"Me? No! But Mr Shape, the Vatican-commended expert, claims to know a Spaniard with direct experience. With your approval, we can invite her to make recommendations?"
"Her? A woman?"
"Yes. Mr Shape told me she occupied a position high up in a scheme involving the Vatican's HolyPhone. Mr Shape has worked with her in the past."
"Very well, though I'm not convinced. You'll arrange and deal with this? I don't want to meet a foreign Catholic woman, however expert she might be."
From Yeni Erenköy to Apostolos Andreas (Cyprus)
Kjersti woke at dawn on their last day. She heard Costas moving round. They'd have fruit and yoghurt for breakfast before the final forty-five kilometres. Or that had been the plan until Costas had hijacked it by splitting today and adding one more. The advantage was two shorter days of running, at around 25 kilometres each. These should be a breeze.
Yet Kjersti was in two minds. She wanted to finish. Even after the weeks-long break, the Trek was excessive. To balance this, she had five running-writing articles in train and, if she believed Costas, she'd have the material for another two, possibly three, by the end of tomorrow. The more she could tuck away, the greater her financial security. It was why she'd accepted his suggestion.
She met Costas outside their grotty guest house. They would run from the depressing Yeni Erenköy along the north coast towards some ruins he called Agios Filon. After that, they'd ascend a steep bluff to stay the last night in a small town called Dipkarpasi. Tomorrow, they would leave Dipkarpasi for the Monastery of Apostolos Andreas.
They set off. Their pace was good. The road was wide and with little traffic. The conditions were ideal.
Most of the time, they ran side-by-side. There was no need for one to lead the other. They talked, but not often. Neither dropped into the flow, which was as well. It was always tougher for those not in the flow to keep up with someone in it.
They passed a small and ugly marina devoid of yachts. Costas told her it was there to cater for wealthy Turks with large boats. The difficulty was that wealthy Turks with large boats didn't exist in sufficient numbers to make the marina pay. In addition, there was little near the marina to attract any wealthy boatfarers here, with barely a restaurant or place of amusement.
On they ran.
Kjersti's mind drifted off to consider her olive fly plague book. Before arriving, she'd completed a first draft. Having a break from writing was constructive. Her editing would benefit with the distance of time.
Her mind moved onto her possible novel. She hadn't committed. But the time with Ana and, most of all, out in the Sierra de Mariola had thrown up three story lines. It had also reinforced her gut feeling that it was time to suspend, more like forget, investigative journalism. With nothing on her plate, it could be a good moment to escape.
Except there was Iphi's hint. She'd resisted Kjersti's blandishments to dish the dirt. This galled Kjersti, but she couldn't complain. She'd done the same to fellow journalists on previous occasions. The possessiveness of the scoop.
She glanced up. They approached a church with a grinning Iphi and Aris snapping away next to it. Costas slowed and stopped.
"You've found Agios Thyrsos. A favourite of mine, though its position next to the road isn't ideal."
Aris responded with a comment about the cafe-restaurant behind, overlooking the sea. He and Iphi had enjoyed a good coffee there as they'd waited. They wouldn't, however, be finishing the Trek today. They had to head to Limassol. Editors' orders.
Kjersti sought to catch Iphi's eye. Iphi avoided contact. That avoidance sparked suspicion. She forced the issue.
"Might this be about gambling?"
She hoped this was ambiguous, if not misleading – at least for Aris. It wasn't.
He turned on Iphi. "What've you told her?"
"Only what our editors told us, when there was nothing solid."
"You dozy cow. She'll steal our story."
His antipathy was tangible. So was his anger. Kjersti was about to upbraid him when Iphi solved the immediate problem.
"Don't be an idiot yourself, Aristotle, you great philosopher. She could help us, if we ask. She's forgotten more about how to dig for dirt than you or I know will ever know."
Her scorn ripped at Aris. He opened his mouth to respond. Iphi beat him to it.
"I think I'll head back alone. See you in Limassol! One day!"
The awful truth washed over Aris. He depended on her for transport. Costas laughed.
