As the wheels of the 747 touch the tarmac in Cyprus, Alecos Markides officially declares that he will not be running for the presidency, but I imagine, being a party man, that his office will do what they can to help win the election.
I get butterflies in my stomach as I gather my belongings. The weight of it all hits me as the stewardess opens the door for us to deplane. The archbishop’s instruction to “be alone when you deplane” echoes in my thoughts. Michael stands a few feet behind me, while a friend sees to the children. All will be escorted by a bishop to a waiting area inside the terminal.
Descending the stairs, my senses are overwhelmed with the mixture of sea air and the perfume of scented flowers, a fragrance unique to Cyprus and evocative of my childhood. Even the warm rays of the sun cannot calm my nerves. At the bottom of the steps I see the friendly face of Bishop Vasilios leading a contingent of clergy to meet me. Underneath my tough exterior there is still a young refugee traumatized by war, who has visualized this moment for the last twenty-four years of her life.
Each bishop picks up a carton of artifacts until all are in hand, then Bishop Vasilios signals me to start walking toward the van that will transport the artifacts to the archbishop’s palace. The bishops follow me in procession. There are photographers and videographers present from local and international media outlets filming our every move as we march together like an army of spiritual warriors bringing our wounded artifacts home to heal.
The archbishop, in his direction to have me deplane alone, sends a powerful visual message to the government, the media, and to the people of Cyprus that in truth it is the act of a laywoman, with his support, who made the repatriation of these sacred artifacts possible.
I thought that bringing the artifacts home would heal my own inability to return home to Famagusta, but as I make the transfer of the artifacts to the archbishop, my wounds remain. The war ruined my ability to trust, and the archbishop restored it. I feel that nothing can break the bond we share, but something unexpected is lurking just under the surface. Something I could have never anticipated.
Wearing a black Valentino suit with my hair pulled back in a simple bun, I arrive at the archbishop’s palace feeling uneasy. The archbishop is dressed in his cassock, looking very much like the refined spiritual leader he is. Van Rijn enters with Tassos.
“Relax, this is a special moment for you.” he says reassuringly.
One glance at Tassos and Stella and I wonder whether Van Rijn has them both seduced. Van Rijn disarms you with his “good guy” persona. All the while, he is studying your mind, your personality traits, your flaws, and your weaknesses. If your integrity can be bought, he will sense the hole in the fabric of your morality and tear at it.
Van Rijn is an opportunist. He has been on the run for many years with police authorities on his heels ready to take him down for his past transgressions. A clever businessman, he saw an opportunity to switch sides and become an informer before his past caught up with him.
When Van Rijn could not compromise me, I became another sort of sacred object that he wanted to collect. I believe he considered me his equal so far as intellect and strategy, but my gifts were used for a different purpose. I wanted to believe he was serious about redemption, and I wanted to save him from himself. When his father died before I could share what his son had done to help Cyprus, it changed the dynamic between us.
The archbishop continues giving his guests a grand tour of the palace and Van Rijn seizes every opportunity to be photographed next to him. Tassos is all dressed up in his formal suit.
“Why did you have to bring him here?” I ask in Greek.
He squeezes his eyebrows in defiance.
“Why must you take all the credit?” he asks. “You think you can handle him better than me? I’ve been a policeman my whole life.”
“He is going to compromise us,” I say. “I’m not—” He puts his hand up signaling for me to stop.
“What did the guy ever do to you but help you make a name for yourself in the papers? Give credit already.”
“Tassos, you’re making a mistake.”
“Enjoy your glory,” he says and walks to the opposite side of the room. So, I try to reason with Stella.
“Stella, I feel anxious about the way the police are managing Van Rijn. The German police and I were able to discuss strategy, we communicated about every aspect of the case, and manage to work flawlessly together.”
Her pale complexion is suddenly flushed with tones of red as the blood rushes to her face.
“How dare you criticize the police of Cyprus!”
I’ve never seen her so angry. “I’m illustrating the problem,” I say.
“I control the police! When you criticize the police, you criticize the work of the attorney general and myself.”
“The way the police are working is slowing down our ability to get the artifacts out of Germany,” I say.
“Do you know what the problem is? You’re the problem. The next time you want to have a conversation, come and speak to me without your husband. Let’s see how tall you are then,” and she walks away. I follow her into the hallway.
“Stella, please. I didn’t mean to offend you. We are supposed to be working as a team.”
“There is only one team, and that is you and the archbishop of Cyprus, Chrysostomos I.”
Stella walks down the stairs. The assistant to the archbishop, Mr. Demetrakis, stops her. “Madame, what is the problem, please?”
“She’s my problem,” Stella says, pointing at me.
Bishop Vasilios appears, looking for me.
“The archbishop is about to speak.”
He sees Stella upset and he ushers us into his office.
