Suddenly, they reached a solid floor, the first heavy duty one. Hanging above were Alpha, Beta and Gamma. Eleni interrupted his awe.
"In what order do you want to bless them?"
"Personally, I'd prefer to do Omega, if it is at the top, and then work down to these three. But reverse alphabetical order feels wrong."
"Your choice."
Nikos re-lit the censer and repeated the chanted blessings. For good measure he walked around the lower bell floor, doing the same for the room. When he finished, Eleni was on the last stairs to the upper bell floor. He climbed after her.
At the Kampanarió's top, the builders lowered the roof structure. Completed beforehand this was straightforward. The open sky departed. The only light entered through the CLT louvres on all eleven sides.
He readied the censer. As below, he blessed both Omega and the bell room. He added a personal two part prayer; might the sound of the bells satisfy His Beatitude and not offend too many.
"When will you try the bells?"
"A good question, Nikos. I'm not sure. I'd love to have a go now, but there's still much rigging to complete. The electrics for the clapper motors or for the swinging. No human hand here.
"Which is probably as well. I cannot imagine the vibrations if stood underneath."
"Nor I. I spent much time on the foundations and the structure to cope with the vibrations through the Kampanarió. There is lots of damping built in."
She paused. A frisson of concern passed through her. Nikos noticed.
"Is something wrong? Have you detected a problem?"
"No. I was thinking about the mild cheat."
"Cheat?"
"You probably don't realise but the Kampanarió rests on one corner of the underground car park. We constructed a base in the car park to carry the weight through to the foundation piles below. I would have preferred to establish separate piling for the Kampanarió."
"But the late decision about what form the Kampanarió would take prevented this?"
"Right. Anyhow, the Kampanarió isn't heavy. Adding the stone carvings later won't make much difference... Shall we return to terra firma?"
"Happily. It's a pity there is no viewing platform."
"You remember why not? The need for an elevator and the danger from the vibrations every hour and a quarter of an hour."
"You disappointed His Beatitude."
"I know. My father relayed that to me. My uncle had envisaged a fat income stream from tourists alone."
"My master likes to see every possible cent flow to the good cause."
"That was said with his pomposity."
Nikos and Eleni swapped glances, appreciating their mutual irony in an informal setting. There was no doubt in Nikos's mind. His master was, above all else, rapacious. For money and for fame. It wasn't clear which was preeminent.
Limassol (Cyprus)
Tassos photographed the icon of Agios Nikolaos. The tripod supported a quality digital camera. He fiddled with the lighting, double checking to ensure the gold background threw no reflections. Once satisfied he had the optimum position he took ten photos before replacing the digital camera with a traditional film one. He captured three more. His 'copies' complete, he tidied away the photographic equipment.
Though it pained him, he dismounted Agios Nikolaos to return him to the same bubble wrap and envelope in which he'd arrived. This evening, he would dine with Dmitriy on the Kristina. Dmitriy would keep the icon and he would have a small gold ingot to add to a different section of his collection.
Gold was a comfort in difficult times. It was so flexible and unavailable for the financial authorities to impose a haircut. As they'd done for so many savings in Cyprus...
He took his elevator to the garage beneath the building. Placing the package on the passenger floor, he drove to the Kristina and parked where he had before. This time, he went straight on board. A sailor led him through the vessel to a large salon with deep sofas and coffee tables. Drawn curtains hid the inside from prying outsiders. One spot on the wall was lit but blank.
Dmitriy and he shook hands. Dmitriy passed a glass of champagne to Tassos.
"I know you prefer Roederer. Tonight: you have the Widow."
"I never complain about Veuve Cliquot. Thank you. You're not joining me?"
"Wine is not my sin. I have a soft spot for Żubrówka."
"A Russian vodka? I've never heard of it."
"Polish. It's known in English as Bison Grass vodka. It's distilled from rye, and is herb-flavoured with a kick."
"Is that the one with a straw or blade of grass in it?"
"That's it, though I'm told its presence is more for its marketing appearance than as a contributor to the flavour."
They toasted each other. Tassos handed over the package. In a reversal of Tassos's prior actions, Dmitriy opened the package, removed Agios Nikolaos and carried the icon to the lit spot to hang it.
Both Tassos and Dmitriy admired the Saint afresh. Tassos felt an overwhelming sadness. He was losing a friend. Dmitriy caught his regret.
"Don't look so sad. Remember: Agios Nikolaos is the patron saint of sailors. He's come home to the Kristina. In any case, this should inhibit your regrets?"
He handed over a small, heavy box. Inside nestled one small gold ingot sandwiched by two larger silver ones.
"I hope you won't mind the mix of metals. The three together are worth a little more than what we agreed."
Dmitriy was right. The flexible payment soothed Tassos. He closed the box and thanked Dmitriy.
"Are you ready to eat? Or shall we celebrate with another glass?"
"Celebrate."
"I agree."
Dmitriy refreshed their glasses. They marvelled again at Agios Nikolaos in his new maritime home before proceeding to the dining area. This was on the top deck, in the open air surrounded by discreet screening.
