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  ‘It was. But my company is still interested. They take a long view.’

  Kokoras gave a twisted smirk. ‘Good luck to them!’

  George battled on. ‘With Greece at the bottom of a cycle, the prices are low and the opportunities big. That’s the way we see it. But everyone here is so depressed they think it’s going to stay like this forever. We need people with vision, with connections, who can lift us out of this mess. I have foreign investors ready to go in.’

  Past the mean and suspicious glint in the man’s eyes George could see that something was registering.

  ‘Give me your card,’ said Kokoras coldly.

  ‘I don’t have one with me. But I’m staying at a little place in town, the Pindos Hotel. You can catch me there this evening.’

  ‘Your name again?’

  ‘George Zafiris. And yours?’

  ‘I’ll get someone to call you,’ said Kokoras. ‘And don’t ask my name again.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten it, I’m sorry…’

  ‘No, you haven’t forgotten, because you never knew it. Now leave me alone, I’m busy.’

  George took him at his word. As he walked out of the lobby into the blazing sunshine, he wondered uneasily if he had just done something stupid. It would not take Kokoras long to find out he was lying. Then what? He didn’t like to think what might happen next. He unlocked his Alfa, started the engine and backed out of his parking space, still wondering. Then he noticed the black Skoda waiting.

  In the seven minutes it took him to drive back to the hotel, the Skoda in his mirror all the way, George forced himself to think of a plan. He needed a hell of a good story, or a plausible threat, to see him through.

  ‘Gavrilis,’ he said, as he picked up his key, ‘can you make me a coffee?’

  ‘Of course. Right now?’

  ‘In ten minutes. I just need to make a phone call.’

  He went up to his room and opened the shutters. Down in the street he saw the Skoda parked a few spaces behind the Alfa. Staying at the window, watching the Skoda, he telephoned Sotiriou.

  The Colonel was sceptical. He could see no connection between Kokoras and Mario, only suppositions. George said that was not the point. He just wanted to know that he would be protected if Kokoras turned vicious. Again the Colonel gave nothing away. ‘You are protected as an ordinary citizen,’ was all he would say.

  George replied angrily, ‘I’m just telling you where the hell I’ve gone if you can’t find me.’

  ‘That’s noted,’ said Sotiriou. ‘Let us know if you find anything.’

  George was still fuming when he walked into the kitchen. Gavrilis was charging the coffee machine.

  ‘I need to go back to the conversation we had about my cousins,’ said George. ‘You said they trod on people’s toes. Was one of those people Kokoras?’

  Instead of replying, Gavrilis asked, ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  ‘I seem to hear it everywhere.’

  Gavrilis frowned. ‘Is it just your cousins or some other matter that concerns you?’

  ‘What began with my cousins now seems part of a larger problem.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  ‘I don’t want to compromise you.’

  ‘That’s not an issue.’

  ‘I think it could very well be.’

  ‘I promise you it’s not.’

  George thought about this. Gavrilis seemed to enjoy a privileged connection to this man. He told him what he had told Thanasi. Then he added, ‘I’ve just met Kokoras, and his men followed me here.’

  Gavrilis listened gravely. Then said, ‘I don’t think you have a problem. Unless you’re trying to pin a specific crime on him, of course?’

  ‘I don’t pin crimes on innocent people,’ said George.

  ‘OK, so you think he’s guilty…’

  ‘My mind is open. But when I hear the words construction and public works, or I see men putting the frighteners on a couple running a taverna, I fear the worst.’

  ‘He’s not a bad man,’ said Gavrilis pensively.

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘Everyone knows him.’

  ‘But you better than most…’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I sense a connection.’

  Gavrilis did not reply directly. ‘The problem with Kokoras is that he sometimes keeps bad company.’

  ‘For example?’

  Gavrilis said nothing.

  ‘People who keep bad company eventually become bad themselves,’ said George.

  ‘Let me call someone,’ Gavrilis said and stood up. He went into the next room and closed the door.

