He knew he was postponing the moment. It was a personal axiom that anticipation enhanced pleasure. The longer he could extend his expectation, the greater the ultimate satisfaction.
He contemplated the package. What would be inside? His curiosity competed with his desire for anticipatory delay, and with his greed. The contradictions rose like a fire. He revelled in the sensations, both physical and psychological.
To prolong his anticipation, he pressed the control to lower the screen. Using his tablet, he selected a sculpture at random. Within seconds, an image of Benvenuto Cellini's Salt Cellar, cast for Francis I, appeared at about ten times its actual size. That was the advantage of a screen that measured five metres on the diagonal.
Tassos basked in Cellini's artistry. It was a feast for the eyes. Sumptuous beaten golden figures. He twiddled his finger on the control pad. The blown-up sculpture revolved while he admired it. It was such a pity Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum had it locked it down. Its delicacy would suit the top of one of his bookshelves.
After the Salt Cellar had made two complete circuits he killed the image. The screen hummed back into its place in the ceiling. It was time for his sharp knife to unseal the package. He indulged himself a few moments more, and waited.
The opening itself was mundane. He slit the end of the protective envelope. Inside was something in bubble wrap. It wasn't large. With care, he undid the plastic bubbles to find a small, blank wooden panel of about 25 by 15 centimetres. He would measure later for his records, if it was worthwhile.
He turned the panel over and gasped.
The face of Agios Nikolaos, or San Nicola di Bari, stared out at him. An icon from, he reflected, probably the post-Byzantine period in Cyprus. That meant the sixteenth century.
It wasn't in perfect condition around the edges. But it was good, very good.
He evaluated St Nicholas. There was greater humanity present than in pure Byzantine works of earlier centuries. He blended the Orthodox, severe and representational, with the more human Lusignan/Venetian traditions.
The icon was a gem. He wondered from where it had come. Was it another one 'rescued in the name of Christ' from the Turks in the north? Which raised a difficulty. Should he keep it or pass it on?
His gut commanded him to keep it after less than ten minutes' appreciation. San Nicola charmed him.
His head instructed him to sell and obtain the maximum he could from one of the 'quiet collectors', those cognoscenti who ignored legalities to amass prized originals for their own personal, utterly private delectation.
Whatever he decided, he would photograph the icon and incorporate it into his image collection. In this way, he would 'have' it forever, though that wouldn't be the same as possession of the original. But he could be much richer.
He sat back to commune with Agios Nikolaos. Though not his own name saint, he was a favourite, a fourth-century bishop who was patron of, among others, sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, children, brewers, pawnbrokers and various students across Europe.
For over an hour, he enjoyed the worthy saint before pulling himself together. He must eat and shower in anticipation of his assignation. He placed his acquisition in the safe store, hidden with exquisite discretion, behind his systems closet.
As he ate, he reflected. He had an appointment with Dmitriy. A bank board meeting was to follow. Might Dmitriy know of a suitable Russian collector?
He hadn't shared his art sideline with Dmitriy. Given that he planned to offer the bank board or its members the opportunity to invest in the SinCard franchise, might this offer a parallel path to pry wide the wallet of a new customer?
He warmed to the idea. It combined discretion and income, the most sensuous of mixes. Without realising he rubbed his immaculate, manicured hands in anticipated joy. The icon would intensify this evening's gratification. He had no doubt about that.
Larnaca/Limassol (Cyprus)
Kjersti rode the bus from the plane to the terminal. In minutes she had her rucksack: she'd travelled light, without her usual assembly of running kit. Any exercise she pursued here would be gentle compared to the Trek. A brief shudder overtook her when she recalled the days climbing the Troodos Mountains and Costas's distress.
She made her way through Customs. In the Arrivals hall stood a grinning Iphi, with two motorcycle helmets on one arm. Kjersti's spirits sank: another trip as Iphi's passenger. This was a pleasure she would happily forgo.
They greeted each other. With reluctance, Kjersti accepted a helmet and hoisted the rucksack onto her back.
"I'm not staying for long. Just enough to point you in the right direction. Where's your man?"
Iphi's expression was enigmatic. She gave nothing away.
"In Limassol. Where we're headed now. He's made progress."
Outside, they mounted Iphi's beast and sped off down the airport exit road before turning west towards Limassol. To Kjersti's relief, the road was empty. To her greater relief, Iphi chose not to drive with her usual abandon.
On the outskirts of Limassol, in front of a large anonymous hotel, they parked and joined Aris before ordering coffees. Kjersti looked expectant. Iphi took the bait.
"As I hinted to you, Aris has uncovered a Cyprus banking connection. A man called Tassos Christodoulou. He has some connection to the Russian sports gambling business here in Limassol and to the Kristina."
"What do you know about him?"
"He started as a property developer, mostly small-scale timeshares and villas. All of a sudden he graduated to much larger luxury hotels and spa developments. This place is one of his creations, not that he owns it."
Aris interrupted.
"At some point, he became the senior executive in a local bank here. Rumour has it that Russian money backs this. Or is a front for Russian money. Our source says she saw him at the premises where the sports gambling started and on more than one occasion. The link might be coincidental. Or real. The evidence for the latter is that his bank was the initial guarantor for the sports gambling lease for the office in Limassol."
