Evolution of Fear (12 page)

‘One of Nikos Chrisostomedes’ companies,’ said Rania, flipping open her notebook.

‘Exactly. Whose land do you think they built the Alassou Resort on, last year, near Polis? Look into the records and you will find it was Turkish land, appropriated after the war. Illegally, I stress. Chrisostomedes bribed several government ministers to get approval to build inside a national park, to waive the Turkish-owned land titles.’

Clay had driven past the place several times on his way to the Agamas peninsula, Greek Cyprus’s rugged last frontier, its mountains and steep coastlines gradually being whittled away by development.

‘Do you have proof of this?’ said Rania.

‘My own eyes.’

Rania glanced over at Clay, waiting for Erkan to continue.

‘In July of 1990, Christos Dimitriou, then Minister of Tourism and Development, received 250,000 euros, paid to an offshore account. In return, he approved the Alassou development the following month.’

Erkan picked up the teapot, offered Rania some. She nodded.

‘In the past there has been, how shall I say, some measure of crossborder cooperation in business,’ he said, pouring her a cup, one for himself. ‘I myself made the transfer to the Minister’s account, Mademoiselle. In return I received an interest in one of Chrisostomedes’ ventures.’ Erkan paused for effect, sipping his tea.

‘
Mon dieu
,’ breathed Rania.

‘Come now, young lady,’ smiled Erkan. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Business knows no boundaries. Chrisostomedes and I have done several unofficial deals together in the past. But that is all over now.’

Rania scribbled in her book. ‘What has changed, Monsieur Erkan?’

‘Neo-Enosis. That is what has changed. A group dedicated to the re-establishment of Greek dominion over the entire island, by any means possible. Chrisostomedes is one of the leaders of this new movement – or should I call it a revival.’

Enosis. Union with Greece. Clay had heard it discussed many
times when he was living in Cyprus. In 1974, the Turkish Government had used it as the pretext for invasion, invoking its duty to protect the Turkish-Cypriot minority.

Erkan continued. ‘Chrisostomedes, garbed in his newfound Hellenic purity, wants to erase any evidence of past cooperation. In short, Mademoiselle, he wants me dead.’ Erkan waved over his shoulder towards his bodyguards. ‘Hence, these.’

Clay regarded the pair, a complete mismatch. Hum tall and brawny, dull-eyed, Ho squat, all hips, but with a delicate, smallboned, almost girlishly pretty face.

‘Can you provide me with proof of this, Monsieur Erkan?’ said Rania.

Erkan closed his eyes a moment, bowed his head. When he looked up again there were tears in his eyes. ‘Other than the murder of my son, the disfigurement of my lovely wife?’

Rania reached across the table, touched Erkan’s hand. ‘I am very sorry, Monsieur Erkan.’ Clay knew she meant it.

Erkan blinked hard and looked away, out to sea.

‘Were the perpetrators found, tried?’ Rania asked.

Erkan raised his chin and tutted. No.

‘This is a story that needs to be told, Monsieur Erkan. And I can tell it.’

Erkan poured himself another raki and downed it in one go. Then he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, produced a business card and set it on the table. ‘Come to my office tonight,’ he said, composure regained. ‘I can show you documentary evidence: contracts, correspondence, bank transfer statements. All the proof you need.’

Rania took the card and pressed it into her notebook. ‘Thank you. I will.’

Erkan tried a smile, if you could call that flex of his facial muscles a smile.

‘And one last thing, Mademoiselle. Chrisostomedes is not alone in this. It has been the same story for centuries. The Greeks camouflage
their own greed by blaming the Turk. Chrisostomedes and Neo- Enosis are trying to divert attention away from their illegal activities by garbing themselves as conservationists and accusing us of exactly the crime they themselves are perpetrating.’ Erkan stood, bowed to Rania and motioned to the waiter. The interview was over.

‘One last question,’ said Clay. ‘If I may?’

Erkan nodded.

‘Why now, Mister Erkan? Why keep this to yourself all this time and reveal it now?’

Erkan took in a lungful of smoke, poured it back out, looked at Rania. ‘I am trying to help you, Mademoiselle. The truth. It’s what we all seek, no?’

Clay looked out over the channel. The truth. That most elastic of properties, so easily deformed, but so hard to break.

‘Now, please allow me to offer you my car and driver to take you back to your hotel.’ Erkan handed Rania another card. ‘If you contact my driver this evening, he will collect you and bring you to my office.’

Erkan led them out across the lawn to the drive. A big silver Mercedes 500SL rolled slowly towards them, wheels crunching over the white quartz gravel. The uniformed chauffer got out and opened the back door.

‘Oh, and Mademoiselle Moulinbecq,’ said Erkan. ‘One more thing. Tonight, now that I am no longer a stranger, please come alone.’ Erkan frowned at Clay, tugged at the cuffs of his suit. ‘Then write your story and go home. Cyprus is a dangerous place these days. I would stay away from it if I were you.’

