Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  "You called?"

  "I did. I wanted to update you. I realise we haven't talked in a long while. Mea culpa."

  "Not a problem. I've been the same. How's everything?"

  "I'm not sure where to start. I'm living on one of my inherited farms. I've started my own SHD grove, using Blanquetas, you'll be entertained to hear. I have a library in the process of installation. When that is complete I will remodel the rest of the house."

  "And you're lonely?"

  "How d'you know?"

  "It seeps across. Did Davide ever get in touch?"

  "He did. I didn't meet him. I fled here to my olive groves in desperation, though now I'm glad I did. I left Inma in the lurch."

  "Wow. I'm impressed. You're turning as bad as me. Very unexpected. I thought you liked working for Inma and yearned for him."

  "I did. But..." As usual, Kjersti wrested her most private thoughts from her. She had to change the subject.

  "Where are you? Norway or travelling?"

  "Cyprus."

  "Cyprus? What are you doing there?"

  "Trying to get my head together by running from one end of the island to the other with an old boyfriend."

  "Not Oleg, I hope. No, he should be in a Tallinn jail."

  "Right, and I don't want to see him again – ever. My plan was to run all next week, but my friend's in hospital with shock and severe scrapes down one side after a car knocked him over when we were making good progress."

  "So; what'll you do? Continue alone? Head back to Oslo? What's wrong with your head?"

  "Oslo. And it's not so much the head as what runs round and round inside."

  "Are you serious? You? Kjersti? The never-doubting, relentless purveyor of truth?"

  "Snark, snark. Want me to revisit the topic of Davide?"

  "Okay. Touché. Come here instead, though I warn you, the place isn't luxurious."

  "You've never lived in a Norwegian mountain cabin locked in by snow when it's so cold you have to put the floor carpet over the bed to keep warm. I can do tough and rough, if that is all you have to offer."

  "Fine. On your head be it. Fly to Alicante or Valencia. I'll pick you up. Let me know when. Then we can catch up."

  "Done. I need another day here. Expect me the day after tomorrow, assuming I can find flights. Unless you want to go to Athens or London, this place is inconvenient. No wonder some refer to it as the 'armpit of the Mediterranean', though my limited experience is Cypriots are lovely and as warm and generous as you could ask for. I'll message you when I have a flight number and arrival time. Ciao."

  Kjersti had gone, with her invariable insouciance.

  Almost immediately, doubts flooded over Ana. Kjersti was a walking minefield, however much she liked her. Inma hated Kjersti for her capability to cause upset. They were a pair who would never reconcile. Thank goodness there was no chance of them meeting again.

  What would Alfonso think? Could he run off with Kjersti? She chortled, all of a sudden obscurely pleased Kjersti was to reappear, and no doubt disappear soon after.

  Chapter Four

  Nicosia (Cyprus)

  If Kjersti was no nearer a decision than when she arrived in Cyprus, her choices and the implications were clearer. Iphi's incredulity the night before had helped. Iphi couldn't imagine Kjersti tiring of reporting. But Iphi was young and tenacious in a cut-throat world where she wasn't taken seriously because she was a woman. At least in Norway, Kjersti had not faced that impediment, which was just as well for she was nowhere near as appealing as Iphi.

  She laughed at herself. Iphi was a much prettier image of herself fifteen years earlier with an identical determination, compounded by impatience, to succeed. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The English version, 'The more they change, the more they stay the same' sounded nowhere as sensuous.

  Her phone rang. It was a weak-sounding Costas. To her surprise, he was back at his parents' house. He'd discharged himself. He could bear hospital no longer. She agreed to go over and, armed with his parents' address, she summoned a taxi.

  Costas lay on a sofa on a shaded terrace. If anything, he looked worse – more black than blue and battered. She wouldn't have thought a simple clip on the heel could wreak so much damage.

  Beside him sat a slim lady in trousers and shirt with ultra-short, styled black hair, a very Greek nose and thick, thick black eyebrows. The latter turned what would have been a handsome sallow face into a harsh one.

