Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4)

by Charles Brett

  Iphi kicked his knee, hard. Surprise crossed his face.

  Christodoulou's reputation for violence was one reason for their current caution. There were other inferences about people missing. But no proof. So far, Christodoulou was blameless in the eyes of the law.

  About the sports betting, the grumpy Brit knew a little. He'd heard Christodoulou was involved. He'd presumed it was only as a banker, until the Kristina sailed in. He'd asked Kjersti. Now she asked Aris.

  "Do you know who owns the Kristina?"

  "We couldn't find out. Registered in Tortola to a privately-held company, that was a dead end."

  Kjersti nodded at Aris's confirmation of frustration. It was as she expected. She opened up.

  "Again, there is no formal proof. But the editor, who is a boat buff, showed me a link to one of the less reputable Moscow businessmen, one rumoured to be close to the 'Bratva', the Russian mafia. The good news is the connection is distant. The bad was his description of these people: the worst.

  "Some of the Bratva 'soldiers' behave like animals. From what our Brit editor told me, there is scant evidence they operate in Cyprus. Nevertheless, I reiterate the warning. We must be careful."

  Iphi and Aris swallowed the warning. Kjersti's impression was they underestimated the danger she painted.

  She hesitated before continuing about a fourth dimension: the Orthodox Church. If the gossip was correct, Christodoulou was chained to the local Church. Nobody knew how or why for certain. But Christodoulou's presence in many photos with bishops and archbishops, past and present, could be found across all forms of the media. As he was not a religious man, this raised still more questions...

  Aris interrupted Kjersti.

  "That isn't what we wanted to hear. Nor our editors. Remember what Iphi summed up before. The story our editors want is about Russians and Russian criminality, not about Cypriot corruption of which the island has had enough. In addition, and so you are aware, nobody crosses the Orthodox Church for long. It has unpleasant and long-lasting ways to impose revenge. Both biblical and secular."

  Kjersti accepted his rebuke. In an instant she recognised the unease in the way Aris carried himself. Iphi mirrored him. Kjersti took advantage.

  "You should fear the Russian criminal aspect as much as your Church..."

  It was Iphi who interrupted this time.

  "Not 'our' Church. The Orthodox Church exists for itself and not for the benefit of believers. For many of us, it is the ultimate holy con game. Let me give you a sordid example. Whenever the faithful attend a service, for a funeral or marriage or christening, there is a person outside the church doors who collects money for the 'good of the church'. This is in addition to the marriage or christening service fees. Where this money goes nobody knows. It's immoral blackmail, as if saying: 'You should not enter unless you contribute to our unspecified holy purpose'. You've no idea how much people resent its filthy claws."

  Iphi's vehemence startled Kjersti. She switched topic before all three disappeared down this Orthodox rat hole.

  "If I understand, you want to ignore any possible Church connection. Fair enough. For the moment. Unless it leads somewhere. But we won't go down that avenue unless forced. That still leaves the Dmitriy, the Kristina and the Frenchman you spoke to whom I couldn't find. That should be enough to work with. So, let's consider each.

  "Thibault-Trani is nowhere to be found. As I told you, he'd just departed when we arrived in Hérault. I've left Ana with the mission to phone him every evening, from a Spanish mobile number to hide any connection to Cyprus in case she gets through."

  "What will this Ana say to him?" enquired a calmer Iphi.

  "Only to ask if he might be interested in an IT project for a high-tech start-up in Barcelona, not so far from Hérault."

  "Plausible."

  "We thought so. Dmitriy: we know nothing about him. We must ask more questions. Your estate agent?"

  "We can try. I'm unsure if she will cooperate further, unless we let her into what we are researching, and why."

  "It's worth consideration. Which leaves the Kristina. There we do have something solid. Do we know where she is? Same as usual off the Crimea?"

  Aris opened his phone. He made two selections and waited. His eyebrows rose.

  "What is it?"

  "She's passing the island of Marmara, in the sea of the same name, and heading towards the Dardanelles."

  "I wonder if she's headed back here. Now that could be interesting."

