A Killing Place in the Sun

by Robert F Barker

  The man smiled, wryly. 'Hmmm… you do have an interesting history.'

  His English was excellent, even down to the accent. Oxford, or Cambridge, Murray guessed. But he had neither time nor patience to play run-around. 'So how much do you know?'

  'As much as we need to,' the man said

  'I suppose that includes Operation Priscilla?'

  Behind the glasses, the thick eyebrows arched upwards. 'Ahh, Yes. Priscilla. Such a silly code-name. Whoever dreamed that up?’ He didn’t wait for an answer but continued. ‘A bit of a cock-up by the standards of your country I would say. But it seemed to get there in the end.'

  'Apart from one or two… unresolved issues.'

  'Such as?'

  Murray shot him a glance. 'Are we going to fuck around all afternoon? ‘Cos if we are, I’ll need a drink.' It had the desired effect. The man’s posture changed. He turned to face Murray, directly.

  'I take it you are referring to certain property in which my Government may have an interest?'

  Murray met the man’s enquiring stare. 'I need to know if that interest is ongoing?'

  Even behind the glasses, Murray saw the eyes narrow. 'It could be.'

  From behind, Murray heard the sound of children’s laughter, approaching. 'In that case, let’s find somewhere quieter where you can buy me a beer while I tell you a tale of woe.'

  Turning, he began to mount the steps but had to dodge aside to avoid the young boy who came skipping down, his older sister in pursuit. Following them, but well-behind, their mother shouted down to them, ‘BE CAREFUL. You nearly knocked that poor man over.’

  As Murray made his way back towards the small kiosk near the entrance that sold beers as well as ice cream, the Arab official loitered behind, exchanging friendly smiles and jokes with the children and, when she arrived, their young and attractive blond mother. Then, spotting a man who looked like the children’s father approaching down the tiers, he made his goodbyes before flashing the young mother a practised smile, and following in Murray’s steps. As he reached the theatre’s top-most tier, he spied the man he’d been dragged off a delicate operation in France two days before to come and meet, already at the kiosk and reaching for his billfold. Lifting a hand to his ear as if to scratch it, the man spoke to those listening.

  'It sounds like they may have been right for once. Make the call, then put everyone on standby.'

  As he started his engine, Pippis looked up. The four officers - three men, one woman - were at the upper-floor window, watching his departure. He wondered what they might now be saying to each other, what they would be thinking, but then he stopped. Whatever it was, he was certain they would not be regretting their decision, quite the opposite in fact. They were all good, experienced officers. They had grasped what he was putting to them more quickly than even he had expected. And he’d sensed no doubt or hesitation when, after checking with each other, they turned back to him and, in unison, nodded their affirmation. Driving out the gate, he let out a long breath. One more cog in place.

  He had never really doubted their cooperation, not after the way they’d performed during the previous summer’s operation against the gang of Bulgarian Sex-Traffickers who thought Pafos was just the place to expand their operation. 'Nip it in the bud. Do whatever it takes,' was the command that had come from on high. The Chief himself relayed it to Pippis in a way that left no doubt over the depth of the Government’s concerns. If such things were allowed to take hold, the effect on the Island’s tourist industry could be calamitous.

  And together, Pippis and his small-but-hand-picked ‘Task force’ had nipped it, albeit not all their methods were reflected in the reports that went back to Police HQ, along with the requisite deportation dossiers. On that occasion, the four he had just spent an hour talking to weren’t particularly bothered about not sticking entirely to laid down ‘procedures’, so long as the outcome was in their homeland’s best interests, which Pippis assured them it was.

  The late afternoon traffic was building as Pippis turned his HRV out through the station’s gates, this time heading for the motorway and the hour-long journey that would take him back to the place that was beginning to resemble an Operations Control Centre – which in effect is what it was. Putting his foot down, he turned his thoughts to what he would tell those waiting, and wondering how Murray had got on.

