Evolution of Fear

by Paul E. Hardisty

‘I am very sorry for what happened,’ said Clay.

  Erkan’s wife inclined her head.

  ‘The interview,’ said Clay. ‘You were trying to help us.’

  ‘The only way I could.’

  Erkan’s wife gripped her husband’s arm, put her lips to his ear, whispered something. He patted her arm, continued. ‘They were going to kill Mademoiselle Moulinbecq, after she returned to Cyprus. I tried to warn her. I thought you were…’ He trailed off. ‘I thought you might be one of hers.’

  ‘Medved.’

  ‘The Devil, Mister Greene. There is no other explanation.’

  Clay closed his eyes. You don’t understand, he thought. I didn’t either, for a long time. For years I searched for someone else to blame. But now it is clear. There is no devil. There never was. There are only people. ‘That’s why you insisted Rania come alone,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. But I was betrayed by one of my oldest employees.’

  ‘The chauffeur.’

  ‘Never would I have believed it. He had been with me for over twelve years. I haven’t seen him since that day.’ Erkan winced in pain, indicated the two body guards lying on the floor. ‘These, at least, are loyal.’

  ‘Help us now,’ said Clay. ‘You can make it right.’

  ‘I didn’t want to do any of it,’ Erkan said. ‘The Greek properties were not ours to take. I tried to tell her, but she insisted. They were the best sites, the best beaches, the most valuable. Regina made it happen. She bribed politicians here in the north, silenced dissenters. That’s how she works. No one is safe. And when the environmentalists started bringing pressure through the EU and the UN to protect the nesting beaches, she developed a plan to make that go away, too.’

  ‘The poison dosing lines.’

  Erkan nodded. ‘And the acoustics.’

  ‘Are they still in operation at your sites in Karpasia?’

  Erkan hung his head. ‘You must understand. This is where I spent summers as a boy. These beaches, the sea,’ he waved the gun in a long arc, ‘all of this. It is God’s holy creation, his perfection. What I have done is a sin, and I will burn for it, I know. But I had no choice.’ There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘There is always a choice.’ Something Rania said to him once.

  ‘No, Mister Greene. You are wrong.’ Erkan twisted half around, faced the back of the room. ‘Anastasia, come out.’

  A girl appeared from behind the couch. She was wearing a pink-and-blue flowered party dress. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied with pink ribbons. Tears streaked her pre-adolescent face. She had her mother’s beautiful bone structure and light complexion.

  ‘This is why they were here, Mister Greene, or whatever your name is. They have already taken my son. If I do not continue to serve, they will take my daughter.’

  How young she looked, Clay thought, how frightened. ‘Testify,’ he said. ‘Tell the world what Regina’s doing here, doing to your family. The authorities will be forced to act. It’s the only way.’

  Erkan raised his chin, Turkish for ‘no’. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Help me, and I’ll help you.’

  ‘How can you possibly help me?’

  ‘She wants me dead, Mister Erkan. She’s put a price on my head.’

  Erkan’s eyes widened.

  ‘I killed her brother.’

  ‘Then you are already dead.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Clay. ‘But not if I kill her first.’

  For just a moment, Clay thought he saw a glimmer in Erkan’s eyes. But then it was gone and Erkan was staring at him, lips pursed, jaw clenched. ‘No, Mister Greene. You cannot help me.’ He raised the pistol. ‘Now, get out of my house.’

  This was the price you paid. A cost quoted in options foregone, in freedoms lost, in principles and beliefs abandoned. It would be so easy from here: hire a boat, sail to Turkey or one of the Greek islands, and disappear. He had money, documents, weapons. He knew places where no one would ever find him, not Medved, certainly not the government of Cyprus. But he no longer had a choice, just as Erkan didn’t have a choice. And he could no more fight against it than change his blood type or the colour of his eyes. He had to go back. And he would have to testify.

  Clay put his open palm on his chest. ‘None of us are saints, Mister Erkan. And she’s not the Devil.’ And then he turned his back on the father and the mother and the daughter and went out the way he came in.

