A Sudden Death in Cyprus

by Michael Grant

  I walked back to the kitchen strangling an invisible neck. I brought back coffee and ice water, reminding myself that I should pour neither over Chante’s head.

  ‘Okay. I’ll bite. What’s the problem? And why are you not at the set? Is that the problem? You’ve been fired?’ I suppressed the urge to smile.

  ‘There is some problem with the sets. No shooting today and Minette gave me the day.’

  ‘You’re spending your day off with me, how very generous.’ My brutal sarcasm bounced off her like ping-pong balls off a tank. ‘The problem?’

  ‘The problem is not mine, but that of my employer.’

  ‘Minette?’ My interest rose. Fair damsel in distress, me as the white knight, underplay the heroism thing, amazing gratitude sex with much sympathy for my heroically-banged-up body …

  ‘She is being blackmailed.’

  ‘That’s what’s known as a crime,’ I opined sagely. ‘Call the cops.’

  ‘The blackmailer has a certain video.’

  ‘Hasn’t Minette already done nude scenes?’ How was I to know? I certainly had not checked her out on Google images. Nor had I clicked on the subheading ‘nude.’ That would be wrong, as my moral guide, Richard Nixon, once observed.

  ‘It is nothing so simple. And Minette would never be ashamed of her body. How could she be? She is perfect.’

  That took some digesting and I covered by taking a long sip. Had Chante just shown an emotion other than contempt? That word ‘perfect’ had come out all warm and toasty.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘So, what’s the video?’

  ‘It is of Minette enjoying sex. With a woman.’

  I frowned. ‘Couple thoughts. One, she’s from Paris, France not Paris, Texas. Two, she’s a movie star not a school teacher.’

  Chante said nothing.

  I said nothing.

  She won that stand-off. ‘Who’s the other woman?’

  Chante drew a deep breath. ‘Me.’

  I would like to be able to say that I did not immediately form a picture in my mind. And then another. And then in this position. And now reversed. And now with me delivering pizza, and neither of them with any cash to pay for said pizza, oh my, whatever shall we do? Yes, I would like to be the kind of person who did not think that way.

  ‘She’s a lesbian?’ I asked.

  ‘She is open-minded.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said before thinking. I could work with bisexual. Keep hope alive! Then, ‘And you?’

  ‘I am a lesbian.’

  Oh, so that’s why you didn’t fall for my charm. It’s not my fault, it’s not that I’m getting old and past my prime, it’s you, not me at all, it’s you, hah! I did not say.

  ‘So, what’s the problem? You’re both adults.’

  For the first time Chante looked uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair and diverted attention by swirling her drink. ‘The problem is that Minette is also sleeping with the director, who is also a woman. She is very jealous and will make Minette’s life hell on the set if she finds out about us. Minette also has a close friendship with one of the producers, but he is very sophisticated and will not care. But the blackmailer does care.’

  ‘Wait, you know the blackmailer?’

  ‘Of course. He is Chris Temple, the actor. He is in love with Minette. And he is very emotional. Very jealous. She slept with him one time only, but …’ Gallic shrug. – ‘he is an American.’

  ‘American’ in Chante’s mind is a synonym for ‘child.’

  ‘Ah. So, Temple wants her all for himself. If she doesn’t go along with that, he shows the video to the director. Maybe put the video online, make her out to be some sex-crazed, bisexual sluuuu … um … sensual woman. With eclectic tastes. And healthy appetites. Is it at least grainy, badly-lit video?’

  ‘No. Even small cameras can record in HD. Thankfully he was only able to record the first two hours.’

  ‘Two hours?’ I’d like to be able to say I did not immediately … ‘Two hours. Huh. Okay. So, what does this have to do with me?’ I asked.

  ‘Minette thought …’ she shrugged, and her lip curled in disapproval, ‘… that you are not connected to anyone on the set. And she said you must understand the criminal mind to write mystery novels.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I said. ‘Indeed. What else did she say about me?’

  The day may come when Chante gives birth. That event will be less painful to her than pushing out the words, ‘She said you were attractive.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, not sounding at all like a high school freshman.

