Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  Keeping his face neutral, he said, “There must have been a mix-up back at the office.”

  Her face relaxed. Her clutched fists opened. The winning smile appeared once more. “How would you like the remaining funds disbursed?”

  “The five thousand?”

  “Precisely,” she said, her broad smile still in place.

  “Cash.”

  Once the transaction was concluded, they shook hands. Her hand was firm and cool to the touch. She allowed it to linger in the shelter of his before gently retracting it and joining it with the other, both tugging at the hem of her suit jacket.

  “I’m staying at the Grand Cayman Shores,” he said casually. “Dinner perhaps? Seven o’clock?”

  “Sorry,” she said, “I have another engagement.”

  The day was awash with island breezes. He strolled down a picturesque street filled with bankers and tourists, making for an odd conglomeration of business attire and island shirts. He could almost feel the possibilities of being an ordinary man facing ordinary problems, but the idle wishes of a man on the run could only be fleeting fancies at best.

  The missing money troubled him. They were always ahead of him, always anticipating his movements, like they could read his mind.

  Inexplicably he sensed something off. He shot a backward glance. Though he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, he picked up his pace. A block farther on, he felt the presence again. Glancing back, he glimpsed a floppy straw hat, the wide brim visible above the press of people strolling in the same direction. He swung around and casually strolled in the opposite direction, expecting to come across the owner of the straw hat. But when he reached the position, the hat had disappeared along with its owner. She was gone like a whiff of air or the ghost of his overactive imagination. Then he knew it was real, because she left behind a familiar fragrance of sweet femininity.

  14

  Near Nicosia, Cyprus

  Monday, August 11

  EN ROUTE TO the Holy Land in the year 1191, Richard the Lionheart captured the island of Cyprus from the Byzantine ruler Isaac Comnenus. As legend went, the despot was fitted for silver rather than iron chains since only silver would do for a man who revered riches as much as he did, and summarily dispatched to a rocky island prison. His young daughter sought benevolence from the English king, possibly giving him her body, or if not, certainly giving him her allegiance. Her father languished, and eventually died, ignobly and alone, months or years later, the exact moment an oversight in history. Like her father, the daughter was an interesting footnote in contemporary chronicles but not interesting enough to be assigned a name. She too disappeared on the winds of time, some said at a French monastery bound to religious orders, others speculated in a castle keep under lock and key. Either way, she never returned to the shores of her homeland. Back then life was cheap.

  Come to think, Baltsaros Georg Nikolaidhis mused in one of his more philosophical moments, probably when he was drunk, life was still cheap.

  “How do you like it?” the real estate agent asked him, her voice seeming to come from far away even though they were standing next to each other.

  “About what?”

  “About what? he asks. About the property, silly boy. The location. The construction. Amenities. Scenery. Privacy.” She ran smooth fingers along his beard-roughened jaw line and leaned close, saying, “Come back from wherever you are. All is forgiven.” Her gesture was the lead up to a kiss. Instead of delivering on the tease, she turned toward the house, admiring it for its lines, its beauty, its potential.

  “It’s run down,” he said.

  “Precisely. But it has possibilities, no?”

  “Every property you show me has possibilities.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “The bargains are all run down. That is why they are bargains.” She winked. She was making fun of him, but it wasn’t personal to her. It was the way she did business. Cajoling, embellishing, downplaying, offering unsolicited remedies for obvious deficiencies, expounding on any strong points to make the properties seem grander, and always, always teasing her client with sexual innuendos and brazen familiarities.

  When Zandra Kyriacos Stoffel picked him up this morning, Nick was once again bedazzled by the sizeable dark-haired temptress who used extravagant gestures and exaggerated pronouncements, her mouth constantly rambling with this observation and that feature. Not only was she a handsome creature to look at, she was available, her husband having traded her in for a younger model while she cursed him to hell and enjoyed every mouthful of spite as if it were a seven-course meal.

  She had driven up to his hotel in Nicosia and impatiently honked the horn while music blasted from the speakers. As soon as he got in, she turned the music down to a low roar and yelled over pounding bass notes. “I have found it. It is the villa of your dreams! With a little work, it could be your castle in the sky. Even better, the owner is in debt up to here.” She sliced a scarlet-polished fingernail across her throat.

  Since the woman was given to clichés and hyperboles, Nick gave her an unconvinced smile.

  With a naughty laugh, she said, “What, you don’t believe? Yes, I know, I know, I have made promises before. But this. This is it. I have seen it. You will love it. A solemn promise. And a promise is a promise, no?—not to be said lightly. We go there now. It is up in the hills. Very private. You can touch the sky.”

  She had grabbed his chin between the smooth palms of her hands, squeezed his mouth into a pucker, and delivered an energetic kiss to his pouty lips. He had accepted the kiss, relished it, licked it, and tasted it even now

  She drove him to a villa built on the ruins of a Byzantine monastery, its location halfway between Nicosia and Limassol, halfway between the sky and the sea, situated in the vine-covered hills of the Troödos mountain range where a lone American émigré might find sanctuary in the forests and valleys, salvation in the ancient churches, and protection at the pagan shrines, provided he was a praying man. Nick was not.

