up to where his hand had been. Zdravko turned to leave, took two paces towards the door. Then he stopped, looked back over his shoulder as if he’d forgotten something. He was looking straight at Clay, his eyes like gun slits.
‘That will be all, Todorov,’ said Chrisostomedes.
Zdravko muttered something, adjusted the sling cradling his right arm, turned away and closed the door behind him.
Rania started across the carpet. Clay could see the changes now, her breasts heavier, her figure rounder. His feet were tingling, his legs quivering. His brain raced to process what he’d seen, what he was seeing. Rania walking towards him, his child there inside her, her hips swaying beneath the thin material of the dress, her eyes dark with makeup, Zdravko’s finger marks still on her arm and Zdravko just outside the door somewhere.
Adrenaline poured into Clay’s system, swamping his senses. He needed to run. Grab her by the hand and run. Through the door, out to the car. Did they have time? Maybe. His Beretta was in the car, pushed up under the passenger seat. If he could get to it, they had a chance. But he needed to settle, calm himself, think things through. What the hell was Zdravko doing here? Working for Chrisostomedes, apparently. He’d clearly been surprised by Clay’s presence. Either Zdravko hadn’t shared his recent attempt on Clay’s life with his new boss, or Chrisostomedes hadn’t yet realised who Clay was. One thing was sure: Zdravko was here, and Rania was being held against her will. That’s how Zdravko had got the message to Hope, via the AFP, about the meeting in the mountains. If Crowbar hadn’t surprised him on the ridge, he would have put a bullet in Clay’s head. An easy shot for a marksman armed with a military-spec sniper rifle. It was intolerable, impossible to contemplate. Nausea flooded through him. He struggled to breathe. Rania was halfway to the table now, striding with that lean, elegant gait Clay had so admired the first time he’d seen her by the pool in Aden, thirty weeks and a hundred years ago.
Hope stood, ran to Rania and threw her arms around her. The two women embraced, kissed, whispered to each other and walked hand-in-hand to the table. Rania smoothed her dress under her legs, sat. Hope regained her place and sat facing Rania.
Chrisostomedes glanced at Hope and opened his arms as if addressing a congregation. ‘Everyone, this is Lise Moulinbecq, the journalist.’ Chrisostomedes introduced each of his guests in turn. Clay was last.
Rania leaned forward slightly, looked down the table at Clay. The candle flame danced in her eyes but her expression was neutral, hard. Her face was fuller than he remembered but dark hollows pulsed above the tops of her cheekbones like bruises through makeup. She looked tired.
‘Hello, Doctor Greene,’ she said, dead flat. ‘I am pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise,’ Clay stammered. The message was clear. They didn’t know each other. ‘I’ve read your stuff.’
‘Every tenth word, I’m sure, Doctor Greene.’
‘No, really,’ said Clay, still struggling. ‘You write well.’
‘You’re very kind.’ A quick smile, a fraction of a second only. ‘But I think you have it backwards, Doctor Greene. I hear you also write well.’
Then she turned away, began exchanging pleasantries with Dimitriou, who seemed to have met her before.
Hope sat beaming at Rania, entranced, watching every gesture, devouring every word.
‘Lise has been our guest here for the past few days,’ said Chrisostomedes. ‘Because of the tense situation here on the island, and the sensitivity of what she has been reporting, we thought it best to provide her somewhere safe from which to work.’ Chrisostomedes directed what he no doubt thought was a charming smile at Rania.
Clay cringed.
‘Yes,’ said Rania. ‘There is a lovely view from my room.’ She pointed to the picture windows, the lights of the coast flickering in the distance. ‘This, but one floor higher. Magnifique.’
Chrisostomedes beamed.
‘When can we expect to read your next piece, Ms Moulinbecq?’ said Dimitriou.
‘It will appear tomorrow, I believe,’ said Rania. ‘It concerns the joint EU-UN Commission of Enquiry on Coastal Property in Cyprus.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Dimitriou, nodding to Hope. ‘We were discussing this just before you arrived.’
Hope leaned forward, facing Rania. ‘The Minister has suggested that I direct the Commission towards favouring Mister Chrisostomedes’ activities and proposals. In return, they would fund the rebuilding of my research station. There’s a story for you.’
Dimitriou laughed. ‘The good Chairwoman is under the illusion that her fellow panellists are, how shall we put it, impartial.’
Rania