‘I’ve never seen a sea turtle in the wild,’ she continued, bending down to adjust her shoe. ‘But I would love to.’
Dimitriou glared at her. ‘Stupid girl.’
‘Well I would,’ she pouted.
‘It’s unforgettable,’ said Hope. ‘They are beautiful creatures, perfectly evolved over millions of years.’
‘Evolution,’ laughed Chrisostomedes. ‘The Earth and everything in it was created, my dear, by God. Nothing evolved.’
Hope put her spoon down, open-mouthed.
Something bumped Clay’s leg. He moved his hand under the table. It was a foot, bare, surprisingly soft. Katia beamed at him, wiggled her toes. There was a slip of paper between the second and third digits. Clay slid it out and put it into his pocket.
She smiled at him again, turned towards him and leant forward, inviting him to look. She seemed about to speak when Chrisostomedes said: ‘I understand, Doctor Bachmann, that your Lara Beach research station was destroyed recently. Such a shame.’
The table went quiet.
Hope bristled. ‘I would have thought, Mister Chrisostomedes, given our history, that you would have been quite pleased.’
Chrisostomedes looked around the table, smiling at each guest in turn. ‘Not so, Doctor. As I outlined in my letter, I am prepared to fund the reconstruction and continued operation of your facility for the next five years.’
Hope sat still, lips slightly parted, saying nothing. Clay watched her reach for a strand of hair, twirl it between thumb and forefinger. She had known that something like this was on offer, but clearly this was much bigger than she had expected.
‘I…’ she started. ‘I’m stunned. That’s very generous.’
‘All we would require in return would be some flexibility.’
‘The conditions?’ said Hope.
‘But of course. This is business. There has to be something in it for me, otherwise why would I bother?’
‘Of course. No altruism here.’
‘There is no such thing as altruism,’ said Dimitriou.
Katia pouted.
‘All we ask is that you relocate the station slightly,’ said Chrisostomedes.
‘Relocate? To where?’
‘Toxeflora Beach, in the Agamas. Just a few kilometres up the coast.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Hope, visibly shaken. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘I do not joke, Doctor,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘I have neither the time nor the compunction.’ His face was set hard, the creases around his mouth like the dark fractures edging a crevasse.
‘On Turkish land? Inside the national park?’ blurted Hope. ‘You’re insane.’
‘Proposed national park,’ said Dimitriou.
Chrisostomedes leaned on his elbows. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Doctor Bachmann. I understand that you recently put in an application to do exactly what I now propose.’
Hope glanced towards Clay then looked down at her hands. ‘That was years ago. I was new here, I wasn’t aware of the status of the lands, the plans for a national park. Of course as soon as I was made aware, I withdrew the application.’
‘Well, this time our friend can ensure the proper dispensations are made, is that not so, Minister?’ Chrisostomedes inclined his head towards Dimitriou.
‘Indeed,’ nodded the minister.
Just like you did at Alassou last year, thought Clay.
‘And what about Lara Beach?’ said Hope.
‘We would develop an ecologically sensitive, world-class resort: a five-star hotel, casino, water park. All with your design input, of course, to ensure minimal disruption to turtle nesting.’
Hope pushed back her chair. ‘Are you crazy?’ she shouted. ‘It would mean the end of nesting on that beach. Forever.’
‘It seems, Doctor, from what you have told us, that will happen regardless,’ said Dimitriou.
‘And we hope you will want to reflect our generosity in the Commission’s findings,’ added Chrisostomedes.
Hope pursed her lips, said nothing.
They all ate on in silence.
After a while there was a knock at the door.
‘Ah, good.’ Chrisostomedes rose to his feet. ‘Our missing dinner guest.’
Everyone looked up. Two people had entered. A man and a woman. The man held the woman by the arm, his hand clasped over the bare skin just above her elbow. He led her across the hardwood landing to the steps. The woman was dressed in a black cocktail dress. She wore black pumps. Her dark hair cascaded down over bare shoulders.
Clay lurched to his feet. It was as if the blood had been syphoned from his head. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.
Hope squealed like an excited schoolgirl.
The woman was Rania. And guiding her down the steps, Zdravko.
