Chapter sixteen

                                                                          

The true face of Hrisacopolis comes to the surface in all its ugliness. While two of his thugs silence a tongue that could reveal his secrets, he is busy greasing the palm of a fellow politician, someone who is only too aware that he is one step away from a ruined career if he doesn't toe the line.

This chapter completes the setting up of the plot. There are many unanswered questions and many ways the story can go. Hopefully the reader is trying to figure things out but Enda is one step ahead as usual and soon he will get within touching distance of a deadly enemy without knowing it.

A Volvo cruised along the Athens coastal highway. Rays of the setting sun glinted off the car’s windshield as it turned a bend. Just a quarter mile out, off the coast and bathed in an incandescent orange, the island of Salamis came into view. In the half light a couple of small fishing boats were on their way back to the harbor, followed in their wake by several noisy gulls. In the distance, the late afternoon lights of Megara twinkled against a hazy blue sky.        

       Constantine Demetrios was a big man. Cramped in the front seat, the heat made him uncomfortable. His hairy arms glistened and his shirt stuck to his back. His partner, Stavros, a smaller man of stocky build, sat with his eyes closed.

       “Megara coming up.”

       Stavros adjusted his seat position with closed eyes. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

       “Are you sure you have all you need?” Demetrios looked sideways, nervously.

       “Yes. I think so.” Stavros opened his eyes and began to issue a deep guttural laugh. “You think I need advice from you?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin and yawned.

       Demetrios felt his stomach knot. He wished, as he had many times, he’d refused the money. But he knew that he had no choice. His own life would have been in danger. “I didn’t mean that.”

       “You just worry about getting me there and getting me away when the job is done. I’ll take care of the business.” Stavros grinned.

       Demetrios shivered. He licked the perspiration from the top of his lip and drove on in silence. Minutes later, Stavros began to snore.

Italianate balconies, adorned with flowers, hung over either side of the narrow cobbled street, filling the air with a heavy scent. Several of the small terraced home windows glowed with a dull light from within. From an open doorway music accompanied by loud clapping and raised party voices drifted out into the street.

       Demetrios cut the car’s engine and glided into the dark space beneath the last balcony. Ahead of them another street led off to the right. “The apartment is over there,” he whispered.

       Stavros finished pulling on his gloves, and picked up the length of rope and green canvas bag between his feet before carefully opening the door.  Both men stood for a moment, looking in both directions along the street before carefully closing the doors with a soft click. Demetrios walked a few feet ahead of Stavros, both men striding silently in soft trainers as they crossed to the other side of the street and turned right at the junction.

 They knew Alexander left his studio each night and went to the bar in the town square. Between eight and nine he returned, normally drunk.

       Demetrios breath came in short nervous gasps as they reached a crossroad. All he had to do was place the bag over Alexander’s head and help tie him up.

       They walked on in silence until they reached a small block of four apartments and stopped.  The block was an old three story building, the bottom level being two basements that were once garages but now turned into studios.  Both were reached by a cracked concrete slope covered with weeds. Set into the white flaking walls were two old wooden double doors.  Alexander had the bottom apartment on the left and used his basement for painting.

       Both men moved quickly and descended the slope through long shadows cast by another block of apartments next door. Reaching the double door, they stopped, both breathing heavily. Demetrios licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He looked back up the slope and then at Stavros. His stomach was in a knot. A strip of light shone from under the door and he could hear someone inside. Nodding to Stavros, he knocked twice.

       “What? Who’s that?” a gruff voice bellowed.

       Demetrious knocked again, louder.   

       “Just a minute!” The sound of a piece of furniture falling over filtered through the door.  “What the hell do you want?” The voice was slurred.  The door opened and Alexander’s face appeared, red hair tangled in front of his eyes. “Who are you?”

       “Alexander Constantine?”

       “Yes.”

       Stavros pushed the door back with force, throwing Alexander off balance. The instant he hit the floor Stavros slapped a piece of duct tape over Alexander’s mouth and Demetrios placed the bag over his head. While Stavros pinned the man’s arms from behind, Demetrious bound the wrists tightly with the rope before paying attention the legs. Thrashing wildly, one of Alexander’s legs caught Stavros a vicious blow to the chest, winding him. Cursing, Stavros released his hold and stood to gain his breath. In less than a minute Demetrious had secured the big man’s arms and legs. He lay helpless on the ground, struggling against the ties.

