Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  Might this mean she thought of him differently to how she regarded others? He would have liked to think so, until she'd let drop where her heart lay. Listening to one brief flash of weakness shattered any delusion he shouldn't possess. In one way, he was grateful. She'd crushed his temptations.

  Instead, when her focus wasn't on the ceremony, where she fancied herself une chorégraphe extraordinaire, her fixation was on her 'Campanile of Nicosia', the Kampanarió. With almost indecent haste, its steel structure had gone up. They had already pre-cut its CLT for attachment. Then they would hang the carved sandstone panels on the CLT.

  All was good up to this point. But, perhaps because of her use of automation to sculpt the panels, Eleni faced problems. She constantly had to visit the stone-smiths to check on progress. It was not often she returned to Nicosia encouraged.

  Another centimo had dropped for Nikos. She envisaged these panels as modern equivalents to Ghiberti's doors for Florence's Battistero, opposite the Duomo. Nikos didn't think they were special. He never said so. Her anger would be total.

  Balancing the slow progression of the sandstone panels was the imminent arrival of the bells. They were due for shipment. Their raising would come near to last, which made sense.

  Yet Eleni confessed her worries to him, specifically the effect of the reverberations of Omega. Not on the Old Town or the citizens of Nicosia. Her concerns were more prosaic. Might the vibrations loosen the attachment of the sandstone panels to the CLT, or the CLT to the steel infrastructure?

  Nikos could see how this question gnawed at her. She'd raised it more than once when discussing the ceremony planning. It pierced her core, because it questioned her competence.

  Nikos had no good response. In this, he was out of his depth, though it occurred to him she hadn't considered what harm those vibrations might do to the Basilica itself. It wasn't his responsibility. He kept his silence.

  "Nikos. Come here."

  Nikos urged himself forward. His master still possessed vitality and an indomitable will. Yet it wasn't with quite the same vivacity as on his elevation to Archbishop, or during the months after. Was it age? Was Ioannis ill?

  As with the oscillations of Omega, Nikos ignored the signs and continued as if nothing could change. He permitted himself the luxury of resurfacing an old worry. What might happen to him when Ioannis died?

  Discarded, as all personal assistants were, he would need a new home. The notion of returning to a grim monastery possessed zero attraction. Being a parish priest was no better. His loss of the influence associated with being the power behind a monastic or Archiepiscopal throne was inevitable and discomfiting.

  "Your Beatitude?"

  "Look, Nikos. They're lowering the first CLT external panel onto the dome. Vasilios and Eleni perform wonders."

  Nikos raised his eyes to the cranes not so far away. His Beatitude was correct. A curved panel hung from one crane. After it was lowered into place, he saw the hoisting of the second.

  He tilted his head. The Kampanarió thrust forth, albeit in steel and CLT outline. How long would it be before the bells tolled and Eleni discovered the outcome?

  Limassol (Cyprus)

  Iphi and Aris stood outside the RYS office in Limassol. As so often, it was locked. Telephoning had delivered no success. They'd agreed this would be their final attempt. No luck this time and they'd give up. The story would have become a non-runner; their editors would think so.

  There was nothing to indicate the office would reopen today. None the less, they hung around. They spotted the first movement after a bored half hour: a lady on a bicycle. She rode past. Not her.

  Iphi turned to Aris. "Time to give up?

  "No. Remember what Kjersti said. Patience."

  As Aris spoke, a bright yellow VW Rabbit parked about 30 metres beyond the office doorway. A round, middle-aged woman emerged. That in itself was a marvel. The Rabbit's door was too small. Having established her balance on towering heels, she tottered forward.

  Iphi and Aris looked to each other. Could it be?

  She unlocked the RYS door. They followed. Inside the office, the woman seemed larger than outside. She overwhelmed the small room.

  "Can I help? Are you looking to rent or to buy? Business or domestic?"

  Her voice was sharp. Her face expressionless. Her tone unhelpful.

  Aris nudged Iphi. A hunch compelled him to remain quiet. Let Iphi talk, woman to woman.

