I intercepted Fotos on his way to our lunch date and fell in beside him. Fotos led us to a little round table beneath the overhang of an unambitious café. He lit a Camel. I lit a Cohiba Esplendido – I usually like a fatter stick, but this had a gorgeous flavor, which started out cedar and evolved into a sort of Mexican chocolate spiciness.
‘So,’ I said, once I had achieved a centimeter of ash, ‘you want to be a writer.’
There followed half an hour of off-point questions like ‘what’s your inspiration?’ and ‘where do you get your ideas?’ Even my old favorite, ‘what software do you use?’ This is standard. There’s an old saw about amateur warriors talking tactics while professionals talk logistics. In my (current) line of work the equivalent would be ‘wannabes talk inspiration, professionals talk rights deals and options.’ I’ve been on book tour, I’ve spent time in green rooms and dark bars with writers and not once have we ever talked about inspiration. You might get a conversation going about Oxford commas, but mostly we literary artistes talk money.
But I plowed through it all with a nuanced blend of encouragement and superior condescension. It’s what they expect. Then, as the sun grew hotter and the shadows shorter, it was my turn.
‘I have a question for you, Father. I heard something disturbing the other day about refugee kids.’
His emotions, as best I could judge, went: surprise, puzzlement, worry and finally, caution. ‘Our charity work has not been primarily involved with refugee issues.’
I don’t give a fuck about your charity, dude. I’m not checking up on how you spent my contribution; you could spend it on cocaine and bestiality porn for all I care, is not what I said.
‘I guess it’s the pictures, you know? You see them on Twitter or wherever, these little kids … I mean, I’m not sentimental, but it kind of breaks your heart, doesn’t it?’
‘Indeed, it is heartbreaking, the very word. Heartbreaking,’ he agreed, just bleeding human decency and concern and empathy all over the table.
‘What happens to kids who wash up on Cyprus from Syria or Egypt?’
‘From more places than that, I’m afraid. Libya, Iraq, Somalia, Sudan, Saudi Arabia, even.’
‘And what do the Cypriot authorities do with them?’
He shrugged. ‘They are taken to processing centers and from there to a facility in Kofinou.’
‘Kofinou. That must be a hell of a place. I mean, it’s got to be hundreds, maybe thousands of kids.’
He shook his head. ‘Perhaps not that many. You see, Cyprus’ laws do not allow for family reunification. You can apply for legal status, but that does not mean you can bring your children. In fact, refugees avoid Cyprus, if they can, because the Greek Islands have more favorable terms.’
‘Interesting. And all the refugees know this?’
‘The refugees know nothing; but the smugglers know. If you are a Syrian or Lebanese or Egyptian trafficker, you know.’
‘So, say I’m a refugee father with two kids.’
‘You would perhaps try to reach another destination.’
‘I found this picture online.’ I pulled out my phone and handed it to him.
‘Yes, yes, that is the boat that was driven ashore two weeks ago by high winds.’
‘Zoom in. I count seventy-eight people on that dinky boat. Eight or nine look like kids, at least to me.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘So, in that case where they came here sort of involuntarily, those kids …’
He favored me with a benign, pastoral smile. ‘I see. You want to help them?’
Yes, because I am Mother Teresa reborn. I am to the milk of human kindness what Kentucky is to Bourbon. Basically, I am a bit of a saint. Don’t you see the gold dinner plate on my head? I also did not say.
‘I don’t know that there’s much I can do …’ Modest shrug. ‘But I’m interested enough to want to know more.’
But then, a troubled shadow crossed his unlined brow. ‘I … well, there are some men who go looking for …’
If you wish to signal outrage without going overboard, you press your lips together, pull back a few inches, and narrow your eyes, just once. ‘Father Fotos, I am not a pedophile.’
‘No, no, no, of course not, I never for a moment …’
And just like that I had the location of the camp in Kofinou, and a contact person who would be very happy to speak with me, at least according to Fotos.
Now I had a different issue. Could I trust Fotos or not? Should I? Was there some better option? I could get someone online to do a job of translation for me, or I could ask Fotos. On the surface the online option would seem safer, but there’s a problem with the internet: it’s a permanent criminal exhibits storage facility. What I committed to email could be shared endlessly.
‘Father, I have a bit of a confession.’
He smiled, sensing a joke. ‘Then what a convenience that I am a priest.’
‘I … uh …’ Quirky smile, hesitation, long pull on my Esplendido. ‘Well, some people – people of the police variety – have the mistaken notion that I have some skill at investigation. I was given a document, an inventory of a certain victim’s possessions …’ I paused for the two seconds it took Fotos to reach the unavoidable conclusion that this involved the Paphos beach knifing. ‘And the police officer kindly translated it for me, but I have to confess my aural memory is not all it might be, especially when I’m hearing information while simultaneously distracted by impure thoughts directed at a delicious plate of fish.’
Lying, fiction writing, pretty much the same thing.
‘Is that your confession?’ He played along. ‘Impure thoughts about fish?’