  But even had he not been so distracted, there was nothing about the pick-up, several cars back and falling even further behind as Pippis gathered speed, that would have drawn his attention. The same applied to its steely-eyed driver, who kept glancing at the GPS monitor affixed to his dashboard. And Pippis could not have foreseen the further anguish it was set to bring to him and his family.

  CHAPTER 42

  From his position behind the bar where he was pretending to clean the already immaculate counter-tops, Andreas monitored the Russian woman’s progress as she downed her first cappuccino of the morning. Her initial visit upstairs always followed soon after, and he needed to judge his timing. Sure enough, as her minder returned from his scouting mission, she rose to come forward. Andreas left it until she was about to pass the bar before stepping out with the basket of toiletries, holding them in front in a way he’d calculated would draw her gaze. The look on his face was suitably apologetic, embarrassed even.

  'I am sorry Madam. Melitza was supposed to take these up earlier. I will do it now.'

  Her polite smile said she wasn’t above looking after herself. 'Give them to me. I will take them.'

  'Are you sure? That is very kind.' He handed her the basket. About to turn away, he stopped. 'By the way, I managed to get some more of that Indian Coconut Soap you seem to like.' He pointed at the colourfully-wrapped package in the middle of the basket.

  Behind her, Ivan loitered but paid no heed. The last thing he was interested in was toiletries. Even had he been, he would not have seen the puzzled look on his charge’s face and which greeted Andreas’s words. Marianna Podruznig glanced at the basket’s contents then back up at Andreas, just in time to catch the strange look he gave her before he turned back to his polishing. Clutching the basket, she climbed the stairs.

  In the small cloakroom she made sure the door was locked, firmly, before taking out the item Andreas had indicated. The sticker-seal looked like it had been disturbed. She unwrapped it. It contained nothing but what it was supposed to - soap. For a moment she thought she must have misunderstood. But about to confine the wrapper to the litter bin, she glimpsed the markings on its inside. Unfurling the waxy paper, she read the message.

  'Take what Andreas offers. On the night, be ready. P.'

  The wave of panic that washed over her was so dizzying she had to lean on the sink until it passed. Then she re-read the note, breathing deep as she digested both the words themselves and their unstated, but portentous meaning. It was going to happen. Just like he had said it would. She didn’t know whether to be fearful, excited, hopeful, or all three. Fear was dominant.

  She flushed the wrapper down the toilet then saw to her ablutions. Her actions quickened as the moments passed, as though she feared someone might suddenly burst in and discover her duplicity. Settling herself as best she could, she checked herself one last time in the mirror before returning downstairs.

  As she re-entered the bar and made her way back to her table, no one could have guessed the bombshell that had just landed in her lap, or the feverish activity now taking place beneath the calm exterior. Accepting Ria’s offer of another cappuccino with a nod and a smile, she lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply.

  It was five minute’s later, when Andreas brought their refills that the promised offer arrived. It was in the form of an envelope. He held it out to her.

  'I hope you do not mind, Mrs Podruznig.' She glanced up at him, surprised. She hadn’t even realised he knew her name. 'But I remember you once mentioned how you enjoy the Opera.'

  As Andreas held the envelope open to display its contents - two gaily-decorated tickets for the
Aphrodite Festival Performance that coming Saturday night - she ignored the look of astonishment on Ria’s face. Seated at the next table, Ivan rose and came forward to see what was going on. Andreas continued.

  'A couple of German customers were planning on going, but one of them took ill and they have flown home. They asked me to pass on their tickets to some of my regulars. I wondered if perhaps you and your daughter would like to accept these two?' He nodded towards Sasha, seated at the adjacent table with Anna, both engrossed in their mobiles.

  'What is this?' Ivan’s spade of a hand reached out to take the envelope. Delving inside, he pulled out the tickets, turning them, suspiciously, in his fingers.

  Andreas made to explain again. 'I was just saying to Madam. Some of my German customers-'

  'I heard what you said.' He made to hand the envelope back to Andreas. 'She cannot accept gifts. She would not be able to go anyway.'

