Evolution of Fear (22 page)

It was a long way out.

They rose early, before the sun. Clay kicked out the fire he’d kept burning all night to warm Crowbar, wedged himself under the big man’s shoulder, helped him up and started walking.

By the time they reached the old mining road the sun was over the mountains and the cold was gone. They walked through a stand of gnarled pines, the trees here tall, wide at the base, somehow protected from centuries of cutting. A gust of wind blew down through the valley and Clay could hear the sound of it in the treetops. He stopped, steadied himself against Crowbar’s weight and looked up. High above, the crowns of the pines swayed like mourners in the wind and the charred black trunks groaned and creaked and the air was filled with the smell of burning and pine sap as shadow branches danced on their upturned faces and over the dry haematite gravel under their boots. They kept going.

After a while, Crowbar pulled up and sat on the bench of dirt on the upslope side of the old mining track. He was breathing heavily. ‘This turtle woman,’ he asked pulling out his water bottle and taking three gulps. ‘She married?’

‘Divorced.’

Crowbar grunted and handed Clay the bottle. ‘Kids?’

‘A boy.’ Clay drank.

‘It didn’t seem like much, that place we wrecked.’

‘Her life’s work.’

Crowbar sat there with the pine shadow moving over him, the sun streaming between the patches of grey coolness, his hand pushed down on the compress, his fingers red with the blood. After a couple
of minutes he looked up at Clay and said: ‘I needed to do that job to get Medved’s trust. That’s why I did it.’

Clay said nothing.

‘Didn’t seem like much.’

It never does. ‘Shut up and walk,
oom
.’

It took them another hour to climb the back ridge that led to the western approach, the two of them bumping along like some semi-articulated vehicle, the sun hot now in a clear sky. The Pajero was still another two hours away.

When they reached the ridge line, Crowbar sat on a spur of rock and looked out across the next valley. ‘Not much of a life, is it?’

Clay said nothing.

‘This business we do.’

‘Not, we, Koevoet.’

‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Never leaves you.’

This was a conversation Clay did not want to have. ‘Let’s
ontrek
.’

Crowbar didn’t move, just sat gazing out over the deep green of the cedars, the browned oxides of barren ridges and rock slides, the silver clumps of oak. ‘No life for a family,’ he said.

Clay laced his good arm under his friend’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. ‘There is always a choice,’ he said.

Crowbar grunted as he got to his feet. ‘We’re doing a job in Angola right now. Fighting UNITA, if you can believe it. Helping the now-legitimate government of Angola, same bastards we spent ten years fighting.’

Clay shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ UNITA, supposedly their allies during the war, had turned out to be the worst of the lot.

‘I’m going there when this is done,’ said Crowbar. ‘You should join us. Get some payback.’

‘Shut up and walk,
oom
.’

They made the Pajero just as the sun reached its zenith, Crowbar sweating and cursing his way over the last kilometre as a few of the stitches Clay had put in broke open.

It was nearly dark when they rolled up to Hope’s place. Clay helped Crowbar from the car to Hope’s front door. She greeted them in an elegant, high-necked, knee-length turquoise dress that set off her eyes. Her hair was up and a pair of silver filigree earrings shone at her neck. Her smile turned to a frown at the sight of Crowbar’s blood-stained midriff.

‘My God,’ she said, holding the door. ‘Bring him here, lie him down.’ She led them through to a spare bedroom just off the main hallway. ‘What happened?’

‘It wasn’t Rania,’ grunted Crowbar.

‘Your friend has a penchant for the obvious,’ Hope said to Clay. ‘Is he alright?’

‘The bullet grazed him, went right through. He’s lost blood.’

‘What can I do?’

‘Do you know a good doctor? One who won’t ask questions?’ asked Clay, lying Crowbar on the bed. ‘Hot water would be good. Towels. Maybe some food.’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll call the doctor now.’ Hope disappeared into the other room.

‘Straker.’ Crowbar reached out for him.

‘I’m here,
oom
.’

‘She’s
lekker, ja
?’

Clay tried a smile and failed.

‘Beautiful,’ Crowbar grunted. ‘Smart, too.’

‘Rest,
oom
.’

Hope was standing at the stove, barefoot in her dress, stirring a pot of something. The kettle was on, already steaming. She looked up when Clay entered. Her eye makeup was ruined. She’d been crying. ‘You both look like hell,’ she said.

