His third option lay to the north of the Palace. Though the Church owned several buildings here, the space was barely sufficient for what he envisaged. 100 by 120 metres was the minimum. The killer factor became gentrification: many owners had refurbished old buildings and expressed extreme reluctance to sell. His advice was it would take only one refusenik to stymie everything. In addition, the Nicosia local government, apprised of his ambitions, had turned cold and negative. They'd wanted nothing to do with his pretensions.
For a while he'd deflated. He'd diverted Vasilios and Eleni onto more pressing Church work. Then inspiration struck.
There was one location in the Old Town large enough where no one could object. It'd been so obvious, yet nobody had raised it, not even his brother or his niece. In one sense, it was brazen in its audacity. Now he simpered at his chutzpah. When told, Vasilios and Eleni had gawped like stunned frogs.
His idea, which no-one could deny him, was the demolition of his own Archbishop's Palace. This released the space. With one minor purchase, it was perfect.
He cackled to himself at the horror of the council. They could do nothing to prevent the razing of his Palace. As Archbishop, he controlled it and, while alive and head of the Church, could do as he willed if it was in the name of the Church. The pleasure at their dismay rippled through him again and again.
Discussions had taken their time and toll. But, so long as he agreed to leave his existing cathedral untouched, the tiny Agios Ioannis, he'd received both go-ahead and opprobrium. He didn't care.
His dream superseded trivial local considerations. His was a project of international significance, a re-rendering unto God what was His due. There was no other way to think about it.
He heard a discreet tap on the window separating the salon from the balcony. Nikos followed.
"Your guests are here, Your Beatitude. Shall I show them onto the terrace? Or would you rather greet them inside?"
Archbishop Ioannis made an instinctive decision. Inside was neutral. With a business meeting of this importance, there could be no distractions.
Muro de Alcoi (Spain)
Friday morning. Ana felt fractured. Kjersti was like that. Everything swirled like a squad of mad dervishes around her. In defence, Alfonso had retreated to her books and squeezed the door shut on Kjersti, as if to convey an entreaty for peace and quiet.
Almost from the moment she and Kjersti had arrived back from the airport, Kjersti had been on the go. Only the first evening had been, relatively, soothing. Tired from the travel from Cyprus, Kjersti had offered little more than a cursory admiration for the library. She did, however, rise to interrogating Alfonso over dinner about the books.
When asked about her impressions of Cyprus, she launched into an account of the Troodos Trek which would have fatigued anybody. To have done what she'd accomplished must have been hell. Alfonso had leaked exhaustion when at last they'd headed to bed.
The next morning, Kjersti had dragged Ana out on a run. That way, Kjersti had justified, she would see the general area and design runs to keep herself in shape in case Costas recovered faster than anticipated. Ana, whose fondness for running was minimal, had endured almost two hours of the type of exertion she hoped never to repeat.
Back at the house and showered, Kjersti had next demanded the house tour and then an examination of the architect's plans. To Ana's surprise, Kjersti could read these: it emerged she'd spent a student summer working unpaid in a small architects' firm where the partners indulged those who displayed an interest. Noting Kjersti's ability, they'd attempted to attract her to an architecture degree, then join them afterwards. Kjersti wasn't persuaded. Her sights were set broader.
To Ana's pleasure, Kjersti had argued for improvements. Many resembled ones Ana herself wanted. Her architect's conservatism had resisted. In a fit of naughtiness she'd lured the architect over and sat back to savour Kjersti's technique. She'd bulldozed the poor man as she exerted every wile in her manual of getting her own way.
The dazed architect yielded. He agreed to place revisions in train, including a different bedroom and bathroom suite for herself. Better still, this would overlook the Sierra and her precious SHD grove. It was what Ana'd wanted, but the architect had raised practical objections, now trampled on by Kjersti.
Ana grinned to herself. She was becoming more Enrique-like by the day, as Kjersti had noted in an acid aside. It was still only Kjersti's first full day. At dinner she'd grilled Alfonso further.
On the second day, Kjersti had disappeared for a 'short' jog. Four hours of calm followed. This imploded when Kjersti had complained volubly about the shower pressure. That was another negative about having her here. Ana had to share her bathroom. She couldn't oblige Alfonso to share with Kjersti; or was it the other way around?
That evening, she'd spared Alfonso his third interrogation. She and Kjersti had gone out to dinner. Before they set out, Alfonso had wished Ana an agreeable meal and expressed his gratitude.
Alone in a local restaurante the pair had reviewed all that had overtaken them since they solved the corrupt origin of the Andalucía olive fly plague. As the evening progressed, Ana had realised that Kjersti was more troubled than she let on. She couldn't work out why. Kjersti had resisted her probes.
Their discussion about her own reasoning for ignoring Davide had cemented her conviction that her instinct to move here had been right. Kjersti had reinforced it although she was incredulous at the 'denial of Davide'.
Over their final copa, Kjersti had expanded. She'd told of her terror of writing a novel. Either book about the olive fruit fly plague was, by comparison, child's play. No big deal.
