by Sewell, Ron
Nitsa pressed her hand over Pavlo’s mouth. “Be quiet, a car.”
He leapt off the bed and searched for his clothes. “What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight. You should have left when I told you instead of falling asleep.” She went to the window and peeked out. The bishop’s car was in its parking bay. She drew back and chided Pavlo as he dressed. “Hurry.”
“You didn’t complain earlier when I took my time.”
With his clothes in his arms she dragged him to the back door. “Go,” she whispered. Nitsa quickly shut the door and turned the lock. From the worktop she grabbed a glass, flung open the fridge door and lifted a carton of milk. With the glassful of milk in her right hand she hurried across the hallway.
The front door opened. “Oh, Bishop, you made me jump and I’ve spilt my milk.”
“My meeting with the Archbishop went on for a long while. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
She smiled with contempt when he trudged up the stairs.
Chapter Nineteen
Clutching several balls of twine, metal spikes, a hammer and three torches, Alexis climbed the stairs to Takis’ new chamber. His eyes noted the chisel marks. “Unfinished,” he muttered. He bent and gazed through the entrance into the catacomb. With the string secured behind him, he stopped and hammered a spike into the wall and fastened the line. A long walkway opened up in front of him. Systematically he examined each room. One tunnel roughly hewn out of the rock remained. With care, he picked his way along, peering into small rooms, at bare walls and floors. He became bored as the roof of the passage dropped, forcing him to stoop.
He felt a rush of excitement when the roof rose and a chamber with slots carved in the walls appeared in front of him. A crypt, he mused. He checked his watch; the return journey will be quicker and I have plenty of time, he thought. Thick dust covered the floor. He stumbled when his foot touched he knew not what. With caution, he groped around and he felt something. The dirt of years fell away from a complete basket-handled amphora. His eyes wandered over the exquisite workmanship; this wasn’t Roman, it came from the Aegean. He dropped to his knees and searched. He lifted a statuette of a smiting Hercules. And then there was a wild boar, sphinxes, birds and small-carved horses. He couldn’t believe it. This was a treasure trove. And then the beam of his torch lit up a niche containing a simple stone coffin.
With a huge effort, he raised the lid. In the coffin lay a knight in full armour. Shocked, he staggered, dropped and broke the cover. He moved on aware that in hundreds of years, no other person had wandered this maze of passageways. The coffins became more frequent but he kept walking, knowing he could return and scrutinise each one. A number of times his path crossed a passage he had passed through earlier. His eyes scanned several alcoves that contained well-wrapped artefacts. He removed the covering from one, peeling back the dusty wrapping. Ecstatic thoughts consumed him as he marvelled at the detailed workmanship. The word priceless came to mind when he looked upon the icon of Mary and Child, embossed in gold and silver. He rewrapped it and placed it with the others.
With the glow of a torch he returned, leaving the stringed-route intact. Into the sandstone walls he cut arrows marking his route. He knew that it could take him days, if not weeks, to explore the labyrinth of tunnels. He decided to make this discovery public. Every piece of equipment used to remove other artefacts must be removed. An idea came to him; he would tell the antiquities department that while clearing debris from an old well, he discovered the tunnel. He had enjoyed wealth. Now fame waited.
Content, he descended, carefully avoiding the fallen stones from Takis’ efforts. He lifted his feet and picked his way through the rubble, but a rock no bigger than a fist, shifted. Unbalanced, Alexis fell headlong. At the base of the stairs he lay stunned and confused. He lost track of time before his senses returned. For a few minutes he breathed deeply and rested. On attempting to stand, his right leg failed; a shaft of burning pain shot up its length as torn nerves reacted. He removed his shoe and prodded his foot. His right ankle throbbed and it had already started to swell. With his fists clenched and the wall for support he hobbled. “Stupid old fool,” he scolded himself. Step by painful step he made his way across the bridge and into the tunnel. He leant against the stone wall, resting and cursing.