       Stavros turned to Demetrios and ordered him to trash the apartment. It didn’t take long to overturn the table and throw paintings on the floor along with all the other painting materials lying around on the work bench. When he finished, Demetrios stepped over to the door without a backward glance.

       “And now, you pig, you will pay for insulting the Hrisacopolis name.” Stavros pulled Constantine along the floor and sat him on a chair. He took a long handled razor from his pocket and pulled the hood up enough to expose Constantine’s throat.

Paul Hrisacopolis sat by the side of the pool eating from a fruit breakfast. A cigar lay in an ashtray, smoke spiraling into a clear sky. Although seven-thirty a.m. the temperature gauge on the wall showed seventy-five degrees.  The Doberman, half asleep in the shade of the awning, panted in time to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Hrisacopolis opened his newspaper and scanned the headlines in the business section.

       He snatched at the phone the instant it rang. “Yes.”

       “Paul, its Alain Boutin.”

       Hrisacopolis reached for the cigar and drew on it until it glowed red. Boutin was one of twelve EU members of parliament representing France within Brussels. “How’s the weather in Brussels?”

       “It’s raining.”

       “Isn’t it always? You’re up early, you work to hard,” said Hrisacopolis. “Take a break and come out here. The sun will do you good. Bring your beautiful wife as well.” He paused. Alain’s voice merged into the sound of heavy traffic. Irritated, Hrisacopolis shook the receiver. “Alain?”

       “Yes, Paul, that would be nice. I’m staying in Brussels this week while the House is in session but I’ll give Aurelia your kind invitation when I get back home.”

       Hrisacopolis blew smoke and coughed. He knew he had the man where he wanted him, although it would cost. Alain’s vote, along with half a dozen others would secure his seat and Chairmanship on the Ways And Means Committee. A veiled threat and money would seal the deal. “Breakfast with your young man then…..while you’re in town….I’ve forgotten his name, Eugene, isn’t it?”

       Boutin ignored the remark that reminded him how vulnerable he would be if Hrisacopolis didn’t get what he wanted. A male prostitute scandal two years earlier nearly ruined his career.

       He came straight to the point. The size of Hrisacopolis donation to the Montpellier Art Foundation was very generous, particularly if given as an annual gift. However, there were expenses for traveling and accommodation while entertaining and arranging exhibitions; very hard to fund on a limited budget, explained Alain. He sounded worried.

       Hrisacopolis thought for a moment. The man was greedy, but then all the politicians he knew were greedy. It needed to be an amount that bought total loyalty. He couldn’t take a chance on the man having second thoughts. “Shall we say half a million?”

       “Francs?”

       “Dollars.”

       “Perhaps an advance?”

       “Total amount paid into any account tomorrow.”

       There was a moment’s silence, then, “Pardon?”

       “Renewable on the same date next year.” Hrisacopolis grinned then added before Alain had a chance to answer, “An annual payment, Alain.”

       “You will have my vote, Paul.”

       “On all decisions except those we agree you can disagree on. We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, do we?”

       “Certainly not,” replied Alain. “What of the others?”

       “There are no others, Alain. There will never be any others. There is only you.”

       “I understand.”

       “Do you? If there is any misunderstanding I want to clear it up now. I would hate to have to remind you.” Hrisacopolis waited for confirmation .

       “I understand, Paul.”

       Hrisacopolis sighed. One slip and there would be a disaster. No information about him could be on Alain’s computer or any personal notes either at home or at work, nothing to connect them except official EU business. While Boutin was apologizing an idea occurred to him. Boutin could start earning his money. There was a Turkish delegate elect who was overseeing arrangements for meetings the following month between the Turkish Minister of Trade and his British and French counterparts.

       “Mustafa Hamit,” said Alain.

       “Do you know him well?” asked Hrisacopolis.

       “Yes.”

       Hrisacopolis thought for a moment.  If Boutin could find an excuse to engage the man in conversation relating to the talks, he could let it slip that he’d heard a rumor that Hrisacopolis Industries were looking at taking over the Famagusta container complex on Cyprus.

       “The British would love that,” replied Alain.

       Hrisacopolis agreed. If the British influenced other members to go for the plan, then a solution to the Greeks objections on farm subsidies would end.

       Hrisacopolis hung up. The first fish hooked into the net, and soon more would follow. He dialed his office and waited. His housekeeper appeared from the villa and walked towards him with a tray. He looked at her and scowled. “Did I say I’d finished?”

       “It’s getting hot,” she replied.

       “I know it’s getting hot! I don’t need you to tell me.”

