Evolution of Fear (23 page)

‘Of course. No altruism here.’

‘There is no such thing as altruism,’ said Dimitriou.

Katia pouted.

‘All we ask is that you relocate the station slightly,’ said Chrisostomedes.

‘Relocate? To where?’

‘Toxeflora Beach, in the Agamas. Just a few kilometres up the coast.’

‘I know where it is,’ said Hope, visibly shaken. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I do not joke, Doctor,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘I have neither the time nor the compunction.’ His face was set hard, the creases around his mouth like the dark fractures edging a crevasse.

‘On Turkish land? Inside the national park?’ blurted Hope. ‘You’re insane.’

‘
Proposed
national park,’ said Dimitriou.

Chrisostomedes leaned on his elbows. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Doctor Bachmann. I understand that you recently put in an application to do exactly what I now propose.’

Hope glanced towards Clay then looked down at her hands. ‘That was years ago. I was new here, I wasn’t aware of the status of the lands, the plans for a national park. Of course as soon as I was made aware, I withdrew the application.’

‘Well, this time our friend can ensure the proper dispensations are made, is that not so, Minister?’ Chrisostomedes inclined his head towards Dimitriou.

‘Indeed,’ nodded the minister.

Just like you did at Alassou last year, thought Clay.

‘And what about Lara Beach?’ said Hope.

‘We would develop an ecologically sensitive, world-class resort: a five-star hotel, casino, water park. All with your design input, of course, to ensure minimal disruption to turtle nesting.’

Hope pushed back her chair. ‘Are you crazy?’ she shouted. ‘It would mean the end of nesting on that beach. Forever.’

‘It seems, Doctor, from what you have told us, that will happen regardless,’ said Dimitriou.

‘And we hope you will want to reflect our generosity in the Commission’s findings,’ added Chrisostomedes.

Hope pursed her lips, said nothing.

They all ate on in silence.

After a while there was a knock at the door.

‘Ah, good.’ Chrisostomedes rose to his feet. ‘Our missing dinner guest.’

Everyone looked up. Two people had entered. A man and a woman. The man held the woman by the arm, his hand clasped over the bare skin just above her elbow. He led her across the hardwood landing to the steps. The woman was dressed in a black cocktail dress. She wore black pumps. Her dark hair cascaded down over bare shoulders.

Clay lurched to his feet. It was as if the blood had been syphoned from his head. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

Hope squealed like an excited schoolgirl.

The woman was Rania. And guiding her down the steps, Zdravko.

Surely, he thought, the essence of beauty was imperfection. Four fingers to a palm, six palms to a cubit, four cubits makes a man, and in man’s symmetry the universe is structured. But this seductive Vitruvian mathematics was shattered by the dark line under her left eye, the slightly off-centre dimple in her chin, the chaotic quasars spinning in her eyes. Real beauty could only exist in the immediate presence of something marred, disjointed, sullied somehow: a datum. Only complexity could create the depth that beauty required, the multiple layers and infinite variants that could build a forest, one leaf, one branch, one limb, one tree at a time, sculpt the Sierpinski carpet of a coastline, or scatter celestial dust into the utter individuality of each retina. Hers.

Chrisostomedes nodded. Zdravko released Rania’s arm. She snatched it away, reached up to where his hand had been. Zdravko turned to leave, took two paces towards the door. Then he stopped, looked back over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten something. He was looking straight at Clay, his eyes like gun slits.

‘That will be all, Todorov,’ said Chrisostomedes.

Zdravko muttered something, adjusted the sling cradling his right arm, turned away and closed the door behind him.

Rania started across the carpet. Clay could see the changes now, her breasts heavier, her figure rounder. His feet were tingling, his legs quivering. His brain raced to process what he’d seen, what he was seeing. Rania walking towards him, his child there inside her, her hips swaying beneath the thin material of the dress, her eyes dark with makeup, Zdravko’s finger marks still on her arm and Zdravko just outside the door somewhere.

Adrenaline poured into Clay’s system, swamping his senses. He needed to run. Grab her by the hand and run. Through the door, out to the car. Did they have time? Maybe. His Beretta was in the car, pushed up under the passenger seat. If he could get to it, they had a chance. But he needed to settle, calm himself, think things through. What the hell was Zdravko doing here? Working for Chrisostomedes, apparently. He’d clearly been surprised by Clay’s presence. Either Zdravko hadn’t shared his recent attempt on Clay’s life with his new boss, or Chrisostomedes hadn’t yet realised who Clay was. One thing was sure: Zdravko was here, and Rania was being held against her will. That’s how Zdravko had got the message to Hope, via the AFP, about the meeting in the mountains. If Crowbar hadn’t surprised him on the ridge, he would have put a bullet in Clay’s head. An easy shot for a marksman armed with a military-spec sniper rifle. It was intolerable, impossible to contemplate. Nausea flooded through him. He struggled to breathe. Rania was halfway to the table now, striding with that lean, elegant gait Clay had so admired the first time he’d seen her by the pool in Aden, thirty weeks and a hundred years ago.