He noticed water flowing along the length of the central gutter. “Why is this happening?” He crossed himself. “Mother of Jesus, keep me safe.”
A terrible fear filled him when a sudden torrent soaked his feet. The thunder of water cascading into the sump echoed back. He knew every moment he rested the danger was increasing. With pain racking his ankle, he progressed. The ice cold, black fluid rose and swirled around his waist. He redoubled his efforts. Another sound boomed in his ears, reminding him of a waterfall. The realisation of what approached scared him. His eyes stared at a wall of water racing towards him. He gripped the lighting cable with both hands and prayed. The surge passed and he breathed, relishing the damp air.
A deluge, larger than the first, struck. A sharp pain stabbed his chest and he clutched at it with one hand. He struggled, the pain doubling as he craved for air. The lights went out. His strength faded. The current grabbed him, pitching him along the tunnel, spinning him like a top, slamming his body hard against the walls and forcing the remaining air out of his lungs. For a few moments his head rose above the raging surface. Confused, he reached out to arrest his movement. He clawed at the brick roof, searching. His right hand found a steel beam where against the flow he hung and gulped life-giving air. Moments later, the sheer force of the water crushed his efforts. As his mouth filled with water Alexis attempted to scream. He coughed and spluttered as the need to breathe diminished and his thoughts receded into a void.
Chapter Twenty
Under the canopy of a tree, a devastated landscape surrounded Petros. To his left, untouched by the storm, stood a magnificent house.
“Mother nature always wins. I bet centuries ago this was a flood plain.”
“Bloody hell,” said Bear. Rocks and rubbish littered the garden. A wide mud-coloured watercourse wound its path through the once immaculate lawn. He tried to phone Takis but his mobile continued to indicate a weak signal.
Bear shook his head. “I saw it on the news. Not far from here a dam burst. This must have been the river’s original course.”
Petros walked across the sodden ground. The flowing brown liquid gave off an earthy stench. At the water’s edge he sat on a rock.
“Is that safe, PK?”
“The force which put it here has passed. You’ll need a JCB to shift it now.” Bear joined him. “Look and tell me what you see?”
“It’s swirling as if draining away.”
Bear studied Petros’s face. “I know where it’s going.” He pointed. “That was another way into Varosha.”
Petros slid off the rock and followed Bear to the house. They knocked on the main door and waited.
Bear tried the handle and it opened. “Anyone at home?”
“This Alexis obviously has money,” said Petros. “These statues are pure marble, and the furnishings in this room are definitely not Ikea.”
The telephone rang jolting both men back to reality. Bear being the nearest lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Bear, what in God’s name are you doing in Alexis’s house?”
“Takis, I attempted to phone you earlier. The entrance to the tunnel’s a whirlpool. We tried to find Alexis but he’s not here.”
“Strange. He’s not in his office either. He said he had work to do, that’s why I rang his home. I hope he didn’t go into the tunnel. Bear, do us a favour and check if his car is in the garage. It’s a dark blue BMW six series.”
“I’ll call you back.”
“PK, if a blue beamer’s still here, something’s wrong.”
* * *
The man walked into Alexis’s house, his heavy leather shoes resounding on the parquet floor. Speaking in Greek he turned to Takis.
/>
“Good morning. Sergeant Drivas, Nicosia Police. Which one of you reported a missing person?”
“I did,” said Takis.
The sergeant nodded as his eyes took in the room.
“Why do you think Alexis Epiphaniou is missing?”
Takis scowled. “Sergeant, the house is empty and his car is in the garage. He wasn’t the sort of character to walk anywhere.”
“Did someone collect him?”
“Not a chance,” said Takis. “He always drives his own car to meet anybody. You could say he’s a poser.”
The police officer shrugged but didn’t appear convinced.
“I’m trying to understand,” said Takis. “You’ve implied that my friend and employer wandered out of his house in the middle of a storm and didn’t come back.”
The sergeant turned to Petros and Bear and in good English asked, “Why were you here?”