  "We're looking for a sports betting business run by a man called Dmitriy. We..."

  "Pile of Russian shit."

  "I'm sorry. Did I hear you right?"

  "If you heard 'pile of Russian shit' your ears work fine. He ripped me off and removed the one asset in that miserable business before he disappeared with Kristina."

  "Asset?" ventured Iphi.

  "He had a Frenchman working for him." All of a sudden, a softness suffused the woman's features. It transformed her. "Sexy. Very sexy. Not often I say that about a man. Delicious French accent. Bald or close-shaven. Well-built, like someone who looked after himself. Called himself a developer, whatever that is or was."

  "Did he have a name?"

  "It was double barrelled. I remember one barrel. Trani. That's where my parents met. A town in the heel of Italy. They adored it."

  Iphi was about to speak again. The large lady rabbited on, oblivious to Iphi and Aris.

  "I think his first name was Stephen or Stefan. Something like that. Dmitriy told me he'd gone to Nicosia when the business shut. Never saw him again. Pity. I fancied him. I tried loitering with intent a couple of times. Of course, at my age, such desires don't work out."

  Her aggressive expression reappeared. Glaring eyes peered at Iphi, then Aris. Iphi tried a last question.

  "Kristina? Who was she? His girlfriend? Wife? Boss?"

  "No way. She is, or was, a yacht. A big one."

  Suspicion now dominated her attitude.

  In a more combative tone, the woman snarled. "Why are you asking? Who are you?"

  Her hostility overshadowed all. Iphi debated whether to explain. Before Iphi could decide, Aris tugged her away. Outside, he turned to Iphi.

  "We can always come back. Don't over-fry the golden egg. We now have some serious pointers."

  Iphi nodded. Better to ask around more.

  "To the port. Let's find out if there's a harbour master who can remember anything."

  They asked for directions. In the harbour master's office, they enquired about a yacht called the Kristina. This time, Aris took the lead, though the man with the words Assistant Harbour Master on his shirt, never stopped throwing appreciative glances at Iphi. She smiled to encourage.

  "Not a yacht. A motor vessel. Motor yacht if you prefer. She couldn't sail for love nor money. No mast, no sails."

  "When was she here? For how long?"

  "A few days, several months ago. She had a Russian master, captain to you, with poor English, though the BVI own her registration. The British Virgin Islands to you. A tax haven."

  "Do you know where she is now?"

  "No idea. We tracked her until payment cleared for her mooring. He was a tricky bastard, that Russian. He slipped her out before the money transferred, which he wasn't supposed to do. Once the payment arrived, we lost interest."

  "How did you track her?"

  "AIS. Automatic Identification System. Originally designed for collision avoidance, but now it's mandatory for all commercial vessels. It's also used for vessel location finding and passage planning. Come over here. Look."

  He pointed to a large screen connected to a desktop computer. On it were various simplistic ship-like symbols in different colours. He clicked on one outside Limassol.

  "See. This one is a tanker called the 79. Weird name for a ship. She's anchored. This one over here is a tramp freighter. This pop-up window tells us she's making twelve knots on a heading of 260 degrees and is sailing from Larnaca to Piraeus. According to AIS, she expects to arrive in two days. You know you can find ship
tracker apps on smartphones? I have one on mine. This is just a professional version where more information is available."

  Iphi's mouth had dropped open in amazement. She'd no idea tracking was possible. Aris was quicker off the mark. He followed up.

  "Can you locate the Kristina?"

  The Assistant Harbour Master typed in her name and the BVI registration.

  "She's not in Cyprus waters."

  He typed again, changing parameters. Eight shapes popped up on a mini flat representation of the world.

  "We might not find her. If she's in port she'll switch off her beacon. That's legal. She wouldn't show up, at least not until she sailed again."

  He hovered over each of the eight, starting with a Kristina in the North Sea. One by one he eliminated vessels.

  "That's her!"

  He pointed to the screen. The MV Kristina, registered in Tortola, BVI. From her track, she appeared to go round and round in elongated circles. He zoomed out.