‘Crowbar just said the opposite about you.’

A hint of a smile creased the edges of her mouth. ‘I’m going to Chrisostomedes’ dinner tonight. I was just about to leave.’

Clay took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water from the tap, drank it down then filled it again.

‘So it wasn’t Rania,’ she said.

‘No.’

‘And we’re no further ahead.’

‘No. Maybe worse.’ Zdravko’s words did circuits in his head.

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. I’ll explain later.’

Hope frowned. ‘The doctor will be here in half an hour. He’s an old dear from the village. I’ve known him for years. Don’t worry, he won’t say a word.’

‘Thanks.’

Hope turned off the gas, poured soup into an earthenware bowl and produced a spoon from a drawer. She placed the bowl and the spoon on the table. Then she reached for the kettle.

‘Sit’ she said. ‘Eat. I’ll look after your friend.’

‘Crowbar.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why don’t you say it? Crowbar.’

‘What kind of name is that for a grown man? What’s his real name?’

‘No one uses it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the few who’ve tried have ended up in hospital.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Marie-Claude. Marie-Claude Van Boxmeer. His family were Huguenots, on his mother’s side.’

She looked out the window a moment then turned back to face him. ‘Why did he destroy my station, Clay?’

‘To get close to Medved.’

She stood tall, wiped her eyes.

‘He did it for Rania, Hope.’ He did it for you. I know you can’t see that right now, but it’s true. He did it for me. He did it because that’s who he is. Clay wanted her to understand this, to know what he knew, to know that as a young NCO, Crowbar had taken part in one of the first deep recon patrols inside Angola, and when the other two members of his unit had been badly wounded, he’d stayed
with them, held off repeated enemy attacks until a rescue force could reach them. They counted twenty-three enemy dead scattered around his position. For it, he was given a battlefield commission and the Honoris Crux, the South African equivalent of the Victoria Cross, for bravery under fire. A stain now, yes, but an honour back then. Clay wanted her to know that Crowbar was the bravest, most honourable man he knew. And he wanted her to know that, when it had mattered, back there at the cottage in Cornwall, Clay had believed his friend capable of betrayal. But he didn’t say any of it.

‘Thank you,’ she said, walking towards the doorway.

Clay said nothing.

Hope turned, faced him. ‘Come with me tonight, Clay. Please.’

Clay looked down at his torn and bloody clothes.

‘Drive into Paphos,’ she said. ‘It’s close. The shops are open till seven. You have plenty of time.’

‘I should stay with Koevoet.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after him.’ Hope looked down at her feet, up into his eyes. ‘Please, Clay. I need you with me.’ Fear swam in her eyes.

‘What happened?’

‘My friend from the north, the one who was with us that night in Karpasia, he contacted me this morning, after you left. He told me that the two men you pulled from the fire were taken to hospital in Nicosia. He visited them yesterday. They seemed to be doing well, he said.’

Clay listened.

‘He said that one of them, a man who has lived in the village since he was a boy, spoke to him. He told my friend that two years ago, in winter, he came across some workmen digging what he said was a long trench in the beach, above the tide line. They were laying some sort of cable, or pipe, he didn’t see which.’

‘The cable I snagged with the anchor that night?’ said Clay.

‘I don’t know. It could have been. My friend said that when he approached the workmen, they told him to go away, that it was
government business, a new telephone line for the area. He went back a few weeks later, but all trace of the trench was gone. He walked along the beach for miles, but found nothing. Then one day, months later, they were there again, the workmen, this time just three of them, in one truck. They weren’t digging this time, he said, just working in one place. After they’d left, he went to the place they were working. All he found was a pipe sticking from the ground and a tap, like a water tap, he said.’

‘It could have been anything.’

Hope frowned. ‘One of the men you saved also told my friend that, since then, there’s been more activity, all of it on Greek land. He says they are preparing to build. He said he knew the families who owned this land before the war, he said what Crown Star was doing was wrong, that it was stealing. That’s why he decided to talk.’

Hope reached out for his hand. ‘This morning, when my friend went back to the hospital, he was told that both men you saved had suffered respiratory failure and died in the night.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘They were murdered, Clay. That’s what he said. To keep them quiet.’

Clay pulled the car keys from his pocket. ‘Still think it was Neo-Enosis?’

Hope shook her head.

‘I’ll be back in an hour. Watch Koevoet for me.’