  The lady stood. She oozed antipathy but shook Kjersti's hand.

  Costas introduced her as his distant cousin, Vasilia: "but call her Eleni, which she prefers".

  Almost as soon as Kjersti sat, Eleni left. She kissed Costas on both cheeks, nodded without warmth to Kjersti and departed.

  "What is that?"

  Kjersti's enquiry was harsher than she intended.

  "I told you, my distant cousin."

  "She looks... I don't know... fierce. She doesn't like me."

  "You have that right. She doesn't like most people unless it suits her purpose. She's a driven monster. Unfortunately, her aunt, who looked after her after her mother's death, and my mother spent our late teenage and then early adult lives plotting their match in heaven: us.

  "Unbelievably, at least to Eleni and myself, they are back at it. She is divorcing and I am available. The bad news is she consumes men. The good news is I'm beneath her condescension. We go through the motions to mollify my mother and her aunt. She hasn't an iota of interest in me. I am content."

  "Does she work?"

  "Like a demon. She's an architect in her father's firm which is close to the Cypriot Orthodox Church. Her uncle, her father's brother, is the head of the Church. That is to say, he's more the island's chief businessman than spiritual leader."

  "What?"

  "I'll give you a flavour. Asked in a press conference whether the Church would consider the sale of some of its hotels, for it owns several, his reply was: 'You're kidding? With all those tourists arriving?' It sounds so spiritual, don't you think?"

  The outrage in Costas's disfigured face provoked a snigger from Kjersti. Once contained, she continued. "Tell me more. Do I sense a story?"

  "You might find a less provocative but more interesting one in Eleni herself. She's working on a Church project which the Archbishop believes to be all-important. She's again experimenting."

  Costas elaborated on how, over the years, Eleni had meddled with all sorts of unsuccessful initiatives. These had varied from politics to new-fangled building techniques. In his opinion, her success derived from being wired into the Church's construction pipeline. As confirmation, he offered the example of when she'd spent two years advocating the building of new churches with straw. There'd been a disbelieving uproar. Even her father doubted her.

  "In the end, she was vindicated as far as the building material was concerned but vanquished when someone pointed out that using straw only made sense if you have lots of it, which Cyprus doesn't. The Church would have had to import. Her proposal died, but not until after she had chased down everyone who mattered. If rumours are correct, she slept with all those she thought might influence the decision."

  "You're a fount of gossip, but it sounds too parochial for me... Costas, I'm not going to stay, given that you're not going to be fit to run again for some time, but I promise to come back."

  "But..."

  "Stop! Be realistic. Look at yourself. You might be moving in a month. It will still take you another couple to regain your fine tuning. Let me know when you are back in serious training, then we can plan a restart. At least we've conquered the Troodos Mountains. The rest should be straightforward."

  "You wait for the Kantara Castle climb. We'll have to hope it won't be too hot."

  Iphi was home when Kjersti returned. Kjersti explained. She would leave tomorrow or the day after and would be back to finish the Trek once Costas had recovered.

  "What about my scoop? And that for Aris, though he doesn't deserve me thinking of him."


  Kjersti considered. She weighed Iphi up. Bells tinkled.

  "Are you and Aris..." She trailed off, not being sure what to add.

  "No way."

  "But he wants to?"

  Iphi nodded.

  "And you're not sure? Because he is a competitor? Because you don't fancy him. Or is there something else?"

  "I might fancy him if he lost a lot of weight and got rid of that beard. The competitive aspect does bother me. Then there are our families. They're haunted by some long-standing enmity never explained. I think it's to do with the Greek coup here in 1974, the one which provoked the subsequent Turkish occupation. Both families lost out."

  "In your shoes, I'd forget the last. It's your life, not theirs. I'm sure you can resolve the competition issue by mutual discussion. On the first, why not convey to him that a slimmer, clean-shaven version might be much more attractive? Then wait and see what happens."

