I didn’t hold out much hope that the Madre de Dios would be as kind to Ella. She’d have been transferred to some kind of van with room to keep her out of sight every time her captors needed to cross a frontier.
Shaky drove me to the Villa Oniria to pick up my kit, then back down to Málaga. He probably thought it was the only way he could be sure of getting rid of me. He denied it big-time, but before dropping me off in the outskirts he said he wouldn’t mind if we didn’t come back to the campsite later in the spring.
I told him not to worry about the deposit. He could use it to buy some new furniture.
Then I took a cab to the airport and caught the next Lufthansa flight to Larnaca, with a brief stopover at Frankfurt.
1
Larnaca, Cyprus
Friday, 10 February
The posters promised that the Cyprus Girl Guides Association and the Limassol Majorettes would be rehearsing hard for their parade on Sunday week, and the Limassol Antique Cars Club would be preparing to drive around the city ‘in carnival mood’, but right now the Larnaca airport arrivals hall wasn’t exactly a thrill a minute.
It was well before first light and the lads at Passport Control were in zombie mode. The only action around there came from the baggage carousel and the mop squad.
The tourist invasion for next week’s Limassol Carnival was still about thirty-six hours away, but the world’s biggest supply of cab drivers was already milling around outside the Customs gate and keen to have my business. I responded with a smile and a shake of the head. I needed the flexibility of a hire car.
My Spanish experience didn’t set the alarm bells ringing at the desk, so I was on the main to Limassol in an underpowered Suzuki jeep by three fifteen. One of the things I liked about this place was that they still drove on the left. And it was a good time to make the journey: there wasn’t a lobster-coloured Brit on a quad bike in sight.
This stretch of coastline ran for about a hundred and fifty Ks, from Larnaca Bay to Paphos. It had worked hard to become a tourist Mecca since the Turks invaded in 1974, but Cyprus remained a broken land. The skeletal remains of whole villages were still caught in the UN-controlled buffer zone that separated north from south. You didn’t need to get up close to the Green Line to see the scars, though. They ran through every Cypriot’s heart.
Their island’s long and volatile history of invasion and annexation stemmed mostly from its location at the eastern end of the Mediterranean, forty-three miles from the Turkish coast, which made it the perfect jumping-off point for any major power in the mood for further expansion.
The Assyrians had had a crack at it, and so had the Egyptians, the Persians, the Romans and the Ottomans. And though the ’seventy-four gangfuck was always cast as a little local difficulty between two tribes who’d been enemies since the dawn of time, it had had much more to do with the American determination to fill a vacuum before the Russians filled it first.
And the Brits hadn’t covered themselves with glory at that point either. They’d sat and watched from the security of their coastal bases as the place had gone up in flames. Greek Cypriots from the north were evicted from homes their families had lived in for ever, and Turkish Cypriots from the south suffered a similar fate. There were still two thousand officially on the missing list nearly forty years later.
RAF Akrotiri was a couple of hundred miles closer to Bastion than it was to Brize Norton, so it wasn’t just the Club 18–30 beaches and 340 days of sunshine per year that made it the ideal R&R point for returning troops.
As well as providing one end of the air bridge to and from Afghan, it was also a major Mediterranean search-and-rescue centre, operating 24/7, with nearly a thousand permanent staff. I’d spent some time there on my way back from Gulf War One, and despite the friction of partition, I could think of worse places to keep an ex-soldier away from the dole queue.
The closer you got to Limassol, the more you felt like you were wandering into a Mediterranean version of Miami. The place was huge, and the seafront was lined with high-rises – hotels, offices and apartment blocks – busily elbowing aside the more colourful relics of its rich and complex past. As I drove in towards the marina, I could see the McDonald’s Golden Arch and the red and white TGI Friday’s strip lighting up the skyline.
This might have been the clubbing capital of the eastern Med, but Bob had told me that for him it was strictly weekends only. The rest of the time he was tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa by ten thirty so, no, he wouldn’t be around to welcome me.
He had given me the name of a taverna that opened early enough for us to hook up for a brew before he went to work. I turned right, away from the palm-tree-lined avenue that ran alongside the beach, past the Agia Napa cathedral, and into the maze of one-way streets that surrounded the Old Town. I parked up at the edge of a deserted square, wound the seat back and got my head down for the couple of hours or so that remained until first light.
