Evolution of Fear

by Paul E. Hardisty

  ‘Don’t worry, broer. She’s–’ Clay stumbled, stopped. She’s what? Rania’s lover? Future godmother to their child? Fucking third peg in a ménage à trois? ‘She’s okay,’ he said.

  Crowbar looked at Hope and continued in English: ‘Your research place, just down here at Lara Beach.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Hope leant forward in her chair. ‘Know what?’

  ‘It was ransacked two nights ago, destroyed. Equipment wrecked, windows smashed, documents taken, that nice new Toyota Hilux torched.’

  Hope’s eyes widened. Even in the dim firelight Clay could see initial disbelief give way to the body blow of bad news. Her face crumpled.

  ‘No one was hurt,’ said Crowbar.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Clay. ‘Who did it?’

  Crowbar stood, stretched his shoulders, twisted his torso in a slow arc back and forth, as if he were limbering up for a fight. ‘I did.’

  30

  Tears for Wool

  Hope gasped. ‘You?’

  Clay stood, squared up to his old platoon commander, waited for an intelligible answer.

  Crowbar raised his hands and sat back in his chair. ‘Look, I’m trying to help, ja.’

  ‘By smashing up her research station? Are you fucking crazy, Koevoet?’

  ‘Ja, definitely.’

  Hope leapt up and open-palmed Crowbar across the face. The crack of skin on skin pierced the night air.

  Crowbar sat unmoving.

  Hope looked at Clay, back at Crowbar. There were tears in her eyes. ‘Five years’ work, you asshole. That’s what that place was. It represents thousands of volunteer hours, irreplaceable funding painstakingly raised. And you walk in here like it’s just another…’ she stumbled. ‘…I don’t know, and tell me you’ve destroyed it. For heaven’s sake, why?’

  ‘It was my employer’s idea. Not mine, ooma,’ said Crowbar in English. The attempt at respect was lost on Hope.

  ‘You better start making some sense, oom,’ Clay said in Afrikaans.

  Crowbar rose from his chair, put a hand on Clay’s shoulder. ‘Look, Straker. I’m fokken here, aren’t I?’ he said, his voice calm, even.

  ‘Who are you working for, Koevoet?’

  ‘A friend of yours. Same one tried to kill you in Istanbul.’

  Clay’s throat tightened. ‘Regina Medved.’

  Crowbar nodded.

  Clay sensed the movement of Crowbar’s torso, the coil as he shifted his weight to his back foot. He just had time to turn his head through thirty degrees before the blow fell.

  Crowbar’s huge right fist ploughed into Clay’s cheekbone, sending him spinning to the ground. Clay landed hard, his left shoulder and hip taking the brunt of the fall. To his surprise he was still conscious.

  Hope screamed, started moving towards the house. Crowbar put out a big, hairy arm and stopped her dead.

  Clay put his hand to his face, felt the bruise coming up. Nothing was broken; no teeth missing. Normally, a bareknuckle blow from Koevoet meant fractured bones, concussion.

  Crowbar stood above him, a grin as big as the African sky spreading across his face. ‘I’ve waited a long time to do that, ja.’ He reached down and held out his hand.

  ‘Jesus, Koevoet.’ Clay reached up.

  Crowbar hauled him to his feet, inspected the welt growing on Clay’s face. ‘With the burns and the shot, that looks lekker, ja?’ he said in Afrikaans.

  Hope stepped back, her way still barred by Crowbar’s arm. She seemed to have recovered somewhat, now stood hands on hips. ‘Either speak in a language I can understand, and tell me what the hell is going on, or get out,’ she hissed. ‘Both of you.’

  Crowbar sat back in his chair as if nothing had happened, took a sip of beer. Clay and Hope looked at each other. Clay shrugged, sat. So did Hope.

  In his heavily accented, stuttering English, Crowbar started to explain. While Clay and Hope had been north, he’d met with an old contact in the shipping business in Limassol. Crowbar had used him a number of times in his DCC days to ship ‘goods’ from Israel via Yemen to South Africa, in contravention of international sanctions. Israeli weapons, such as the famous Galil assault rifle, later produced domestically by Armscor as the R4, were the backbone of the SADF armoury during the Border War. His contact, who did a lot of work with the Russians in Cyprus (‘and I mean, a lot,’ said Crowbar) had confirmed that Regina Medved was on the island, meeting with the heads of her various businesses. Crowbar had managed to meet, if not with the dowager herself, with her number-two man, in Limassol, two days before. As a result of that meeting, he now worked ‘on contract’ for the Medved family empire. Smashing the research station had been his first task.

