A Sudden Death in Cyprus

by Michael Grant

  I could run. But I could not run as David Mitre. I could not still have that life and run, and I had done the thing no fugitive should ever do: I had come to value my present identity.

  There was, however, the other option. I could actually try to figure out what had resulted in a fellow fugitive taking a knife to the lungs.

  ‘Right,’ I muttered into a stream of water, ‘because now I’m Hercule fucking Poirot.’

  I turned off the water, toweled, dressed, and recovered my voice recorder. I did a bit of light editing then leaned the recorder next to Agent Kim’s listening device and hit play in a loop. I arranged throw pillows around the device, muffling any sound not coming from the recorder. Kim and Delacorte could listen all they liked to a twenty-minute loop of ambient noise. I swapped out the SIM card from my phone, not by any means perfect as a way to avoid being tracked, but every little bit …

  I made a late-night snack of refrigerator antipasto, arranging fresh red peppers, some slices of lountza, the Greek version of cappacola, olives, loukaniko, a local sausage, some crumbled feta on a plate and toasted some bread. I made coffee to counteract the Talisker I’d panic-drunk.

  I carried it all out onto the moonlit terrace, set it down, sipped the coffee and decided a sip was enough and I still needed whisky. Got whisky. Sat back down. And asked myself the question I had so often asked myself in my day job as a writer: what the hell is going on? What is the plot?

  I typed:

  Brit fuge (?) connected (?) to US law.

  Stabbed in the back.

  African. No ID. No knife. No evidence.

  Brits say no then yes to vic’s passport.

  FBI says, ‘Aha! We got you!’

  FBI says …

  What exactly had I gleaned from Agents Delacorte and Kim?

  Passing yacht.

  Security clearance issue.

  Bad shit involving kids?

  ‘This is definitely some deep bullshit, here,’ I muttered around a mouthful of salami. Then, ‘And how the fuck did they get video that fast? And ID me?’

  In what, twenty-four hours, Washington had heard about the murders, reached out to the yachtsman, gotten them to turn over their stills and video? And then dispatched Delacorte and Kim? From where, the Rome or Athens office?

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said, shaking my head. Agents K. and D. were already here. In fact, they’d had the victim, poor Rachel/Amanda under surveillance. That’s how they knew about the yacht, and how they knew that some dude – me – had practically levitated away from the scene a millisecond after the stabbing.

  Poor Rachel/Amanda had been looking for threats, I’d been watching the doomed woman while also looking for threats, and we had both missed the Eff Bee Eyeballs trained on her the whole time.

  I resisted the urge to go to the hidden microphone and tell them what I had figured out, and add a ‘nyah nyah nyah’ or some equally contemptuous remark.

  More advice for the aspiring criminal: don’t taunt the FBI.

  I glanced at my watch and reached a decision. Play the game, at least for now. Play the role Kiriakou, Kim and Delacorte seemed determined to force on me.

  Eleven p.m. Now what?

  Whorehouse, obviously. Sex workers know useful things like who is and is not bent in the local constabulary, who runs the rackets, who is scarier than who and … Well, that was it, unless you wanted advice on how to get a guy with ED off in under ten minutes.

  In the old days, I’d have had to do some legwork to find such an establishment. I’d have gone looking for bars and pubs with a large upstairs and few windows. Or I’d have gone to a bar and hung around until some far-too-pretty and far-too-friendly woman with what the Stones called ‘Far Away Eyes’ sidled up beside me and allowed me to buy her a drink.

  But God bless the internet, because it took about fifteen minutes of rooting around on message boards to find what I was looking for. The biggest annoyance was weeding through all the price-driven reviews – everyone wants it, few are willing to pay. But I eventually found what I needed in references to a place that was ‘way overpriced,’ and ‘a little snobby.’

  Chante was just walking up the hill as I headed to my car.

  I nodded politely. ‘Chante.’

  ‘Mitre,’ she responded. It came out more mee-TERR than MY-tur.

  ‘How’s Cypriot Hollywood life?’