"Just a longer form of investigative reportage. In fact, I have most of the research done. All I need is new supporting interviews. I know most of those players already. The one problem I anticipate will be Inma. She's never disguised how much she would like to eviscerate me."
Then Kjersti had rambled. Ana had tried to return to the novel. Why was Kjersti so afraid?
Out had tumbled two immediate reasons. Could she write anything anybody would want to read? Would it shutter her career as an investigative journalist?
There'd been a long pause.
Ana had waited. She'd intuited the third reason might be about Kjersti's fear of what she might reveal about herself. Kjersti had said nothing so Ana hinted at this.
She'd known in an instant this was what bothered Kjersti. Kjersti was open and public one moment, yet private to an extreme the next. The contrast was a major part of why Ana liked Kjersti.
They'd agreed it was time to head home. They promised to talk more. At least they'd exposed the issue.
Kjersti had dropped her next bombshell at breakfast. Would Ana like her to stay to help supervise the reform of the house? She could use the opportunity to see what she could write.
Ana had needed to reassemble herself from her own astonishment. Kjersti as a long-term visitor was a shocking idea. She fluffed her response to Kjersti.
Kjersti, it had then become clear, had been expecting an immediate and positive welcome for her suggested sojourn. When this hadn't come, she'd disappeared to run, offended. How could Ana not be delirious?
Ana's phone rang. It was the architect. Could he drop by late afternoon with some reworked designs? She confirmed the appointment. He would distract Kjersti. Her phone rang again. Inma. Reluctantly she accepted the call.
"Ana: I'm glad I've caught you. You don't mind if I come this weekend? I've an appointment in Albacete today and I'm already on my way. Albacete's close to you, isn't it? That something I must share with you. I can't contain it any longer."
Ana, taken aback, hesitated. Inma restarted.
"Would it be possible?"
Ana's essential good nature cut in. Besides, something was desperate in Inma's voice. Ana agreed. They disconnected.
Where would Inma stay? The second spare room would have to do. She couldn't turf Alfonso out of his bedroom. Then it hit her. Kjersti was already in
the second spare room.
She grasped for the back of a chair. Inma and Kjersti together under her roof? What might happen? Alfonso inserted himself into her frantic analysis of the possibilities.
"My daughter presses me to visit. I haven't since I came here. Would you mind if I took a few days away? I'll come back late next week to finish?"
"Of course, I wouldn't mind. You've done so much. Can I assist you in any way?"
"Thank you, no. I'll just pack what I have. I'll head off as soon as I'm organised."
Alfonso headed up the stone stairs before turning back to Ana.
"Your Norwegian friend is charming. Yet she tires me. Don't let her exhaust you. Offer her a puddle and she will collar an ocean. Or two. She's that sort of person."
Ana nodded in silent acceptance of his warning. She couldn't agree more. She didn't have the heart to tell Alfonso of Kjersti's suggestion she stay to write and run. He might never come back.
Alfonso's departure produced a solution. If Inma stayed only this weekend, she could use Alfonso's room. That would solve the accommodation problem without opening up another bedroom. Relief arrived to be squashed as Kjersti appeared in the hall, dripping with sweat.
The smile on Kjersti's face reassured Ana. Strenuous exercise had restored Kjersti's good humour, though she would lose it once she learnt of Inma's imminent arrival. Ana bit the bullet and relayed the bad news.
Kjersti's reaction astonished Ana. She took it in her stride and made only one comment of substance before heading to the feeble shower: "That would give me the opportunity to interview her for the olive fly plague book."
Ana shook her head in dismay. No one could predict anything when Kjersti was involved.
Kjersti interrupted Ana's thoughts for the second time. She called down from half-way up the stone staircase. Had this become a pulpit for her guests to lecture her? Would Inma do the same?
"By the way there's a car parked on the road near the turn into the finca's approach camino. If we'd been in Madrid I'd have sworn the driver looked like your refused man. You know: Davide."
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Eleni mumbled to herself as she entered more detail into her computer. The design of her uncle's bell tower, the Kampanarió, was coming together, if only in an AutoCAD version on her computer screen. Her next task would be to create a realistic model using the 3D printer Stephane had ordered a couple of weeks before.
Selecting a drop-down menu item with her mouse, she sat back to contemplate the wireframe. When that finished she chose a different action, to start the calculations needed to review a solid 3D view. She would traverse this at least once more before committing the design to the 3D printer.
While she waited for the computation, she considered Stephane. He was almost handsome, and a charming enigma. From when she'd hired him, with her father's reluctant agreement, he'd done everything she's asked and without a hint of fuss.
Within a few days, the practice's systems ran with a smoothness not known for years. She now had access to a brand-new version of AutoCAD with invoices arriving related to when she used it. He had told her it was in a cloud. That meant nothing to her, other than its cost savings were welcome. Her new monitor was twice as big as before. The second-hand 3D printer, which Stephane sourced from Italy, had arrived two days earlier. He'd installed it yesterday.
Her one quibble with him concerned this printer. She'd wanted new. He's argued for a second-hand one, which she considered too small. She'd protested. His response was to smile that infernal lopsided grin which irritated her no end.
