In the gym, he completed a short spell on the cycling machines. Twenty minutes of stultifying boredom. Its only merit: it warmed him up.
Next would be stretching before he fought the weights. He contemplated a punishing session as part of his preparation for trying to join the '100 Ton Club'. He'd read about this. It was for those who they thought they could lift 100 tons of weights inside a day, the equivalent of between ten and fifteen decent sized elephants.
Its challenge piqued his interest. He'd undertaken research. The permitted time was 24 hours. But no gyms in Cyprus opened all day and night, as some did in New York. He'd set himself a 12-hour window, from between 8 in the morning and 8 at night.
Next up was the definition of a 'ton'. The Americans who devised the '100 Ton Club' used the US ton. 100 of these amounted to 200,000 pounds or a shade over 90,000 kilogrammes. As a good European he felt he should attempt the 'tonne', or 100,000 kilogrammes. At a little over 220,000 pounds this was 20 percent more. It might provide bragging rights, if only to himself.
Besides the preparatory training necessary he would have to decide which weights to lift on which machines. There was flexibility here. For example, he could choose one machine to do all, say 100 kilogrammes on a leg-press performed 1000 times. Over ten hours, this would involve leg-pressing the 100 kilogrammes one hundred times an hour or one and a half times a minute. Put like this, it didn't sound excessive. In practice, he was sure it would be tough.
Stephane made a provisional decision. He would blend four machines for variety. Two would involve a few repetitions at high weights and two frequent repetitions with low weights. He might reduce the four devices to two at a later stage if this appeared more efficient.
Could he do it? He went over to the leg press and loaded up fifty kilogrammes. He set himself a target of three sets of 20 repetitions.
The first two sets were easy. He raised the weight to 90 kilogrammes and restarted. By the time the set was complete, his legs felt like fire. He'd lifted only 5 percent of his eventual target, albeit in less than ten minutes, including the breaks between sets. 4,500 kilogrammes every, say, fifteen minutes was 18,000 kilogrammes an hour, which meant around six hours of consistent lifting to attain the 100 tonnes. That was on one device.
No, he thought. That would be too boring. Variety must be the key.
"What are you doing?"
Eleni.
It would have to be her.
He'd known it was a risk of visiting the gym.
But she'd not been at this one once in the last month, preferring to concentrate on the pool.
Or so he'd thought.
Wrong.
Unless she'd searched him out?
"Just practising for my latest personal target."
As soon as he uttered the words he regretted them. Surely she wouldn't ask?
"What target?"
"The 100 Tonne Club."
"What's that? I've never heard of it... You don't mean to lift 100 tonnes?"
"In a day. In as many reps as you like."
Eleni stood motionless, calculating. Stephane prayed she would scare herself.
"I think I could do that. Okay; I'll bet you I achieve it before you. A hundred Euros? No, what about a thousand? That would focus our attention."
Stephane stifled a groan. There was no way out. Unless he declined.
He knew he wouldn't. Pride was his sin, one which, under non-competitive circumstances, he could control.
Against Eleni...
There was no way he could refuse.
In theory he should be both more weights-practised and stronger though, from what he'd read, neither was necessarily the key to 100 Tonne success. She was younger. She might be fitter.
She spoke again. He tried to pay attention.
"You know, we should tell the gym. Have them offer it as a wider challenge. I'll go and suggest it to Kyriakos."
His eyes tracked her to the front desk. The woman possessed no limits.
He switched his attention away from her to concentrate on another round of reps. These were tougher than the first set. If each cycle became harder like this, the toll would be severe.
But the gratification would be immense, if he reached his goal. Plus it would satisfy him to triumph over Eleni.
She penetrated his concentration again.
"You're tiring. It's obvious if I can see it. Kyriakos is up for including the gym. He'll make it a feature in the gym's promotional material. We may have competitors, though they needn't know about our bet."
She pronounced their bet in a manner which oozed conspiracy. He had nothing to add. To say anything ran the danger of leading her where he wished not to go. She changed subject.
"So what did you think of my uncle? You got on well enough with him."
