Not that all was perfect. There were tensions. She'd taken support from Mariano when he established her in a worthwhile career. One attraction of Escrivá's philosophy was his encouragement to combine faith and work. Mariano believed in her and encouraged her to apply her brain. Placed in an Opus-sympathetic re-insurance firm, she'd grown into responsibilities as she zoomed up its organisation.
Around the time she became the firm's first female director, wholly due to her abilities according to Mariano, though she was never quite convinced, she'd taken an interest in her own physicality. Why? She'd never been able to pin this down. Yet, over more than a decade, she'd researched and evolved a set of disciplines, techniques and exercises which had produced an exquisite body shape. There was not a gramme of excess. She delighted in this while appreciating the irony: only she and her Maker would ever admire its luscious perfection. Her shapeless brown dresses masked all.
By her forties, she was a successful businesswoman with the reputation for being a dour religious misanthrope. Opus Dei supplied her spiritual and social needs. It provided justification for her existence. She'd felt as close to being a priest as any female in the Catholic rite could do.
To extend herself, as Escrivá taught, she'd gone out into the wider community, until Mariano had dissuaded her. He'd argued her talents were more suited to securing the future of Opus than washing the feet of the destitute. She'd resisted, not least because she'd found her contact with the unfortunate uplifting and rewarding. To convince her he'd introduced her to his deepest fears.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Eleni climbed on her motorbike and zoomed out of her father's drive. She didn't check if anyone was passing. Warned often that one day she'd hit someone or something, it made no difference. She was glad to escape her father's house. She didn't question his generosity and she was glad of a place to live while her marriage to Xerxes collapsed. But...
On her motorbike she weaved in and out of traffic with abandon, or so it seemed to car drivers. When she drove a car, she scared motorbikers and especially bikers. When she was on her motorbike or bike she scared car drivers and pedestrians. To her, this was a reasonable balance.
Zipping through the traffic, she remembered she was to meet this Frenchman. While she accepted the need for deep computer expertise, she resented her lack of the requisite technical skills. She despised not being self-sufficient. She knew of Cypriots who could provide the capabilities. It was their misfortune they all came with baggage or intentions. Better an outsider than someone who might blab unwelcome secrets or harbour designs on herself.
She parked at the Olympic pool. With an hour before her, she proposed to thrash up and down in the open air heated water. Exercise invigorated her and the boredom of length after length provided time to digest. Dried and changed, she headed for the office to await the Frenchman.
She stood her motorbike on the sidewalk, as every self-respecting Cypriot does. She paid no regard to the rights of pedestrians. Inside the building, she nodded without speaking to the receptionist and toed open the door to her office. It was small because beside it was her private design studio where she indulged her design fancies away from critical eyes. Only her father had access.
She went into the studio to scrutinise her latest creation, a modern Byzantine variation on Giotto's Campanile in Florence. It was coming together. She stood back to inspect her shaped plasticine and wood. The first conceptualisations had been awful. Over time, an acceptable form emerged. When she was happy she wanted to construct a large-scale model to present to her uncle for approval. This was at the heart of their computing problems.
The phone rang. Mr Thibault-Trani was in reception. Eleni asked the receptionist, whose name she never remembered, to bring him to her office. She took one more circuit of the miniature tower. She noted two points which still offended. These would need work.
She closed the door to the studio as the Frenchman arrived in her office. She looked him over. Older than she expected. He had a close-shaved head, no doubt to mask a receded hairline. Despite that, he appeared to look after himself. Tautness of body was an aspect in a man she appreciated. As for his height, he was taller than she was today in low heels. His dress? This had flair, an interesting combination of colours and materials she acknowledged no Cypriot man would match.
Eleni felt intrigued. From his exterior this wasn't the geek she'd expected. Too elegant; too mature. They introduced themselves as Eleni and Stephane.
Without thought she waved him to one of the armchairs by her window coffee table and experienced a spasm of horror. She reserved this space for clients. She obliged contractors to face her across her desk. Embarrassed by her mistake she challenged him about why he imagined he could help her.
He spoke, but not for long. He confessed he didn't know what she sought and asked if she might explain.
Seduced by his accent, English spoken with a light French intonation, it serenaded her. He knew it.
Getting a grip, she focused, or tried to. She profiled their practice and its projects, one major with several lesser ones. The demand for computer processing exceeded the available capacity.
As he asked about the indications, her stomach tightened at his pronunciation. She talked him through the various demands, from computer aided design to logistical and project planning to basic business functions. She added, for their major project, she hoped to exploit 3D printing to realise a large model. She confessed her fear, that the computations would push their systems to collapse.
His eyes lit up. CAD and 3D printing fascinated Stephane, though he'd never had the practical chance to develop his interest. Within seconds they'd forgotten each other as individuals. Instead, at a bewildering speed, they swapped ideas, possibilities and alternatives with costs and benefits.
An hour passed.
And a second.
Neither noticed.
A third threatened.
Then a crisis materialised.
Silence.
They'd exhausted professional conversation.
Eleni felt stiff, adrift, like a yacht embedded on a sandbank. What was there to say? She'd lost the plot.
