The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2)

by Sewell, Ron

Kyriacos walked over, holding the crossbow. The man raised his hands.

  Maria pointed to the rocky outcrop. “I saw him earlier. What are you doing here?”

  The man answered in village Greek. “I’ve spent the last half an hour,” he waved his arm, “watching you. Why are you attempting to cross the minefield?”

  “None of your damned business,” said Kyriacos.

  “We’re in trouble,” said Petros. “Go on your way and if anyone asks, forget you’ve seen us.”

  “God Almighty,” said Maria. “This man was on the other side of the Green Line. He knows the way.”

  Petros smiled and shook his head. “Is that true? Do you know the way?”

  The old man turned his back on them and walked to the right of the minefield, “Ella, ella.”

  “Wait,” shouted Maria.

  The man’s eyes narrowed in astonishment. “What is more important than your lives? The soldiers will soon be here.”

  “Icons,” said Petros. “They belong to the church.”

  “Be quick.”

  The four men split the number of icons into transportable bundles. Using the rope and canvas from the truck, they covered, hoisted, and tied them to their backs.

  “We’re ready,” said Petros.

  The old man sighed. “Stay close and do not wander. Many of my goats have been lost in this vicinity.”

  Petros attempted to appear unconcerned. “You lead, my friend, and we’ll follow.”

  Everyone took a deep breath and the Greek Cypriots made the sign of the cross.

  “Okay,” said Bear. “God, I’m not one of your lot but we need help. If you get us out of this mess I promise to go to church at least once.”

  In single file, they hiked through tall weeds, the footing wet and treacherous. Petros turned his head constantly, searching for any dangers. Rotten vegetation, ankle-turning stones and rabbit burrows abounded.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder and checked on Maria. He grinned cheekily and she managed a feeble smile.

  For a time they trudged on until a stream blocked their path. The old man pointed the way he intended to travel, keeping near the bank but in the water. Without any hesitation, he stepped into the ice-cold torrent. “This way.” Waist deep, he advanced steadily against the flow. The current tore at his frail body but he remained steady.

  “Do not put a foot or hand on the bank or you may lose it. The water has destroyed the mines planted in the bed of the stream years ago. I stalked the idiots who placed them.”

  Cold, soaked and tired, they followed at the unbelievable pace set by the old man.

  “Maria,” said Bear, “hold onto my belt and I’ll drag you. For God’s sake, don’t let go.”

  “I’ll catch her if she does,” said Takis. “Can’t lose my baby sister.”

  The banks of the stream began to rise, finally becoming vertical and forming a dark, narrow passage. They trudged along, with each step the sound of rushing water drawing closer. Suddenly daylight filled their eyes. The old man edged against the flow onto a sandy bank near to a waterfall. In half a dozen steps he led them into a small clearing surrounded by mature pine trees.

  “Sit and rest.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Takis, his teeth chattering.

  “Not far. The Turks will be wanting to cross the minefield. I intend to give them a path.”

  Petros pursed his lips and shook his head.

  “What’s up, PK,” said Bear.

  “I’m worried.” He stood. “I’m going to follow our friend.”

  The old man jumped from rock to rock as nimble as a goat, descending the steep slope using trees and bushes for cover.

  Operating like a large cat stalking, this wily old man amazed Petros. Several times he lost the track as he narrowly avoided fallen tree trunks and branches that appeared at head height. He continued to follow to an outcrop where any trace of the man disappeared. Breathing heavily, he stopped and climbed higher, crawled onto a slab of rock and lay prone. He studied the terrain and tried to figure out his location. To his right the tree-covered slope went on for thousands of metres. To his left, rifts carved by centuries of wind and rain channelled streams through the hillside. Confused, he returned to the others.

  “I lost him.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” said Maria, shivering.

  “Let’s wait and see. I know we’re knackered but someone should stay awake. Just in case.”

  “I doubt if anything will happen,” said Takis. “I reckon we’re on the Greek Cypriot side.”

