The Final Cut

SIX

Nicosia swelters by day, by night, life is lived on the street, in the open-air eating places, on corners, at coffee shops, in parks beneath the stars. The hot pavements chatter, gossip flows along every gutter; at traffic lights young men lean out of their car windows or from mopeds to exchange banter and cigarettes with passers-by, for everyone seems to be connected either by business or by blood. But, since the Turks invaded, mostly by blood.

And in the stifling atmosphere the soft wind of rumour sweeps through the back streets, is passed from balcony to bus queue like a mistral of mistruth. Blow your nose by the Famagusta Gate and it has become a full-scale epidemic by the time, an hour or so later, it has reached Makarios Avenue. One day, perhaps, television may rescue the Cypriots, replacing febrile excitement with numbing uniformity and squeezing conspiracy into the commercial breaks. One day, perhaps, but until then, the Cypriot will believe anything. Except politicians.

Beneath a roof of woven palm fronds in the shadow of the great Venetian walls of the old city, a waiter served two British tourists, patiently explaining the menu, imploring them to try the boiled brains which were a speciality of his cousin, the cook, and warning them off the squid. 'Last week's. Too old.' He shook his head as though at a graveside.

A young boy, no more than ten, passed between the tables distributing leaflets. He stopped before the couple, clearly identifying them as British. 'Good mornings,' he offered, along with a full smile and a leaflet each, before continuing with his task.

'What does it say?' the woman enquired of the waiter.

'It says we want the British out of Cyprus,' he responded cheerfully, before spying the look on her face. 'No, not you, Madams. The bases. Only the bases. We want the British to stay, we love you. But as our friends in our homes and our tavernas. Not in the bases.' His cheerful clarification suggested not a trace of rancour. 'Now, how about some suckling pig, freshly butchered…?'

Suddenly a scooter, under-powered and hideously over-throttled, squealed to a halt at the kerbside and the waiter exchanged greetings with the driver. The noise grew, however, as did the animation of both waiter and driver, who were gesticulating as though warding off an attack of ravenous vampire bats. Then the waiter turned to his cousin who was leaning from the window of the kitchen. More shouts -the waiter abandoned his pen, pad and corkscrew on the table cloth – and the battle with the bats continued as he backed away in the direction of the scooter. Pursued by cries from his cousin that clearly fell well short of endearments, he climbed on the back of the scooter and disappeared into the night.

The cousin appeared at the guests' table carrying an expression of wearied forbearance, wiped his hands on his apron and reclaimed the pad. 'But… what was all that?' Madams enquired.

He shrugged. 'Bones. They've found more bones. So there's another demonstration at the Presidential Palace. Don't worry, ladies, he's only gone for a quick shout. Be back in half an hour. Now, what can I get you? Has he told you about the squid…?'

There were bones, uncovered in the hills behind Paphos beneath a pile of rocks in an olive grove. They weren't of an age which matched with graves from either the British or Turkish wars, and it turned out they weren't even human. But it would be days before forensic analysis established the facts and in the meantime there would be protests, rumours, inventions and outright lies.

Through dragging Cypriot days and beneath hard blue skies, truth rots like a gangrenous limb. The Presidential Palace in Nicosia is an unlikely affair. Built to house the imperial trappings of an early British Governor after the old headquarters were wrecked by a popular uprising, it was in its own turn burnt to the ground by the coup against Archbishop Makarios which opened the door to the Turkish invasion. This would have been an opportunity to erase the British stamp upon the presidential home once and for all, and to create a palace of entirely modern Cypriot design. 'But the British are our history,' the Archbishop was supposed to have said, 'they are our friends.' So, along with the Archbishop, the Palace was restored in the old style, complete with the dominant British coat of royal arms carved in sandstone above the main entrance. Dieu et Mon Droit. An unlikely affair.

Aristotle Nicolaou was a similarly unlikely affair. Tall, stooped, of uncomfortable construction, the President had a leanness and a blue intensity in his eyes which set him apart from most Cypriots. He was a philosopher rather than a politician, a man who had encountered no greater pleasure in his life than teaching economics at the London School of Economics and marrying an English wife. His happiness had disappeared with the Turkish invasion that had torn the island apart, and he had returned for no better reason than to assuage his sense of guilt at missing the hardships being endured by his fellow Cypriots. It was not a sense of guilt shared by his wife. Nicolaou was a man of broad ideals who had never fully reconciled himself to the tactics and daily concessions required of political life, any more than he had to those required in his marriage. As he sat at the small desk in his office, surrounded by family photographs and the paraphernalia of power, he felt adrift. Through the great Moorish stone arched windows came the sound of protest from beyond the palace gates – louder than ever tonight – and from the telephone came the sound of protest from the British Prime Minister. He didn't know how to handle either.

'Ari, I must emphasize how seriously I take this business. I'm not going to allow people to start kidnapping my High Commissioners and get away with it.'

'Francis, I'm committing everything to this. We'll find him.'

'But you haven't. Have you even found out why he was taken?'

