A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  Murray made them lie face down in the gravel road, hands on heads before jumping back in the truck and turning it round. Giving the BMW one last check – given the state of the track this far out it would still be minutes away, which should be enough - he jammed his foot to the floor. As he sped away, he checked his mirror and saw both men racing off into the bushes in search of their weapons. Further back the fast approaching dust cloud told of the X7’s approach. Someone wasn’t going to be pleased, which probably meant there would soon be more vacancies on Podruznig’s team.

  As he pushed the truck along as fast as was safe, letting the training he now rarely got a chance to practice take over for the second time in a few days, he forgot about the danger behind and turned his mind to what his next move was going to be. Whatever had gone before, his judgement that morning while talking to Fofo had been right. Though it had happened sooner than even he had expected, there was no doubting. The gloves were now, well and truly, off.

  As he rounded a sharp left hander, Murray just had time to swerve out of the path of the jeep racing in the opposite direction. There was a sharp ‘CRACK’ as the wing mirrors clipped and shattered. He jerked to a stop, waited as the other driver made a fast three-pointer, then pulled up alongside.

  'You okay?' Red said from behind the wheel of Murray’s jeep. Kishore peered round beside him, grinning.

  'No thanks to you two,' Murray called. He jerked a thumb behind him. 'They’re right behind.' He looked ahead of him. The road narrowed round another left hander, a steep rise on the left, an even steeper fall-away to the right. Murray nodded at it. 'Pull up around that bend.'

  Looking ahead, Red twigged his intention. Wheels spinning, he shot forward. Murray followed but as he reached the turn he spun the wheel and pulled on the hand brake. The back of the truck slewed round, stopping across the road at its narrowest point where there was no room for a vehicle to pass. Only a half-track would manage the steep slopes either side. Screwing the front wheels round so they jammed against rock, Murray locked the steering, remote-locked the doors and lobbed the keys high up into the scrub.

  As he jumped into the back of the jeep he heard the roar of the X7 coming up behind, fast.

  'GO,' he yelled.

  As Red took off, Murray had to hang onto the roll bar to keep from being thrown out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Whatever Red and Kishore were talking about under the shade of the awning at the side of the house, conversation died as Murray returned from Red’s bathroom. The cut to his cheek still seeped through Kishore’s field-training stitches, but it would do. The pains in the rest of his body would take care of themselves.

  'Better?'

  Red held out a bottle. Murray took it. The Keo’s refreshing coldness was reviving.

  'Next time, let me do the planning. You were too far behind.'

  'Just be grateful I twigged the bloke driving your jeep wasn’t you,’ KIshore said. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t even have known there was a problem.'

  For once, Murray found Kishore’s toothy smile strangely reassuring, confirmation of his narrow escape.

  Earlier, the Gurkha had told how his chance observation while out picking up air cylinders, had alerted him that something was wrong. When he followed and saw the Mongolian dump Murray’s jeep behind the Pafos Aquarium before getting into the black 4x4, he put things together. After calling Red and collecting the jeep, they’d headed out to the house just in time to see the four-by leaving towards the peninsula. Guessing right, they’d followed.

  'And we had to hold back, or they’d have seen us,' Kishore defended his tactics.

  Murray didn’t complain further. He liked to think that if he hadn’t managed to free himself, the pair would have come up with something before Podruznig, or Lantzeff, or whoever, put a bullet through his head.

  'So where does this leave us?'

  Red’s serious expression reminded Murray of Iraq. They all knew that events had moved onto a different level.

  'Keeping our heads down for starters,' Murray said. 'We have to assume they’ve made our connection, so that puts you in the frame as well.'

  On the way back to Red’s house in the hills above the village of Timi, over-looking Pafos International Airport, Murray had ruminated only as long as necessary over his failure to spot he was being followed. And after everything they’d been through, he was annoyed it was a Russian goon, of all people, who got the better of him. Neither Red nor Kishore made too much of it. After this long, they were all out of practice. Nevertheless they didn’t have to discuss things to know they had been careless. They had underestimated Podruznig, and got lucky. If it had been Syria, or Iraq, one, or all of them would be dead.

