A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  Behind her dark glasses, and without turning from the children, Marianna shifted her attention to where he still paced, beneath the old Carob tree that grew at the top of the cliff. A short distance away, Uri was waiting for him to finish, so he could deliver whatever important news had brought him marching, swiftly, from the house, just as Valerik took yet another call. He was still waving his arms about, all the while keeping up the flow of dialogue that the wind kept snatching away before she could make any of it out.

  Seeing him like this, so distracted he couldn’t even find time to welcome guests to his own daughter’s birthday party, made her wonder what the other women made of it all. Laughing at her stupidity for putting up with it she suspected. Then again, they were not so different. Married to men of uncertain financial heritage. Children attending the same, expensive Russian School in Mandria as Sasha. Little or no say in how they run their lives - or their children’s.

  Valerik had been like this the best part of the day. Several days, in fact. Making phone calls. Meeting with Uri and his men, or with others Uri’s lot brought to the house - sometimes late into the night. Marianna had no idea what was going on and little hope of finding out, certainly not now that her minders seemed to be paying closer attention than ever to her movements - both in the house and during her trips out. Even when seeing to her toilet, she had found herself scanning the walls, fixtures and fittings, wondering how she would know if some surveillance device was, even at that moment, keeping tabs on her. More than ever before, she felt trapped and alone. Worse than that, even though right now it seemed illogical, she feared for her and her daughter’s futures.

  As she felt the dampness at the corners of her eyes, Marianna suddenly realised she was in danger of letting the true depths of her despair show through. She took a deep breath to rally herself. If she wasn’t careful she would find herself on the end of yet another ‘reminder’ from Valerik of what to expect should she fail to live up to his increasingly bizarre expectations.

  Calling to the girls one last time to, 'Be careful,' – to anyone watching it would be in keeping with her coming out of motherly birthday reflections - Marianna Podruznig went to rejoin the other mothers. As she neared the group she listened for the sudden change of rhythm that would mark them moving to a different topic of conversation.

  Across the other side of the pool, out of the women’s hearing, the last thing on Valerik Podruznig’s mind was his daughter’s birthday party, though Uri’s sour comments about how the Hell he was supposed to manage security when the place was full of screaming kids, were an occasional reminder.

  Instead, he was juggling two important phone calls. One was from the scheming German who ran the airline he had bought into last year, and who was droning on about the impact on their operation of the latest EU pronouncements on CO2 emissions. As if he cared about CO2 emissions. Why couldn’t he just run the fucking business for God’s sake? That was what he paid him for wasn’t it?

  The other, more interesting call, was from the man he had spoken to twice before. The one with whom he seemed to share a common interest, though he was yet to work out exactly why. Whoever he was, it seemed to suit his purpose as much as Podruznig’s to keep him informed about the matters they discussed. Even if on this occasion his information was as disappointingly sparse as that coming from Podruznig’s other sources. Not that it mattered.

  The week before, Podruznig had wasted days trying to find out what was going on, ensconced with Uri and his other advisors in the basement command bunker, running useless ‘what-if’ scenarios. Eventually, he had concluded that whatever further actions the police may or may not be planning, whether Murray was dead or alive - his instincts told him the latter - the only certainty lay in taking the initiative. It did no good hanging around, waiting to see what may happen next. He needed to seize control, to start directing things. Which was why he’d decided to bring in a specialist.

  Putting the German on hold again, Podruznig gave the other caller his full attention. The conversation that followed was guarded, full of allusions and coded references to, ‘unfortunate incidents’. You never know who may be listening in, even on an encrypted line.

