by Sewell, Ron
Petros kissed Maria on the lips.
He turned to Bear who was layering marmalade on a roll. “I’m going to change. I thought you said you were finished eating?”
“It’s a long way to my room.”
* * *
Petros returned to his room and changed into his tracksuit and trainers. He left the hotel, jogged down to the beach, and began running, constantly scanning the shoreline where deserted hotels and houses littered the forbidden area. The wet sand along the water’s edge presented a good, firm surface, ideal for running, and the fresh breeze wafting from the east recharged his senses.
Sweat ran over his face and soaked his tracksuit top. After twenty minutes he stopped. His heart pounding like a drum, he turned and ran towards the wire-mesh fence rotting on the sand, and dashed into the nearest building. The dim light of the abandoned hotel foyer gave an eerie ambience; only the ghosts remained. With care, he walked to the entrance, past the bullet holes that scarred the walls. Grass, in large wind-blown clumps, penetrated the asphalt of the car park.
He ran to another abandoned house. Nearby, a diesel engine started. Two metres to his right an armoured car trundled past. It carried four soldiers. Further along the road the vehicle stopped. The crew got out and lit cigarettes.
Petros stood in the shadows, watching this undisciplined bunch amble across a courtyard, pause at the door of the rundown house while the NCO unlocked it.
Strange, thought Petros. He walked over to the next building which gave him a good view of the house and he could see straight into one of the rooms. Three of the men sat around a crude table. One began dealing cards. The other returned with four opened bottles of beer.
Same, same, he thought. He made himself comfortable on a wooden box and rested his back against the wall. From here he observed the comings and goings. Dead on the hour, one man went out and clambered into the vehicle where he radioed a report, then signed off and returned to the game. Petros could not hear what they said but guessed. As he focussed on the matter in hand, the memory came to him of his first visit into Varosha and discovering his parents’ house. So much had happened since that day.
At midday the roar of a large lorry confirmed the arrival of the next watch. The new crew repeated the same routine.
Petros focused on the four men but his attention wavered. I need to find the church, he reminded himself. The rain fell in large droplets. The deluge came with such force that the streets became rivers.
Time to leave, he thought. Once out in the open, water ran from his clothes. The streets were gloomy. Empty buildings, their windows black eye sockets, stared at decay and rejection; where were their owners? Every few minutes he instinctively glanced behind him – an action of practice. He wandered up the narrow roads and back alleys of the empty town but did not stray from good cover.
Birds rose shrieking from a clump of overgrown hibiscus bushes. He jumped. Jesus Christ, my nerves are tight, he thought as he stood in the rain staring at the building in front of him. The description fitted, but is this the bishop's church? To its left, surrounded by a stone wall, was a neglected graveyard. Trees and weeds, their seeds planted by the wind, grew in abundance. He checked his home-drawn map. From his inbuilt sense of direction, it appeared to be the right church. He raced across the muddy road and up the few cracked stone steps that led to the entrance.
What remained of its doors hung from rust-seized hinges. Precision cut and fitted stone formed the main building, a tribute to its ancient builders. Once inside, he removed his thin tracksuit top, wrung out the fabric and wiped the water from his face. Layers of dust covered everything. The walls, at one time decorated with pictures of saints, now exhibited multi-coloured graffiti in Turkish. The army or thieves had removed everything of any value. Rubbish blown by the wind filled every corner.
At the centre of the aisle stood an elaborately carved stone altar. He walked towards it and ran his fingers over the intricate carvings of Jesus and angels. How the hell did this hunk of stone rise, he wondered. His eyes searched for the secret. A small slot in one side revealed nothing. The bishop knew how it operated, but had yet to tell them.
He glanced at his watch. The late afternoon shadows added to the murk of the persistent rain and the warm wind blowing in from the sea. As the rain hit his face he blinked to clear his vision. Following a pattern he hurried from one muddy street to another, until the sound of an engine starting caused him to withdraw into a ransacked shop.
