"I didn't mean it like that."
"It's what it felt like."
Their antagonism, on hold, resurged.
Kjersti fought to regain control.
"Look at me. I'm not trying to belittle you or exploit you or harm you. I would like to ask you some questions. I hope you will answer. But if you don't want to, then go."
Indecision raged in Stephane.
Kjersti was on tenterhooks. She felt obliged to say something neutral. "It's true I don't like that photo. I think it makes me look masculine and sexless. I have no bust. Nevertheless, thank you for what you said."
"Sexless? Not a bit. Not to me, and thank you for offering me the 'out'. I'll stay... How could I leave behind a woman I know is sensational underneath that dress?"
"Cheeky git!"
They mock-glowered at each other before they laughed. Kjersti sniffled in silent relief.
"Ask away."
"Why do you feel guilty?"
"Because what I was involved in was illegal. I don't like illegal. It breaks all the precepts my parents taught me. I..."
"Before you start I must warn you. I am..."
"An investigative journalist as well as an extreme running nut and an author. I saw all of that before I showed you the photo. Quite famous, or infamous!"
Kjersti hacked at him. He evaded with ease. Unlike the evening before, this time there was no mutual malice.
"Why would you want to talk?"
"It's simple. I was involved in something wrong. It's not that I'm a saint. I want to escape the implicit shackles I wear. I thought Eleni would sort out everything through the Archbishop. That's why I continue to work for her. Reading between the lines of what Eleni tells me, the Archbishop is not long for this world. Any protection dies with him. I might as well explain to someone. Not justify, please note, explain."
His phone rang. Kjersti signalled he should answer.
"Eleni?"
"I can't do dinner. My uncle commands my father and I attend him. The evening after. Same place?"
"That's a shame. Okay."
He ended the call.
"I'm a hypocrite. I would rather be with you than her. Shall we get it over with?"
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Vasilios handed his brother from his car. On normal days, he walked into the Old Town whereas Eleni would park her motorbike outside the site office. Nikolaos did not have the strength to walk far. Their conversation the day before had shocked Vasilios. His brother was going downhill fast. Today might be among the last opportunities to inspect Nea Hagia Sophia.
"Will you be able to walk? Shall I extract the wheelchair from the trunk?"
"Don't think about a wheelchair. We cannot have people gossiping that I am in bad health."
"But you are. If I may say it to your face, it shows. You cannot hide it."
"I'm going to try."
"For the dedication?"
"If I can, yes. Can you imagine the ignominy, entering through the Imperial doorway pushed in a bath chair by Nikos or some other minion? People would laugh."
"Or sympathise. Why don't you tell everyone what you suffer? There would be an outpouring of sympathy. How could there not be? Any one of us could have received an HIV poisoned blood transfusion in the days before they checked."
The Archbishop grimaced. It was as well Vasilios did not see. He was intent on negotiating the space outside the Basilica, which remained more a scrap yard than the surrounding piazza it would one day become. He had explained to Vasilios about the virus. His brother had jumped to the conclusion it was a transfusion to blame.
Nikolaos hadn't the courage to tell him the truth. Instead he'd sworn Vasilios to silence, about his affliction. All Vasilios could tell Eleni, for example, was he wouldn't be around for long. She needed to know to finalise the dedication ceremony arrangements.
He'd said much the same to Nikos. Nikos wasn't stupid. He'd been a monk in the same monastery. Nikolaos just had to hope it was long enough ago for Nikos not to make connections. Besides, Nikos was discreet.
"Where would you like to start?"
"I don't need to see the outside. I have enjoyed its view from my Tower 25 terrace. It's the inside. Can we approach as I would for the dedication?"
"Of course. We'll navigate this junk and start from near the municipality building. We can enter the outer narthex via any of its seven doors."
