by Roger Weston
“Just forget about you?”
“If it would make you feel better, tell Lawrence to send in a recovery team to get my body.”
She started to protest, but Chuck was already darting from rock to rock as he approached the house. Then he was crawling as he used the natural geography for cover and stayed behind mounds or in a dry creek. He crawled fifty yards then dashed up next to the airplane hangar. He shoved a side door open and verified that the hangar was now empty. He kneeled down and studied the big tire tracks. He dashed back to the dry creek and crawled back toward the house.
When he was close, he rolled down a bank and sprung toward a doorway away from the sight lines of any window.
Now Chuck worked his way around the house, looking for signs of security, but didn’t see any. It appeared nobody was around.
He pulled out an electronic alarm jammer. After the jammer beeped, he kicked in a side door. He rushed through the house, verifying that it was safe. Chuck stepped out the front door and waved to Angela.
She stepped out from behind the rock and walked up the gravel road.
“Are you sure it’s clear?” she said.
“At least for now.”
He led her through the house, but he didn’t get far before she froze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Being back here is like a nightmare.”
They both stood there a minute looking around at all the artifacts. A wall was covered with not one fresco, but two—both naval battles—one of Turkish victory, one of defeat. On another wall, a golden bull was mounted next to a crude and ugly wooden bull head that had been abused. An ear and a horn were broken off. Paint was peeling. The wood was stained with oil from some accident long ago, but in truth, the wood bull had been a mediocre piece of work from the day it was carved. On a display table, a beautiful gold cup was placed next to an ugly ceramic cup that had been glued back together. A repaired wine pitcher with many cracks was placed next to a golden funerary amphora. A statue of a naked Greek athlete was standing next to a statue of a The Dwarf Morgante, an obese naked dwarf riding a turtle. In the next room were paintings depicting a happy woman next to a depressed woman. The whole house was full of these dichotomies—all captured in art.
Chuck hurried from room to room, checking drawers, closets, and cabinets. Angela led him to an office and a study. Nothing caught Chuck’s eye.
After twenty minutes, they’d found no clues to the location of Vulcan Eye.
“We better get out of here,” Chuck said. “They won’t leave this place unguarded for long.”
“I’m sorry, Chuck.”
“I thought maybe they were playing a shell game and moved Vulcan Eye back here.” He shook his head. “I thought for sure I’d at least find some clue of its location.”
They walked back to the pier and Chuck threw off the lines.
Chuck was riding shotgun in a very comfortable bucket seat as the Baracuda soared through the turquoise waters along the rugged coast of Symi Island. He was so impressed with this gorgeous lady—the boat—that he paid little attention to Angela. He was so distracted by the Baracuda that he was slow to notice when two other boats roared out of a cove and began to give them chase.
“We got a big problem,” Chuck said. “Two fast boats are coming after us. One looks like a fifty foot cat. The other is some kind of cigarette boat.”
“How fast are they?”
“In these choppy seas, probably fifty knots. They’re catching up with us in a hurry.”
“I can’t go any faster.”
“Are you sure? I think we just walked into an ambush. They’ve been waiting for us.”
She shook her head. “What are you gonna do?”
“I don’t have a lot of choices right now. Uh oh.”
“What?”
“The rider in that cigarette boat is aiming a gun at us.”
Angela seemed uninterested in this comment, which Chuck thought odd.
Then the shooter on the other boat opened fire. Bullets pinged off the glass of the Baracuda’s closed cabin.
“I see this thing has ballistic glass.”
She nodded.
“That’s nice, but they’re coming up close. I think they’re going to try something else.”
A faster, longer boat, an open boat, the cigarette boat, pulled up next to the Baracuda, but Angela swerved at it, warding it off. Unfortunately, the driver was tenacious. He came right back at them. After three close calls, he came so close that the two boats were touching.
“Swerve away,” Chuck said. “Now.”
She did, but not fast enough. A henchman transferred from the cigarette boat to the Baracuda. Chuck wasn’t going to give him time to get comfortable. He lunged out the cabin door, kicked his gun hand, and face smashed him.