  She stopped and looked at (well, almost at) me and said, ‘L’enfer, c’est les autres.’

  ‘Hell is other people? Should I take that personally?’

  A single eyebrow rise, rather like agent Delacorte. ‘You have read Sartre? A l’université?’

  ‘Yes, but not at university. I didn’t do college for long. I am a graduate of the university of life.’

  I think for a second there she was starting not to despise me, but ‘university of life’ restored her contempt. So, being me and not some wittier person I added, ‘School of hard knocks.’

  And she moved on by.

  The cathouse – I’m sure there’s a politically correct word for it, but it did not come to me – wasn’t much of a place from the outside, just another private home by the look of it. But it was a villa with seven cars parked outside; seven cars which, I was gratified to note, included more than a reasonable proportion of Mercedes, Jags and BMWs. Music throbbed from the villa as I killed my engine, not club music, more ballad-y stuff. Emo music, if that’s still a thing.

  I walked up the gravel to the front door where I was met by a large gentleman seated on a folding chair, smoking a small cigar and reading a magazine. He challenged me and I explained who I was and why I was there by handing him a hundred-euro note.

  I was met inside by a woman who would be the spitting image of Madonna (the singer, not the mother of Jesus), if she’d gone in for a face-lift. She accentuated the Madonna comparison with an outfit that showed off some cleavage and hinted at BDSM, and sheathed her arms in long sleeves, either to hide track marks or flabby underarms. Possibly both.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said with a thick but manageable accent. ‘Welcome to my home. I am Madame Meunier. May I get you a drink?’

  I introduced myself as Walter Mosely again, and said, ‘Perhaps a Scotch? Neat?’

  ‘Will you follow me, please? I would like to show you the many pleasures we have for your enjoyment.’

  A Scotch appeared and we sauntered – sauntering is really the only way to walk through a bordello – into the main room. I’ll say this: for a Mediterranean cathouse it was not badly decorated. Yes, a bit too much gaudy gold paint and some eye-rolling erotic art, but Madame Meunier had dialed it back from full-on Trumpian gaud. The air was dense with competing perfumes, the lights were pink-tinged giving everyone a nice healthy glow, even the three middle-aged bald guys at the short bar.

  I know of few things sadder and funnier than a sex-worker line-up. Six women ranging in age from eighteen to maybe thirty, brunettes, redheads, blondes, big, small, natural and enhanced, and all of them thinking the same thing: Am I going to have to fuck this guy?

  Without being too full of myself, I was not the worst-looking fellow they’d ever seen. I’m clean, not a member of the reptile family, and present no danger of crushing. And I like women and women sense it.

  I’ve been to brothels – there, that’s the word – as part of setting up a mark or on occasion doing what I was doing now: buying information. But I don’t like them. I have nothing against sex workers, they’re just working stiffs paying their bills, but having half a dozen women lined up like cakes in a shop window for me to buy has never sat quite right with me.

  I walked down the line, offering my hand to each woman in turn, speaking a few words. I wasn’t looking for a hair color or a breast size, I was looking for intelligence and boldness. A few words and I can give you a rough assessment of IQ; it’s not a Jedi mind trick, it’s in the voice, the word choices, the speed of response. As for boldness, that’s in the eye and the touch.

  After a couple minutes I
had it down to two: a gorgeous young Russian and a dreamy-eyed Egyptian. I guessed that the Russian girl might be connected to people far scarier than me. I have at times brushed up against Russian mobsters and while this is not advice that will be necessary to any normal person, I suggest avoiding them.

  I picked the Egyptian girl, ordered a bottle of decent Champagne at three times retail and retired to her room, which came complete with a big whirlpool tub and a bed and far more mirrors than were good for my vanity.

  ‘What you like, honey boy?’ she asked in execrable English.

  ‘Well, first, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘My name Joumana. Is mean “pearl.” You like see my pearl?’ Wiggle, wiggle, breast thrust, pouty lips.

  ‘I’m sure it’s there, Joumana, and I’m sure it’s lovely, but that’s not quite why I’m here.’

