The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

The House of Georgiadis Stamati

Dark clouds covered the moon. Georgiadis drove from the airport to a modest, post-war terraced house in Enfield, located not more than a hundred metres from his beloved school. He parked in the driveway, turned off the ignition and opened the door. He stood staring at the empty house, cold since his wife died three years ago from pneumonia.

With a deep sigh he removed the key from his trouser pocket and opened the main door. 

“Welcome,” he said. “Take your luggage to your room. I will heat dinner.”

Costas went up the familiar worn, blue-carpeted stairs. Nothing had changed, apart from the floral wallpaper that had faded to a shade lighter. An air of sadness hung like a grey shroud over the house.

Five minutes elapsed before Georgiadis shouted, “The food’s hot and on the table.”

Costas entered the spacious dining room and sat down opposite Georgiadis. The furniture consisted of a large oak table with six chairs placed at intervals around it. An aged long-case clock ticked loud in the gloom of a corner. Pictures of rural Cyprus adorned the walls and heavy red velvet curtains covered the windows.

Georgiadis poured two large glasses of red wine. “Not a Cyprus wine. It’s on special offer at Tesco’s.
Six bottles for twenty pounds.”

Costas smiled, thanking God for friendship and food. 

Throughout and after the meal, Georgiadis replenished their glasses from an imitation crystal decanter. He studied his friend’s face. “Is something troubling you? Do you wish to share your thoughts?”

Something in his tone caused Costas to hesitate. Rain battered the window adding to his problem. He waited a long time before answering, “Were you in England when the Turks invaded?” he said quietly.

“Yes, and if I remember, I was teaching. Why do you ask?”

“If you don’t want to answer, it doesn’t matter. It has always puzzled me. Why did you leave Cyprus?”

“My father, God rest his soul, enlisted with EOKA and when the revolt against the British gathered momentum so did the fight against the Turks. Before my mother died, she told me that my father fought only for money. When Cyprus became independent in 1959, both the Greeks and the Turks humiliated my family. Coming to England gave us hope. Here I studied, obtained my degree, taught English to foreign students until my school opened in 1983 and I became headmaster.”

Costas realised his friend expected a response. “Can you imagine the chaos in and around Famagusta during the invasion?”

“No?” snapped Georgiadis. “I lived in England.”

“That’s right. Those who survived the humiliation of the Turks understand. I, like so many, ran away. Many of those who stayed, the old and infirm, perished under a hail of bullets. I can assure you the temptation for a Turkish trooper to loot from abandoned houses was never greater. Let’s face
it, there was no one to stop them.”

Costas gazed at Georgiadis, a man who could memorise the full works of Shakespeare, but not repair a fuse.

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Costas hesitated. “I’ve lived with this for too long.” His eyes focused on his friend and he continued. “During the attack on Famagusta, I hid many precious icons. My dilemma is, did the
invaders find and sell them? Private collectors will buy stolen property.”

A crash of thunder vibrated through the room and both men listened to the rain falling like a raging torrent from overfull gutters and onto the road.

Costas shook his head. “Rain and more rain. Maybe God is trying to tell me something.”

“I understand you need to buy an umbrella. Your problem is you don’t know if they’ve been found, and if they haven’t – how to retrieve them?”

Costas became weary. “Finding out is the first step but how would I recover them.”

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“It’s late and we’ve both drunk too much,” said
Georgiades. “Tomorrow I’ll give thought to your dilemma. I’m going to bed.”

Costas thanked his friend and followed him up the stairs.

At the top, Georgiadis turned. “Goodnight.”

*  *  *

Georgiadis pondered the recovery of lost icons before sleep surrounded him.

On the stroke of nine the next morning, the school day began. Georgiadis sat in his office studying the programme for the following term. They now had over one hundred Greek Cypriot students whose parents wanted them taught in their native language. These same parents paid huge sums to English tutors so their sons and daughters spoke English without a Greek accent.

He opened his file and searched for a name,
Zena Dunn Kyriades.

Zena’s
son Petros joined the school in 1988. A remarkable student in Greek and English. He pressed the digits on the phone and waited. A cheerful voice answered, “Good morning, Jack Dunn – you break, I’ll fix.”