       A voice answered in his ear. “No, not you, stupid!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m surrounded by idiots! I was talking to my housekeeper.” He waved the housekeeper away angrily. “Nana, are there any messages for me?”

       “Just two, Sir. A message from someone called Stavros. He sent his respects and asked that thanks be passed on to you for the flowers you sent to his brother’s funeral.”

       Hrisacopolis tapped the cigar. “And the other message?”

       “From the police, Sir. I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

       “Spit it out.”

       “It’s one of your chauffeurs, Sir, - Constantine Demetrios. He drove your limousine late last night and crashed on the outskirts of the city along the coast highway.”

       “Much damage to the car?”

       “It’s a write-off. The car went over the cliff.” A faint tremor sounded in her voice. “Sir, I’m afraid your driver died in the accident. The police say he smelled of alcohol.”

       “Damn fool! All right, Nana. Make sure we pay funeral expenses and give his widow a year’s salary.”

       “Yes, Sir. One last thing about the two reporters you asked me to invite on the cruise from London.”

       “What of them?”

       “I called their office yesterday, they’re on vacation.”

       “So?”

       “On Cyprus.”

       Hrisacopolis threw the cigar into the pool. “Call Koskotas and let him know. Do it right away. Tell him to look our friends up and find out what they are up to.”

       “Do you want me to cancel their invitation?”

       “Absolutely not.”

       Hrisacopolis rose from the chair and called another number. “Be there, you stupid” – he spoke under his breath. “Oh, yes, is Ahmet there.” He waited for what seemed an eternity. “Ahmet, I have a little more work for you.”

       He puffed on the cigar as he spoke. After finishing the conversation he slumped back down into the chair. He was exhausted.

        Being able to pull Boutin’s strings made him feel better. 

Chapter Fifteen - The search for Isia

                                                                        

                                                                                


This chapter took a long time to write. I was trying to remember what Paphos was like when I visited the island in the seventies, just before the Turks invaded. The place has changed a lot and I really wanted to get things right. I had no notes because I'd only been in the town for a day at the time. I spent a long time poring over articles from old archives and the Internet. In the end I did remember the surrounding countryside and other faint recollections of an old man leading a donkey, the Indian shopkeepers, and the terrible hotel - at that time listed as a three star place. It was awful. I also remember getting scorched legs due to not parking the Ford Escort out of the early morning sun. In the end I managed with the information at hand.

Enda and Jessica manage to find a Turkish village where Isia was known and an old man who tells them where to find her friend, Jamilya. Oh yes - and Enda has a sleepless night but not before Jessica keeps him where she wants him - under the thumb and still unsure of their relationship.

                                                            CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The shoreline boulevard of Pafos reminded me of other seaside towns I’d been to. Fast food franchises, souvenir kiosks, banks, estate agents, clothes shops and travel agents all cluttered together in uninteresting little strips. Whatever else happened on the island, nothing stood in the way of tourism.

        Inside every doorway a shopkeeper’s face smiled, ready to light up and wish you well and take you on a guided tour of the shelves if you ventured inside. Language and money were no problem. Travelers’ checks changed with ease and the day’s exchange rate; dependent on how slow business was, worked out in the blink of an eye. In September, tourists were staying away because of the soaring temperatures. The place looked like London’s favorite seaside resort, Southend-on-sea at the end of the summer season – deserted and devoid of any cultural character.

       We’d arrived two hours earlier. While we booked in at one of the more expensive hotels the clerk informed us there wouldn’t be any water for twelve hours. I left a frustrated Jessica with the manager and went for a stroll along the boulevard. I wanted to think.

       We chose Pafos for a reason. The cove in which Stevenson and his men had ambushed George showed up as a dot on the map a few miles to the north. It could be reached by road followed by a two mile hike. According to various press reports, George operated in the north west of the island. It stood to reason that Isia must have come from the same area; an area with half a dozen or so thinly populated villages. Armed with just a name and a photo, I hoped we could track the girl or her family down. Jessica had made enquiries about Isia before we left London but she found nothing. It appeared there had been no proper census records kept on the island before nineteen seventy-four.

       I walked back to the hotel and made arrangements at reception to have a hire car for the next day. It was eight p.m. and the heat made me tired.  I wanted a shower but it didn’t look like I would get one unless the hotel had fixed the problem.

