A commotion became audible. This resolved itself into an entourage surrounding a shrunken elderly man of no great height, shorter and older than Eleni's taller father, beside a much younger priest. Stephane did not need the uniform to tell him which one was Ioannis. His power projection put Eleni's in the shade.
"Uncle, welcome. Before we head into the studio, this is Stephane Thibault-Trani. He's the person I told you helped me with the three-dimensional model. Stephane, this is my uncle, His Beatitude Ioannis, Archbishop of Nova Justiniana and All Cyprus."
Stephane goggled. Or attempted not to. Could anyone introduce a close relative with so much pomposity?
Ioannis lapped it up. The younger priest, whom Stephane assumed was a sidekick, displayed no emotion.
"Your Beatitude. I'm honoured to meet you."
Stephane squirmed at his deference. This sort of formality nettled him. It was a reminder of his school days with their enforced docility before unimpressive teachers, in his case Catholic priests, rather than Orthodox ones.
His Beatitude took no notice of Stephane beyond the merest hint at an inclined head. Vasilios broke the silence.
"Shall we go in, Nikolaos, to Eleni's studio? You remember? It's through here."
His Beatitude followed his brother. Eleni went behind them. Stephane flicked a hand to indicate the unintroduced priest should proceed ahead of himself. For this, he received a civil nod.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
"Let me offer some background. Three years ago, His Beatitude was elected Archbishop. He was as shocked as everybody else. One moment, he was the ailing Abbott scholar of a revered monastery. The next, he was head of the Church of Cyprus.
He was a compromise, chosen in the expectation he would not survive long. In those days, I was his monastic assistant. We'd been locked away on the sides of a mountain that sweltered in summer and chilled in winter."
Davide absorbed this summary of the schism between the two leading candidates, their agreement to stand aside and the unexpected election of His Beatitude, Archbishop Ioannis. It wasn't what Davide expected, yet he found himself caught up in the tale of His Beatitude's desire to establish a monument worthy of the Church of Cyprus, one which would dominate not only southern Nicosia, but also the once-Christian churches, now the detested mosques of the Turks in the North.
Father Spanos expanded. His Beatitude's family had been amongst those forced to flee the northern part of the island after the Turkish invasion of 1974. Flight became necessary after the misguided military coup concocted in Greece by the Colonels in power. This was their last-throw-of-the-dice attempt to retain power in Athens. What they hadn't anticipated was their coup providing the Turks with the excuse to invade the island. The colonels' presumption was the union of Cyprus with Greece, enosis, would restore their popularity at home. Instead it felled them. Democracy returned to Greece. Greece benefited. The unintended victim was Cyprus, split asunder ever since.
Amongst the personal casualties was His Beatitude's mother. She died of a heart attack during the family's enforced abandonment of their businesses and properties as they fled south. Since then, His Beatitude sustains a bitterness to most things Muslim and all things Turkish bar one – and that was only Turkish by acquisition.
In his youth, His Beatitude had visited various of the holy places in Turkey. It was during a period when there were tensions, fighting, between Greece and Turkey. It didn't matter that both were members of NATO. In those days, in Cyprus, the main enemy was colonial British rule, not the Turks.
In Istanbul, His Beatitude had marvelled at the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace sitting above the Golden Horn and the Bosporus and the many remaining Byzantine churches.
"Should you ever have the chance, ask His Beatitude about the dancing bear?"
"What?"
"He loves to tell the story. He tells it better than I. According to him, he was standing on a balcony outside his lodgings when a man passed in the street below with a bear on a chain in tow. Seeing His Beatitude, then a junior monk, the man made the bear dance to his pipe, all for a few coins tossed down."
"It sounds far-fetched, more nineteenth or eighteenth century."
"Yes. But remember: Istanbul half-a-century ago was not what it is now, an enormous teeming metropolis with a population half as big again as London's."
"True. It was heaving with tourists as well as Turks when I was last there, about five years ago."
"Ah. You know the city?"
