The Forty Column Castle (5 page)

Locals frequented this place. It couldn’t be described as upscale. A faint odor of
stale beer collided with the fishy smell from the harbor. The street side was open
and small unmatched tables sat one deep on the sidewalk with a view of Pafos Harbor
on the other side of the street. The water was dotted with small, open fishing boats
at anchor filled with the paraphernalia of the occupation, everything from fishing
nets in canvas bags to dirty yellow and red plastic gas cans. Pleasure craft with
outboard motors and sail masts mingled with the fishing boats.

It was early for the regular crowd, and Lonnie was alone. I recognized Kevin, the
bartender, and he waved.

I waved back in acknowledgement. Lonnie hustled over, drink in hand. He wore a T-shirt
with green geckos in a variety of obscene positions, army fatigue shorts, and a well-worn
pair of blue flip-flops. His blond hair was slicked back, still wet. He looked ready
for some serious socializing.

“Jeez, it’s good to see you.” He gave me a neck hug with one arm and a big smack on
the cheek. I could smell pine soap on his skin. He pulled back to look me over. “What
are you doing here? No one told me you were coming. You’re making surprise visits
now?”

I laughed and shook my head. “It’s a long story. I need a drink first.”

Lonnie signaled to Kevin, who sauntered over. “What’ll you have?”

“One of those.” I pointed at Lonnie’s half empty glass of Cyprus brandy sour. “Looks
yummy.”

“Make it two, Kevin. What’ll you guys have?” Lonnie asked Yannis and Zach.

“Commandaria for me,” Yannis said.

“I’ll have a Keo beer,” said Zach.

Lonnie and Yannis were old friends, and they punched each other in greeting. I introduced
Zach, who shook hands with a half smile. He hooked his fingers on his hips, his eyes
slipping from me to Yannis to Lonnie, possibly trying to figure out the relationships.
I had a big collection of male friends, but this wasn’t the time for explanations.

“Hey, let’s sit down at a table,” Lonnie said.

I sat down on a scarred straight-back chair at one of the unsteady round tables on
the street. Zach slid into the chair beside me and pulled it closer. Lonnie parked
himself on the other side. Yannis frowned his annoyance at the two of them and sat
across from me. The drinks arrived while we chit-chatted and exchanged pleasantries.

“Claudie, my good woman, to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” Lonnie asked,
getting back to his original question.

“Mind if I ask you a question first?” I sipped the brandy sour, savoring the pungent
sweet taste on my tongue.

“Fire away.”

“Do you know three widows that are on the island by the names of Crawford, Kelly and
Ryan? English, wealthy.”

“As a matter of fact, they were on my tour today,” Lonnie said. “Lively group. Besides
the widows, we had a few Scandinavians and the American couple who travel with that
archaeological group working on the Forty Column Castle project. They wanted to do
the Troodos Mountains from a different angle. Had a helleva day. Great company.”

“How well do you know the widows?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say we are bosom buddies, but they’re regulars on my tours when
they’re in the country. They’ve been coming for several years. Your aunt was with
them while she was here. She’s left, hasn’t she? She didn’t mention you were coming
over.” Lonnie bent closer and in a loud whisper said, “Why all the questions?”

I explained, and Lonnie’s smile faded as I told the story.

“I know there’s been trouble,” he said. “I hear it in the gossip. But your aunt? A
smuggler? Wild, pretty wild. Do you think she’s in this ring?”

“Of course not. Lonnie how could you even ask that question?”

Zach broke in. “Why would you ask that, Lonnie? Don’t you know Elizabeth Davies pretty
well?”

Lonnie pushed back on his chair, balancing on two legs, working on his drink at the
same time. “I’ve been in the people business for a long time, and some people surprise
you. Remember that Brit, Ron Hanley, that use to hang out here on Sunday evenings?”
He directed the question to Yannis, who nodded.

“Real friendly, outgoing guy. Said he was a writer, but no one could ever figure how
the guy supported himself. Turned out he was working for the Irish Republican Army
laundering guns through the Middle East. He disappeared one day, and we never saw
him again.”

“People say that you’re a CIA agent,” I said.

He laughed. “Yeah, I know. I’d never tell if I was, now would I? So y’all will have
to go on speculating.”