  George waited until he returned, still with an unsettled expression.

  ‘I’ve explained what you’re doing,’ he said.

  ‘To Kokoras?’

  His mouth tightened.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ said George. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He has nothing to hide.’

  ‘What about the company he keeps?’

  ‘I didn’t ask about that.’

  ‘How did he react when you told him about me?’

  ‘He said he knew at once you were lying.’

  ‘OK… So how does that leave us?’

  ‘He’s happy to let the matter drop.’

  ‘That’s big of him. And if not?’

  Gavrilis tensed again. ‘There’s no if not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you should not even think that thought.’

  ‘I’ve already thought it.’

  Gavrilis shook his head. ‘You have to get one thing clear. Kokoras is a provincial businessman. No more no less. To survive he has to be connected. He doesn’t ask too many questions, and it’s best if you don’t either.’

  ‘Connected? With whom?’

  ‘I have no idea. But I repeat: stop asking questions. He can’t help you. Nor can I.’

  ‘Tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘Oh come on!’

  ‘No,’ said George, ‘I’d like you to spell it out.’

  ‘OK. It threatens his business.’

  ‘Only if that business is illegal.’

  ‘No! His whole model is at risk. It’s a system. Break one part and the whole thing fails.’

  ‘In other words, mafia.’

  ‘Kokoras is not mafia! And he’s a hell of a lot better than the alternatives.’

  ‘What evidence do you have for that?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  ‘Give me an example.’

  ‘You’ll have to take my word.’

  ‘I saw how Thanasi and his wife were treated,’ said George. ‘That did not look like the work of a man with a conscience.’

  ‘He won’t press them any further. He knows they’re in difficulties.’

  George bridled at this. ‘What business does he have pressing them in the first place? He runs a protection racket!’

  ‘If we lived in an organised country like Sweden,’ said Gavrilis, ‘I would agree. But things are different here. It’s a jungle. You know that. Everyone needs protection.’

  George laughed bitterly. ‘Only from the so-called protectors!’

  Gavrilis did not seem amused. ‘If you keep asking questions, Mr Zafiris, you will get into trouble.’

  ‘Like my friend Mario?’

  ‘I don’t know about your friend Mario. I’m talking about you.’

  George considered this. It was getting interesting. A threat, no less.

  ‘I appreciate what you’re telling me,’ he said.

  ‘That’s wise,’ said Gavrilis.

  ‘If you could tell me the names of the people Kokoras deals with –’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

  ‘No. I mean it… I can leave him and you out of it.’

  Gavrilis seemed exasperated. ‘You must be crazy. Even if I knew I wouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

>   ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It makes no difference. I’ll prepare your bill.’

  ‘I’m not leaving today.’

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘I was planning…’

  ‘Forget your plans. It’s time to go.’

  ‘I see. If I move to another hotel…?’

  ‘You’ll find they’re full.’

  ‘Really? Your friend Mr Kokoras takes no risks.’

  Gavrilis nodded. ‘That’s his style. And by the way he’s not my friend.’

  ‘Oh? A relative perhaps?’

  Gavrilis smiled, an image of innocent goodwill. ‘Never mind what he is to me. The important thing is not to be his enemy.’

  23 The Holy Mountain

  Like a weakening radio signal, the authority of Kokoras faded out sixty kilometres east of Edessa. It held good up to that point, however. George tried twice in quiet provincial hotels – shuttered, deserted, their owners deep in a narcosis of boredom and idleness – only to be told that every room was full. In the end, beyond the circle of his power, he found a guest house in a village where they let him stay the night. When he asked if there was a taverna nearby the owner’s wife said no, but she offered him a share of their supper – cockerel stewed in red wine, kokoras krasatos, which George took as a sign from God. Next morning, after a cup of coffee, a rusk and a piece of cheese, he continued east for Mount Athos.