35
Thirty Weeks and a Hundred Years
Surely, he thought, the essence of beauty was imperfection. Four fingers to a palm, six palms to a cubit, four cubits makes a man, and in man’s symmetry the universe is structured. But this seductive Vitruvian mathematics was shattered by the dark line under her left eye, the slightly off-centre dimple in her chin, the chaotic quasars spinning in her eyes. Real beauty could only exist in the immediate presence of something marred, disjointed, sullied somehow: a datum. Only complexity could create the depth that beauty required, the multiple layers and infinite variants that could build a forest, one leaf, one branch, one limb, one tree at a time, sculpt the Sierpinski carpet of a coastline, or scatter celestial dust into the utter individuality of each retina. Hers.
Chrisostomedes nodded. Zdravko released Rania’s arm. She snatched it away, reached up to where his hand had been. Zdravko turned to leave, took two paces towards the door. Then he stopped, looked back over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten something. He was looking straight at Clay, his eyes like gun slits.
‘That will be all, Todorov,’ said Chrisostomedes.
Zdravko muttered something, adjusted the sling cradling his right arm, turned away and closed the door behind him.
Rania started across the carpet. Clay could see the changes now, her breasts heavier, her figure rounder. His feet were tingling, his legs quivering. His brain raced to process what he’d seen, what he was seeing. Rania walking towards him, his child there inside her, her hips swaying beneath the thin material of the dress, her eyes dark with makeup, Zdravko’s finger marks still on her arm and Zdravko just outside the door somewhere.
Adrenaline poured into Clay’s system, swamping his senses. He needed to run. Grab her by the hand and run. Through the door, out to the car. Did they have time? Maybe. His Beretta was in the car, pushed up under the passenger seat. If he could get to it, they had a chance. But he needed to settle, calm himself, think things through. What the hell was Zdravko doing here? Working for Chrisostomedes, apparently. He’d clearly been surprised by Clay’s presence. Either Zdravko hadn’t shared his recent attempt on Clay’s life with his new boss, or Chrisostomedes hadn’t yet realised who Clay was. One thing was sure: Zdravko was here, and Rania was being held against her will. That’s how Zdravko had got the message to Hope, via the AFP, about the meeting in the mountains. If Crowbar hadn’t surprised him on the ridge, he would have put a bullet in Clay’s head. An easy shot for a marksman armed with a military-spec sniper rifle. It was intolerable, impossible to contemplate. Nausea flooded through him. He struggled to breathe. Rania was halfway to the table now, striding with that lean, elegant gait Clay had so admired the first time he’d seen her by the pool in Aden, thirty weeks and a hundred years ago.
Hope stood, ran to Rania and threw her arms around her. The two women embraced, kissed, whispered to each other and walked hand-in-hand to the table. Rania smoothed her dress under her legs, sat. Hope regained her place and sat facing Rania.
Chrisostomedes glanced at Hope and opened his arms as if addressing a congregation. ‘Everyone, this is Lise Moulinbecq, the journalist.’ Chrisostomedes introduced each of his guests in t
urn. Clay was last.
Rania leaned forward slightly, looked down the table at Clay. The candle flame danced in her eyes but her expression was neutral, hard. Her face was fuller than he remembered but dark hollows pulsed above the tops of her cheekbones like bruises through makeup. She looked tired.
‘Hello, Doctor Greene,’ she said, dead flat. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ Clay stammered. The message was clear. They didn’t know each other. ‘I’ve read your stuff.’
‘Every tenth word, I’m sure, Doctor Greene.’
‘No, really,’ said Clay, still struggling. ‘You write well.’
‘You’re very kind.’ A quick smile, a fraction of a second only. ‘But I think you have it backwards, Doctor Greene. I hear you also write well.’
Then she turned away, began exchanging pleasantries with Dimitriou, who seemed to have met her before.
Hope sat beaming at Rania, entranced, watching every gesture, devouring every word.
‘Lise has been our guest here for the past few days,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘Because of the tense situation here on the island, and the sensitivity of what she has been reporting, we thought it best to provide her somewhere safe from which to work.’ Chrisostomedes directed what he no doubt thought was a charming smile at Rania.