  ‘You are tall and symmetrical,’ Chante said. ‘Minette’s judgments when it comes to men …’ A slightly different French shrug. ‘But she downloaded one of your books and read it. She believes you are worthy of trust and committed to justice.’

  ‘Okay, fair enough then, she really doesn’t have much judgment when it comes to men.’ I had not intended to say that aloud.

  ‘She thinks you could come up with a way.’

  ‘What’s the tick-tock?’

  ‘Tick-tock?’

  ‘What’s the time frame. How long do we have?’

  She shrugged. ‘Until Chris Temple becomes frustrated.’

  ‘Has he emailed this video to you or Minette?’

  ‘No. He has shown it to me. He says he has made no copies.’

  ‘That’s a lie, of course.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. So, here’s the thing I’ve learned from my, you know, deep study into the criminal mind and so on. There’s the first decision point: pay or don’t pay.’

  ‘She will not be his slave.’

  ‘Which brings us to the many ways to stop him. The first is to steal the video. Unfortunately he could have it parked anywhere in the Cloud. The second method is to scare the shit out of him. The third is to kill him. So, really just those three ways. And in case you’re in any doubt, number three is a really bad idea.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with clear regret. ‘But how does one “scare the shit” out of a rich movie star?’

  ‘Well … I may know a guy.’

  ‘And what would you require in return?’

  I looked thoughtful as I drifted briefly into fantasy world. In return? The possibilities were endless and all pretty contemptible, frankly. For a knight in shining armor.

  I waved it off with my wounded hand and squelched a whimper of pain. ‘Nothing. Come on, what kind of guy do you think I am that I’d try to profit from some asshole’s criminal behavior?’

  Totally straight face. Delivered with convincing sincerity. Sometimes I amaze myself.

  This was Chante’s cue to thank me profusely and apologize for her obvious contempt for me. Instead she said, ‘You have been injured.’

  ‘Oh, this?’ I raised my bandaged hand gingerly. ‘I tripped and cut myself. Banged my face up a bit, too.’ Rather than wait for her disbelieving sneer, I pushed on. ‘When can I get close to this Chris Temple guy?’

  Chante leaned forward, pulled a card from her back pocket and pushed it to me. ‘Minette mentioned a party, you may remember. She is very generous and has arranged a fund-raising party for several NGOs. Tomorrow night. Everyone will be there.’

  At which point, she just stood up and walked away.

  The invitation was for David Mitre, plus one. I had a plus-one in mind, if he’d do it. And if I was available, which was very much in doubt at the moment, because I had decided on my next move and it was pretty damn likely to end up with me in handcuffs.

  NINETEEN

  It was in a Washington, DC parking garage in 1972 that a source who would come to be known as Deep Throat, but was in reality FBI associate director Mark Felt, spoke the three most useful words in the history of investigation: ‘Follow the money.’

  Follow. The. Money.

  Qui bono? Who benefits?

  My WhatsApp dinged.

  Me: Yeah?

  Not Me: Your boy K. has account at Bank of Cyprus. CC: Amex and Visa. Monthly mortgage paym
ent: $1,200. Car payment on Hyundai: $125. Total debt: $3,297 excl: mortg. Credit rating: 744.

  Me: And?

  Not Me: And fuck all. Groceries and shit. Kids clothing. Meals. Car repair. Normal shit. Googled him, rooted around dark web. Nothing but newspaper clips.

  Me: Shoot me some links.

  He did. I spent some time going over the history of Cyril Kiriakou, reading news articles awkwardly translated by Google. He’d busted a couple of local drug rings. He’d solved an extortion case. Seven years ago, he’d solved the murder of a sex worker. Four years ago, he’d arrested an art forger on an Interpol warrant.

  All this proved only that Kiriakou was a cop. If he was a bent cop, he was being damn prudent about hiding his money. He was too chubby to be a serious drug addict. Gambling? He didn’t read as a gambler to me, not jumpy enough. So. Had Joumanou lied? Made up a name? Settled a score with a cop? Was Father Fotos confused? Was Theo talking rot? Had Kiriakou’s interest in me been innocent?

