When he'd telephoned her in Oslo to resume the Trek, she'd been incredulous. Costas forced her to eat her disbelief, by sending video clips of himself striding up long inclines and over the hills. With those clips, he'd blackmailed her to fly back with her Trek gear. She couldn't object, especially as those long sessions in the Sierra de Mariola had ensured she remained in peak shape.
Today he'd demonstrated his recovery in person. He'd galloped the 35 kilometres to Nicosia from the point where the car had knocked him sprawling, and in a time not far short of her own. After shadowing him from his car, the back-up if the test proved too much, it was clear he was ready to resume.
She sat in silence in her hotel's bar in Strovolos. She'd dropped Costas at his parents' house to shower. He would rejoin her as soon as he finished. He'd earned a drink. Meanwhile, with her tablet, she caught up with the world. Little was happening, at least of specific interest to her. The Trek wouldn't interfere.
"Kjersti? Is it really you?"
She looked up to find Iphi before her. She waved to the chair opposite. Iphi made herself comfortable.
"You look good. I like the black outfit. It suits you. Have you lost weight? What about Aris?"
Iphi blushed with pleasure. Then she accused. "Why didn't you tell me you were back, or coming back? Have I offended you?"
"Not at all. I liked your 'scoop', despite its excessive flattery. A neat interpretation of our conversation and thank you for translating it for me."
"You're doing your usual. Redirecting the subject away from what I want to talk about. You always do it. Why didn't you let me know you were back? Is it to do with Costas and the Trek? Or do you have an investigation going? Where are you staying? Here?"
"That's way too many questions. Yes, here. Yes, I am back because Costas is ready to resume the Trek. Today he ran from his accident spot into Nicosia. He did well. I'm waiting for him now."
"Wasn't he in a dreadful state when you last saw him?"
"He was. The injuries, however, turned out to be superficial, less serious than we thought. He's made a great recovery. If anything he's fitter than before he fell, though I found it hard to accept. He proved me wrong today."
"When do you restart? Do you have a date?"
"Probably the day after tomorrow. We plan to pass from the South to the North via the Ledra Palace crossing."
Iphi pulled a face. Her expression communicated a problem. Kjersti couldn't work out why? She asked.
"Only UN vehicles and cars with diplomatic plates can cross the Green Line at the Ledra Palace. My motorbike doesn't qualify. We'll have to join up once you are over. In any case I'll need to double check with my editor that I should continue to track the pair of you. How long will we need?"
"About a week, assuming no more accidents. If we make the schedule, five days to Apostolos Andreas plus one to return. Will Aris join you? Any progress with him?"
Iphi coloured a second time. She charmed Kjersti with her bashfulness, rare in a hardened journalist.
"So... Tell me. What's happened?"
"I did as you suggested."
"As in?"
"He trimmed the beard to chic stubble. I didn't think I'd like it. Short enough almost to intrigue me."
"And the weight?"
"We made a pact. He said that if I would join him in a gym he would do his best to improve. He has. We have."
"That explains why you look good. You look sexier. Does he?"
"Better. But not made enough progress, for me. At least that's what I'm telling him."
"So... have you become an item?"
"No. I'm holding out until he has lost at least another eight to ten more kilos. It's become slow going. I may yet roll over... Hmm: that doesn't sound very gracious."
Kjersti and Iphi snickered in unison. The double entendres were inappropriate but fun.
"Besides the attraction, did you resolve the other concerns?"
"About our families? He and I agreed to do what you recommended. We ignore what either family raises. The downside is that we keep apart from our families except on special occasions. I don't think he minds much about his. My mother isn't so happy. She thrusts guilt on me. As for the professional side, we collaborate. We may have a story, though following you on the Trek may delay our investigations."
"What sort?"
"Gambling. Russians. Need I say more? My editor has great hopes, precisely because it's not about banks or Cypriot corruption. We've had a surfeit of both of those. Readers are bored. Shafting the Russians would cheer him up. After all, they were much to blame for the financial crisis here. He's no Russophile."