Before Stephane could respond, she spared him.
"You've not told me your impressions about my bell tower, my Kampanarió. I want to know. Your skills with Photoshop convinced Uncle Nikolaos. He wants to add it to the landscape."
"But there's nothing like it in Nicosia. At a height of 70 metres?"
"True. That's the reason my uncle likes the design, along with my metaphor of using the eleven faces of the Old Town walls. Their face length is 400 piedi between the points of each bastion. Each of the Kampanarió's faces will be 400 cm. It was your image manipulations which persuaded him. Thank you."
To his astonishment, and embarrassment at being hot and disgusting on a weights machine in a public arena, she leaned over and kissed him full square on the mouth.
"All we have to work out is how best to finish off my Kampanarió. And for me to prove that any decent woman can vanquish a man... At the 100 Tonne Challenge, I mean. Dinner after here?"
Chapter Eight
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Kjersti dried herself after her hotel shower. The return from the Apostolos Andreas monastery meant her nerves were in tatters. Only a long, piping-hot cleansing brought a modicum of relaxation. She now sympathised with Aris.
Her mistake was simple. Hoping to seize an opportunity to quiz Iphi in private about the Russian gambling, she'd insisted Aris travel back in the car with Costas while she rode on Iphi's motorbike. What a fool!
She'd thought she was being generous to Aris. Kjersti knew he hated motorbikes. What she hadn't comprehended was the depth with which he hated Iphi's motorbike. She should have heeded how his face had glowed with relief when she'd suggested it.
Her trip back from the end of the Karpasi peninsula with Iphi had taken almost an hour less than Costas had predicted for the car journey. For most of the time, Kjersti had clung on in simple terror. To do anything else risked falling off and at those speeds, she wouldn't survive.
The one time they'd stopped, to refuel and grab a quick coffee, Kjersti had remonstrated with Iphi, probably as Aris had done. Futile.
Iphi had tossed her hair in disbelief. "What's wrong with you? We're not going fast?"
"Not for you, maybe. But do you have to assume every gap between any vehicles is the next challenge to your driving accuracy?"
"Come on. You exaggerate. It's not that bad!"
"Yes, it is. If we were in Norway, they'd lock you up as either homicidal or suicidal or both."
"Rubbish. I drive like anyone else."
"You're delusional. Remember that truck and the bus? How the truck didn't squash us, I'll never know. Thank god the bus driver braked to create the gap for you, for us."
Iphi had shaken her head in disbelief. Though she said nothing, her face transmitted all: what a wimp. Then she'd remounted her wretched machine. Kjersti hadn't had any option but to follow and endure a further forty-five minutes of hell on two wheels as Iphi weaved and raced her way across the Mesaoria and then through the dense traffic of Nicosia.
To make matters worse, Kjersti hadn't managed to ask Iphi anything. She had one more clear opportunity before they met up with Costas and Aris for their formal post-Trek celebration. The previous evening had been deeme
d insufficient.
Her phone rang. Ana. "Hi, Ana. How are you? How are the olives, and the books? Your favourite librarian?"
"He's so happy you're not here. Every dinner, he reminds me. He leaves for the last time the day after tomorrow, his work done, though I'm sure he'll need to come back at some point. He's taking some of the rarer books to sell, mostly religious editions I have zero interest in."
"Good for both of you. Davide?"
"I haven't heard a cheep. But that's not why I'm calling."
There was hesitation in Ana's tone. Kjersti's curiosity index climbed.
"Could you come back here for a while?"
"Why?"
"Has it ever occurred to you to do anything just because a friend asks?"
Ana's voice veered from tremulous to annoyed. Kjersti reminded herself not to bait Ana at every turn. Ana was correct. It was one of her less alluring traits.
"What's the problem?"
"The house. The architect has reverted to past practice. All those goodies I thought we'd agreed on are, one by one, forgotten or reversed. Alfonso won't bat for me. Will you?"
Kjersti pondered for a couple of moments. She would lose access to Costas, for additional information for her articles, and to Iphi for the story. But she didn't know if there was one. She decided.