2
It wasn’t long after sun-up, but the covered fruit and vegetable market was already bustling with activity. It reminded me a bit of the old East End markets that I used to wander past as a kid when I’d bunked off school, but with the outrageous rainbow-coloured produce you could only ever grow in a land of perpetual sunshine.
The artisans’ stores were starting to open too: clothes were being hung out on rails and tables loaded with the kind of souvenirs you’d wonder why you’d bought when you got home.
I found my way to the pedestrian street that led to Bob’s taverna, a bunch of freshly scrubbed wooden tables and cream parasols gathered by a faded blue door. The buildings were mostly no more than two or three storeys high here, some bare stone, some rendered, with delicate wrought-iron balconies jutting out over the pavement.
I was ushered to a seat by a waiter with the kind of moustache I’d only ever seen in the Go Compare commercials. I ordered a big frothy coffee. I quite liked the local concoction, but you had to be in the mood for a cup of something that was half sugar and half something that looked like the stuff I’d had swirling around my bollocks in the Devil’s Neckinger, and I wanted a brew I could linger over.
Bob appeared from around a corner a hundred down and raised a hand as he walked towards me. I hadn’t seen him for half a decade, but he hadn’t changed much. Having traded in his uniform for a Hawaiian shirt, he looked even more like Barry Manilow than Barry Manilow did, these days. We’d always called him Mandy when we were young squaddies, but now wasn’t the time to remind him of that.
He took the chair opposite me. The waiter greeted him like an old friend and he ordered himself the usual, which turned out to be a mug of builders’ tea and a fried-egg sandwich. I got the feeling this was his local canteen. I refuelled my brew and asked for a pig roll and we waffled on in catch-up mode.
Bob looked at his watch. I noticed a slight clenching of his jaw muscles. Either he was going to burst into song, or he wasn’t a totally happy bunny.
‘I don’t know what this is all about, Nick, but I’d say Grant is on a very high wire and trying not to look down. He talks the talk, but it’s not difficult to spot that there’s a whole lot of bad shit going on in his head.’
‘Afghan can do that to a guy.’
He gave me a look that said he didn’t have time for any more fucking about.
I put down my brew. ‘Bob, I don’t know him. And I don’t know exactly what he’s got to hide. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I need to find out. I’ve got one dead mate on my hands and two live ones I owe big-time, and I’m pretty sure Jack Grant holds the key to the mess they’re in.’
He nodded. ‘OK. So I caught up with him as soon as he came out of the Starlifter. He didn’t want to stay on the base for a nanosecond longer than he had to. I told him he could have the spare room in my apartment for a couple of nights. He almost bit my hand off.’
He unclipped a biro from his shirt pocket, wrote an address on a serviette and slid it across the table. ‘It’s on the first floor. I’m not entertaining much at the moment, and I thought we might need to keep an eye on him. Upwards of a hundred and fifty thousand people live in this slice of Paradise, and that doesn’t include the tourists – so there are plenty of places you can lose yourself if you want to.’
‘Does anyone else know he’s there?’
‘Sure. I put out an all-stations alert.’ Bob looked at me like I was a complete lunatic. ‘What do you think?’
‘Sorry. How many entrances and exits?’
‘Just the one, if you don’t count the upstairs balcony.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘I don’t have another spare set of keys, I’m afraid. You’ll have to use the legendary Stone charm to talk your way in. He won’t be expecting you.’ He gave me a Manilow-size grin. ‘Try not to destroy the door. It’s an old one, painted red, and I’ve got to like it. Also, it would really piss off the landlord.’
He stood up and reached for his wallet.
I waved it away, and thanked him for playing a blinder.
3
We agreed that we’d connect later, when he’d finished at the base. I told him I’d be sure to pay for any damage. His expression said he wasn’t sure if I was kidding. I wasn’t sure myself.
I finished my brew as I watched him walk away.
Bob’s apartment was half a K to the north of the taverna, and a few streets to the west. I left my bomber jacket in the boot of the Suzuki, bought a straw hat, a white linen shirt and a pair of sun-gigs from a nearby shop, then wandered up there.