       “Well, hello stranger.” Jessica appeared from the elevator. Slipping an arm through mine, she announced she had a surprise. We were on the top floor and there were fabulous views across the sea. Not only that, there was water. It came from a separate tank on the roof. She moved me away from the desk and whispered, “Actually it’s what they call the penthouse suite. I call it the pits but at least we have water.”

       “You changed our rooms?”

       “Yes, don’t worry, I paid.” She pushed the button to summon the elevator back. “There’s only one small problem.”

       The elevator doors opened. “What’s that?” I asked.

       “There’s only one bed.”

       I turned as she pushed me into the elevator. “Sorry, but I must have water. Oh, and that’s another thing,” she said, absent-mindedly. “We have to conserve what water there is so we’ll bathe together. There’s a Jacuzzi.”

       We traveled up in silence. I was too afraid to talk while Jessica tried hard not to laugh. The corners of Jessica’s mouth twitched as she tried to control a smile. I decided to act nonchalantly. If this was a joke I didn’t want her to think I was expecting any extras.

       The penthouse suite turned out to be three rooms. A shower and toilet, a sparsely furnished lounge with three easy chairs, a sideboard with built in minibar and a dining table straight out of the sixties. A queen-sized bed dominated the bedroom. In one corner stood a writing table and in another, a couple of old chairs. Set into the floor near the balcony doors a pink Jacuzzi looked out of place but none the less, a welcome sight.

       Net curtains billowed into the room on a sea breeze that wafted through the open glass doors. Outside, white plastic furniture faced toward the Mediterranean which, under the waning light of a setting sun, was turning a deep blue.

“Pour the water, Enda. Last one in is a sissy. Isn’t that what you say?” Her voice came from the shower room.

       “Yes.” I was at the taps and turning them before she finished speaking. 

       I found a small bottle of scented bath oil and poured the contents into the water. Undressing quickly, I threw my clothes on the bed and in my rush to seek refuge, stepped into the bath with my socks on. Sitting on the end of the bed and feeling bloody stupid, I pulled the socks off and threw them on the floor.

       I slipped under the bubbles a minute later just before she appeared with a bottle and two glasses. Still in her clothes, she wore the biggest of grins.

       “I’m sure you and the wine are at room temperature by now.”  She kept her eyes on me and chuckled.

       My grin covered my embarrassment. “Well at least I get to bathe first.”

        I felt humiliated that I’d not acted my age and she had shown me up. What had I promised myself in the lift? I should have known better and guess I got what I deserved. 

       “Pour the bloody wine before it gets hot,” I said, flicking suds at her.

       She giggled and put the wine and glasses on the edge of the Jacuzzi. “Just a second…..”       

       She slipped out of her shoes and put one foot over the side of the Jacuzzi and into the water, followed by the other. Allowing her dress to billow about her as she lowered herself into the water, she sat next to me, our bare thighs touching. Our eyes met and we laughed. As the laughter subsided I grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her down under the suds amid screams of protest. When she surfaced, her arms encircled my neck and we kissed.

       The ember of expectation that had been shouldering all evening erupted into a fire. I peeled her wet dress up and over her shoulders and dropped it in a sodden heap on the floor. I ached from head to toe, unable to focus. I’d never experienced that before.  Her breasts felt soft against my chest and her lips hot. We caressed and kissed until her nails dug into my back, pulling me into her.

       Later, after lying on the bed together in silence, she said, “Do you think I should call Max and let him know?” She recalled the holiday conversation with Max.

        I smiled and gave her a playful slap. “Yeah, right, make his day.”

        She raised herself up on an elbow and lent over me, drawing a finger lightly down my chest. “You’ll do for me, Enda. Whatever else, you have a big heart and that I really like.”

       Jessica didn’t know it but that was the best compliment any woman ever paid me. It showed how she really felt. I kissed her and said, “I’m madly in love with you.”

       “I know.” Shifting to her side, she looked at me and said, “Let’s just say we’re really good friends for now and you’re on probation.”                                                       

      

The old Ford Escort ran well enough. There being no air conditioning, we kept the windows right

down. Jessica wore a long loose red cotton dress, a pair of sandals and Ray-Ban’s.  I, on the other

hand, cursed myself for failing to dress for the occasion. A pair of khaki shorts are great for walking

but not for driving. It might have been September but on Cyprus it’s the second hottest month. My

thighs were cooking on the hot plastic seat. I loosened a couple of buttons on my shirt and adjusted

the ball cap. Sunglasses shaded most of the sun but my eyes were sensitive in bright light, a legacy from the fire that killed my parents.