The killer cringed, not just from the blow to his face, but also because Chuck got a finger in his eye and scratched his cornea. The attacker drew back but also kicked Chuck in the stomach, knocking out his wind. Chuck was suddenly helpless, gasping for air.
No matter how much pain he was in, the killer decided to take care of business while Chuck was vulnerable. He ran up to Chuck and punched him in the face twice, making him stand up straighter. A haymaker landed in the side of Chuck’s face, smashing his head to the side. Next thing Chuck knew, the killer threw an arm around his neck and was choking him to death. One moment Chuck couldn’t breathe from losing his wind, then he was suffocated by an arm crushing his throat.
Chuck lifted his foot and touched the attacker’s shin with the sole of his boot. Then, scraping the edge of his boot’s sole down the attacker’s shin, Chuck slammed his boot down as hard on the attacker’s instep. The evidence of pain was immediate. Not only did the man scream, he let go of Chuck and collapsed. He rolled over a couple of times, cursing his own mother while Chuck regained his breath. As soon as the attacker struggled to his feet, he stood there dazed for two seconds. It was too long. Chuck chest kicked him out the back of the boat. No sooner had the gunman splashed in the water than the cigarette boat ran him over.
Now that Chuck was on deck alone, he was a sitting duck. Another gunman opened fire on him. Chuck hit the deck and crawled for the door. Once inside he took the shotgun seat next to Angela.
“What happened?”
“He’s gone.” Chuck looked back
Now the cigarette boat pulled in front of the Baracuda and slowed down as it weaved, blocking their path. At the same time, a gunman aimed an assault rifle at Angela and opened fire. The bullets pinged off the ballistic glass.
“Jerk,” Angela said. She hit a switch. A trap door on the front deck opened up and a Gatling gun rose up. Fear seized the face of the gunner on the other boat. Angela pushed a button. The weapon opened fire. She moved her finger around on a little video screen on the consul. The gun followed her finger. As she moved it across the boat on the screen, the Gatling unleashed a hailstorm of destruction on the cigarette boat. After about twenty seconds, the big race boat made a rapid turn and capsized. It rolled and then sent up a wall of water as it skidded to a halt.
“You didn’t mention the Gatling gun,” Chuck said.
“I said I was trained in the special features. I’m a fast learner with technology. It’s just like a video game.”
Chuck nodded. He was rethinking what kind of girl Angela was.
Chuck looked back. The other boat, the 50’ Cat, was a few hundred yards back, but now it started to speed up.
Angela hit another switch. Another hatch up on the bow opened. Another weapon rose. It deployed a full M6 smoke grenade barrage. It was like fireworks exploding up ahead, but they created a thick smoke screen almost immediately. The Baracuda soared through the smoke screen and then Angela did a u-turn. They were heading back toward the smoke when the 50’ Cat raced out of the smoke screen. Angela turned and raced straight at it, but she pushed the button and swished her finger across the little video screen. The Gatling gun unleashed a storm of lead right up the driver
’s nose. The boat exploded.
Angela swerved away to avoid a head-on collision with the fireball. She executed a broad circular motion and turned back onto their original course.
“You saved us,” Chuck said. “Thank you.”
She kept her eyes on the water, but nodded. “We lost a few minutes, but we’re still on schedule.”
“Excellent,” Chuck said. He looked out the window. He was thinking that Angela was more of a woman than he realized. He could see why Sebastian was attracted to her. She was not only smart but also decisive and calm.
“I want you to take me to Cypress,” Chuck said. “There’s no time to waste if I’m going to take out the Hood.”
“My pleasure. Lawrence gave me a .45 handgun. It’d be a shame if I didn’t try it out on the Hood.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, but I need a ride.”
“Done. We have to stop for gas then we’re on our way. The Hood can’t expect any better than his killers.”
Chuck dialed a number on his Satphone.