He controlled his annoyance and checked his map. The patrol drove by, the soldiers more interested in staying dry than any possible intruders. Mind you, he thought, I bet no one ever comes in here.
The Jeep disappeared, leaving water-filled ruts in the road. Petros retraced his steps through the deserted buildings to the beach. Once over the fence he paused. The clouds had grown larger and darker; the gentle breeze of morning had become gale force. He slapped his hands together and started running along the beach.
On a tree-lined avenue he stopped at an empty taverna. The waiter stared at his customer, soaking wet and covered in mud.
Petros could not refrain from smiling. “I fell. Could I please have a strong cup of coffee?”
The man laughed. “Let me get you a cloth to wipe your hands and face.”
“Thank you. You are very kind.”
“For you, I make the best Turkish coffee.”
A young girl placed a bowl of warm water on the table and handed Petros a towel. She waited until he finished.
When the coffee arrived, he sipped it gratefully, enjoying the flavour and aroma.
Back in the hotel, he dumped his clothes into a laundry bag. A piping hot shower revitalised his body, the steam filling his lungs. He dressed casually and lay on the bed, his head falling back on the pillows. In a few moments, his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep.
* * *
Bear studied the mid-morning sky littered with broken clouds. He pulled himself into the truck and set the trip meter to zero. From a file he removed a copy of the map of Varosha, aligned the sheet of paper to his present position and marked the start point. He attempted to drive near the fence. Time and again he had to cope with narrow side streets only to find another restricted lane to test his driving skills. He constantly checked his speed ensuring his erratic driving appeared to all and sundry that of a tourist.
The fence had a strange paradox surrounding it. On one side, Turkish families lived their lives and on the other, what had once been a thriving district lay desolate.
Whenever possible he stopped and marked the map with the distance travelled. At gaps in the fence, he noted the trip meter and stopped.
The next downpour lashed the cab’s windows. The drumming on the metal roof and the constant swish of the windscreen wipers made study difficult.
With one hand he scribbled notes on the condition of the fence. He got out and double-checked the weak points next to occupied houses. With a disposable camera, he photographed everything of interest. Damaged or intact? Old or new? How far to the best roads? Each time he wrote a comment.
“Lousy weather,” he muttered as he checked his watch. It was lunch time so he stopped opposite a small cafe.
“Does anyone speak English?” he asked a small middle-aged, dark-haired woman behind the counter.
“I do,” she replied. “My family speak English. We have to, mainly in the summer season. What can I get you? I have a meat pie just removed from the oven. I’ll serve potatoes and vegetables on a side plate.”
“Is it your pie I can smell?”
“I hope so,” she said, smiling.
“Two portions of pie and plenty of potatoes, please. Oh, and a large Nescafé.”
“Give me ten minutes.”
He sat by the window, his face near the glass as he waited until the woman returned with his meal.
“I give you extra helping as you are a big man.”
“I’m on holiday and it’s rained every day. When I get home my friends won’
t believe me.”
The woman sat in the opposite chair. “Do you mind if I sit and talk? You are my first customer today and with this weather in all probability my last – apart from the soldiers on guard duty.”
“Be my guest.” He pointed to the fence. “Don’t those hundreds of empty buildings bother you?”
“The rats, cats and snakes bother me. Empty buildings, no.”
“It can’t be that bad. There appears to be a regiment of soldiers stationed here.”
Her lashes fluttered. “I hate this place. The government told us a pack of lies. Like idiots we came.”
“Do the soldiers come here to eat?”
“No, they don’t. Well, one does, he drives a jeep most times, collects and gives me their order for the next meal. It works well. I supply breakfast, dinner and supper. They’re nice boys, very polite and just want to go home.”
“Why? Don’t they enjoy an easy posting?”
“One of them told me every duty is mind-numbing. Those poor boys have to patrol empty streets. What for, I ask myself?”
