Inspiration arrived. Renaming was feasible. The mechanism lay within the dedication. He could introduce it as a surprise. Yet it had attractions. If he blessed the church with a name which resonated with the general populace, this would enhance the Basilica's appeal. And be a slap in the face for those pesky protesters.
Agios Varvara, St Barnabas, was the obvious choice. A Cypriot-Jew who had proselytised Asia Minor with St Paul, he was the patron saint of Cyprus. Nikolaos shook his head. There were far too many churches called Agios Varvara.
More amusing would be Agios Nikolaos. Besides being his own name, and what could be better, St Nicholas was the patron saint of Nicosia. Not the Nicosia of Cyprus, but that of a small town in Sicily. The joke appealed because so few would understand.
But they might object to his naming the Basilica after himself. This would require consultation.
"Your Beatitude, Mr Christodoulou, for your meeting."
"Thank you, Nikos. Show him in."
A puzzled looking Tassos entered and made the traditional obeisances. Ioannis bade him sit.
"How can we help, Tassos?"
"I have good news, Your Beatitude. The detailed discussions with Nikos and myself mean my investor group can make an offer for the SinCard franchise. This will eliminate an upfront payment. Instead the Church's loans on the Basilica will reduce and with this, the interest rates applicable will be less. The income from the SinCards will, in secret, pay off the remaining debt. Once repayment completes, we will deposit the income in your, the Archbishop's, discretionary account."
"That sounds excellent. You are satisfied with the marketing plan?"
"I am. We, the Bank's board, are. The expert that Nikos brought in has been most imaginative. Our joint assessment is you, I mean the Church, will attract increasing money over the franchise period. We exist to sustain this."
"Thank you, Tassos. You mention the Bank. It is not you who acquires the franchise?"
"Yes and no. It is not the Bank either. It is a consortium, headed by me. We have raised the capital and formed a private limited liability company incorporated by the bank to handle the SinCard business. There was a temptation to call it the Confessional Card Company, but the attraction of anonymity prevailed. If it becomes appropriate, we may float the company on the Cyprus Stock Exchange."
"And make a killing for yourselves!"
"We hope so. You will be happy to learn we have reserved a small percentage, 5 percent, which would vest in the Archbishop's name before it floated. If that meets with your approval?"
"It would, my son. Most ingenious, and generous."
"Thank you, Your Beatitude."
Tassos hated to be obsequious. He'd hated even to offer that 5 percent. He'd predicted to Dmitriy that some form of buy-off would be necessary. He had authorisation to offer up to 10 percent, although the extra would come out of his own allocation. It wasn't necessary. He'd played the Archbishop as he'd hoped.
"Did you like the icon?"
Tassos froze. The Archbishop knew? He'd thought Nikos was the giver. The trail went higher than he'd expected.
"A delight. I'd assumed Nikos arranged its transfer."
"Not at all. I placed it in the bubble wrap and sealed the envelope. I didn't tell Nikos what was inside. He doesn't need to know, ever."
"I understand, Your Beatitude. May I ask from where it came? To know its provenance..."
"...enhances the value. I also understand, Tassos. No, I won't be specific today. Perhaps, one day. Perhaps, when Nea Hagia Sophia's loans are no more. I will say only the icon came from a desecrated church in the North, as you probably guessed. I doubt anyone but I have seen it in a decade."
The Archbishop stared at Tassos. The latter absorbed multiple messages. He bobbed his head in acceptance before he left. Overall, he was happy. Money laundering performed behind a veil of sin-redemption engendered a sense of delicious fulfilment. Add the price Dmitriy was offering for the icon...
Pyrga (Cyprus)
Kjersti was, to her astonishment, yet again on the back of Iphi's motorbike. She was sure she'd sworn off the delights, but Iphi had cajoled. Now they were somewhere towards Larnaca, heading down a narrow road to nowhere. At least Iphi drove with care.
Without warning, she turned off. No indicator. In Norway, Iphi would lose her licence within a week. To ignore traffic rules was endemic in Cyprus.