"Only as a tourist. To my irritation, I missed what I am told are the best bits. There are, I learnt too late, the Byzantine, I guess now Orthodox, churches with fabulous mosaics dotted along the perimeter of the original city walls. I missed those. You need a guide..."
Davide trailed off. He liked mosaics, especially those in Ravenna. It still riled him that he'd not done sufficient research in advance.
Father Spanos carried on. His Beatitude, over the years, had dreamt of a resurrection of an Orthodox monument so imposing it would scorn the mosques of Nicosia, of Cyprus. One of his bêtes noires was the Gothic churches built by various of the Lusignan family, after Richard the Lionheart of England had donated them the island of Cyprus. These churches had become mosques when the Ottomen overran Cyprus in 1570. They dominated from their positions just to the north of the Green Line.
The irony, one which His Beatitude denied, was these churches-turned-mosques were maintained and repaired by the Muslim Ottomans. It was conceivable that their care was better than any the Orthodox Church might have done.
Davide chuckled. Mohammed preserving Christ's monuments as mosques. It was all so contradictory.
Father Spanos didn't pause. Somewhere, probably in the darkest monk's cell, His Beatitude had conceived of rebuilding the one Byzantine church which had impressed him most.
Davide interjected. "Surely not Hagia Sophia?"
"You have it. The Basilica of Nea Hagia Sophia."
Davide's jaw fell. He gaped at Father Spanos. His spun in his chair and stood at the window.
"You mean all those cranes work on a recreation, a resurrection, of the Emperor Justinian's Hagia Sophia? In the middle of Nicosia's Old Town? But... the original Basilica's huge. How can it be?"
Father Spanos smiled agreement. Though he'd never volunteer it, he'd always assessed his master's desire to be an old man's pipe-dream, safely left to incubate in a remote monastery with no chance of fruition.
As he next explained to Davide, no-one outside himself, and possibly Ioannis's family, had known of this long-harboured aspiration. Just as no-one anticipated any circumstance by which Abbot Nikolaos Constantinou, however revered a scholar, might become Archbishop of the Church of Cyprus.
Once enthroned and empowered, he had moved with resolution to realise his grandiose ambition. Had the electors known beforehand, they would never have voted him Archbishop.
Davide's buried his incredulity. He probed his memory. "How long will building take? If I remember my art history, Chartres or St Paul's in London, for example, took multiple decades. St Peter's in Rome took a century or more."
"In which case you may find this nugget incredible. Justinian commissioned his Basilica of Hagia Sophia in AD532, to succeed its predecessor which burnt after riots. Its first dedication occurred just after Christmas in the year 537."
"That's only five years! From start to finish? Fifteen hundred years ago! It's not possible."
"Possibly less. We don't know when construction started. There must have been some period for planning, design and clearing of the old site."
"So, His Beatitude seeks similar speed?"
"Faster. His architects, his brother and niece, intend structural completion in months from now."
"How?"
"They use modern materials and techniques. For example, prefabricated steel is the basis for the main piers to carry the dome, which will be in lightweight aluminum, to use the American word. Equally, modern methods collapse the time to erect walls and roofs compared to laying maso
nry and waiting for this to dry and settle."
"Words defeat me. Do you have anything which shows what it will look like?"
Father Spanos approached a chest of flat drawers. He pulled out designs.
"His Beatitude will dedicate Nea Hagia Sophia, the New Hagia Sophia, as soon as he can. His own participation is all important. The prospect keeps him alive. Unlike the original, much will not be complete on dedication. He proposes to run competitions across the Orthodox diaspora for designs for the interior to do justice to his aspirations. The internal decorations will complete over the next decade. If he is still alive then, he will authorise an additional dedication, or maybe many additional dedications. All with him at the centre."
Davide shook his head in continued disbelief. At the drawings. At the concept. At the imagination. At the single-mindedness.
"He wants help to fund this?"
"Yes. For that's where the greatest danger lies. The Church must borrow and it will have to repay its loans."