  "Interesting. She's off the coast of Crimea. I wonder why? Also, why are you questioning me?"

  This time, Iphi explained. They were journalists trying to get to the bottom of a story about sports betting and Russians.

  "That could make sense. The days before they sailed, they loaded all sorts of computer equipment, in bulk. One of my colleagues watched it disappear on board. She was big enough to take it all and had satellite domes, aerials and all."

  Aris suppressed his excitement. Iphi asked if the office had any more information about the Kristina. It seemed not. It destroyed records after an ill-defined period, now past. They thanked the Assistant Harbour Master.

  Outside, they hugged each other. They had their openings. Where these might lead, who knew? But Kjersti's cajoling them to be patient meant they'd crossed the start line.

  Sierra de Mariola (Spain)

  Kjersti hopped out of bed, full of energy. It was her third visit to Ana in the past several months. The architect persisted both with his recalcitrance and his romantic interest in Ana. Why he thought he could do what he wanted with her house while wooing her was beyond Kjersti. Unless he presumed himself already the future master of the finca.

  She'd arrived two days earlier from Oslo. She'd occupied yesterday realigning the architect's plans to accord with what Ana sought. The sight of Kjersti had compelled the architect into a rapid U-turn. With an abruptness that could only be suspicious, he'd reverted to Ana's conception for her house.

  Since Kjersti's last visit, the the farmhouse's reform had made much progress. Two bathrooms were new from tip to toe. There was piping hot water, supplied by solar heating on the roof. The kitchen had moved and, modernised, sat alongside a small dining room which could seat twelve. Kjersti thought this excessive. Ana had insisted. Re-plumbed and rewired, the house crept into the twenty-first century.

  Outside, the changes were greater. Despite the architect's resistance, Ana had placed additional solar panels behind a steep hedge. These fed an enormous battery in an outhouse converted to act as an electricity mini-substation. From a domestic perspective, Ana was moving towards electrical self-sufficiency – when the sun shone.

  For the olive oil production, Ana proceeded with less speed. Enrique's recitation of the costs of a mill, malaxer and centrifuge, the latter to separate the olive oil from everything else, had shocked Kjersti and Ana both. If Ana acquired one of María's olive sorting computer set-ups, this would cost a further 30 percent, based on her hoped-for throughput.

  Ana's policy was simple. She'd use third party mills to press her olives until she possessed her own complete production facility. Meanwhile, she scoured the local area for second-hand components.

  To date, she had a bigger-than-necessary-mill with two large stone wheels. She'd picked this up for a song, because no-one wanted something so big. A malaxer was on its way. Not cheap, but new enough to satisfy hygiene and efficiency requirements.

  The centrifuge was, according to Ana, the holdup. Nobody offered anything appropriate. Ana played a waiting game, in the hope something would appear. She also eyed a brand-new one with the covetousness of a would-be new car owner.

  Kjersti laughed to herself as she dressed for a run. Inma had convinced Ana about the practical and environmental advantages of an all-electric car. Kjersti was in favour. They were all the rage in Norway. In Spain, however, they did not attract large subsidies and the quoted price made Kjersti's jaw drop in shock. Perhaps Inma could afford one. Ana couldn't, not when she was spending so much on the finca and her new olive oil business. Instead, she made do with an old Land Cruiser which could go anywhere across her territory, but guzzled diesel and belched dirty exhaust fumes as if climate change didn't exist.

  Inside the main house, the stone stairs remained. The architect had wanted to move them. He couldn't. They were part of the fabric of the structure. Kjersti's personal suspicion was they acted as an internal load bearing centrepiece for the farmhouse. The architect could not prove she was wrong. She could not prove she was right. Impasse.

  She found Ana in the kitchen. Clean, bright yet with traditional touches, it was a place for comfort and it possessed an open fireplace with a television mounted above. A sofa sat opposite.

  She declined coffee. She was, if Ana hadn't noticed her clothing, heading for a run.

  "Where will you go?"

  "I'm not sure. I'm still taking care after slightly tearing a calf muscle not long after Trek."