“Politics, I guess. Troops do as they’re told.” He savoured the last chunk of pie. “Delicious. Best meat pie I’ve had in ages.”
She laughed. “You eat well. Have another coffee.”
“Thank you. I will. How much do I owe you?”
“Lira or pounds English?”
“Pounds.”
“Five of your English pounds. I enjoyed the chat.”
Bear removed his wallet, took out a crisp ten-pound note. “This is for you. Great food and you’re a fund of knowledge.”
He waved as he walked across to the truck, whistling. Talking to the woman had given him a lot of information, albeit most merely gossip.
He drove on marking his map. He checked the time. “Not quite five,” he muttered.
The fence ended at ‘No Man’s Land,’ a part patrolled by the United Nations Peace Keepers.
“That might cause a problem,” he mumbled to himself. He jumped from the truck and read NO ENTRY – MINED AREA. He leant against the fence, his eyes travelling along its length and beyond into Varosha. “I wonder if it’s for real. The answer is stay well away.”
He pulled himself into the truck and returned to the hotel.
* * *
The darkening sky and heavy rain made Bear and Jocelyn’s room gloomy. Another weather front hung over the town. He showered, dressed, and settled onto the double bed as Jocelyn did her hair. Content with his lot, he mulled over the collection.
Petros and Maria breezed in without knocking. In her right hand a bottle of red wine and in the other, four glasses. “Sorry we’re late. A glass of wine makes you feel better and does you the world of good.”
Maria noticed Petros was fidgeting and appeared on edge. She laughed, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. “When I returned, my husband lay on the bed, dead to the world.”
“My man was scouring the back streets.”
“Planning is the most important part of any job,” said Bear.
Maria poured the wine. “Yammas.” She sat on the bed next to Petros and sipped hers daintily.
“Maria, tomorrow I have to go into Varosha to check on something. If for any reason I’m not back by nightfall, you’ll have to inform the authorities.”
“What do I tell them?”
“Say I wanted to take photos of my old house.”
“Bear should go with you.”
“I move faster on my own.”
Her eyes filled with annoyance. “Let me put it another way. I’d be happier if Bear went with you.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“She wants to make sure you’re safe,” said Jocelyn.
“Three against one. Okay.”
Thunder crashed like rapid cannon fire, swamping all other noises. Lightening flared and the rain cascaded in torrents from the roof.
“Another blooming storm. Does it always rain this heavy?” asked Bear.
“In the good years,” said Maria.
Petros put his feet on top of the small table. “We’re agreed, this collection has potential.”
Everyone nodded.
“Where do you fancy going for dinner?” asked Maria.
“The same place as last night. I could murder another couple of those lamb shanks,” said Bear. “I’m starving.”
At the hotel entrance Maria covered her head and ran through the rain to the truck. The engine fired on the first turn of the key. Petros, Bear and Jocelyn jumped in and she drove away.
Chapter Fourteen
A weak autumn morning sun peeked through the dining room windows. “The rain’s stopped,” Bear said, in between mouthfuls of buttered toast.
“Well,” said Maria. “Cypriots pray for rain every year. Without it we have problems.”
“Maria, while that overgrown excuse for a landfill is filling his belly, he doesn’t give a toss.”
“Don’t mind me, PK. I’m stocking up on the calories. Why do I think you’ll be a pain in the arse today?”
“Talking of arses, shift yours or we’ll be here all day.”
Maria fluttered her eyelashes and stared at the ceiling. “Shut up, you two. What time should I ring the alarm bells?”
“If we’re not out by dusk, there’s a major problem. Do what you can but be careful.”
Maria gave a rueful smile as she wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “In life nothing goes according to plan. I believe in what you’re doing and you love the buzz it gives. Whatever, Bear, take care of my husband. There’ll be a bottle of red wine open and waiting in your room. While you two go and play, Jocelyn and I intend doing more shopping.”
Petros raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Given the choice, I’d prefer to be in Varosha.”
