. ‘Costas was the last of the old fascist gang — Organisation Chi. He was there, that night Vassilis arranged to have his father ambushed, but that was the last killing he saw. Costas was the one who spotted you working in the olive grove, all those years ago; it was he who warned Boukaris. Last week, he was simply guarding the site in case you returned. He knows enough to be a useful witness, but he is not the murderer. Boukaris had business in Tripoli, with bad connections. There were once plenty of people there who would have killed for money. Who knows; they may be dead now, or in prison. The past catches up with the wicked.’

  ‘And there I was, hoping for a nice, neat ending.’

  ‘In police work, there are no neat endings and they are never nice. It must be like archaeology; no matter how much you dig, one can never uncover all of the truth.’

  ‘You deserved that philosophy degree,’ Flint said, allowing a wry smile to slip to his face.

  ‘Your friend Mikos, the taverna keeper, what is his wine like?’

  ‘Appalling.’

  Angelos reached into the glove compartment again. Out came a bottle of Chablis. ‘He will not mind if we use his seats whilst we talk. Will you join me for a glass of wine?’

  Flint took one last look towards the gully, almost obscured by rustling olive branches. All the weight had gone from his shoulders, he could live again. ‘Okay, why not?’

  *

  Flint returned to Athens the following day, to greet Lisa with a hug and to say farewell to Max and Jules at the airport. Owlett never wrote his exclusive story; he kept his press card and went to lunch with Angelos instead.

  Two thousand eight hundred men are commemorated in the British War Cemetery off Leoferas Poseidonos. It is a little known, little visited corner of a foreign field where battalions of headstones stand in review before the sea. Britannia, as well as Poseidon, had once ruled the waves.

  Sofia Kiounghis, Lisa and Flint stood around the grave that was not a grave.

  Capt. B.F. Nichols D.S.C.

  Missing in Action, 1947

  Missing no longer, mused Flint. ‘Byron Francis Nichols, Captain. An English gentleman,’ Sofia
said. ‘I try to come here when I can.’ Sofia gave an embarrassed sigh, her face falling into anguish. ‘All this is my fault, you know? All those people who have died; the boy Stephanos, brave Byron Nichols and his friend Stylanos. Now your friend.’

  Flint winced at the thought of Sebastian Embury as his friend. In his next incarnation, perhaps. He took the pen from his pocket and passed it to Sofia. She had not run out of tears, one formed slowly then dripped onto her white silk blouse.

  He turned his eyes away, wondering about those long, cold nights in the Greek hills, the privation and the cementing power of shared danger. He imagined a tale of a young, dashing English officer rescuing a beautiful, impressionable Greek damsel. With more careful editing, the plot could have had a heart-warming romantic conclusion.

  Sofia suddenly snapped out of her introspection and offered the pen back to Flint. He refused it. ‘Keep it, please.’

  With only a soft thank you on her lips, Sofia slipped the keepsake into her handbag.

  *

  ‘How incredibly sad.’ Lisa leaned back in the seat of the Gatwick Shuttle. ‘Do you think they were in love?’

  Flint sat opposite her, whilst outside the window England arrived packaged as red bricks rinsed by rain. Mile after mile of terraced houses under a low sky brought adventure to a drab, familiar end.

  ‘The romantic side of me would like to think so.’

  ‘Romantic side? You have a romantic side?’ Lisa scoffed, ‘I know you Jeffrey Flint, I know you inside out. You like sex, booze, Bob Dylan, old films and even older archaeology.’

  ‘At least I’m not shallow. Most guys stop at sex and booze.’

  ‘I must have been mad getting tangled up with you.’

  Flint had not seen her smile for a week; it was an encouraging sign. ‘I was worried you’d double-crossed me in Nauplion.’

  ‘I thought that I’d meet Boukaris on my own, see what he wanted…’

  ‘That was brave.’

  ‘No, it was selfish,’ she said, bowing her head.