Limassol (Cyprus)
Tassos reclined on the terrace sun-lounger. He overlooked the promenade and the Mediterranean, the sight of which he never tired. It mattered not whether the weather was calm and sunny, like today, or stormy. The sea fascinated Tassos. Eight stories above ground level, with the terrace surrounded by glass, he insulated himself from the world. Away from traffic noise and people, he could treasure the never-still waters.
The only time he didn't enjoy the sea was when the weather was grey. He hated grey. It reminded him of London, of Helsinki and of St Petersburg. Grim, leaden skies deadened the soul. Sun cheered it, and was one reason he'd stayed in Cyprus. A second was his clients were here: Greeks, Russians and Cypriots, all with secrets to hide and ambitions to realise.
The third he guarded. Boiled down, it was the threat the Orthodox Church held over him. He had no choices. Worse, he knew of no way to extract himself. Caught once with his pants down, the Church now jerked his strings and pushed his buttons in whatever way suited its interests.
To his relief, this happened less and less. When it now occurred, it involved big ticket items. But the menace never disappeared.
To balance this, the Church supported him. He was, today, a magnate – far from the ignorant and undeserving pig-boy rescued almost forty years ago by a sympathetic priest. The Church had sent him to school and then university in Athens. Without the Church, he would be a nobody. He'd probably still be guiding animals in the western Troodos foothills, unable to read or write.
Tassos twisted on the lounger. He maintained a tan. In the mirror, it made him look younger, more attractive. He needed any support available, including expensive clothes and accessories, to worm his way into profitable deals as well as into pants for pleasure.
It was always thus. The price was the Church jerking his leash.
A commotion below prompted him to lift off the sun lounger to peep over the terrace. A demonstration. He squinted to read the banners. From what he could work out, these condemned His Beatitude's folly in Nicosia. That was peculiar. The previous week, he'd read about a rural Paphos parish promoting the assembly of a people's protest movement against the folly. To have travelled so fast to Limassol hinted at a condemnation better supported than he'd imagined.
How would His Beatitude react? Not well. Tassos promised himself not to ask.
For the moment, he saluted the complex deal he was brokering. The Church would receive the immense loans it needed, in tranches over the next years, all co-ordinated by his Bank. He himself had invested, to consolidate the Bank's credibility. The fees were generous.
The Archbishop was ecstatic when he was certain he would receive the loans to complete his Basilica of Nea Hagia Sophia. The ecstasy reached new heights when he knew he could hold a magnificent dedication ceremony, with him at the centre.
So long as there were no hiccoughs. Repayment would start three years hence, funded by the legal lien on a future confession income. This ensured everyone was happy, except perhaps the sinners about to be fleeced. He hoped this anticipated new income stream merited the Archbishop's confidence.
He gloated at the demonstration below as it weaved along the promenade. There might be two thousand people. Their resistance was too little, too late and too disorganised. To resist the tentacles of the Church was tough. As he himself knew.
He relaxed and returned to his sun-lounger to consider his other client, who was less easy to dismiss. For one, the client's company was dishonest. He knew he shouldn't think this. But there was no way to avoid the facts.
Several years before, a Russian acquaintance, someone with whom he'd co-developed two now insignificant properties outside Limassol, enquired if he might like to participate with some fellow investors and establish a bank in Cyprus using Russian capital. If he was, he could be chairman. His initial reaction was cautious, until he imagined how access to inexpensive loans might propel his property projects forward.
He'd accepted and reaped the rewards. Among them was this wonderful penthouse: the envy of the loaded. He smirked. He received an offer for it at least once a month, not that he would contemplate selling unless there was somewhere more exclusive and impressive.
Three years back, his co-investors in the bank had introduced a different opportunity: sports betting. They asserted it was low-risk, with a decent house margin. Automated systems would handle transactions. Marketing to the sports-mad Asian and US markets would attract punters.
A lifelong basketball and soccer fan, he'd leapt at the idea. He should have looked closer. His blindness encapsulated his problem.