  I had followed the money for Kiriakou and it had led me nowhere. But this was still all about money, had to be. My credit bureau source did not have access to Kiriakou’s income records, just his credit card expenditures. If Kiriakou was on the take, the cash had to go somewhere, and by somewhere I did not mean a Cypriot bank. The AZX Bank, perhaps? And if I assumed the source of Kiriakou’s presumptive bentedness was Russian, the Russian bank might lead back to him. Ditto Panagopolous and ExMil.

  Were the streams crossing? I sighed.

  Deep, deep sigh, because if I wanted to connect dollar-denominated dots, I needed to get into the AZX Bank’s computers. It was a fishing expedition, but with two specific targets, Kiriakou and Panagopolous and who knew, maybe the gods would favor me and hand me a nice, neat connection between the two.

  I would be Delia’s hero. And then, having solved both of her cases, she would jet off to Rome and I would consider where to run next. Bangkok? Rio? Amsterdam? Each had stunning women, but Amsterdam had better restaurants. I’d had an amazing dinner with superb wine pairings at Vermeer in Amsterdam.

  Which was not relevant, really.

  I drove to Limassol, an actual city of 175,000, with tallish buildings and traffic jams and street beggars. It faces southeast from the bottom of Cyprus, and were you in one of the waterfront office buildings you could look out over the B1, the wide main drag which has a Greek name involving too many syllables, across the promenade, the boulder beach, the water, and if you had exceptional eyesight and perfect weather, you might see Lebanon.

  The AZX Bank was deeper toward the center of town. I drove around until I found street parking – paid parking creates evidence in the form of tickets, credit-card receipts and the memories of attendants. And I might need my car in a hurry.

  I had scoped the area out ahead of time online and had identified three local places that might be useful watering holes. Two were distinctly Greek. One had a more sophisticated look and a name meant to separate it from the herd: Matryoshka. Not a Greek name, that. And according to TripAdvisor it was more expensive but had an excellent selection of vodkas. The guy I was looking for would want sophisticated, not working class, and he’d want vodka. Presumably.

  I considered a walk-through at the bank, but my only readily-available disguise was a stocking cap and banks are not friendly toward men in stocking caps when the temperature outside is August in Alabama. So, I did the prudent and easy thing and installed myself in a dark side-table in Matryoshka and ordered a glass of Fikardos Shiraz and a bottle of sparkling water. I tasted the wine – quite good – but drank the water. The night promised physical exertion, likely including some fleeing, and wine wasn’t going to help.

  Cypriot banks close at 2:30. I figured an hour, hour and a half past that, and sure enough around four p.m., the quick-one-before-I-head-home crowd had started to come in. A gratifying number of them were wearing suits and carrying briefcases.

  I was looking for a Russian speaker with followers, because when the Big Deal goes for a drink he’s generally got at least two toadies in tow. But that was a thin reed, and the potential for error was ridiculous. If I found my Big Deal Russian he might not be from the bank down the block, he might work for Aeroflot or be a vodka salesman, so I had to give close consideration to details of style. Good, expensive tailoring, but nothing flashy. He’d wear a watch, a TAG Heuer maybe, something that said to bank customers, ‘money’ but not ‘your money.’ A white guy. Broad face, distinct cheekbones, and an expression of sullen discontent. Nice suit, expensive watch and shoes, air of resentment. Not exactly a photograph, that, but it gave me the parameters of what to look for.

  My first target sat with three men in the table next to mine, where I could overhear and not understand, a conversation in Greek.

  My second guess looked the part until I followed him into the restroom and discovered that he was circumcised. (The things I do …) Muslims, Jews and most Americans are circumcised, but not Russians.

  And then someone did come in trailing not two but three toadies and had, yes, the broad face, the cheekbones, the slightly slanted eyes, the good tailoring and pricey shoes. Pricey high-heeled shoes.

  She was perhaps forty with blonde hair pulled back into a graceful shape like a conch shell. She wore a designer knock-off gray wool suit with a knee-length skirt. And yes, she did look sullenly discontented, as did the three younger men who trailed her. Each of the three had an identical briefcase; one was carrying an extra briefcase, a finer model, Versace no less. The woman carried nothing but herself, and she did a pretty fair job of it.