Unknown to them, this was not perfect. It worked for anybody on the dockside, but they did not consider the distant restaurant walkway. Had they noticed, it looked a long way off, and too far to worry about.
"We, that is the Kristina and I, will need to leave port tomorrow or, at latest, the day after. Is there anything to finish which requires me?"
"Where will you go?"
"As last week, we'll head offshore and circle for a week or ten days. Once more back here, for a day to replenish, then the voyage to the Black Sea. If you need me, I am nearby."
"There's nothing urgent. But I would like to work through how we can automate more of the SinCard operations. Both for enabling Russians to buy SinCards and also how we handle the creation of accounts. These will have to satisfy the 'Know Your Customer' regulations. Western Europe and US standards will one day reach this far east. I don't want to be caught out."
"I've given this some thought. The mechanics of buying and payment for SinCards are straightforward. A suitably adapted commerce platform, which we have, will go up on the web."
"That doesn't solve the opening of accounts for refunds and satisfying the 'Know Your Customer' complications."
"You're right."
Dmitriy continued over dinner. He proposed to hatch another Internet site where identity documents could upload. If Tassos or his bank people would provide model templates, Dmitriy would see these replicated in Russian so SinCard owners could enter their details.
To Tassos, the master step came late in the dinner. This was the suggestion that accounts could be opened not with the Bank but with a faux-bank held in the digital vaults of the Kristina. Once a SinCard buyer surpassed a certain aggregate amount of deposits on a specific SinCard, he or she would receive an offer to buy a reduced holiday package to visit Cyprus.
This would include air tickets and accommodation. While on the island, the SinCard owners would visit the Bank, or the Bank could send staff to visit them, to inspect passports and other required proof of identity.
"If you can structure the hotel aspect here in Cyprus, I can do the same for the flights from R
ussia. There might be more money for us."
"This approach would address the 'Know Your Customer'. I assume the acceptance of the opened account would trigger the release... No, of course it wouldn't. The balance to be refunded is on the SinCard. The Bank reads the amount, deducts this from the SinCard and credits the new customer's bank account. The Church knows nothing because these Sin-payment sales are never reported; they enter the Kristina's digital records?"
Dmitriy's eyes gleamed in appreciation. He liked to work with smart people, and more so with smart, bent people. It was a pity that Frenchman had turned out to be straight. He could have been a most useful asset on the Kristina to continue refining the sports gambling systems. He faced Tassos.
"By the way, a mutual friend joins us a little later."
"Who?"
"That would be telling. You won't be disappointed."
Nicosia (Cyprus)
The Archbishop faltered on his way to his terrace. He held onto a chair tight. Tonight should be the first of many planned celebrations with him at the forefront. He didn't have the energy or inclination. Today's diagnosis was far worse than he'd expected. His doctor had looked horrified.
With a delicacy to which he would have to become accustomed, though not for long, he lowered himself into his favourite chair. He gazed out towards Nea Hagia Sophia, spot-lit in the warm evening air.
Beside it, lit brighter for the occasion, stood Eleni's Kampanarió. It did not yet do her design justice. That would arrive when they installed the carved stone panels. To minimise their lack, the brightest lights focused on the top two louvred floors, where Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Omega hung.
Another thirty minutes and he would know whether the extra expense and complications of the Kampanarió were worth it. First there would be a peal of the three smaller bells. Only when they finished, on the stroke of nine, would Omega sing for the first time.
Eleni, from the start, had promised him Omega would impress. The bell makers in England repeated the same. Reality was about to deliver a verdict.
He pictured his personal doctor's face. He was a good man with a reasonable bedside manner, not too gushing but not remote either. When Nikolaos had entered the consulting room, he'd known in an instant he was there to receive bad news. The doctor's face couldn't hide it.
"Your Beatitude, I don't know how to soften this. I'm shocked. At least we can explain your tiredness."
Nikolaos recalled his rising apprehension. He'd barked, and regretted it in the same instant. It hadn't mattered. His doctor had ploughed on.
"As you appreciate, we have searched high and low for an explanation or diagnosis. Your case defeated us all. Until a junior colleague commented. She saw some of the test results and suggested an explanation which had occurred to none of us."
Nikolaos had waved him on. There had been too many words. He had still been no wiser, though the impending probability of a death sentence had cast its shadow.
"The long and the short of it: you have full-blown AIDS. I'm sorry. I don't know how. The only credible explanation is you received tainted blood at some point in your past. I can't find any record of a transfusion. Equally, I don't have your full medical records."
"Terminal?"
"Yes."
"How long do I have?"
"I don't know. Your case is puzzling in many ways. Not only how you acquired AIDS, but also how you survived for so long without overt clinical symptoms."
"Your guess?"
"With the virus penetration at the current levels, no more than three months. It is rampant. But what I don't understand is how, a year ago, you were in better condition than at any time in the past decade, and most certainly better than before your elevation to Archbishop."
"Who knows?"
"Myself, the colleague and the analysts who confirmed the diagnosis. The link between the test samples and your name is known by very few. We are scrupulous that only the patient's primary practitioner should have all information. For the moment, that's me. Of course, other medical personnel will need to know if you commence treatment."
