A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  Some seven hours later, as the last of the convoy rolled away, leaving only the Command Vehicle, Westgate saw the man in charge of the operation square up to Podruznig at the bottom of the steps. As he handed over the documentation he was required by law to leave justifying the search - Westgate made a note to remember to get hold of a copy - he and Podruznig exchanged words. It made Westgate wish he’d included a directional microphone in his hurriedly-put-together requisition to the base’s Special Ops Quartermaster. Whatever was said, the anger that was still evident in the Police Commander’s face, as well as the smugness on Podruznig’s, was indication enough that things would not stop here. Which meant that Westgate needed to get back into the loop, and quickly, hence all the telephone calls.

  But despite all his efforts since then, Westgate was no nearer finding out what was going on than when he’d turned up at the police station. And having now had sight of the Army’s Intelligence Assessment concerning the incident and which he’d contributed to - it was classified ‘C’ for ‘Criminal’, as opposed to ‘T’-‘Terrorist’ - he feared that even the official, ‘Service Approach’ to Cyprus’s Interior Ministry wouldn’t work either. He’d initiated the contact through the office of Head of Armed Forces-Cyprus, as soon as he couldn’t get hold of Iridotu. But he was beginning to think that even that may not be enough to break through the information clamp-down that was presently reigning - at least not quickly enough for his purpose.

  And he was yet to discover anything he could use to bargain his way back in. Murray’s companions were no longer at the villa overlooking the airport, and following the police raid, Podruznig and his team weren’t venturing out. Everyone, it seemed, was holding their breath. Worst of all, Westgate could hardly believe that the information he most needed was still evading him. Whether or not Murray was still alive. And, if he was, where was he, and what was he doing?

  In the immediate aftermath, the rumour was he’d died. The official reports spoke of three fatalities. But no one was giving out names. And though the Pafos General Hospital was under heavy police guard, he couldn’t even get confirmation of any casualties. Having organised similar, 'diversion operations', himself, aimed at convincing certain parties that the dead were still alive or vice-versa, Westgate knew the police presence didn’t necessarily signify anything. For that reason, he’d also tried following some of the girls’ neighbours and approaching them away from their homes - entry and exit to the streets around the scene being still under strict police control. But those he spoke to either couldn’t, or wouldn’t, add to what was being reported, eyeing him with a suspicion that suggested they would be on the telephone to the police as soon as he left.

  It underlined the importance of being careful, especially in the present climate. If he drew too much attention, he would succeed only in making himself a target. He could end up being detained and held incommunicado while suspicious investigators considered what part, if any, he may have played in things. And despite his official position, he wasn’t confident that dropping Iridotu’s name would necessarily open any doors. All the signs were that the police family had closed ranks around their Commander. He imagined Pafos Police Station’s white, ceramic-tiled cells at that moment being stuffed full of potential ‘sources’ the police had picked up off the streets, all sweating litres while the investigators waited to see what, if anything, they may be persuaded to add to what was already known.

  Now, almost a week after the explosion, Westgate was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t come across such a wholesale dearth of information since the corruption investigation he’d overseen in Rwanda - and that was only because the local populace firmly believed that the Hutu Rebels the Government Forces were seeking, counted amongst their number, 'Ju-Ju Men' who saw and heard everything.

  Tired and, for the moment, beaten, Westgate rose and crossed to the water cooler. Refilling the plastic cup - the first went straight down - he turned to peer between the slats of the blinds that covered the reinforced windows through which the afternoon sun still poured. Having ordered the other two SIB NCO’s out - no point risking others picking up where his true interests lay - he was, thankfully, alone. The only noise - a dubious rattle - came from the ancient air-con unit high up on the wall above the cluttered notice board. As in many military establishments abroad, no one was sure if the a/c contributed anything by way of keeping the temperature down - the thermometer on the opposite wall read twenty-nine

  . But Westgate was as oblivious of the heat as he was of his shirt clinging to his back and arms. Instead his attention was focused on the questions going round and round in his head.