  'Guess that means the dive business is fucked for a while,' Red said.

  Murray looked rueful. 'Sorry.'

  Red waved it away. 'Not your fault. Speaking of which, where will we find the bastard?'

  Murray shook his head. 'If he’s got any sense, he’ll be staying on the base. But we’ve no proof the kitchen paint job was anything to do with Westgate, remember. It’s just a theory.'

  Kishore’s face twisted into an angry sneer. 'Sounds good enough for me. It’s the sort of thing he’d pull. Kick the can, and see what jumps out.'

  'Maybe,' Murray said. 'But let’s not go planning any rendition ops until I’ve had a chance to run things down. Like I said, while I don’t see anyone else in the frame, I’m not convinced Westgate is up to something like that. Getting into Podruznig’s and out again without being spotted smacks of Special Forces. Westgate may be a cunning bastard, but he’s only SIB.'

  'Yeah-but,' Red came in. 'There’re plenty up at Dhekelia or Episkopi who’d be up to it. Even if it wasn’t Westgate, he could have sent someone in. Officially or otherwise.'

  For several minutes they discussed possibilities and theories. Afterwards they were none the wiser. Red mused on whether it was time to call for back-up.

  'Like you said Peter, the gloves are off. And right now there are a few more of them than there are us. The last I heard, Billy and Wazzer are still working out of Limassol. And I can always look to see who’s around the bases. You know what those guys are like. Anything for a few extra bob.

  Murray looked across at the man who’d twice saved his life, before shaking his head. 'I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not ready to go to war just yet.'

  With studied deliberation, Red put his bottle down. 'I probably don’t need to mention this, but weren’t those Russkis about to see you out?'

  Murray looked thoughtful. 'That was for the kitchen paint job. I’d rather be sure there’s no other way of sorting the house out before starting something that’ll only end one way. Besides, I’d like to know who did it before making a move. And there are a couple of other things I need to run down first.'

  But Kishore was also clear on the matter. 'If you ask me, we already know all we need to know. There’s a bent Russian living in yours and Kathy’s house, and the only way we’ll get him out is to carry him out. Seems simple enough.'

  Murray fell silent, as he still tended to when her name was mentioned.

  Red gave his partner a look that said, 'Stupid twat.' Kishore shrugged, feigning innocence.

  Eventually Murray said. 'When I’m ready guys, okay?'

  In the silence that followed, Red and Kishore communicated through looks and nods.

  Eventually Red said: 'You mentioned running some things down?'

  Murray nodded.

  'Need our help?'

  Murray knew he was probably being more po-faced than necessary when he said, 'Thanks, but after today’s performance I’m quite happy to manage this one on my own.'

  He saw the suspicious look that passed between the pair, but gave nothing away. They would work it out when they saw him showering and shaving.

  CHAPTER 14

  Murray found the taverna tucked away up a side street in Chlorakas, a ‘traditional’ village adjoining Pafos’ old town. Shortly after se
ven-thirty, it was already busy, the tables out front packed-out with a mix of local families and ex-pat residents, which is always a good sign. Wandering through, he found a table inside at the back, ordered a Keo off the pretty, young East European waitress who brought him the menu, and settled back to study it. The girl must have reported his presence straight to her boss - despite Kishore’s ministrations he still looked like he’d gone ten rounds - as she appeared, hovering over his table in less than a minute. When he looked up from the menu and she saw his face, her look of amused curiosity vanished, replaced by one of concern.

  'OH MY GOD,’ Gina Iridotu said. ‘What has happened? Are you alright?'

  'I will be,' Murray said. ‘Nothing a good meze won’t cure.’

  Ignoring his flippancy, she turned to bark something at the white-shirted waiter about to enter the kitchen. When he made a quick reverse to head over to the bar and she pulled out a chair, Murray guessed she’d just put herself off-duty. Sure enough, the waiter returned with a bottle of Metaxa Seven-Star and two glasses.