  "We won't know for at least a couple of days, and that assumes she doesn't put into port somewhere else."

  Iphi groaned. Kjersti grinned at her.

  "Patience, Iphi. Patience. Irrespective, what shall we do now?"

  "Are you booked in a hotel? You want your old bed?"

  "Your flatmate? Away again?"

  "No. She's moved out, and in with her boyfriend. She still pays rent, at least until the end of next month. In case living in sin doesn't work out. Her parents express pious outrage. She ignores them for the moment. You want?"

  "Thank you. Better and cheaper than any hotel. Shall we go?"

  "You have one further choice... Back to Nicosia by car or by bike?"

  Iphi and Aris couldn't contain their laughter at her grimace.

  "You could stay for dinner, Aris, if you promise to deliver her safely to my place?"

  They left the bench in good humour. Kjersti hadn't decided but inclined towards Aris. In the car she could re-emphasise the danger and his need to protect Iphi as well as himself.

  Nicosia (Cyprus)

  Vasilios joined his brother in Tower 25 for a light dinner. He waited on the terrace after Nikos had shown him there. To his surprise, Nikolaos wasn't in residence, gazing at his darling creation. When Vasilios was honest with himself, which was rare, he admired what Vasilia and he'd achieved. Nea Hagia Sophia gleamed under the new spotlights, installed only the previous week. The Basilica of Nea Hagia Sophia was a giant standing astride Cypriot Lilliputians, as Swift might have written.

  Nikolaos slipped onto the terrace. One glance told Vasilios that something wasn't right. He knew age afflicted himself. Had it caught up with his older brother? He waited, to see if Nikolaos raised the subject.

  "Vasilia congratulates herself. Her researches about the synthronon, which will have your hydraulic throne, and the iconostasis are paying dividends. She's confident her final design will impress and please you." Vasilios continued before Nikolaos could interrupt. He had explicit instructions from his daughter to obtain guidance. "She says she needs you to select the primary icons from your Archiepiscopal Collection. Most important are the ones for the Royal Doors and the accompanying figures of the Pancreator and Theotokus. She says she must know their sizes. The other saints are less important and at this moment, she proposes to combine the Tchin at the centre and relocate the Prophets and Patriarchs to the left and right of the Tchin, rather than above."

  "Why? That isn't normal."

  "I'll leave it to her to explain in detail. The main justification is to reduce the height of the iconstasis. She told me you insisted it be low so the greater part of the congregation can admire you on your elevated throne in the synthronon."

  "She's correct. There's no point in any Archbishop being invisible in the Sanctuary. But I don't understand about the Prophets and Patriarchs. The latter, by tradition, are above the former and above the Tchin."

  "According to her, the iconstasis will be huge. Not in height but in length. By placing the Prophets and Patriarchs on either side of the saints in the Tchin, she fills the space without cutting off your body. She's working on a competition to fill these spaces. In effect, the Royal Doors and main level will use acknowledged works of art from the past from your Gallery. The Tchin, Prophets and Patriarchs will be new, examples of the best of modern Orthodox icon painting."

  Nikolaos mewed agreement. This worried Vasilios more than his brother's ill pose.

  "What's wrong? Is something troubling you?"

>   "Isn't that what I ask you, on those rare occasions when you make it to a service?"

  "Yes. But it's me asking you today? What is it?"

  "I'm not feeling good. I've been to the doctor. He says he can't find anything. 'Old age' is his explanation. I wonder if he hides something from me".

  "Can I ask, do you have any specific indicators or symptoms?"

  "Tiredness. Lack of the enthusiasm I had a month ago."

  "Your weight?"

  "Is not much. But it has never been. I'm small, compared to you or Vasilia. I'm slighter today than a month ago. My ryasa hides it but I'm fading away."

  They sat in silence. Vasilios had no words. Nikolaos was introspective before he re-started.

  "To think I might be dead before Nea Hagia Sophia is complete depresses me. We need to bring the dedication ceremony forward. I must be present."

  "It was always going to be thus. You know that. The internal decoration, apart from the marble columns and facing, was always to come later. In that sense, the Prophets and Patriarchs are no different."

