I did not have too much trouble with this chapter. I enjoyed writing it as it introduced one of the villains. The opening had to be expanded a little and I had to rewrite the telephone conversation between Hrisacopolis and Ahmet. This is one of those chapters that sets out the cover up of a family secret but the reader does not know what that secret is. It is also part of a double cross by Ahmet but the reader does not know that either. The plot is complicated and so this chapter has to be correct in detail because readers will probably flash back to this chapter for the "Oh, that's why he said that", moment. There are several other chapters that drip feed the reader, leading them, hopefully down the wrong path.
A Chaffinch swooped down and landed by the side of a hole in the gnarled silvery trunk of an olive tree. After perching for several seconds, it flew up through the small tapered leaves and sat chirping in the shade. Sunlight filtered through the leaves in small sparkling points of light as an occasional breath of air rustled them. The olives stood in a straight line, casting long shadows that cut across the gravel drive and climbed the villa’s whitewashed wall. Beyond the wall, the village, a cluster of small white buildings to one side of the dusty road, stood out against the dark green orange groves that climbed the hillside. Some of the villagers took advantage of the shade offered under the trees and lay there during afternoon siesta.
Paul Hrisacopolis, his portly figure wrapped in a blue bathrobe, sat upright on a lounger beneath a white awning that ran the entire length of the veranda. He watched the bird with interest. Two more chaffinches joined it on the branch and started to sing.
Through the open bedroom window the faint sound of chimes from a carriage clock peeled through the still air twice. Paul pushed the wide brim straw hat back and wiped his forehead and mustachioed lip with a handkerchief.
The shaded veranda kept the sun from burning him. There was no escape, however, from the humidity and eighty plus degrees that would remain long into the afternoon. The cool interior of the villa with its marble floors was more comfortable but he preferred to sit on the veranda watching the birds.
Now and again he got up to enjoy a leisurely swim of one or two lengths in the swimming pool. Sometimes he took a short walk before ten in the morning or after three in the afternoon to watch the terrapins in the artificial pond he had built. The terrapins enjoyed permanent shade under a large eucalyptus tree on the other side of the villa. Between ten and four the sun’s heat was relentless, sapping his strength and forcing him the rest on the veranda.
His doctor advised him to retire and rest after suffering a heart attack the previous year but he scoffed at the idea. Instead, he rested for the summer before launching into the elections in Brussels. At sixty-four he was one of the most successful industrialists in Greece. The accolade meant nothing to him. Recognition to be a national hero like his father, a man whose name passed into history forever, moved closer each day to reality. He thought about his destiny as he watched one of the chaffinches flit skyward.
“Lunch.”
An elderly woman dressed in black stood in the doorway. A silver hair comb held her graying hair tightly in a bun. Of slim build she stood upright like a governess with feet together and hands folded in front of her. Small dark hazel eyes, a small pointed nose and a prominent chin gave her a stern appearance within an unsmiling face. At her side sat an equally stern Doberman with dripping tongue.
She repeated herself using a more commanding voice.
Hrisacopolis acknowledged her with a wave of the hand without looking up.
“Does that mean you will eat out here or inside?”
“Out here.”
“The doctor said you-.”
“Damn the doctor! Just bring the lunch and don’t tell me what the doctor said.”
The woman’s head and chest rose and with her lips tightly drawn, she turned on her heels and marched back into the villa in quick little steps.
The Doberman padded over to the side of the lounger and crumpled to the wooden floor with a loud thump. He rolled sideways with one raised paw, waiting for a hand to pat his stomach. When it didn’t appear, he whined. A hand came down and slapped his nose hard. The dog yelped, scrambled to its feet, sneezed, shook his head, and then loped off to the other end of the veranda. He crashed to the floor again with eyes that never left his master.
“Damn dog,” muttered Hrisacopolis.
The housekeeper reappeared, carrying a cordless telephone. She announced there was an urgent call from his secretary in Athens.
Hrisacopolis snatched the phone from her hand. “What?” he barked down the phone.
The secretary told him a journalist from the British newspaper, the Herald, was asking questions about his family and the Parthenon marbles.
Hrisacopolis fidgeted with a cigar, rolling it between finger and thumb.
“I know about that and if you read your morning instructions you would know too,” he answered irritably.
The secretary ignored the remark. The journalist, a woman, was making enquiries about George and a picture that appeared in a Cypriot newspaper.
Hrisacopolis sat upright. “What picture?”
It appeared shortly after your son’s death along with an obituary. The journalist wanted to know about a girl, partially hidden, sitting next to George.