"Ordering a taxi out here would be tough. It would take a long time and who knows how expensive."
Aris spluttered a half-apology. Iphi accepted it, though Kjersti guessed she'd rather have dumped him. Iphi had probably agreed because of the presence of herself and Costas. Iphi headed for her motorcycle. Aris chased, determined not to be left behind. When he mounted the pillion seat, there was a distinct frost between the two. Kjersti sympathised with Iphi.
"What was all that about?"
Kjersti considered what to tell Costas. She didn't want to give too much away – not that she had any real information herself. She offered a brief run down. They restarted their running in silence.
Almost an hour later, Costas turned off the road after it turned sharp right and then left. Costas had spoken of this. They'd go cross country for five to six kilometres. The key lay in following a track which kept the sea visible to their left. Costas had the route on his phone. Its GPS would ensure they didn't lose themselves.
Two hours later, she and Costas struggled up the bluff. Though it was less than three kilometres from the ruins of the church of Agios Filon to Dipkarpasi, they suffered. Unlike most other days, today's run was bitty. There'd been too much stopping and starting. This had sapped their energy.
Over the brow of the bluff, Costas assumed the lead. Along a narrow road, where running side-by-side was unthinkable, he stopped in front of yet another church. Agia Manta. It was in poor condition, though clearly used. Two aged parishioners exited.
"I want to show you something."
"What? I'm tired. Can't we go to this hotel? I could do to clean up."
"Come inside... There. Have you ever seen anything like it?"
Kjersti peered. Agia Manta was much like most other churches, though older, in stone and with character greater than most of those in Norway. Her eyes travelled around until they lit on a pulpit mounted high on the north wall.
It was impossible to access. There were no steps. How could a preacher reach there? What was the point?
Costas indicated. To the left was a long vertical ladder mounted within a frame. On closer inspection, she saw it could be lowered, to block the doorway set into the north wall. Its top would rest at the foot of the pulpit. An ingenious solution and not one she'd ever seen before. She said as much to Costas.
"It's the same for me, other than one in the mini-Cathedral of Agios Ioannis in Nicosia's Old Town. My aunt commanded I should visit to find out if it still existed. Her mother's family came from this village before they fled when the Turks invaded. This is still essentially a Greek-Cypriot village, unlike Yeni Erenköy last night. That was Turkish-Cypriot with its mosque."
"It's astonishing, the pulpit and ladder."
"I must take some phone photos for my aunt. She'll be so pleased. Then we'll head for the hotel. It should be decent. Comfort tonight."
While he wandered around the five-bay church to snap his pictures, Kjersti went outside. She sat on a low wall to admire the bell tower. That was another detail Costa had introduced her to in the North: if a church tower had bells, it was still Orthodox; if it had loudspeakers, it was a mosque conversion.
Her thoughts ran on. How were Iphi and Aris? Had he forgiven her? Or she, him? More to the point: was there a story? Kjersti's intuition said 'yes'.
Could she resist pumping Iphi, or Aris, after tomorrow? Would they let her participate? Or should she do the dirty and delve on her own?
Old Town, Nicosia (Cyprus)
Davide wa
lked to the Old Town. He could have penetrated its narrow streets via Solomou Square, where the municipal buses congregated. There was little charm there, so he walked further around the Venetian walls, past some tennis courts in the old moat until he arrived at the Paphos Gate.
He'd imagined something imposing. Instead it was a gap in the walls through which traffic bustled. The most arresting aspect was the barbed wire and Turkish flag mounted on the heart-shaped Roccas Bastion to his left.
To pass inside, he competed with vehicles. His purpose was self-distraction. His conversation with Inma had unsettled him more than he'd expected. To divert from what she'd said, he proposed to walk the Green Line. According to his guide some miscellaneous past British official had used a green pen to draw a line, the one which now split the Old Town in two, to keep Greek-Cypriots and Turkish-Cypriots, and Turks, apart.