Hope stood, ran to Rania and threw her arms around her. The two women embraced, kissed, whispered to each other and walked hand-in-hand to the table. Rania smoothed her dress under her legs, sat. Hope regained her place and sat facing Rania.

Chrisostomedes glanced at Hope and opened his arms as if addressing a congregation. ‘Everyone, this is Lise Moulinbecq, the journalist.’ Chrisostomedes introduced each of his guests in turn. Clay was last.

Rania leaned forward slightly, looked down the table at Clay. The candle flame danced in her eyes but her expression was neutral, hard. Her face was fuller than he remembered but dark hollows pulsed above the tops of her cheekbones like bruises through makeup. She looked tired.

‘Hello, Doctor Greene,’ she said, dead flat. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise,’ Clay stammered. The message was clear. They didn’t know each other. ‘I’ve read your stuff.’

‘Every tenth word, I’m sure, Doctor Greene.’

‘No, really,’ said Clay, still struggling. ‘You write well.’

‘You’re very kind.’ A quick smile, a fraction of a second only. ‘But I think you have it backwards, Doctor Greene. I hear you also write well.’

Then she turned away, began exchanging pleasantries with Dimitriou, who seemed to have met her before.

Hope sat beaming at Rania, entranced, watching every gesture, devouring every word.

‘Lise has been our guest here for the past few days,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘Because of the tense situation here on the island, and the sensitivity of what she has been reporting, we thought it best to provide her somewhere safe from which to work.’ Chrisostomedes directed what he no doubt thought was a charming smile at Rania.

Clay cringed.

‘Yes,’ said Rania. ‘There is a lovely view from my room.’ She pointed to the picture windows, the lights of the coast flickering in the distance. ‘This, but one floor higher.
Magnifique
.’

Chrisostomedes beamed.

‘When can we expect to read your next piece, Ms Moulinbecq?’ said Dimitriou.

‘It will appear tomorrow, I believe,’ said Rania. ‘It concerns the joint EU-UN Commission of Enquiry on Coastal Property in Cyprus.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Dimitriou, nodding to Hope. ‘We were discussing this just before you arrived.’

Hope leaned forward, facing Rania. ‘The Minister has suggested that I direct the Commission towards favouring Mister Chrisostomedes’ activities and proposals. In return, they would fund the rebuilding of my research station. There’s a story for you.’

Dimitriou laughed. ‘The good Chairwoman is under the illusion that her fellow panellists are, how shall we put it,
impartial
.’

Rania reached across the table, took Hope’s hand, looked her in the eyes. ‘I have reason to believe,’ she said, ‘that when the enquiry convenes in three days, the UN representative on the Commission will propose a land-swap deal, in which selected Turkish coastal properties in the south, including Toxeflora Beach lands, will be transferred to Greek Cypriot ownership, in return for Greek lands in the north, including in Karpasia, being transferred to Turkish Cypriot title.’

Hope gasped. ‘That’s tantamount to a green light for development.’

‘Exactly,’ said Rania. ‘But to the public, and certainly to the Greek Cypriot Government, who, as you know, are anxious for EU membership, it’s a way of demonstrating rapprochement, compromise, to show they are working for a solution to the Cyprus problem.’

‘And who will gain most from this, if it transpires?’ said Chrisostomedes.

‘Not you,’ said Clay.

Katia giggled.

Dimitriou frowned, stuffed a too-big spoonful of Pavlova into his mouth and chewed.

‘Mohamed Erkan, that’s who,’ said Chrisostomedes, glaring at Clay.

‘It would remove his last real barrier to development of the Karpasia beaches,’ said Rania. ‘My sources tell me that a deal is being discussed right now between Ankara, New York, Brussels and the TRNC Government that would lift UN Environment Programme World Heritage Site status from the Karpasia beaches, if this compromise can be reached. The UN desperately wants a solution to the Cyprus problem, and this is seen as a major step forward towards that goal.’

Hope slumped back in her chair. ‘Shit.’