  Crowbar finished his beer and put the empty bottle on the floor between his feet. ‘I don’t know where Rania is, Straker. But I can tell you, Regina Medved doesn’t have her. She just put a one-million-dollar price on Rania’s head.’

  Fear detonated inside Clay’s chest, tore through him like fragments of mortar casing.

  ‘And something else. The reward for Zdravko Todorov has just gone up. Two million dead, three alive. Same as you. I think she wants to have some fun with him before they kill him.’ He glanced over at Hope, leaned in close to Clay, whispered. ‘They say she gets off on torture. Likes to watch.’

  Clay looked up at him.

  ‘I mean, literally. She masturbates while they torture the bastards.’

  Clay sat up, took a deep breath.

  By now Hope was sobbing quietly in her chair, Punk’s sweater hanging from her thin frame like a lost dream.

  Crowbar stood, started towards the doorway, ‘Beer, Straker?’ he said, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Clay looked at Hope. ‘No wonder Rania disappeared.’

  Hope looked up through her tears. ‘But she hasn’t abandoned us.’

  Clay nodded. Us.

  Crowbar reappeared with two cold Keo grasped in one hand, a 35mm camera with an externally fitted flash hanging by its strap from the other. He handed Clay a beer. Clay put it on the table next to the other one he’d hardly touched.

  ‘So why would Medved want me to destroy your research station?’ Crowbar asked Hope, cracking the top of his beer. ‘What has she got against you?’

  ‘I’ve never met the woman. All I know about her is from the news. A reclusive oddball oligarch obsessed with Orthodox Christian mythology, another of the great Russian carpetbaggers.’ Hope wiped her face with the sleeve of Punk’s jumper. More tears for wool. She looked at Clay. ‘What has she got against you?’

  Clay shrugged.

  ‘He killed her brother,’ said Crowbar.

  Clay shot him a stare.

  Crowbar frowned. ‘You said she was okay.’

  ‘I am okay,’ said Hope. ‘And after yesterday, I’m not surprised either.’

  ‘Is it because of the Commission?’ said Clay.

  Hope leaned forward. ‘Why would Regina Medved care about the Commission?’

  ‘Have you heard of a company called EcoDev?’ said Crowbar, fiddling with the camera.

  ‘Sure,’ said Hope. ‘It’s one of the biggest, most successful property development outfits in Cyprus. Arch rivals of my friend Nicos Chrisostomedes.’ She exhaled through pursed lips. ‘EcoDev has started the application process for a major resort just west of here, at Toxeflora Beach in the Agamas. It’ll never go ahead, though, because it’s on Turkish-owned land that has been incorporated into the proposed Agamas National Park, and because, after Lara Beach, it’s the last and most important remaining turtle-nesting beach in Greek Cyprus. So yes, the Commission is going to want to speak to EcoDev.’

  ‘Being in the park didn’t stop the Alassou Resort going ahead,’ said Clay.

  ‘That was one of Chrisostomedes’ deals,’ said Hope. ‘Also on Turkish land.’

  Clay thought back to his meeting with Erkan, right after Rania had disappeared. ‘According to Erkan, that deal was “facilitated” b
y Minister Dimitriou. Even Erkan was in on it.’

  Hope looked at him quizzically. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I have proof.’

  Hope stared out into the night for a moment. ‘If word ever got out that Chrisostomedes had colluded with Erkan, it would mean the end for his business here. He’d become a pariah. People here have long memories and they don’t forgive. As for Dimitriou, his political career would be over.’ Then she reached to the ground, picked up the crumpled letter and started to unfold it. ‘Now this makes sense,’ she breathed, smoothing out the paper and handing it to Clay.

  Hope caught a breath. ‘It’s from Nicos Chrisostomedes. He wants me to join him for dinner the day after tomorrow at his mansion in the Troodos Mountains. He wants to discuss making a major donation to the research station.’