At a pace little superior to a tortoise, the pair of elderly brothers reached the west end of the Basilica. It looked over the tall Vasilios and the shrunken Nikolaos. To the north soared the Kampanarió. Workmen had affixed a sandstone panel to the first of the eleven faces. Nikolaos prayed he would retain sufficient strength to inspect it before he must return home.
From the outer narthex, they passed to the main narthex – a transverse chamber with rib vaulting and three trios of doors set into marble-faced walls. The central trio comprised two lesser doors, with protruding lintels and the tallest door. This was the Imperial Doorway through which the Emperor Justinian would have made his entrance in the original Hagia Sophia.
"The brass casing has yet to arrive. The mosaic for above the door awaits the winners of your competitions. We have the doors, but we don't plan to hang these until the last minute."
"Why not?"
"Laying the floor is much easier without them and we avoid incidental damage."
Nikolaos insisted they bypass the first doors. He was intent on experiencing the effect Justinian must have felt. Standing in front of the Imperial Doorway, Nikolaos gasped in astonishment. Though the decoration was incomplete, he saw the semi-dome above the synthronon, with its windows. There was no sense of scale, nor any view of the main dome. For that he must move forward. Impelled by more than conceit or curiosity he did so and gasped again.
His brain took in a spectacle as magnificent as he could ever have imagined. It was almost too much to process. One detail sprang out, or rather four didn't. In his memory of Istanbul's Hagia Sophia there were the despised, discordant, shields, round and massive with their Arabic scripts, hanging beneath the pendentives which supported the drum and dome. Their absence brought profound happiness. He was winning.
Vasilios guided him to inspect the delicate marble columns and other stonework. They reached the centre, below the dome. Nea Hagia Sophia exceeded his wildest imagination. He rejoiced.
"Here is Vasilia's ambo. Do you wish to climb it?"
Nikolaos couldn't resist. An energy gripped him. In the ambo, he pictured himself preaching. The satisfaction was immense; the space below, looking back to the Imperial doorway, enormous. From the ambo, he proceeded across the solea to the iconostasis, the structure executed in Marmara marble but awaiting the icons he'd selected.
He didn't examine the iconostasis. The visual effect, imagined and created by Eleni, impressed him. It could only improve with the icons.
He penetrated what would become the Holy Doors to enter the Sanctuary. Installation of the altar and ciborium would happen when the icons arrived. All came from the Archiepiscopal Museum – antiques of significance and value.
The synthronon. It took words away. The tiered hemispherical seating for his priests and monks. There reposed the sandstone throne in the centre at the apex. He turned to Vasilios.
"Is the elevator working?"
"It is. We connected it to the power supply yesterday. Vasilia anticipated you might wish to try it out. This way."
A discreet door permitted access underneath the synthronon. What looked like solid sandstone was an illusion. The synthronon was like being underneath a sports stadium, supported by a network of piles and piers. They traversed these to the back and centre to find a steel door. Vasilios pressed a button. With a sigh, the throne sank from above to floor level and the steel door popped open.
Inside was his sandstone seat. Underneath the synthronon, it was unimpressive compared to its appearance when slotted into place above.
"You have to sit down. Vasilia says there will be a seat be
lt, just in case. She tells me it will be narrow, and web-like for invisibility, but made of Kevlar. For the moment, you will have to do without. You press the button set into the right arm. There are only two settings. Up and down."
Nikolaos was speechless. He did as instructed. There was a quiet hydraulic sucking sound. The throne rose with a smoothness which delighted.
Suddenly, Nikolaos emerged into the light. He looked down the tiered steps of the synthronon and out over the iconostasis to where his congregation would laud their spiritual leader. All felt natural in his immense, beautiful building.
He'd almost done it. He must survive until the dedication.
Three bells sang outside. Alpha, Beta and Gamma. Omega followed with eleven thunderous cries. Eleni's fears were unfounded. Nea Hagia Sophia, the building, barely vibrated.