  As it drew to a close, Podruznig remembered the pitch he had thought of following their last contact. ‘Thank you again my friend. But tell me, when will we meet? I feel I should reward you for your assistance, even if the outcome of our last collaboration was not quite what we expected.' After a moment he added, 'No, of course I do not hold you responsible. It was an unforeseeable development.' Like Hell. If that bastard Shokov had any common sense he would never have set a device outside the Chief of Police’s daughter’s house. It was bound to trigger a reaction. He should have shown patience. Wait until Murray left. Follow him, then set the damn thing. Too late now. But at least he won’t be making those sort of mistakes again. He continued his phone call. 'And I do understand your position. I look forward to hearing from you.' As the man rang off, he went back to the German. 'Klaus? Something has come up. Call me back later.' Snapping his phone shut he turned to Uri, who was listening hard into his own mobile. 'Well?'

  After a few moments Uri came off the phone. He pulled a face and shook his head. 'We cannot trace it. He is using some sort of relay through Amsterdam.'

  Podruznig tutted. 'Such clever bastards these days.'

  'We should have that copy of the FSB’s new tracking software by the next time he calls. It should give us a better result.'

  'I hope so Uri. I am becoming tired of these failures.'

  Uri noted the implied criticism but said nothing. He could barely wait to get his hands on the man whose unlooked-for interventions were, like Murray’s before him, undermining the stock he had spent years building up in Podruznig’s service. It would be an occasion for celebration, Uri’s own, special brand of celebration. He returned to the subject that had brought him out to speak to his boss just as the unidentified man had telephoned.

  'Our visitor has arrived. He is downstairs.'

  Podruznig’s eyes lit up. 'Excellent. I shall speak with him at once. From what our friend says there may not be much time.' He turned to head inside.

  'Er, Boss?'

  He turned to Uri. 'What?'

  The Siberian nodded to where the party was continuing across the other side of the pool. His wife was waving. The cake had just been brought out, the children gathering round.

  'Shit.' He turned to Uri. 'Two minutes. Then call me with an urgent call from Moscow on the house phone.'

  Then he set of across the garden, smiling broadly.

  CHAPTER 35

  As Murray and Gina entered the room, he was shocked by what he saw. And though he witnessed it for only seconds, it was enough to remind Murray that despite the coolness that had been to the fore during their most recent exchanges, he and Pippis Iridotu now shared a common purpose.

  For as they walked in, the Divisional Commander for the Pafos Police division rose quickly from his kneeling position at the foot of the bed. Turned away to face the windows, a hand lifted, wiping across his eyes and face.

  'Oh Papa,' Gina cried.

  She rushed to him, wrapping her arms round him. As she did so, Murray could see her eyes brimming again. For several seconds, the big man did his best to hold out, but had no chance. For close to a minute, father and daughter hugged each other tight, as each tried to stop the tears they both knew they ought to control, for now at least.

  Eventually they released each other, Gina to dig into her bag for tissues, Pippis to turn a stoney-but-blotchy-red face on Murray. As Murray took the hand offered, he made a point of holding the policeman’s gaze seconds longer than would be normal. For all that the commander’s public persona may be based upon a reputation for stoic dependability and coolness under pressure, there was no shame in showing emotion under such circumstances. Something else they now had in common.

  And Murray was not surprised when Pippis dispensed with the niceties to simply observe, 'So. You are back.' Wh
atever the two now shared, and despite the undercurrents they may acknowledge were there, friendship was not part of it, not yet at any rate. For now, they were business partners, nothing more.

  By way of response, Murray turned to the bandage-swathed figure on the bed. Gina was already there, taking her sister’s remaining hand. Like last time, it was hard not to let his eyes be drawn to the most obvious evidence of the catastrophe that had befallen Pippis’s second daughter - the flatness of the bed where her right leg should be. He couldn’t help remembering the last time he’d seen her, skipping out to go dancing. Not for the first time, he had to steel himself against the guilt that swooped in.

  'How is she?' he said, quietly.

  Pippis sniffed. 'No change. She is still being ventilated. They say we must still wait.'

  Gina bent to deliver a kiss to her sister’s cheek - the only part of her face not covered by the breathing mask and bandages - before whispering something in her ear. Then, straightening, she crossed herself, and lifted the rosary in her hand to her lips.