Clay cringed.
‘Yes,’ said Rania. ‘There is a lovely view from my room.’ She pointed to the picture windows, the lights of the coast flickering in the distance. ‘This, but one floor higher. Magnifique.’
Chrisostomedes beamed.
‘When can we expect to read your next piece, Ms Moulinbecq?’ said Dimitriou.
‘It will appear tomorrow, I believe,’ said Rania. ‘It concerns the joint EU-UN Commission of Enquiry on Coastal Property in Cyprus.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Dimitriou, nodding to Hope. ‘We were discussing this just before you arrived.’
Hope leaned forward, facing Rania. ‘The Minister has suggested that I direct the Commission towards favouring Mister Chrisostomedes’ activities and proposals. In return, they would fund the rebuilding of my research station. There’s a story for you.’
Dimitriou laughed. ‘The good Chairwoman is under the illusion that her fellow panellists are, how shall we put it, impartial.’
Rania reached across the table, took Hope’s hand, looked her in the eyes. ‘I have reason to believe,’ she said, ‘that when the enquiry convenes in three days, the UN representative on the Commission will propose a land-swap deal, in which selected Turkish coastal properties in the south, including Toxeflora Beach lands, will be transferred to Greek Cypriot ownership, in return for Greek lands in the north, including in Karpasia, being transferred to Turkish Cypriot title.’
Hope gasped. ‘That’s tantamount to a green light for development.’
‘Exactly,’ said Rania. ‘But to the public, and certainly to the Greek Cypriot Government, who, as you know, are anxious for EU membership, it’s a way of demonstrating rapprochement, compromise, to show they are working for a solution to the Cyprus problem.’
‘And who will gain most from this, if it transpires?’ said Chrisostomedes.
‘Not you,’ said Clay.
Katia giggled.
Dimitriou frowned, stuffed a too-big spoonful of Pavlova into his mouth and chewed.
‘Mohamed Erkan, that’s who,’ said Chrisostomedes, glaring at Clay.
‘It would remove his last real barrier to development of the Karpasia beaches,’ said Rania. ‘My sources tell me that a deal is being discussed right now between Ankara, New York, Brussels and the TRNC Government that would lift UN Environment Programme World Heritage Site status from the Karpasia beaches, if this compromise can be reached. The UN desperately wants a solution to the Cyprus problem, and this is seen as a major step forward towards that goal.’
Hope slumped back in her chair. ‘Shit.’
‘Do you see now why we have made our offer, Doctor Bachmann?’ Chrisostomedes patted her hand. ‘If your station is on Toxeflora Beach, and if it is protected inside a new Agamas National Park, it blocks the deal.’
‘And you can build your resort on Lara Beach,’ said Katia, smiling at Clay.
‘Shut up, Katia,’ barked Dimitriou.
‘And Erkan can’t build his,’ said Katia, clearly enjoying this. ‘Less competition for you.’
Dmitriou glared at Katia, turned to face Hope. ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘a new national park, new world-class research facilities, you at its head. How proud your son will be.’
Hope rocked back as if hit by a punch. She stared at Dimitriou, volts arcing invisibly in the space between them. ‘How dare you–’ she gasped.
Rania sat, head bowed, silent, as if drained of energy. She’d said what she had to say and now it was over.
‘Please, Doctor,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘What the good Minister means is that we are aware of your recent, shall we say, difficulties, with regard to your son’s emigration status. He has ensured me that a special dispensation for your son can be made that will allow him to leave Cyprus with you, should you decide to go back to America.’
Hope stared at Chrisostomedes, then back at Dimitriou. ‘Is this true?’
Dimitriou nodded through a mask of Upper House magnanimity.
‘Back to America,’ she mumbled.
Clay could see Hope withering under the combined assault. Rania sat exhausted, lifeless. He’d seen and heard enough. They were running out of time. He stood, dropped his napkin over his untouched dessert. Conversation stopped.
‘Let’s go, Hope,’ he said, pulling out her chair. ‘We have a lot to discuss. You can expect an answer shortly, gentlemen.’
Hope stood and took his arm, leaning into him. She was trembling, gazing down at Rania as if expecting something, a way out, a rescue.
