The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 13
‘So I gather,’ replied Newton. ‘So, this Kraakenhausen has relics here in Chania? He’s getting all vivid up in Purgatory, and we need to stop it … right?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Vasilakis. ‘Is as you say.’
‘So nothing in the possession of any family? Offspring?’
‘His only son died last year leaving formidable debts and little else.’
‘Ok, so what have we to go on?’ asked Newton. ‘Are there many Nazi sympathisers here in Chania?’
‘Not Greek ones. Of that, you can be sure,’ said Vasilakis firmly. ‘But, there are many, many Germans here in Crete. Once, they invaded with guns, bombs and fire; now, they invade … with money. Germans own a lot of Western Crete. Is a disgrace. Since 2008, we Cretans have been forced to sell our land for just a handful of Euros. Is wrong.’
‘I see. But someone here is selling these relics, whatever they are. Could they be some cash-strapped Cretan?’
‘I am ashamed to say that, yes, it could be so,’ said Vasilakis sadly. ‘Money is a dirty thing, Dr Barlow. It can rip the pride from a man … even a man as proud as a Cretan. And that’s pretty proud.’
‘Is there much of an antiques trade here?’
‘Not really,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘The trade in antiquities is strictly regulated in all Greece. Anything older than ten years can get you in the hot water. No self-respecting dealer will risk handling something so illegal, no matter what the value. My guess is that someone has stumbled on something, a farmer maybe … tradesman perhaps, and wants to offload it fast. People are struggling, you can understand the temptations.’
‘Quite. So, where was this General Kraakenhausen based?’ asked Newton.
‘Well,’ said Vasilakis. ‘He was up near the airfield at Maleme for a while. But once the war began to go bad for Germany, he moved into town to avoid the bombing. There are some big houses along Andrea Papandreou. It’s a big road leading to the harbour. Kraakenhausen, I think, had the Villa Ariadne. I passed it on the way here, as it happens. It’s being refurbished.’
‘Is it now?’ pondered Newton. ‘Well, that’s maybe not a coincidence. Could be how the stuff was rediscovered? What about the web? The seller, what did it list as a contact name?’
‘MangosTangolakis,’ said Vasilakis, pulling out his phone. ‘Is not a real name. I will forward the details to you,’
Newton’s phone duly pinged.
‘MangosTangolakis@gmail.com,’ re-read Newton, saving the address. ‘Well, from what you said about the authorities, our mystery guy is likely desperate to be rid of the stuff. I’ve got the company credit card to hand; I’ll let him know we are ready to buy. Might as well get the ball rolling.’
‘As you wish,’ said Vasilakis. ‘Put a bid in. See if the dog he bites.’
Newton flicked his fingers across the screen. ‘Ok. Done. Bait placed. €10,000. Now, we wait.’
Newton looked out over the water. The harbour was full to bursting with historic craft and luxury vessels of every kind. There were Arab dhows, a recreated Greek trireme, sleek Edwardian sloops and huge four-masted training ships alongside sleek superyachts and racing catamarans.
‘What’s with all the boats?’ asked Newton.
‘Is festival,’ replied Vasilakis. ‘This year is hosted by this, my wonderful home town of Chania. Impressive, no?’
‘Very,’ said Newton. ‘I’ll take a stroll along the harbour later while we wait for the call. Have a look.’
‘You should,’ agreed Vasilakis, standing. ‘Now, Dr Barlow, you must forgive me; I have business in town that I must attend to.’ The Cretan dropped a spray of Euros upon the table. ‘On me, Dr Barlow. Do not hesitate to call me when you hear something.’
*****
Helena Kraakenhausen was an angry woman. Like her father, she would save her frustrations up until they were humming, turning them later into actions that were decisive and, not infrequently, rather violent. Now that the Internet auction had taken an unexpected turn, she gazed at her phone, weighing up the options as her temper flared red-hot within.
‘Great-grandpapa’s belongings,’ she explained to her father as they drove up the winding mountain road. ‘The seller is saying he has a better offer.’
‘Blutige Sau!’ swore her father, banging the steering wheel of their hired jeep. ‘Does he think he can mess us Kraakenhausens around, eh? Has he any idea who he is messing vith?’
‘He doesn’t know who ve are, Papa. That’s how the dark veb verks,’ sighed Helena. ‘He doesn’t care. Nobody cares. He’s just trying to make the best cash he can out of the deal, like every other bastard online.’