  He had no idea what to expect when he arrived. Images flitted through his mind: monasteries clinging like swallows’ nests to cliffs above the sea, bearded young monks in whitewashed cells, candle-lit chapels, mule tracks through the forest. He did not expect an office stamping visitors’ permits with brusque efficiency. Or a sea journey in a rumbling old kaïki, with monks chatting to the pilgrims, a prayer book in one pocket, a phone in the other. They called in at several places: a little wooden jetty by a wooded beach, a solid stone harbour built out from a vast fortress-like monastery, a quayside with ramshackle sheds and a train of mules being unloaded by the water’s edge. Grigoriou was the fourth stop. When the kaïki tied up, three other travellers jumped off with him. They climbed a steep, stone-paved ramp to the monastery gate, its massive wooden doors standing open. Below them the sounds of the slapping waves grew fainter while the kaïki’s engine thudded away.

  A handsome ginger-haired monk with an eastern European accent welcomed them and walked with them to their dormitory. He gave them the timetable for meals and church services, and said, ‘Don’t leave any valuables in this room. We have recovering drug addicts working here and we don’t like to tempt them.’ He walked off briskly, leaving the visitors to unpack.

  ‘What happens now?’ said one of them.

  ‘I’m going to have a cigarette,’ said another.

  ‘Let’s go together.’

  That left one other man in the room with George, a sallow, droopy fellow, who glanced nervously at him three or four times, as if sizing him up.

  ‘They shouldn’t smoke here,’ he said. ‘Shame on them. It’s not respectful.’

  George shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care less if they smoked or not. He was more concerned about finding Paris Aliveris.

  ‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.

  ‘Many times.’ The man offered his hand. ‘My name is Stephanos. I’m from Preveza.’

  ‘George. Athens.’

  ‘Ah, Athens.’ There was an almost accusing note to this. ‘Athens, Athens…’

  George sensed that this man had problems. Best to keep the conversation light.

  ‘So what does one do now?’ George asked. ‘It’s three hours till supper.’

  ‘Oh there’s plenty to do. Walk, think, read, talk to one of the Holy Fathers…’

  ‘Where would I find them?’

  ‘They’re all around. It’s a working monastery, so there will be some in the vegetable garden, some in the kitchen, some repairing the buildings, some praying or studying or taking confession. Are you here for a special reason?’

  ‘Meeting a friend,’ said George.

  ‘A monk?’

  ‘No, a visitor. In fact I’m wondering how to contact him.’

  ‘How about his phone?’

  ‘Is there a signal?’

  ‘Should be.’

  George checked his phone, and found to his surprise that the signal was strong.

  ‘I can show you round,’ said Stephanos. ‘We’ll probably meet him.’

  George said, ‘I would appreciate that.’

  They walked up through a series of courtyards, past the chapel, the refectory and kitchens, the library, offices and cells. Solidly built, monumental, well-maintained. Beyond all these lay immense gardens and orchards, terraced and fertile, tended by monks with their cassocks tucked into the belts of their trousers. Among them, labouring with a less willing air, were a dozen civilians, scrawny young men that you might see begging in the streets of cities. These, said Stephanos, were the ‘children reclaimed by God’.

  They began to talk. In this unworldly medieval atmosphere George already felt disconnected from the rest of his existence. Work, family, home – he found himself mentioning these as if they belonged to someone else. He was not allowed to talk for long, however. It soon became clear that Stephanos had a story he was burning to tell.

  ‘I was a school teacher in Preveza,’ he said. ‘I taught biology and gymnastics. But I lost my job.’

  George said nothing.

  ‘Do you want to know how I lost my job?’

  George did not want to know. He said nothing.

  ‘I lost it because I made sexual advances to a fifteen-year-old girl.’

  George’s heart sank.

  ‘I was helping her recover from an injury. I’m a qualified physiotherapist as well. I had to adjust her posture, help her to straighten her back, her neck… The fact is she led me on.’

  ‘Really?’ George could not prevent himself objecting. ‘That sounds like an excuse.’

  ‘No, she did. Definitely. She was a little poutana. But I should have been in control of the situation, and I wasn’t. I kissed her.’