  Petros sensed the group’s unease. He and the others jumped as the sound of someone or something barged through the trees. He and Bear stood perfectly still, listening but ready to meet their potential adversary. Bear pointed to his left, then to his right as the disturbance grew louder and closer.

  “They’re not far away,” said Bear.

  Crouched but remaining low, Petros crept along cautiously, watching where he placed his feet. One crack of a twig would destroy any surprise. He stopped at the tree line. A few metres ahead, movement. He peered into the mass of trees and aged bushes that made up the undergrowth. The being altered its position; to his left more sounds. A chance existed, one in a thousand. He motioned with his hand to Bear; if they waited, the result could be the same. Both men charged as five wild sheep gave flight.

  “What the –?” shouted Petros.

  Bear laughed. “You should see the expression on your face.”

  The animals bounded past and vanished into the trees.

  “They’re called Mouflon,” said Maria. “A shy creature, rarely seen. The no-go zone has become a wild-life sanctuary. Just think, no one has been here for thirty years. To this day, the United Nations’ patrols stick to the roads.”

  They were startled when the old man re-appeared. “The world is full of clowns, my friends. The Turks will soon discover that you’ve crossed the line and will be looking for your route. I have given them one.”

  “You’ve done what?” said Maria.

  “Do not worry. They will not find us. Ella, ella, we have a long walk before we are, like you say, out of the wood.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A dull, watery sun accompanied by black storm clouds filled the morning sky. Sergeant Celik drove the jeep through the narrow lanes finally stopping alongside the parked trucks.

  He jumped out. “A shambles, Captain. These morons couldn’t catch a rabbit in a box.”

  “Call them back and regroup,” said Captain Yilmaz.

  ‘Yes, Sir.” Celik surveyed the slope and the position held by the escapees. “Corporal, anyone wounded?”

  “Two, Sergeant. They’re resting in the rear of truck two. The medic has no idea how to remove a crossbow bolt.”

  “A what?”

  “A metal bolt from a crossbow.”

  “Captain, let me take charge. They’ll be dead or captured in less than an hour.”

  Yilmaz stared at him. “You have a plan?”

  Celik shook his head. “Haven’t you figured it out? They have four rifles with limited ammunition. So far they have not hit any of our men except the two injured by a crossbow. I don’t believe they want to. I recommend a frontal assault.”

  “That’s madness,” said Yilmaz.

  Celik grabbed his arm and whispered, “The colonel wants them dead. So do I. A constant volley will keep their heads low. We attack. No problem.”

  Yilmaz traded glances with Celik. “And your plan is?”

  Celik removed his Makarov from its holster. “Obliterate them. Corporal, divide your men into three groups.”

  Several minutes elapsed before the corporal returned. “In three squads as ordered, Sergeant.”

  “Wonderful,” said Celik. “Now order one.” He pointed to the higher ground on the left. “And another to the right. This is known as a flanking movement, Corporal. Are your radios working?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Order your flanks to fire
five rounds at three minute intervals. I will lead the centre group.”

  The firing commenced, each group aiming at the escapees’ last known position. Celik, in his jeep, urged the centre to stop, fire and move on. Halfway up the slope he used the radio. “Stop firing.” He watched and waited. No return fire.

  He surveyed the hilltop position and taking a deep breath drove up the rock-strewn slope, skidding to a halt. He killed the lights, stopped the engine and stepped out onto the muddy earth. For a moment he remained still, watching.

  Soldiers quickly arrived, mooched and gawked at the damaged wagon. Others continued to search for those they understood to be escaped prisoners.

  “Corporal,” shouted Sergeant Celik, “take your men back to the troop carriers and return to base. They’ve crossed the border. Our authority ends here.”

  The young corporal mustered his men and like the untrained rabble they were, ambled towards their wagons.

  “Not like you to quit,” said Captain Yilmaz.

  “Who said I’m quitting?” said Celik. “Those morons,” he pointed to the retreating troops, “missed what’s right in front of them.”

  “And what might that be, Sergeant? Am I acting thick?”