"What do you plan?"
Iphi and Aris made to speak at the same time. Aris deferred to her. Kjersti noted he was thinner. It must be getting closer to the time, or weight, when Iphi must decide. She smirked wolfishly to herself. It might be worth staying longer to find out what would happen...
"Aris wants us to contact this Christodoulou and ask him questions about his connection to the Kristina and Dmitry. He lives in a super-smart Limassol building, in a penthouse."
"How do you know all this?"
"The estate agent who arranged the lease was pissed off by the way the sports-betting company shut up shop. The first time we met her she was the one who gave us the names of Dmitriy and the 'Stefan' Frenchman who became Thibault-Trani. Aris applied some of his new-found charm on a second visit. She provided the extra info."
Kjersti raised a hand. She considered.
"I'm not sure you're ready to confront him, for that is pretty much your approach."
"What d'you mean?" responded Aris.
"My experience tells me that people who make a lot of money from zero and who live in high rise luxury penthouses do not often come by their wealth in ways they wish to discuss, and certainly not with inquisitive journalists. We need to prepare the ground."
Iphi's and Aris's faces fell. Kjersti understood their enthusiasm and desire to run ahead.
But her instincts screamed this Tassos presented all the standard signs of corrupt dealings. Care must be the order of the day. She offered as much. Both Iphi and Aris listened in increasing despair.
"Are there any local newspapers or radio stations?"
"A couple. But not major. Limassol isn't big enough. In any case we can't approach them. They won't talk to us. From Nicosia, they would regard us as the competition."
"But they might talk to me. If I deploy my most vile femininity."
Aris looked sceptical before staring at Iphi. She stared at the sea.
Aris was the one to answer. His words emerged in a tone like that which must have sounded as blood bled from the proverbial stone.
"You taking over."
"I wondered. Okay. Let's have this out in the open. If there is a story we write it together. For Cyprus you have exclusivity: after all you speak Greek and know the scene. Outside Cyprus I take the lead but you are still on the byline with me. Good enough? Remember there is no story yet though I agree there are distinct hints of one."
There was no hesitation from Iphi. Aris continued with his reluctance. Iphi upbraided him.
"Don't be a fool, Aris. Her name is greater by far than ours. Just by association we will be better off. And that is if there is a story. If there isn't, we don't lose a thing."
Aris prevaricated more. Then he conceded with good grace. Iphi beamed. Kjersti thought their dynamic had readjusted. She didn't know which way, nor did she care. The story reeked of possibilities.
"I suggest you guide me to the offices of at least one of the local papers. I'll go in and see if someone will talk. Then we can decide what to do."
Two hours later, Aris and Iphi fretted at their inability to shape events. Kjersti was inside the newspaper's offices. She'd been there over an hour. All they could do was consume coffee, Cokes and then water when they became hyper.
At last Kjersti trotted down the steps. She waved to them and pointed towards the sea before heading there herself. Iphi followed on her motorbike and Aris in his car.
They found Kjersti sitting on a bench under some palm trees. There was no-one around besides two mothers pushing prams and chatting in loud voices.
"My conversation was with the editor, which was a surprise. He was the only person there. He seemed glad of a friendly foreign face. He's a long-term Brit exile, and grumpy beyond belief. He speaks Greek and a little Turkish and is well wired into the local scene. He was a mine of information, welcome and unwelcome."
Kjersti summarised what she'd heard.
Christodoulou was well known. His past was as she'd guessed. He'd done dodgy deals along the way before diving into bed with a Russian who had introduced him to more Russians who invited him to front a bank. He'd accepted and found himself able to lend his own projects copious cheap money. In effect he recycled Russian riches, or laundered them.
"So we were right?"
"Yes. In one sense. But there's more..."
Paphos and Nicosia (Cyprus)
Evdokia left the house early and caught the bus into Paphos. There, she had an appointment with a scrap metal merchant. After online searching, from the anonymity of a municipal library, this was the only source of liquid mercury she'd identified which would sell a non-industrial amount without a record. When they'd talked, he claimed he recycled it from machines and devices which ended their lives in his scrap yard.
He'd also warned her about its toxicity. He would provide gloves and a mask if she wanted. He'd recommended she bring a reinforced bag. Mercury wasn't a substance anyone should wish to touch.
An hour later, she carried two small flasks of the liquid metal. They were heavy, but occupied minimal space. The bag she'd brought was too big. The scrap merchant provided a box and charged her more than she'd feared. The bill was just about affordable.
Next, she would board a bus for Nicosia. Other objectors conspired to gather by Solomou Square and march past the D'Avila Bastion through the Old Town to the building site of 'His Abominable Beatitude's' offensive Basilica to protest. They would sing and chant in disapproval.
When the evening came, the organisers hoped there would be sufficient people to link hands around the Nea Hagia Sophia building site, before they lit candles of outrage. To Evdokia, this was meaningless virtuosity. Pointless. No amount of passive protest would sway a man like Nikolaos Constantinou, who had possessed a megalomania complex for decades. It was transparent when she'd first met him, though he had been powerless to give outright rein to his ambition behind a monastery wall. As Archbishop, he could run riot.