“We all could have double lives,” I said. “But my aunt? For heaven’s sake, be realistic.
What does your gut instinct tell you?”

“My gut instinct told me Ron Hanley was a regular guy. I mean, he was a friend, and
bingo, one day he’s gone. My instincts let me down. Some people are good actors. Of
course, your aunt doesn’t seem the type. But what does she do when you aren’t around?”

I swizzled my drink, not meeting Lonnie’s eyes, trying not to take offense at the
question. I could feel Zach’s eyes on me, and then he said in his soft drawl, “What
about Robert Hanssen, the FBI agent that was arrested for passing secrets to the Soviets?
He was everybody’s next door neighbor. Lonnie’s right, Claudie. Appearances can be
deceiving.”

I stopped stirring my drink. “My aunt is innocent.” I enunciated each word carefully.
I did not want to hear about people with double identities. This conversation was
going in a direction I did not want it to go.

“Look,” I said, taking a deep breath to calm the quaver I heard in my voice. I didn’t
want to sound like I was falling apart. “I lived in the same house with my aunt in
Boston until I went out on my own after college. I knew her daily routine. Up at six
A.M., bath, have a cup of coffee, listen to the Today Show while she dressed, off
to her job at the library where she had worked for thirty years. She never married,
never had a serious beau. I knew her friends, some of them men. I wasn’t with her
every waking moment, but she always liked to chat about her day and, if she went out,
about the people she was with, what she had done. We shared secrets. This is not the
kind of person with a double identity.”

The three of them kept their eyes on me while I talked, like they wanted to believe
me. But I knew in the back of their minds lingered that niggling doubt, the idea that
double identities led very ordinary lives on the surface. Did my aunt have another
life under her very ordinary surface? The doubt was in my mind. I had to get to the
bottom of this.

“If I have to get her out of this all by myself, I will.” I spoke it like a dare,
and my bravado created a huge, uncomfortable silence. I didn’t care. I didn’t need
their doubts. I needed their help.

Finally, Yannis, the diplomat, spoke up to smooth the waters. “Of course, your aunt
is innocent, Claudie. We are just asking the tough questions that need to be asked.”

“Let me throw another stick on the fire,” said Zach. “Lonnie, do you know anyone who
drives a beat up blue Maruti? It looks like an American Jeep. This one had no top,
medium blue color, bad paint job. Today at the beach up on the cliff a guy was standing
by a Maruti with binoculars trained on us.”

Zach and Yannis had seen the Maruti, too, and we had talked about it on the way to
the California Bar. None of us had recognized the vehicle, and by the time we had
finished our swim the Maruti was gone. It seemed odd to all three of us and maybe
more than a coincidence that we were at that beach and the Maruti was, too.

“A beat up Maruti? asked Lonnie. “The American couple from the archeological project
drives a blue Maruti this trip. They said they rented it.”

Zach sat up straighter. “Did they say where they rented it?”

“Probably the place out along Tomb of Kings road. That’s closest to where they stay.”

“Thanks,” said Zach, and he looked at me. “We’ll pay that place a visit.”

“It would be worth a try,” I said. “I want to talk to the widows, and I’d like to
talk to their landlord to see what he knows about them. Can we do this tonight because
tomorrow morning at nine I have to get my aunt out of jail?”

“I’ll go by to see the landlord,” Yannis said. “He doesn’t speak English well, so
it’s best if I go.”

“Since the car rental place is probably closed for the evening, I’ll visit the widows
again,” I said.

Zach held up his hand. “I think going alone might be dangerous, if these ladies are
mixed up in something.”

“Wait,” Lonnie said, “I could pay the widows a visit since I know them the best, and
I wouldn’t be like a total stranger calling. I’ll try to find out who they were socializing
with when they weren’t on tour. I’ll pretend like I’m checking to see if they want
to go on a special tour this week. Mrs. Crawford’s been flirting with me, so I’m sure
she’d invite me in for a drink.”

“Going for older women these days?” I asked.

He laughed. “Hey, she’s not bad looking for an old lady and flirting with the ladies
is good for business. But, you know, I find it hard to believe that any of these old
gals could be criminals.”

“My aunt isn’t a criminal,” I said, pounding my fist on the table, hard enough that
everyone grabbed their drinks.

“All right, all right,” Lonnie said and put his arm around me. “Don’t get riled. It’ll
give you wrinkles.”