Bear replied, “To meet his brother-in-law and my friend Takis.”
Takis waited a moment. “Sergeant,” he said. “It’s possible he’s been hurt.”
The sergeant lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. After a few puffs he said, “I’ll have the hospitals checked.”
“Sergeant, my employer doesn’t encourage smoking in his house.”
“He’s not here and I’m conducting an investigation.”
“I don’t give a shit but there’s got to be a reason why,” said Takis.
“After twenty-four hours, I’ll register Alexis Epiphaniou as a missing person. Until then I haven’t the men or authority to send out search parties. I assume he spent the night with friends and will arrive home when he’s ready.”
“You intend doing nothing?” said Takis.
“I’m not convinced he’s missing.” The sergeant shrugged. “Alexis Epiphaniou is a rich man. There’s no sign of a struggle, no body, and apart from you three, no interest in his disappearance. Possibly he went out for a meal and spent the night with one of our Russian ladies. If he doesn’t contact you by tomorrow I’ll declare him missing and someone will be allocated the case. If he’s not found, statements will be required.”
The sergeant turned and walked outside, stopped and lit another cigarette. Once in his car he drove away muttering.
* * *
Petros sat and took a deep breath. “You know we lied to the police.”
“I doubt that moron would believe it even if we’d told him the truth,” said Takis. “If he did, we couldn’t prove it.”
“I’ve a suggestion,” said Bear. “As there’s nothing we can do for Alexis, let’s close the door and go home. What time do you make it, PK?”
“Two-thirty.”
“I have another proposal,” said Bear. “We find ourselves a taverna. Plan B has definitely gone tits-up.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Petros sat at the kitchen table studying his file on Varosha. Overlapping it with Bear’s survey of the fence an idea formed. He sat back when his mother placed a cup of coffee and three poached eggs on toast in front of him.
“Your favourite,” said Zena.
“Thanks, Mama.”
“Petros,” she said, “The Mukta has told Aunt Elini that the old woman of the village wants to meet you.”
“Ah, these are good,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food. “Mama, what’s with this witch?”
Zena’s voice became firm. “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s a load of rubbish. Let me tell you, son, before we had doctors we could visit the likes of her. A small payment ensured they would concoct herb potions, fix broken bones and dispel the rumours a girl might be pregnant. We were aware of what she did but said nothing. She is known to cast her evil eye on the enemies of those who pay her. The truth is she is blessed with second sight.”
“You go,” said Maria, “She told the Mukta she must talk to the fair-haired Cypriot who has returned to the land of his birth.”
“I’ll go but when?”
“Today.” said his mother.
“I’ll go alone.”
Petros had conflicting thoughts wandering through his mind. This is insane, but anything to keep the peace.
The crone’s house consisted of four crumbling stone-walls, two windows high off the ground and the length of the roof covered in bright red bougainvillea. It belonged in a child’s fairy tale, the home of the wicked witch, he thought, as he approached.
The door opened before Petros knocked and a voice shouted, “Ella, ella!”
The inside did not appear to have changed since the last time he visited. The building consisted of one large decaying room with the grime-covered windows providing little light. He very nearly burst out laughing when he noticed the cauldron hanging above the glowing embers of a fire. The last remaining witch from Macbeth, he thought. In the far corner stood an unmade bed and in the one wooden chair sat the woman. Her clothing smelt of mature sweat as if she had worn them forever. She appeared skeletal and her scrawny hands reminded Petros of a corpse.
Her gaze fell on him. “You have come.”
She pointed at the door. Petros closed it, bringing shadows into the room. The glow from the fire furnished little light.
The woman’s head rolled to one side and then the other, in the end falling and resting on her flat chest. She gave a deep moan; the blood appeared to drain from her face. Glazed eyes stared into oblivion as a mysterious force held her.