More by accident than design, he found himself at the Ledra Street crossing. Here anybody with acceptable papers could cross the Green Line, from north to south or vice versa. It was relatively new. Between 1974 and 2004, there was no crossing, only sentry boxes manned by blue-bereted UN soldiers preserving communal peace.
Moving east, he found a cafe. He stood and stared. It backed onto some decrepit green barrels, rotting sandbags, cement and barbed wire. He couldn't resist. He took advantage of a table that had just come free. After ordering a Greek coffee he attempted a selfie – self-consciously, for this wasn't one of his habits. It wasn't every day you could sit bang beside a military separation zone enjoying a drink. Others seemed as amazed as he, though most preferred a beer or a glass of wine while they gawped.
His coffee finished, he paid. Before he left, he peered through the wire along the Green Zone to marvel at a desolate strip of land where time had halted. Weeds grew. Birds flew. Buildings rotted. He saw the occasional cat, but no people, which made sense if there were mines and other explosives left over from 1974.
By wandering down and diving in and out of dead-ends, each with their own barrier, he worked his way along the Green Line. The buffer zone was similar everywhere. Collapsing grey buildings not used in half a century. More weeds. Deadness.
At one point, he tracked somebody doing much as himself. They bumped into each other three or four times as the other man returned from a dead-end Davide was about to enter. On the fourth or fifth occasion, Davide had lost count, his fellow traveller spoke in a German or Austrian accent.
"You can cross the buffer zone to the Turkish side if you want. There is a path here. There's nobody in the sentry box on this or the other side."
"You've done it?"
"I have. Just stick to the beaten path. No point in blowing yourself up."
He disappeared around the next corner, leaving Davide uncertain. He decided against causing a diplomatic incident. He knew if he committed any such transgression he could expect no help from the British High Commission. Random experiences of UK Foreign Office diplomats had impressed on him they were a sub-species who cared not a jot for their fellow citizens who paid their salaries. Compared to their illustrious self-importance, any fault of his would 'lose itself' in bureaucratic impotence. Or was it incompetence?
The further east he sauntered, the more he noticed how the buildings became small, modern factories, warehouses or offices. Gentrification had arrived. After these commercial sites came neat one-storey houses, often with elaborately carved stone porticos. Many had dates from the late nineteenth century marked on their fronts. Most used a wonderful yellow stone that changed colour as the sun changed angle.
A half hour later, he emerged above the moat on the eastern side of the Old Town. He thought he must be a little to the north of the Famagusta Gate. Peering around him, he saw he was close to Nea Hagia Sophia's cranes. He headed towards them to find himself opposite another yellow stone church, Agios Ioannis.
The tiny cathedral, which the Nicosia authorities had obliged the Archbishop to retain, was sublimated. Above towered the steel lattice of one of the new Basilica's four massive piers. Davide had to lean back to see its top. Already, Agios Ioannis was a flea compared to Nea Hagia Sophia.
He shook his head. How had the Archbishop persuaded anybody to permit this? The comparative proportions, between the New Hagia Sophia and Agios Ioannis were preposterous. Which brought him back to Inma.
He snorted at his recollection of their recent telephone call. She had been incredulous when he'd enquired if she would reinstate her past skills to extract confessional income. She'd refused to believe he was serious. It had taken at least a quarter of an hour to convince her his client hoped to use SinCards to generate income to pay for a new church.
On reflection, he couldn't blame her, though she'd chuckled at his misleading description of her as a 'past principal in a scheme to obtain money from confession'. Such out-and-out misdirection entertained them both.
Once convinced, however, she generated ideas and suggestions, exploiting her Opus Dei knowledge. He'd asked, assuming his client would pay her travel costs, if she would contemplate a brief business visit. To his disappointment, she had been non-committal. She'd think about it.
Then he'd blundered. He couldn't resist quizzing her about Ana. He shouldn't have. Inma'd unloaded a tonne of information which Davide hadn't wished to hear. According to Inma, Ana had expressed remorse about rejecting Davide. Confusingly she'd consumed herself with the remodelling of the finca's farmhouses and the nurturing of this year's crop of olives. How could she be both, he'd questioned.