  Clay looked at the date. Yesterday. ‘I thought…’

  ‘Yes,’ Hope interrupted. ‘I’ve been highly critical of him in the media.’

  ‘When he wrote this he would have known that the station had been destroyed. Sounds like he wants to show you his caring, benevolent side, before the enquiry starts.’

  ‘Obviously,’ muttered Hope. ‘It’s so transparent it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Are you going to go?’

  ‘I’m not so stupid as to think I can find the kind of money he’s talking about through the grants system – not a second time. Although I can’t possibly imagine how this can work. He wants to develop Lara Beach, I want to protect it. But yes, I’m going. I’d be crazy not to.’

  Crowbar stood, faced Clay, brought the camera up to his face. ‘Put your hands behind the chair, ja,’ he said. ‘Try to look pissed off.’

  ‘I am pissed off.’

  ‘Good, ja.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing, Koevoet?’

  ‘Your hands.’

  ‘Hand.’

  Crowbar smiled. ‘Your arms then, soutpiel. Behind, like you’re tied.’

  Clay put his arms behind the chair, stared into the lens, understanding.

  Crowbar hit the shutter button. The flash pulsed.

  Just then, Hope’s mobile phone buzzed. She flipped it open, listened a moment, eyes widening. She started to speak but stopped short. ‘Yes,’ she said, listened again. ‘I understand.’ A few seconds later she closed her phone and looked at Clay. ‘That was Rania’s office. They’ve received a message from her.’

  31

  This, You Were Given

  Hope smiled big like love. He could see it there on her face, in every contracted muscle, in the heat coming from her flushed cheeks, that exothermic reaction over which she had no control going off inside her like rockets.

  ‘She wants to meet you, Clay,’ she said, breathless. ‘Tomorrow afternoon at the Mephistos copper mine waste pits in the Troodos. Three o’clock.’

  ‘Slow down, Hope,’ said Clay. ‘Who was it you spoke to?’

  ‘Someone called Hamour, from AFP’s Istanbul desk. He said you knew each other.’

  ‘Was he sure it was her?’

  ‘He said the message came with the story that she filed yesterday. It was attached as an addendum, with my phone number, asking him to pass the message on through me. He’s been trying to reach me since then. That’s all he said.’ Hope shook her head. ‘Why wouldn’t she just call me herself?’

  ‘If she’s trying to hide, she’s not going to call anyone. Was there anything else in the message?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure.’

  ‘That was it. Just meet her at the mine tomorrow.’

  Clay looked at his watch. ‘That gives us about fifteen hours.’

  ‘Do you know this place?’ said Crowbar.

  ‘I’ve been there once before,’ said Clay. ‘A local environmental group asked me to do some chemical testing on the waste pits a couple of years ago. Rania knew that – I told her about it. It’s an isolated place, on the western side of the mountains. No vehicle access. A good ten clicks walk to get in there, pretty rugged country.’

  ‘How far from here?’

  ‘About five hours’ drive, another couple walking.’

  Crowbar put his beer on the table. ‘Then we’d better get moving, broer. Now. Anyone picks a place like that to meet, ja, it’s because someone else is interested.’

  ‘You have plenty of time,’ said Hope.

  ‘We’re going to get there nice and early, ooma, make sure that if Rania does show, we have her covered. And if someone else shows up, we’ll ask ’em a few impolite questions.’

  Hope looked at Clay. ‘What is this ooma?’

  Clay grinned at Crowbar. ‘It means old lady.’

  Hope’s expression hardened. She glared at Crowbar.

  ‘Kak, Straker, fokken roerder,’ Crowbar said in Afrikaans. And then in English, to Hope: ‘No, that’s wrong. It doesn’t mean…’

  Hope said nothing, just stared up at him.

  ‘It’s respect,’ blurted Crowbar. ‘Fok, Straker. Tell her.’

  Clay said nothing.

  ‘You’re not old,’ said Crowbar, fidgeting now. Clay had never seen him like this, was enjoying it.

  Hope played him, stood expressionless. After a moment a hint of a smile crept across her face. ‘Why, thank you, Mister Koofoot. Neither are you.’

