by Sewell, Ron
“Nitsa,” he shouted down the stairs. “My clothes, are they packed? I’m flying to London at midday.”
“Bishop, every year at this time you go to London and every year I pack your clothes. Why should I forget?”
Costas smiled but said nothing. His car arrived at ten-thirty and proceeded to Paphos airport. He listened to the radio newscaster commenting on the storm, stating that eight inches of rain fell in two hours and triggered devastating flash floods across the island. Costas stared at the trees battered and bent, many broken and on the ground. The buzz of chain saws carving through thick trunks echoed all around.
The driver carried the bishop’s bags to an empty check-in desk. The dark-haired young girl behind the counter checked his baggage. With his boarding card held high, he made his way through passport control and the search area. A uniformed policeman directed him to the first-class lounge.
An attractive attendant let him find a seat.
“Bishop, can I get you something?”
“Cyprus coffee, please, and a biscuit.”
Thirty minutes before take-off, Costas and the other first class passengers boarded. He made himself comfortable as the captain announced they were missing one passenger. Costas knew that this was every flight captain’s nightmare. After a thirty minute delay, Flight BA 2675 raced down the main runway and lifted off into the murky grey sky.
Three hours and fifty minutes later, the Seven-four-seven landed at London Heathrow. First-class passengers disembarked straight away. Economy, like greyhounds in the trap, waited for their release. Costas strolled through passport control with ease while overworked customs officers waited for the stampeding horde to arrive.
Twenty minutes later he carried his bags into the arrival lounge. Waiting behind the barrier stood his friend Georgiadis Stamati, headmaster of the Greek Secondary School in Enfield.
“Welcome,” said Georgiadis. He wrapped his arms around the bishop and hugged him.
Costas gazed at the man in front of him. He was dressed in the same style of clothes he always wore. In many ways it had become his uniform; a tweed jacket over an Arran sweater and cord trousers with highly polished brown shoes. No hat covered his mop of wavy black hair that now had streaks of grey at the temples. Though tired and mentally used up, optimism still emanated from his green eyes.
“My apologies for the delay,” said Costas. “I eagerly await my visit and your housekeeper’s cooking. Out of interest, what are we eating tonight?”
Georgiadis smiled. “Mrs Aggeliki never stays after six, and to be fair, she has a husband and five children. Due to the late hour her meal of steak pie, mashed potatoes and cabbage will have to suffer the microwave treatment.”
“The wonders of technology,” said Costas.
* * *
Nitsa Charalambus lay naked on the bishop’s bed. Her lover, Pavlo Constanides, snuggled close. Most of the men in her life arrived, stayed briefly and were then discarded. Pavlo satisfied her sexual needs. She in turn dangled the use of her body as bait. Always wanting more, he would obey like a well-trained dog.
She gave Pavlo a hard nudge in the ribs. “I need to talk to you.”
“Not now, Nitsa, it’s hot and I’m tired. Let me sleep. I have work tomorrow.”
“Wake up or I shall deny you what you want most.”
Pavlo turned towards her and sighed. “What’s your problem?”
“A million euros?”
Pavlo shrugged. “Dream on. Go back to sleep.”
“Very well,” said Nitsa. She lifted her knees, placed both feet on his back and pushed hard. She laughed when Pavlo tumbled onto the tiled floor. “If you don’t want the money, you can’t have me. I’ll find someone who does.”
He picked himself up. “Jesus Christ, Nitsa,” he exclaimed. “Where is this money?”
“It’s not actual money, but it’s hidden in an old church in Famagusta.” After explaining what Costas told her, Pavlo understood.
“I want those icons but we must wait until the time is right.”
Pavlo stroked Nitsa’s thighs.
“The thought of money excites me.”
Nitsa moaned when he pulled her against him. She changed her position and sank onto his chest.
Chapter Eight
The House of Georgiadis Stamati
Dark clouds covered the moon. Georgiadis drove from the airport to a modest, post-war terraced house in Enfield, located not more than a hundred metres from his beloved school. He parked in the driveway, turned off the ignition and opened the door. He stood staring at the empty house, cold since his wife died three years ago from pneumonia.
