At the end of the harbour service road they turned left, following the direction indicated by the traffic policeman on point duty who was so busy talking into his radio he barely looked at them as they passed. The route would take them along the Tombs of the Kings Road back to Coral Bay, the Sea Caves, Valerik, and the life she had, for a fleeting, foolish moment let herself dream she may escape. Taking the sleeping child next to her in her arms, she stifled the sob that threatened as she hugged her as tight as she dared without waking her.
CHAPTER 50
For Pafos International Airport Air Traffic Control, Aphrodite Festival Saturday is the busiest day of the year. Apart from it being the middle of the high season, with holiday flights arriving non-stop from dawn to late into the night, they also have to contend with more private aircraft – props, jets and helicopters – than the rest of the year put together. For that reason, Senior Controller Kleanthis Savva always scheduled himself for duty throughout the day, starting at six and finishing only when the last of the Festival traffic had left.
This year was as hectic as any he could remember, having got off to the worst possible start when an early-morning charter to Manchester reported an engine failure whilst taxiing out to the runway. By the time the problem was traced to a faulty indicator on the flight-deck, two hours had been lost and the day’s schedule was already shot to pieces.
Nevertheless, under Kleanthis’s steady direction and thanks also to the willing support he lent his stressed-out staff so they could still manage their much-needed smoking-breaks, the team gradually managed to stitch the battered schedule back together. By late afternoon, flights were arriving and departing more or less in their proper order, if not quite on schedule. In Kleanthis’s view, and given the circumstances, half-an-hour was neither here nor there.
By seven-thirty in the evening, with all the filed arrivals on the tarmac, Kleanthis felt sufficiently confident everything was under control he could take a break himself. He had not eaten since breakfast. Handing control to his number two, Santos, a young man with much still to learn, but who was showing promise, and after logging the fact on the command and control system, he headed down to the staff restaurant in the main terminal building. There he grabbed a black coffee and a warmed ham and cheese ciabatta, opened his paper, and chilled.
It was twenty minutes later, as he was climbing the steps back up to the Control Tower, that he happened to glance back over his shoulder, alerted by the reflection of a flashing light in the windows above. He was horrified to see a line of police cars approaching across the airfield, blue lights strobing the tarmac, bouncing off the glass-sided Departure Hall behind. Kleanthis’s heart leaped into his mouth. Some emergency must have kicked off during his absence. Why had Santos not notified him? The radio he carried on his belt had been on all the time. Racing up the remaining steps, he burst into the control room.
Sitting quietly in their seats, everyone stopped their idle chat to turn and look at him, surprised by his explosive entrance. Flummoxed, Kleanthis looked across to where Santos was leaning against a desk, drinking water from a bottle as he watched the Cyprus-Italy Euro-Championship qualifier on his mobile - an offence that would land him and, probably, Kleanthis, in prison if a Civil Aviation official happened to walk in. Not that there was much chance of that on Festival Saturday.
'What’s happened, Santos?' Kleanthis called.
Alarmed, Santos jumped up. 'What do you mean? Happened where?'
Kleanthis could scarcely believe it. 'THERE.’ He gestured through the darkened windows. ‘Out there,' he repeated.
As one, the whole of the control room evening shift turned. As they saw the convoy approaching, jaws dropped. For a moment nobody moved. Then everyone scrambled to their stations.
'Check and report flight status,' Kleanthis shouted to the controllers peering at their screens as if expecting to see some impending disaster they had somehow missed. 'Santos, get onto Larnaca.' The bigger of the island’s two international airports, Larnaca invariably heard about things before they did. 'See if they know something we don’t.'
'At once Kleanthis.'
As everyone jumped to, Kleanthis picked up the hotline to the Airport Duty Manager’s office. He would know what the police were doing here. Why hadn’t he rung him? About to press the call button, Kleanthis stopped as his eyes lit again on the approaching line of vehicles. For an emergency, the convoy was proceeding at an unusually steady pace, particularly given how the local police are known for putting their foot down in response to the most routine calls. 'What the…?'