  The seven-bedroom residence combined contemporary with traditional architecture, old ways with new, traditional materials with modern. But since it was built a hundred years ago, time and lack of attention diminished its grandeur and displayed its weather-worn age like an unloved maiden aunt shows hers. As they toured the property, though, Nick could see its potential. While some would consider this neglected property and the house that sat upon it not worth the time, the effort, or the expense, Nick envisioned the possibilities. The villa’s principal attraction was its combination of privacy and uninterrupted panoramic views of the valley below. Mirroring the surrounding terrain, the house was terraced, as were the spacious bedroom suites, all boasting en suite facilities and idyllic views.

  “This,” Zandra said, sweeping around her arm, “includes everything you will ever need. Entertainment areas. Three ... count them ... three fireplaces. Formal dining area. Chef’s kitchen. The lower level can be made into a glorious master bedroom suite. You’ll appreciate the sunsets, right through there, where the mountains pull away. Also an area to put your office. A laundry room. And a wine cellar, just across the way and down a few steps.” Her English was excellent, laced with colloquialisms and stilted phrases, and purposely dumbed down to make her seem commonplace. There was nothing commonplace about Mrs. Stoffel.

  “Wouldn’t be complete without a wine cellar,” Nick said drily. He didn’t want to appear interested in the property or in the woman, even if he was interested in both.

  “You mock me. I am not offended. What do you think so far?”

  “Does the furniture stay?”

  “Everything stays. Once the papers are signed, you can move right in, take your time, put in your own touches. Will your family be coming over?”

  “I’m not married.” He told her before. Maybe she wasn’t listening. Or was testing him.

  She clucked her tongue, a signal of both commiseration and delight. “And your parents?”

  “Gone.”

  “Brot
hers? Sisters?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, showing dismay and pity. “A man like you? Alone in the world? No one to laugh with? Or cry with? Must be difficult.”

  “There are compensations.”

  “Ah, yes,” she said, her eyes brightening, “there are always compensations for lonely men of means.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  She frowned, but the frown was acted out. “Divorced, as I said before. Well, almost divorced. When it’s final, then snip-snip, gone with his only redeeming talent. And I don’t mean getting a hard-on.”

  “He’s rich?”

  “Filthy.”

  “Children?”

  “My son is away at school. But,” she said merrily and with an air of independence, “there are also compensations for lonely women of means.”

  They ventured onto the flag-stoned patio and took three shallow steps down to the pool deck. Wrought-iron fencing, dense shrubbery, and lofty trees provided complete privacy. The free-form pool had been drained, but it was easy to imagine its depths filled with sapphire waters and the surface shimmering with rippling diamonds. It was also easy to imagine copious sunshine bronzing his skin as he floated on the surface, nothing to worry about but where to go for dinner and which lady to meet before driving back to the villa and making love to her under the stars.

  Seeing the excitement in his face, Zandra smiled pleasantly before turning back to the house.

  He found Mrs. Stoffel after making careful inquiries. She was known for working with men of means who acquired their fortunes through dubious enterprises. Said to be a woman of discretion as well as a wise business partner, she was well acquainted with the finer points of bypassing rules and regulations, buying silence if necessary, and charming government officials to look the other way when sticky situations came up. Nick found her charming but also annoying. Her little quirks and brazen superiority were getting on his nerves. This latest find, while spectacular, left much to be desired. He would have to pour money into the property to bring it up to standards. And yet, with all the negatives, there were many positives.

  For a little more than a week, they had been touring private villas in the Solea Valley. Zandra acted as the chauffeur, stopping off at villages, pointing out interesting sights, and giving Nick a feel for the area, the people, the public places, and the conveniences. Otherwise known as apple valley, the mountainous region gushed with quaint villages, hillside resorts, farms, wineries, market squares, and Byzantine churches, all for the price of petrol and lazy wanderings on hazy summer days. Their exercise had been one of finding that singular property, the one best for protecting his privacy while allowing him to blend in with the native populace. Zandra assured him the area was chock-full of foreigners, and since it was, Nick’s presence would not raise suspicious eyebrows.

  She had finally stopped talking, letting the villa speak for itself. He was already sold, and she knew it.

  The house was accessible through a single doorway, its vaulted entryway passing into an interior courtyard surrounded by multileveled living quarters. The arches of the iliakos provided seclusion for the owner as well as for invited guests. The main level was reached via a spiral staircase leading to a spacious library, morning room, and gallery, which in turn led to two private bedroom suites, each with breathtaking views. An external stairway climbed to a veranda and two more bedrooms. The kitchen boasted a vaulted entrance and two traditional wood-burning ovens alongside a modern gas stove. The ground floor held a fireplace, the wine cellar plus storage rooms, and a covered terrace overlooking the courtyard. The surrounding property boasted vineyards that had gone to seed but were still viable enough for a hobbyist vintner. The architectural style adhered to local tradition, built entirely with local stone hacked from nearby quarries. The most weathered stones had been appropriated from the monastery down below, now ruined except for its cloisters, which added a monastic flavor Nick found intriguing since it came with the villa. His soul needed saving, so it was only right this property should be his.