  Joumana was going for the exotic look, with kohled eyes and gold glitter. She wore a black-and-gold brocade robe that fell almost to the floor and would have been quite demure if not for the fact that it was unbuttoned and open at the front revealing a complicated net of black straps zigging and zagging to finally resolve into a bra and garters. It was from the Agent Provocateur collection. I knew this irrelevant trivia because I had once had to remove an almost identical outfit using nothing but my teeth since my hands were tied with silk rope and … Well, it wasn’t easy. Or relevant, really.

  Joumana was very pretty, in excellent physical condition and her eyes could melt concrete.

  I sat on the edge of the bed – the other choice being the side of the in-room Jacuzzi tub – and before I said anything I counted out five hundred euro notes. Not enough to cause her to spontaneously combust, but emphatically more than the going rate.

  ‘I no do anal,’ she said with charming directness. ‘No potty things. I ask my friend to join us? She is very—’

  This is the sex-worker version of ‘Would you like fries with that?’ Brothel upselling.

  I waved a hand, cutting her off. ‘Do you mind putting on some music?’

  She blinked a couple of times, not in any hurry, then pulled a phone from the pocket of her robe and swiped a few things. Music swelled from speakers above the tub.

  ‘You are astonishingly sexy, very beautiful, and if I were here for sex you’d be all I needed and more.’ That is how you compliment a sex worker. ‘But I’m not here for sex.’ That is how you worry a sex worker.

  My guess about her intelligence was validated by the way she produced a laugh that lasted a half second and carried a world of cynicism within it. She sat down, tugged her robe closed and suddenly learned to speak much better English.

  ‘Information?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I added another hundred and held the cash toward her.

  She wanted to reach for it but hesitated, looking up at me with her hand itching to scoop.

  ‘This will not make any trouble for you,’ I said.

  That was enough. She unburdened me of my euros.

  ‘What is your question?’

  ‘My question is this. Imagine you are the mother of a child here on Cyprus. What are the things you would worry about?’

  That caught her off guard. In a brief flicker, I saw the truth in her eyes: she was a mother.

  ‘You are worried about children?’

  ‘Sure. Let’s go with that.’

  She shrugged and blew air out, making her cheeks and lips flap in a not-terribly-courtesanish way. ‘There are lots of drugs.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And I would worry about criminal gangs. We do have them, here.’

  I have some passing acquaintance with LA and Chicago street gangs. I doubted the Cypriot version was quite as scary or nearly as well-armed. ‘Yes, gangs,’ I agreed. ‘But gangs are businesses and some of those businesses threaten children, and some do not.’

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ She was already tapping out a Turkish cigarette.

  ‘Not if you don’t mind.’ I drew a Montecristo out of my jacket’s inner pocket. As she lit up, I cut the stogie, warmed it a bit over my cigar torch and puffed it to glowing light.

  We were both much happier now.

  ‘What is it you want, Mister …’

  ‘Walter, please,’ I said. ‘I’m a writer, doing research. I want to know about the dark underbelly of Cyprus.’

  She liked the phrase ‘dark underbelly,’ and repeated it a few times with various different points of emphasis. ‘This is Cyprus. They were masters of smuggling since before Father Abraham.’

  ‘And does that tendency extend to children?’

  ‘Are people smuggling children? Why? There is no great shortage.’

  I laid out another hundred and said, ‘That’s as high as I go for rhetorical answers.’

  ‘And for more?’

  ‘You give me something useful and you walk away with a week’s earnings and none of it has to be known to management.’

  ‘Maybe this room is bugged.’

  ‘Of course it’s bugged,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re listening to this music. It’s also all being videoed, which is why we’re sitting here, this way, with my back to the camera inside that bronze of Rodin’s eternal angel, and the other camera in the corner up there in the molding.’

  Athenian galley eyes narrowed. ‘Are you police?’

  ‘Rather far from it.’

  ‘Intelligence?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just a curious writer.’

  ‘Information can be dangerous to those who possess it and those who give it out.’

  ‘I find the best antidote to fear is cash.’

