The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,94

There was a slip of paper between the second and third digits. Clay slid it out and put it into his pocket.

She smiled at him again, turned towards him and leant forward, inviting him to look. She seemed about to speak when Chrisostomedes said: ‘I understand, Doctor Bachmann, that your Lara Beach research station was destroyed recently. Such a shame.’

The table went quiet.

Hope bristled. ‘I would have thought, Mister Chrisostomedes, given our history, that you would have been quite pleased.’

Chrisostomedes looked around the table, smiling at each guest in turn. ‘Not so, Doctor. As I outlined in my letter, I am prepared to fund the reconstruction and continued operation of your facility for the next five years.’

Hope sat still, lips slightly parted, saying nothing. Clay watched her reach for a strand of hair, twirl it between thumb and forefinger. She had known that something like this was on offer, but clearly this was much bigger than she had expected.

‘I…’ she started. ‘I’m stunned. That’s very generous.’

‘All we would require in return would be some flexibility.’

‘The conditions?’ said Hope.

‘But of course. This is business. There has to be something in it for me, otherwise why would I bother?’

‘Of course. No altruism here.’

‘There is no such thing as altruism,’ said Dimitriou.

Katia pouted.

‘All we ask is that you relocate the station slightly,’ said Chrisostomedes.

‘Relocate? To where?’

‘Toxeflora Beach, in the Agamas. Just a few kilometres up the coast.’

‘I know where it is,’ said Hope, visibly shaken. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘I do not joke, Doctor,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘I have neither the time nor the compunction.’ His face was set hard, the creases around his mouth like the dark fractures edging a crevasse.

‘On Turkish land? Inside the national park?’ blurted Hope. ‘You’re insane.’

‘Proposed national park,’ said Dimitriou.

Chrisostomedes leaned on his elbows. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Doctor Bachmann. I understand that you recently put in an application to do exactly what I now propose.’

Hope glanced towards Clay then looked down at her hands. ‘That was years ago. I was new here, I wasn’t aware of the status of the lands, the plans for a national park. Of course as soon as I was made aware, I withdrew the application.’

‘Well, this time our friend can ensure the proper dispensations are made, is that not so, Minister?’ Chrisostomedes inclined his head towards Dimitriou.

‘Indeed,’ nodded the minister.

Just like you did at Alassou last year, thought Clay.

‘And what about Lara Beach?’ said Hope.

‘We would develop an ecologically sensitive, world-class resort: a five-star hotel, casino, water park. All with your design input, of course, to ensure minimal disruption to turtle nesting.’

Hope pushed back her chair. ‘Are you crazy?’ she shouted. ‘It would mean the end of nesting on that beach. Forever.’

‘It seems, Doctor, from what you have told us, that will happen regardless,’ said Dimitriou.

‘And we hope you will want to reflect our generosity in the Commission’s findings,’ added Chrisostomedes.

Hope pursed her lips, said nothing.

They all ate on in silence.

After a while there was a knock at the door.

‘Ah, good.’ Chrisostomedes rose to his feet. ‘Our missing dinner guest.’

Everyone looked up. Two people had entered. A man and a woman. The man held the woman by the arm, his hand clasped over the bare skin just above her elbow. He led her across the hardwood landing to the steps. The woman was dressed in a black cocktail dress. She wore black pumps. Her dark hair cascaded down over bare shoulders.

Clay lurched to his feet. It was as if the blood had been syphoned from his head. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself.

Hope squealed like an excited schoolgirl.

The woman was Rania. And guiding her down the steps, Zdravko.

35

Thirty Weeks and a Hundred Years

Surely, he thought, the essence of beauty was imperfection. Four fingers to a palm, six palms to a cubit, four cubits makes a man, and in man’s symmetry the universe is structured. But this seductive Vitruvian mathematics was shattered by the dark line under her left eye, the slightly off-centre dimple in her chin, the chaotic quasars spinning in her eyes. Real beauty could only exist in the immediate presence of something marred, disjointed, sullied somehow: a datum. Only complexity could create the depth that beauty required, the multiple layers and infinite variants that could build a forest, one leaf, one branch, one limb, one tree at a time, sculpt the Sierpinski carpet of a coastline, or scatter celestial dust into the utter individuality of each retina. Hers.

Chrisostomedes nodded. Zdravko released Rania’s arm. She snatched it away, reached