Riot. Now there was an idea. Could she provoke one? She doubted it, unless she behaved as an exhibitionist in a way which would bring shame on her, which didn't matter, but would mortify Georghios. That she couldn't countenance.
Instead, she hoped to gain entry to the Basilica building site and climb one of the main piers, as the newspaper the previous week called them. Its publication, with detailed plans and pictures which had revealed stairs inside each of the four piers, was a godsend. Now she knew how to reach her objective – the aluminium drum and the bottom of the ribs.
It was a pity she hadn't found an aerosol of mercury. To spread like hair spray would take a moment compared to painting on the mercury with the small brushes she carried on her. She patted her pocket to check. Good. The small screwdriver to scratch the aluminium was there. So were the mask and the gloves beside the two flasks. Her plan was to daub the mercury at the base of several ribs and then flee.
She linked up with a small, but growing crowd of protesters. Some had banners. One had a mic-and-loudspeaker tourist guide combo, no doubt to stoke verbal derision.
Half an hour later, there were, perhaps, a couple of thousand people. The noise and good humour were encouraging, though the numbers were smaller than Evdokia knew the organisers had hoped. There wouldn't be sufficient to close the ring around the building site. That might be to her advantage.
The leader stood on a box and shouted instructions. They were unintelligible at her distance. But the crowd drifted out of Solomou Square to flow along Constantinou Palaiologou before making a left down Trikoupi. As they reached the traffic circle at the south end of the latter another band of protesters joined them. A cheer of mutual congratulation raised spirits in the early evening air.
The line of shuffling protesters arrived at the site of the old Archbishop's Palace. A hush fell. Few had seen Nea Hagia Sophia close up. It was huge. Gargantuan. Far bigger than most imagined. It soared higher than seemed conceivable, with the Kampanarió towering higher.
Those present weren't cowed for long. If anything their horror energised their antipathy. They remembered why they were there. Shouts of disgust coalesced into a coherent message of dissent and challenge. Not that there was anyone from the Church to take notice.
Evdokia walked the perimeter fence. She sought a way into the site. From there, it should be easy to access a pier. In the newspaper it had said the final doors hadn't arrived and the pictures showed the many entrances open. She prayed it would be the same for the access to the piers.
A quarter of an hour later, she was back with the hecklers. She'd found one gap which she hoped she could squeeze through. It would be tight. The protest continued and showed no signs of abating. Good.
She scurried back to where one gate was loosely attached to its post. This was the gap. She checked. There was no one around.
She dashed to it and squashed herself through. Once she was inside, her knees wobbled from the exertion and excitement and fear. Now she trespassed.
She trod with care across the messy site. She wanted to avoid standing on a rusty nail or breaking glass or giving any clue she was on site.
She arrived at what would be the north door, opposite the chants. The entrance was boarded but not locked. It took seconds to lever one board aside and enter.
This was a shock. It was dark, much darker than she'd expected. She had brought a torch. It was small. In this space it was inadequate, a pinprick on a moonless night. With deliberation, she found one of the piers. It didn't matter which. She sighed in relief, forgetting that silence was vital. Nobody noticed.
She located the access doorway to the pier's interior. There was a temporary door. Was it locked? Yes. A padlock kept the pier inaccessible.
Frustration swept over her. She couldn't budge the door or break the hasp. There was no way in. Her fury grew until it threatened to overwhelm her.
She dampened her rage and took stock. It wasn't worth tryi
ng the other piers now; they were probably identical. And she was running out of time. While there was no way to enter a pier tonight, she'd proved there was an inconspicuous way to enter the site. She would return, not only with a bigger torch but also some way to break a padlock.
With reluctance she retraced her steps and squeezed out. Just after she did so, some fellow protesters trooped round the corner. They noticed nothing untoward.
Relieved, Evdokia made her despondent way back to the bus station. The journey back to Paphos would be long. Once home, there would be Georghios to face.
Limassol (Cyprus)
Kjersti, Aris and Iphi finished their meal. Kjersti insisted they eat before she revealed all she'd learnt from the grumpy Brit. With the plates cleared and bill paid, they returned to the seaside bench. It remained vacant, though there were more people around, if no crowd.
"I apologise for the cloak and dagger impression. That editor impressed on me how, in Limassol, 'walls have ears'. A strange expression. We should respect his inference, which is why we're here."
Kjersti took up from where she'd paused earlier. Christodoulou was rumoured to possess other 'interests'. For one, many regarded his takeover of a winery with great suspicion. It had dropped into his control with no obvious payment. Many tongues had wagged at that, not least because he detested most wines. His vice was champagne, or vodka if with his Russian friends.
Second, he owned an unsavoury reputation with women. More than a couple had, over the years, complained about his violence. These complaints evaporated long before they reached a court. These days, he paid for his pleasures. Most weeks one of a succession of leggy, classy, platinum blondes accompanied him in public.
"Not very Cypriot," opined Aris.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 24