  55

  Death Comes Soon Enough

  The old man did come back with the car. Three and a half hours later they reached the eastern outskirts of Turkish Nicosia – much smaller and less built up than the Greek part of the city. They trundled through deserted, half-lit streets, the twin grafted minarets of the Semiliye mosque – previously the Cathédrale Sainte Sophie – reaching heavenward from the clutter of the sleeping city. After a while they left the town behind and emerged into a country of crumbling stone walls and ancient dust-covered olive groves. The old man turned south, towards the border. A kilometre or so on, he left the paved road and switched off the headlights, continuing in darkness along a twisting, barely discernible track that skirted the base of a rock-strewn mesa. Progress was slow. The car lurched and scraped over ruts and potholes. Clay winced with each creak of the old car’s suspension, each crash of stone against steel, clamour enough to wake every Turkish soldier in Cyprus, to bring spirits up from their tombs.

  And then, finally, silence. They sat side by side in the old car, nestled in the moon-shadow of a clutch of tangled cacti.

  ‘I can go no further,’ said the old man. ‘Follow this track.’ He pointed into the night. ‘The UN wire is not far. You must hurry. It is almost five o’clock. Go with God, young man. You are in need of him.’

  Him again.

  They shook hands in the darkness, the barest hint of grey showing in the eastern sky. Clay thanked the old man for all he had done in this matter, for the risks he had taken, and wished him long life. The old man smiled, his teeth and the whites of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. He put his hand on Clay’s cheek and held it there a moment as if Clay were a little boy, a grandson. The smell of tobacco smoke seeping from his long, bony fingers.

  ‘Find peace, young man,’ he said. ‘Death comes soon enough.’

  They shook hands again and the old man drove away, leaving Clay alone in the moon-altered country contemplating the veracity of this last statement and the kindness from which it had sprung.

  Hope met him as planned back inside the UN base. She was alone. Her hair was up, her eyes set off by a shallow-water scarf and sea-blue jacket. He got into her car, and soon they were through the main gate and into the Nicosia backstreets.

  ‘Erkan isn’t going to testify,’ Clay said after a while. ‘I think he wants to, but he’s scared.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Hope.

  She reached into her purse and produced an envelope. She handed it to Clay. ‘This is your Presidential special executive order,’ she said

  It was all in Greek. ‘Not a full pardon, I’m guessing?’

  ‘It allows Declan Greene to testify. When you are done, you’ll be taken into custody by the Cyprus police.’

  Clay pulled in oxygen. ‘You were expecting this.’

  Hope nodded as she shifted gear, turned onto Digenis Avenue. ‘It was the best I could do.’

  ‘Where’s Crowbar?’ he said.

  ‘Still looking for Maria.’ Ten minutes later they were approaching the Ledra Palace Hotel, now HQ of Sector 2 UNFICYP and the venue for the joint commission. A throng of protestors crowded the wire on both sides of the Greek Cypriot guard post, shouting and waving placards.

  Someone hammered the side of the car with an open palm as they passed.

  ‘They are for Chrisostomedes,’ said Hope. ‘People are very upset about the rumoured deal to swap Turkish and Greek land.’

  At the gate, Hope showed her pass. They’d just been waved through when her mobile phone rang. She raised it to her ear, glanced at Clay as she turned the ca
r into a parking space marked ‘reserved – commissioner’. The lot was nearly full.

  ‘Rania’s still in intensive care,’ she said, dropping her phone in her handbag and shutting down the engine. ‘They’ll call me as soon as there is news.’

  Clay stared out through the car window at the hotel’s crumbling façade, let this uncertainty churn through him. He’d tried to see Rania when he’d got back to the base, but the doctors weren’t allowing her visitors.

  Hope reached over and took his hand. For a long time she didn’t say anything, just sat there beside him, running the palp of her thumb back and forth over the calloused ridges of his third and fourth knuckles as they watched the last few invited guests trickle into the hotel.

  ‘Ready?’ she whispered, finally.

  ‘Not really,’ he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the gravel.

