Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  Kjersti didn't know how to react. She knew she wasn't a Marie Colvin or Bob Woodward. She tried an oblique approach.

  "Why would Aris worry about a scoop?"

  "Having you here to myself? Able to interview you one on one? You could be my lucky break."

  Kjersti was bemused. She'd come to Cyprus to sort through her own confusions after the unexpected success of her descriptions of Andalucía's olive oil crisis and then Ana's hidden Spanish Civil War story. These had brought her transient fame, albeit with considerable financial rewards which she would receive as a regular income for years.

  Now she sat on two offers to write the definitive story of the olive fly disaster. A third sought to commission a novel. She faced Iphi and found a younger version of herself looking for help. If she couldn't supply it for herself, how could she for Iphi?

  "How old are you, if you don't mind telling me?"

  "Twenty-nine... today."

  "What? You didn't say. OK, let's go for dinner. You can tell me everything. You choose where. My treat. But why don't you have a celebration organised?"

  At this Iphi fled. Kjersti heard sobbing from a nearby room. She waited for it to pass and closed her eyes.

  Kjersti came to. Where was she? Recognition returned. Iphi's apartment and her misery. What time was it? Only half an hour later. The unintended nap invigorated her. Kjersti felt ready to listen as Iphi re-entered in a much more composed state. She apologised.

  "I didn't notice. I fell asleep."

  "Oh. You would rather head for bed?"

  Iphi was crestfallen. She wanted to be with 'the Kjersti'. This was an experience which she could milk to impress colleagues.

  "Quite the opposite. I'm refreshed. Now you're here, let's go."

  "Do you mind something informal? I have a place in mind in the Old Town. If it's full we can go to a Greek restaurant around the corner."

  "Sounds good. Then you can explain."

  Limassol (Cyprus)

  After tossing around for most of the night, Stephane had made no definitive decision. He exited his apartment block to saunter six hundred metres along the Limassol promenade to his office in the leisure port. He stopped for a coffee on the way. Its comforting caffeine resolved nothing.

  He resumed his walk in bright sunshine. He would wing it. Such an approach, forever condemned by his scold of a sister, had served him well in the past, though he'd admit, he'd never encountered illegality like this.

  Passing into the port complex, he stopped to admire a large shiny gin palace of a motor yacht. Moored close to his office, she looked to be at least fifty metres in length with a hive of activity surrounding her hull. Crewmen carried innumerable boxes on board. They stowed these in what the naval architect must have designed as the owner's toy-garage, space reserved for speedboats, surfboards and the like. A small crane never stopped swinging.

  He entered the office as two men exited with crates, obliging him to step aside. He was hanging his jacket on the back of the chair in his own office when his fake-Cypriot boss stuck his head through the door. He demanded Stephane's presence in fifteen minutes. His tone was uncompromising. There was none of Dmitriy's habitual, if misleading, charm.

  Stephane pressed the on-switch to start his desktop. He tried to log-in. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. It was as if the desktop had disconnected from the servers two floors below.

  A knock distracted him. Two men lumbered in, the ones he'd passed earlier. With little ado they disconnected the parts of his desktop, beginning with the twin monitors.

  "What d'you think you're doing?"

  "What's it look like?"

  "But why?"

  "Those are our instructions."

  Stephane could do no more than look on as the cables separated. They placed the various components in crates. His watch showed it was time to visit Dmitriy, who should be able to provide answers. The irony was it didn't matter, now he intended to hand in his resignation.

  Dmitriy's office overlooked the port on one side and Limassol on the other. He was on the phone but waved Stephane to a seat on the opposite side of the glass table which served as a desk. He finished and replaced the phone.

  Before Stephane could act Dmitriy raised his hand.

  "I'm sorry. The business must close, and as soon as is practical. All employees and contractors, including you and me, lose their jobs from this evening, though we will receive pay to the end of the month.

  "In your case, the rental of your apartment finishes tomorrow. You can keep the use of the car until the end of the month. That was prepaid. As for expenses, you will receive an average of the last three months and you won't have to submit supporting documentation."

  "But why? Just as we're ready to go live."

  "I don't know. All I've heard is the ultimate owners have decided to shut up shop in Cyprus with immediate effect. Perhaps something in the political air has changed. Anyhow, by the end of the week, the company won't exist."

  Dmitriy paused. For a second he looked sympathetic. His concern faded. Instead his hard face re-emerged.

  "You recall your contract terms? You're not permitted to say anything to anybody about what you've been working on. You will receive one extra month's payment if you sign this to confirm you understand. It is no more than what your contract says. Its explicit purpose is to affirm your discretion."

  Dmitriy pushed over a single sheet of paper. It was as Dmitriy'd described, a reiteration of what Stephane had agreed. He knew, because he'd been parsing the contract from the moment he'd decided to resign. He took the pen and scrawled his signature on the dotted line.

  "Thank you. Now I suggest you clear out any personal belongings in your office. Take the rest of the day off to clear your apartment."

  Stephane stood, stunned, though not unhappy at his unexpected avoidance of a resignation scene. Dmitriy had plucked the words from his mouth; plus, he had at least several more weeks of income and the use of the car, though he'd have to find somewhere else to stay in Cyprus, or return to France.