"Here we are. Two churches and peace so we can talk. This is the place I come for quiet and thought. I found it by accident."
"What's it called?"
"Panagia Stasousa"
"Which means?"
"Panagia is Mary, the mother of Jesus. Stasousa is this place."
"How old? I'm not much good with the age of buildings."
"Fourteenth century. Heavily restored if not over-restored. But that's not the point. Follow me!"
Kjersti let Iphi lead. Inside, the sun rays bewitched her. Dust danced in sun shafts piercing the early Gothic-style windows. Clean, simple, light yellow-grey stone gifted the church a simplicity not dissimilar to those her native Norway. Not the same. This church rejoiced in a way Norwegian churches rarely managed. It enchanted Kjersti.
"When you finish, I'll be outside."
"Stop. Iphi. Why are we here?"
"When you finish, I'll be outside."
Iphi closed the side door behind her. Kjersti wanted to strangle the girl. She caught herself. Iphi was acting Kjersti-like. Could she complain? Not really.
For revenge, she took her time wandering around. The iconostasis was unremarkable. She ensured she paid each icon due attention. None stood out. When her own patience expired, after about fifteen minutes, she left to spot Iphi on a low stone wall overlooking another smaller church below, nestling among trees.
"That one looks older but is not."
"Really. How fascinating. Tell me!"
Iphi's face darkened. Her eyes threatened tears. Kjersti wasn't sure whether sympathy or aggression was appropriate. She went for the latter.
"What is it you don't want to tell me? Aris? Has he done something I shouldn't know about?"
"He is a problem. But not that way. No. It's different."
Kjersti waited. Her exasperation multiplied as her annoyance built.
Then Iphi began. "We want to discontinue pursuit of the story."
"Why would you want to do that? You and Aris? Both?"
"Yes. Because of the church connection. Aris has proved it."
"You didn't tell me."
"No. We dithered and dithered, unsure what to say."
"What did he find out?"
"You recall that Christodoulou met someone from the Kristina?"
"Which didn't prove anything, but it did provide the justification for more digging. Which we're all doing."
"Yes, and yes. From my researches, it's clear there is more than a casual link between the Kristina and Christodoulou. Aris took it a step forward. While I dug around talking to people, he followed Christodoulou.
"What?"
By chance he spotted the same Mercedes he'd photo'd in Limassol driving along Makarios Avenue here in Nicosia. Being Aris, he chased in his car and then on foot after Christodoulou parked in the centre of town."
"So?"
"Aris now has a picture of Christodoulou entering Tower 25, the temporary home of the Archbishopric of Cyprus. Worse, he has a second picture of Christodoulou leaving, and being waved goodbye – by the Archbishop himself."
"Wow. Not proof or a crime. But again suggestive. Another indicator."
"You don't understand, Kjersti. The Church breaks people for breakfast. Including journalists. Especially those with careers and hopes. Like Aris and me, in case you don't get it. Its tentacles are long."
"Are you refusing to continue?"
Accused like this, Iphi broke down. She sobbed in misery.
Kjersti fumed. To lose a story when it promised so much... She wanted to return to Nicosia. She couldn't. She was Iphi's prisoner. God. What a mess.
>
Her thoughts sprinted on, now oblivious of Iphi. She hoped Aris and Iphi hadn't destroyed the photos. At least she possessed the digital ones they'd sent her from Limassol of Christodoulou and the man they'd later identified as Dmitriy.
Sick at heart, Kjersti shifted her focus back to Iphi. Apropos of nothing, she changed tack.
"Why is your name Iphi?"
"My father chose it, after the plays by Euripides. He treasured them."
"What plays?"