  Was Murray alive? And what would happen next?

  CHAPTER 30

  By the time the group settled down to business, it was late into the afternoon, the still-baking sun about to disappear behind the house served by the enclosed courtyard in which they were gathered.

  There were six in all. It had taken the best part of a week to bring them together. The last had arrived only that morning, on a hastily-booked KLM charter bringing tourists from Amsterdam’s Schipol airport. Though none were tied to anything that might be regarded as ‘regular employment’, their backgrounds and particular range of skills meant that most had to nonetheless engineer their release from whatever it was they were doing when news of the bombing arrived.

  They should have been seven but as best they’d been able to find out the one they called ‘Blink’, a Welshman who knew more about munitions than the rest of them put together, was somewhere in West Africa. Niger someone said, working for Trollian, the global Risk Management company that nowadays seems to somehow get involved in just about any conflict around the world people could name – as well as many they could not. Word was he’d got himself mired rather more deeply than was wise in some local tribal difficulty that had been holding up the laying of an American oil company pipeline the past two years. It wasn’t that the men worried particularly whether Blink was still alive or not, death was an occupational hazard in their lines of work. But risk assessment was something they always had time for - natural enough given the part it played in keeping them alive. Anything pointing towards conditions worsening in those places they earned their living was therefore of great interest. The fact that in this case, the evidence might be the loss of one of their number - Blink - was of course a matter for regret. But it wouldn’t be the cause of any great wailing or gnashing of teeth as it might with some tight-knit groups. Not so far as most were concerned at any rate. A quiet gathering in some corner bar, followed by a boozy reminisce over the occasions that had been memorable, accompanied by solemn head-shaking and intonations of the, ‘What a shame, what a waste,’ variety, was about as much as any of them could expect from a band they nevertheless counted as their closest friends.

  There was one exception however. And he was Peter Murray.

  When news of what had happened reached them - wherever they happened to be - none hesitated more than a minute in making the decision to haul themselves to Cyprus at the earliest opportunity. Not only was Murray the one who had brought them together in the first place, they all, one way or another, owed him much. The unexpected news – a couple hadn’t even heard about Kathy yet - was therefore a cause for genuine concern, if not quite, perhaps, for the reasons some may imagine.

  As the bluff, black Mancunian, Moss Side Billy, the last to arrive, settled at the table under the two lemon trees and pulled a tab off a Keo, the joshing and tom-foolery that had prevailed through most of the afternoon died away. It was replaced by an expectant hush as they all waited to see who would take up the running. Without Murray, they were essentially leaderless. And though Red was the most obvious replacement – he knew the griff about what was going on, and in military terms was the ‘ranker’ - it was the slim-framed Geordie, ‘Wazzer’, who rose to take another can from the cool-box, timing things in a way that drew everyone’s attention, and thereby laying claim to be first to speak.

  ‘Strikes me,' he
started in his pronounced twang, ripping the tab and lifting the can to his mouth. 'Strikes me, that this guy, Podruznig.' He turned to check he’d got the name right. Red nodded. 'This guy Podruznig needs to be sorted, but propa’. Nun of this, 'now let this be a warning,' bullshit. I’m talkin’ once and for all. Final. Nah messin’ aboot.'

  As he returned to his seat, several heads nodded in agreement. Though this was the first time they’d sat together to discuss next moves, most had taken Wazzer’s stance pretty much as read as soon as they heard what had been happening with the house - especially when they learned about Murray. The questions were, how to make it happen, and when?

  The fact that Wazzer had gone straight to the nub of the problem - Podruznig - rather than regurgitating the tragic chain of events that had blighted Murray’s life the past two years and played no little part in reuniting them, came as no surprise. The past three days had seen enough lamenting over the affair as well as several conversations of the, 'Why didn’t he just ace him to begin with?' variety. By now they all knew enough about what had been going on to make further discussion on the subject redundant. They were where they were. How they’d arrived was immaterial. All that mattered now was the right exit strategy. Having let Wazzer open, Red took up the running.