‘Do you see now why we have made our offer, Doctor Bachmann?’ Chrisostomedes patted her hand. ‘If your station is on Toxeflora Beach, and if it is protected inside a new Agamas National Park, it blocks the deal.’

‘And you can build your resort on Lara Beach,’ said Katia, smiling at Clay.

‘Shut up, Katia,’ barked Dimitriou.

‘And Erkan can’t build his,’ said Katia, clearly enjoying this. ‘Less competition for you.’

Dmitriou glared at Katia, turned to face Hope. ‘Just think,’ he said, ‘a new national park, new world-class research facilities, you at its head. How proud your son will be.’

Hope rocked back as if hit by a punch. She stared at Dimitriou, volts arcing invisibly in the space between them. ‘How dare you–’ she gasped.

Rania sat, head bowed, silent, as if drained of energy. She’d said what she had to say and now it was over.

‘Please, Doctor,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘What the good Minister means is that we are aware of your recent, shall we say,
difficulties
, with regard to your son’s emigration status. He has ensured me that a special dispensation for your son can be made that will allow him to leave Cyprus with you, should you decide to go back to America.’

Hope stared at Chrisostomedes, then back at Dimitriou. ‘Is this true?’

Dimitriou nodded through a mask of Upper House magnanimity.

‘Back to America,’ she mumbled.

Clay could see Hope withering under the combined assault. Rania sat exhausted, lifeless. He’d seen and heard enough. They were running out of time. He stood, dropped his napkin over his untouched dessert. Conversation stopped.

‘Let’s go, Hope,’ he said, pulling out her chair. ‘We have a lot to discuss. You can expect an answer shortly, gentlemen.’

Hope stood and took his arm, leaning into him. She was trembling, gazing down at Rania as if expecting something, a way out, a rescue.

‘Perhaps Ms Moulinbecq would care to join us?’ Clay tried to catch Rania’s eye, but she looked away.

Chrisostomedes rose. ‘I’m afraid she and I also have much to discuss tonight.’

As if on cue Rania looked up at Clay. ‘Yes. Yes, that is correct,’ she said. ‘Perhaps another time, Doctor Greene?’

‘Two days, Doctor Bachmann,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘If we haven’t heard from you, we will be forced to make other arrangements. And I can assure you they will not be nearly as optimal.’

Clay guided Hope across the dining room, the nature of these other arrangements becoming clear to him. ‘Come on, Hope,’ he whispered, ‘we have work to do.’

Spearpoint appeared at the door and glared at Clay – if he hadn’t recognised him before, he did now.

He met them on the dining-room landing, ushered them to the front door, and followed them out. There was no sign of Zdravko. Soon they were at the car. Spearpoint stood back, arms folded, watching them.

Clay helped Hope into the passenger seat, closed her door, then turned and faced Spearpoint, locking his gaze. ‘Touch her, either of you, and you’re dead,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Clay said, getting behind the wheel of the little Corolla. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to your son, I promise.’

Hope said nothing, just stared ahead. She was shivering.

Clay pulled off his jacket, put it around her shoulders and started the engine. Leaving the gate behind, Clay drove about a mile, watching the rear-view mirror. They were not being followed. He turned down a small side road leading away into the forest, found a notch in the trees where the shoulder widened, pulled the car off the road and turned off the engine. They sat in the darkness.

‘Do you have your phone?’ asked Clay.

‘What?’

‘You need to call your friend. In the north.’

‘Now?’

‘That thug who checked us at the door on the way in, he was in Istanbul. He was following Rania.

‘My God.’

‘We’re running out of time, Hope. So, yes. Call him now.’

She pulled her phone from her bag, punched in a number.

‘Ask him: what did the truck look like? The one his friend saw at the water pipe in Karpasia, near the beach.’

The phone engaged. Clay could hear the voice. She asked the question, listened. ‘He asks what you mean,’ Hope said.

‘What kind of truck was it? Was it a dump truck, a van, a tanker?’

Hope spoke, waited. ‘He says a tanker.’

‘Shit.’

‘What is it, Clay?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said, the permutations spinning in his head. ‘It was something Dimitriou said: “It’s happening anyway”. He knows it’s happening, knows the turtles will be gone soon. And when they’re gone, the problems are solved, for everyone.’

‘Bastards.’

‘They’re all positioning themselves for when that day comes. And as far as they’re concerned, the sooner the better.’

Hope stared at him, blank.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Where are you going?’ Her voice was thin, miles away.