  Celik grabbed him by the arm. “Captain, they went across the minefield and marked the way.”

  Captain Yilmaz shook his head. “You’re mad.”

  Celik, with a glint in his eyes, walked towards the broken fence, slipping on the greasy surface of crushed vegetation. “Captain, the markers go straight to the other side. The colonel promised us a tidy sum if we recovered the icons. Think about it, enough to retire and live in luxury.”

  “Sergeant, we have two choices, go back to the barracks or follow these thieves.”

  The sky darkened and a heavy downpour began, drenching the two men.

  Captain Yilmaz shook his head. “I’d like the money but I can’t see us catching them.”

  “Your loss, Captain.” He jumped into the jeep and started the engine. “Are you coming?”

  “You go on and be the colonel’s favourite. If a United Nations’ patrol finds you, what are you going to tell them?”

  Celik did not answer. He lined up the centre of the jeep’s bonnet and edged towards the first markers that indicated the safe path. He pressed the accelerator a fraction. The rear wheels spun on the water-logged ground. The jeep hurtled ahead and stopped. He engaged the four-wheel-drive and it pulled away, slewing across the ground.

  The captain, tired, bored and disinterested, lounged against a tree and sheltered from the rain.

  One, two, three explosions thundered. Massive flames erupted from the earth, orange and black smoke curling upwards. The jeep, its fuel tank shattered, emptied its contents, lifted, burst into flames and flung Sergeant Celik into the air. He fell, bloody, blinded, disorientated and dragged himself in the wrong direction, further into the minefield.

  “Celik!” Captain Yilmaz ran, his mouth open in disbelief, shouting, “Towards me. Towards me.” Bile filled his throat. He wanted to vomit.

  One more mine blasted a disfigured carcass into the air. The corpse jerked like a puppet with tangled strings, its arms and legs moving in ridiculous directions.

  Captain Yilmaz, deafened by the blast, stood as a petrified tree, paralysed and in shock. He attempted to straighten his legs. Blood streamed from his right eye, nightmarish images dancing in his mind from the heat of the metal splinter that stuck from his eye like an arrow in the bull’s-eye of a target. He staggered, confused, his mind in a place where he could do as he wished. Demented with pain, he swayed before collapsing, his blood pooling in the tracks left by the jeep. For a few seconds his carcass jerked until life deserted him.

  Chapter Thirty

  An explosion attracted the team’s attention.

  “Did you hear that?” said Petros, looking at the old man, who had introduced himself as Antonis Zane.

  “I told you the world is full of idiots,” said the old man, whose eyes showed a glimmer of remorse. “Come,” he said, “we are wasting time and it’s getting late.”

  Back in the water they moved steadily through the pine forest. Above them stretched a million more trees. The light, filtered by an intricate web of branches, gave little help. They slogged onwards; rock walls rose on either side of the stream, while vegetation formed a canopy over their heads. The watercourse narrowed and water cascaded from a crack high in the sandstone cliff.

  Antonis turned onto a narrow ridge. “Sit. Rest. From now on it gets difficult.”

  Maria, breathing heavily, made a face as she sat. Her arms, legs and shoulders ached. “How much?”

  “Steeper, but not much further. Two miles.”

  “Is it dangerous?” said Petros as he rubbed his calf muscles.

  Antonis nodded. “More rock than vegetation and the path is limited. This whole district has over the centuries suffered from earthquakes. The small valleys are faults cut smooth and eroded by the heavy rains, eliminating trails. This year many streams are flowing for the first time in a hundred years.”

  A shaft of light covered them but gave no warmth. “Come,” said Antonis, “we are wasting time.”

  In stages, using muscles rarely tested, they clambered up through the trees, helping each other to climb a few metres, stopping then starting again. Their fingers bled from the countless cuts. The ground became steeper until they found themselves on a wide ledge.

  Petros gazed in both directions. His head spun. The cliff face fell away, dropping vertically to the pine forest. He shut his eyes and counted to ten.

  A calloused hand rested on his shoulder and Bear whispered, “I’m going to pull you from the edge.”