* * *
Petros could stroll through Varosha blindfolded but the raising of the altar bothered him. What if it wouldn’t move? He sighed and picked up his freshly laundered track suit, changed, went to the foyer and waited for Bear.
He led the way and in less than five minutes an abandoned hotel reception became their refuge. A desolate mood filled the air that the sun did nothing to dispel. A thought disturbed him; this is an unhappy place. He lifted a finger to his lips.
Bear sidled next to him and whispered, “I’ll be as close as your shadow.”
Petros nodded and walked cautiously through the deserted buildings, their route avoiding the card school.
Bear checked the surrounding area before entering the church. He wandered across to the altar and placed his hand on the cold surface. “Bloody big, isn’t it? This is remarkable.”
“Why? Every church has one.”
Bear snapped his head round. “Education is a wonderful thing.” He drummed his fingers on the smooth marble. “This is a Knights Templar chapel, or was. Every cross carved on the altar is different.” He pointed. “This is a Teutonic, this Calatrava, this a Templar and this a Hospitallers. Each one has a separate meaning. Ah, two knights on a single horse confirms everything I said.”
“Knights Templar. How do you know?”
“One day I’ll let you into the secret.”
“Don’t tell me you're one of the funny handshake brigade.”
“In my army unit we were part of the brotherhood. You’re aware of the operations my regiment became involved in, and many more I can’t mention.”
“We’re wasting time. Let’s get on with the job,” said Petros.
Bear continued to inspect the base of the carved stone block. “They did a superb job fitting this. Stop faffing about. Go and find me a metal bar.”
On his hands and knees, Bear removed the debris from a shattered corner of the base and with his fingers carefully prodded the opening. A huge smile filled his face when the piece disappeared. He sat with his back against the altar and waited.
In two minutes Petros returned with a long metal bar which Bear attempted to bend. “This’ll do.” He placed o
ne end into the hole and with a grunt and a heave, a fragment fell from the side.
He motioned to Petros. “If you examine the plinth closely, you’ll see that the main block fits snug into a recess. A clever sod devised an array of levers to raise it. Considering its age, I reckon the counterbalance should be operated using liquid. We have two choices. Reinstate the source – or brute force and ignorance. I favour the first but where we get the water from could be a problem.”
Bear examined the base. “Now there’s a thing.” From his pocket he withdrew his Swiss army knife and selecting a thin stiletto-like-blade, inserted it into a slotted opening. “Would you believe it, the valve moved.”
He crawled around until he found a well-worn stone slab. With the blade of his knife he prised it from the floor. “Bingo. I doubt if the supply is readily available after so many years but here goes.” He placed his right ear to the ground, while trying to turn the valve. “Nothing, PK. If I can’t get this to shift, I’m afraid brute force will be the name of the game.”
With the screwdriver blade from his knife he scraped the top of the valve. “That’s a bugger,” he said quietly. “Six seized screws. Where’s the water tank?”
“How would I know?”
“Go and see, will you? I’ll keep playing with this.”
Petros went outside and scoured the area. There was no tank. He tested the drainpipe with both hands. The old cast-iron pipe remained solid as he climbed. In a couple of minutes, he scaled the wall and pulled himself over the edge of the stone roof. He looked around. “No tank.”
Returning inside he went into a small room. A rusty bed made him think this might have been the priest’s living quarters. High on a shelf sat a large tank. The metal bed frame met his need as a ladder. He clambered up onto the shelf and stood erect. He kicked the side of the tank and it sounded full. Its large lid weighed a ton, but with effort he dragged it to one side. He pushed his hand into the tank and to his surprise found the water level a few inches beneath the edge. He puzzled why after so many years the tank was full. He depressed the ball cock, nothing. On closer inspection he found a lead pipe descending from the roof. Crafty buggers, he thought. The tank fills from a roof sump when the rains arrive. Simple but effective. With the utmost care, he descended and returned to where Bear lay on the floor.