  There followed a period of silence as she worked this out, weighing this and that against what she thought I might give her.

  ‘Ten thousand euros.’

  ‘Jesus!’ I erupted. That was way too big an ask. Either she took me for an idiot, or what she knew was scary. ‘Two thousand. Tops.’

  ‘Three now. Three more when you see that I’m telling the truth.’

  ‘You’re going to trust me to come back with an extra three grand?’

  ‘Yes, Walter, I am.’ Which meant not really, but she sort of wanted to tell me what she knew. I counted out some more euros and kept them in my hand.

  ‘It’s the refugees,’ she said. ‘A boat arrives at least once a week, overflowing with desperate people. I … I was once one of those desperate people.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Some of the refugees are girls or boys, not yet … I don’t know the English word.’

  ‘Young? Prepubescent?’

  ‘That, yes. When they land, they are interned for evaluation as terrorists or criminals. Those suspected of crimes are separated out, which sometimes leaves their children …’ She shrugged.

  ‘Children separated. Okay. And?’

  ‘And it just so happens that the pretty ones, the sweet virginal girls, the innocent young boys, well, their parents are almost always classified as suspected criminals or terrorists.’

  ‘And deported?’

  ‘And deported, with assurances that their children will follow soon. Of course they do not. The children are placed in care.’ The words ‘in care’ came with a heaping helping of cynicism.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what do you think, Walter? What do you think happens to them?’

  That put a stop to lighthearted banter. I take an extremely liberal attitude toward property crimes, for obvious reasons, but that laissez-faire attitude does not extend to murder, torture or rape. It very definitely does not extend to child rape.

  ‘You have names?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘If you were to keep your eyes and ears open, do you suppose you might overhear something? I’m told all the best people come here, sooner or later, the connected, the powerful.’

  ‘You need to know this for the book you are writing?’

  I didn’t answer. She knew better. Instead of lying I asked, ‘I have this theory that in the back of any
working person’s mind is a number, expressed in euros or pounds or dollars. A number that, while it would not make them independently wealthy, would buy them some freedom of action.’

  ‘Ah?’

  ‘Yes. I think of it as their “happy number.” Not a fantasy number, but a number that would make them … happy.’

  She considered, sizing me up. ‘We return then to ten thousand euros,’ she said at last.

  I sighed. Negotiation has never been my strong suit. ‘Okay. That is doable, if. If you give me what I need. Get me a solid name and it’s worth ten thousand, wired to your secret account.’

  ‘I have a secret account?’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  She finished her cigarette, stubbed it out in an ashtray that had been liberated from some distant Ritz-Carlton. She walked across the room, dug her purse out from under a tangle of clothing on a chair and came back with a slip of paper and a pen. She wrote something, folded it and gave it to me, carefully out of view of the cameras.

  ‘Now, we must make it look as if more happened than a conversation,’ she said, and opened her robe.

  It made sense. The cameras were rolling after all, and vanity demanded I put on a decent show.

  ‘Tempting, but no. Tell the madam I just wanted to talk about how my wife won’t give head. You’ve had those conversations before.’

  That earned an actual laugh.

  I pumped her for more information and picked up a few tidbits, but nothing of immediate interest.

  I didn’t look at the paper she’d given me until I was back out in my car. On the paper was a long number. Her bank account.

  And, the name Dep. Polis Cheef [sic] Cyril Kiriakou.

  NINE

  The Portuguese have a word: saudade. Saudade is a longing for what was, but also for what never was: a time, a place, a fantasy, a hope, a man or woman or an in-between. It’s a dreamy, wistful sadness, the essence of their fado. But, because the Portuguese are an old people, old and wise in life, that sadness can also be a pleasure.

  Back in the bad old days before cars came with electronic back-seat drivers with clipped English accents forever suggesting turns you’ve just missed, it was possible to take a wrong turn. And when that happened your natural tendency – at least if you were male – was to plow on ahead, denying that you were lost. But eventually the signs that you’d taken a wrong turn would begin to accumulate.