As the convoy pulled up below the control tower – no screeching of brakes or squealing of tyres – Kleanthis’s instincts took over. He returned the phone to its cradle. The doors of the lead police car opened and uniformed figures eased themselves out. They didn’t run, or seem in too much of a hurry as they headed for the steps. Kleanthis turned to his team. The rows of shaking heads, blank faces and choruses of, 'Nothing here,' confirmed it. Whatever had brought the police to his tower this night, it was no air-emergency.
He just managed to get everyone focused back on their screens – all routine, the post-festival exodus wouldn’t start for a good three hours yet – when footfalls sounded on the steps outside. The door opened and a bulky figure came in, followed closely by the airport duty manager Kleanthis had been about to ring.
Kleanthis stared, open-mouthed. He knew Superintendent Pippis Iridotu from the Church of Saint George they both attended on the hill, and the occasional fetes their wives collaborated in organising. But he had only ever seen him in the control tower once. That was during that debacle of a Major Incident Exercise eighteen months ago. What could possibly have brought him here, and on this night of all nights? Surely he should be down at the harbour? He had lost count of the times he had heard Pippis tell how he liked to be on hand to ensure the Festival Policing Operation went smoothly – even if it was from the front row seats he always managed to obtain for himself and his family.
Shocked, Kleanthis hesitated, half expecting the door to open again and a shock-wave of Civil Aviation officials to burst in. In the absence of an emergency, a snap inspection - which would in any case have been entirely unprecedented - was about the only thing he could think of that might justify such a high-powered visit. But the door remained closed.
Suddenly Kleanthis realised the policeman was staring at him, hands open, as if saying, Well, Kleanthis? Are you awake?
Pulling himself together, Kleanthis swallowed and managed a nervous, 'Superintendent?' He glanced at the duty manager. His face was a mask of non-information. 'What brings you here? I am-. We are-'
Pippis held up a calming hand. 'I am sorry to arrive unannounced, Kleanthis. And I have already apologised to Mr Stavrou.' He half-turned to the duty manager, still giving nothing away. 'I am here to meet a private flight.'
Kleanthis blinked in surprise. 'A private flight?' He reached for the clip board that had been his bible through the afternoon and early evening. 'But you are too late, Superintendent.' He ran his finger down the lists, confirming he wasn’t mistaken. 'The last notified flight arrived two hours ago. And I checked all the VIP attendees in myself. No one said they were expecting to see you.'
'That is right, Kleanthis,' Pippis said. His voice was calm, authoritative, reassuring. The tone he was famous for. He half turned again, as if to acknowledge the point a second time to the Duty Manager. Kleanthis noticed that the man seemed to be looking at the floor, as if what was happening was something he wanted no part of. 'But you see,' Pippis continued. 'The flight I am meeting is not on your list.'
Kleanthis took a second while he confirmed to himself he had not misheard. 'Not on the list? But that is impossible. A flight cannot land unless it has filed a plan through Larnaca. And all flights filed are-'
'Yes, yes, Kleanthis I know all that. But you see, this particular flight has not filed a plan.'
Kleanthis shook his head. Not only was such a thing illegal, it was unheard
of. It didn’t make any sense. But as his brain searched for an explanation, he remembered an article he had read some weeks before in the Pafos Times. The police were promising to clamp down on the Balkan smugglers who were increasingly using Southern Cyprus as their gateway to the rest of Europe.
Drug-dealers. That had to be it. But to attempt a land-drop-run here? And on this night of all nights? Such a thing would be doomed to failure from the start. It would be madness. Even if-
Kleanthis stopped. Pippis was shaking his head, as if reading his thoughts.
'It is not what you are thinking Kleanthis. Come let us speak.' Draping a heavy arm round the smaller man’s shoulders, the policeman steered him into the small, glass-fronted Senior Controller’s office. The sheepish Duty Manager followed. Pippis shut the door behind them and ushered Kleanthis to sit, which he did.