"Okay. I'll be with you tomorrow, possibly the day after."
"Make it two days after."
"You mean you don't want me to give your precious Alfonso a heart attack?"
"Something like that. It would let me avoid having to play referee."
"A couple of days more here would suit me better as well. When I have flights, I'll message you and we can rearrange your architect's stupidity."
"Thank you... I forgot. Did you finish the Trek?"
"Yes. Yesterday. We added a day. I'd better go. I'll relate all when I see you."
They made their goodbyes and disconnected. Kjersti rushed out. She wanted the maximum time with Iphi. She hailed a taxi at her hotel to go to Iphi's apartment.
An hour later, with a chilled beer in her hand, she worked Iphi over. Yet Iphi wouldn't budge. All Kjersti had from a full half hour of questioning was a tad more detail about the Russians, that the gambling was a probable shroud for serious money laundering. For Iphi, this was the beginning and end: Aris was still angry with Iphi for telling Kjersti anything.
Kjersti's frustration built. Her journalist's nose was in high twitch mode. She was sure there was dirt to wash. It was her speciality. It wasn't her story.
The apartment's buzzer resounded. She heard Aris's voice on the entry phone. Her chance had gone. She would be leaving Cyprus. Just one of those things.
Aris kissed both Iphi and herself on the cheeks and dropped into the largest chair. It squawked in protest. He looked accusingly at Iphi.
"What have you told her this time?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
"That's a change. My prediction was you'd surrender between Karpasi and Nicosia. Her feint was a touch obvious, passing me over to Costas and the car. Not that I wasn't grateful, given your bike riding. I hope you did to her what you've always done to me. Terrorise."
Kjersti reddened. Was she that obvious? Besides she didn't like his condescension, oblivious of her, and speechifying. She opened her mouth. Iphi spoke first.
"I gave her the first degree. We made it back much quicker than you and me on the way out. Of course, it helps she is light. Better than coping with your excessive weight. Apart from one grumble, she stayed quiet and polite. Much politer than your constant griping, though I concede I don't think she enjoyed it much."
Kjersti kept silent. Something was happening here. She wasn't sure what. Never had she heard these two grate against the other like this. And ignore her as if she wasn't in the room. Aris responded.
"Should we ask her?"
"You know what I think. We've no choice."
Aris turned to Kjersti. His next words took her breath away. They weren't what she expected.
"We need your help."
"About?"
"The Russian gambling. The truth is, neither Iphi nor I have any experience of investigative journalism. Iphi has convinced me. We are lightweights compared to you. We are sure there is dirt. But our initial attempts have produced nothing."
Kjersti asked what they'd done. Over the rest of the evening, she coached them in some realities, that investigative journalism was about patience, about assembling a panoply of small pieces of potential evidence which might, might, add up to a revelation. Or might not.
She steered them towards places and approaches where she would start. They absorbed like sponges. Then they surprised her again, proposing she participate. She told them she couldn't. She had to go to Spain. If, however, they found more than inconsequential crumbs, she'd return.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Archbishop Ioannis practised what he had decided to declaim the day he presided over the dedication of Nea Hagia Sophia. They weren't his words. He was borrowing from the Emperor Justinian himself who had exclaimed "Glory to God who has thought me worthy to finish this work. Solomon, I have outdone you" when the original was first dedicated.
His dilemma was whether he should amend the wording to make it 'Solomon and Justinian, I have outdone you'. Or was that reckless?
He didn't have to decide yet. Instead, he could savour and re-savour his anticipated glory.
Nikos interrupted his reverie by ushering in Vasilios. The brothers greeted each other with a kiss. To anyone watching, Vasilios towered over Nikolaos. But it was the latter who emanated energy. In contrast, Vasilios appeared exhausted. His shoulders dipped. His neck retreated into his chest, as if his head was too heavy to bear. They were an odd fraternity.
"How goes my favourite bell tower?"
"Vasilia delights in her design for the Campanile, until I insisted on Kampanarió. She tells me you are too."
