CHAPTER TWELVE

This chapter had a lot wrong with it. I was disappointed with my own work in that I failed to see that the characters were wooden and a lot of dialogue should have been written in narrative. Unfortunately I lost the atmosphere surrounding the visit and its purpose and this practically ended up a re-write.
Here, Enda and Jessica meet with the British officer involved in the killing of Hrisacopolis son, George. Like all investigations, the pair glean the information on another piece of the Hrisacopolis involvement in the Cypriot troubles but also become aware of one secret the man would rather keep hidden. Soon they will find just how much trouble he will go to, to keep that secret. Enda has a secret of his own - a guilty secret involving the death of his parents when he was a child. He can't keep the nightmare out of his mind.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Devon is where I lived and where my parents died. As Jessica and I drove through the pleasant countryside it was hard to concentrate on what she was saying while images of that terrible night flooded my mind. I could hear my mother screaming and see the flames coming from under the door. Thick black smoke billowed across the landing, blinding and choking me. In the darkness, the door handle banged frantically as she wrenched it back and forth.

       “Enda, are you listening to me?”

       “Yes,” I lied. My mother’s screams were drowning out her voice and the steady throb of the engine. I gripped the steering wheel and tried to concentrate.

       “No you’re not. For the second time, can you please stop and check the map? I’m lost.” She was studying the map, tracing a finger along the route we had travelled.

       I didn’t need to. “We’re on the A30 and we need to take a left at Fenoy Bridges – it’s coming up shortly. After that we’ll pass through Ottery St. Mary and Wiggaton before reaching Tipton St. John.”

       “Clever dick.”

       She kept her eyes on the map but her face wore a mischievous grin. I felt a little guilty for not being a better travelling companion. We should have been discussing the second of our articles.

      

The day had started okay. I picked Jessica up and we headed for the M4 out of London. We talked about nothing in particular, about Max and Hart and what irritating bastards they were. Neither of us mentioned the goodnight kiss, a moment I still savored. Then she told me we should head for Devon and Tipton St. John. It was two miles from Bowd, a cluster of Devonshire cottages and town houses that I left after the tragedy. That’s when the conversation became one sided.

       “Here we are,” she said as I turned a corner, “we should be there soon.”

       “About fifteen minutes,” I said, trying to be cheerful.

       It took a lot longer. I had forgotten what some of the roads in Devon were like in the winter. We sloshed and bumped our way through puddle filled potholes and stopped by the side of a privet hedge.

       Captain John Stevenson’s cottage was on the outskirts of Tipton St. Mary, next to three other cottages. A small cottage of post war design, it did not have a thatched roof, much to Jessica’s disappointment. A small garden fronted the cottage, which lay several yards back off the country lane. Two tall beech trees shaded the whole area.   

       “Why don’t you soften him up first?” I said, watching her legs swinging out of the car.

       She glanced sideways at me and gave me a knowing smile, but said nothing. I hadn’t taken a great deal of notice of her appearance first thing but as she straightened up and closed the door I felt a longing in the pit of my stomach and my heart thumping against my chest. She was beautiful. A pale yellow two-piece woolen suit loosely followed the contours of her body. She didn’t need to pull anything in or push anything out.

       I followed her down a path worn into the lawn, weaving through a couple of flowerbeds full of forlorn chrysanthemums that needed cutting down for the winter. A rambling rose trailed across a trellis on one side of the front door sprouting dead white heads.

       “Not much of a gardener, is he?” I remarked.

       “You haven’t got a garden, Enda, so don’t criticize.”

       I nudged her gently and answered softly, “I’m not a politician but no-one objects to me criticizing them.”

       The door opened and Captain John Stevenson, a small elderly man with a shock of gray hair, stood in the doorway with a newspaper in his hand. A pair of old slippers poked out from beneath a pair of brown corduroy trousers. What really caught the attention were the two cardigans, one green and the other red, he wore over a white shirt. Any thought I might have had that we were looking at an eccentric were dispelled immediately however.

       “You are Jessica,” he said, smiling broadly and holding out his hand to shake hers. He kept hold of it.

       He turned before Jessica could introduce me and led us into his living room, a small cozy space warmed by an open coal fire. Ushering us into some armchairs, he left us to make tea.

        I sat on a chair by the window and watched spots of rain peppering the glass. “It looks as though we’ll have a miserable time going home,” I said.

       Jessica looked at me sheepishly. “It can’t be worse than the journey down.”

        I said nothing.     

        The captain reappeared, carrying a large tray with the tea things. He set it on a small round table in the middle of the room and sat down. “Tea, Mr. Osin?” He looked at me with a tilt of the head.

       “Yes,” I said, “thank you.”

       He acknowledged me with a smile then poured the tea. Once we settled, he turned to me.

        “Mr. Osin, I have read your column several times.”

       He placed a spoon into each saucer and then poured milk into the cups after getting a nod from both of us in turn as he held the small jug up. Pouring the tea, he handed a cup to Jessica with a smile. Handing me mine, our eyes met and locked. I sensed tension and wondered if he had second thoughts about the interview.