What a beautiful coincidence. On his throne he, again rejoiced and repeated to himself: 'Glory to God, who has thought me worthy to finish this work. Solomon; Justinian: I have outdone you both.'
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Inma delighted in the empty hotel gym. She considered. It was after ten. Those with business meetings must have left. The place was hers and she was desperate for peace and quiet and exercise. Her sort of exercise, not that which Stephane relished.
She selected a mat and a large rubber ball. They were not as pristine as her equivalents in the finca and her piso in Madrid were. She commenced the first stretches and found out that she would pay a price for doing the minimum in her hotel room. She had given up on this when she accidentally fell to the carpet nose first. It had stunk of dirt and industrial chemicals.
Ninety minutes later, she completed a tough reminder of what she ought to do each day. She'd been lucky. Only one person came in to use a running machine and then the stationary bike. There was no conversation. For Inma, exercise was solitary and not for chat.
She permitted herself a luxury, Sukhasana or the Burmese position. At home, she liked the full lotus more but this required her to be looser than she was today. She must think and relax. Using her own breathing techniques, adapted from Yoga and Tai Chi, she let her thoughts soften.
Some time later, formal consciousness returned in a gentle spiral up from peace. From experience, this was the time to reflect on anything which provoked concern. Today, she had four issues demanding different degrees of consideration.
The simplest was Lili. Their daily discussions worked. The business ticked over fine in Inma's absence and Lili, from indirect feedback, had an excellent approach to keeping clients content.
Yet Inma heard a rising frustration in Lili's voice. She wanted to close more deals, especially the new blockchain ones. From Davide's analysis, this wasn't yet ripe. Inma had no intention of repeating the olive oil fiasco. While not saying so out loud, Lili wanted Inma back and soon. Inma desired it for non-business reasons. But that could not be. She must advise Davide to book flights.
Next was Ana. Her one recent conversation with her cousin had elicited no new insights. The finca made progress, as did the refurbishment of the second farmhouse. She planned to rent this out as an agroturismo holiday house in the mountains with an olive oil educative dimension. She'd said nothing about the romantic attentions of the architect, the farmer or Davide. Inma's intuition was that Ana required support. A complication if she had to keep Lili positive.
Davide. She liked his company ever more. Relaxed, unfussy. With Ana, though, he was feeble.
She wished she could contribute more. He'd helped enormously with the SinCards, including distracting her from re-insurance. She was grateful. That distraction was as good as a work vacation. It had reinvigorated her.
Inma did not understand what he planned next. If he stayed in Madrid in his inherited apartment, which had impressed her the one time she'd visited, she would be happy. There was a part of her that speculated. Could she assist him in his search for a new occupation? He'd confessed this was his big issue for the future. Or would she be interfering?
The SinCards worried at her. The more she'd developed the marketing ideas, the less savoury her assessment. SinCards were... sinful. They were evil. Like lottery manipulations. An indirect and subtle manipulation, if not tax, on those who could least afford to pay.
Her relief that her involvement was in its last moments was substantial. Best to remove herself and hope her guilt faded.
Except she knew it wouldn't.
The SinCards were bad, not only sinful, but sin-stimulating.
There was no way round this. There was nothing she could now do.
She'd erred.
Guilt suffused her.
Last and least was Stephane. The conversation with Davide, after Stephane stormed out of their evening together, was a reprieve. He was decent enough looking, capable and intelligent with too much charm for his own good. Davide's expansion, on some of what he experienced in New York, reassured her she didn't wish to explore much further. Yet his Gallic charm had had its way. She'd relished his attentions and compliments.
She took a decision. She would copy Davide and sneak away. Stephane wouldn't care. There would always be another woman on his arm. Her connection with Davide probably put him off. No need to explain to his fragile male ego that she wasn't interested in men.
She removed her arms from her knees and uncrossed her legs. She took a few moments before she stood and made her way from the gym towards the elevators. This was the one part she disliked, traversing a lobby in her exercise clothes. She'd contemplated using a bathrobe and decided against it. That would have looked ridiculous.