  The drawbacks were many but nothing that couldn’t be remedied. The furnace was beyond serviceable use. The water pump knocked. The hot water heater was too small. And the water softener needed updating.

  Zandra extolled the virtues of the area, describing the nearby shopping districts in Limassol and Larnaca, food shops in the local village, a supermarket just fifteen kilometers away, and open-air shops on market day. There was even a cinema nearby, a quaint church, ruins to explore, hiking adventures everywhere, parks, woodlands, and a nearby medical center staffed with two physicians.

  She held her two fingers up to stress the fact. “The property also comes with lemon trees. A satellite dish that brings in television signals from around the world. And internet. I think it’s perfect for you. Come. I will show you why. I will make you believe.”

  She guided him back outside and dramatically flung out her bare arms, face lifted. She was the epitome of Grecian beauty. Bold and brash, flamboyant and exotic, the locks of her dark hair falling about her shoulders in thick waves. She had become the living embodiment of the Cypriot women of old, women who led their men around by their noses by day and satisfied their whims at night.

  “This property,” she declared, “is out of the way. Hardly anyone ventures up here. See there? Down the access road? You can install an electronic fence at the bottom. Should give you a five-minute warning. And over there? Behind that stand of pines? You can’t see the trail. Though steep, it can be hiked. Another electronic fence. Extra video cameras front and back. Perhaps a dog. A small dog that yips or a big one that growls. Or both. You can sleep nights. You’ll have the place to yourself. Unless, of course, you want company.” The suggestiveness in her voice was plain. Nick pretended he hadn’t heard it.

  She gave him a curious look. She was wondering what he was about. She was thinking maybe he was queer on men but almost immediately dismissed the thought. “I know just the man to install the security. He’ll give you a discount.” Her odd little smile, the one that made her full lips appear slightly lopsided but immeasurably kissable, appeared. She decided he wanted her more than he was letting on.

  Upon arriving in Cyprus, Nick claimed his five-million-dollar cut — less the million dollars wired to a stateside account in his wife’s name — for having set up an easy target in Washington. The payment for his services was outlandish. Even though he had qualms, he set them aside. The money was too good to turn down. Now that he was man of means, he was determined to set himself up as a self-styled potentate and bolster the image by finding the palace of his dreams. There remained one pesky problem. When he did the job, he hadn’t known Coyote would be framed for murder. Nothing he could do about it now. His hands were clean. He hadn’t conspired to murder anyone. He only broke into Coyote’s house, installed an array of electronic surveillance devices, and logged every one of his movements, associations, habits, weaknesses, and predilections, especially when it came to wine, women, and song. Once the job was done, he diligently swept up after himself and drove home. Nothing could be traced back to him, including his license plates, which he switched out before leaving Chicago and switched back before reentering Illinois. Even if authorities somehow picked up on his scent, they could never bring a strong enough case. The evidence simply wasn’t there. He had been extremely careful. And very, very smart. Except for one thing. Authorities would not be looking for Baltsaros Georg Nikolaidhis aka Nick Ball. Jack Coyote would. Especially since he slipped the noose of his murder rap, was currently at large and on the run, and probably coming for him and the other members of the black ops team.

  Zandra showed him around the grounds, pointing out artifacts and interesting features while also showing off her many personal assets. She wore an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and a blue-and-white peasant skirt reaching nearly to her sandals, where her toenails were painted red. She was a fine specimen of a woman, and knew it
. Oh, how she knew it, flaunting her body every chance she got. “The sellers are anxious.”

  “All sellers are anxious.”

  “True, true. But these sellers are particularly anxious. The property has been on the market for over a year. They moved to Azerbaijan.”

  “I thought you said Moldavia.”

  “Azerbaijan. Moldavia. It is all the same to me. And to you.”

  The vision lines afforded a spectacular view of the nestled hilltops, swooping valleys, and old-world towns sprinkled along the plateaus. The sun had burned away the fog of early morning and left only dewy entrails swirling among the pines.

  “If you decide to buy, all it takes is a little convincing,” she said, rubbing her fingers together, an indication of cold hard cash.

  “Why don’t we see everything on your list before narrowing down the choices?” he said.

  “As you like.”

  Unlike Greece, which had seen the worst of what the European Union could do to a beleaguered country relying on multibillion dollar loans to prop up its withering economy, Cyprus was in the middle of a boom. The pump had been primed for the inevitable bubble that was about to burst. Speculators had been using Cyprus like a casino, scooping up properties at inflated prices and flipping them for quick profits. Nick’s goal was to purchase the kind of property nobody else wanted and hold tight.

  “Should you settle on the villa ....” She let the sentence dangle. “The Antiquities Department, you see. It will supervise all improvements. A small inconvenience, no? I see no real impediments. Greasing palms usually takes care of everything, and if not, there are other ways. Shall we make an offer? The owner is anxious. As I said, the property has been on the market for the better part of the year. I hear he has financial problems. He is a Turk who wants to go back home.”