“Petros Kyriades.” A monotone voice from her wide open mouth filled the room. “You have the secret of a holy man. The need of a shameless woman with black hair has forced him into the dark. She will betray you. The road you seek to travel is dangerous. Caution should be your watchword. Trust few and be wary of many. The ancient way will be made known. Go, Petros Kyriades, and have faith in yourself.”
Petros placed a fifty euro note into her frail hand.
She grabbed him and her fingernails dug into his flesh as her eyes met his. “I know you think I’m a figure of ridicule but none in this village mock me. You have a daughter who has the sight, take care of her.” Suddenly her hands went weak and she collapsed back into her chair. She pointed. “Go.”
On leaving the shack, Petros chuckled. “What a load of rubbish. A dark haired woman will betray me. Every other female in Cyprus has dark hair.
* * *
The sun shone for the first time in days and Elini pruned the dead flowers surrounding the courtyard. As Petros strolled into the garden, she cast a maternal eye over him but said nothing. Despite the recent rains, the red earth remained parched; it needed much more for the trees to replenish themselves.
Elini glanced at the sky as another mass of cloud drifted from the east. “Rain,” she said. “We need more to keep the dams overflowing.” She turned. “It is ready, eat.”
At that moment Bear and Maria wandered into the courtyard.
“Here’s the mobile garbage disposal unit,” said Petros.
Bear clipped him round the head. “I need food to sustain this body of mine. I burn it up taking care of you.”
Elini came and sat with them. Zena spoke to her in Greek.
After a while, the conversations faded as they ate their fill. Zena and Aunt Elini cleared the table leaving Bear, Maria, and Petros to talk.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Colonel Ahmed Mustapha, a short stocky man with a pleasant face, stared out of the window of his office at the Famagusta army barracks. He glanced at his watch: Twelve-thirty. Out of an ingrained habit, he studied the new batch of raw conscripts who staggered in the rain while they carried armfuls of kit towards their quarters.
“What dregs from the gutter did they send me this time?” he muttered. “How do they expect me to patrol and keep order with untrained idiots?”
He noticed a white Mazda saloon car turn in through the open gates, drive into the visitors’ car park and stop. A youngish, slim woman and a man got out and dashed towards the administration office. He gazed at the sky; last night’s storm had passed but driving rain still fe
ll, pounding the barrack square. He wanted to go home to his beloved Turkey. A few more years and he could retire.
He picked up his cup of tepid coffee, sipped it and ambled over to his desk. He sat in his chair and idly lifted a Parker pen, one of a matched set given to him by his wife. He contemplated the mountain of paperwork, then pushed it to one side.
Nitsa and Pavlo shook the rain off their clothes and waited by the enquiries counter.
A corporal in his early forties, with a well-trimmed grey beard sat at his desk. “Can I help you?” he asked in Turkish.
Nitsa shoved Pavlo out of the way and spoke in Greek. “I want to see the commandant.”
The corporal swivelled his chair and shouted into the back office. A younger man entered. A few words passed between them. He looked at them, smiled and in Greek said, “Sergeant Berk Celik.” He had a fighter’s build: broad shoulders and muscular arms. From the size of his paunch, he was not keeping himself in shape and a deskbound routine had allowed muscles to revert to flab. “Can I help you?”
Nitsa’s eyes flared. “We must see the commandant.”
“May I ask why?”
She held her smile and leant on the counter. “It’s of great importance.”
Sergeant Celik returned to his office, picked up a telephone and scratched at his pockmarked face.
“Colonel, outside my office are a man and woman who wish to discuss an urgent matter with you. Yes, Colonel. I will bring them in.”
“Follow me,” said the sergeant.
They wandered along passages with offices on either side and up a narrow staircase. At the end of a corridor, the sergeant told them to wait. He knocked on a door and went in, closing it behind him. In less than a minute he returned and motioned them to enter. “Colonel Ahmed Mustapha, the senior officer.”
The spacious room contained practical military-style furniture. Maps of Cyprus covered one wall and dark grey filing cabinets stretched along another. Near the window stood a grey metal desk with papers scattered over it, and three chairs.