‘I intend to,’ she said, picking up the kettle and heading for the spare room.

They arrived at the front gate of the Chrisostomedes mansion an hour late. A uniformed guard checked Hope’s name against a list and waved them through. They wound their way up the gravel drive, past the dark trunks of centuries-old pine trees until they emerged onto a broad, gravel parking area.

Hope stopped the car and switched off the engine. ‘How do I look?’ she said.

‘Brave,’ said Clay, straightening his tie in the mirror. The face staring back was almost unrecognisable, bearded, bruised, cut.

She smiled. ‘Got the story straight, Doctor Greene?’

Clay nodded.

They walked across the gravel towards the front entrance. The house was not what Clay had expected. Thick wooden beams swept from native rock foundations, cantilevered between living pine and cedar as tall as any he’d seen on the island. The entrance was tiled in rough slabs of Troodos lava, bordered in lush juniper, the huge, oak door seemingly a single slab of wood, the floor-to-ceiling windows framed in big, square-cut timbers. The lighting was low, intimate. Clay could hear the sound of running water nearby, a rivulet or fountain.

As they neared the door, a man in a dark suit approached them. Six foot, broad shoulders, he emerged from the shadows. Pale eyes, flattened nose, a pronounced widow’s peak of dark hair. Clay’s heart thudded, jumped.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Clay muttered under his breath.

‘What’s wrong?’ whispered Hope, taking his hand.

‘An old friend.’

Spearpoint checked Hope’s purse, ran his gaze across her dress, and, satisfied nothing dangerous could be concealed there, turned to Clay.

‘
Parakalo
,’ he said in Greek. Please. Distinctive Cypriot accent.

Clay raised his arms, tensed.

Spearpoint ran his hands up along Clay’s back, inside his jacket, along his waist. Then he crouched, frisked Clay’s legs down to his ankles. Clay took a breath, another. One knee to the head and the guy would be down for a while. The last time he’d seen Spearpoint, he’d been chasing him through the streets of Istanbul. Now he was here, apparently running private security for Chrisostomedes.

Coincidences happen. Those apparently random, acausal connections that leave us shaking our heads in wonder. They happen all the time. Aristotle knew this. It is part of probability that many improbable things will happen, he wrote. But this was not a coincidence. Spearpoint stood, nodded, led them inside. Either he hadn’t recognised Clay, or he was pretending he hadn’t. Either way, this dinner party had just become a lot more dangerous.

They came into a broad entranceway, all stone and rough-cut wood. A wide, timber-plank staircase arched its way up to a mezzanine that stared down at them from three sides. Everywhere, indirect lighting glowed from nooks and recesses in the walls. A maid ushered them into the dining room. A massive oak table was set for five. Candles flickered, silver sparkled. Hope took Clay’s left arm, laid her hand on his stump. They stepped down onto the lower-level pinewood floor, over the biggest Persian carpet Clay had ever seen, a weave wrought of tiny, delicate hands, here again the lighting low, intimate. There was that feeling that on other nights the table and carpet might be swept aside to create a ballroom where elegant guests would twirl and shimmer under crystal lights. On the far wall, dozens of gilded, metalled illuminations, individually lit, threw brass light glancing across the room. They walked to the massive picture windows, cupped their hands to the glass to beat the reflection and
gazed out over the dark, undulating sweep of the mountains, the grey rumple of the foothills beyond, the shimmering lights of the coast. This was what money could do.

‘Welcome, Doctor Bachmann.’ Nicos Chrisostomedes stood on the upper landing and looked down at them across the gulf of the dance floor, the archipelago of dinner table and chairs. He wore a dark, double-breasted suit, an open-collared white shirt. His face was lean, cragged, cut hard like hammered metal. Unlike so many Cypriot businessmen he looked fit, as if he had time for exercise and used it. He was fifty, Clay guessed, looked forty. ‘I see you have brought a friend.’

Hope smiled, twirled her hair in her fingers like a schoolgirl. ‘This is Doctor Greene, a colleague. I hope you don’t mind.’

Chrisostomedes joined them at the windows, kissed Hope on the cheek and shook Clay’s hand. ‘A colleague,’ he said, looking Clay straight in the eyes. ‘And with which institution are you affiliated, Doctor Greene, if I may ask?’

Clay held Chrisostomedes’ stare. ‘I am an independent consultant, actually.’

‘And what is your field of specialisation, Doctor Greene. Turtles as well?’ He glanced at Hope.