“Good morning, Mr Dunn. This is Georgiadis
Stamati, Headmaster of the Greek Secondary School. I wonder if you can help me. Have you the telephone number of your son, Petros.”

“Of course.
Can I ask why?”

“I understand he may be able to find something for me.”

“Can’t see how. He’s in the property business. Tell you what; are you still at the old school? I’ll tell him you called. Can’t do better than that.”

“You’re most kind, Mr Dunn. Yes, it’s the same number. Thank you for your help.”

“Okay, George, no doubt he’ll contact you when he’s not busy. ’Bye for now.” The line went dead.

The following morning at breakfast, Costas took his knife and sliced the top of his boiled egg.

Georgiadis ate his toast in silence.

“You are distant, my friend,” said Costas.

“Costas, with regard to your missing icons, remember every action has a reaction. Are you prepared to go along that road?”

Costas raised his head. “I want those icons recovered.”

*  *  *

Petros listened to the message on his answering machine and remembered old Georgiadis, his headmaster. He entered the number his stepfather had given him and waited.

“Georgiadis Stamati, Headmaster.”

Without thinking, Petros said, “Good morning, Sir. Petros Kyriades. You spoke to my stepfather yesterday.”

“Hello, Petros, how are you? It’s been a long time.”

“I’m fine, Headmaster.”

“Petros, I’m informed you help people.”

“Headmaster, when I left university, I did a few years in the army before they threw me out. I think you’d better tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I have a friend who has lost something. He knows where it is but recovery is difficult.”

“Headmaster, your use of the English language is perfect. Why are you acting like a London taxi driver and driving around the houses? Tell me what you want?”

“You’re right. In 1974, the Turks invaded Cyprus. During the invasion my friend hid many icons in a secret place and he now wants them recovered.”

Petros chuckled. “Sounds interesting but what’s he willing to pay? The services of my friends start at a quarter to half a million pounds, plus expenses.”

The line went silent.

“The price is far too high.”

“Headmaster, the border is open between northern Cyprus and the south. Maybe the Russian Mafia in Limassol will be cheaper, but can you trust them? You talk to your friend and if he reconsiders, give me a bell. Perhaps we can meet and chat. Unknown faces I can do without.”

Petros returned to his breakfast.

“My old headmaster might have a job for Bear and me.”

”That’s good. Alysa, open your mouth,” said Maria.

Charlie sat at the side of Alysa’ chair, drooling.

“What are you doing, Dog?”

Petros patted Charlie’s head with one hand while pouring another cup of coffee. Finished with the morning paper he tossed it into the bin.

“Charlie eats more of
Alysa’s food than she does,” said Petros.

“No, Alysa, no.”

Alysa screamed, waved her arms, knocking the spoon from Maria’s hand. The bowl of cereal clattered onto the floor. Charlie barked and ate every scrap.

“You’re a naughty girl. Here, hold your bottle.”

Alysa grabbed, laughed and dropped it. Charlie waited for more food.

“Yesterday, you and mama had a long discussion on the phone.
Problems?”

A frown spread across Maria’s face. “We want Alysa christened in Cyprus and I must check my farm.”

Petros nodded, his face not giving anything away. “I have a decision to make.”

“No. Alysa will be christened in Cyprus.”

He shrugged but said nothing.

Chapter Nine

Petros peered out of a lounge window as the incessant wind and rain pounded the upper deck of
Dream Chaser
. Maria and Alysa were out visiting his mother, and Charlie was scrounging food from Andreas’s bistro. Bored, Petros picked up
The Times
and studied the crossword.

The telephone buzzed. “Good morning. Petros Kyriades. How can I help you?”

“Good morning, Petros. Georgiadis. Do you remember our discussion on missing icons?”

Petros didn’t answer straight away. He asked himself, did he need another collection?

“Yes, I remember.”

“Good news, the bishop wants me to reach an agreeable conclusion.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps you underestimate your reputation. I trust you, people trust you. I simply need to agree a price.”

“Headmaster, I never do business on the phone. I’ll come to your school and we’ll discuss the details over a cup of tea or a genuine Cyprus coffee?”

“Today I have a staff meeting.
Tomorrow at eleven?”

“No problem. I’ll be there.”

Petros replaced the receiver. Cyprus, he mused. Alysa’s christening and a collection. What would Maria think? He folded the newspaper and placed it in the wastebasket.

