Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  He pulled out his guidebook. This was the Monastery of Panagia Apsinthiotissa, dating from the twelfth century. Its state was shameful. He would ask Eleni about it. She might know more.

  Its unexpectedness hit him.

  The word he'd been trying to avoid.

  Eleni.

  He'd been happy to buy her dinner. He'd enjoyed flirting with her – until she had reminded him he wanted her help. His jollity had vanished as he described his discomfort, his fears, about his previous work in Limassol. To her credit, she'd sympathised with a warmth he'd relished.

  Then she'd turned flinty. For her help, and better than hers, that of the Archbishop, there would be a price. She hadn't named it.

  He'd had little choice but to agree. He'd do anything to ensure no exposure in the future. It was why he'd stayed in Cyprus. To find a long-term local solution.

  The uncertainty of what might be Eleni's price preoccupied him. Would it be monetary? Or would it be something else? The easy comfort at the dinner's start had evaporated. Though, if he was honest with himself, there'd always been the hint of some additional agenda on Eleni's part.

  Sat on a wall which overlooked Panagia Apsinthiotissa, he accepted he'd sought assistance from a predator. The question was: what sort? Had he jumped, or been pushed, from one sinking ship onto the decks of another where the crew waited to strip him clean?

  Since that dinner, he'd minimised the time spent alone with Eleni. Most days, this was practical. Yet she was his client and boss. Uneasiness persisted. A day of reckoning was imminent, probably as soon as her need for his professional skills passed.

  Madrid (Spain)

  Down the steps from his uncle's piso, and shortly to be his, Davide headed for a local cafe he'd always relished. It was bright, modern with good coffee. Best of all, its tostadas were first class, with an ever-changing selection of the best olive oils accompanied by ground fresh tomato and basil. With Wi-Fi, it acted like an extra office, one where he could relax.

  He extracted his laptop. Connected, he cycled through his emails and the news sites he reviewed every day. There was only one email of significance, from a person whom he'd not expected to hear from: Cardinal da Ferraz. Intriguing and cryptic.

  'If you want a similar project, although with different objectives, send an email to the address below. All you need say is if you are interested, or not. It would be in Cyprus. Nelson.'

  This was a surprise. Cardinals did not send emails, nor sign with their given names. He would have expected any communication to come via the Cardinal's assistant, Father Federico.

  Did he want to return to the Eastern Mediterranean so soon? No, not really. The time in Athens and Ydra was too recent. Yet he knew he was running on empty. Almost a week since the memorial service, he'd just about completed the required 'thank yous' and acknowledgements to all who attended or had written.

  He sipped his coffee, brought without him ordering. The staff recognised him, especially the redheaded waitress who, he suspected, had been one of Emilia's many conquests. She'd never said as much. But she ensured he had what he needed. He appreciated the attention and tipped her well.

  Cyprus? He knew little about it. Except what Kjersti had told him after the memorial mass, and her perceptions were coloured by her extreme running. He'd never possessed any desire to visit. Yet he would have to think about Nelson's email. It might distract, though there were Inma's blockchain questions to consider.

  He cast back to the restaurante after the Mass. When he and Ángela had entered, he hadn't any notion of what to expect. Without time for his imagination to run riot, he'd simply acquiesced in all that was asked of him.

  His arrival was greeted respectfully and with a warmth which haunted him. Tio Toño would have delighted to be there. From complete strangers, he listened to anecdotes about his uncle. Most were entertaining, some sad and all-revealing. Others did the work for him, guiding him through the throng. He had only to pay attention, plus stand to speak a few words of public thanks.

  Judge Garibey de Williams, who demanded Davide use Rafa, was a fund of information. He and his uncle had been of the generation to qualify as lawyers at the tail end of Franco's tyranny. They were of the left and had rejoiced as Spain rejoined the wider world. After several amusing stories, Rafa introduced him to another of his uncle's lawyer generation, a Cayetano Delafuente. From him, he learnt about tio Toño's two disappointments, the first being the death of his uncle's beloved younger sister, Davide's mother. Rather than consume more of Davide's time recounting the second, Señor Delafuente pressed a business card on Davide and insisted they lunch together. He turned to Rafa with "and you will join us?".