"From what we've discussed, do you think I might be able to help?" His delightful French accent rescued her.
She recovered her poise and remembered she was the boss, the employer. He was the supplicant, the contractor, the one needing work. Reminded of her superiority, she relaxed.
"Would you like to work here? How do you think you'd contribute?"
To her consternation Stephane was equally relaxed as he drawled back, replete in his own self-confidence.
"Of course, I can. The only question is how far you'll let me."
He smiled at her in a way that ravished and irritated. How could he manage that? It wasn't fair. She was accustomed to being in charge. Yet this Frenchman dumbfounded her.
She kicked her ankles. She didn't know if he needed her, but she needed such an alert mind. Damn it. She hated being subordinate, but that was how it felt. In a trice he'd taken control. Worse, he knew it. She fell back on business niceties.
"What would you charge?"
"Nothing, at least for a first fortnight. If I contribute, you can decide what to pay me."
Ayii. He had her measure.
She couldn't reject such generosity, though she knew in all probability she would end up paying well for his services. How could she resist?
The office door opened. Her father ventured in without checking if she was with anyone. In this he never failed.
"Vasilia. Have you finished the model for..." His voice trailed off. "Who is this?"
Eleni flinched. How could he be so rude without knowing who her guest was?
Before she could gather herself, Stephane stood up and introduced himself. He summarised the computer issues which the firm faced and how he intended to resolve these for Madame Constantinou.
Her father stared from one to the other. He retreated without a further word.
&nbs
p; Eleni detested that Madame. It made her feel old. But she couldn't wait to work with Stephane. Anyone who could dispense with her graceless father in so few, yet respectful, words was worth it. He captivated her.
Yuste (Spain)
Inma relaxed into her chapel chair. Beneath closed eyes, she reassembled the past, trying to spot what was missing. Something must be. Why otherwise would she have this semi-permanent anxiety?
Everything she'd rehearsed to herself was accurate, but had she left something out? Why had she become discontented? There was something amiss and it had only arisen after Mariano's death. Of that she felt sure.
She knew what Mariano had established was wrong at best, illegal at worst. But this hadn't seemed to matter when accompanied by Mariano's justifications. His deepest fear had been his conviction that the Catholic Church in Spain faced disaster. The sins committed on children by predatory priests in the USA, Ireland, the Netherlands, Australia and other countries must have occurred in Spain. When revealed, the public response would be condemnation and opprobrium. To survive the massive bills to pay off victims, the Church would need immense financial reserves.
His pessimism had persuaded Inma. Her own instinct coincided with his. It was only a matter of time before unpleasant truths cropped up. To make matters worse, the Civil War had permitted other excesses, like those that had affected her cousin Ana's maternal grandmother.
Yet Mariano had possessed a plan. He'd established a secret investment fund which would come to the aid of the Church in its hour of need. As part of this he'd agreed to participate in the diversion of a sliver of the Vatican's revenues from its new HolyPhone confessional income.
Beguiled by Mariano's foresight and his ambitions she'd acquiesced and helped him. Then, with no warning, he'd dropped dead. Whereupon she'd found herself the mistress of an ever more successful, if wholly improper, mechanism which redirected funds intended for the Vatican into the accounts of Opus Dei.
True to his aspirations she'd leveraged this income, via her work, to invest for the benefit of the Church. Her success added to her business kudos, though nobody could fathom from where she'd obtained her extra funds.
She let past memories wander on. She recalled how the sliver of the HolyPhone confessional revenues had become a torrent, how she'd met Miriam, one of her fellow conspirators, and how the conspiracy unravelled.
Miriam's manifest honesty and guilt had attracted Inma. When Miriam had confided an addiction to men, Inma had been even more drawn to her. Inma had contemplated the joy she would experience when she'd saved Miriam's soul. The spiritual reward for bringing Miriam to Opus, to re-introduce her to Christ, had entranced her.
She shook her head in disgusted recollection. She'd been guilty of the worst sort of shameful pride – of self-congratulation at the prospect of liberating Miriam from her sex-addiction, of salvaging a fallen sinner.
Then, at this finca, Miriam had upended her world.
First, there'd been the seduction. Never had Inma contemplated being the recipient of such intense pleasure, never mind the satisfaction of returning it nor the satisfaction of hearing someone revel in her hidden, if exquisite, body shape.
Next the police arrived, ironically with Davide.
Within forty-eight hours, she and Miriam found themselves sequestered in a Rome hotel awaiting potential prosecution for their part in defrauding the Vatican. They'd been fortunate. Because neither had taken personal benefits, and in return for their co-operation and refunding of their abstracted gains, they had avoided certain conviction. The one caveat was silence, bought to save the Vatican's face.
Their liberty regained, Inma had returned to Spain with Miriam in tow. She'd dumped Opus and her Catholicism, resigned from her employer, started a new business and rejoiced in her first ever extended physical relationship. This was cathartic, as if she'd escaped a prison she hadn't realised existed. For months she and Miriam had lived together, here and in Madrid.
Then the sky fell in.
Miriam had walked out to return to New Jersey.
Inma's emptiness had been bitter.
Cold.
Frozen.