  "True, but my bones tell me there will not be time to finish the Kampanarió with Vasilia's sandstone carved panels, now that she has production problems. Equally, the interior marble facing will consume months. I don't believe I have months."

  "What do you propose?"

  "Vasilia must arrange to lay the floor as soon as possible. When we have its anticipated completion date, we should announce the dedication soon after. I hope the Good Lord will permit me sufficient days to participate."

  If Vasilios felt for his brother, he was yet again stunned by his hubris. Why should his Good Lord retain this Archbishop on Earth to enjoy what could only be described as an exercise in vanity allied to ostentation?

  He rebuked himself. Such thoughts were unseemly when Nikolaos suffered. To his own discomfort, he felt stronger than in months. It was as if the energy, which had leached from himself to Nikolaos on the latter's appointment as Archbishop, was flowing back. He knew it couldn't be. But he felt more resilient than at any time in the past three years.

  Nicosia (Cyprus)

  The flights from the south of France to Cyprus left Stephane nursing an ankle injury. His attempted avoidance of an over-enthusiastic Greek propelling herself off the Athens plane had forced Stephane to step back. He'd smacked his ankle on a metal seat support.

  He'd taken no notice until in his mini-apartment in Nicosia. As he'd changed into his gym clothes, he'd noticed his ankle had turned a black-blue and ached. He'd cursed. This might affect his training. Never one to give in, he'd carried on, and regretted it. He'd had to stop everything for a couple of days, rubbing in copious amounts of arnica and liniment.

  This worked. The ankle no longer ached. The swelling had shrunk and, though coloured, it appeared normal.

  Today he was restarting his preparations for his 100 Tonne Challenge. He would not let Eleni know the details, but he planned two training sessions a day, one long with a few but heavy weights and one short with many light weights. His aim was to build on what he'd managed before, so long as his base fitness hadn't deteriorated too much when in his mini-gym back in Hérault.

  His current session would be one of the short, sharp ones. Lots of light weights, but performed in sets of fifty repetitions per set. He headed to the leg bench press, adjusted the seat and selected 50 kilogrammes.

  Ten minutes later, he congratulated himself. His ankle was fine. He'd lifted 7,500 kilogrammes, 7.5 percent of the 100 Tonne target.

  He moved to a bench to lie down. In his hands were two 15-kilogramme weights, which he used to conduct a long series of presses with his arms. This consumed almost a half hour. His chest ached at the end.

  He counted back. Six sets of 50 repetitions of 30 kilogrammes. That was 9000 kilogrammes. In two rounds he was over 15%.

  He returned to the leg bench press. The second time the 7,500 kilogrammes took longer. He had to rest between the sets. His thigh muscles burned.

  Stephane took stock. He called a halt to weights for this session and went to the rowing machine, though he hated it. Twenty minutes on this and he would head back to the apartment to shower. Better there than here, where the changing rooms weren't luxurious.

  Next, he would call Eleni to inform her of his arrival. No doubt she would want to meet soon. He wasn't inclined to roll over. The period back in France had provided perspective. Yes, she needed him. But she also wanted him.

  Her work need he could satisfy. The want was different. He didn't trust her. He couldn't explain to himself why he didn't. Some indistinct factor put him on edge.

  He pushed open the exit door and ducked back. Eleni was parking her motorbike opposite. He fled to the men's' changing room which, by good fortune, overlooked where she was removing her equipment bag from one of the motorbike's panniers. He'd wait until she was inside, give it a couple of minutes and then pray he could escape while she was in the ladies changing room.

  After what seemed an eternity unloading and locking the motorbike, she crossed the road. He checked his watch. Make it three minutes, and hope she did not pause to talk with one of the gym assistants. Thank goodness Kyriakos wasn't on duty today. She always chatted with him.

  Three minutes later, he skipped down the stairs and departed as fast as he could. He didn't look to see if she was there. No voice hailed him. He darted around the corner and experienced extreme relief.