With a deep sigh he removed the key from his trouser pocket and opened the main door.
“Welcome,” he said. “Take your luggage to your room. I will heat dinner.”
Costas went up the familiar worn, blue-carpeted stairs. Nothing had changed, apart from the floral wallpaper that had faded to a shade lighter. An air of sadness hung like a grey shroud over the house.
Five minutes elapsed before Georgiadis shouted, “The food’s hot and on the table.”
Costas entered the spacious dining room and sat down opposite Georgiadis. The furniture consisted of a large oak table with six chairs placed at intervals around it. An aged long-case clock ticked loud in the gloom of a corner. Pictures of rural Cyprus adorned the walls and heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows.
Georgiadis poured two large glasses of red wine. “Not a Cyprus wine. It’s on special offer at Tesco’s. Six bottles for twenty pounds.”
Costas smiled, thanking God for friendship and food.
Throughout and after the meal, Georgiadis replenished their glasses from an imitation crystal decanter. He studied his friend’s face. “Is something troubling you? Do you wish to share your thoughts?”
Something in his tone caused Costas to hesitate. Rain battered the window adding to his problem. He waited a long time before answering, “Were you in England when the Turks invaded?” he said quietly.
“Yes, and if I remember, I was teaching. Why do you ask?”
“If you don’t want to answer, it doesn’t matter. It has always puzzled me. Why did you leave Cyprus?”
“My father, God rest his soul, enlisted with EOKA and when the revolt against the British gathered momentum so did the fight against the Turks. Before my mother died, she told me that my father fought only for money. When Cyprus became independent in 1959, both the Greeks and the Turks humiliated my family. Coming to England gave us hope. Here I studied, obtained my degree, taught English to foreign students until my school opened in 1983 and I became headmaster.”
Costas realised his friend expected a response. “Can you imagine the chaos in and around Famagusta during the invasion?”
“No?” snapped Georgiadis. “I lived in England.”
“That’s right. Those who survived the humiliation of the Turks understand. I, like so many, ran away. Many of those who stayed, the old and infirm, perished under a hail of bullets. I can assure you the temptation for a Turkish trooper to loot from abandoned houses was never greater. Let’s face it, there was no one to stop them.”
Costas gazed at Georgiadis, a man who could memorise the full works of Shakespeare, but not repair a fuse.
“What are you trying to tell me?”
Costas hesitated. “I’ve lived with this for too long.” His eyes focused on his friend and he continued. “During the attack on Famagusta, I hid many precious icons. My dilemma is, did the invaders find and sell them? Private collectors will buy stolen property.”
A crash of thunder vibrated through the room and both men listened to the rain falling like a raging torrent from overfull gutters and onto the road.
Costas shook his head. “Rain and more rain. Maybe God is trying to tell me something.”
“I understand you need to buy an umbrella. Your problem is you don’t know if they’ve been found, and if they haven’t – how to retrieve them?”
Cost
as became weary. “Finding out is the first step but how would I recover them.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Yes.”
“It’s late and we’ve both drunk too much,” said Georgiades. “Tomorrow I’ll give thought to your dilemma. I’m going to bed.”
Costas thanked his friend and followed him up the stairs.
At the top, Georgiadis turned. “Goodnight.”
* * *
Georgiadis pondered the recovery of lost icons before sleep surrounded him.
On the stroke of nine the next morning, the school day began. Georgiadis sat in his office studying the programme for the following term. They now had over one hundred Greek Cypriot students whose parents wanted them taught in their native language. These same parents paid huge sums to English tutors so their sons and daughters spoke English without a Greek accent.
He opened his file and searched for a name, Zena Dunn Kyriades.
Zena’s son Petros joined the school in 1988. A remarkable student in Greek and English. He pressed the digits on the phone and waited. A cheerful voice answered, “Good morning, Jack Dunn – you break, I’ll fix.”