*  *  *

The weather remained bleak, and forsaking his motorbikes Petros chose the comfort of his ancient BMW to visit the Greek school. He parked in the playground, pausing for a moment as he looked at the once familiar scene. It hadn’t changed. He followed a sign which declared in bold black lettering
Headmaster’s Secretary’s Office
.

At his arrival, Mary White stopped typing. “Good morning. Can I help you?” Her mouth opened wide as recognition dawned. “Petros Kyriades.” She smiled. “What on earth are you doing here?”

In one movement, he sat on the corner of her desk. “You remember me. I’m flattered.”

“Of course I do, and so do the many girls whose hearts you broke. Wait.”

“The headmaster’s expecting me.”

She stood. “I’ll let him know you’re here.” On her return she shuffled a mass of papers into a neat stack. “What are you doing these days?”

He let out a sigh. “Property management. I buy and rent. Lucrative and boring. Mind you, my brothel in Mayfair is busy.”

From behind came a gruff voice. “Petros Kyriades, don’t tell lies.”

“Ah, Headmaster. Did you detect Miss White’s brown eyes sparkle when I mentioned a brothel?”

“Tut tut.
Come, Petros.”

Petros winked at Miss White, leaving her with a scarlet face. Still grinning, he closed the door to the headmaster’s office, grabbed a chair and sat down.

Georgiadis opened a file in front of him, studied it, closed it, and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve been informed you’re the best in the business, so I won’t stall. Will you recover the bishop’s icons?”

Petros hesitated before answering. “It depends on many factors. Until I check them out I can’t honestly say yes or no. If nothing else, the cost might be excessive, but my terms are not open to discussion.”

Georgiadis grimaced. “Petros, as I’ve told you, we don’t have that much money.”

Petros gave him a stiff smile. “These icons, what are they worth on the open market?”

He shook his head. “A few are worth a hundred thousand or more. The bishop told me that at least a dozen date back to the sixth century and are priceless. One is believed to contain a fragment of the cross, and according to legend has enabled the blind to see and the lame to walk.”

Petros brushed his blond hair from his eyes. “The price is six icons of my choosing when I recover them.”

“Two.”

Petros considered Georgiadis a brilliant teacher and scholar. Someone who had lived in England for almost forty years, his English faultless. Bookshelves filled with the Greek classics climbed to the ceiling behind him.

He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a piece of paper and pushed it across the desk. “Headmaster, you taught me well and I’ve done my homework. The deal is four icons of my choosing. Sign and be thankful I’m an honest man. My partner will make the final decision.”

Georgiadis pulled the sheet of paper towards him, read it and signed.

“Headmaster, please ask Miss White to witness your signature and make two copies.
One each for you and the bishop. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll withdraw. One week, Headmaster, and I move on. Have the bishop e-mail me his acceptance. When I receive it I’ll begin to put together a plan.”

Georgiadis stood and held out his hand.

Petros grabbed and held it for a moment. “If my partner agrees, the bishop will have his icons.”

“That I know, Petros. You are a man of your word.”

***

Petros’s
BMW glided through the traffic. “Global bloody warming! It’s freezing,” he said to an empty car. He shivered and turned the car heater to full. The clouds tumbling across the sky changed from an insipid white to black. It threatened, and then spewed out its unwelcome load, drenching trees, roads and pavements. The driving rain made the journey a nightmare. The windscreen wipers did little and he slowed to a crawl. In front of him a car slid out of control, spinning towards him. The impact when metal hit metal made him grip the wheel. He sighed when the airbag did not inflate.

“Shit.”

A middle-aged woman climbed out of her car holding an umbrella, and peered through his window. “Are you all right?”

Petros controlled his temper, jumped out and inspected the damage. Other than a small dent, the damage appeared minor. He opened his jacket and from the inside pocket withdrew his wallet. From this, he took a card.

“My name, address and insurance details, Miss? Would you mind giving me yours, please?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She rummaged in her bag, withdrew a biro and on a till receipt wrote down her particulars.

Petros took the soggy piece of paper from her and read it.

“Thanks. Get back into your car. I’ll reverse and give you plenty of room.”

“You’re very kind,” she said, walking away.

Petros reversed and she did the same. The traffic had backed up and impatient drivers sounded their horns, the relentless noise filling the air.