  Pouring them both a generous measure, she leant forward, eyes roaming his face, assessing the damage. As he drank his brandy and waited for her to complete her appraisal, he was surprised to realise that the feeling triggered by her interest in his welfare, reminded him of how he sometimes felt in Dironda’s company, only he’d known Dironda years.

  'Tell me what happened,’ she said. ‘And don’t try to tell me you were in an accident. I’ve spent enough time around policemen to know the difference.'

  Murry knew it was pointless him lying. 'I guess you could say my problem took a turn for the worse.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'The Russian, or the Army Policeman?'

  Surprised by what she seemed to know - he wondered what else - he reminded himself he still needed to be careful. He had no idea yet how much she may report back to her father.

  'Maybe a bit of both,' he answered. It prompted a sideways look that said she didn’t like to be patronised. About to give him another chance, she was interrupted by the waitress arriving with Murry’s Keo, who spoke to her in Greek.

  Irritated, Gina rose. 'I am sorry. There is a problem in the kitchen. We will speak later.’ She turned back to the waitress. ‘Irena. Look after Mr Murray. Give him whatever he wants. His money is no good here.’

  As Gina disappeared through the door to the kitchen, Irena turned her gaze on him. Her face said she was impressed. In accented but good English, she said, ‘She does not do that often. You must be important.’

  Murray smiled at her. ‘I’ll have the meze,’ he said.

  It was a good decision. Over the next hour, Irena - who he learned was Polish - kept him well supplied with the full range of dips, salads, vegetable and meat dishes that mark a chef who knows how to put on a good meze. Gina floated in and out now and then to check on him, but spent much of the time in the kitchen where, Irena confided, they were having to cope with, 'a bit of crisis'. It seemed the Head Chef’s wife had gone into labour, causing him to rush off to be at her side.

  But despite the disruption and the place being all-but full, Gina was showing she knew how to run things. Her ready smile and soothing attentions easily charmed those customers who were having to wait a while longer than usual. It helped that on a warm summer’s evening, no one seemed bothered. Like many Mediterraneans, Cypriots regard eating as a leisure activity, and not one to be rushed. Besides, from what Murray could tell most appeared to be regulars. He doubted they would complain if they had to wait until midnight.

  Eventually, the busiest part of the evening over, Gina managed to free herself. After checking with Irena that everything front-of-house was under control, she returned to Murray’s table with glasses and a bottle of red to wash down the carafe of village wine he’d ordered after his beer. She poured two glasses and they chinked each other. By now he was onto the ‘mains’ - a succulent selection of roasted and grilled meats and wonderfully-flavoured vegetables. Already feeling like he’d eaten a normal meal’s worth – there was still more to come - he didn’t object when she picked up a fork and proceeded to help him out.

  'You should do that more often,' she said between mouthfuls.

  'What?'

  'Smile. It is good for you.'

  It brought him up short. A reminder of how he’d changed. Smiles and laughter were once the default. At that moment the face of a young boy swam before him. He had to take a quick breath to stifle the melancholy that usually only came when he was alone. And he was shocked to realise that on this occasion, it could easily have turned into something else.

  Gina sensed it. 'It is normal to grieve, Mr Murray. But it does not mean you cannot enjoy yourself, every now and then.'

  He gathered himself. 'I’ll try.' Then, eager to divert conversation somewhere safer, he waved his fork over the lamb dish he’d been enjoying when she arrived. 'What’s the marinade?'

  The look she gave him said she wasn’t fooled, but she played along. 'Commanderia. You like it?'

  He nodded, enthusiastic. 'This is the best meze I’ve had in a long while. Maybe ever. Compliments to the chef.'

  She inclined her head in graceful acknowledgement. ‘I will pass that on to Pepe when he returns. He will appreciate it.’

  For several minutes they talked food, eating and the Taverna’s history. She told how it still belonged to her grandfather. Now in his eighties, he’d given the running over to her the last couple of years.

  'He still cooks?'

  'Only when family come. He likes to show he still can.’