Inma didn't know. That was how it was.
And, for Davide's information, her architect was doing his best to insinuate his way into Ana's affectations, despite Ana talking almost non-stop one evening to Inma about Davide in front of him. Then there was the fellow olive farmer from across the valley. In Inma's assessment, he too had his eyes on Ana and her estate, though he was more subtle about his intentions.
Davide moaned. As usual he was far away and irresolute. Should he call? Should he drop everything here? His situation was precisely as tio Toño had analysed.
He exploited his regret at losing his uncle to push aside thoughts of Ana, though he recognised he'd have to return to the subject. For now, he would concentrate on eating before making his way back to the Hilton. Without taking a taxi, he commanded himself.
Old Town, Nicosia (Cyprus)
Eleni pulled her protective site-suit over her shorts and shirt. She replaced her sandals with boots and donned a green safety helmet. Going onto any building site demanded safety precautions. The combination of the green hat and neon-style overalls were a giveaway: 'beware, the boss is on site'.
She stepped out of the portacabin-office. It was a beautiful blue-sky day. The air shimmered. She marvelled at the hive of activity around. For once, nobody was still. Excitement filled the air, and she couldn't take the credit.
She headed to the nearest pier. Its steelwork was, like its three giant brethren, complete and calculated to reproduce the same shape as the four great stone piers of Nea Hagia Sophia's older sister in Istanbul. The shape of the flying buttresses mirrored the original.
All her work to design a metal jigsaw had come together. In one sense, these piers were lightweight compared to their Istanbul sister's mass. Once her builders faced them with marble, nobody would be able to tell the difference. Massiveness would be in the eye of the beholder. After cladding the steel structure, the CLT would provide the attachment surface for the thin layer of marble.
To her satisfaction, this approach replicated Justinian's architects from the sixth century. Their facing of Hagia Sophia affixed thin stone, some 20-30 mm thick, at a slight distance from the main masonry structure using metal pins. When she'd unearthed this tidbit during her design phase, a huge weight had lifted.
Her own 'cheat', which her father's initial contempt had derided, was the same solution adopted in the original. She'd loved the sensation of rubbing her father's bilious nose in her discovery.
She extracted miniature binoculars
from an external pocket and examined the stainless steel with care. Good. There was no sign of oxidisation.
One of the many cost excesses of the main structure was her decision to use stainless steel, because it should not rust. Oxidised steel too often became the long term enemy of modern buildings erected with reinforced concrete. The interaction of water, air and metal produced failures over time.
Her uncle had insisted upon longevity, longevity measured in centuries. Stainless steel was one element. She planned to enhance this with a spray of a rubberised sealant to minimise the exposure of the stainless steel to scratches or other oxidisation risks.
The spraying had to be complete before the CLT attachment. She noted a group of workers at the top. They would work downwards. Spraying was messy. It was as well that installation of the elaborate stone floor of the Basilica would come last. They could not afford to ruin it with dripped sealant. In truth, all was a mess.
A secondary rust control came into play because the piers were hollow. Their soundness was visible. Repairs would be possible should her primary precautions be insufficient. She trusted she'd be long dead before anybody had cause to complain, unlike poor Justinian, who'd seen parts of his Hagia Sophia succumb to the earthquake of AD558.
That the Nicosia climate was dry helped. The rainy season was trivial. People complained about too little water, not too much. The summers were longer and hotter than half a century before. Her uncle wouldn't grumble if climate warming shrank the deterioration risks further.
She moved onto each of the other piers, oblivious to the increased noise and her rising sense of foreboding. All looked good, as did the great steel arches which spanned the gaps between each pair of neighbours. The effect, as in Istanbul, was to provide a square base on which the dome would sit and against which the two east and west semi-domes and four quarter-domes would rest.
The main dome's aluminium frame brought one downside. Combining aluminium with stainless steel increased the probability of a harmful galvanic reaction. An alternative she'd considered was to construct the dome of stainless steel. That was too heavy. An alternative was to assemble the piers in aluminium. Too expensive.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 17