A deep voice answered his call. Chuck said, “Hey, it’s Brandt. Look, things are heating up. Did you knock on some doors? ... Are they listening to you?...Good…I’m going to Varosha. Probably take me twelve to fourteen hours to get there. I think that’s where we’ll find the missing bird—and a lot of opposition…What?... It’s a hunch but a very strong one… Just trust me on this…Once I find it, I will need help to get it out of there. Tell them that. I’ll have a very short window before the Turks move in. After that, the window will close very quickly… Just keep at it, alright? Tell Lawrence I have strong confidence. I’ll let him know when I’m certain, but by then the window will already be closing, so tell him to get his ducks in order.”
Chuck hung up.
Angela eased back on the accelerator level of the Barracuda and said, “Who was that?”
“A friend of mine.”
“What were you talking about?”
“I know where the Vulcan Eye is.”
“How?”
“You gave me the final piece of the puzzle back there. You talked about how the Hood is obsessed with opposites. You and Sebastian said that the Hood brought Vulcan Eye here to Shavaro, but why would he move it? I’ll tell you why: because this is his paradise. He decided to take it to his hell.”
“Where is it then?”
“The opposite of Shavaro is Varosha, the Forbidden City in Cypress.”
“I don’t get it.”
“The word Shavaro is Varosha in reverse. Not only are the syllables reversed, but the places are opposites. Shavaro is a beautiful estate in a beautiful location. Varosha, the Forbidden City in Cypress, used to be beautiful.”
“Just like the Hood,” Angela said.
“That’s right. Varosha represents his ugly side. It represents his hatred of mankind. That’s where he has the weapon. He can carry out attacks, and if anyone tries to retaliate, he will defeat their efforts and punish them.”
Chuck watched the ancient island of Symi as the boat sped along the coast. He chuckled at the irony. The Hood was arrogant enough to assume nobody could figure out the game he was playing. Well, the game was about to get ugly.
“I need a ride to Cypress,” Chuck said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Varosha. I’m going to the forbidden city.”
CHAPTER 8
Varosha, Cypress
Three hours till shoot-down
The wheels of Chuck’s bicycle rattled as he rode down a rough road along the perimeter of Varosha, a road traveled by few cars. He was riding along the border of a time capsule. In 1974, Turkey invaded Cypress. Fearing for their lives, thousands of Greeks fled south. To keep them from returning, Turkish forces fenced off Varosha, including luxury high-rise hotels along one of the best beaches in the Mediterranian. Those who fled their homes in the 1970’s were never allowed to return—not even to collect their hastily-abandoned belongings.
Now, even decades later, Chuck could smell malevolence in the air. He could smell fresh grass fertilized long ago by the blood of Greek citizens bombed in the fields. He could smell flowers planted by people who were dead or gone—women and children chased from their homes in 1974 by pitiless marauders. He could smell the trees, which lived here but also lived in the memories of Greeks whose lives had been broken and whose homes had been seized and fenced off.
Varosha was a former resort town, now a forbidden zone made up of rotting buildings, a sprawling zone covering 2.3 square miles that was the deserted southern quarter of the Cypriot city of Famagusta. Off to Chuck’s left, a fence paralleled the road and marked the outer edge of the seized territory at the center of a dispute between Greek Cypriots and Turks—a dispute that had been ongoing for decades.
Sinister red signs hung at intervals on the rusted, bent, and uneven security fences around the Forbidden City. The signs featured images of an armed soldier and warnings: “Stay Away”. One sign read, “No Man’s Land. Prohibited area. Don’t approach. Don’t take photographs.” The sign that caught Chuck’s attention was the one that said, “Trespassers will be shot on sight.” Inquiries had told him that this was no idle threat.
The threat took on extra significance when he saw armed guards lurking behind the fences, manning the occasional security stations along the perimeter. It was said that these men aggressively responded to tourists even walking too close to the fence or taking photos of the city.
Chuck had verified that they were indeed authorized to shoot anyone who “wandered too close” or “trespassed”. Beyond the fences, he could see the shells of abandoned high rises, lonely palm trees, overgrown streets, and neglected buildings.