  Hope led him past the throng of protestors towards the Islamic-arched front entrance of the hotel. Once the pinnacle of luxury in Cyprus, twenty years of boot heels and neglect had left the place looking and smelling more like a rundown Cairo train station. They passed through the lobby, over scuffed, unpolished marble, past milling delegates. An attractive young woman in a dark jacket and slit skirt, a pile of documents clutched to her breast, schoolgirl-style, followed him with a smile in her eyes. Her thick, dark hair and something about the way she stood and held her head reminded him of Rania. He met her gaze for a moment, but she glanced at his stump and looked away with a frown.

  At the conference room doors, Hope stopped and touched Clay’s elbow. ‘I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you are doing, Clay.’ She went up on her toes and kissed him.

  The conference room was full. Easily a hundred and fifty people seated in rows of chairs, more lining the walls, half a dozen TV cameras on tripods trained on the main front podium. Someone had pried open a couple of windows along the garden-facing wall behind the podium, but the thin gasp of air that managed to slip into the room was quickly lost in the claustrophobia of sweating bodies.

  Hope led him to the front of the audience and indicated an empty chair. Clay lowered himself slowly into its sculpted concavity, feeling the sutures on the backs of his legs stretch and then compress against the hard plastic.

  Hope stepped up to the podium, sat behind the cloth-draped head table and faced the audience, the glare of the TV camera lights illuminating her face. Behind the podium, the flags of Cyprus, the UN, the EU, and the red-and-white stripes, star and crescent moon of the TRNC. To her left, a fine-jawed man with dark hair and severe eyebrows scribbled something in a notebook. The name plate before him read: Duplessis, European Union. To her right, Thornton of the United Nations, grey haired, mid-sixties, Clay guessed, a man of obvious experience.

  Off to the side of the podium was an elevated wooden platform arranged with a single white plastic chair and a microphone – the witness stand.

  Thornton blew into the microphone, invited the audience to turn off their mobile phones and opened the day’s proceedings. The first witness of the day was called.

  Dressed in a dark jacket and tie, his left leg in a cast, Nicos Chrisostomedes planted and swung his way to the stand on a pair of crutches. His mouth was set in a flat line of pain. Sweat pooled in the deep parallels channelling his forehead. He sat, stated his name and was invited to continue his testimony.

  The audience fell quiet.

  ‘Commissioners, ladies and gentlemen, I apologise.’ Chrisostomedes adjusted the microphone. ‘Yesterday, I was unable to attend because I was in hospital. I have received some bad news. My doctors have told me that without these,’ he raised one of his crutches for all to see, ‘I may never walk again.’

  A moan from the audience, then silence. Cameras whirred and clicked.

  He continued: ‘I tell you this not to gain your sympathy, but because it is of immediate relevance to these proceedings. The well-known journalist Lise Moulinbecq has for some weeks now been conducting her own investigations here in Cyprus. Her findings have been widely published. They corroborate all of my earlier testimony, including the devastating effect of coastal development in the north on sea-turtle populations. I have just heard from the police that Ms Moulinbecq disappeared a few days ago. During several interviews that she conducted with me, she shared with me that she feared for her life, that she had received death threats from Mohamed Erkan.’

  Murmurs from the audience.

  ‘In fact, I have just learned that Mademoiselle Moulinbecq’s aunt was kidnapped and brought to Cyprus by agents acting for Erkan. But Moulinbecq refused to be blackmailed, and continued to write the truth. Police found her aunt yesterday, in Limassol, dead in the boot of a car.’

  Chrisostomedes turned and faced Clay. ‘Today you will hear from a new witness, a close colleague of Doctor Bachmann, a Mister Declan Greene. He is in the audience now.’ Chrisostomedes pointed at Clay and glared. ‘Less than a week ago, this man held a loaded gun to my head and threatened my life.’

  A hundred indrawn breaths.

  ‘And after a desperate struggle, he shot me in the leg, before fleeing like a coward.’ A long pause, Chrisostomedes letting it sink in, basking in the sympathy. ‘He is a Turkish Islamic agent.’

  Two police officers, stationed at the back of the room, started to move through the crowd towards Clay.

  Clay took a deep breath. Shit. Here we go.

  Hope covered her microphone, leaned towards Thornton and spoke into his ear, sliding a document across the table to him. Thornton glanced down at the paper a moment and then asked the policemen to approach the dais. The cops considered the paper and then moved off to one side. The pair stood with thumbs looped in belts, staring at Clay.