Clay opened his door, turned to her. ‘Call your ex. Get him to take your son somewhere safe, out of the country if he can. Do it now. Stay put till I get back.’ Then he stepped out of the car and started through the woods back towards the house.

It didn’t take him long to find the perimeter fence, a three-metre steel picket affair lipped with coils of razor-wire. Every hundred metres or so, a main anchor post shot from the rocky ground, topped by the roaming red eye of a CCTV camera. Clay followed the fence around, downslope first, then along the bottom side of the property, keeping to the trees, moving through the undergrowth, along the sides of boulders and volcanic outcrops. He stopped, looked up at the house cantilevered out over the cliffside on concrete piles anchored into bedrock, the lights glowing in the dining-room windows. Rania was up there somewhere. Zdravko, too.

He started moving again, skirting the perimeter beneath the cliff. There was no fence here, just the near-vertical faces of rock. There were no cameras either, and no guards – not that he could see. He moved along the base of the cliff, looking up into the underside of the house, the steel I-beams clearly visible, the cross-bracing, the concrete foundation grafted onto bedrock, pumped into fractures and faults. He stopped directly beneath what he guessed was the dining room. The rock here was cool, slightly damp, coarse-grained. It was steep, but it was not featureless. A decent climber could do it. Two hands would be good.

He stood a moment, ran his hand over the Beretta’s grip. She was up there. If he went now, could he find her, bring her out safely? He needed time. They all did.

Forty minutes later he was back at the car, having completed the tour of the perimeter. Hope was standing by the side of the car, smoking a cigarette. She threw it to the ground as he approached, crushing it out with her foot. ‘I was starting to worry.’

‘How’s your son?’

‘It took some doing, but my ex has agreed to let Maria take Alexi to Greece. He’ll stay with his grandparents in Thessaloniki, in the countryside. They leave tomorrow. He’s excited about missing school.’ Her voice cracked with relief.

‘Maria?’

‘My ex can’t get away from work. Or so he says. Maria is the only other person I can trust. She needs a break, anyway.’

An hour later they arrived at Hope’s cottage in the hills. The roads were deserted, the island quiet this time of year, empty of tourists. They hadn’t been followed.

Clay stopped the car and switched off the lights. They sat a moment, the weight of all that had happened pushing down on them. The moon had risen, a pale arc that brushed the treetops and roof slates of the house in quivering grey and set black shadows scurrying like intruders through the underbrush. Finally they stepped from the car and started up the path. They had reached the front steps when Hope stopped. The front door was open.

Clay touched Hope on the shoulder, reached for the Beretta, wedged the grip between his knees and pulled back the slide, arming the weapon. ‘Back way,’ he whispered.

She took him by the arm and led him around the side of the house, past a huge, spreading cactus, to the edge of the patio where they’d sat with Koevoet not long ago. In the dim moonlight they could see that the outdoor furniture had been overturned, potted plants upended and smashed, the black soil strewn like bloodstains across the tile.

The house was dark, quiet. The back shutters had been forced, pried from their mounts and tossed into the hedge.

Clay stepped onto the patio, moved towards the doorway. He stopped at the kitchen window; the shutters were still intact; he pressed his ear to the slats, listened, waited. Nothing. Hope was beside him, her face luminescent and pale, carved in fear. He touched her arm with the end of his stump. ‘Stay here,’ he said, and then turned and walked through the doorway.

The house was empty. Crowbar was gone.

Hope lit a lantern, gave it to Clay and lit a second. It was as if a typhoon had raked through the place. Fragments of glass and ceramic lay scattered across the floor, the remnants of every cup and plate. Cupboard doors hung from twisted hinges. The stove looked as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. They picked their way through the shambles to the sitting room. Books and CDs were strewn across the floor. The furniture had been upended. Hope’s bicycle, a nice Italian road model, lay in one corner, the frame bent nearly at right angles, the delicate wheels a tangle of spokes and shattered aluminium rims. She slumped to the floor amidst the chaos, bowed her head.

Clay left her alone and moved through the rest of the house. Each room had received similar treatment, but he found no trace of blood, no sign that Koevoet had been here when it had happened. He went back to the kitchen and searched for the basket in which Hope kept recent newspapers; it was upended near the back door. He righted the kitchen table and chairs, gathered up the newspapers, dumped them onto the table, sat and turned up the lantern. In turn, he opened and smoothed out each paper, stacked them in chronological order. Then he grabbed a pen from the floor and opened up a copy of
The Independent
. An article by Rania was there on page eight; it had come out since she’d disappeared. He started reading, circling words.