  Sensing her opportunity about to be snuffed out, Marianna Podruznig took a deep breath but still managed to make it sound casual. 'Do not be so rude, Ivan.' She reached up and plucked the envelope from his grasp. 'We should not refuse such a generous offer.' Glancing at Ria, she saw the look on her friend’s face.

  Opera? You?

  Ivan began to dig his heels in. 'My orders are that-'

  'I know what your orders are, Ivan, but leave it to me. I will explain to Mr Podruznig. He will understand.'

  Not convinced, but not particularly interested either in arguing the toss over such a trivial matter – let the boss decide – Ivan shrugged his hefty shoulders before wandering back to his table, As he went, she heard him mutter something about, 'Opera-shit.'

  Marianna looked up at Andreas. There was something in the benevolent-but-sad way he was regarding her that almost made her want to burst into tears right there. She swallowed hard. 'This is very kind of you. I will ask my husband. If we are able to go I am sure we will enjoy it greatly.' With a final smile, Andreas turned away and headed back to the bar.

  When he was gone, Ria checked over her shoulder – the men were laughing over some comment of Ivan’s - before leaning into her friend, conspiratorially. 'Since when have you been interested in Opera?'

  Marianna looked up from stuffing the already-precious documents into her bag; God forbid she should lose them. 'What do you mean? I have always liked Opera. You know that.' The quick glance at her minders and the inflection in her voice was enough to tell Ria she was supposed to play along. They often used code when speaking of matters she did not wish her minders – and husband - to know of.

  Ria’s eyes narrowed as she drew on her cigarette and she gave a sly smile. 'Oh yes, I forgot. And of course, it is 'La Traviata.' Marianna let her face show her gratitude. But after another quick check behind, Ria lowered her voice. 'But I expect to hear what you are up to soon.'

  Marianna nodded as she picked up her coffee-cup. 'Don’t worry Ria, you will.'

  For the rest of their morning’s stay at Scorpios, as Ria spoke of her mother’s illness, shopping and the dinner party she was to host that weekend, it was all Marianna could do to appear interested. Almost all her attention was on trying to work out how she would set about talking Valerik into letting her and Sasha go to the Opera.

  CHAPTER 43

  Starting with his shoulders, then moving down the rest of his body, the man called Lamaar flexed his muscle-groups the way he always did when normal movement wasn’t possible. And though the process would have been barely visible to even someone close, the sequence of tensing, flexing and relaxing was enough to ensure that, should the need arise, his body would respond the way it was supposed to - and at once, despite having lain still for over an hour.

  From his hide amidst a clump of low-growing junipers, Lamaar followed the comings and goings at the farmhouse below through the Atom Red-Star Russian-Military binoculars that were an especially-prized part of his kit. They were a trophy from a necessarily-brief contact with a Russian General in the Steppes some years before. And though there was no question anyone had witnessed his arriving at his chosen hiding place – once again, his Afghan-Mountain training had come in useful – he was glad he had approached over the top from the adjoining valley, rather than the route indicated on the GPS. Had he done, he was sure he would have been spotted, though he was yet to pick out the watcher he was certain had to be lurking somewhere in the surrounding hills.

  That the Farmhouse was central to whatever the policeman was planning, Lamaar was also now certain. The several vehicles and the number of people milling around – so far he had counted more than a dozen – were too many for a location as isolated as this. And given everything that had happened, Lamaar doubted they were organising some family social event. But the clincher was the fact that since he’d arrived to take up station overlooking the back of the house and the road leading up from his right, he hadn’t stopped seeing weapons. As well as the twin-barrelled shotguns, carried by the two young men who came out of the house to enjoy a smoke in the sun soon after he settled, there were several rifles stacked, teepee-style at the side. Half an hour earlier, an old man had come out to attend to the generator at the back. Even he had a pistol tucked in his waistband. Lamaar was yet to see the policeman, though his HRV was parked up out front, still sending out the signal that had led Lamaar to the valley. Presumably he was inside.

  Turning his binoculars to the hillside opposite, he made another scan, searching for the evidence that would indicate where the spotter was. When he’d surveyed the valley earlier, he had concluded that the slope opposite, overlooking the front of the farm, was the most obvious place. The way the road weaved up from the south, it gave the best vantage point over any approach from that direction. Another reason to congratulate himself on his decision to choose another route in.