‘Then throw more cash at him,’ said her father angrily.
‘Papa, ve’ve not got enough money for that. Das Haus of Kraakenhausen … ve are broke. Ve can’t offer money ve simply don’t have.’
Her father looked in the rearview mirror at the old blind man in the back seat and cursed under his breath. ‘I feel so frustrated. Here ve are stuck vith this old fool, and the poor general trapped … up there!’
‘Ja, Papa,’ agreed Helena, patting her father’s sagging shoulder. ‘I know it is hard to bear. But trust me, I vill not let his legacy slip through our fingers. Just keep up the digging, ja? I vill go to Chania and I vill find his relics. Just because ve can’t buy them does not mean ve can’t take them. Ve have the book. Soon, we vill release our dear Great-grandpapa from his torments.’
Dr Kraakenhausen looked at his daughter, his sadness dissipating as he gazed into her cold blue eyes.
They travelled on, the jeep winding higher up a road that passed from tarmac to dirt track, then hovered somewhere between hiking trail and goat path. Finally, even the jeep knew it had gone far enough, and they stopped.
‘Vell?’ demanded Kraakenhausen of the old man as they climbed out.
‘I feel it!’ said the old man, his dead eyes looking up the hillside towards a savage crack in the overhang above. ‘More than ever before, I FEEL it! It is VERY near. I sense … a cave. Fifty metres … no more … above us.’
‘Ok, then ve climb,’ declared Helena. ‘I vill bring the tent and the supplies. Papa, you help the blind man.’
So, the Kraakenhausens climbed, their way made marginally better by an ancient set of steps that came and went between rock falls, then vanished beneath thorny bushes so sharp even the goats wouldn’t touch them. Eventually, at what, at first, appeared to be a dead-end, the mouth of a cave threw itself out of the black shadows.
‘Can you see it?’ asked the old man, his breath reduced to a feeble panting. ‘Can you?’
‘Ja, ve see it,’ said Helena, throwing down her rucksack. ‘Ve stop here, make camp. You two get settled in vhile I head into Chania. You’ll be ok, Papa? Ja?’
‘Ja, ja, Munchkin. I’ll be fine,’ replied her father. ‘You get on. Find the general’s things, my dearest Helena. I beg of you.’
‘Oh, I’ll find them,’ promised Helena, pulling a pistol from her bag and checking the magazine. ‘I’ll find them, all right.
Chapter 12
A Buyer’s Market
It was a typical Cretan morning. As old Chania came awake, the sun rose cloud-free and confident, an intense disk already toasting the waterside tavernas as hosepipes blasted clean a promenade dusty from the day before.
Newton Barlow had risen before this sun, partly due to his perpetually troubled dreams, partly to explore the historic town beyond his hotel. Time to kill, Newton decided to stroll around the jumbled streets and alleys of the picturesque medieval town, its Venetian arches and courtyards tumbling up the hillside away from the harbour.
After a strong coffee and a light snack by the small museum, Newton checked his bid on the dark web.
The substantial bait lay untouched.
After a pleasant hour of exploring, Newton drifted back out to the water’s edge, meandering past the old mosque and into a marina stuffed with even more boats than the day before. There was a different vibe on this side of the harbour: young crews busy on chores aboard their ships or tucking into hearty breakfasts in the nearby cafés. Packed close to each other in a hundred berths, Newton could see every class of sailing ship imaginable, from genuine historic survivors to replicas of maritime classics. There was a rakish schooner, a somewhat incongruous Chinese junk and, in pride of place, a replica Greek trireme, its classical form instantly drawing Newton’s attention.
The Olympias, according to her display board beside the gangplank, was as faithful a replica as a historian could recreate without recourse to time travel. Her structure, Newton read, had been conjectured through the analysis of shipwrecks and depictions on pottery. One hundred percent accurate or not, she certainly looked the part. The Olympias’ bow was tipped with a wicked-looking metal ram designed to punch through the hulls of her hapless adversaries. Faithfully matching the archaeology, she had a stylised evil eye upon each side of her prow that stared back at Newton with no small amount of menace. Despite her satellite navigation and engine, she was utterly authentic from her single square sail to the tips of her one hundred and seventy oars. Thankfully, Newton observed, she was not so authentic that she was crewed by slaves. All of the current rowers appeared to be enthusiastic volunteers, all with the physique to match. Looking at them going about their chores on deck, he felt sure they would live forever, no matter how much they may end up eating, drinking and smoking, unlike himself, who seemed to pay for any dietary indiscretion with instant indigestion. Engrossed, Newton was still concentrating on her display boards when he found himself interrupted.