"Interesting. Tell me more! Have you started digging for the dirt? Can I...?"
Costas and Aris interrupted Kjersti. They'd bumped into each other in the hotel lobby. Everyone greeted each other as a waiter arrived to take orders.
With discretion, Kjersti gave Aris the once-over. Iphi caught her in the act. Kjersti endeavoured not to turn pink.
The stubble suited him. While his nose was on the large side, a Roman beak if a little fleshy, it sat within a face narrower and better looking when not hidden by his previous shaggy beard. Iphi was right. He was still overweight. Losing another eight or ten kilos would produce an attractive prospect.
Iphi grinned. Kjersti signalled her approval. Iphi glowed.
Meanwhile Costas explained to Aris how he and Kjersti would recommence the day after, crossing at the Ledra Palace and heading for Geçitkale. It would be about 40 kilometres, depending on the route they took once across the Green Line. He added that Kjersti and he would start early each day, within an hour of sunup. Their plan was to finish by late morning, or early afternoon at latest, to minimise the heat impact.
Aris listened with care. He extracted his mobile phone and checked with his own editor. Completed, he turned back to the trio, oblivious to the interplay between Kjersti and Iphi.
"That works for me. I'm back on this job, which pleases my editor. She liked my video-blog about you, Kjersti. She wants more. She's enthusiastic, more so now than when you started in Paphos. I guess we're not going to have late nights."
Kjersti bobbed her head in agreement. Yet what tickled her curiosity was Iphi's mention of the Russian gambling and its hint of wrong-doing. It sounded up her street. She must cajole Iphi to explain at the first opportunity. Perhaps she could participate?
Larnaca and Nicosia (Cyprus)
Davide stepped off the plane from Athens to Larnaca to board a bus. Five minutes later, he descended the short escalator from Immigration to the luggage hall. He identified the carousel, number four, on the monitor. He ambled towards it, prepared for the usual eternal airport luggage delays.
The carousel was moving. An assortment of bags emerged from the bowels of the terminal. Within two minutes, his duffel appeared. He grabbed it and left through Customs. Outside Arrivals, he checked if there was a driver with his name on a board. There wasn't. Though he hadn't expected it, he'd hoped.
Outside the terminal, he claimed a taxi, ducking neatly in front of a family who'd dithered on boarding his plane and who were replaying their indecisions. He overheard strenuous debate about whether they should go cheap by waiting to take a bus to Agia Napa or indulge themselves with a taxi. His driver looked relieved to have him rather than a crowd. He said as much after Davide requested Nicosia.
Fifty minutes later, he checked into the Hilton on Makarios Avenue. He disliked Hiltons when he stayed in them in the USA, though this one came recommended. It was spacious in a way unlike his American ones.
In his room, his luggage decanted, he ordered a spinach salad from room service. Earlier, near Athens Airport with time between flights, he'd met up with the one friend from his Ydra-based blockchain project and enjoyed a Greek lunch fit for an elephant. He vowed to walk tomorrow morning and to find the hotel's gym.
His appointment was for nine o'clock. His phone's map estimated twenty minutes on foot. He would not permit himself further laziness, not afte
r yesterday's feast. To ensure he wasn't hot and sweaty on arrival, he pushed open the hotel doors at 8 o'clock, resisted the siren call of the taxi drivers and walked out to Makarios Avenue. There he veered left to savour a pleasant walk downhill. Although the road traffic was busy, the number of empty shops he passed struck him. There was a flavour of the sad, of good times here no longer.
He found Tower 25 with thirty-five unhurried minutes to spare. He marvelled at the vegetation sprouting from its sides. Adorned with plants, the edifice projected an improbable charm for a lump of concrete.
In a café close by, a waiter approached. Davide ordered a coffee, to be asked in faltering English if it should be Greek, American or a cappuccino. He chose the latter. Greek coffee was too strong for this early, despite all those months in Ydra. American coffee was a hapless misnomer for dirty water.