Over the next few minutes, the rest of the Control Room staff were treated to a spectacle the like of which none of them had witnessed before. To begin with, the policeman spoke, quietly, so that no one in the Control Room could hear, while Kleanthis listened. They all saw the puzzled look that came into Kleanthis’s face. It soon turned to amazement, then horror.
As Kleanthis jumped to his feet, his voice rose to a pitch where people could hear snatches through the glass. '…must be joking.’ ‘It cannot…’ ‘Who has authorised…?' He turned to the Duty Manager, as if appealing to him. But the man only shook his head, speaking softly so no one could hear, before returning to studying the carpet. Clearly, whatever was happening he had no say in the matter. Either that or the policeman was giving him none. Eventually, in the face of what, to those watching, looked like the policeman’s calm insistence, Kleanthis’s objections, if that was what they were, drained away. He fell silent.
A moment later he turned and, as if in a daze, came to the door. Opening it, he called out. 'Santos.'
'Yes Kleanthis?'
Kleanthis beckoned him inside, shutting the door behind him.
Santos’s heart thumped as he waited to hear what it was all about. The policeman cleared his throat. 'Tell him Kleanthis.' Santos turned to his boss, who was looking pale.
'Get ready to take charge of an arrival, Santos. Use my terminal.' He indicated the one on his desk.
'An arrival Kleanthis? But where is the notification?'
Not wanting to go through it again, Kleanthis shook his head. 'There is no notification Santos. Nor will there be.' He turned to the policeman, who was looking grave. 'In fact, after tonight, you are to forget all about it.'
Santos was mortified. 'But what if someone asks-'
The policeman cut him off. 'They won’t Santos. And even if by some chance they do, you will deny all knowledge. As far as everyone here tonight is concerned, this flight never arrived.'
CHAPTER 51
Even before the Zodiac beached, the four were out, the pair in front grabbing at the painter so they could drag the assault craft under the shelter of the cliffs as soon as the two in the stern were ashore. The beach was shale and steeply raked. In the dark, they needed to avoid any of the op-ruining ankle-breaks a Special Boat Services Captain had once warned was the greatest danger at the beginning of any beach-based assault. Tonight, there was no such disaster. Less than a minute later, they were at the base of the cliffs, Zodiac stowed, gear unloaded, ready to go.
Red peered upwards, mapping the route Ryan and Wazzer had picked out. Two nights before, the pair had spent a queasy couple of hours in the Zodiac, a hundred metres out, videoing the beach and cliffs through the night scope so they wouldn’t have to waste time looking for the best way up when they landed. They’d been lucky. Either side of the inlet were deep caves of the sort that stretch of coast is famous for. No way up from there. But in the dark above where they now stood, the cliff was pock-marked with features that provided ample hand and foot holds. Nevertheless, around the thirty foot mark, the sea had cut into the limestone, forming a shallow overhang which would need some rope work. Kishore, the Gurkha, was the climber.
'Up you go, Kish,' Red said, making a stirrup with his hands. 'And try not to peel off this time.' The others chuckled.
'Piss off,' Kishore said. Three years and they still won’t let it go.
As the Gurkha shimmied, lizard-like, up the rock-face - the first several feet were sheer - the others made ready for the belay that would follow once the first anchor was in. They worked silently, but together, each following the sequence they had rehearsed in the days previous, and again that very afternoon - after the call came confirming it was a 'Go'.
After a few short minutes, a single tug on the rope from the darkness above told them Kishore was ready. Red tapped Wazzer on the shoulder. Wazzer looked up and shook his head. Red and Ryan smiled at each other, knowingly. Sure enough, Wazzer blew his cheeks out.
'Next time can we find a nice, flat beachhead?'
He tugged once on the rope, took a hoist from Red and Ryan’s shoulders, then he too disappeared into the blackness.