       Stevenson settled into an armchair without picking up his own tea, and tapped a finger on the armrest. “You will forgive me if I seem a little cautious about your visit,” he said.

       He understood we were making enquiries about Paul Hrisacopolis and his family as background for an article to do with the return of the Elgin marbles to Athens, given the recent developments in the European parliament. With the situation on Cyprus and my past editorials, he wondered if we had disclosed our real reasons for digging into the Greek’s past. He may have been retired for some time but age had not blunted his intelligence.

        I explained I’d come across newspaper reports, regarding his business interests in the early days. There were rumors about family connections to the troubles on Cyprus. The man, in my opinion, had some explaining to do. 

       “I agree,” said Stevenson. “What I want is for you to be entirely honest with me. Are you planning to bring about his downfall at some stage? I’d be pleased to help in any way I can. If not, you can – as they say in the army – kiss my rear gunner.”

       Jessica choked on her tea and burst into laughter.

       He gave a wry smile.

       I waited until the moment passed. Joking aside, he told us Jessica’s enquiry had stirred some embers in mind. He remembered horrific images of the carnage both sides in the Cypriot conflict inflicted on one another.

       I came straight to the point. “What can you tell me about Paul’s son, George? I understand you have a photo of him and a girl?”

       He looked at me and sniffed, not that he needed to clear his nose. It was a sniff of disapproval. “Mr. Osin, just because I agree with your sentiment it doesn’t mean I’ll start giving you information that might affect the future of Cyprus. You are Irish and if I recognize the dialect, you are from Northern Island.” He pressed forward, fixing me with his clear blue eyes.  

       “Belfast, I left there when I was a kid and have never been back.”  I wondered if indeed, he was retired.  

       Stevenson made no apology for the inference and pointed out that his service record included three years stationed near the border in County Antrim, where a lot of violence occurred. He reminded us that he signed the Official Secrets Act. Before he gave us any information that might get him into trouble, he wanted to speak to our editor. 

       Jessica and I locked eyes for a fraction of a second. Stevenson saw it.

       “Now tell me why I shouldn’t call him?” He held his cup midair.

       “Captain, in the process…”

       I raised a hand to interrupt.

       The Captain waved at me. “No, Mr. Osin…. He waved Jessica on. I trust her….”

       I wasn’t offended. His concerns were understandable.

       Jessica explained that while researching for the story of the return of the Elgin marbles we came across articles. There were also whispers about his ambitions within the EU. She referred to my political contacts that supported those suspicions that Hrisacopolis could be a danger in Brussels.

        Stevenson reached for a folder on a bookshelf by the side of his chair. He had never met either Paul or George Hrisacopolis. EOKA, The National Organization of Cypriot Fighters, hid in the country, mostly carrying out their operations at night. The British army knew that their HQ was approximately two miles north from Makarios and Kykko monastery. They rarely went anywhere near there, both for safety and political reasons.

       I chose my words carefully and asked, “Did you come by a photo of George that later appeared in a Cypriot newspaper?”

       “Yes,” he replied, “I picked it up off the beach. I assumed George dropped it.”

       Jessica repeated the details of her conversation with Ioannis Koskotas, the editor of “The Cypriot”. He had told her that as a reporter at the time, he paid the captain for the photo. She took my cutting from her purse and handed it to Stevenson.

       He denied this happened as he studied the cutting, confirming the copy and the photo he picked up were identical.

Opening the folder on his knees, he took a small worn photo from an envelope. He admitted taking it from the archives when he retired; a memento of how close he came to serving justice on the Hrisacopolis family. He handed it to Jessica.

       I got up to look over her shoulder. It was the same picture but Jessica was right. George sat on a wall with a rifle across his lap. Next to him and with an arm around his shoulders sat a beautiful young girl.

       Stevenson didn’t know what had happened to her and doubted if anyone on Cyprus would be willing to talk to me about her.

       I looked at the photo more closely. The girl wore a simple lose skirt and short sleeved blouse. On her feet she wore sandals, and a large black scarf covered her head. “Why?” I asked.

       “Her name is Isia Akchote.”

       “My God! She’s Turkish,” exclaimed Jessica.

       George had committed the ultimate family sin. I could hardly contain my excitement. The secret would put a big dent in Hrisacopolis popularity, even with his closest allies.  Greeks mixing with Turks in romantic liaisons were not too uncommon except on Cyprus at the time George and Isia were an item. Religion was another stumbling block.  Nowadays it was a little more relaxed but still frowned on in Greek high society. The reputation of Hrisacopolis as one of Greece’s hero’s would be shattered, given his exploits in the war for Enosis and strong views on the Turkish occupation, not to mention the effect the news would have on his industry. A disheartened public would drop their support and his plans would collapse.

       The captain agreed. “….but supposing the girl is still alive…..”

       Jessica nodded. “Yes, if we tip our hand too soon, Hrisacopolis will make sure we never print a word anyway.”

       I wondered why the editor lied about the photograph and how he came by it. It seemed very odd.  It was understandable he played dumb about the girl if he was pro Hrisacopolis but why implicate an intelligence officer.

       Stevenson knew the simple answer. The man had played a trick to throw us off track and stop us from digging in the right area.  It also created more time for him to cover up his lies.