Jessica looked down at an unfolded map across her lap. “Let me see now, she traced the road north to the Akamas Peninsula and the town of Polis. “Can we stop near Polis? She wanted to see Aphrodite’s Baths, where Akamas, the son of Theseus surprised Aphrodite who was bathing nude by seeing her reflection. She glanced sideways at me. “Please?”

Not wanting to disappoint her, I agreed, although the visit would have to be on the way back.  Isia came first. As an afterthought, I added, “Wasn’t there an unhappy end to that love affair?”

“Yes, Aphrodite returned to her husband, the god Hephaestus.” She gave my knee a squeeze. “Did you know that if you drink from the spring that feeds the baths you’ll fall hopelessly in love?”

I gave her a little nudge in the side. “Must have been some of that spring water in our Jacuzzi,” I said, looking straight ahead. I drew a deep breath.  “In the meantime, where do we go from Polis?”

The car suddenly lurched to one side as we hit a pothole.  Jessica’s map fell to the floor. The car juddered for a second and the engine nearly died.

“Bloody roads are useless and this car isn’t much better.”  I looked sideways and our eyes met. We both half smiled at each other.  I went back to complaining about the dust and drove on.

Our route took us west of Polis to a village called Dyo Potamoi. Another three or four villages were located to the south.

George operated in the northwest, mainly around the area from Pafos to Polis and the whole of the coast near the British firing range. He smuggled arms and men right under the army’s nose and moved them east through canyons and gullies into the Pafos Forest.

I hoped someone might recognize Isia and point out how we could find her. She obviously didn’t live in the area any more. All the Turkish Cypriots had moved into the northern enclave after the invasion. The division line meandered between Kato Pyrgos in the West to Famagusta in the East, and north of the area we were in.

We drove along the main road north passing large green orange and lemon groves; each carefully tended tree heavy with fruit. Several miles further, we left the road and headed down a dusty track to Dyo Potamoi. The track ended in a square surrounded by dingy hut-like homes caked in whitewashed plaster. Most were windowless, the openings covered by a slatted wooden shutter. All had flat roofs where lines of washing dried in minutes. Further into the village a long hitching rail, covered by a thatch roof of branches and long thick grass, provided shade for a line of silent donkeys standing with heads bowed.  In the middle of the square a teenage boy dressed in dirty shorts and T shirt sat under a eucalyptus tree. He held onto a small donkey, its tail swishing the flies away at regular intervals.
The boy stared at us with large brown eyes as we stopped the car. As I climbed out, I caught sight to his feet. On one foot he wore a faded blue cord slipper and nothing on the other. I wiped beads of sweat from my eyes and forehead.

Jessica, fanning her face with the folded map, looked across at me. “Let me do the talking.”
“He won’t speak English,” I said.

She walked over to the boy and said a few words. The boy got up and led the donkey away without saying a word. A dozen men appeared from behind some huts and stood in front of us. None of them smiled.

Jessica tried again although I could sense the tension in her voice. “I want some information about a girl called Isia….. She swallowed and started again. “We think she lived around here some time ago. Does anyone know of her?”

The circle around us parted and a middle aged man stood pointing a shotgun at us. I’m not a coward but there’s something about the barrel end of a gun that really makes me nervous. The man snarled something at us and gestured with the shotgun for us to go. I took a step back, pulling Jessica with me. The man continued shouting obscenities, I’m sure. He kept spitting on the ground.

Jessica spoke to him, calmly, asking the same question. This time she tried in broken Turkish.

The reply got even louder. I grabbed for her arm and pulled her back.

“Time to go, let’s get out of here,” I said, taking another step back.

“Just a minute, Enda.”

“No! Now!” I wasn’t arguing with her.

We walked backward to the car with careful steps, followed at a distance by the small crowd led by the man with the gun. I crunched the car into reverse gear, eased my foot on the accelerator, and drove out of the square to the track.

Jessica looked out at the crowd of men. “That was close,” she breathed.

“Close? You could have got us shot!” I drove forward in a cloud of dust, the car bouncing over the rough ground until we reached the track. The crowd disappeared from view in the driving mirror. “What the hell did the man say anyway? He obviously knew her.”

Jessica picked up her map and unfolded it. “Oh yes, he knew her.”

I spotted an old man walking out onto the track about twenty yards ahead of us.

“Now what!” I slammed the brakes on and stopped short, hoping he didn’t have a gun.

“Calm down, Enda. He’s just an old man.”