CHAPTER 52
Twelve kilometres away, the Tombs of the Kings Road heading away from the harbour area was buzzing. Holidaymakers and weekend-revellers mingled as they headed for the bars and restaurants that form the colourful - and noisy - strip lining the main road. Horns blared and drivers whistled as young women in startlingly high heels and meagre dresses dodged in and out the stop-start traffic.
In the back of the car, Marianna paid little heed. Her thoughts were still on what would happen over the coming days, what she was going to do, and what life now had in store for the young girl asleep and, thank goodness, oblivious to everything, in her arms. Though only minutes had passed since leaving the harbour, her stomach was already in knots.
As they jerked to a stop, a burst of invective spewed from Ivan and he gave a loud blast on the horn. Marianna looked up in time to see one of the two skimpily-dressed young women who’d skipped round the front of the bonnet and made him stamp on the brakes, give him the finger. Ahead of them was a line of brake-lights signalling some hold-up. She sighed.
The Tombs of the Kings Road is notorious for accidents, especially at weekends. For months, letters had been appearing in the local edition of the Cyprus Mail, urging the police to do something about the danger, and not just from car-hiring tourists. By tradition, the weekend is when Cyprus’s young bloods get to show where most of their wages go, heading down from the villages in the hills to cruise the strips around the Harbour in their BMWs, flash sports cars, or souped-up Japanese imports with go-fast stripes, low sills and roaring exhausts. If it was an accident, Marianna thought, it could take forever to get home, not that she was in any rush. She turned to look behind. The escort car carrying Max and his partner was right behind, as always.
As they crept along, Ivan muttering to Sergei beside him, Marianna strained to look between them, searching for the cause of the hold-up. Somewhere ahead, flashes of blue reflected off buildings to light up the night sky.
'Is it an accident?' she said.
'We’ll know in a minute.'
She sat back. Communication was not one of Ivan’s strong points. A few minutes later, she checked again. Ahead of them, several police cars, blue lights flashing, lined the road. Whatever it was looked serious, though as far as she could see, there didn’t appear to be any ambulances or fire engines.
'What is it?' she said.
'Looks like some sort of road-check,' Ivan offered, before disintegrating into a babble of oaths she preferred to not hear. Ivan’s opinion of the police was as low as theirs sometimes appeared of Pontians. She hoped that if they were stopped, the surly Russian wouldn’t do or say anything stupid.
As they neared the front of the line, Marianna saw it was a roadblock, and a big one. Several police cars and 4x4s were parked around, their lights adding to the strip’s garish displays. Officers in reflective-yellow jackets and waving hand-lamps were picking out cars, apparently at random, and pulling them into a slip-road formed out of traffic cones. As she saw the car
in front being waved on by the woman sergeant who seemed to be controlling things, Marianna hoped she was about to do the same to them. No such luck.
'Shit,' Ivan declared as the sergeant waved them in. But instead of complying he stopped in the middle of the road and wound his window down. Marianna groaned, anticipating the worst. As the sergeant approached, Marianna saw she was older than most of the officers she usually saw on Pafos’s streets.
'Please pull over sir,' she said, politely.
'What is all this about?' Ivan said. 'We are just trying to get home.'
'We won’t delay you sir. Just a routine check.'
'Have I done something wrong?'
'Please pull in sir. The officers over there will explain.' She nodded towards the slip road where officers with clip boards and what Marianna assumed were breathalyser-devices were already dealing with other cars.
Still muttering, Ivan made ready to comply. Before doing so he looked in the mirror and raised his hands in an expression of helplessness. Behind, Max flashed his headlights in acknowledgement. Ivan moved forward, at the same time pulling in to the left.
Looking behind, Marianna saw the sergeant wave Max’s car through. Presumably they had enough to deal with for the time being. But, like Ivan, Max also stopped. Marianna guessed he was going to tell her they were together. Even further behind, Marianna could see more blue lights. It seemed the whole of the Pafos police force was out this night.
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