  “Thanks.” Petros leant against the rough rock. “Need to take a breather. Have a problem with heights.” He breathed deep and slow and with dogged purpose forced himself to be calm.

  Maria grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Don’t look.”

  Antonis shouted: “Ella, ella!”

  The pace quickened on the level surface. Below, vegetation and trees covered everything. They rounded a bend and found a fall of rocks blocked their path. The route ahead did not appear to exist and the old man had vanished.

  The trail here was uncertain but Petros trudged forward until he came to the end. The sight of a vertical slit that sliced into the rock face made him chuckle. He stopped, removed the icons from his back and peered into the crack. Ahead, a faint glimmer of light.

  “Everyone stay here and rest. Bear, Takis, you might find this a squeeze.”

  The rough sides of the opening brushed his shoulders as he entered. After a few metres the crevice widened. He gasped at the cavern which opened before him.

  Antonis busied himself lighting a fire of dry carob twigs and added thicker pieces as it flared. The smoke spiralled upwards through a natural chimney. The high roof of the chamber remained out of sight. The light from the solitary oil lamp sent eerie shadows flickering across the cavern’s surface, and a spring ran from the wall into a sink full of crystal-clear water that overflowed into a cut in the floor. The smell of burnt wood clung to the rocks. Petros saw a double bed fitted snugly into a recess, and rusty paraffin lamps hanging from steel rods in the walls. The longer he stood there the more he realised this was where Antonis lived.

  The old man beckoned to him. “Ella, ella.”

  “I’ll get the others,” said Petros and he retraced his steps. “You’re not going to believe this,” he told them. “It’s Antonis’s home.”

  “At the moment, PK, I don’t think we give a shit,” said Bear. “We’re wet, cold and knackered. Anywhere dry and out of the wind will make us happy.”

  Takis hesitated at the narrow entrance. “Jesus Christ, PK, I’ll need to breathe in to get through there. We’ll need to pass the icons one by one.”

  “It’s not a problem,” said Petros. “It opens out after a few metres. Maria, you go first. I’ll bring up the rear.”

  In less than ten minutes, they had w
armed themselves by a roaring log fire.

  Antonis sat in a roughly-hewn wooden chair, contentedly smoking his pipe.

  “From the furnishings, this looks like your home,” said Takis.

  Antonis blew a plume of smoke. “My home since we had a misunderstanding with the British Cypriot freedom fighters, and sometimes their whole families hid here for months on end. In fact, General Grivas used it as his headquarters.”

  “Did you fight the British?” asked Petros.

  “Yes, I did, in my own way. Look, the British obtained Cyprus by cancelling their agreement with Turkey who sided with Germany in the First World War. In 1925, the island officially became a Crown Colony. Many believed this was the first step to being united with our motherland Greece. We were wrong and that premise cost people their lives. Now we are an independent nation and part of the European Community.

  “I remember the conflict well but I never hurt anyone. My son was killed by the army while planting a fake bomb.”

  “What do you mean by fake?” asked Takis.

  Petros studied Antonis’s face but it remained passive. “Please listen. My family, like many others, manufactured bombs to maim and kill the British troops, but our hearts were not in it. So we made ones that produced smoke and flame but always failed to explode. I was just doing my job.”

  He continued. “For the length of the conflict the soldiers never found this place and I didn’t tell anyone. Let’s be fair, the average soldier had no argument with us, nor we with them. The majority of them were national service men. I’m sure most of them counted the days before they went home, hopefully in one piece. On the odd occasion when a patrol got a bit close, I put a dozen dead snakes near the entrance. This did the trick and they ran. Unfortunately, during that time renegade elements on both sides enjoyed the bombing and killing. Thank God for all of us, only a few. This,” he said, waving his hand in the air, “is cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Every now and then I move into my little house on the other side of the mountain. I own the land as far as you can see in every direction. The villagers think I’m crazy and I do nothing to dispel that myth. You can appreciate from the carvings on the walls that man has occupied this cave and its recesses for centuries.”