  For a few moments they all stood in silence, each with their thoughts. Having given up on religion before his teenage years, Murray was surprised to find himself as close to appealing to some higher authority as he could remember. There had been no such opportunity with Kathy and Jack.

  As Gina said the silent prayers she had come to deliver, Murray took small satisfaction from knowing that at least the state-of-the-art care Ileana was receiving, gave her the best chance of recovery she and her family could hope for. He was also conscious of the irony that Ileana probably owed her life to the tensions that still exist between the Republic of Cyprus and the Turkish-occupied sector in the North. Though decades have passed since the Turks invaded, the potential for military conflict remains, at least as far as the politicians are concerned. Which is why conscription to military service is still compulsory for all Cypriot males when they turn eighteen. It also explains why maintaining an effective and efficient military capability is always a non-negotiable element during the international community’s ongoing attempts to broker a settlement between the two sides. This in turn means that, unlike most other European countries where pressure on Government budgets is such that the once unthinkable is no longer so, Cyprus’s two Military Hospitals – one just outside Nicosia, the other in the hills above Pafos – are maintained at an ever-present state of readiness. Constantly updated with the latest equipment and kept ticking over with a core of medical staff, they train and exercise regularly to always be ready to deal with victims of war – which of course includes bomb and shell injuries.

  In reality, and apart from the ministrations of the hospital’s staff for which Pippis thanked them every day, Ileana was alive due to two strokes of fortune. Murray suspected it would be months, maybe years, before it became clear whether that fortune was ‘good’ or ‘bad’. That depended first on her continuing to live, then if she did, how she adjusted, mentally and physically, to the reduced body that was now hers.

  The first piece of good fortune - if that is what it was - was the fact that evidence from the scene pointed to the bomber having learned their skills in the theatre of terrorism, rather than assassination. He, or she, had used a motion-gravity ignition-device rather than an electrical one. Had it been the latter, the bomb would have exploded as soon as Ileana turned the key in the ignition. She would have died immediately. But a motion-gravity device relies on a flow of liquid-mercury to complete the electrical circuit, which in turn sets off the detonator. Such devices require forward-thrust to set the mercury moving, which is why the carrying vehicle usually manages to travel a short distance before exploding – the time taken for the mercury to complete the circuit. From a terrorist’s viewpoint - which often calls for maximum death and injury, preferably encompassing the general public - such devices are ideal as they give the target time to move from say a private garage, into a more public environment, before the device explodes. In Ileana’s case, her second stroke of ‘fortune’ lay in the fact that after the engine eventually caught, she only moved Murray’s jeep a distance of a few metres - enough to clear Gina’s drive - before stopping and getting out. She was already walking away when the mercury completed its journey and the jeep exploded. Though less than ten metres from the source of the blast, the impact upon her young body was considerably reduced from what it would have been had she still been inside. And though the blast was enough to strip much of the flesh from her back and, particularly, her legs - flesh from the discarded right one now being used to help repair her left - the two hedges and three fences she was blown through actually absorbed much of the impact. As the paramedics who worked to extract her from the bushes she was found lying in at the scene were heard to observe, 'She may owe her life to the bougainvillea.'

  A touch on his arm snapped Murray out of his reverie. He looked around. Next to him, Pippis turned his tired eyes from his daughters, to Murray. He nodded towards the door.

  'Gina needs to be with her sister. Let us talk.'

  Squashed into the plastic bucket-seats in the small waiting area opposite Ileana’s room, Murray filled Pippis in on his Balkan expedition. Pippis listened with silent interest as Murray spoke of what he had learned, and of the discussions he had had in the shabby office overlooking the Odessa dockyard.

  When Murray finished, Pippis stayed silent for several minutes. Murray didn’t press. Having received Murray’s account, and listened carefully to the ideas Murray had formed between fitful dozes on the fishing boat bringing him back to Cyprus - another branch of Pippis’s large family - the policeman would want to be certain as to his next move. Once things started, there would be no turning back.