‘Strange advice,’ said Clay, ‘coming from the owner of a tourism company.’

Erkan looked at Clay and smiled, that same forced smile he’d met them with. ‘And as for you, Mister
Greene
,’ he said in Turkish. ‘Fuck off.’

Clay settled into the soft leather seat beside Rania, letting the chauffer close the door behind him. Rania took his hand, said nothing. The chauffeur walked around to the driver’s door, got in and started the engine. The door locks engaged and the car started forward. Erkan stood on his manicured lawn and watched them go. When the car turned out of the gate he was still standing there, rooted to the same spot, staring.

‘The Four Seasons Hotel in Sultanahmet,’ Clay said to the driver.

‘Please,’ said Rania.

The Four Seasons was a long way from their hotel, on the other side of the Bosphorus, in the Golden Horn, the heart of the city’s busy tourist district. A good place to disappear.

The Bosphorus slipped past in silence as they shunted towards the Golden Horn. It wasn’t until they were just past the Boğaziçi Bridge, the big suspension bridge that links Asia with Europe, that Rania spoke.

‘Why did you not call?’ she said.

Clay thought about this a moment, wondered why she was broaching this now. ‘I did.’

‘Three months.’

‘Fifty-nine days.’ Each day forever.

‘It was too long,’ she said. ‘Too much has happened.’

As usual she was thinking eight steps ahead, all this they were doing now already processed. Clay said nothing, looked into the rear-view mirror. The chauffeur was watching them, talking into a hands-free pickup clipped to his chest, a bud in his ear. Clay
had been wary about getting into Erkan’s car in the first place, but had figured that no matter what their means of conveyance, Erkan would be watching. This was simply the most convenient arrangement for everyone. Clay glared into the mirror and the chauffeur looked away.

After a while Rania said: ‘Are you not going to say anything?’

He’d only half heard. The driver moved the Merc into the right lane, signalled. ‘Too much for what?’ he said, scanning the road signs.

She was looking away, out of the side window. ‘Too much for us.’

The driver slowed the Merc and turned inland towards the Beşiktaş tunnel.

Clay leaned forward, Rania’s words only half registering. ‘The coast road is the fastest way to the Golden Horn,’ he said to the chauffeur. ‘Over the Galata Bridge.’

The chauffeur either didn’t understand or pretended not to hear, completed the turn and accelerated inland. Rania glanced over at Clay. She’d noticed too.

‘We’re going to Sultanahmet,’ said Clay. ‘You’re going the wrong way.’

‘I take you other route,’ said the chauffeur in thickly accented English. ‘This time of day, quicker.’

‘I doubt that,’ said Rania. She turned to Clay, lowered her voice. ‘It means tracking all the way up to the Haliç Bridge and then back down.’

‘Yes. Faster,’ said the chauffeur.

A little punch of adrenaline hit Clay low down, in his knees and quads. The car sped on. Wherever this
oke
was taking them, he was pretty sure it wasn’t the Four Seasons. He looked over at Rania. She was thinking the same. He could see it in her eyes.

The Mercedes sped through the tunnel then turned west onto the expressway, still heading in the wrong direction.

Rania looked at him a moment, raised her eyebrows, then unrolled her burqa and threaded it over her head, adjusting the black veil down over her eyes.

The chauffeur guided the Merc onto a slip road and left the expressway. They were moving north now on a main thoroughfare, in exactly the wrong direction, kilometres from where they should be. The pavements were crowded with shoppers. The car slowed in the building traffic. Up ahead, Clay could see the congestion from what looked like a bus station spilling out into the road, a grinding mass of honking steel and glass.

Clay took Rania’s hand.
he said in Arabic. Get ready.

She nodded. The movement was almost imperceptible, more an exhalation. She reached into her purse, withdrew a small pair of hard-soled slippers and without changing the posture of her upper body replaced her heels with them. The car ground to a halt. Traffic piled in behind, locking them into a lattice of smoking Toyotas, Fords and Opels – moving, but only just.

Clay grabbed the door handle, looked up into the rear-view mirror. ‘Thank you,’ he said to the chauffeur. ‘I think we’ll just walk from here.’

‘It is still far from the hotel,’ said the chauffeur.

‘We don’t mind. It’s a nice day.’

The car was at a standstill now. Clay pushed the door lock release button. Nothing. The master was engaged.

‘This traffic not much,’ said the chauffeur. ‘Clearing soon.’ He looked worried.

‘Unlock the doors. Now.’

The chauffeur inched the car forward as a space opened up. Clay tried the window button. Nothing. Locked, too.

‘Did you hear me?’ Clay said, raising his voice a notch. ‘I said let us out.’

The driver said nothing, just stared motionless at the traffic. An electric motor whirred inside the car. A glass panel emerged from the ridge of the front seat bench, closing them in.

