The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,148

from today’s International Herald Tribune. It is entitled: “The Evolution of Fear”. It was written by Lise Moulinbecq.’

In a clear, sure voice, Hope read the words that Clay had already committed to memory. Rania’s words. Written from her hospital bed just a few hours before, wired across the world to make the deadline, published and printed and sent back out around the world in time to be here, now. It was all there, in her wonderful prose, everything that had happened to her since Istanbul, the compromised stories she’d been forced to write, itemised and corrected, Chrisostomedes’ coercion, his abduction and murder of her aunt, Regina Medved’s dark insanity, all of it.

And as Clay listened, heard Hope declare the session closed, watched her raise her phone to her ear, Crowbar moving through the crowd towards her now, he saw her mouth open in a noiseless scream. Then her phone falling to the floor and shattering into pieces as she stumbled from the dais, tears pouring down her face, Crowbar folding her into his arms and them both turning to face him, Crowbar’s big jaw quivering on its hinges, Hope reaching out for him now, grief pouring from her eyes as the policemen pulled him away, started cuffing his only hand. It was over.

58

What You Had To Forsake

Seven months later

Clay walked along the outdoor corridor of the old, British-built Lefkosia Central Jail, breathed the cool air coming heavy with pine and cedar from the unseen mountains. He looked through the barred arches across the empty courtyard to the whitewashed crosses of thirteen EOKA fighters killed by the British during the liberation struggle of 1955. The British buried them inside the prison to avoid the uproar of public funerals. Incarcerated even in death. Clay stared at the pale, straight geometry of the grave curbs; to save space, the men were buried two to a pit. The white Cypriot flags hung motionless in the dead air, the nimbus of razor wire glowing on the crest of the penitentiary wall above the words: ‘A brave man’s death is no death at all.’ Clay thought that when he died it would be good to share a grave with a brother. He also knew, with absolute certainty, that he would die alone.

Crowbar was waiting for him outside on the pavement. It was a sunny day, clear and blue with the scent of lemon blossom and charred pine strong on the breeze from the Pentadactylos Mountains. Clay walked away from the prison gate for the last time, took Crowbar’s offered hand and clasped it hard.

‘You look good, seun,’ said Crowbar.

‘You too, oom.’

‘How do you feel?’

Clay stood on the pavement, breathed in the free air. ‘Older,’ he said, glancing back at the prison gates.

‘That’s what prison is for.’

‘How’s business?’

‘Booming. Someone’s always got a war to fight.’

‘Angola still?’

‘Long-term contract. You should join us.’

‘No, Koevoet.’

‘You know where to find me if you change your mind.’

They started walking along the pavement towards the old city.

‘Thanks for getting me out, oom.’

‘Not me, seun. Hope. She arranged it.’

‘Thank her for me.’

‘How was it?’ Crowbar said after a while.

‘Rough at first. After that everyone pretty well let me be.’

‘Hit first, hit hard.’

He had.

In the end, it had gone pretty quickly. A few weeks after Regina Medved’s death, Erkan had come forward and admitted to colluding with Chrisostomedes. His testimony had led not only to the destruction of Chrisostomedes’ by then shaky political career, but to his arrest and indictment for the theft of the Illumination, and for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder. Erkan also provided information to TRNC police that led to the arrest of two Russian men for the fiery murders of the Karpasia villagers. The men had admitted to being in the employ of Regina Medved at the time. With no one left to hold it together, the Medved family empire was in ruins.

Clay’s trial had been swift. He’d been acquitted of the murders of Todorov and Medved’s men due to lack of evidence. The curator’s murder had been firmly attributed to Uzi. Clay’s lawyer had performed admirably. Responsibility for the death of Madame Debret was rightly placed with Todorov. For the assaults on Chrisostomedes and Dimitriou, Clay had received a two-year sentence, reduced to six months by Presidential decree, thanks in part to an anonymous donation of half a million euros to the President’s re-election campaign.

They reached the roundabout at Paphos gate, continued past the old sandbagged bunkers and derelict guardhouses, through the warren of narrow streets in the old