"I am, I am. I too prefer Kampanarió. Choosing the hendecagon to reflect the eleven-sided walls around the Old Town is a stroke of genius on her part. How appropriate. I adore the way she plans to make each face different yet relate to all the others. She possesses a delicacy I hadn't expected."
"The bells may be a problem."
"Why? I thought you'd ordered them from England."
"We have. They're on schedule, before you ask. My worries concern secrecy and vibration."
"The secrecy matters. Make sure it holds up. But what's the issue with vibration?"
"The largest of the four will have an intonation so deep I worry it'll annoy the city. It will be audible kilometres away, not just across the Old Town."
"That's the idea. The more Mohammedans as well as Christians who can hear it the better we will achieve my aims.
Vasilios sighed as softly as he could manage. Nikolaos heard it nevertheless. He was in sufficient good humour to pass over such modest dissent.
"What about the other secret?"
"The stone?"
"Yes."
Vasilios quailed.
Though he was sure the choice would look magnificent, the subterfuge discomforted. Unlike the original in Istanbul, Vasilia proposed to cover the outside of Nea Hagia Sophia with a specific local Cyprus sandstone. This radiated a vibrancy which rippled through a thousand colours in an afternoon as the sun changed its angle. Many of the older buildings in the Old Town had doorway decorations, or whole columns and arches, made of this stone. The effect was a delight, best seen in the churches of the Old Town.
The Archbishop, when Vasilia had first raised the possibility, had adopted it in an instant. He'd argued Nea Hagia Sophia must 'fit in' with other Old Town buildings. As if anything could. Vasilios had shuddered.
Nea Hagia Sophia was a monstrosity, a mad idea. It might make his and Vasilia's reputations or break them. Yet Vasilios had agreed with the sandstone suggestion, thinking there'd be no problem.
Only later, when Nikolaos's adoption was too far gone to reverse, did Vasilia discover the best
sandstone with superior weathering capabilities came from a Nicosia quarry. That quarry was not, however, so local. There was the inconvenience of the Green Line in between.
The sandstone came from the village of Gerolakkos, or Alayköy in Turkish. This was just north of the now disused Nicosia international airport. So near and yet so far.
The Archbishop would accept neither dissuasion nor alternatives from the south. To line the exterior in a Cyprus stone was a wonderful idea. To face it in a Nicosia sandstone was better. To execute it in sandstone obtained from over the Green Line appealed to his worst side. This would more than tweak Turkish noses; it would rub their faces in shame.
Nikolaos had left Vasilios and Vasilia in no doubt. They must organise for sufficient of the stone to arrive in the south to cover the vast exterior and much of the interior of Nea Hagia Sophia. The good news was it would be decorative, not structural. But it demanded tonnes and tonnes of the stuff.
To his acute discomfort, Vasilios had negotiated with third parties, in effect smugglers. They'd ordered, via Cayman Island companies, the sandstone delivered to Turkey. From Turkey, they had it transported to Bulgaria and Albania and from there to Cyprus.
On arrival in Cyprus, they had hustled the blocks to the same discreet location where they assembled the steel and aluminium sections. There, a small crew of stonemasons, sworn to secrecy which meant paid to excess, sliced and carved the sandstone.
The cost had been prohibitive. No leaks had occurred. Yet Vasilios worried. There were too many people involved. His brother had insisted. The connection to the Church had to be masked for as long as possible.
He supposed he fretted to excess. Once the sandstone started to clad the Basilica, it would be visible to all. He turned to his brother, the Archbishop.
"The stonemasons carve the blocks as we speak. They make solid progress on the great north and south tympanum walls, with the windows. The east and west walls come later. So far nobody has put two and two together."
"Excellent. You have done well. And the ambo, solea and synthronon?"
"The synthronon in the apse will also be of sandstone, as you specified. This will include a marble stone throne carved into the highest tier of the synthronon's seating for you, as is usual." Vasilios gathered himself. "For the ambo and solea, you must talk to Vasilia. She has taken these as her special charge. Do you want her to come and talk to you?"
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 19