  "Kjersti, you're a genius." Iphi hesitated. "Do you really think I can suggest something so personal?"

  "Why not? Of course, you'll need care in how you word it. Now, if I may change the subject, shall we capture your 'scoop'? Not that I am much of one."

  Marbella (Spain)

  Later than he'd planned, for his plane from Madrid landed late, Davide turned the rented car into tio Toño's drive. His uncle came out. He looked older and moved with a rigidity not there before. The years were catching up, a reminder to Davide. He must pay more attention. They were the last family each possessed.

  He kissed his uncle and wrapped him in a hug to discover that beneath tio Toño's still-elegant appearance, there was little more than skin and bones. He looked at his uncle, who held his gaze.

  "I wasn't going to tell you for a day or two. I didn't want to spoil your time here. I've not got long, perhaps a month, perhaps three. The doctors don't explain, other than to apologise because there's little they can do. At almost eighty, it is a little premature by the averages, but anyhow, come in. Find your usual room and join me for a drink. That, at least, I can do. Eating has become a trial."

  Davide's shock wrote itself all over his face. He tried to hide it, but couldn't.

  Tio Toño laughed. "I'm not dead yet." He coughed.

  Davide helped him back to his chair on the terrace and hurried to his bedroom. He dumped his case and hastened back to his uncle, who had a bottle of white wine – a white Burgundy, no less.

  "I have a couple of cases of this left. Montrachet. It needs to be drunk, so you must help me."

  Davide opened it and poured them each a glass. They savoured its full, rich bouquet. This was a triple treat after all the Greek wines, including the Assyrtiko. It was in a different league.

  "As you know, you and I are the last in our family to survive. My will leaves you this house and the apartment in Madrid. You may have to sell one to pay the taxes. That's up to you. If you want a recommendation, I'd sell this place and refresh Madrid with any monies left after the tax man has carved off his share. Marbella isn't what it was."

  "I'll try to keep both, in your memory."

  "Don't worry about my memory. I had intended to leave these to your now long dead mother."

  "Thank you. What would you like me to do over the next week or however long you want me to stay?"

  "Just keep this old man company as he shrivels. That's more than enough. If you must leave for business, don't hesitate."

  "I can stay. I want to. And I need your advice or at least thoughts."

  "You do?"

  Davide explained. Tio Toño perked up at the suggestion he might help one last time. He pointed to his glass. Davide refilled it. Then they talked.

  Several days later, blackmailed by tio Toño, he'd called Inma. At first, Inma declined to provide a location for Ana. He'd pressed. She'd relented and emailed an address for a place he'd never heard of near Muro de Alcoi.

  After that, Inma would say no more, however hard he pushed. Instead she switched to talk about her business and how she needed a dose of his insights, if he was available over the next few weeks. She wanted him to assess whether they should chase a new line of business Lili had identified, re-insurance of commercial blockchain providers. Did the technology have substance or was it hype and an overcooked risk?

  Davide contained his amusement. From what Inma said, he might have a part time consulting assignment in Spain, where he could commute when necessary to Madrid yet remain with tio Toño as the latter slipped away. It was as good as he could imagine.

  He and Inma fleshed out more details. His surprise lay in how much she knew, until she let slip she'd been an early Bitcoin miner. He tried to persuade her to elucidate.

  "Perhaps one day. But for sure not over a phone. It would take too long and you might laugh at me."

  With that strange comment, she'd ended the call.

  Now he neared Muro de Alcoi on the edges of the Sierra de Mariola. Tio Toño had kicked him out, forcing him to go and find Ana. He'd resisted and failed.

  The old brute might be close to his end but, given a cause, he could dredge up a caustic tongue. They'd argued. The disagreements had flowed, though his uncle did express remorse about raising his now-unfounded allegation of consanguinity between Ana and Davide.

  Tio Toño couldn't comprehend Davide's reluctance. When he was honest with himself, Davide couldn't either. In the end, it'd been simplest to capitulate.