       The question still remained. Who took the picture? Koskotas had to know, especially if he had the negative. A very close confident would have taken it, someone who could be trusted not to tell. I turned the photo over, examining some writing on the back.

       Jessica suggested the picture taker might be Alexander.

       “Good guess but I don’t think so,” replied Stevenson. “There’s much more to this…. George’s love life may be part of the secret but there has to be something else, something more dramatic.”

        I took a sheet of paper he was holding out. “What’s this?”

       “Run your eye down the list of names and see if you recognize anyone.”

       I didn’t have to look far. Koskotas was third on the list of a couple of dozen names. “Who are they?”

       The names on the list were prominent trouble makers - both Greek and Turkish. According to Stevenson, they remained under surveillance during the sixties and seventies. By day Koskotas worked for a newspaper. By night he printed The Cypriot Fight, an underground propaganda paper urging rebellion against the ‘occupying imperialistic army’, encouraging desecration of Turkish property and rallying support for the military junta in Athens who were at loggerheads with Makarios. Stevenson reminded us they were turbulent times with Greeks fighting each other as well as the Turks.

       “Must have been very confusing,” I said. “Your point about Koskotas is what? That he took the picture?”

            Stevenson nodded. Koskotas propaganda sheets were the only source for photos of EOKA action. His accounts often implied his presence on the scene. That also suggested he had a camera. There were often quotes from Grivas and Makarios that were more of a personal rather than military view of the campaign. Koskotas was more involved than he let on to Jessica.

       Jessica recalled Koskotas admitting he was a staunch supporter of The National Organization of Freedom Fighters at the time when he was young. It made sense he would have had access to a darkroom.

       She was probably right but something bigger than a love affair hid behind a cover up going on in the Greek’s head office. I was guessing it had a lot to do with the European parliament and the fact that Cyprus was now part of the EU. Something more than a secret girlfriend happened on Cyprus thirty years ago that if made public, would have repercussions for Hrisacopolis political plans.

       Stevenson pointed to the photo. “Keep that but I’d appreciate its return when you’ve finished with it. You might try making enquiries at villages nearby.”

       After spending several years as an intelligence officer, sifting through thousands of photographs, he recognized the location in the shot. Aphrodite’s baths were on the northern coast of the island near the artillery range. He suggested we start making enquiries there. It was near his last skirmish with George.

       The term maverick applied to George, never staying in one place for more than a few days and always one step ahead of British intelligence. After interviewing one captured terrorist officer, Stevenson realized George enjoyed special privileges, mainly because his father financed the cause with millions. George also convinced General Grivas that with a few men he could cause serious trouble. For a few months, Stevenson tracked George across the island until the United Nations peacekeeping force arrived. Whitehall ordered all troops confined much of the time to their bases while the UN established themselves at observation stations.

       Stevenson paused for a moment, as if in deep thought, before continuing.

       He received regular intelligence reports while confined to his base. It was a frustrating and sometimes a heartbreaking time. Many innocent Turks died in horrific terrorist atrocities. George earned himself a reputation as a fearless fighter. Records did not indicate him being involved in killing innocent people.

       Stevenson looked at me and shook his head. “Neither did they deny it.”  

       “How did he die?” I asked. “No-one seems to have seen him get killed.”

       “I saw him shot.”

       Stevenson poured more tea and explained.

       “The UN intelligence heard an arms shipment was being dropped off………They had heard from their Athens office.  I was with a British and Dutch UN contingent on duty at the time…. I had no idea it was going to turn out the way it did.”

       I looked at him as he relived the moment he caught up with George. It must have been a bitter sweet moment to have got so close to capturing the man, only to see his quarry escape into the night. Taking George alive would have been more satisfying.

       He continued. “We sat on top of the cliffs for an hour before some of Georges men arrived. They waited on the beach…..all of them were armed. Then George arrived with Constantine. It was only minutes before we saw signals…..out by the point…..and within minutes the boat arrived on the beach. They should never have attempted to land that night. There was a full moon, you see.”

       Stevenson paused again and there was a long silence. His story intrigued me. I didn’t want to break his train of thought. Jessica sat drinking her tea, but attentive.

       “It was all over in a matter of minutes. Seven dead and four injured…..and two escaped….one dead. The next time I heard of George was a news item in the newspapers. They were carrying an article about his death.”  

        The captain shook his head. “Paul Hrisacopolis hailed his son a hero and vowed to fight on for ENOSIS - sovereignty for Cyprus. Thankfully, or should I say, fortuitously, the Turks landed very soon after and put a stop to further massacres.” He paused and breathed deeply. “Unfortunately, the Greeks suffered for a few weeks after, especially the women.”

       Jessica decided she would drive home. While she wrestled with the early evening motorway traffic I studied the girl in the picture. It was obvious from looking at the picture that the couple was in love. She smiled alongside George.

       “You know what I think,” said Jessica without taking her eyes off the road? “Take a good look at her face. She has an unusual expression. Isia might be smiling but she has a sad and lonely look in her eyes.”

        On the back of the photo appeared one name, written inside a heart – Isia Akchote. I was determined to find out what happened to her.