‘Hydrology,’ said Clay.

‘I see. Yes. Water and turtles.’

Clay said nothing, kept his gaze flat, unwavering.

‘And do I detect a South African accent?’ Chrisostomedes continued, unfazed by Clay’s stare back. ‘Rhodesian perhaps?’

‘Right the first time.’

‘Of course.’ Chrisostomedes ran his gaze over the cuts and scars on Clay’s face, his empty left sleeve. He did it slowly, with deliberation, so Clay would know. ‘A dangerous business, hydrology.’

‘Car accident,’ said Clay.

Chrisostomedes nodded as if he didn’t believe a word. ‘There have been some big changes in your country recently, have there not?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Clay. This guy was already starting to grate on him.

Chrisostomedes blinked once, turned away and snapped his fingers. A uniformed Philippina maid appeared. ‘One more place setting,’ he barked.

The maid scurried away.

‘Beautiful,’ said Hope, looking towards the far wall.

‘Illuminations from across Christendom, since the earliest stages of the form,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘May I offer you something to drink? Champagne, perhaps?’

A couple appeared on the elevated landing, a squat, overweight Cypriot in a dark-blue suit and claret tie, and a six-foot redhead in a gold-sequined mini-dress sprayed onto a porno-queen figure. They stood a moment, the woman tottering in impossibly high heels, the man blinking as if considering the mechanics of descending the three broad steps to the main level.

‘Dimitriou,’ Chrisostomedes called out. Big smiles from all. ‘Come and meet our guests, Doctors.’

Introductions were made. Champagne came. The girl’s name was Katia. Small talk cluttered the room. Weather. The beautiful house. The view in daytime.

‘Please everyone,’ said Chrisostomedes, ‘be seated. Our last guest is running a bit late and has asked us not to wait. Dinner is served.’

Chrisostomedes sat at the head of the table. Hope was placed to his left, across from an empty place presumably reserved for the tardy guest. Dimitriou was seated next to Hope, facing the redhead. An extra place was set for Clay next to the redhead and her impossible to ignore, artificial décolletage. The housemaid brought in the first course – lobster bisque – and poured wine for all.

Chrisostomedes raised his glass. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for gracing us with your presence. I would like to welcome you, and offer a special toast to Doctor Bachmann and her great work here on our island.’

Hope glanced over at Clay. Glasses clinked.

‘
Kalo orexi, bon apetit
. I have the lobsters flown in fresh from Nova Scotia,’ said Chrisostomedes, spooning the hot liquid into his mouth.

The redhead lifted a spoonful to her face, sniffed it once, let the spoon slip back into the bowl.

‘Please tell us about your research, Doctor Bachmann,’ said Chrisostomedes between mouthfuls. ‘For the benefit of our other guests less familiar.’

Hope put down her spoon, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a white linen napkin. ‘We are studying the two threatened species of Mediterranean sea turtle. Cyprus is one of their last nesting strongholds. Basically, we are trying to save them from extinction.’

‘Surely it is not so dramatic as that,’ said Dimitriou, staring at the redhead’s tits.

‘Absolutely it is,’ countered Hope immediately. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but in the last few years their numbers have gone into free-fall. A few more years of this, and they’ll be gone.’ She turned to face Dimitriou. ‘So yes, it is as dramatic as that.’

The Minister swirled the wine in his glass. ‘This may be so, Doctor. But the real question for Cyprus, for its government and people, must be whether this issue makes any material difference to our prosperity, to our economy. Frankly, I do not believe that the majority cares, or is even aware.’ He smiled across the table at his improbable companion. ‘What do you think, Katia?’

The redhead looked at him as if surprised to be invited into the conversation. She glanced around the table, settled her witch-hazel eyes on Clay. ‘Animals have as much right to exist as humans,’ she said in good, slightly accented English. ‘Sometimes, I like animals better than people.’

Clay smiled at her. He guessed Poland, Ukraine perhaps, mid-twenties but she looked older.

‘An emotional response,’ said Dimitriou. ‘Illogical.’

‘Not at all, Minister,’ said Hope. ‘The concept of animal rights, of other species’ unalienable right to exist, is firmly entrenched in modern ethics. We cannot be so arrogant as to assume that we are the only form of life worthy of the right to exist, nor can we be so ignorant as to believe that we can exist without the web of life that supports us.’