“Stella, I came to you for help. I would love to sit down with you and the police so we can all work together,” I say.
“Okay,” says Stella. “Why don’t you come to the police station at fifteen hundred hours this afternoon and we can have that talk.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, and we embrace each other. The moment makes me believe that we now have an opportunity to overcome our differences and work in unison to bring the artifacts back from Munich. There is a sudden generous burst of applause, but I miss what the audience is responding to.
Bishop Vasilios approaches me, beaming.
“You must be in shock,” he says.
I shake my head no, embarrassed that my thoughts are so preoccupied.
“The archbishop just nominated you to receive the Order of Saint Barnabas medal,” says Bishop Vasilios.
“The Order of Saint Barnabas, I don’t know what that is,” I say.
The Gold Medal of Saint Barnabas the Apostle is the highest distinction bestowed by archbishop Chrysostomos I and the Church of Cyprus. Knowing what Saint Barnabas means to the people of the Cyprus, this is a medal of great importance.
Bishop Vasilios explains, “It’s the highest honor given to a civilian. You will be the first woman recipient, so please wipe that confused look off your face and smile!”
“Stella wants me to come down to the police station,” I say, still in shock.
Bishop Vasilios’s facial expression changes to concern.
“You must not go there alone, Tasoula. Regardless of what she says.”
The British colonial style exterior of police headquarters in Nicosia is in direct contrast to the sparse and modest décor inside. Michael and me are led to Tassos Panayiotou’s office where the smell of stale smoke is mixed with the scent of perfume, which challenges my asthma. Tassos sits behind a large old steel desk that seems to have a history of its own, with Stella Ioannides alongside him smoking from her long cigarette holder.
“So,” says Stella, “you have given everything you have to the police of Cyprus?”
“Of course. From the first day I began working with Michel Van Rijn, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the attorney general’s office have received copies of my notes concerning any meetings, information, and requests he made.” I say. My body struggles to keep up with how fast my heart is pumping blood.
Stella says, “Bring him in.”
Michel Van Rijn enters the room and takes a seat next to me, opposite Stella and Tassos.
“All these years, I have been feeding you information that I assumed you were communicating to your government. Where are all the files and the evidence I gave you about Aydin Dikmen?” he says.
“What evidence?” I ask.
Van Rijn says, “The evidence about Dikmen’s smuggling. You keep it all for yourself and you withhold it from the police.”
The police are silent.
I feel my entire body go into shock.
“What the hell is going on here?” I ask, expecting an explanation from Tassos and Stella. “I don’t know what you’re referring to!”
“You’re lying,” he says, pointing his finger at me.
Those words provoke my husband to lift his six-foot-four frame out of the chair. “Enough is enough!” Turning to the police, he says, “Get him out of here immediately.”
Van Rijn wears a devilish smile when he says, “Have a nice day, golden couple,” as he exits the room.
Michael unleashes his anger. “Forget that she is an honorary consul. Forget that she is the representative of the Church. Forget that she has dedicated her life serving your country at personal danger. She is a Cypriot, for God’s sake! Her word is equal to Michel Van Rijn’s? You allow him to insult her dignity and you sit there and do nothing to protect her!”
“We wanted to pit them against each other to see who is telling the truth,” says Tassos.
“Shame on you! We’re out of here,” he says, as he extends his hand to me.
The next day, the sound of the hotel room service cart being wheeled into the suite of my hotel room wakes me from a fitful sleep. My thoughts are trapped in the noxious details of yesterday. I wonder if it is even possible for us to get on the same page to work together for the greater good of seeing to the return of the artifacts.
Reaching for the newspaper, I see an article about me being nominated for the Order of Saint Barnabas medal. My parents will be so proud, especially my mother, who lives and breathes by the Orthodox Church.
An envelope is slipped under the hotel door, and I debate whether or not to eat before opening it. Michael beats me to the punch retrieves the envelope and places it on top of a nearby table.
He pours himself some tea and selects a croissant while I serve him scrambled eggs and bacon. Seeing the paper opened to the article about me, he says, trying to lift my spirits,1 “Your nomination for the Saint Barnabas Medal is big news in Cyprus. Don’t let the attitudes of a few ruin this moment for you.”
Opening the envelope, I see an eight-page manifesto from Van Rijn, laying out his case of lies against me, which has been distributed to the attorney general and the minister of foreign affairs. After reading the first few pages, I faint.2
My circumstances have all the makings of a Greek tragedy, which brings me to recall the myth of Psyche, known as the deity of the soul. Due to the jealousy and manipulation of others, she loses what she treasures most. When she is sent to the underworld by Aphrodite on a quest to overcome impossible obstacles, Psyche proves in the end that her passion and commitment to the virtue of love is greater than her enemies’ fear and desire to destroy her.
I have not come this far to give up now. From where I don’t know, but I must find the courage to rise.