"Inma. I was waiting for you. The front desk said you were in the gym."
Her aplomb, worked so hard for in the gym, evaporated. Stephane. Why did he have to be here?
Chapter Fourteen
Nicosia (Cyprus)
Eleni inspected the latest sandstone carving. The process was improving. Some adjustments Stephane had incorporated were making the difference. If they had sufficient sandstone, they might have all panels complete within ten days. Otherwise, they'd have to wait for the next shipment, which was at least a fortnight away. That was the difficulty with an elongated supply chain: five thousand kilometres rather than five kilometres, and much more expensive, all in the interests of keeping the Church connection quiet.
She answered her phone. It was a request to come to the Nea Hagia Sophia site office. Security had identified something curious. No, they would prefer her to see for herself. It might be a red herring. It might not.
The traffic into Nicosia was having one of its spasms. Light rain didn't help. Like most Middle Easterners, Cypriots were unfamiliar with driving on slick roads. Though most collisions were minor, the legal requirement was not to move vehicles until the police arrived. This compounded the chaos and stretched the traffic police to excess.
Three hours ground by for a journey which would take half an hour on a normal day. If only she had chosen her motorbike. Her car was a bad choice, though it kept her dry when the motorbike would not.
She left the car at the office and walked into the Old Town. Not equipped to appreciate the irony, she stopped at the same coffee bar where Evdokia and Alexa heard the complaints of the owner. Eleni received the same. Tempted to argue back, she resisted. The owner had a point. In a flash of goodwill and sympathy, she made a note to tell her uncle the Church should offer residents and business owners and their families prime tickets to attend the dedication. Good public relations.
Refreshed, she marched on to the security office. There was nobody there. She strummed her fingers on the desk. A door banging heralded the senior official. In an open box he carried a pot, a paint brush and two padlocks with broken hasps. He placed these in front of Eleni.
"We found these in the Basilica."
"Where?"
"The padlocks were outside the entrance doors at the foot of the north east and south west main piers. They found them a couple of days ago. Nobody gave it much thought. They were temporary and bought to inhibit
any temptation by our people to sneak up the piers at night when there is no lighting. They are not serious security. Nobody enters the site after it closes at six. The perimeter is what we secure."
"Why bother me?"
"This morning, one of the people clearing up the residual mess prior to the floor laying found the pot and brush underneath the metal stairs in the south-west pier. It wasn't exactly hidden, but it wasn't on show either."
Eleni motioned for him to continue. He was reluctant, but described how the finder had thrown the pot and brush away with the rest of the rubbish. To his credit, he'd thought better of his actions and retrieved the tin and brush before bringing it to his supervisor's attention.
"Forgive me, Miss Eleni. I'm not an educated man. They taught me only a little chemistry at school. However, my grandfather repairs thermometers and barometers and the like. From him, I know what mercury looks like. That is a mercury residue in the pot. Why would anyone want to bring mercury on site? Is there a justification you know but I don't?"
Eleni peered into the tin. There was too little left to be sure of anything when covered in rubbish and dust.
"I'll have to take your word for the fact that it's mercury. Why do you look apprehensive?"
"I remembered something. One day, in chemistry class, the teacher showed off. He brought some aluminium and some mercury. He combined them. Before our astonished eyes, the mercury ate the aluminium. He warned us about the dangers of mercury and..."
Eleni sprang up. She made the connection. It shook her to her core.
"How many people do you have available?"
"Now? About five. I could summon another ten, perhaps fifteen – but at overtime rates."
"Do it. We must search the dome and drum. Can you remember if there is a cancellation agent for mercury?"
"No. I could call my grandfather. He might know."
"Summon your extra people, call your grandfather and seal each of the pier entrances. Nobody is to enter until I say so."
Resurrection (The Corruption Series Book 4) Page 33
