14

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ZANDRA KYRIACOS DROPPED by the villa unannounced. Nick was lounging poolside, sleeping off the previous night, when he drank too much, howled at the moon, stood on one of the house’s terraces, punched his chest like an ape, and pissed into the pool below.

She squeezed intimately beside him, her intensions sinful and her eyes jealous. She delivered several wicked kisses. Beneath the noonday sun, he feigned boredom. Except there was no denying she was a robust woman with considerable talents and delicious curves. Utterly unapologetic. The kind of woman who had more than enough love to lather onto a troupe of randy men, and plenty of flesh to grab hold of and never want to let go.

He reached his arm around her and drew her close. “Won’t your husband mind?”

“Ex-husband. Or as good as. As if you need reminding. Hell is where he belongs. It would be my pleasure to send him there personally, provided I could get away with it.” Between her sighing decrees, she ran the tips of her fingers along his jaw and left long, deep, wet kisses using her shapely mouth and talented tongue. “A pity that I shall have to let Nature take Her course. We have a darling son away at school. He’s at that impressionable age. You know which age I mean. Twelve, thirteen. Still a boy and not quite a man.” She showered more kisses onto him, deeper and longer and wetter. “Proprieties and rituals must be observed until he reaches maturity.” Caresses in all the right places were delivered with exquisite cruelty, even while she devoured his mouth along with other appendages. “Civility is the mark of a good mother, no?” Extra tortures of the indecent kind left him breathless. “On his twenty-first birthday, I shall tell him what a rotten scoundrel his father is and always has been.”

Nick slapped the butt of this mature and meaty woman. She was a lady without scruples or modesty, her having already disrobed even while applying various agonies to his receptive body.

Her lips came down on him again, but not onto his lips, instead exploring the warm environs of his groin with greedy hunger. Between licks, she said, “Soon he will remarry. His new woman is a bitch who nags him all day. And all night too, I shouldn’t wonder. She is my cousin. It will make for uncomfortable family reunions.”

Huffing and groaning, he managed to get out, “You’re ... making ... me ... uncomfortable.”

“Isn’t that the idea, lover?”

She reached for his hand and dragged him off the lounge chair. They retired into one of the many rooms where the beds were springy and the breezes sent down by wicker fans cooled the heat of their lovemaking.

The purchase of the villa had gone off swiftly and efficiently. The contract was signed, lawyers and agents in attendance. Permission to buy the property had expeditiously been granted by the Council of Ministers. A thorough inspection followed, carried out with alacrity, especially after gratuitous Euros were deposited into grubby outstretched hands. Transfer fees and taxes were duly paid. The deed was signed over without fanfare but with abundant smiles all around. Because he purchased the property in excess of three million Euros, he could apply for Cypriot citizenship if he chose, but since he was already a natural-born citizen of Greece, itself a member of the Eurozone, there was no need. He was a contented man living the life he had always dreamed of. And yet ....

Ah, yes ... and yet. He was constantly looking over his shoulder. Jack Coyote was still missing in action. Recent reports said he had been in Grand Cayman and linked to the murders of two women. Nick would have considered this and all the other stories about Coyote as tabloid sensationalism and internet gossip. Except for one thing. One of the women who died was rumored to be a CIA agent. He confirmed the fact on a closed internet board populated by conspiracy theorists, white supremacists, national terrorists, and political fanatics. Truth will out since the rumors were substantiated by more than one source.

Nick and Zandra consumed each other on the spacious platform bed, cooled off their ardor in the shimmering pool, and took a tandem shower accompanied by rollicking laughter. Then they drove down to the village and celebrated their afternoon debauchery at a small but elegant restaurant, taking their meal on a terraced balcony that afforded a glorious view of the valley below. They ordered every dish with the propinquity of gourmets, leading off with a horiatiki salad of tomatoes, diced cucumber, black olives, onions, peppers, feta, and a light dusting of olive oil. Then they feasted on the main course. For him, charcoal-grilled souvlaki pork kebabs with onions and peppers. For her, vine leaves stuffed with minced meat and rice. And for both, potatoes drenched in basil and oregano. After that came the baklavas, layered with almonds and walnuts, and sprinkled with cinnamon and lemon juice. A bottle of native Maratheftiko wine topped off the delights while the mountain breezes washed over them, bringing along a mixture of scents and flavors they could savor like they were savoring the delights licked from their forks. Greek coffee followed, strong and unfiltered, the aroma satisfying and the taste powerful.

They walked off their meals and wandered among the sidewalk stalls, Zandra examining the many wares and crafts with her usual frowns. Picking over handmade lace, woven curtains, and table cloths. Studying basketry, pottery, and leather goods. Taking an interest in locally crafted jewelry. After fierce dickering, she purchased a sampling of Lefkara lace sold to her by an old woman with several missing teeth. Afterwards she filled her mesh bags with fresh fish and vegetables, dinner for tonight and breakfast for tomorrow. Having had their fill and walked off their meal, they sat on a bench in the central square, shaded by trees and surrounded by forested mountains, deep gorges, and fertile valleys that rose up from the Troödos Mountains. Not saying much, they were content enough to people watch and soak up the clean mountain air.