‘You like the Olympias, yes?’
He turned to discover a couple, both far too close to the classical ideal of beauty to be decent. The young man and his apparent boyfriend were so fantastically muscled and handsome, that Newton felt instantly derelict, his skin potato-grey beside before their gorgeous olive.
‘What? Oh, sorry, … yes,’ answered Newton, gathering his wits. ‘She’s an impressive ship, alright. Are you the crew?’
‘We are the rowers, yes,’ replied the first man, his teeth so white Newton was glad he’d remembered his Ray-Bans. ‘We have a flat in Athens, but in the summer, we crew the Olympias. This is our captain,’ he said, turning.
An older bearded man was approaching, munching a pastry, black coffee in his hand. Closer to his own age group, his rude good health still made Newton feel like a plucked chicken.
‘Good morning, friend,’ mumbled the captain through his breakfast. ‘You like my liiiitle baby?’
‘The galley?’ asked Newton. ‘Oh … yes. She’s superb.’
‘She’s actually a trireme,’ corrected the captain. ‘That is the accurate classical name. Is impressive, yes?’
‘Very,’ agreed Newton. ‘Must be a swine to move around in a crowded marina, though.’
‘You are thinking of the ram?’ laughed the captain. ‘Yes, there been a few bad moments, for sure. But I have these lovely peoples here on my crew, so no, no disasters. So far … is so good.’
Newton’s phone pinged.
‘Sorry,’ said Newton, pointing at his iPhone. ‘Duty calls. Forgive me. Have a good festival, folks.’
Newton found himself a café, ordered another strong coffee, then checked his inbox.
The mysterious ‘MangosTangolakis’ had agreed to the bid. and was now proposing a meeting to exchange the goods.
‘Bingo,’ said Newton. ‘Game on.’
His tail in the up position, Newton phoned Vasilakis.
‘Kaliméra, Dr Barlow,’ came the reply. ‘Good news, I hope?’
‘Yep,’ confirmed Newton. ‘He’s ok’d the bid and wants to meet.’
‘Where he suggest?’ asked Vasilakis.
‘Nea Chora?’ replied Newton, reading the message.
‘Right,’ said the Cretan. ‘Is a beach to the west of the town. Any specific venue?’
Newton re-checked his phone.
‘The Klinakis Beach Hotel Bar.’
‘I know it,’ confirmed Vasilakis. ‘What time?’
‘3.30 p.m.,’ replied Newton. ‘That work for you?’
‘Sure,’ answered Vasilakis. ‘Is good. Let’s meet at three in your hotel. Is short walk.’
*****
3 p.m. came around fast. Sleeping off a second, more substantial breakfast and a first light beer in his hotel room, Newton woke, splashed not very cold water in his face, then took the stairs to find Vasilakis waiting in the reception.
‘Good afternoon, Dr Barlow,’ said his colleague. ‘You ready?’
‘Sure,’ replied Newton, adjusting his small rucksack. ‘Let’s go get us some relics.’
They walked east along the waterfront, out of the old town alongside colossal city walls built by the Venetians to keep their many rivals at bay. These soon gave way to a district of bland concrete apartment blocks and budget hotels, the seafront road then looping around several small bays until Newton and Vasilakis finally arrived on the beach at Nea Chora.
‘There’s the bar,’ said Vasilakis, indicating a non-descript hotel on the coast road and checking his watch. ‘We are five minutes early. Let’s sit down, have a coffee, wait for our man.’
So, they took a table facing the sea, ordered their drinks and began scanning the pedestrians for their dark web contact.
‘Mister Barlow?’ came a voice from behind them.
They turned to find a balding middle-aged man in dusty cargo shorts and a fantastically discoloured vest.
‘Might be,’ smiled Newton. ‘And you are?’
‘You don’t need to know my real name,’ answered MangosTangolakis.
‘Too ashamed to give it, eh?’ snorted Vasilakis.