‘Perhaps Ms Moulinbecq would care to join us?’ Clay tried to catch Rania’s eye, but she looked away.
Chrisostomedes rose. ‘I’m afraid she and I also have much to discuss tonight.’
As if on cue Rania looked up at Clay. ‘Yes. Yes, that is correct,’ she said. ‘Perhaps another time, Doctor Greene?’
‘Two days, Doctor Bachmann,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘If we haven’t heard from you, we will be forced to make other arrangements. And I can assure you they will not be nearly as optimal.’
Clay guided Hope across the dining room, the nature of these other arrangements becoming clear to him. ‘Come on, Hope,’ he whispered, ‘we have work to do.’
Spearpoint appeared at the door and glared at Clay – if he hadn’t recognised him before, he did now.
He met them on the dining-room landing, ushered them to the front door, and followed them out. There was no sign of Zdravko. Soon they were at the car. Spearpoint stood back, arms folded, watching them.
Clay helped Hope into the passenger seat, closed her door, then turned and faced Spearpoint, locking his gaze. ‘Touch her, either of you, and you’re dead,’ he said.
36
Backwards from Being
‘Don’t worry,’ Clay said, getting behind the wheel of the little Corolla. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to your son, I promise.’
Hope said nothing, just stared ahead. She was shivering.
Clay pulled off his jacket, put it around her shoulders and started the engine. Leaving the gate behind, Clay drove about a mile, watching the rear-view mirror. They were not being followed. He turned down a small side road leading away into the forest, found a notch in the trees where the shoulder widened, pulled the car off the road and turned off the engine. They sat in the darkness.
‘Do you have your phone?’ asked Clay.
‘What?’
‘You need to call your friend. In the north.’
‘Now?’
‘That thug who checked us at the door on the way in, he was in Istanbul. He was following Rania.
‘My God.’
‘We’re running out of time, Hope. So, yes. Call him now.’
Sh
e pulled her phone from her bag, punched in a number.
‘Ask him: what did the truck look like? The one his friend saw at the water pipe in Karpasia, near the beach.’
The phone engaged. Clay could hear the voice. She asked the question, listened. ‘He asks what you mean,’ Hope said.
‘What kind of truck was it? Was it a dump truck, a van, a tanker?’
Hope spoke, waited. ‘He says a tanker.’
‘Shit.’
‘What is it, Clay?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, the permutations spinning in his head. ‘It was something Dimitriou said: “It’s happening anyway”. He knows it’s happening, knows the turtles will be gone soon. And when they’re gone, the problems are solved, for everyone.’
‘Bastards.’
‘They’re all positioning themselves for when that day comes. And as far as they’re concerned, the sooner the better.’
Hope stared at him, blank.
‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Where are you going?’ Her voice was thin, miles away.
Clay opened his door, turned to her. ‘Call your ex. Get him to take your son somewhere safe, out of the country if he can. Do it now. Stay put till I get back.’ Then he stepped out of the car and started through the woods back towards the house.
It didn’t take him long to find the perimeter fence, a three-metre steel picket affair lipped with coils of razor-wire. Every hundred metres or so, a main anchor post shot from the rocky ground, topped by the roaming red eye of a CCTV camera. Clay followed the fence around, downslope first, then along the bottom side of the property, keeping to the trees, moving through the undergrowth, along the sides of boulders and volcanic outcrops. He stopped, looked up at the house cantilevered out over the cliffside on concrete piles anchored into bedrock, the lights glowing in the dining-room windows. Rania was up there somewhere. Zdravko, too.
He started moving again, skirting the perimeter beneath the cliff. There was no fence here, just the near-vertical faces of rock. There were no cameras either, and no guards – not that he could see. He moved along the base of the cliff, looking up into the underside of the house, the steel I-beams clearly visible, the cross-bracing, the concrete foundation grafted onto bedrock, pumped into fractures and faults. He stopped directly beneath what he guessed was the dining room. The rock here was cool, slightly damp, coarse-grained. It was steep, but it was not featureless. A decent climber could do it. Two hands would be good.
Evolution of Fear Page 24