It hadn’t always been like this of course. Back in the early 1970’s, Varosha was one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. It was a playground for the rich and famous and home to many Greek Cypriots. Hollywood icons had frequented Varosha, considered a jewel of the Mediterranian on par with the French Riviera.
All of that was history. Now, the island was effectively divided, with the Turks occupying the northern third and Greeks the southern two-thirds. Turkey was the only country that recognized the self-declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cypress as an independent republic. Reunification talks had dragged on for decades with little progress due to ownership disputes.
It was not easy to just fly into Northern Cyprus. Because the region remained unrecognized as a country since the Turkish invasion, it had been unable to operate an international airport. Incoming flights had to come from Turkey, which made it difficult. A few flights from Europe were able to fly there only because they touched down in Turkey on the way in order to comply with regulations.
Chuck had come in through the back door. Angela had brought him here in the Baracuda. At forty knots, the trip had taken thirteen hours. Time was running out fast. Chuck had camouflaged the boat and hidden it in plain sight a mile from Varosha.
Then he’d bought himself a bicycle and new clothes in Famagusta on the way to Varosha. Famagusta was a bustling city in stark contrast to the Forbidden City of Varosha.
Now, he rode the perimeter of the outlawed area, never stopping. Dressed to blend into the local scene, he wore old jeans, a blue button-down shirt, leather sandals, and an old knapsack carrying rope and a few other supplies, including a first-aid kit, radio-direction finder, explosives, electrical combo tool, fourteen-inch crow bar, tactical flashlight, and other goodies.
As he rode his bike, he ignored the forsaken city; instead, his eyes casually scanned the scenery between guard stations with an eye for weak links in fences and lanes of approach outside of the sight lines of prowling eyes.
On the way back, he hid his bike in a deep ditch near his chosen entry point. Jumping the ditch, he carefully held the barbed wire down and slipped through the gap. Just like that he was inside Varosha, which meant it was now open season on him. He was a moving target for Turkish soldiers, but there were greater threats. The Turks woul
d probably stay around the perimeter to keep all people away, leaving the inner city to the real predators.
Chuck sprinted across an area of ankle-high dead grass, but after just thirty yards entered a street that was lined by decrepit homes on both sides. The street was mostly grass, but there were also signs of the kind of panic that people must have experienced as they left. A rusted out 1974 Ford Pinto had been left right in the middle of the street. In panic, the driver had smashed into a 1970s Fiat 124 Special; both cars had been abandoned and left in the street—where they remained after so many years. Further down, Chuck passed a rusted bike, also lying in the street; weeds had almost swallowed it. In the homes, some doors hung open. Chuck’s foot accidently kicked an old-fashioned coke bottle.
He walked into a two-story hotel. The door had been left open, so a lot of debris had blown in over the years. Sadness hung thick over this place. Chuck could feel it. Otherwise, the place looked like it had once been very comfortable. It had a big light-and-bright hallway running down the middle with water-damaged hardwood floors. Yellow paint was peeling from doors leading into the rooms. Chandeliers still hung from the sagging hallway ceiling although they were now encased in spider webs.
Chuck wanted to see what kind of secret activity was going on around Varosha, and get a feel for his new environment. Anything could happen here.
He walked into a room because the door was ajar. Suitcases were sitting on the chairs or tables open and full of clothes. It was an indication of how quickly tourists had fled. They’d known the Turks were coming. People were in a panic.
Chuck had heard that after the Turks overran Varosha, they’d looted parts of the city. Some areas were hit hard. Others were overlooked. This little hotel looked like one of the areas that had been ignored by looters.
The wallpaper was curled from years of water damage. Filth clung to the windows.
Toothbrushes collected dust on the counter in the now-dirty bathroom. Rotting shoes haunted the closet. A 1974 English newspaper lay on the table where it had been abandoned. Chuck glanced at a headline: “Arabs Seize School: 90 Children Hostages, Kill 26 Students.” Chuck shook his head. He had to get moving, but out of curiosity, he flipped the page and saw another headline: “Baryshnikov, Soviet Ballet Star, Defects.” He moved over to a table with luggage on it.