The rendering on the front of Bob’s building was a faded mustard yellow and in need of some running repairs, but his balcony was immaculate: a metal table and two canvas director’s chairs stood between a couple of terracotta pots that trailed bougainvillaea through the wrought-iron railing.
His front entrance was flanked by two sets of awnings that had seen better days. A clothes store took up the ground floor and all sorts of local gear hung from its frames and rippled gently in the breeze.
It was after eight now, but I couldn’t see any sign of movement as I passed by on the other side of the road. The paint job on the window shutters matched the door, and they were still closed.
I busied myself with the kind of shit tourists do on a Friday morning, trying stuff on and wondering whether my auntie would prefer a Limassol ashtray or a pot of local honey, but keeping eyes on the red door and shutters.
I latched onto a group that were admiring the icon stall outside a small, stone-built church. There was a very shiny one of St Nicholas that I’d have liked to buy for Father Mart.
Shortly before nine the shutters folded back and a figure stepped out onto Bob’s balcony. I picked up the icon and held it in the sunlight. That way I looked like I had a reason for being there, at the same time as keeping Grant in my peripheral vision.
He was dressed a bit like me, but without the hat and shades. His hair was closely shaven and his skin was weathered. I wasn’t near enough to see the whites of his eyes, but his body language said he wasn’t going to swing into fully relaxed holiday mode any time soon.
After five minutes’ taking in the view he disappeared back inside. Ten minutes after that, the red door opened and he headed south, in the direction of the water. He’d found a baseball cap and some wraparound Ray-Bans somewhere inside. The tension continued to radiate outwards from his shoulder muscles, but he didn’t seem to be target aware. There was no ducking in and out of shop fronts, pausing to tie his shoelaces or walking around three sides of a square.
He headed straight for the pedestrian zone and stopped at the first secluded taverna he came across. I went and bought a newspaper. By the time I’d mooched over and taken a seat four tables away from him, Grant was tucking into a plate of ham, egg and chips. He was safely in the shadow of a stripy awning, back against the wall, the cap and gigs firmly in place.
I ordered up my third frothy coffee of the day and got stuck into yesterday’s news. Karzai had survived his Chequers experience, but the enduring strategic partnership didn’t seem to have made any difference to the number of lads killed or maimed by Afghan roadside bombs since I’d read about the visit in the Costa by the
Golden Hinde
.
I moved on to the crossword page and wished Trev was there to help out. Maybe he’d have been able to tell me what I should be doing next. And maybe he could have got in the way if my target decided to do a runner.
SSM Grant didn’t look keen for a chat, and I was 99 per cent sure that wasn’t about to change, but I thought he might be in a better mood if I let him finish his breakfast before I invaded his personal space.
There wasn’t going to be an easy way of doing this. He was clearly in no hurry to get back to Brize and prepare for his court appearance, and not looking for company now, so I wasn’t going to bounce over and pretend I’d mistaken him for an old mate, or cheerily ask him what his plans were for the carnival. I decided my only option was Immediate Action: go straight in there, seize his full attention, then try to keep it for as long as possible.
4
I waited until he’d taken his final mouthful of ham and eggs, then folded my newspaper, picked up my brew and moved over to his table.
‘SSM Grant?’
I still couldn’t see his eyes, but every muscle in his face told me I wasn’t even a tiny bit welcome.
I took off my hat and sun-gigs. He didn’t follow suit, but he did stay where he was.
‘You’re a bit of a legend in the Regiment, Jack. Everyone I talk to says so, and we both know that kind of respect isn’t easy to come by in H. So I was hoping you’d be good enough to help shed some light on one or two dark places for me.’ I thrust a hand towards him. ‘My name’s—’
‘I know who you are. And I know why you’re here.’ The lips moved, but the rest of him didn’t. He ignored my outstretched hand.
‘Then you’ll also know that Trev’s dead. Head job.’
I tried and failed to read the expression that lay behind his Ray-Bans, but saw him go absolutely still, apart from the pulse throbbing at his temple. ‘
No
…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Not Trev …’