Uncertain about what to do.
Her Opus past had proven no preparation for the ravages and regrets of a failed romance.
So bad had this period been, she'd forgone visiting her finca. The recollection of pleasures discovered here, and lost with Miriam's departure, devastated her.
A thought inserted itself.
In Rome, Miriam had questioned whether Inma could dismiss her previous commitments to Opus and the Church with the ease she'd claimed. She'd convinced Miriam, and herself, that Opus and the Church had betrayed her. They'd involved her in wrongdoing while suppressing her natural self. Her faith had evaporated.
Later, she'd excused herself with another perspective. The Church condemned same-sex relations. Living with Miriam condemned her. Ergo, any residual faith was irrelevant.
Inma experienced a pang of doubt. Had she been wrong to dispense with her faith, irrespective of what Rome determined?
In tossing around this insight, Inma felt she edged closer to a larger truth. Was this what she'd come here to find?
An alarm buzzed: her phone.
Astonished, she found it was late-afternoon. She'd been in her chapel for over five hours. Like old times, it had seemed like minutes.
Should she try to continue? No. Intuition insisted she needed to calm herself. Stretching and exercising, food and then sleep had to happen before she resumed her soul searching.
At least tomorrow promised a starting point. That was an improvement on this morning.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Kjersti woke. Her first sensation was of a sore head from the night before. Her second was a body aching from three days of concentrated physical effort. At least the latter was familiar, and pleasurable, when bathed in the satisfaction of the distance covered. The third was the delicious faint waft of fresh coffee.
Using the bathrobe hanging on her bedroom door, she explored. The coffee was ready to pour. There were Ibuprofen and a note saying Iphi had a story to finish and would call later. Kjersti should help herself to the fridge's contents.
Kjersti relaxed. At last she had time for herself. She sluiced down the first coffee and poured the second. It tasted different, almost like a blend of Turkish and Italian. She would have to ask Iphi where to buy it.
Her first decision was easy. In deference to Costas, likely to be in hospital for several more days, according to Aris's text message last night, she'd defer the remainder of the Trek, stay put in Nicosia a couple of days to visit him and then fly back to Oslo.
The next decision was also straightforward. Both Aris and Iphi should have separate 'scoops', though her sense of reality distortion kicked in. How could she be a scoop? It was crazy. She would talk with Aris first to ensure Iphi obtained unique snippets. Those would need dredging up.
Third, she would remain here with Iphi. That was already agreed. Iphi had, somehow, already collected her travel pack. It stood by the front door.
She replayed the conversation with Iphi the previous evening, and night, which had run on and on. Kjersti hoped it might have a positive effect. Iphi's self-doubt bothered her.
She suppressed her concern. The prime aim for today was to focus on herself.
The root of Kjersti's angst derived from her successes in Spain. She was sure of it, not least because her reporting on the olive fly plague had succeeded beyond any expectation. The irony remained: she'd only gone to Spain to obtain background for a different commission about corruption and olive oil poisoning in Italy.
In Spain she'd penned three pieces: one covered the scale of the disaster that the olive flies wrought; one unfolded the deliberate, man-made attempt by two Russo-Estonian crooks to make themselves a fortune by infecting olives; the final piece focused on a local lady-geek who'd invented a mechanism to sort good olives from fly-infected ones. She'd written the last with a light irony. Its sing
le-minded heroine had conformed to expectations by being too humourless to perceive the irony.
The first two, syndicated, became news: they produced a large, if one-off, dividend. The third attracted a more long-lasting attention and it was still pulling in money. By various accounts, it possessed a timelessness which explained the ongoing income.
All three in total had provided more royalties in the past eighteen months than she'd earned over the past ten years, after she discounted the modest revenues from her running travelogues. She had several descriptions in mind to add to her portfolio, focusing on the various stages of the Trek she'd run so far. Plus, she had two competing book offers to lay out the olive oil fly plague plot.
It was the consequence of her fourth piece that confused her most. Boiled down, she'd borrowed Ana's history, about her being the grandchild of the wrong mother. This she portrayed as a description of a little-known side effect of Franco winning the Spanish Civil War.
Someone determined her writing enjoyed a literary, more than a journalistic, flavour. Her approach, of telling a story instead of writing an article, had made the piece a hit. She had not only acquired an agent, but the reprints and translations had gone global. To her astonishment, she'd won a modest literary prize, and the money continued to roll in – for doing nothing more. It was no fortune, yet the monthly payments already exceeded what she'd earned each year from her running-writing. As her agent lectured her: "learn to love an annuity's earning power".
One unexpected side effect of the literary piece was the invitation to write a novel. This had her in turmoil. What should she do? Her choices, after yesterday's contemplation in the flow on the long run from Kakopetria, fell into two camps. Should she continue her investigative reporting, which was what had set the scene for all four Spanish pieces, or should she try to make it as an author?
The running-writing, as she referred to it, was a no-brainer. Her pieces were an incidental by-product of fun experiences. Knocking these out didn't need to stop. Her major risk was injury. If she injured herself like Costas had, she wouldn't have the subject matter. To depend on running-writing for a living was akin to chasing fool's gold.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 7