  Eventually, Pippis placed his hands on his knees and levered himself out of his seat. Murray rose with him, so that both men stood in the middle of the room, looking at each other. Pippis took a deep breath, which had the effect of bringing him back to his full height. Since the explosion, he seemed to have shrunk in stature. Turning his head right, towards the east-facing window, he let his gaze roam over the distant Troodos foothills. Eventually he turned back to Murray, still awaiting his response. He put out a hand. Murray took it.

  'Then let us do this thing,’ Pippis said, ‘And bring an end to it.’

  CHAPTER 36

  Though the basement ‘briefing room’ was air-conditioned, Podruznig was finding that just looking at the man who went by the name, ‘Lamaar’, made him feel several degrees warmer. The new arrival was wearing a heavy brown suit, jacket fastened in the middle, long-sleeved white shirt with button-down collar, and plain green tie. Despite the unseasonal attire, he bore no outward sign of being bothered by the heat he must have experienced on the way there. Cold-blooded, Podruznig thought.

  Older than the Russian had expected – or was it just the way he was dressed? – the man was six feet tall, athletically built and, judging by the slow pirouette he made when Podruznig entered from behind, given to saving his energy for when he needed it most. The longish face was angular, pock-marked with what could have been the childhood ravages of chicken-pox, or something similar. The cheekbones were high and his short, blond hair stood straight in a flat buzz-cut. Standing stiff, and straight, Podruznig thought he looked like he was made of steel. On first making eye contact, the striking green eyes seemed to take in everything about Podruznig in a single, flashing glance, before reverting to a calmer, almost stupefied look. But he made no effort to speak and remained board-stiff until Podruznig proffered a hand. He put out his own to let Podruznig grasp it briefly before withdrawing it, as if he feared some form of contamination. Given his occupation, the man’s overall appearance and manner suggested someone who didn’t care for the company of others, lacked social skills and was interested only in getting the job done. Podruznig felt reassured.

  'Welcome,' Podruznig said in English, showing him to a sofa that stood against the wall. As with the handshake, Lamaar hesitated, looking at it as if it might be booby-trapped before sitting down. E
very action seemed to require careful forethought.

  'Thank you for coming at such short notice.' The man’s head jerked upwards in acknowledgement. 'Uri has given you details of the targets?'

  The dragon-eyes flicked left to Uri before returning, as if on springs. Another head-jerk.

  Podruznig turned to Uri. Their eyes met in unspoken agreement. This was, The Man. He continued. 'Let me emphasise one thing. Circumstances dictate that the problems you have been made aware of, be resolved as soon as possible.'

  The response was a slow, lizard-like blink followed by, 'I do what has to be done, when it can be done. I do not cut corners.' He spoke with an indeterminate European accent. Traces of French and Slavic. Some Italian maybe.

  Podruznig weighed him through narrowed eyes. The man was a professional. He respected that. 'Also, you should know I do not countenance failure.'

  The man’s eye’s flared, briefly, then died. 'If I did, I would not be here.'

  Podruznig returned the man’s stare, as if to stress that at the end of the day, he would be the one to judge. In reality he was impressed. Uri was good and had proved himself many times over. But this Lamaar…. He was of different stock altogether. If only he had more like him on his team. What he could achieve….

  'Uri will show you where to stow your gear and provide you with what you need.' The man rose, the meeting over. 'Questions?'

  He shook his head, stood there, waiting.

  'This way,' Uri said. He led him down the corridor to the bunk-rooms.

  As he watched Lamaar disappear - from the back he somehow seemed wider about the shoulders than he looked from the front - Podruznig allowed himself a smirk before turning to go back up stairs, already looking forward to returning to the interests he had been neglecting of late. His daughter’s birthday party was not among them.