Five minutes before nine, Davide passed through the foyer of Tower 25. There was a polished gold plaque to inform those who visited that the Palace and Administration Offices of the Orthodox Church of Cyprus were on the 14th Floor. A priest in traditional ryasa, the external long black cassock, nipped into the elevator just before the doors closed. Davide nodded to be polite. The cleric ignored him.
On the 14th Floor, the priest rushed out to the left, used a card to enter a side door and disappeared. In contrast, Davide exited in a more sedate fashion. An arrow pointed to Reception on the right. There he gave his name to claim his appointment with Father Spanos.
"I'm not sure he's here yet. He wasn't in his office half an hour ago. You may have to wait, Mr Shape."
Davide sat on the indicated sofa. Was this to be like Athens all over again? More appointments forgotten, or observed an hour after the arranged time? He dug out his tablet and prepared for the worst.
"Mr Shape. I was wrong. Father Spanos is here. If you'll follow me, I'll escort you to a meeting room."
Davide complied and found himself in what anywhere else but a Church setting would be called a boardroom, with formal table and chairs all round. It had a magnificent view over what his hotel map of Nicosia told him must be the Old Town and further out to jagged mountains on which someone had painted enormous flags. Curious.
Closer, there was a morass of cranes, all weaving and spinning in obedience to some invisible controller. Somebody must be building something special to require so many. That they didn't collide must require deep thought.
The door squeaked behind him. In walked the same charmless priest with whom he'd shared the elevator. Embarrassed, Davide squirmed. This wasn't a good omen.
"Mr Shape. I'm Father Nikos Spanos. I'm the Archbishop's personal assistant. Please, let me first apologise for my ill-manners in the elevator. I guessed it must be you. I should have introduced myself. I've no excuse."
His soothing words and open demeanour nonplussed Davide. It wasn't what he expected. Father Spanos differed from the often-impolite Greeks he'd encountered in Athens. Like the taxi driver, Greek-Cypriots projected an easy, unaffected charm. He accepted the apology with brief words.
Father Spanos waved towards a coffee machine. Would he like an iced coffee? Davide declined. He explained about the cappuccino. They sat on opposite sides of the table.
"How may I help you and your Church?"
"Mr Shape. Let me start by saying you come well recommended, both from the Vatican and Athens. That is an unusual combination."
Davide bobbed his head in acknowledgement. He knew about Nelson da Ferraz's Vatican introduction. The Athens link was news.
"The Archbishop's understanding is that you originated the concept that lies behind the Western Church's Santofonino or HolyPhone, which is used for confession and for processing contributions. He would like to expand the revenue earning opportunities of our Church, specifically to fund in the long term a major building project we have under way. To put words in his mouth, we are less interested in the technology than in the money-raising potential of confession.
"For your information, the Orthodox Church has confession although we've never thought of it as a means to earn income. I should say 'to receive benefactions'. His Beatitude desires this to change. Do you think you can assist?"
"'His Beatitude'? Like 'Your Eminence' for a Cardinal?"
"Correct."
"It's a bit of a mouthful... That's impertinent of me. Yes, I can make suggestions. I can describe what worked and what did not with the HolyPhone. Whether that will assist your Archbishop, I don't know. I'm happy to try."
"Thank you. That's all we can ask. Shall we dive into detail?"
"Before we do, may I ask you a question, an irrelevant one?"
"Of course."
"Over there? What are all those cranes doing? I'm fascinated by their ballet."
"You aren't at all irrelevant. Those cranes are building what His Beatitude wants the confession money to fund..."
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Stephane smouldered, possessed by a fury he hadn't experienced in years. How could anyone behave like that? Peremptory. Dismissive. Barbaric. Eleni had treated him as a nothing, whereas she was Zeus or more likely Zeus's hellish wife Hera, full of hatred, jealousy and malevolence. All because he'd gone missing for a few days peace in the North.