I forced a smile but shrugged out of the hug and looked to Yannis. “Would now be a
good time to call on the landlord?”

“Yes, he’s probably in about this time.”

“Thank you, Yannis.” I squeezed his arm. He was being a dear, and I appreciated his
graciousness even though Zach’s presence disgruntled him.

“Lonnie, thanks for agreeing to be the front man with the widows. The rest of us look
like we’ve spent the day at the beach. I could use a shower and some chow.”

“Come,” Yannis said. “You can shower at our place. My mother will have lots of food.
I’ll go by to see Mr. Philipides while you’re recharging.”

We downed our drinks, and Lonnie settled the bill with Kevin at the bar.

“Where you off to?” Kevin wanted to know.

“To meet some smugglers,” Lonnie said.

“Right,” Kevin said,”and I’m a Palestinian terrorist.”

“You just don’t know.” Lonnie winked at me and that gave me pause.

Cyprus is tucked up into the Eastern armpit of the Mediterranean formed by Turkey,
Syria, Lebanon and Israel, not a day’s boat trip away and an even shorter flight by
jet. For thousands of years it’s been the crossroads of the Mediterranean Sea. Given
the upheaval in Middle East, we might not like what was under some of the rocks we
turned over.

* * * * *

“How’d it go?” I greeted Lonnie when he arrived back at Yannis’s house. He took a
place at the family dining table where Mother Vasilis had cleared a place. The table
was smothered in food. Fresh fruit, rice, lamb kebobs, salad, goblets, glasses, coffee
cups. The heavenly smell of rosemary and garlic laced with coffee drifted in the air.
Yannis had just sat down and was loading a plate. Zach was still working on his. I
was having coffee.

Lonnie grinned. “Mrs. Crawford and I had a nice chat, even though she was on her way
out and didn’t have a lot of time for an unexpected guest. But I found out something
real interesting.” He paused for dramatic effect. “She said that Elizabeth had an
admirer while she was here, an Italian by the name of Salvatore Bellomo, who’s in
wine and olives. He took a tour one day with us, now that I think about it. Did you
know your aunt had a beau?”

“A beau?” I said, trying to buy myself a little time to recover from the surprise.
My aunt had never exhibited much interest in men. She was the kind of woman that seemed
to enjoy having them around but didn’t need one to make her life complete.

“Mrs. Crawford said that Mr. Bellomo seemed to be quite taken with your aunt.”

“That’s hard to believe. My aunt is a confirmed spinster.” Or I thought she was. Another
niggling doubt took its place by the double identity one.

“Maybe there’s more to your aunt than you realize,” Lonnie said.

“Don’t start that again, Lonnie.” I gave him a squinty eyed look. “A beau just seems
out of place for her.”

I wasn’t going to admit that doubt devils had taken up residence on my shoulder. Maybe
I didn’t know my aunt as well as I thought I did. A beau was so unlike her. So was
smuggling.

“I remember,” Lonnie said, taking a slug of beer, “that Mr. Bellomo was a quiet guy,
dressed expensive, very neat and drove a white Mercedes with gold trim.”

“Oh, great, an Italian in olives with gold trim.”

“And wine.”

“Next you’ll tell me he is from Sicily.”

“Don’t know, but we can track him down. He has an office in Limasol. We can go over
there tomorrow after you spring your aunt. She might like to see him again.”

Lonnie grinned.

I was not amused.

My cell phone rang, and I fished in my purse. Lena, my partner, was calling. I got
up and walked into the hall.

“How’re things going?” she asked.

I filled her in on my frustration with not being able to get my aunt out of jail and
of the investigative team I had put together or rather that had fallen together.

“I think I’d better come over to help balance the team. Sounds like it’s a little
heavy on the testosterone.”

I laughed. “Sure fly over. One more amateur sleuth won’t hurt.”

“Claudie, I’ve been doing a little checking around like you asked. Did you know that
all kinds of heavy hitters are involved in antiquities smuggling? Like gallery owners,
auction houses, museums, insurers, security companies, collectors, the Mafia and,
get this, law enforcement agencies.”

“This is getting complicated.”

“Art crime is the third most lucrative criminal activity in the world, right behind
drugs and arms trafficking. Guess who has the most voracious market?”

“The U.S.?”