  'Before we start talking about sorting people, I think we need to bear in mind what Peter’s wishes on all this were.' There was a low chorus of reluctantly-concurring murmurs.

  'So what were they then?'

  Red turned to the fresh-faced young man with close-cropped black hair sitting away from the main group. The soft Irish accent and wire-framed glasses lent the speaker something of an academic air, akin to that of a poet, or teacher. But they all knew him better. Each of them had heard if not seen for themselves the way Ryan O’Donnell acquitted himself in close-quarter combat. On this occasion, the titanium-steel hunting knife with the black ivory handle he always carried was displayed openly in the Samsonite scabbard on his belt. As he waited for Red to answer, he winked across at Billy. Everyone knew they were friends.

  'He didn’t want blood spilled in the house,' Red answered.

  The Irishman smiled, wickedly. 'Then we’ll have to catch it and get rid of it somewhere else.'

  It prompted chuckles in the others, apart from Kishore. Of them all, the ex-Gurkha tended to keep his thoughts to himself. Not on this occasion.

  'Peter was serious. The house was Kathy’s dream.' An edge crept into the Gurkha’s voice. 'I wouldn’t want to see her memory besmirched.' Red’s hand landed on his shoulder.

  'Easy Kish. I know how you feel, and I agree we shouldn’t do anything Peter wouldn’t have wanted us to, though you may have to explain to this pig-ignorant lot what ‘besmirch’ means.' It brought on smiles, easing the tension that had arrived from nowhere.

  But Wazzer and Ryan weren’t alone in wanting to get on with things. A voice that was more growl than Queen’s English said, 'I didn’t come all this fuckin’ way to pussyfoot around.'

  They all turned to stare at the thick-set man who had spent the past five minutes rocking back on his plastic chair’s legs, saying nothing. The oldest of the group, James ‘Bear’ Jocelyn had the cauliflower-ears and beat-about-the-face features of a nineteenth-century prize-fighter or rugby-scrum hooker. He’d arrived from the Lebanon the day before. Once a professional boxer, he’d quit the ring to enlist in the army the day his doctor told him the reason he could no longer ‘hear’ every note of the Opera arias he loved even more than boxing, was due to ‘shake’ damage to the auditory cortex in his left temporal lobe. He liked to think he got out in time but, given his propensity for getting into fist fights whenever the opportunity arose, those who knew him best were doubtful. Unlike the young Irishman, Red let him continue.

  'I met Kathy and I always had a lot of respect for Plod.' ‘Plod’ was Murray’s nickname in the group. More concurring murmurs. 'But I’m fucked if I’m going to piss around trying to persuade this Russian bastard to fuck off. Let’s just recce the place and do it. We all agreed didn’t we? Three years? Well that was three years ago. It’s time.'

  Red scanned the faces. During Priscilla, they’d rarely disagreed over what needed to be done. But back then things had been clearer. That was a military-run op. And say what you like about Murray, he’d been a master at managing consensus. Now it was different. While they all had a stake in achieving what Peter himself had been working towards - the Russian’s departure - they would all, if asked, take a differing slant on the best way of bringing it about. And for all the SAS’s reputation for pulling rabbits out of hats, Red knew it wasn’t to be achieved by charging into things without the requisite Appreciation Of A Situation that allowed for effective contingency planning. It was what was needed now. He told them so.

  'Fair enough,' Bear responded as Red finished. He pulled his chair round, ready to begin. 'Let’s get on with it. Then we’ll do what we came to do.' The others followed his lead, Kishore included. It signalled agreement.

  A few minutes later, Red stood at the head of the table, meeting the steady gazes of the men who had once all delighted in taking the piss out of their ‘poofy code-name’, Priscilla-Six. He looked for signs of more challenge in the faces but couldn’t see any. For the time being, it seemed, they were happy to work under his direction. He wondered how long it would last. How long he could hold them together without Murray. He began.