‘Noble sentiments, Doctor.’ Chrisostomedes motioned for glasses to be refilled. ‘But here in Cyprus, as long as illegal invaders remain – invaders who have murdered our people, stolen our land – there will be few who will have the inclination to bother with such matters. Conservation is failing here, Doctor, because the Turk has no regard for nature. Examine the history of Ottoman rule, from Iraq to Lebanon, and you will find a story of plunder, waste, devastation and murder.’

Clay looked at him across the length of the table. ‘Have you ever been to Kizildag in Isparta?’ he said.

Chrisostomedes looked up at him. ‘Pardon me, Doctor?’

‘Drop the Doctor,’ said Clay. ‘I said: have you ever been to Kizildag in Isparta?’

Chrisostomedes took a sip of wine, placed the glass on the table, looked down at it as he twirled the stem around on the tablecloth. ‘No,
Mister
Greene, I have not been to Turkey.’

‘A sixty-thousand hectare national park. Some of the best remaining cedar forest in the world. Great hiking.’

Hope beamed at him. So did Katia.

Dimitriou frowned and Katia’s smile disappeared. ‘The point is this,’ he said, clanking his spoon into his empty bowl. ‘Most people are ambivalent at best. But when it becomes a choice between protecting a bunch of reptiles and economic progress, then most reasonable people are going to choose progress. That may sound harsh, but it is the truth.’

Hope hung her head. ‘You know, Minister, ten years ago I would have argued against you until all the wine was gone, and then some. I would have told you that tourists come to a beautiful place to see beautiful things, to swim in clean seas, to see marvellous creatures in their natural habitat, to walk in unspoiled forests. I would have argued, and have on many occasions, that those tourists generate huge revenues, and that unlike oil, or gas, or coal, which you dig out once and then it’s gone, a country’s natural ecosystems are renewable assets that can continue to generate economic benefits as
long as they stay healthy and functioning. But now, I’m not sure anymore.’

‘I’m in that business, Doctor Bachmann,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘And I can tell you that the modern tourist is too exhausted to aspire to anything more than a comfortable bed, sunshine, a pool, a white sandy beach to lie on, and a good meal at the end of the day. The vast majority have no interest in wildlife, particularly if it requires some effort to see. It’s dangerous and messy. And while personally I am very fond of nature, as you can see,’ he moved the blade of his hand from left to right, ‘I am afraid, Doctor, that your newfound cynicism is absolutely warranted.’

Katia drained her glass, put it down. ‘I love hiking,’ she said. ‘And scuba.’

‘Shut up, Katia,’ hissed Dimitriou.

‘Well I do.’

Dimitriou shook his head and waved for more wine.

‘So do I,’ said Clay.

‘I’ve never seen a sea turtle in the wild,’ she continued, bending down to adjust her shoe. ‘But I would love to.’

Dimitriou glared at her. ‘Stupid girl.’

‘Well I would,’ she pouted.

‘It’s unforgettable,’ said Hope. ‘They are beautiful creatures, perfectly evolved over millions of years.’

‘Evolution,’ laughed Chrisostomedes. ‘The Earth and everything in it was created, my dear, by God. Nothing evolved.’

Hope put her spoon down, open-mouthed.

Something bumped Clay’s leg. He moved his hand under the table. It was a foot, bare, surprisingly soft. Katia beamed at him, wiggled her toes. There was a slip of paper between the second and third digits. Clay slid it out and put it into his pocket.

She smiled at him again, turned towards him and leant forward, inviting him to look. She seemed about to speak when Chrisostomedes said: ‘I understand, Doctor Bachmann, that your Lara Beach research station was destroyed recently. Such a shame.’

The table went quiet.

Hope bristled. ‘I would have thought, Mister Chrisostomedes, given our history, that you would have been quite pleased.’

Chrisostomedes looked around the table, smiling at each guest in turn. ‘Not so, Doctor. As I outlined in my letter, I am prepared to fund the reconstruction and continued operation of your facility for the next five years.’

Hope sat still, lips slightly parted, saying nothing. Clay watched her reach for a strand of hair, twirl it between thumb and forefinger. She had known that something like this was on offer, but clearly this was much bigger than she had expected.

‘I…’ she started. ‘I’m stunned. That’s very generous.’

‘All we would require in return would be some flexibility.’

‘The conditions?’ said Hope.

‘But of course. This is business. There has to be something in it for me, otherwise why would I bother?’