  He found the farm from the directions Inma had given him. Two aged olive trees stood astride a rough road which disappeared around a bend in the olive grove saturated hills. He drove past the twin trees, staying on the public road.

  Did he want to drive up unannounced? Tio Toño had insisted he should. He was emphatic Davide needed to decide about Ana. Until Davide knew, he wouldn't progress.

  The irritant was, tio Toño was right. Yet that did not soothe Davide's nerves. He'd twitched the whole six hours driving here. Once he turned through those two old olive trees serving as a gate, he would pass the point of no return...

  Nicosia (Cyprus)

  Ioannis, Archbishop of Nova Justiniana and All Cyprus, luxuriated on his terrace and delighted in his view over the Old Town. The cranes over his now-destroyed Palace pirouetted and danced to move his vision forward. A sense of fulfilment descended, as if the Good Lord blessed his endeavours.

  Later in the week, he would host a dinner. It would celebrate another stage finished – the completion of the foundation piles. This had taken longer than he'd hoped, which explained the two postponements of the dinner.

  Though he found it hard to constrain his impatience, both Vasilios and Eleni had insisted the piling must be done with precision. They had a fixation on method and quality, and they'd warned him. If the foundation was not right, he might find himself famed for founding a building like the Millennium Tower.

  When he'd pressed, they'd shocked him witless. A new $700 million building in San Francisco had sunk 40 centimetres in the first few years after completion. At its top, it now angled off upright by almost as much. Vasilios and Eleni had called it the 'Tilting Tower'. They'd likened it to the Leaning Tower of Pisa, except there was a danger the city would declare the 'Tilting Tower' unfit for human habitation within a decade.

  They did not convince him until Nikos produced printouts from architectural and engineering journals to support the accuracy of their fears. After all his fights with central government and local authorities, the last result he desired was memorialisation by an edifice visibly out of kilter and expected to collapse. That would be a tombstone too far.

  This kicked off another set of memories. Shortly after his enthronement, he had persuaded Vasilios and Eleni to commence the detailed work on 'his project', unknown to her uncle. Eleni was ahead. She'd always known of his spirit's desire, although neither father nor daughter had thought it could ever become a reality. She'd continued, on and off, to research the topic and, using information and three-dimensional representations she'd bought on the Internet, she'd begun – using her o
wn words – to construct an architectural model on her computer in her own time.

  Her fun, or so she claimed, came with turning the research into a Computer Aided Design framework. When he gave the go-ahead, she was ready, though Vasilios was incredulous. Best of all, she'd ruminated on innovations to accelerate the building process while containing the cost.

  The main inhibitor was where to locate his dream. He'd determined it must be in Nicosia's Old Town and must tower over the original Lusignan ex-Cathedral, which had been a mosque since the Ottomen overran Nicosia in 1570. His monument must dominate its locale, including the Green Line dividing the Old Town.

  In an ideal world, his first choice would have exploited the dead space between the two communities. Without a deal to unify Cyprus, this was a non-starter, and he had to remember the mines and other ordnance which lay unexploded as reminders of the bitter 1974 street battles.

  His second target had been to the west of his Archbishop's Palace. There was plenty enough space, but the Nicosia council had begun a brand-new headquarters before his elevation. Discreet enquiries demonstrated to him there was no chance of the council agreeing to a change of purpose.

  To the east of the Palace lay the Pancyprian Gymnasium, the prestigious high school founded in 1812. This had more than sufficient space. Better, it stood near the Famagusta Gate and his building would look spectacular rising above the Venetian city walls. That was until Vasilios, an alumnus, destroyed his hopes when he reminded his brother that the land and buildings on which the school stood belonged to a government commission which had nothing to do with education; it devoted itself to the maintenance and upkeep of the Pancyprian Gymnasium and other schools. There wasn't a chance it would surrender such a distinguished site, irrespective of whether the Church provided new and roomier space elsewhere for the school from its land portfolio.