"Iphi is a shortening of Iphigenia, which means strong-born or born to strength. My father says I was a brute at birth, so I deserved the name. The original Iphigenia was the daughter of Agamemnon, the King of the Greeks. In the Greek myths, and the play by Euripides, Agamemnon killed a deer in a grove sacred to Artemis, the goddess of hunting, wild animals, the wilderness, childbirth, virginity and assorted other things. Artemis punished Agamemnon by interfering with the winds. The Greek fleet could not sail to assault Troy unless he sacrificed Iphigenia. Pressured by the other commanders, Agamemnon agreed. The fleet sailed and Troy fell, courtesy of Odysseus and his Wooden Horse."
"Silly me. Ask a stupid question and look what I get, a mouthful of Greek legends, myths and goddesses."
For no obvious reason, Iphi's story cheered Kjersti. Its telling did the same for Iphi. Kjersti relented, sat and put an arm round Iphi.
"That's not the whole story, is it?"
"No."
Kjersti waited. Nothing came.
"Is Aris putting on the pressure?"
Iphi bowed her head. Her misery infected Kjersti.
"Explain!"
"There are two dimensions. Aris is scared by what the Church can do. I am less afraid and would continue. But..."
Alert, and almost sympathetic, Kjersti kept her silence.
"He made me agree we would not continue. Among other things I would rather not discuss here and now, he said that if I didn't tell you he would cease the exercise and stop slimming."
"That's emotional blackmail!"
"I know. But what can I do? If I don't drop the story then he and I have nothing."
"Do you have something already? You haven't told me. That all sounds a bit feeble?"
"No. But I feel we are edging there and I am more and more nervous about what happens next. Either way."
"You're not a virgin?"
"Kjersti! How can you ask me that?"
"You tell me. Is it relevant?"
"No, I'm not. But not experienced either. What if I disappoint him?"
"Let me see. Would it be accurate to say that he applies emotions to salve his fears of the Church while you receive his threats not only as a choker on your chosen profession but also on your personal prospects which include whether or not you will find sex with him good?"
Iphi gaped. Kjersti giggled. After a while so did Iphi.
"Expressed like that, I'm an idiot?"
"Yes. In a word."
"So what do I do?"
"That's what we must work out before we go back. I also have a piece of information – well, a rumour – for you. I need local guidance. Have you ever heard of a SinCard?"
Chapter Twelve
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Stephane dressed in his mini-apartment. Why he'd agreed to meet Davide escaped him. Davide's attitude had sucked when they worked together in New York. He was a typical Brit, always finding fault and the sort of outsider who believed he knew better than any inside employee.
His snag was Davide was the one who'd spotted his logic error. It had involved an arcane issue. He remembered all too well his immediate reaction: resentment. It had taken several days to accept Davide was right and he wrong.
That several colleagues had snickered behind his back was immaterial. His boss's delicate but emphatic instruction, to accept what everybody else who understood the issue acknowledged, had wounded.
What was Davide doing in Cyprus?
From what he could recall, he was one person who never stopped moving countries. One ex-colleague reported he'd seen Davide in California. Another mentioned Davide was working in Rome for the Vatican. That sounded implausible.
He walked to the breakfast. It wasn't far. The exercise would do little good, but the fresh morning air was a blessing. He sauntered up the hill and over towards Makarios Avenue.
As he idled along, he reviewed the progress with the stone carving machine, the 100 Tonne Challenge and Eleni. Three categories of contest.
Nobody could work out what the problem was with the stone carver. The templates loaded. Test runs worked. The occasional complete panel finished. Yet two specific issues kept re-arising.
In the first, the machines wasted too much of the delicate sandstone. More was on order but would take time to wend its way through Vasilios's indirect delivery channels. Eleni filled him on this, though with an obvious reluctance. He'd understood when the clandestine details became clear.
The second was the inability to create two identical panels, as his suggestion to Eleni for the top and bottom of each of the eleven faces required. These were the most complex in Eleni's design. Repetition was impossible. In his opinion, the simplest solution was to carve all panels to be unique, with the most elaborate at the base. Eleni, so far, was adamant in her refusal to adopt this fix.
The 100 Tonne Challenge satisfied more. His muscle tone and strength progressed. He estimated another two weeks and he'd be ready to make the attempt.
