The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,92

reflection and gazed out over the dark, undulating sweep of the mountains, the grey rumple of the foothills beyond, the shimmering lights of the coast. This was what money could do.

‘Welcome, Doctor Bachmann.’ Nicos Chrisostomedes stood on the upper landing and looked down at them across the gulf of the dance floor, the archipelago of dinner table and chairs. He wore a dark, double-breasted suit, an open-collared white shirt. His face was lean, cragged, cut hard like hammered metal. Unlike so many Cypriot businessmen he looked fit, as if he had time for exercise and used it. He was fifty, Clay guessed, looked forty. ‘I see you have brought a friend.’

Hope smiled, twirled her hair in her fingers like a schoolgirl. ‘This is Doctor Greene, a colleague. I hope you don’t mind.’

Chrisostomedes joined them at the windows, kissed Hope on the cheek and shook Clay’s hand. ‘A colleague,’ he said, looking Clay straight in the eyes. ‘And with which institution are you affiliated, Doctor Greene, if I may ask?’

Clay held Chrisostomedes’ stare. ‘I am an independent consultant, actually.’

‘And what is your field of specialisation, Doctor Greene. Turtles as well?’ He glanced at Hope.

‘Hydrology,’ said Clay.

‘I see. Yes. Water and turtles.’

Clay said nothing, kept his gaze flat, unwavering.

‘And do I detect a South African accent?’ Chrisostomedes continued, unfazed by Clay’s stare back. ‘Rhodesian perhaps?’

‘Right the first time.’

‘Of course.’ Chrisostomedes ran his gaze over the cuts and scars on Clay’s face, his empty left sleeve. He did it slowly, with deliberation, so Clay would know. ‘A dangerous business, hydrology.’

‘Car accident,’ said Clay.

Chrisostomedes nodded as if he didn’t believe a word. ‘There have been some big changes in your country recently, have there not?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Clay. This guy was already starting to grate on him.

Chrisostomedes blinked once, turned away and snapped his fingers. A uniformed Philippina maid appeared. ‘One more place setting,’ he barked.

The maid scurried away.

‘Beautiful,’ said Hope, looking towards the far wall.

‘Illuminations from across Christendom, since the earliest stages of the form,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘May I offer you something to drink? Champagne, perhaps?’

A couple appeared on the elevated landing, a squat, overweight Cypriot in a dark-blue suit and claret tie, and a six-foot redhead in a gold-sequined mini-dress sprayed onto a porno-queen figure. They stood a moment, the woman tottering in impossibly high heels, the man blinking as if considering the mechanics of descending the three broad steps to the main level.

‘Dimitriou,’ Chrisostomedes called out. Big smiles from all. ‘Come and meet our guests, Doctors.’

Introductions were made. Champagne came. The girl’s name was Katia. Small talk cluttered the room. Weather. The beautiful house. The view in daytime.

‘Please everyone,’ said Chrisostomedes, ‘be seated. Our last guest is running a bit late and has asked us not to wait. Dinner is served.’

Chrisostomedes sat at the head of the table. Hope was placed to his left, across from an empty place presumably reserved for the tardy guest. Dimitriou was seated next to Hope, facing the redhead. An extra place was set for Clay next to the redhead and her impossible to ignore, artificial décolletage. The housemaid brought in the first course – lobster bisque – and poured wine for all.

Chrisostomedes raised his glass. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for gracing us with your presence. I would like to welcome you, and offer a special toast to Doctor Bachmann and her great work here on our island.’

Hope glanced over at Clay. Glasses clinked.

‘Kalo orexi, bon apetit. I have the lobsters flown in fresh from Nova Scotia,’ said Chrisostomedes, spooning the hot liquid into his mouth.

The redhead lifted a spoonful to her face, sniffed it once, let the spoon slip back into the bowl.

‘Please tell us about your research, Doctor Bachmann,’ said Chrisostomedes between mouthfuls. ‘For the benefit of our other guests less familiar.’

Hope put down her spoon, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a white linen napkin. ‘We are studying the two threatened species of Mediterranean sea turtle. Cyprus is one of their last nesting strongholds. Basically, we are trying to save them from extinction.’

‘Surely it is not so dramatic as that,’ said Dimitriou, staring at the redhead’s tits.

‘Absolutely it is,’ countered Hope immediately. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but in the last few years their numbers have gone into free-fall. A few more years of this, and they’ll be gone.’ She turned to face Dimitriou. ‘So yes, it is as dramatic as that.’

The Minister swirled the wine in his glass. ‘This may be so, Doctor. But the real question for