“Oh sorry, I didn’t know there was an age limit on firing a gun. If he’s got one – what are you going to do?”

“Got your red cape?”

The old man stepped up to Jessica’s window. “Go to Bellapais and ask for the whore Jamilya. She can tell you about Isia.” He held a leathery hand out for the customary gift and Jessica reached for her purse.

“Can you tell us where Isia is?” I asked.

He waved us away. “You must go now.”

“Bellapais is on the map. I saw it earlier,” said Jessica. “Its south of Kyrenia. You were right. This is the area she came from.” She looked at her watch. “Thirteen-thirty, time for lunch.”

“Okay, lunch it is,” I answered. “We’ll look for Bellapais tomorrow. At least we’ve found someone who knew Isia. Now, lead me to the place of gods and lovers.”

Chapter 14 Written In Stone

Sometimes we want to inject a small amount of information into our work that doesn't seem to fit in anywhere.  I wanted to show Jessica and Max alone without our main character being involved in their conversation. Another side to Jessica defending her relationship with Enda while he is absent and a little of her true feelings kept from him - but not from Max.  

                                                      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The clock on the wall showed two-thirty. Max was still in a meeting and raised voices indicated he was in full flow. Another ten minutes passed before the meeting came to an abrupt end. From behind the reeded glass panel in the office door Jessica saw people rise, their chairs scraping on the floor. The door opened. Tired looking staff and a cloud of smoke escaped into the passage.

       “Jessica, sorry darling, come on in,” shouted Max.

       Jessica fanned her face with a hand and walked to the bookcase in one corner of the office where a fan stood idle on top of it. She turned it on and sat in front of it. “Smoking is your pleasure, Max, not mine. I have no wish to suffer from passive smoking.”

       Max pursed his lips, nodded, and then said, “What can I do for you?”

       Enda had finished the articles, apart from a few finishing touches that needed sorting out, and Max would have them by the end of the week.

       “That’s wonderful. So where is Mr. Angry?” Max looked toward the door and then back to her. He stubbed the cigar out, unable to smoke it in the fan’s turbulent draft.

       Enda had left the building earlier, asking her to see Max, while he dashed to pick up some airline tickets for Cyprus.

       “What the hell. What’s he up to now?”

       “Enda tells me he hasn’t had a break in a long time and he’s decided that as the articles are finished, he would take off for a while.”

       Max sat back in his chair with a worried look on his face. “Is he unwell? This isn’t like Enda, you know.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment then suddenly slapped his forehead. “Has he been fishing around?”

       “Sorry?”

       “You know what I mean, Jessica. Has he been looking for another job? Because if he has, let me tell you, he’ll be in bloody trouble. He owes this paper, in particular me!”

       “No, Max, he wants a break and so do I. I haven’t had a break in the last two years, apart from visiting my father on a couple of long weekends.”

       Max sighed. “Okay, okay, tell him to call the office and make the necessary arrangements. You do the same as long as you don’t have anything pending. Have we got a stand-in for you?”

       “Yes, Martha, my art assistant will be holding the fort.”

       “Right, well have a nice break and give my regards to your father. He’s living in Reims now, isn’t he?” Max stood as Jessica made to leave.

       “Oh, I’m not visiting father this time,” she said, “I’ve decided to go a little further afield.”

       “Where are you going? Somewhere in the sun, no doubt.”

       “Cyprus.”

       “Cyprus?”

       “Yes, Enda invited me along.”

       Max’s mouth was wide open, a smile creasing his face. “It won’t work, darling, it won’t work. I’ve known Enda a long time and know when he’s up to something. So what are you two up to?”

       “Nothing, Max. We are going on holiday together.”

       “You and Enda – I don’t believe it. Enda’s…well, Enda’s-.”

       “Not my type? Not my class? Too old?” she snapped, one hand resting on a hip.

       “I didn’t mean anything, Jessica.” Max held his hands up in apology. “It’s just that Enda’s been a confirmed bachelor for as long as I can remember. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

       “You’re assuming there’s something going on. Enda and I are really are good friends.” Her eyes stared defiantly at Max, her breasts rising with emotion.

       Max sat on the corner of the desk and ignored her comment. “Is this serious between you two?”

       Jessica let the question hang in the air as she stepped to the door and opened it. Over her shoulder, she said, “There’s nothing going on, Max.” The door closed behind her.

       Max grinned and reached for a fresh cigar. “The hell there is, Jessica,” he muttered, “just you make sure you bring that old Irish wolfhound back alive.”