Eventually Zandra spoke. “Tomorrow and the next day and the next, we can take a drive into the mountains and visit the Byzantine churches. The Royal Tombs. The Agios Irakleidios Monastery at Tamassos. The church of Panagia Forviotissa in Asinou near Nikitari. Not to be missed, that one. Twelfth century. The church of Stavros tou Agiasmati in Platanistassa. The Agios Ioannis Lampadistis in Kalopanayiotis. The Panagia tou Araka Monastery in Lagoudera. And the Machairas Monastery near Lazanias. The mosque in Peristerona. Much to see, but plenty of time. It’s all we have is time, no? All the time in the world,” she said on a heavy sigh.

He looked at her curiously, seeing her in a different way. “I never took you for a religious woman.”

She looked at him severely, almost shocked, probably thinking him a heathen. “Are you not a religious man?”

“My mother wanted me to be.”

“Ah, then you turned your back on your heritage. I can see I have my work cut out.”

“Don’t try to change me.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It is nothing to me if you go to Hell.”

“Sure, it is.” He nearly smiled, but it would have been a sacrilege. To her and to him.

Above the walkways, manicured lawns, and pruned shrubbery, pigeons swooped and pecked and cooed, hopping from shade tree to shade tree. Nick could have sat here forever, losing himself in the tranquility. Except for one thing. He was always looking over his shoulder, on his guard for a tall, good-looking man with vengeance on his mind.

“Should it be to your liking,” she said after some time had passed, “we can also visit the pagan shrines where the ancients worshipped their gods. On our way back, we can stop for a while and watch the almond and walnut trees grow beneath the sky while making love to the chirping of birds and fluttering of butterfly wings.” To which she winked before remarking, “You are a good lover. Zandra can make you a better one.”

Beads of perspiration formed on her cheeks, imparting youth to a well-used face that had seen younger days. Zandra was past forty. The years were beginning to creep up, particularly in the crags beneath her eyes and the gray strands running through waves of brunette hair.

“You will like our village. Our people. I will introduce you. Mostly the men. I wouldn’t want you to meet any of the women.”

“You’re jealous?”

“When it comes to her lover of the moment, any woman with pride is jealous.”

“Is that all I am to you, a lover of the moment?”

“Unless you become long-term. Don’t laugh. It can happen.”

“What about your agency? Don’t you have clients?”

“Who needs clients when I have you? As to that, my clients are few. When they get around to using my services, like you have used mine, the transactions are lucrative enough to support every one of my bad habits.” She elbowed him in the side. “Just so you know, just so you don’t think I’m a loose woman, I do not make a habit of sleeping with my clients. But don’t tell anybody. I like to keep up appearances. An actress’s reputation is all in the staging.” To which she laughed heartily while examining her polished fingernails.

Tourists mingled with villagers. Nick picked out the Americans by their athletic shoes, Bermuda-length shorts, zoom cameras, and pale complexions. Native men wore short sleeves and tan slacks, women cotton dresses, and younger people shorts and midriffs, everybody toasted bronze by heritage and the Mediterranean Sea, moving like flocks of birds, chittering and chattering and casting around animated glances. Several hundred years ago, they were an invaded people, their unwelcome overloads casting shadows on the land. Now they were a carefree people who didn’t give a damn who wanted to carve out their country for their own, even while resenting being divided through the center, Greek Cypriots on one side and Turkish Cypriots on the other, and further divided by the Euro currency and Turkish lira. In the end, the land and the sea were all that mattered. And their history, of course, going back millennia. Who cared who was who, when they were all the same people, intermixed over the generations until now no one really knew where the bloodlines came from, only how they identified themselves. The majority spoke Greek, a few Turkish, others English, French, and German. The dialect of the Greek Cypriots was markedly different from the Greek nationals. Wanting to disappear into the waxworks, Nick was trying to lose his Americanized accent.

“Want to go back to the house?” Zandra arched her eyebrows. Her meaning was clear.

It had been years since Nick treated sex as a pastime instead of an obligation. This woman freed him from stale habits. With her help, maybe he could shed everything, including his many offenses against God, though he highly doubted it since he could not shake the shadow of Jack Coyote.

Back in June and July, after shagging the man for days on end. Cataloging his movements minute by minute. Inventorying his associates, girlfriends, and neighbors. Recording his phone calls. Capturing his text messages. Downloading every file on his personal computer and avidly reading them with interest. Keylogging his internet movements. And making an inventory of his personal possessions down to his underwear and socks, Nick pretty much knew the guy inside and out. He could practically crawl into his skin, occupy his mind, drill down to his weaknesses and strengths, and know what he would do at any given moment on any given day. When his arrest came down as expected, the mission was considered a success. Everything changed when Coyote was released on a technicality. Then he ran.

The worm turned. Nick was on the hook for cyber theft and murder. Even worse, Coyote was out there somewhere, on the loose and out for blood.

They drove back to the villa and made torrid love for the rest of the afternoon. Cruel woman that she was, Zandra found ingenious ways to make him beg for mercy, after which she laughed and laughed, her laughter soon joined by birds settling down for the night.