  "A suggestion."

  Dmitriy held out a piece of paper.

  "Call this lady. She needs some technical support in Nicosia. A mutual friend approached me for a recommendation. And thank you for all you've contributed."

  With that Dmitriy refocused on his phone. Before Stephane closed the door, Dmitriy was talking, in what sounded like Russian. Stephane was again beneath consideration.

  He returned to a denuded office, though the desk was still there. He opened a drawer and pocketed half-a-dozen USB drives. He looked around. There was nothing more to take. Since his arrival, he'd taken care to keep personal items away. Experience had taught him that lesson.

  Outside the building, he idled across to inspect the gin palace close-up. She possessed lovely lines which must have cost a fortune to build. Though he preferred sailing, with no engine noise, he could appreciate her beauty and envy the wealth of fancy communications aerials and domes.

  As he watched he recognised the pair of heavies who'd abstracted his desktop and monitors. On this occasion they wheeled trolleys laden with heavy computer equipment that looked like servers. They ignored him.

  He made himself scarce.

  Beyond the leisure port, he withdrew his phone to call the Nicosia number. After a brief functional chat he had an appointment two days hence to discuss what he might contribute. Now he had to pack up and book somewhere in Nicosia.

  It was only as he traipsed back to his apartment that a nasty thought bubbled up. Might they be closing the Cyprus operation to remount it at sea, where there was no legal jurisdiction? That could explain why he'd had to configure all the servers with only solid-state memory. Wallowing in international waters would not bother them.

  This was a nasty thought. He'd hoped closure meant he'd escaped, without having to resign. If the gambling and laundering, using his software, operated out at sea, could he still be liable? Ugly, ugly, ugly.

  Ydra (Greece)

  Davide
ate out, though this meant a descent to the port to where the better restaurants were. To do this meant another interminable 555 steps down followed by the same 555 back up. He supposed he was fitter for all this rising and falling. He wasn't sure. When the hydrofoil had arrived yesterday, he should have eaten in the port.

  For a change he selected the restaurant which had opened the previous week. It was modern, decorated in a warm red and looked out over the harbour. He debated whether to ask for a table upstairs on the small terrace or sit at one inside and downstairs. He chose the latter, because there were other people around. He spent enough time alone with his computers and thoughts.

  That brought to mind Ana and his failed attempt to meet her when he was last in Madrid. Her refusal to see him had shocked. He hadn't expected such resolve.

  As he floundered his innate sense of fairness obliged him to accept he shouldn't blame her. From her viewpoint, besides occasional Skype conversations which masked his location, he hadn't helped his own cause. She deserved an explanation though it could be he wouldn't have the chance.

  Every now and then he saw her pop up on Skype. He supposed he should be grateful she hadn't deleted him. Until now he'd taken the position, after she turned him down, that the ball lay in her court.

  Was he back-to-front or inside-out? Should he be the one to make the first move?

  The only information he had, derived from his infrequent chats with Inma, was Ana had left Madrid after handing Inma her resignation. He suspected Inma knew where Ana was. He couldn't quite bring himself to impose on Inma to reveal where to find her.

  The good aspect was Inma remained a friend, and almost more than that. Right from when he'd first talked with Inma, in the back of a police car during what he referred to as the 'HolyPhone Confessional Crisis', they'd connected. They'd lost touch until he worked with Ana at an American firm in what became Spain's Corruption's Price scandal. Ana had bumped into Inma in a Madrid nightclub when she and he and colleagues were out on a company social evening. He hadn't known, nor was there any reason to know, Ana and Inma were cousins.

  Inma was in a precarious state that evening. She confided in him about Miriam's return to New Jersey. His instinct was to help.

  For a second time they clicked in some way which defied analysis and made all the stranger by her sexual orientation plus previous history as an Opus Dei devotee. Sometimes he wished she wasn't so withdrawn and prickly. But, as this was how he summarised himself, he forgave her. Maybe this similarity explained why they bonded so readily.

  He ordered a salad with fried octopus to follow and a bottle of Santorini white, made from the Assyrtiko grape. It was about the only Greek white wine he'd found which gave him pleasure. Retsina revolted him, though there were reasonable enough red wines if you chose Greek variants made with Cabernet Sauvignon or Shiraz grapes. Ydra, despite being a playground for the Athenian rich, was not wine-friendly. First, it was barren with little fresh water. Second, Ydra's population was less than two thousand locals in winter, too small to sustain many oenophiles. This limited his choice, except in restaurants.

  There was a spring in his step on the way down. What buoyed him was these would be his last days here. He'd presented his latest work yesterday which, on the surface, had been received well, though he never knew for sure with his Greek clients. They were often opaque or contradictory or both. Now he had only to refine his draft, in the light of the feedback, and submit the final version.

  He mused.

  Were the Greeks going to be audacious enough to introduce a national blockchain in a final tumultuous impulse to overtake the demands of the dreaded IMF, ECB and EU Troika? It was an enticing prospect. All personal consumption and business activity would register on this national blockchain or face draconian penalties.