  Chrisostomedes now produced a thick manila folder. An orderly shuttled it to the dais and placed it before the commissioners. ‘Before you is the official police record of Mister Declan Greene. As you can see, he entered Cyprus illegally ten days ago. And where do you suppose he came from?’ A pause for effect now, long enough for the obvious to dawn. ‘He came, ladies and gentlemen, from Turkey, where he was observed meeting with Mohamed Erkan.’

  The audience erupted like a geyser, shouts and jeers flooding the room.

  Chrisostomedes continued. ‘He is wanted by Cyprus police for four murders, including the horrific slaying three nights ago of the curator of the Cyprus museum.’ He paused for effect. ‘The name he uses, Declan Greene, is an alias. By cross-referencing their records, the police have determined that his real name is Claymore Straker. Three years ago, he moved to Cyprus and set up an offshore business here. He was provided a legal work visa at the time. Four months ago, Claymore Straker was reported to have been killed in Yemen. At the time of his supposed death, Claymore Straker was classified by Interpol, the CIA and the Government of Yemen as a known Islamic terrorist, and was wanted for at least a dozen murders.’

  The room was silent. Just the whirr and click of cameras and voice recorders. Clay sank back in his chair. If he wasn’t before, he was truly fucked now.

  56

  Life

  Thornton tapped the microphone, faced Clay. ‘The witness will please state his name. His real name.’

  Clay knew there was only one course he could follow, one that ten years ago he had chosen to forsake, and had regretted ever since. Crowbar had been there that day, too, at the military tribunal, had shared in the lie they’d all told. He searched through the crowd for Crowbar, couldn’t see him. ‘My name is Claymore Straker.’

  ‘The Mister Straker recently reported killed in Yemen?’

  ‘Yes.’ Clay narrowed his eyes against an explosion of flashbulbs.

  ‘You should know, Mister Straker, that this Commission expresses great reservation in having you appear as a witness, given your status as a suspected murderer, both here and in Yemen. And while I stress that this Commission’s role is to investigate coastal development in Cyprus, and judging your previous actions will be left to a court of law, we will need to ask you q
uestions which, should you choose to answer, may incriminate yourself.’

  A low grumble from the audience.

  ‘I understand.’

  Thornton leaned forward.

  ‘Did you assault Minister Dimitriou in his home, as he claimed yesterday in his testimony?’

  Clay looked around the audience, all those people staring at him, the expectant looks on their faces. He breathed in, let it go. ‘Yes.’ A year for assault.

  Outrage from the crowd.

  ‘Did you shoot Mister Chrisostomedes in the leg as he claims?’

  ‘Yes.’ Two to three more for grievous bodily harm.

  More derision.

  ‘And Mister Straker, did you kill the four men who were found dead near the Green Line five days ago?’

  ‘Three of them, yes. But not the curator.’ Life.

  Thornton glanced at Duplessis, then at Hope. ‘So you agree with the account of events that Mister Chrisostomedes has given to this commission.’

  ‘I roughed up Dimitriou, yes. I shot Chrisostomedes. Other than that, everything they’ve told you is false.’

  Clay pushed his mouth to the microphone, spoke over the rising din. ‘Chrisostomedes kidnapped Lise Moulinbecq’s aunt, forced Lise to write a series of articles blaming Erkan for stealing Greek land in the north. When he no longer needed her, he killed her aunt and sold Lise to Regina Medved, the Russian oligarch. Medved had put a one-million-euro price on Moulinbecq’s head.’ He glared at Chrisostomedes, his best death-row stare. ‘God knows what’s become of her.’

  Chrisostomedes and half the audience were on their feet now, shouting, the other half seemed locked into a bemused silence. Thornton hammered the gavel and called for order. After a time the crowd settled, and Thornton took the microphone.

  ‘Mister Straker,’ he began, ‘you have confessed before this public enquiry to two assaults and three murders, all perpetrated here in Cyprus within the last few days. And now you produce for us a version of events diametrically opposed to that described to us by one of the nation’s elected officials and one of its most trusted businessmen. This Commission cannot consider you a credible witness.’