‘Why?’ sneered the man defensively. ‘I sell. You buy. Maybe we both should be ashamed.’
‘Now, now,’ intervened Newton, ‘let’s not waste time on morality. Let’s just get the deal done; then we can all go home.’
‘As you say,’ agreed Vasilakis, his distaste temporarily parked.
‘Ten thousand Euros, right?’ said Newton. ‘I have my phone ready. I can transfer it instantly.’
‘If you have the stuff,’ added Vasilakis, lip curling.
‘In my van,’ replied the man, pointing to a crumpled Datsun, parked so badly Newton had earlier assumed it to have been abandoned. ‘Once I see cash in my account, then I get it for you.’
‘We have to see it all first,’ insisted Vasilakis firmly. ‘You may be tricking us.’
MangosTangolakis looked back at Vasilakis, irritated.
‘Look, chum. Sorry, but it’s the nature of things. We need to know it’s what we think it is,’ explained Newton, trying to keep things civil.
‘Ohhh … ok, yes,’ said MangosTangolakis reluctantly, heaving his middle age spread upwards from the plastic chair, and waddled off to his van, his knees and belly forcing him to pitch like a ship in a strong gale. As he rummaged noisily in the shaking van, the Purgatorians looked at each other, analysing their seller.
‘Doesn’t look the type, does he?’ observed Newton. ‘First time he’s done this. Betcha.’
‘No excuse,’ replied Vasilakis, shaking his head. ‘To deal in such things! A disgrace for a Cretan. Why, his own grandfather probably fought the Nazis.’
MangosTangolakis returned, sitting back down across the table, a dusty old toolbox now cradled in his hands. Placing it quietly on the ground beside them, his guilty eyes began darting furtively around the almost empty bar.
‘You want to check? Then you check,’ said MangosTangolakis, ‘But be discreet, ok? I could get in a lot of trouble for this.’
Newton slid the box closer with his foot. When it was near enough, he leant down, cautiously opening the battered metal lid to look inside.
There, as advertised, there was a Luger; Newton recognising the German officer’s sidearm by its distinctive design. Beside the gun, was a cluster of tarnished medals, and a few books. Amongst these was a battered journal, its yellowed pages crammed with spidery notes, cryptic diagrams and hand-drawn maps. Testing their spiritual authenticity, Newton closed his hand upon the Luger, then shut his eyes.
Instantly, the visions kicked in.
Tumbling over each other, just as if he was channel hopping on a hotel TV, there were torchlight rallies, long winding columns of Russian prisoners, burning villages and terrible, vivid executions of old men, women, and deserters.
‘That’s quite enough of that, thank you very much.’ declared Newton, pulling his hand clear and breaking contact.
‘Your friend,’ MangosTangolakis asked of Vasilakis. ‘He ok?’
Vasilakis looked to his companion, his eyes urging confirmation.
‘Yup,’ said Newton, shaking his head. ‘I’m fine.'
‘Well?’ asked his companion.
‘It’s the real deal,’ nodded Newton, composing himself as the ghastly images faded. ‘Sadly.’
‘Where you get this stuff?’ demanded Vasilakis, leaning in to glare point blank into MangosTangolakis’ eyes.
‘I’m a builder,’ answered the man. ‘On my job, sometimes, you find things, you know?’
‘Well, you should have handed it in,’ said Vasilakis brusquely. ‘These terrible things belonged to terrible people. They should be “dealt with”, not sold, you idiot. Call yourself a Greek!’
‘I’m not Greek,’ snapped MangosTangolakis. ‘I am Cretan. And I’m a hungry Cretan! Times are hard, if you haven’t noticed. Austerity. Skatá! Those bastards in Athens are killing us.’
‘Is not excuse,’ sneered Vasilakis. ‘Where is your shame?’
‘If I may say,’ said Newton, ‘you don’t look like the dark web sort, mate. You do this on your own?’
‘My son,’ sighed MangosTangolakis. ‘He help me. I am too old for tech. I am … how do you say? The boomer? I couldn’t find my way around a Google if I tried. But my son … he does many things on the line. You know how they are these days? What can you do?’
‘Next time, you come straight to us … you hear me?’ ordered Vasilakis, throwing his card contemptuously across the table. ‘That’s what you can do. We will pay, seeing that’s what motivates you. Never put anything online again. Understand?’