  ‘That was a mistake.’

  ‘It certainly was. Not on the mouth! Just once, lightly, on the back of her neck. She reported me, there was an inquiry, and my career was finished.’

  ‘I hope you don’t blame her,’ said George.

  ‘Not as much as I blame myself. She was confused. Mature physically, a woman to look at, well-developed and seductive in the way even the youngest girls can be, but she was a child inside. I believe she lacked affection at home. Unlucky that she found me at a weak moment. I’ll never work again. What a waste! I’m forty-five, I have twenty good years of working life ahead of me and no future. Can you imagine how that feels?’

  ‘A lot of people in Greece have that problem now. Through no fault of their own.’

  Stephanos seemed to droop even more, his mouth downturned, his cheeks hollow, a haunted self-pitying glitter in his eyes.

  ‘I feel like a piece of rubbish,’ he said, ‘just waiting to be thrown into the flames.’

  ‘Is that why you come here?’

  Stephanos nodded. ‘On Athos I am not judged by the standards of this world. All are equal before God.’

  ‘You want forgiveness?’

  ‘Who will be forgiven if not the sinner?’

  ‘I hope you find it,’ said George. ‘But if you don’t accept responsibility for what you’ve done, all the forgiveness on the Holy Mountain won’t help you.’

  Stephanos shifted about uncomfortably. He did not appear to find the conversation palatable.

  ‘Is your friend here?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  George had been keeping a look-out for Aliveris, whose sin was beyond even the most extreme Christian mercy. But the musician was nowhere in sight. George could only hope he was at confession, facing the horror of what he had done, guided by the stern wisdom of a priest.

  ‘Shall we walk s
ome more?’ suggested Stephanos.

  ‘I’d like to be alone for a while,’ said George.

  The teacher smiled weakly. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  George walked on through the gardens, enjoying the autumn colours and scents. The land faced west and the afternoon sun gilded every tree, every leaf, as if the whole scene were transforming itself into one of those wreaths from ancient Macedonia. He felt the peace of this strange peninsula – a place dedicated to God yet forbidden to women, mysteriously attractive to both saints and sinners. Already it was calming his mind, emptying it of troublesome thoughts, filling it with a deep, tranquil sense of acceptance.

  Then, just at the moment when he seemed to hold the secret in the palm of his hand, his phone pinged. George did nothing for a while. Then, inevitably, his curiosity overcame him. He pressed the On button. A message was flashing from Colonel Sotiriou. ‘Here is the recording you wanted.’

  George plugged in a set of earphones. Bracing himself for he knew not what, he pressed Play.

  ‘Why are you following me?’A girl’s accusing voice.

  ‘Because you’re cheating on me.’ The man’s reply, menacing and cold.

  ‘I’m not and I never would.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You think I come out here to meet my lover?’

  ‘I don’t know any more. You’ve changed so much.’

  ‘I haven’t changed. You have! You’re suspicious, you’re jealous, you frighten me.’

  ‘If you’re frightened it can only mean you’re guilty.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! I’m afraid because you’re mad with jealousy, because… what are you doing?’

  ‘I want one last kiss.’

  ‘What do you mean? Don’t look at me like that! You’re crazy.’

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘Paris, don’t!’

  A gasp, the sounds of a struggle, a stifled scream, then silence.

  George slowly unplugged his earphones. He stared into the chasm of light that expanded beyond the gardens to the sea. He felt polluted. He should not have heard this dialogue. No one should. It was intimate and terrible. Yet here was proof of a rare kind.

  Gone was his sense of peace and acceptance. His mind was in turmoil again. Now the deep silence of this place become a vacuum waiting to be filled, a question demanding an answer: how will you find this evil man?

  A moment later the vacuum was filled. Paris was walking quickly along a path about twenty metres below him, hurrying towards the monastery as if late for an appointment. Between them stood a long row of cypress trees, which shielded him from view every few seconds. George saw a diagonal path leading down about a hundred metres ahead. He pocketed his phone and set off in pursuit.