  "Might I ask a favour? Could you pass the upper groves and see if they look all right?"

  "You trust me, born north of the Arctic Circle and now an Oslo city girl, to pass judgement on your precious groves?"

  "You know enough. It'll save me an hour and I have an excess of paperwork to plough through today."

  "You could join me on the run?"

  "Ha. Never again! Even injured, you're a menace to sane people."

  Kjersti stuck her tongue out at Ana, who laughed at the girlishness of the response. It was a facet about Kjersti which Ana appreciated. Kjersti rarely took herself seriously.

  Kjersti waved a hand in farewell and disappeared out the back door. From the kitchen window, Ana saw her bright green shorts vanish around the corner.

  Two hours later, Kjersti navigated the traffic outside the production buildings. The malaxer must have arrived. Sure enough, Ana emerged, looking pleased.

  "You may have a problem at the top. The leaves look dry, sort of pre-shrivelled."

  "Damn, damn and damn. That's what I feared. I didn't warn you on purpose. I wanted to see if you noticed anything. Oh well, I'll have to divert some precious water."

  Before Kjersti could respond, her phone rang. She extracted it from her waist-bag and inspected the screen. Iphi. It had been some time since they last talked.

  "Iphi?"

  "Yes, with Aris beside me. I'll put the conference function on."

  Iphi sounded excited. What had happened? For both to call was a first.

  After dutiful pleasantries, words poured from Iphi. She described what had occurred in Limassol, both at the estate agent and the Harbour Master's office and the fact that, besides the occasional diversion into Odessa, how the Kristina continued to sail in circles off the Crimea. She added they'd gambled a few Euros on a site which they believed the ship hosted. She relayed their editors' renewed support.

  "So why call me?"

  "You can guess why?"

  "You've hit a dead-end?"

  "Sort of."

  Iphi mentioned the names of Dmitriy and Stefan or Stephen Something-Trani or Trani-Something associated with computers and the finance sector. Their Internet researches had turned up nothing about Dmitriy connected with sports gambling. But they had produced a name for Stephen or Steven Something-Trani. Except he was a Stephane Thibault-Trani, who listed himself as a specialist in financial exchange systems based in the Hérault in southern France.

  "Montpelier's the capital, if you didn't know."

  "So?"

  "We hoped you might
try and contact him?"

  "Why can't you?"

  "We did. But when we said we were from Cyprus and researching sports gambling and Russians, he clammed up."

  "So you spoke with him? He exists?"

  Aris took over. His voice mixed hope and disappointment.

  "He exists. We did everything by voice. It seemed best. Were we wrong?"

  Kjersti could touch his despondency. It had probably made minimal difference. She said as much and asked for details of Thibault-Trani's website.

  "You'll contact him."

  "I'll try. But he may not speak to me either."

  Iphi and Aris were effusive in their thanks. After ending the call, Kjersti turned to Ana.

  "How would I get to Montpelier from here?"

  "Drive. Fly to Girona and drive. Take the fast train from Valencia to Barcelona and the AVE/TGV to Montpelier. Why?"

  "Fancy a trip to there, say for a long weekend?"

  Clermont-l'Hérault (France)

  Stephane was miserable. Being stuck in his parents' home in a hill village not far from Clermont-l'Hérault bored him. There was nothing to challenge him. He almost missed Cyprus.

  It was weeks since he'd earned any income. In financial terms, that wasn't as big a deal as a year ago. His mother had lasted a couple of weeks after his arrival then, to her doctor's surprise, died.

  His father, distraught, refused to live in their restored maison de maître. Instead he'd sought an old people's home in Montpelier where, many decades before, he'd gone to university. After a brief search, he'd found one which appealed and moved there within a fortnight.

  On his way, he'd donated ownership of the maison de maître to Stephane, who now possessed a magnificent, though not too large, family home with a manageable garden and orchard. The latter contained a dozen olive trees and sufficient vines. The only condition his father set on his gift: 'Look after my trees and vines. They will feed and nurture you through anything – as they did your mother and me.'