  Murray nodded. He’d attended many Cypriot family gatherings in his time. Her father being Chief of Police, he suspected hers would probably fill the place, and imagined Pippis Iridotu, lording it at head of table. It triggered a flush of guilt. He’d been on the verge of thinking he was there to enjoy a hearty meal in the company of a woman who, the more he saw and heard, the more he imagined liking. Time for business.

  'Last time we spoke, you seemed to think you may be able to help with my problem in some way?'

  The sudden switch brought a look that made him wonder if it was disappointment. She put down her fork and sipped at her wine. Her eyes bore into his. 'First, you must tell me honestly. What happened?'

  To his surprise, he didn’t think long on how much to say, but let his instincts dictate. In the end he didn’t hold much back. Her eyes grew wide as he recounted the tale. When he got to the part about them taking him out to the Akamas, he had to, ‘Shush’ her, sharply, when she gasped out loud, 'THEY WERE GOING TO KILL YOU?'

  After she calmed down and the faces at the tables had turned away, he said, 'I don’t think they were taking me to see the Lara Turtles.' Lara Bay is a renowned Loggerhead nesting ground. 'On the other hand,' he mused. 'Maybe they were.'

  'But that is awful. Surely you must tell my father?' She looked horrified.

  For a moment, Murray feared he was being too open. Her father’s work would have given her many insights as she grew up. But this was still Cyprus, and while it had changed much over recent years, it was still a long way from being some drug-dealing gangster hot spot, like Miami. Nor did he want her to think he had no faith in her father. During their limited dealings, Murray had formed the impression he was the sort of policeman who could be depended upon. He could even be one of the honest ones. But neither did he want to get into a debate about legalities, and the realities of dealing with people like Podruznig.

  He shook his head. 'It would come down to my word against the Russian’s. And you can bet he’ll have witnesses prepared to swear I’d started any trouble. The message on his kitchen wall points to me. Involving the police wouldn’t achieve anything, even with your father pushing it.'

  'But your face. Your injuries-.'

  'Inflicted when I tried to force myself into the house, or some such excuse. I’m sure others have bruises they could show.' He thought of the man whose throat he’d shattered - a detail he’d glossed over - though he suspected he was probably no longer
around to lay any claim of assault.

  She still wasn’t convinced. 'You don’t know my father. He is a good man. He wouldn’t let them-.' She stopped, staring at the hand he’d placed, lightly, on hers.

  'I’m not saying your father isn’t a good man, Gina. And I’m sure he would want to do something if he could. But men like Podruznig don’t worry about the law. And this isn’t the sort of situation that gets resolved by the police knocking on the door and advising people against taking things into their own hands.'

  As she sat back, thinking on it, Murray took his hand away. It had been a reflex contact, but one that, for as long as it lasted, felt good. She drank her wine.

  'Tell me about this money, or whatever it is.'

  For a split second he almost froze. When he spoke he did his best to sound casual. 'What money?’'

  'The money you are supposed to have stolen and which this Army policeman is looking for.'

  He sighed. It was the subject he’d hoped he could avoid. But she’d either dug more out of her father, or overheard, than he’d realised. More than ever, he could see she was not the sort he could easily keep secrets from. And she clearly wanted answers before agreeing to help.

  'What do you know about me?'

  'What makes you think I know anything about you?'

  He gave a rueful look. 'You obviously know something. Besides, your father will have told you.'

  'Why would he tell me anything?'

  'Because you asked.'

  She camouflaged her smile behind her glass before setting it down and looking directly at him.

  'You were in the Army, but left to become a policeman, back in England. Then you came back here to do some special work of some sort. I don’t know the details but my father said you were involved in something during the war in Afghanistan and the fighting in Syria? Something happened. Some money, or something, went missing?' She paused to see if he wanted to correct her on anything. He didn’t, so she continued. 'I believe this Army Major, Westgate? believes you were involved.' At this point she hesitated, uncertain whether to mention it. Murray guessed what it might be. 'When you came back here you started to have this house built. Your wife and son were living here then. There was an accident. They….' She stopped unsure about going on.