“Good morning, Mr Dunn. This is Georgiadis Stamati, Headmaster of the Greek Secondary School. I wonder if you can help me. Have you the telephone number of your son, Petros.”
“Of course. Can I ask why?”
“I understand he may be able to find something for me.”
“Can’t see how. He’s in the property business. Tell you what; are you still at the old school? I’ll tell him you called. Can’t do better than that.”
“You’re most kind, Mr Dunn. Yes, it’s the same number. Thank you for your help.”
“Okay, George, no doubt he’ll contact you when he’s not busy. ’Bye for now.” The line went dead.
The following morning at breakfast, Costas took his knife and sliced the top of his boiled egg.
Georgiadis ate his toast in silence.
“You are distant, my friend,” said Costas.
“Costas, with regard to your missing icons, remember every action has a reaction. Are you prepared to go along that road?”
Costas raised his head. “I want those icons recovered.”
* * *
Petros listened to the message on his answering machine and remembered old Georgiadis, his headmaster. He entered the number his stepfather had given him and waited.
“Georgiadis Stamati, Headmaster.”
Without thinking, Petros said, “Good morning, Sir. Petros Kyriades. You spoke to my stepfather yesterday.”
“Hello, Petros, how are you? It’s been a long time.”
“I’m fine, Headmaster.”
“Petros, I’m informed you help people.”
“Headmaster, when I left university, I did a few years in the army before they threw me out. I think you’d better tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I have a friend who has lost something. He knows where it is but recovery is difficult.”
“Headmaster, your use of the English language is perfect. Why are you acting like a London taxi driver and driving around the houses? Tell me what you want?”
“You’re right. In 1974, the Turks invaded Cyprus. During the invasion my friend hid many icons in a secret place and he now wants them recovered.”
Petros chuckled. “Sounds interesting but what’s he willing to pay? The services of my friends start at a quarter to half a million pounds, plus expenses.”
The line went silent.
“The price is far too high.”
“Headmaster, the border is open between northern Cyprus and the south. Maybe the Russian Mafia in Limassol will be cheaper, but can you trust them? You talk to your friend and if he reconsiders, give me a bell. Perhaps we can meet and chat. Unknown faces I can do without.”
Petros returned to his breakfast.
“My old headmaster might have a job for Bear and me.”
”That’s good. Alysa, open your mouth,” said Maria.
Charlie sat at the side of Alysa’ chair, drooling.
“What are you doing, Dog?”
Petros patted Charlie’s head with one hand while pouring another cup of coffee. Finished with the morning paper he tossed it into the bin.
“Charlie eats more of Alysa’s food than she does,” said Petros.
“No, Alysa, no.”
Alysa screamed, waved her arms, knocking the spoon from Maria’s hand. The bowl of cereal clattered onto the floor. Charlie barked and ate every scrap.
“You’re a naughty girl. Here, hold your bottle.”
Alysa grabbed, laughed and dropped it. Charlie waited for more food.
“Yesterday, you and mama had a long discussion on the phone. Problems?”
A frown spread across Maria’s face. “We want Alysa christened in Cyprus and I must check my farm.”
Petros nodded, his face not giving anything away. “I have a decision to make.”
“No. Alysa will be christened in Cyprus.”
He shrugged but said nothing.
Chapter Nine
Petros peered out of a lounge window as the incessant wind and rain pounded the upper deck of Dream Chaser. Maria and Alysa were out visiting his mother, and Charlie was scrounging food from Andreas’s bistro. Bored, Petros picked up The Times and studied the crossword.
The telephone buzzed. “Good morning. Petros Kyriades. How can I help you?”
“Good morning, Petros. Georgiadis. Do you remember our discussion on missing icons?”
Petros didn’t answer straight away. He asked himself, did he need another collection?
“Yes, I remember.”
“Good news, the bishop wants me to reach an agreeable conclusion.”
“Why me?”