He waited until she drove away, then started the engine and continued his journey.

Something didn’t feel right. An air of foreboding lingered in his mind. He needed to talk this collection through with Bear. Yes, it had problems, but in reality it posed less demands than
many of the others they had undertaken. He pressed the auto tuner and City Radio blasted out hits from the sixties.

The rain was easing to a steady drizzle. Tower Bridge came into view and he turned his BMW into the hotel underground car park. The grey light of day greeted him when he emerged and he wandered over to the river’s edge. Leaning on the rail he stared unthinking at the water flowing by, its black depths uninviting.

Petros trudged back to
Dream Chaser
. Charlie jumped from the flying bridge and ran at full tilt to meet him. Petros rubbed his wet coat. “Come on, Dog, let’s go inside and get you warm. This weather’s not good.”

They stopped for a moment while he operated the security system. Charlie shook himself, covering the deck with icy droplets before entering the lounge. He walked in a circle, found his basket, barked once and settled into it with a contented grunt.

Petros picked up his mobile. “Maria, where are you?”

“Kings Cross.
Should be home in half an hour. Can you turn on the hot water heater? Alysa will need a bath.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

Next, he contacted Bear and arranged a meeting for nine the next morning.

*  *  *

Out of an ingrained habit Bear arrived on time. The BBC World Service nine o’clock news started just as his feet hit the deck of
Dream Chaser
. Charlie leapt up and ran to the door, barking. Bear stroked the dog’s head fondly.

“Coffee?” asked Petros.

“Large and black please. Where’s Maria?”

“Dressing a naughty girl.
Alysa decided breakfast tasted better squashed to a mush in her hands. Have a heavy night?”

“Yes.”

Petros passed Bear his coffee and settled onto the couch. He began by repeating the information given to him by his old headmaster.

“What’s the info on these icons?”

“A bishop, who lives in Paphos, hid them from the invading Turkish army in 1974 in a church cellar. The problem is the church is in Varosha, to the south of Famagusta.”

Bear shook his head.
“Sounds a dream job. In and out. No problem.”

“I wish that were true. For your information, anyone the Turkish army finds in
Varosha without the proper authority is liable to be shot on sight. Another thing, are these icons still there? How do we retrieve them when the Turkish side of the green line is littered with mines?”

Bear smiled wryly. “Okay, so it has problems. With a bit of thought we can do this.”

“The price will be four icons. On the open market or at auction their sale would cover our expenses and realise a healthy profit.”

“For the moment forget the money, PK. I doubt the Turks would allow us to walk across the border with these pictures of Christ. Without any doubt whatsoever, this job needs a good recon.

“Agreed.”

“Now, Mama and Maria want Alysa christened in her aunt’s village, so we might be able to kill two birds with one stone.”

Bear stroked his chin for a few seconds. “So, we have a possible collection and a christening. What’s the problem?”

“It would be a grave mistake to underestimate the opposition.”

“Shit, I’m late,” said Bear, glancing at his watch and leaping up. “We need to discuss this job in detail.” He grabbed his overcoat and pulled it on, his arms hitting the deckhead as he did so. “Let me know the date of the christening. I’ll need plenty of warning so Jocelyn can book her holiday.”

Petros nodded thoughtfully. “The impossible we can do, but miracles take longer. I’ll start a feasibility study tomorrow. Mind your steps on the gang-plank. It gets slippery when it’s wet.”

Bear waved while he crossed the walkway.

*  *  *

Petros sat all day in the London Library at 14 St James’s Square, and embarked on conscientious research. Here and at his own pace, he invariably completed his fact-finding before undertaking a collection. The range of information to hand was impressive. It went back to before the invasion but stopped after 1974. On the table in front of him lay scattered several large-scale maps of Famagusta and the surrounding areas. He directed his attention to the pre-1974 maps. One reference book,
Famagusta Town and District
, gave him a pictorial map of which he made several copies. The next two hours elapsed as he studied more books and maps. All useful information he downloaded or copied. Satisfied, he packed everything into his briefcase and left.

Returning to
Dream Chaser
that afternoon, he at once contacted Bear.

In less than fifteen minutes the bulky frame of Bear sat opposite him. The procedure of planning a collection had begun.