Then he'd described a technique which broke down the tower into separate stages, 'floors' he'd called them. These would print as separate tasks which she could stick to together as each floor completed. Next, he'd shown her how to print two floors at a time, side-by-side. It emerged he'd chosen this 3D printer not for the height it could assemble, as she wished, but for the size of its base and the efficiency with which several items could print in parallel.
He was smug at her annoyance. But he was way ahead of her. She hadn't imagined the practical benefits this produced. As he'd put it, she'd be able to run two or more printing shifts. She could print overnight. The next morning she would find two floors finished. Two more floors could materialise during the day with another two each following night. With eight of his 'floors' she would complete in a couple of days, rather than the week she'd forecast using her own method.
He was now applying his relaxed computing superiority to further improvements to their systems. He was producing more from less, with a financial impact that cheered her father. Yet he was maddeningly opaque.
She'd invited him out to dinner; he'd declined. A suggestion of lunch brought another refusal: he was too busy. She's proposed the gym and swimming pool. To her shock, he'd accepted both. Except that, as soon as they arrived, he did his own thing. He claimed not to socialise when he exercised.
This infuriated her.
By comparison to Xerxes, her wastrel soon-not-to-be husband who'd been adept in the gym where she'd picked him up when he was her personal trainer, Stephane was streets ahead. His routine with weights awed the gym staff. In the pool he was not graceful nor fast as a swimmer. She would easily outswim him up and down the pool. But his butterfly astonished. He dragged his body through the water with a force that was inelegant, brutal and effective.
Her admiration made no difference. He ignored her in his relentless quest for fitness.
More annoying was a side effect of the pool. She had, from their first meeting, thought him fit, especially for someone of his age. When she'd seen him only in swimming trunks, she'd had to drag her eyes away. He wasn't slim, but he was all toned muscle. She understood why, once she'd seen that raw butterfly barging its way along, mocking the water for its feeble resistance. As he resisted her overtures.
The 3D model of her tower rendered the final sections on her screen. She made herself concentrate. One by one, she examined each face for visual imbalances or design faults. The Venetian walls of the Old Town were based on an eleven-sided polygon, in Greek a hendecagon. She'd emulated this, but made each face distinctive by combining common pieces in diverse ways which repeated only on select faces. Each complete face was to be unique. It had taken hours of doodling before she reached for her keyboard and mouse.
After two hours of intricate inspection, she could find no obvious errors. It was time to print. Using the technique which Stephane had introduced, she instructed the software to carve off the first two 'floors'. She sent them to the printer. Nothing happened. She tried again. Still nothing.
Exasperated, she overrode her reluctance to call Stephane. She opened her mobile phone and cycled through to his number. He answered on the first ring. She explained from afar.
He laughed.
Her annoyance heightened. As if he comprehended, he promised to be with her within the hour. They hung up.
She seethed.
Had he sold her a pup, a 3D printer that wouldn't work? It had yesterday. He'd demonstrated with a shape downloaded from a maker network.
Perhaps he would have to go.
She'd dismiss him.
Her father wouldn't object. Stephane's savings almost covered the payments for his work, but not quite. Stephane wasn't cheap.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes had passed. At least another fifty minutes to go, if he kept his promise. A Cypriot who said an hour would arrive an hour and a half later, if she was lucky. She stamped her foot, only to find she was wearing heels. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had she decided on these today?
As she cursed herself, in he sauntered with his typical sardonic smirk. He was here in less than fifteen minutes, though he'd said an hour. Was this to provoke her?
"What's the problem?"
Her temptation was to say: 'You'. She swallowed the impulse.
"The 3D printer's not working. See!"
He stood over her shoulder as she selected the Print option. He nodded when nothing happe
ned. He checked her computer. All was well. He checked the printer. Nothing there.
Finally, he went to a box he'd referred to yesterday as a switch. She hadn't asked about its significance.
He pressed a button. Lights stuttered on. Soon after the 3D printer wailed its additive whine.
"You pressed a button?"
"I did."
Stephane's French-accented English arrived in the calmest of tones. His restraint inflamed Eleni.
"It does help if the switch has power."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I did. You weren't paying attention. I thought I'd let you find out the hard way. After all, what'll you do when I'm gone?"
Eleni's eyes dispatched daggers. They made no impression.
Yet...
Stephane had a hint of embarrassment in his expression, perhaps self-consciousness. She restrained herself. Perhaps a minute passed before he spoke.
"Could I consult you about something? About something Cypriot I don't understand?"
Eleni hesitated. Did she want to help him? She heard her voice independently exercise its own opinion.
"Only if you take me out to dinner."
Muro de Alcoi (Spain)
"What did you say?" Ana was beside herself. Why did Kjersti never stop stirring? It was rare when she left well alone.
"Only that I'd have sworn the driver looked like your refused man. Nothing more."
"You're a selfish cow. How could it be? He's not in this country, never mind in the wilds of nowhere like here. He doesn't know where I am."
"In fact, he does."
Ana was taken aback by Inma's voice from behind her. She hadn't heard Inma arrive. Ana's eyes swivelled from Kjersti on the stairs to Inma.
"What? How?"
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 10