  As his sweep reached the rocky outcrop he had picked out earlier, he stopped, inspecting it in more detail this time. Apart from being a natural look-out spot, the low branches of the pine trees behind showed signs of disturbance. And while he couldn’t rule out mouflon – he’d spotted several of the mountain sheep ranging the higher slopes around – instinct told him it more likely marked the passing of something taller.

  For several minutes he focused on the area around the outcrop. But much of it was screened from view by the boulders that made it such a natural shelter. Seeing no further signs he was about to move on when suddenly, from behind a rock right in the middle of his field of vision, a man rose to his feet. He must have been lying there all this time not moving, like Lamaar himself. But unlike Lamaar, he hadn’t been trained or disciplined to know that if your job is to watch, that is all you do. Youngish, wearing a green cap and a bright blue bandana that protected his neck from the afternoon sun, the man stood looking down at the farmhouse. He was holding a mobile phone to his ear. He waved.

  Lamaar swung the binoculars down and left, focusing in on the house. At first he couldn’t see anyone. But then a woman came into view, returning the young man’s waves as she spoke into her mobile. She was heading away from the house, towards the path that led across the valley and over the stream, from where it rose sharply until it disappeared into the trees.

  Lamaar knew it was her as soon as she came into view. The age was right and the way she walked, stiffly, told him as much. She held a basket over her right arm that was covered in a colourful check-cloth. Judging by the spotter’s enthusiasm and her cheery response, Lamaar guessed it contained items the spotter opposite would find most welcome after a long, hot day on the hillside.

  As she followed the path away from the house and down the far slope, she was lost from his view. But a few minutes later she reappeared, climbing the slopes beyond the stream. As he watched her making her way along the path, leaning forward now to counter the steepening gradient, Lamaar took in everything about her. The rounded contours of her body under the white top and loose skirt. The occasional flashes of firm, toned leg whenever she lifted the skirt to step up or over some hazard. The thick, shiny-dark h
air that was caught in a ponytail and held in place by a wooden clasp. And on those occasions she turned his way, he noted the shape of her breasts under her top, imagining what they would feel like in his rough hands, mentally weighing them, judging their size. As he watched, the tip of his tongue emerged to run around the thin lips, like a gastronome savouring a meal placed in front of him by his favourite headwaiter. He adjusted his position to re-distribute his weight, relieving the sudden pressure that had come, unbidden, below his stomach.

  The binoculars Lamaar was so proud of stayed on her until she became lost from view amongst the trees. Somewhere there, the path would turn to the right, following the contour of the hillside to where it emerged behind the outcrop opposite. Switching his gaze back, Lamaar saw that the man was no longer to be seen. Settled back down again behind the rocks he assumed, his attention re-focused on the approach up through the valley while he awaited her arrival. Lamaar snorted his disdain. The thought had probably never occurred to them that their mountain hideaway might be susceptible to being breached from above. Amateurs!

  Packing away the binoculars, he made ready to vacate the place he had chosen as his OP the past hour, checking the sun, gauging distances. He would have to move fast if he was to secure his objective. But her progress would be slow - hampered by her injuries and her cargo - and she had some distance to cover before she reached her goal.

  As he set off, making sure to stay low and behind what cover was available, the thought of what the next couple of hours would bring brought a smile to Lamaar’s face. He was after all, a professional. And he enjoyed his work.

  Westgate ended the call, put his mobile away, and returned to his coffee. It had cooled during his lengthy discussion and he downed it quickly. Hailing the waiter, he ordered another, before settling himself in the comfortable wicker armchair. Around the corner from the sea front, the harbour area Costa Coffee shop’s elevated position is ideal for people-watching. Along the pavement outside, throngs of holidaymakers from the hotels lining Poseidonos Avenue were heading for the harbour area’s bustling centre, with its multitude of shops, bars, and restaurants. But Westgate wasn’t interested in people watching. He was reflecting on his conversation.