  They had no way of knowing from which direction Rania would approach the mine. There were at least three road access points within ten kilometres of the pits, narrow gravel firebreaks that switch-backed between ancient black-trunked pines and gnarled scrub oak, snaked around crumbling, frayed rhyolite and marble cliffs, the mountainside scarred by the centuries-old quarryings of people long dead, Ottomans, Romans.

  They decided to leave Clay’s rental car in Agios Psemanitos, a tiny, near-abandoned village about twenty kilometres west of the mine, and track around to the eastern approaches in Crowbar’s Pajero. By the time they had hidden the 4WD two hundred metres into the forest, behind the boulders of an ancient landslide, the sun was up and the last of the shadows were edging from the deep valleys. It gave them the best part of eight hours before Rania’s appointed time.

  It took them less than two hours’ hard walking to reach the mine site.

  Clay stood beside the largest of the pits and stared down into the copper sulphate sterility of the bright-blue water. The air had that crushed, burnt smell of sulphides, the latent sweetness of molybdenum, an undertone of pine resin breaking through now and again as the breeze swirled through the valley. A faded metal sign swung from a rusted barbed-wire fence that ran with listing and fallen posts across the end of the pits towards an old adit entrance. A set of narrow-gauge rails, almost buried now, tracked from the adit across the open kill-zone that surrounded the pits and disappeared into the trees.

  Crowbar was on the bank between the two smaller pits. ‘Smart bokkie,’ he said, voice bouncing over the heavy, metal-rich sludge. ‘Nice field of fire.’

  Koevoet was right. From where he stood, Clay had a clear view at least a hundred metres in every direction. Not a bad spot if you wanted a private conversation. And yet of all the places she could have chosen, why here?

  Crowbar raised his field glasses, scanned the ridge above them, pointed up at the steep rock face. ‘That’s where I’ll be, broer.’

  It took them almost half an hour to scramble to the top of the ridge. The slope rock was weathered, cubed, hot already in the midday sun. It disintegrated under their boots as they climbed, trickled back down the hill in rivers. Gnarled pine trees clung to the bands of marble and gneiss that jutted from the slope like ramparts, their twisted roots spreading like veins through the barren rock. How they survived here Clay could not imagine.

  They collapsed to the ground, sweating and panting. Clay looked back down to the pits, three blue sapphires sparkling in the sunshine. From here, he could see out across the whole spread of the mine workings, the old rail line snaking up the valley to the western approaches, mountains stretching away to a blue horizon in every direction.
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br />   Crowbar slung off his pack, fished out a water bottle, drank and offered it to Clay. Then he stood, walked along the ridge, disappeared momentarily behind a boulder the size of a small truck and reappeared. ‘Commanding,’ he said, pulling out his Beretta. ‘Great lines in every direction. No better place in the whole goddamn valley.’ He looked down at the pits. ‘I figure 350 metres, seun. Too far for me to help. But I can warn you, ja. Two quick shots from this, time for you to ontrek. RV at the Pajero.’

  Clay nodded at Crowbar, looked at his watch. Three and a half hours to go. He started back down the slope, the sun refracting through the edges of the treetops, strobing over him as he pushed his boots down through the rattling scree, and after all these years, that feeling again, of someone watching over you, an archangel. And, as he reached the base of the ridge and started towards the pits, he knew that everything had changed. And though he’d known it for days, it had been like so much else in his life – having the knowledge but not the understanding. You chose who you loved, or maybe they chose you. But a son, a daughter, you were given.

  He sat on the middle berm, in the epicentre of the pits where he could be clearly seen. He picked up a handful of the crushed mine tailings, let the stuff fall from his hand and waited. He thought about her disappearance from the hotel that day, the note she’d left, wondered about her leaving, about Spearpoint that day on the street outside the hotel in Istanbul – had he been one of Medved’s informants? Had he been the one who’d called in the assassins whose bodies were now rotting at the bottom of the Med? The things she’d said to him that last morning they were together replayed now in his head. Justice isn’t an event, she’d said. It isn’t something you do once. There is no end to it. Forgiveness, you earn.

  In a couple of long hours, he’d see her again.

  A cold wind blew through the valley. Clouds the size of mountain villages drifted high over the peaks. Shadow passed over the ridge, cooled the surface of the ponds from molten copper to glacier blue. He closed his eyes, breathed.