“Perhaps you underestimate your reputation. I trust you, people trust you. I simply need to agree a price.”
“Headmaster, I never do business on the phone. I’ll come to your school and we’ll discuss the details over a cup of tea or a genuine Cyprus coffee?”
“Today I have a staff meeting. Tomorrow at eleven?”
“No problem. I’ll be there.”
Petros replaced the receiver. Cyprus, he mused. Alysa’s christening and a collection. What would Maria think? He folded the newspaper and placed it in the wastebasket.
* * *
The weather remained bleak, and forsaking his motorbikes Petros chose the comfort of his ancient BMW to visit the Greek school. He parked in the playground, pausing for a moment as he looked at the once familiar scene. It hadn’t changed. He followed a sign which declared in bold black lettering Headmaster’s Secretary’s Office.
At his arrival, Mary White stopped typing. “Good morning. Can I help you?” Her mouth opened wide as recognition dawned. “Petros Kyriades.” She smiled. “What on earth are you doing here?”
In one movement, he sat on the corner of her desk. “You remember me. I’m flattered.”
“Of course I do, and so do the many girls whose hearts you broke. Wait.”
“The headmaster’s expecting me.”
She stood. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” On her return she shuffled a mass of papers into a neat stack. “What are you doing these days?”
He let out a sigh. “Property management. I buy and rent. Lucrative and boring. Mind you, my brothel in Mayfair is busy.”
From behind came a gruff voice. “Petros Kyriades, don’t tell lies.”
“Ah, Headmaster. Did you detect Miss White’s brown eyes sparkle when I mentioned a brothel?”
“Tut tut. Come, Petros.”
Petros winked at Miss White, leaving her with a scarlet face. Still grinning, he closed the door to the headmaster’s office, grabbed a chair and sat down.
Georgiadis opened a file in front of him, studied it, closed it, and leaned back in his chair.
“I’ve been informed you’re the best in the business, so I won’t stall. Will you recover the bishop’s icons?”
Petros hesi
tated before answering. “It depends on many factors. Until I check them out I can’t honestly say yes or no. If nothing else, the cost might be excessive, but my terms are not open to discussion.”
Georgiadis grimaced. “Petros, as I’ve told you, we don’t have that much money.”
Petros gave him a stiff smile. “These icons, what are they worth on the open market?”
He shook his head. “A few are worth a hundred thousand or more. The bishop told me that at least a dozen date back to the sixth century and are priceless. One is believed to contain a fragment of the cross, and according to legend has enabled the blind to see and the lame to walk.”
Petros brushed his blond hair from his eyes. “The price is six icons of my choosing when I recover them.”
“Two.”
Petros considered Georgiadis a brilliant teacher and scholar. Someone who had lived in England for almost forty years, his English faultless. Bookshelves filled with the Greek classics climbed to the ceiling behind him.
He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “Headmaster, you taught me well and I’ve done my homework. The deal is four icons of my choosing. Sign and be thankful I’m an honest man. My partner will make the final decision.”
Georgiadis pulled the sheet of paper towards him, read it and signed.
“Headmaster, please ask Miss White to witness your signature and make two copies. One each for you and the bishop. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll withdraw. One week, Headmaster, and I move on. Have the bishop e-mail me his acceptance. When I receive it I’ll begin to put together a plan.”
Georgiadis stood and held out his hand.
Petros grabbed and held it for a moment. “If my partner agrees, the bishop will have his icons.”
“That I know, Petros. You are a man of your word.”
***
Petros’s BMW glided through the traffic. “Global bloody warming! It’s freezing,” he said to an empty car. He shivered and turned the car heater to full. The clouds tumbling across the sky changed from an insipid white to black. It threatened, and then spewed out its unwelcome load, drenching trees, roads and pavements. The driving rain made the journey a nightmare. The windscreen wipers did little and he slowed to a crawl. In front of him a car slid out of control, spinning towards him. The impact when metal hit metal made him grip the wheel. He sighed when the airbag did not inflate.