  More names and faces flashed by. He recalled asking himself if he would remember all he was told. Then, with no overt signal, people left. In minutes he was left with Ángela, Inma and Kjersti.

  "You did well, Davide. You earned what your uncle used to call 'brownie points' with the leftest Madrid cognoscenti."

  "Did I?"

  "Absolutely. Just ask Inma? We watched you. Anyhow, I'll leave you with her and Kjersti. See you in the piso tomorrow."

  "What? You don't need to come."

  "Your uncle pre-paid me a year in advance. You don't lose me so easily. Just so you remember, Toño has paid for today. No need to worry on that score."

  Ángela smiled and kissed him on both cheeks before offering the same to Inma and Kjersti. She collected her coat and slipped away. With her, there was never a hassle.

  "I suggest we try somewhere else." Inma had broken his concentration, or lack of it. Tiredness and emotional exhaustion had crept forward. "Would you prefer my place or...?"

  "I'm in your hands. I've no energy to take any initiative."

  "Okay, Kjersti, let's take him round the corner."

  In a wine bar he'd passed but never noticed before, Inma and Kjersti had fussed over him. Once the three were comfortable with glasses of Cava, Kjersti took the lead.

  "Ana sends her apologies and her regrets. She wanted to come. For you."

  Kjersti hesitated. She wasn't sure how to phrase this, despite practising for hours. She and Inma had agreed beforehand she was the more objective and so could better convey the bitter truth.

  "For reasons you well know, she didn't bear your uncle much goodwill. She still blames him, and probably always will, for parting the pair of you. Your point at her finca, that she wouldn't have her inheritance without his consanguinity accusation and then the researches and legal advice of Señor Delafuente, hit home. She may have resented it for its accuracy. I still think she's torn between what she thought you and she had and what she now has. It's complicated."

  Davide's brain began to catch up.

  "I met a Señor Delafuente today. The same?"

  "Yes," chorused Inma and Kjersti.

  "A coincidence? He didn't mention Ana, though he did invite me to lunch."

  Inma took over. "Client privilege, I suspect; especially in front of others. Anyhow what are you going to do? Have you any idea? On a selfish note, will you still be able to provide me with the consulting we discussed?"

  Inma's face displayed a level of personal concern which bowled Davide over. In the past, Inma had presented detachment, although she'd trusted him in that police car to Madrid so long ago.

  It was what he respected about her: she could be friendly and avoid the personal. Like himself.

  "I don't know. Space and time to absorb are what I need. I'm wrung out; like a demented dishrag."

  "Do you run?" came a non-sequitur from Kjersti.

  "A little. Not well and not recently."

  "Aaaah. Then tomorrow morning, join me?"

  "I wouldn't if I were you," counselled Inma. "She's a freak."

  "I promise not to kill you. But I'll reintroduce you to your endorphins. Inma pointed out a big park called the Casa de Campo. Do you know it? Let's go there. Yes?"

  The Casa de Campo? What an irony, though neither Kjersti nor Inma would know it. It seemed, i
f not Inma then Kjersti or Ángela was intent on shaping his short-term future. Davide acquiesced. At that specific instant, he'd not minded.

  He reopened Nelson's email to confirm his interest. He'd expended too much emotional energy in the weeks since his arrival found tio Toño dying. To escape Madrid was a priority. Cyprus might work, if it wasn't for too long. He assumed he could support Inma's business from afar. He would inform Ana where he was.

  He wrote a short email, doing as Nelson had indicated. He hit the 'Send' key and began to speculate on what might happen next. He hoped it would be without excitement.