  'Okay. There’s some work still to be done yet. Ground-mapping, head counting, that sort of thing. We’ll talk about that later. For the time being we’ll start with what we know.' He reached for the folder he’d brought to the table, took out a sheaf of photographs, handed them to Kishore to pass round. 'This is our biggest problem. His name is Uri.'

  As he gave them a few seconds to familiarise themselves with the giant Siberian’s photograph, ex-Sergeant Mike ‘Red’ McGeary’s gaze flitted from one to the other. As he did so, the half of his brain that wasn’t thinking about the briefing he was about to give, mulled over the two questions to which he didn’t have answers. The first was how their plans could be affected by whatever the police were doing? The other was which of their number would still be around when it was all over to share in the spoils?

  CHAPTER 31

  Lifting his cap, Kyriakos Mikros used his shirtsleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was the hottest part of the day and the rocky outcrop that was his post offered no shelter from the afternoon sun’s incessant glare.

  Leaning his rifle against the bleached stump of a fallen cedar, the young man reached down to pull his canteen from between the crack in the rocks where he’d stored it, safe from the sun’s heat, soon after his dawn arrival. Pulling out the cork stopper, he lifted it to his mouth, relishing the mountain spring water’s refreshing coolness. After a few glugs, he paused long enough to check that nothing was moving in the valley below. Satisfied, he finished his thirst-quenching, re-plugged the canteen and returned it to his make-do cool-box. Taking up his weapon, he cradled it across his chest, the way he’d been shown as a child, but resting his weight on the other leg this time.

  A few paces back along the outcrop, would have taken Kyriakos to where the shadows of the tall fir trees fell across the steep, rocky slopes. Yet the thought of sheltering from the sun didn’t occur to him. The long speech delivered to them all by his Uncle Pippis, that Sunday morning they gathered in front of the farmhouse to hear his grave pronouncements, had spelt out clear enough what was required - and what to expect should any be found wanting. And not just Pippis.

  Afterwards, when the ‘business-talk’ was over and the women were bringing out the food - despite the sombre atmosphere, the elders insisted that family traditions must carry on - his father, Vasillis, pulled him to one side.

  'I know what you and your cousins are saying Kyriakos. But you are the eldest. I am relying on you to put your feelings aside, and ensure that the family’s wishes are carried out.'

  Kyriakos stood tall. If he resented being reminded of his re
sponsibilities, he did not let it show. 'You do not have to worry about me father. We all know what needs to be done.'

  Had Kyriakos been harbouring any doubts about his mission, the look of pride that showed in his father’s eyes in that moment would have dispelled them. It was a difficult and dark time for everyone - the darkest most had known - but the twenty year old was determined to ensure that not just he, but the rest of the younger ones as well, abided by their elders’ decision - at least until such time as it was all over. Then he and his cousins would be free to act in the way they had discussed, assuming of course that the focus of their anger was still alive by then.

  At the foot of the valley, away to his left, movement on the gravel road that ran up to the farmhouse caught Kyriakos’s eye. Straightening, he brought the binoculars round his neck to bear on the silver speck at the front of the dust cloud. He recognised the Mazda pick-up at once. Even from way up here, he could make out the driver, his cousin, Anton. Tracking ahead of it, he sought out the farmhouse on top of the hill far below, training the lenses on the front door. As he did so, the noise of the approaching vehicle finally reached him, its gearbox straining as it reached the steepest part of the approach.

  As in all mountains, sound carries easily in the low Troodos. Sure enough, as Kyriakos watched, a man, older, grey-haired and with the sort of tanned-leather complexion that is common in mountain-folk emerged onto the wide, covered porch, coming forward to where he could observe the vehicle’s approach. The binoculars were powerful and Kyriakos had no difficulty making out the old service revolver in the man’s right hand. Out of the house behind him, came a younger woman. She was wearing dark glasses and drying her hands on a cloth. The man waggled the gun at her, as if telling her to go back inside. She ignored him.