Hope came into the room and stood looking over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ she whispered.

‘Every tenth word.’

‘What?’

‘Backwards.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Rania pretended not to know me. Every tenth word, that’s what she said. Didn’t you hear her? That she was sure I only read every tenth word of her articles, that I had it backwards, that I wrote well. She knows the longest thing I’ve ever written was a letter, and that was three lines.’

He focused on the paper.

‘Today, commission, a, north.’ Hope read out the words as he circled them. ‘Until, for, the, soon, problem. It makes no sense.’

Clay started again with the second word, counting out ten, underlining, transposing. ‘The, would, comprehensive, furthermore. There’s nothing there.’

Clay started again at three, boxing words now, the string emerging unintelligible again. Hope turned away, started picking things up from the floor, placing them on the counter. ‘So this is what Chrisostomedes meant by “other arrangements”. The bastard.’

Clay stood, gazed down on the page, distancing himself, literally decimating, looking for a pattern. ‘Do you have any snorkelling gear?’ he said.

Hope stood with her hands on her hips, looking around the room. ‘What?’

‘Mask and fins.’

‘I’m a marine biologist, Clay.’

‘Can you grab a couple of sets? We need to go for a swim.’

Clay was only half aware of Hope leaving the room. Something had emerged. He sat, grabbed the pen and started underlining words.

Hope reappeared carrying a pair of masks.

‘Look at this,’ he said, holding out the paper to her. ‘The underlined stuff.’

She read them out. ‘After, no, some, reaction, government, the, murder, threatening, here, relation, has, Chrisostomedes, falsehoods, writing, into, coerced, being, island, once–’

‘Stop,’ said Clay. Now cut out the first six words, and start backwards from “being”.’

Hope stood looking at the paper. ‘My God.’

‘That’s how they got her to leave Istanbul. They have her relation. Could it be her aunt – Madame Debret? They must be holding her somewhere, using her to coerce Rania into writing what they want – writing falsehoods.’

Clay banged the Beretta down onto the table. Was that how Zdravko had become involved? Having tracked Rania to Cyprus, had he offered his services to Chrisostomedes, realising they had a common goal? Had he been the one who had grabbed Madame Debret in Switzerland, burned down the chalet on Chrisostomedes’ behalf? And then Istanbul, working with Spearpoint. If Zdravko had been watching the hotel, then he would have known Clay was there, too. Why not kill Clay then and there? Had Medved’s people scared him off before he could finish the job?

‘So the stories she’s had published since she disappeared in Istanbul are garbage,’ said Hope. ‘Chrisostomedes’ version of events.’

Clay nodded. ‘And if Rania stops cooperating, or if we try to get her out, they do something bad to her aunt.’

‘Limassol,’ said Hope.

‘What?’

‘That’s where her aunt is. She whispered it to me when we kissed, at the dinner tonight. Just that: “She’s in Limassol”.’

‘And now you, too, Hope. They know about your…’ Clay stopped, swallowed. ‘About your relationship with Rania. That was the other message tonight. Run the enquiry the way they want, or Rania will suffer.’

‘And my son.’ Hope put her hands to her face. She was crying. ‘I can’t, Clay,’ she said. ‘I can’t do what they ask.’ She stood, eyes wide. ‘I have to go to Nicosia.’ She started towards the door.

‘Now?’

‘I have to see my son.’

‘I need your help, Hope. Rania needs you.’

She spun around. Tears fell to the floor. ‘I can’t,’ she gasped.

Clay stepped towards her. ‘Look, Hope. Don’t you see? As long as they think you’re cooperating, you’re safe. So is your son. We’ve got two days to find Rania’s aunt, and get Rania out of there.’

Hope wiped her eyes. ‘What if I just resign from the commission? Let someone else lead the enquiry.’

‘You lose any influence you may have had. Besides, could you live with the consequences?’

Hope hung her head. ‘So I chair the enquiry. If I support Chrisostomedes and that slimeball Dimitriou, I get a new research programme, with nothing to research because the turtles are all gone. And then what? Will Chrisostomedes just let Rania walk free, after what he’s done to her? She’d have it all over the papers in a heartbeat.’ She looked up at him through her tears. ‘And if I don’t support them, the UN and the TRNC make a deal with the government, and Karpasia and Lara are wiped out. Whatever I do, it’s the end for the turtles. And nothing the Commission decides is going to help Rania, or her aunt.’

‘By then it won’t matter anyway,’ said Clay, picking up the handgun. ‘As soon as the enquiry starts, they’re both dead.’