  There are times for planning, and there are times for instinct. I stood up, plastered on a big ol’ American grin and walked right up to her to say ‘Howdy.’

  ‘Hi! Are you Tatiana?’

  She stopped dead. Did a double-take, and shook her head. ‘No. I am not.’

  ‘Oh! Damn. The description matches … are you with Alexander the Great Trucking?’ Before she could answer, I took a step back, looked her up and down and snapped my fingers. ‘No. Of course not, you are way too classy for a trucking company. What am I thinking? You must be like …’ I paused. And she let me pause because she sort of wanted to know what she looked like. ‘I’d say … architect? No, wait. Are you in fashion?’

  ‘Fashion?’ She did not smile. That alone did not make her Russian, but the way she pronounced ‘feshyon?’ hinted at it. Her acolytes stood back, none venturing to play the protective male role, none responding as if she was their territory. All three slightly troubled by my effrontery.

  ‘Well, I didn’t mean fashion model, though you could be that, too. I was thinking more of someone who owned a fashion company. I’m sorry.’ I made a self-deprecating face and shrugged. ‘I’m really sorry, I amuse myself trying to guess what people do. I should have known right away you weren’t Tatiana, or from a trucking company, my God. I mean …’ I looked appreciative and admiring.

  ‘I am not your Tatiana,’ she said. ‘I am a banker.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, drawing the syllable out like I was being shown a glimpse of a sacred scroll. ‘Again: so sorry.’

  I went back to my table and made a show of checking the time. Then scrolling through text messages. Then did a ‘dammit’ face and went to the bar. ‘I’m in the wrong place. Is there a bar called Sousami near here?’

  I settled my tab, went outside and found a convenient lurking spot. One of the advantages of smoking cigars – or cigarettes, I suppose, though those things will kill you – is that you can lurk outside any building without looking suspicious so long as you exhale smoke.

  An hour later, my banker friend emerged, minus two subordinates. Her remaining helper walked her to the AZX Bank building, carrying her Versace briefcase. At the entrance he gave her back said briefcase. She entered the glass doors, walked to the elevator, punched the ‘down’ button, and as the doors closed on her I saw she was fishing car keys from her bag.

  I raced to my car and drove the block back to the bank arriving just
seconds after a green Lexus emerged from underground parking.

  I followed on a twenty-minute drive up into the hills. I hung back as we left the A6 and motored down surface roads to an upscale development of cookie-cutter villas crammed cheek by jowl. I looked up the name of the development and yes it was tied to a major Russian developer. Russians are hot to buy property in Cyprus, preferably property that adds up to more than two million euros because then you can get Cypriot citizenship and full access to the EU in just six months. It’s like the first-class line at the airport: working folks wait, rich folks jump ahead.

  But this was not a two-million-euro property, this was a mere, oh, three-hundred-grand villa nestled in an enclave of same. I turned around and drove some distance away before parking near an apartment block and returning on foot.

  It was not hard to find the green Lexus.

  I walked slowly past, running scenarios in my head. Getting in should be no problem. She might not even lock her doors. If she did, she still might not lock her windows. And if she locked her ground-floor windows she might not lock the second-floor windows. I did not want to use a crowbar, that would raise all kinds of alarm. Nor did I want to spend long minutes exposed as I squatted before Tatiana’s front door fiddling with a lock pick.

  She might take a long, hot bath. She might not. She might cook herself a meal. She might not. She might be changing for a night on the town. Or not.

  I had used up my innocent strolling time and if I hung around any longer we’d be into ‘casing the target’ time. For that I would have to wait for full dark.

  I walked back to my car, considered driving off, but decided to leave the car and find a restaurant on foot. Yet another First Rule of Sophisticated Burglary: don’t leave your car near the target. Why? Because your jobs as a burglar are: 1) Don’t get caught, 2) Don’t escalate, 3) Make enough profit to justify the risk and, 4) Don’t help the cops by providing evidence. Cars have make, model, color, a license plate and a VIN. They are the second most dangerous piece of technology you can own after a smart phone. Make sure any car traceable to you stays outside the likely police canvas zone.