  The notion of displacing the Euro and moving to a 'Greekcoin' electronic economy had captured his imagination. The intention was that the electronic Greekcoin would match the Euro in value with the difference that payments would only be possible if made via credit or debit cards or with transfers in 'Greekcoins'.

  For this to work, all deposits and debts, in Greece, would require redenomination from Euros into 'Greekcoins'. Registration would happen over one long holiday weekend, with all banking balances entered onto the national blockchain. The Greek population would wake on a Tuesday to discover they could only buy and sell using electronic transfers, credit or debit cards, with the latter distributed for free to all.

  Use of the euro as a currency within Greece would be illegal though there'd be an exchange programme whereby all cash in mattresses or dug up from under the family olive tree, when deposited in a Greek bank and registered, would receive an inducement – of a credit of 105 percent. To encourage electronic consumption, the top rates of VAT would drop by 5 percent for a limited period, with the possibility of making this permanent. A further 2–3 percent reduction might occur later if the net tax-take rose as expected.

  The big bet was this would release hordes of hidden savings and restore these to the visible, legal economy. For those caught carrying euros, or other currency, across Greece's borders, there would be penal confiscation accompanied by a fine of an extra 50 percent of the amount confiscated. The fine would, in part, accrue to whistle-blowers, informants and customs officers who made finds.

  With all transactions inside Greece visible to the state, except for pure barter – like a bottle of olive oil for a kilo of asparagus – consumption would become transparent. Taxes would be paid by everybody. In theory, nobody could escape for long.

  Davide's role had been to work on the technical and practical functions of this national blockchain. The starting point was to modify the system already in use in Estonia and bought by the Finns. It had been an exhausting few months, not least in dealing with the Greeks with their constant volatility.

  Regardless, his clients had determined they must bypass the Troika. Greece would own an electronic economy more advanced than anywhere else. If it worked. A national blockchain would need broad acceptance by the Greek population.

  One preoccupation remained. It was an unavoidable fact. The Greek national sport in Ottoman and in pre-Troika times was not paying taxes. 'Greekcoins' would disabuse northern European contempt for the irresponsible Greeks by re-establishing an open basis for honesty between citizen and state. Or so his clients hoped.

  To his eternal relief, Davide could not be held responsible for the level of acceptance achieved. He'd done his part. Once they accepted his final report he would delight in leaving Ydra, to watch what happened from afar.

  Perhaps nothing would happen. Maybe the 'Greekcoin's' proponents would take fright. He wouldn't blame them.

  The waitress cleared the remains of his starter. Greek salad was good, but over the months he'd bored of it. There were few alternatives.

  The octopus arrived. He tasted it. Good. No, it was better than that. This was delicious and accompanied by an unusual Tzatziki-like sauce new to him. He must revisit for more before he departed. The service was decent.

  His thoughts rolled on to consider what to do next. He wouldn't need to work for at least eighteen months. That was one advantage of this Greek sequestration with most expenses paid.

  Yet, being obliged to drop out of sight, brought drawbacks. Potential clients forgot he existed. This might mean he would be wiser to promote his immediate availability and accept a short, visible project. Davide had mentioned this dilemma to the one Greek colleague on the national blockchain project he liked. He doubted his hints would lead anywhere. At least he'd started to explore his options.

  At the same time needed a break. Where? The obvious choice was Spain. Should he seek out Ana? He could visit Inma. In person, she might tell him more.

  Or he could head for Crete, a place he'd always wanted to visit. No, he'd had enough of Greeks for the moment.

  Back to England? He thought not. Though he possessed a modest flat in Chiswick, he rented it out which paid the mortgage. Besides, his
connections to the UK were tenuous these days. All the years travelling had put paid to any sense of common community. Though half-English, via his father, his mother's Spanish lineage tugged at him more. Or was this because of Ana?

  The one place he wasn't going back to was Australia. The desperation of his one prolonged visit remained seared into his consciousness. In some ways idyllic, his ill-fated attempt to live with Caterina distorted his impressions. Even now he recoiled at how they'd parted.

  He summoned the bill and paid in euros. He trudged his 555 steps up through the white alleyways, counting each step one by one. It was the only technique to diminish the tedium.

  He always counted up, rather than down. Logically it should seem shorter when there were 555 steps, then 554, 553 and so on – with fewer and fewer to go. But this wasn't how it worked for him.

  Tonight, he accumulated 553. He let himself into the small courtyard. He must have overlooked a couple. Unless the house was sliding down the hill?

  He climbed beneath the sheets. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would book his liberation. Tbilisi? Yerevan? Both had direct flights from Athens. Both tempted.

  Muro de Alcoi (Spain)

  In her new library, with shelves almost three quarters full, Ana waited for Señor Delafuente and Alfonso. There was a bottle of chilled Manzanilla by her side, from Sanlúcar de Barrameda on the Atlantic Coast far to the west. Alfonso loved it and had sworn blind his lawyer friend shared his taste. For herself, because the Manzanilla was alcohol heavy, she would experiment with a Rueda, one which Inma had once recommended. A white, it blended traditional Verdejo with younger Sauvignon Blanc grapes. She would serve that with dinner to explore their reactions. She doubted they would hold back.