The Church operated on a time basis encompassing generations, if not centuries. These Russians took a similar, if not so long, view. Both were the antithesis of most bank shareholders, with their insatiable focus on the next quarter's financial results.
The net effect was he personally, and the Bank, had invested in a business that was crooked. He dared not ask too much. Knowing would be worse than ignorance.
Nevertheless, his discomfort level kept rising until, without warning, Dmitriy visited to inform him the business in Cyprus must close within a fortnight. At first, Tassos had rejoiced. He needed to worry no more – or so he'd hoped.
Tassos recalled how his suspicions wouldn't disappear. He pictured a larger than usual, though not modern, motor yacht, the Kristina. When he'd looked closely, he'd seen her crew removing equipment from the sports betting premises, and loading this aboard the Kristina. Two days later she'd sailed.
By that time, he'd downloaded a ship tracking app to his tablet. He'd followed her voyage around the southern Turkish coast. She'd stopped in Rhodes for a couple of days. Next, she headed north up the Aegean, until she navigated the Dardanelles. Past Troy on the east and Gallipoli to the west, she'd motored the sea of Marmara straight through the Bosporus and entered the Black Sea. According to this morning's plot, she was completing an oval every twelve hours, some 50 kilometres off Sevastopol. Outside Crimean territorial waters, she was inviolate.
More telling, the advertising for the sports betting continued. Although under an amended brand name, he recognised familiar markers. The transactions, through his Bank, continued to feed through under this revised brand name.
He supposed he should be relieved. At least whatever happened on board the Kristina no longer occurred in Cyprus. The loans to establish the business were almost repaid. Within a year, the Bank would have no loans outstanding.
Except there was that steady flow of transactions which, after some sleuthing, he traced to accounts opened by Dmitriy when he'd lived in town. Tassos wasn't at ease. There were too many coincidences. But he could do nothing. At least, he consoled himself, these Russians had gone. The danger from them must be microscopic, and disappearing with time.
His phone bleeped. He answered. His evening's pleasure was on her way to distract him. There was time for a shower. He hurried to his bathroom to luxuriate in its marble splendour before he dressed for an evening out and a night in.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
The Archbishop's ambition dazzled Davide. To revive Justinian's magnificent Hagia Sophia as a Christian Basilica in Nicosia's Old Town, rather than as a tourist museum in Istanbul, was an extraordinary pretension. He couldn't get his head around it, or all the other aspects Nikos had introduced.
He browsed its measurements: 95 metres wide by 110 metres long, excluding the atrium, which Father Spanos told him made it too big to fit the site available, was large. With a 32-metre diameter dome to stand 55 metres in height, it would eclipse not only the Old Town but all of Nicosia, north and south. Nikos, for they had liked each other sufficiently to drop the formalities and exchange their given names, had shown him by driving Davide to the heights of the Aglantzia suburb. From there they had a view down over all of Nicosia, across the Green Line and out towards the mountains in the north.
The area of cranes, oscillating to unknown rhythms, was the proof. The four massive piers which would carry the load of the dome already stood proud, high above the surrounding buildings. Unlike the piers of the Emperor Justinian and his two architects, these were not of solid masonry; they were a jigsaw of bright shining steel calculated to dissipate the thrust of the dome down into the foundations and keep Nea Hagia Sophia upright for time immemorial.
When Nikos dropped him at his hotel, Davide invited the priest to dinner. Nikos was reluctant. He spoke to the Archbishop. The latter assented 'as long as you concentrate on the confessional income'.
They had.
As they ate, Davide summarised the HolyPhone's concept, where those who wished to confess entered a confessional to contact the Vatican's Confessional Call Centre. He described how, at the end of each confession, the confessor would administer the appropriate penances before seeking a contribution to the Catholic Church. To Davide's gratification, Nikos listened with care. He took copious notes.
Davide chose not to tell Nikos anything of the deception played out by a small group of crooks who sidetracked some of the Vatican's income for their own purposes. These were details Nikos didn't need.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 15