This confused image made him hesitate. Was he ridiculous? Was he harrumphing so much because a woman had put him in a woman's place? This wasn't what he'd imagined when he flirted with her over dinner. There'd be no more of that.
Or was it frustration? He'd eyed her when they trained at the pool. She could swim as he could not, with a grace and economy which propelled her through the water like a dolphin. Where his butterfly bulldozed water, she sliced through like a keen-edged knife. There was a minimum of water disturbance as she flashed from one pool end to the other, where she executed unfussy racing turns with artistry. When she hauled herself out, she displayed the same frugality of effort.
He envied this, just as he tried not to admire her figure, which was lean and fit. It was a combination which, in the past, he'd found alluring and dangerous in others. He was a moth to a candle. He'd suffered in the past. He'd pushed her back until now, using flirtation as his shield.
He shook his head. In his modest rental apartment, he searched out a suit, tie and pressed shirt. He had a couple of the latter and one each of the former – brought for special occasions, which had never arisen in Limassol. He supposed this afternoon was one, at Eleni's architectural practice's office. There he would meet her all-powerful uncle. If he was lucky, there he might find protection. Or so Eleni had hinted.
He guessed her payoff would come later, though he was unsure what she'd demand. He'd imagined he knew, unless that was male bravado laden with self-deceit. After her demented verbiage this morning, he was no longer certain what to anticipate.
Did he mind such a role reversal? No, not after this morning's censure. Anybody who could behave like she did was worth avoiding. As soon as he was able, he'd extricate himself and head home to France. The price might be acceptance of the risk of incarceration. It beat repetition of an Eleni verbal disassembly.
Dressed with a panache which soothed his stricken self-esteem, Stephane phoned for a taxi. Fifteen minutes later, it deposited him outside the Constantinou and Partner offices. These overlooked the Old Town from outside the now-dry Venetian moat. Beyond, over the walls, the clutch of tall cranes cavorted.
A big motorbike screeched to a halt in front of the building. Its rider drove up over the kerb to mount the sidewalk. Obliged to step back to avoid martyrdom, Stephane glared in offended anger. It confirmed his impression: Cypriots possessed no road sense or manners.
The rider took no notice. He parked, then removed his helmet.
Not his, hers. Eleni.
On the other occasions when he'd seen her on a motorbike she'd never worn a helmet. His expression must have advertised his puzzlement, for she explained.
A policewoman had levied a heavy fine the previous evening. The cost: 500 Euros for repeated no-helmet offences, payab
le on the spot. Eleni carped at how the policewoman had escorted her to the nearest cash machine. There was no let-off and there was a warning: she was known and under observation.
Stephane asked himself: could this account for this morning's verbal assault? There was no way to know other than to ask. He no longer cared. He wouldn't raise the topic, just as he was dead certain she had no clue how to apologise, for anything.
To his consternation, she kissed him with courtesy on both cheeks, pausing perhaps a shade long on the second cheek. It was as if this morning's outburst had never occurred. Her voice was modulated and refined, unlike the screeching witch. Was she the same person?
"Shall we go in?"
She gave him no choice. She inserted her arm through his to guide him forward. He'd no option but to fall into step beside her.
"Remember. I've shown my uncle, and don't forget he is 'His Beatitude' to you, the 3D printed version of the tower, the one which you helped me create. The reason he's here is to review it on screen to inspect his choices. He may raise questions. Impress him and we'll find the opportunity to introduce your request. Be on your best obsequious behaviour. He may be slight of figure, but his Archiepiscopal ego has no known bounds."
It must run in the family, was Stephane's immediate, unsaid, reaction.
In her office, she waved him to one of the chairs across her desk. Stephane, by observation and experience from his banking background, understood the message. It offended him just as it painted the agreeable prospect of smashing her ego over her precious head.
Despite the appeal of this image, he resisted. It was weird. She was presumption incarnate in her office. But not in the pool or gym. There she was modest when she had so much ability to brag about.
Power. It brought out the oddest inconsistencies.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 14