  He walked back to his apartment, noticing his legs stiffen from the almost 25,000 kilogrammes lifted. It was a lesson. Reaching 100,000 would be tougher than he expected, even if spread over a day.

  What pleased him was he was in better shape than he'd feared. Those runs, painful though they were in Hérault, plus the mini-gym had maintained his base level of fitness. He wouldn't have to rebuild from scratch. He could progress.

  After his shower, he cooked a large saucepan of tortellini over which he slathered una salsa di basilico. It satisfied his hunger.

  Sated, he let the image of Eleni climbing off her motorbike float up. He couldn't deny it. She could be damnably sexy. She had that hard slimness of the very fit that he adored. When she relaxed, her face, so often harsh, thawed. She wasn't beautiful. But she attracted him like crazy. He knew he did the same for her.

  The question he had to resolve was straightforward: a fling? Or something deeper? The latter always brought baggage.

  His phone wailed. He needed to change that. It would not go down well if Eleni, her father or her uncle realised he had set it to sound like a muezzin from a mosque. Eleni had warned him. The muezzin's call to prayer was an abomination to her uncle.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

  Eleni's voice didn't contain the accusatory anger he would have predicted. If anything it was almost kittenish. He answered with a question, though he could guess at her reply.

  "How did you find out?"

  "You were at the gym earlier. The guys there couldn't believe their eyes. They said you must have lifted something like twenty tonnes in less than an hour. This impressed them. We must almost have met. They said they saw you go around the time I arrived."

  "Almost twenty-five," he bragged, on purpose.

  Provoking Eleni almost always worked. He could hear her brain prepare a harsh response.

  "What about dinner?"

  "I've just eaten."

  "Better still. I don't want to eat either. A snack at a wine bar? Shall I pick you up in fifteen minutes?"

  Nicosia (Cyprus)

  Inma settled back into the window chair in her hotel room. The view was extraordinary. She'd never visited Cyprus before and she had resisted Davide's pressure to travel with him to refine the SinCard marketing. Never had she imagined anyone might invite, and pay, for her to perform a reprise of what she'd done at Opus with the HolyPhone. She chuckled to herself. The irony tasted delicious.

  She twisted in her chair. Clouds gathered in the distance, behind what Davide had referred to as the Pentadaktylos Mountains. Minutes e
arlier, those clouds had been on the far side, as if prevented from crossing by their craggy heights. Now the clouds conquered the peaks and a cotton-wool wall of grey slid down the south-facing flanks.

  It was the reverse of Yuste. There, she overlooked the Extremadura plain bisected by the Tajo River. Her finca sat on the southern edge of the Sierra with the latter's bulk behind. This was a contrast. She lapped it up until the clouds erased the Pentadaktylos from sight.

  She switched her attention to the foreground. One building overshadowed all. Nea Hagia Sophia. Its bulk was light and vast. Its dome soared. The stone on the Basilica transfixed her. It switched through colours like a disco lantern, except with an infinite range of gold and yellows as the sun faded and the clouds turned the late afternoon grey. Despite their deadening effect, the Basilica gleamed. It stupefied.

  Many years before, Inma had visited Istanbul. She didn't remember Hagia Sophia like this. On the outside, her memory was of a duller, squatter building where the minarets distracted. Nea Hagia Sophia's stonework was a revelation, as Davide had described.

  Would it be the same inside? She'd adored the interior of Istanbul's original, though she'd disliked the four great shields adorned with Arabic script. Those had offended, as had its status as a museum. In Nicosia, the Archbishop was recreating a basilica for worship. She planned to play her part by contributing to the success of the SinCards.

  Again she chuckled. More irony. One day, she'd tell Miriam.

  Which brought Davide to mind.

  The past months working more closely with him had cemented a friendship she valued. She'd never had a friend of the opposite sex who was not Opus or a priest. He did not judge. He always sought to assist. In time, he'd come to understand what she'd rescued in her chapel within the house. While he didn't relate to it as a believer, he appreciated how her rediscovery mattered. He'd commented on how a tension had fled her. As had Lili.

  In herself, she had relaxed in ways she couldn't define. Might he be a candidate to induct to belief?