  Muro de Alcoi (Spain)

  Kjersti pulled on her shorts for her now daily late morning run. She looked at herself in the mirror. Less fat than before with the same minimal bust. But that had to do with the targets she was setting herself. To keep in shape for the rest of the Trek was urgent, given Costas's announcement that he was back in training. She was pleased for him, and with herself for remaining here with Ana though it wasn't clear to her whether Ana was so enamoured. Too bad.

  Before she headed out, she checked her laptop. She'd written another five thousand words that morning. She was well past half way with her recollections of the olive fly plague. Tomorrow, she had three half-hour phone interviews lined up. That should set the seal on the original research. If all continued as now, she should finish her first draft in the next ten days. Then the tiresome stage arrived – working through every word, sentence and chapter – revising and shrinking the prose to become compact.

  Downstairs, she checked the library for Ana. There was no sign of her. Just Alfonso ladling books from his trolley onto bookshelves. By his own estimation, he'd less than a week before he finished. She bade him an abrupt good-day, which he acknowledged with a shake of his head. They didn't get on.

  Kjersti wasn't bothered, though she was surprised. With most people, she could form a connection. Not with Alfonso. Not really with Inma. They were no longer enemies, but were short on friendliness.

  Outside the farmhouse, she trotted towards the slopes of the Sierra de Mariola. Ahead was a long climb of about ten kilometres before the gradient eased. After that, she would undulate through the hills on deserted roads and some tracks. This covered a tough route she'd devised for herself. The total distance was around thirty-one kilometres, including the final sharp descent. At no point did she repeat any stretch, except the final sweep along the camino back into the finca.

  Clear of the twin olive trees on guard at the entrance, she upped her pace as the road turned into the hills. If she raised her eyes she would see her first destination, a distant col. In her experience, it was better not to look, though this was her fourth or fifth time on the circuit. Instead she preferred to lean into the rise and wait for bliss's grasp when the long climb finished. If she attained the flow today, she had much to consider. For one, the current book on the fly plague begged inspiration. It was dull, too much of a recitation of facts than the telling of a tale to draw readers in. Critical of others, she applied the same exacting regimen to herself.

  Step, after step, after step, after step. Any bounce was long gone. She panted at the effort. The climb was long and steep. She thought of cyclists and the odd occasion when she'd watched a Tour de France mountain stage. How they coped was beyond her, especially when one or two riders broke away. She had seen the agony as they thrust down on their pedals to propel their bikes upward and forward.

  Without noticing, she crested a small rise. Less than a kilometre later, she was flying. The change in pace dropped her into the flow. She quivered, with sweat soaking her top, at the pleasure. Her mind detached. She let it roam where it willed...

  A first thought floated up. Why not make the geek-like María the book's centrepiece? She'd resisted. Her justification was she'd already described María's role in a published article. But the human interest factor was there, along with María's obsession about devising an answer to the fly eggs implanted in the olives. Plus, there was the romantic edge, with her pursuit of Enrique. María would make a good fulcrum, the heroine flailing to defeat the crooked Estonian-Russians and their olive fly allies while stalking her man.

  The more she contemplated this, the better the impression. The linkages would need effort, because María was the outsider. Every olive grower had faced the plague. The concept was sound. Kjersti's intuition was it should work.

  She parked the idea and moved on.

  Next to bubble up was Ana. Kjersti hadn't a clue here. Ana had shut herself off after Davide appeared and, within minutes, disappeared.

  No matter how hard she and Inma had collaborated to persuade Ana to accompany them to Madrid and the memorial service, Ana had been adamant in her refusal. Kjersti couldn't work out if it was Davide's uncle or Davide who sustained her resistance. In the end, she and Inma had despaired. They'd driven off together early one morning to be in Madrid in time for the Mass.

  On Kjersti's return, Ana had been as friendly as normal. Yet their bond had unravelled in some ill-defined manner. Kjersti missed it.

  Inma? The good part was she'd obtained the interview from Inma as Inma drove them towards Madrid. She and Inma still irritated each other. Except they could also forget this when they discussed something which intrigued them both. Like the olive fly plague origins. Or Ana. Or Ana and Davide.