"You can keep it secret?"
"Of course, I can. My colleagues too. They're professionals."
"Make it so, and forever. It would not do for my congregation to find out. They must not."
"But if it was because of a blood transfusion, nobody could object."
"I don't care. Absolute secrecy. You understand me?"
"I do."
"My last question: can you do anything?"
"Cure you? No. Inhibit progression? Perhaps. For that we would fill you with drugs."
"With what effect?"
"At your age and in your state, we'll be unlikely to gain much in overall health or remission. But I can pretty much guarantee the side effects will affect your ability to concentrate and think."
"You mean my marbles will go soft and woozy without producing improvement?"
His doctor had agreed. He'd sat for a minute or so, absorbing.
Then he'd raised himself and departed, pausing only to explain that his initial inclination was to do nothing. If he changed his mind, he would be in contact.
He checked his watch. The first peal from Alpha, Bravo and Gamma was imminent. He'd insisted on adopting the Western tradition for bell ringing and he'd arranged to drown out ISHaa, the last of the muezzin's hated daily calls to prayer. If the bells delivered, at least one small part of his ambition would have come to fruition.
The muezzin, through his infernal loudspeakers, wailed.
Several seconds later the three bells from the Kampanarió chorused in reply, their sounds doubly delicious.
The trio's clarity and crisp tones were a joy in themselves.
They rampaged over the muezzin's dirge. Elation surged through Nikolaos.
There was a further irony here. It was when he visited Istanbul and saw the original Hagia Sophia that he'd first experimented. Far from his brother monks and priests, he'd surrendered to the raging lusts which had assailed himself and Vasilios in secret. Not for women. That was Vasilios's preserve, at least until his wife died.
For himself, it had been for a half-man, part boy – a Muslim. His endless guilt had fuelled a detestation of Mohamed and his devotees. The hidden fleshpots of post-Ottoman Istanbul, where anything was for sale, were responsible for his fall from grace.
The peal ended. There was a brief pause. Just before nine, Alpha, Beta and Gamma sang out one note each.
Another pause.
Then a profound sonorous boom sang out.
Nine times, once every seven seconds.
The noise was indescribable.
It reverberated across the terrace, across the Archbishop, across Nicosia North and South and beyond over the Mesaoria.
A hush fell on the city, not just the Old Town, by the time the ninth boom finished.
In that calm nine echoes from Omega's nine booms, though muddied with time and distance, returned; the Pentadaktylos repaid the compliment.
The Archbishop slackened in his chair. Victory was his. He and Nea Hagia Sophia were vanquishing Mohamed.
Except Mohamed would have the last laugh.
One evening in Agia Napa, among the fleshpots of the tourists, he'd succumbed to a handsome foreigner's drunken importuning. Was that foreigner the source of what now scourged him?
Or was it one of his catamite monks, under his obedience. One had died an unexplained death. Nobody had asked questions. One didn't of the holy priesthood. Its members were beyond reproach.
Like himself, the living, if almost dead, proof that sanctity was not holiness.
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Inma dried her hair with the pathetic device which came in the hotel bathroom. She should have brought her own, but Davide's advice had been to travel light. Typical man. Her thick glossy black hair required copious attention, not least because grey hairs showed. She knew the day must come. It had.
A hairdresser was mandatory. The only question was whether to risk it in Nico
sia or wait until she was back in Madrid. She laughed at herself. It wasn't as if she had any preference back home. While peluqueria salons multiplied at the speed of farmacias (she questioned whether they fed off each other), none she'd tried were worth a return visit. Perhaps Lili might recommend somewhere? Or Ana?
She would call the latter and find out about progress. Had she finished assembly of her olive oil production line, or was she still awaiting the perfect second-hand centrifuge for oil and water separation? She could suggest a visit, now that her involvement in the SinCard marketing plans wound down.
A thunderous boom rattled the room fitments. A second followed. She counted nine before peace broke out. The booms sounded as if they came from a deep metallic bass, like a bell. She knitted two and two together. It must be the Kampanarió ringing out for the first time.
As she dressed, she thought about this evening. To her surprise, and annoyance, Davide hadn't objected, nor shown an iota of resistance, when Stephane had invited her to dinner. Was it a date? She wasn't sure and her concentration on finishing the marketing work meant she hadn't found a moment to confront Davide. Had he alerted Stephane she 'was otherwise inclined'? She liked this quaint wording. So very British. It failed to say what it meant. If you weren't clued in, you were lost.
It would be good to know. Discouraging Stephane without offending would test her lightweight social skills. Should she call Davide?
She picked up her phone to call him. Before she could connect, her room phone rang. Stephane was in the lobby. She told him she would be there in five minutes. She needed that to complete her makeup, understated as Miriam had taught.
Stephane greeted her with the same elaborate kiss to her hand, which attracted disbelief from hotel guests nearby. He ushered her out to a taxi. It took less than five minutes to reach a Japanese restaurant. She'd never eaten in one before. She'd seen them in Madrid, but had never possessed the nerve to experiment. She hoped he knew what to order.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 30