“What did you tell her?” He flicked open a small silver cigarette lighter and lit the cigar.
His secretary had said nothing and ended the conversation.
“Good. Let me think. I’ll call you back after lunch.”
Hrisacopolis ended the call and tapped out the number for his Istanbul office. He waited for the connection.
The housekeeper appeared again, carrying a small table laden with a bowl of salad, a tsatsiki dip, and a plate of lamb and minted baby potatoes. He waved her away after she’d set the table by his side and handed him a fork.
A faint voice fused with atmospherics on the line sounded in his ear.
“Damn it, is that you, Ahmet?”
There was silence.
“Speak up! Do I have to keep telling you this is always a bad connection?”
There was a pause before Ahmet answered more clearly. “Sorry, Sir.”
“Well, what news have you? Has there been any progress? You’ve only got a couple of weeks now.”
He forked some lettuce into the dip and rotated the fork before lifting it to his mouth. Some sauce dribbled down onto his robe. He brushed it away with the back of his hand.
Ahmet had good news. The grandson, George Jr., was agreeable to reconciliation although reluctant to join the ship on a trip to Athens from London.
“No. He has to be with us on the trip,” said Hrisacopolis irritably. “If the contacts in Athens are comfortable in the knowledge that my grandson will take over, they will support my election. The timing is right.”
He explained that an announcement about the grandson in the world press would be crucial, prior to any political fanfares about the new European committee. He was at a crossroads in his life. He’d waited so long to fulfill the promise of Cypriot sovereignty, made by his father to the Greek people. Now he stood so close to victory nothing would stand in his way.
Ahmet listened, and then said, “George will be made to understand the importance of being present.”
“Good, is there anything else?”
Ahmet hesitated, “If I could remind you of two urgent problems, Sir. We still have to work out a statement that explains the situation regarding George. Then there is the matter of two people who need persuading to forget certain matters. Perhaps …?”
“Perhaps nothing, I’ll take care of things this end. You will find and deal with the girl, something that should have been done a long time ago.”
“Yes, Sir.” There was a faint click on the line.
Hrisacopolis sat eating the rest of his lunch thoughtfully. Certain things would have to be taken care of, as risky as that might be, rather than have the truth revealed. His dream of national recognition would be gone as well as the reputation of a family, loved and respected throughout Greece. Nothing was going to stop him now. He drank some wine and smoked for several minutes before picking up the phone. Another problem would need attention.
The Athens office answered promptly.
“Nana, call that journalist back and make all information about my political career and the business available. Also put her in touch with Ioannis about the photo and call him before the journalist does.” As an afterthought, he added, “Extend two invitations to the newspaper to join the cruise.”
Ahmet replaced the receiver in its cradle and smiled. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up to the ceiling of his second floor office. The old oak desk, the gray filing cabinets with chipped paint and the comfortable wooden office chair on castor's still stood on the same Persian rug. He had moved into the office nearly twenty years before.
From his desk he looked out of the large windows at the shimmering surface of the Bosporus. Ships of all sizes passed each day, including container ships owned by the Hrisacopolis line. He exhaled smoke and reached across the desk to turn the small fan on.
The Greek would soon have all those wonderful dreams shattered. The man was an arrogant pig. Hrisacopolis had forgotten that it was himself who had hesitated over the girl’s fate. Soon, all the years of being a ‘yes’ man would be over. He picked the telephone receiver up and dialed Cynara’s number. He waited, hoping she had not left for her morning job in Nicosia.
“Yes, good morning.” Cynara’s voice sounded clear.
“I have a job for you,” replied Ahmet. “You may be questioned by the press or by your neighbors about a Hrisacopolis grandson.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t interrupt, Cynara.” His soft voice held an edge of threat and domination to it. “Listen to me and do as you are told. I want you to look through the records of recent deaths of widows or spinsters, nothing over six months old. Then let me know what you have found.”
“This would be someone on the island?”
“Yes, it will be announced Hrisacopolis has found a long lost grandson who is taking over the Hrisacopolis Industries. This woman will be the mother who confessed to hiding him, frightened of losing him to Hrisacopolis. On her deathbed she asked that he be reunited with the Hrisacopolis family.”
“Why would they come to me with questions?”
“Your name will be mentioned as the source of the information. You will be a friend of the woman. There are other small details I will give you later.”
“Will you pay me for this?”
“Of course. You can have a one way ticket back to Istanbul and ten years in prison.”
There was a click and the line went dead.
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