He was disappointed. His French sojourn meant he'd missed the organised competition, as had Eleni. The atmosphere according to the trainers had been competitive and positive. There was, however, an upside, beyond stirring his competitive spirit. Several targets, for men and women now existed due to the competition. He and Eleni aimed to see if they could leave these in the dust, though it galled Stephane that his age placed him in a 'veterans' age group.
He cackled to himself. If he disliked his label, Eleni detested her 'young veterans' one. She accused the gym of sexism, ageism and narrow-mindedness. She was right. She didn't look her age. She was peerless for those who liked iron-willed and iron-muscled women with no time for idiots or anyone less capable than themselves.
To Stephane she was formidable. The French word sounded more appropriate, as he knew she had determined to outdo him. She might yet. It was his error to introduce her to planning what was practical in a given time. Once she was over her instinctive dislike of accepting advice, she'd lapped up his recommendations. She was a fast learner, when she listened – which wasn't often.
Stephane remained uncertain where, if anywhere, he and she headed. One moment, he knew it was bed. That prospect amused and encouraged him. He took pleasure in playing hard to get. The next moment, mutual hostilities resumed as her contempt for him dripped in haughty disdain from her every pore.
This lasted until he saved her bacon the next time. Never, so far, did gratitude cross her lips or enter her behaviour. She intrigued, exasperated and maddened him in equal measure. As with the 100 Tonne Challenge, his brain loved the uncertainty.
In the hotel, he enquired where he might find breakfast. A receptionist pointed to a large room, opposite the bar. This opened onto a terrace under awnings. Would he recognise Davide? From memory, he was unremarkable. British. Inscrutable too.
An arm waved to catch his attention. Davide? He hoped so. The truth was he needed new contact lenses, an action for when he was next back in Montpelier or Paris.
Davide stood when Stephane neared the table. He held out his hand to shake. Stephane obliged. Before he could sit, a waiter popped up.
"Would Sir like coffee or tea or something stronger?"
"No tea. Coffee. A Café au Lait."
The waiter disappeared. Davide and Stephane weighed each other up.
"I wonder what will come."
"What? Haven't they heard of Café au Lait?"
"You may be in for a treat. Perhaps Turkish, though we should call it Greek, coffee with steamed milk in it would be my best guess."
&nb
sp; "You're joking."
"Only half so. I've received some strange dishes and drinks here."
Stephane pulled a face of disgust. Davide laughed.
"Okay, English smarty-pants, why did you call me?"
"I have a confession."
Stephane raised an eyebrow. At least this promised to be different.
"I saw you the other evening in the hotel bar. I wasn't sure I wanted to encounter you again after our New York fracas so I retreated. The colleague with whom I'm working, who should join us any minute, pressed me on why I retreated.
"If I may be honest? I think you're conceited, even for a Frenchman. You are clever. In New York, I felt we might hit it off, if we could bypass the stereotypes."
Davide's expression said it all. 'So there – lap that up if you can.'
Stephane's cheeks crinkled. Davide amused him.
"Next you'll be telling me that the French and English are similar but can never admit it?"
"I'm half-English and half-Spanish. I think you're right, though. The French and English share more than they will ever concede to the other."
"I don't believe it. I..."
His words fell away as Inma joined them. Stephane was on his feet in a second. As Davide provided the introductions, he took Inma's hand to kiss its back with an elaboration he knew would charm. It never failed.
"A Comptesse no less, and with such gorgeous hair. You must tell me what you are doing in Cyprus. If you are lucky, I will reciprocate. You and I can ignore him."
With a flip of his fingers he dismissed Davide to focus on Inma. He did not register Davide's amused expression.
Lakatamia (Cyprus)
Alexa woke earlier than normal. Her thoughts spun. She couldn't but rehash the discussions with Evdokia from the previous day. She hadn't wanted to commit before talking with Thanos. When she'd called him before going to bed, he'd shushed her. What she'd raised was not suitable for discussion on the phone.
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 28