It wasn’t a conscious response. No analysis flashed through his brain. His limbs simply moved, vaulting him forward into the remaining gap. His back caromed off the roof, pitching him
face-down into the front passenger seat. At the last instant he rolled right, crashing shoulder first into the front footwell, pulling his feet free of the rising partition. The chauffeur stared at him, surprise bulging his eyes. Rania was pounding her fists on the glass. Clay could see her mouth moving, her voice muffled by the heavy, bullet-proof polycarbonate. The chauffeur glanced back at her, blinked, reached a hand down beside his seat, started pulling out a handgun. It was small, black, some sort of .22. Clay twisted his shoulders and hips, pulled back his right knee almost to his face and let go a kick.

Clay’s boot made contact with the chauffeur’s head just as he fired. The detonation exploded like a pipe bomb in the enclosed space, the bullet ricocheting from the windscreen and off the partition before embedding itself in the door upholstery inches from Clay’s head. The chauffeur’s head snapped back instantaneously, slamming into the side-window glass. Rania was hammering on the glass partition. The car started to roll forward, the chauffeur limp and motionless in his seat, his foot no longer applying pressure to the brake pedal. As Clay scrambled to right himself the car crunched into the vehicle in front and lurched to a stop. Car horns blared. He reached over the chauffeur’s body and hit the door lock switch. As he did, the man gasped. He was still alive. Thank God. Truly.

Rania was already out of the car and moving away through the gridlock. He thought of trying to find the gun, but decided time was more important. He opened the car door, stepped out into the sea of stranded, exhaling vehicles and started after Rania.

It was mid-afternoon by the time they returned to the Pera Palas hotel, weaving and backtracking their way through the labyrinth of the city before finally reaching Tepebaşi and the hotel.

Rania flung her burqa onto the bed, picked up the phone and ordered up some tea.

Clay walked to the balcony, opened the doors and looked out
over the city, the cradled intersection of Europe and Asia sparkling gas-flame blue and gold through a veil of smog.

Clay turned his back on the city, leaning against the railing. ‘Erkan is protecting himself.’

‘Protecting someone,’ said Rania.

Clay nodded. ‘I had assumed it was against reprisal from Chrisostomedes. But the timing’s wrong. His wife and son were attacked three years ago, you said. That’s when Erkan and Chrisostomedes were doing deals together – mutually beneficial deals.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Rania, thinking this over. ‘But you heard what he said. Neo-Enosis has changed everything. If they weren’t enemies before, they certainly are now.’

‘You know who Erkan’s buying for, don’t you?’

‘He has many buyers.’

‘Regina Medved among them. She is scouring the region for the Patmos Illumination. She thinks it’ll cure her.’

Rania sat at the desk, pulled out her notebook and started writing.

‘We’ve got to leave, Rania. We’re not safe.’

‘Not now, Clay,’ she said.

Clay watched her work, the sun angling into the room, refracting off the window glass, through the cut crystal of the old chandelier, the light that seemed to drip from her hair onto her arms, her fine-boned hand working the pen in fluid loops, sending snowflakes of light spinning about the room. He stood behind her, put his hand on her shoulder. ‘We have to disappear.’

‘I need to file this story,’ she said, not looking up from her work.

‘I thought you agreed to keep the interview off the record.’

‘I will.’ She kept writing.

‘Okay. File it. We’ll leave tonight.’

Rania put down her pen. ‘It will be filed once I have looked at those documents, and not before.’

Clay took a deep breath, not quite believing what he’d just heard. ‘You’re actually thinking of going back there, after what just happened?’

Rania didn’t answer.

‘If I hadn’t – Jesus, Rania. God knows where he would have taken us, what they would have done to us.’

‘You go, Claymore,’ she said, not looking up. ‘I can look after myself.’

He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her around in the chair so that she was facing him, crouched down and looked into her eyes. ‘That thing you said in the car,’ he whispered. ‘That it was too much for us.’

She stared back at him as if from some faraway place. ‘I thought–’ she stopped. ‘It was. It
is
.’

‘Is that why you’re telling me to go, sending me away?’

‘Me? Sending you away?’ She laughed, cold. ‘Oh, Claymore,
chéri
. You were never here.’

He was quiet for a long time, staring into her eyes, considering this truth. ‘Maybe if we’d met thirteen years ago,’ he said finally. ‘Before.’

Surprise in the widening of her eyes. ‘Maybe what?’

‘Maybe I could have loved you.’ He’d never come close to saying anything like that before. The words stung leaving him.

She sat looking back at him, very quiet. ‘Could have?’ she managed after a while, a croak. Hurt boiled in her eyes.

‘That part of me…’ He looked out the window. He didn’t know how to say it. That it had died a long time ago, out in that little village in Angola, in that C-130 over the Atlantic, shovelling those poor bastards into the void, that maybe it had never been there at all, that he’d been born without it, whatever it was, that place in the cerebrum where those things happened, where those chemicals were produced, or just that it was stunted too early, atrophied to scar tissue before it had ever had the chance to grow. ‘It’s gone, Rania.’