‘We still don’t have time to go into my sins, not even if we just stick to gluttony.’ I paused to produce a wry, abashed smile. ‘No, the confession is that I have forgotten half of what this policeman translated. I was wondering …’
I opened my iPhone, swept around for a bit and turned a photo of the inventory sheet around so he could see.
Did he believe me? He seemed to. He was a young priest and maybe still a bit naive. I hoped.
Anyway, I got my translation, which I wrote down carefully so as not to forget again, then hurried back to my villa, checking to see whether there were any parked cars with bored police inside. Nope. Not yet.
I spread my notes out on the kitchen island, pausing only to start the coffee maker.
This was the list, minus various items of clothing, dresses, skirts, slacks, tops, bras, panties, and three scarves, with labels from Marks and Spencer, John Lewis, Galeries Lafayette, Anthropologie – all mass-produced and untraceable, and all painstakingly detailed by police officers with no interest in fashion:
€5,000 – mixed denominations
UK passport name: Rachel Faber
UK passport name 2: Amanda J. Hynson
UK driving license: Rachel Faber
Cannon digital SLR camera – wiped data card
Book: Little Town, Big Trouble by Lee Child
Guide book: DK Eyewitness Travel: Cyprus
Book: Lonely Planet Greek Phrasebook and Dictionary
MacBook Air laptop
iPhone
MacBook charger
iPhone charger
All of that, I knew. The electronics were tantalizing, but I was no better than anyone else at breaking into an iPhone or laptop. In lazily-written thrillers there’s always a guy in some picturesquely squalid basement room surrounded by glowing lights and Marvel action figures who only needs to grumble and tap a few keys. Those people don’t actually exist. Anyway, I wasn’t in possession of either the phone or the laptop.
MiraLAX
Ambien (label removed)
Benadryl – over the counter
Ibuprofen – over the counter
Purse-size first-aid kit
Hairbrush
Comb
Portable hair dryer
Mousse
Spirit gum
Artificial nails
Artificial eyelashes
Lipstick – Show Me the Honey (Lancôme)
Lipstick – Berry In Love (Lancôme)
Lipstick – Boom Meringue (Lancôme)
I paused to google the lipstick colors. As I expected, they were quite distinct and different and I smiled: good fugitive tradecraft that. Easy to run to the ladies’ room, apply a different lipstick, wrap a scarf over your head, add sunglasses, stuff your sweater or coat in a bin, and walk out a different person.
I travel with two stocking caps in different colors, an extra pair of very noticeable sunglasses, and cotton balls to puff out my cheeks and lips. (I can do a credible Vito Corleone when necessary.) And like poor Rachel/Amanda or Amanda/Rachel, I keep a small bottle of spirit gum. In an emergency, you can fashion a temporarily-plausible mustache out of clipped hair and spirit gum. In fact, I’d had occasion to use it once, though in that case I sliced a few inches off the back of a ponytailed professor and … But, long story and not relevant.
Purse
Wallet
Swiss Army knife
Small coil of wire
Six plastic cable ties
That stopped me, as it must have Kiriakou. You might use cable ties to secure loose items in your luggage. Then again, you might use them as effective non-magnetic, airport-travel-safe handcuffs.
And maybe she had pictures to hang with that wire. Unless. Unless she also had … I scanned down the list, looking for sticks, rods, something … yep, carabiners would do it. Very innocent – carabiners have a dozen valid uses. You wouldn’t necessarily be wrapping wire around them to form a garrote.
I stood back and digested the fact that Rachel/Amanda might be a fugitive like me, but was definitely a bit more bloodthirsty. Garrotes are not the weapon of choice for nice people. It is not a weapon of self-defense. The thing about a garrote is that its only use is for committing murder from behind.
I scanned down the list for other weaponry. The Swiss Army knife maybe, under very limited circumstances. The scissors? Meh.
A small refillable spray bottle, empty.
And? And, a small bottle of Tabasco sauce. It was the sort of thing lots of people carried, people who liked spicy foods. But you could also dump it into a spray bottle, maybe dilute it with just enough alcohol, and voila, homemade pepper spray.
‘Rachel slash Amanda,’ I muttered, ‘You were a bad, bad girl.’
I googled her names. Too many hits to be useful.
The list held nothing else of interest, at least nothing I spotted, aside from the credit cards and their possible charges.
Those fictional guys sitting in basements who can instantly hack into the NSA mainframe? They don’t exist, but guys who can pull up a credit history? They’re a dime a dozen.
I swapped SIM cards in my phone, fiddled around till I got a connection. I opened my WhatsApp, scrolled till I found the guy I was looking for, and typed:
Me: Hey. It’s John Johnson from that conference in Vegas.
Not me: Sure.
Me: I have a couple numbers.
Not me: I have a number, too. It’s the number 500. Also the symbol: $
Me: Routing and account?
He sent me his bank account information. Surprise! A Cayman’s bank.
I opened my bank app and did the requisite swiping and tapping, then went back to WhatsApp and typed in the credit card account numbers.
Nine minutes later I had the complete readouts on Rachel and Amanda. It seemed my buddy Cyril Kiriakou was not being entirely forthcoming.