  Davide was a different kettle of fish. She recognised a quality to him, presumably what Ana saw in him. Kjersti experienced the occasional stab of envy at the closeness between Inma and Davide. Did she like him? She wasn't sure. He'd been unexpected good company in the Casa de Campo, more willing to tolerate her challenges than she'd expected. She could respect his English reserve, much like her native Norwegians. But she hadn't quite clicked with him. That might be because of his uncle's death. Or it might be him.

  Was she tempted to make a pass at him, if only to see what happened? She had promised herself not to, at least until he and Ana had decided. She probably would never meet him again if what Ana said was accurate; he'd disappear on another international assignment and evaporate.

  She almost fell. Absorbed in the reverie of her flow, she'd failed to anticipate the descent towards the finca, where it became steep. Stupid. She must take care. To sprawl here risked severe injury. That she couldn't afford.

  Deceleration dropped her out of the flow. That was inevitable, when she had to concentrate on where she placed her feet. Good had come from today's training session; good beyond maintenance of her fitness.

  She took another decision.

  She'd stay a couple of days more.

  Then she'd fly to Oslo.

  It was time to resume a normal life. Helga and Freja would celebrate when she was back home. They could party again.

  Outside Paphos (Cyprus)

  Father Georghios concluded the service in the small church of his own name. He had no faithful in attendance today. This wasn't unusual for a weekday in this isolated location. It was one of several minor churches where he tried to provide a service at least once a fortnight. The difficulty: people were too busy trying to survive. The Cypriot financial crash years earlier left many scrabbling to earn enough to pay the bills and eat.

  This wasn't helped by electricity prices which gouged everyone after a previous government's seizure of a significant quantity of explosives from a foreign freighter. That government had stored the explosives at a naval base close to the island's primary power station. Unwilling to accept external assistance, or admit it lacked the necessary expertise to make them safe, inaction saw the ordnance deteriorate and then explode in one of the largest non-nuclear explosions since World War II. This killed several people and knocked out the power station, most of which required rebuilding. The consequence: some of the highest electricity costs in Europe and universal suffering for many months from an inadequate electricity supply.

  Back home, he greeted Evdokia with a fond kiss. She was his gift from God. When she'd agreed to marry a man five years' younger who'd already chosen the
priesthood, it had been, to him, a miracle. Her parents weren't happy then, and not much now – irrespective of his reduced prices for family christenings or funerals. Nothing changed.

  Years after their wedding, he'd found out she'd had a different, or at least parallel, justification. She'd been a firebrand whose behaviour had attracted the attention of the authorities. Advised to seek refuge away from the island, she'd preferred to marry a conservative pillar of society, an aspirant priest – himself.

  This was ingenious. Hiding her left-wing enthusiasms behind his clerical ryasa had asserted her conversion to love and motherhood. He accepted her improbable protestation and, with time, the authorities lost interest. Ten years later, they had the love but no motherhood. They couldn't have children.

  Despite, perhaps because of, their disappointment, her enthusiasm for social and environmental causes re-awoke. She'd infected him. From being a dour reactionary in black, he'd become a rare figure in the Cypriot Orthodox priesthood, one who asserted his people's rights and assisted his flock.

  It was no surprise, except to him, when an annual TV competition voted him the 'Island's Best Parish Priest'. His parishioners were fervent in their support. This was what counted. It explained why they'd deputed him to assail the Archbishop about what they saw as the Archbishop's criminally expensive ego-monument.

  For a long time, Georghios had been insecure about whether Evdokia reciprocated his love of her, or whether it was a pretence to maintain the cover he provided. In contrast, he'd never had doubts about his love for her.

  Those past days of uncertainty no longer existed. He swept her up in a big hug, amazed at all she brought him. This included simple, decent meals cooked with local ingredients. It was all they could afford. The Cypriot Orthodox Church did not pay parish priests well, unlike others further up the clerical ladder. This explained why they possessed an ancient unreliable motorbike and sidecar for travel. She never complained when she had to carry the shopping home on her lap.