I could ask. It would be risky, though. Kiriakou might be the kind of guy who kept a close eye on credit inquiries involving him. But nothing ventured …
Me: I also have a name for a deeper dive.
Not me: I also still have room in my bank account.
Me: Cyril Kiriakou. But you might need the Greek spelling. Hang on.
This took some doing, but I was eventually able to Google something I was pretty sure was the policeman’s name in Greek script. I cut and pasted it into the app.
Me: Location Cyprus. Occupation cop. Age approx. 50. Dark hair. 5'8" give or take.
Not me: That’s harder and it’s the middle of the fucking night here. Tomorrow first thing upon seeing deposit receipt.
Me: Fair enough.
I made a list of questions for myself. In no particular order:
Who has 2 passable UK passports?
Why?
Who knifed her?
Why?
What warrant’s out for her?
Kiriakou. Bent?
WTF is this all about?
Profit?
Run?
Minette and then run?
WTF was a cop doing at Dame S. party?
That seemed like a swell list, an excellent example of my sleuthing skills as well as my list-making skills. It occurred to me that there was one question I could answer fairly easily.
I hiked up the hill to Dame Stella’s house and found her husband, Sir or Lord or whatever he was, Archie Weedon. He was harassing a gardener who appeared to be spreading mulch in a flower bed.
He looked up sharply when I said, ‘Good afternoon.’
He was a tall man, early seventies, thinning gray hair combed back over a shiny scalp. He wore very fine fawn wool slacks, a crisp white shirt open at the neck and a navy blazer. No tie, so I suppose he was dressing down for yard work. For a second, I caught sight of the guy he must have been before his brain started to turn to Swiss cheese: stern, steely, arrogant. But then he blinked and the steely look was gone, replaced by benign befuddlement.
‘I’m David Mitre, I rent your villa. I was at the party,’ I said.
‘Party?’ he asked, and frowned in confusion.
‘Yes, I was just wondering if I might speak with Dame Stella. A matter of no great importance, so if she’s busy …’
She wasn’t, or at least she was willing to have me drop by with a rent check a few days early. She was sitting by the pool and invited me to join her for tea, and in the spirit of comradeship I actually drank some, hiding my shudder of disgust. Dame Stella was wearing an open, thin wrap over a one-piece bathing suit.
You’re rich, have great legs and a husband who surely isn’t keeping you overly-amused. I could have a hundred large out of your hands and into mine inside of a week. I did not say.
‘A little bird tells me you made a substantial contribution to the church’s poor box,’ she said, smiling approval.
‘Well, you’d mentioned the work they do …’ A modest shrug.
‘Are you playing up to me, David?’
‘It’s a lifelong habit of doing whatever beautiful women tell me to do,’ I said.
She liked that just fine. ‘And squaring accounts with the Almighty?’
I grinned to hide the suspicion that she knew more about me than she should. ‘Why would I need to curry favor with the Almighty?’
She laughed, and it was more snort than she intended, but she said, ‘I suspect a man like you has a few … indiscretions … on his conscience.’
‘My … indiscretions … leave neither party to them requiring or wishing for forgiveness,’ I said, playing along. ‘Well … not usually.’
That apparently exhausted her need for flirtation, because she asked, ‘How are you getting along with Chante?’
‘Her? Oh we are, oh … just bestest friends.’
‘She can be abrupt.’
‘She can be damn rude,’ I countered. ‘I want to thank you again for inviting me over.’
‘I hope that policeman wasn’t a sad bore.’
‘Nah. He was fine. Friend of yours?’
‘Kiriakou?’ She did nothing to hide her distaste. ‘Kiriakou is not a friend. An acquaintance of Jez’s, they play golf together with my husband sometimes. But it is wise to stay friendly with authorities, so when he asked if he could come …’
‘He invited himself?’
‘He very nearly pleaded. He is a big fan of your writing. And as I said, he is a friend of a friend.’
‘Jez? I …’ I made a confused face.
‘Jeremy Berthold. Jez. He’s, you might say, the unofficial head of the British expat community. You were introduced.’
Oh, you mean the big old guy gone to seed who likes to play literary critic? The Oxbridge twat with the stoned trophy wife and the fifty thousand dollar Patek Philippe for which I could probably get a good twenty grand? Okay, fifteen grand? I did not say.
‘Kind of a beefy guy? Ginger? We just exchanged polite non sequiturs.’
‘Yes, that’s him,’ Dame Stella said, not sure whether I should be reproved for describing him as beefy. ‘He’s been here for years and years and I suppose struck up a friendship with the policeman.’ That last word came with a sauce of distaste.
It was too hot a day for the cold chill that shivered my spine. ‘And Kiriakou wanted to come just to meet me? Huh.’
‘I do hope he wasn’t too taxing.’ She reached over to lay her hand on mine on the table.
‘Not all,’ I said, and put my free hand over hers, giving a brief squeeze and standing up. ‘Well, I have to run.’
I wasn’t sure if I meant that literally.