'A radio station received a telephone call about two hours ago. Untraceable, naturally. Called itself "The Word". Gave the position of Mr Martin's birthmark. Said it will give the rest of him back in exchange for all files concerning hidden war graves and a commitment from your Government to withdraw from your "outposts of imperialism", as it called them. Bones and bases.' 'Bloody blackmail.'

In a bowl in front of Nicolaou were piled fresh lemon leaves from the garden; he crushed a few between his finger tips, savouring the sharp fragrance, as was his custom at times of stress. 'Can we at least encourage them to talk about it?'

'Ari, I've got an election campaign about to start. I've no intention of kicking that off by dickering with terrorists..'

'It's more than that, I'm sure. It's aimed at me, too. They want to prevent me signing the peace treaty. Even now I have a mob beating at my door.'

Beneath the canopy of a hundred thousand stars, another wave of protest drifted across the grounds -God, had they broken in? For once he was glad his wife was away on yet another trip to Paris. More culture. Shopping again. 'How seriously should we take these people?'

'Have you British not yet learnt to take Cypriots seriously?' Nicolaou sounded caustic. 'We may be a nation of tavern keepers and taxi drivers, but you'll remember we saw off the British military machine with little more than a handful of home-made bombs and stolen rifles.' 'I remember.'

'Above all, I cannot afford to forget. Throughout the ages we Cypriots have been betrayed by those who let in the Turks and other invaders through the back door. Now some believe I'm inviting them in through the front, putting out the welcoming mat. The arch deceiver, they call me. It's my head they want, not that of Mr Martin.'

'I hadn't realized things were so difficult for you. I'm sorry,' Urquhart said, and didn't mean it.

The President crushed more lemon leaves and gazed across his office to where, against the soft pastel walls above the fireplace, hung a large oil portrait of his daughter, an only child born five months after their return to Cyprus. Elpida, he had called her – Hope. 'So long as we have peace for our children, Francis, little else counts.'

The maudlin fool. Matters appeared to be getting out of control in Cyprus; Urquhart could not have been more content. 'And you believe these bone grinders who oppose the peace are the ones holding my High Commissioner?' 'I do.' 'Then who in God's name is behind it all?' Nicolaou sighed wearily. 'I wish I knew.' She was twenty-three, extended in leg and lip with an adventurous, uncomplicated outlook. That's why she had become an air stewardess, to see something of the world and its charms, and particularly its men. She hadn't counted on meeting a man like this. Within ten minutes of their encounter in first class he'd offered her a job – better pay, more regular hours, no more anonymous hotel rooms and shabby, sweaty nights with men trying desperately to forget they were over forty and heavily married. At least this one wasn't married. But she hadn't expected to be looking down the barrel of a revolver.

Her hand went to her throat in alarm. From six feet away the barrel waved, fell, once, twice, three times, indicating the buttons on her blouse. He nodded as her fingers found them; she was nervous, trembling, had trouble unfastening the first. The others came away more easily.

The barrel flicked to the left, then the right as though brushing her shoulders, and her bra straps fell. The whole garment dropped to the floor to join the blouse. She shivered as a breeze from off the sea, soaked in the scent of jasmine, crept through the open window and across her bare skin. Her nipples tightened, and so did the lines of his mouth.

Remorselessly the barrel continued its march across her body. She stepped out of her skirt and was left standing in only her underwear, her arms crossed around her as though in penitence.

Again, the barrel. She didn't answer its call this time, hesitating at the final barrier, but the barrel beckoned again, more impatiently, violently. And she did as it commanded, her breasts falling generously forward as she bent to obey. She stood, her feet apart, her legs and all his thoughts leading to but one carefully shaven point.

He stared for a long while; she felt as though she were melting inside. Then he gave an epic grunt. 'You want the job?' 'Yes, Kyrie.'

'Good. My brother Dimitri says you're imaginative. Come and prove it. Then we're going to go and smash the Government.' Claire's journey had been tiring, its purpose – Jeremy Critter – tiresome. He was one of life's natural critics, the diminutive and forty-ish Member of Parliament for South Warbury, who found it impossible even for a moment to hide his ambitions, still less his frustration at not having achieved them. He was a natural focus for media conjecture that he might join the Makepeace rebellion and it was speculation he encouraged since he could never resist having something new to say about himself. To pained enquiries from Downing Street he had replied in his usual blustering manner that his constituency association was applying considerable pressure and he was honour-bound to listen,- in their view, he said, the Government of Westminster, of Francis Urquhart, seemed to be all too distant from the mist-filled reaches of South Warbury and lacking in concern. Perhaps if the Prime Minister had made some gesture of recognition for the loyal support that both the constituency and its Member had given over the years, they might have concluded otherwise, but in the circumstances, when loyalty was not repaid…

This was no more than Critter's usual bumptiousness. His constituency association amounted to little more than a superannuated branch of the union of rural seamstresses sprinkled with a few old bowlers who hadn't raised stumps in years; they'd do anything he cajoled them into, including, it seemed, jumping ship. With the desertion of Makepeace, Critter had seen his chance to squeak; Claire had volunteered as rat catcher.

She'd got herself invited as guest speaker to the association's annual general meeting, a collection of fewer than thirty souls gathered in the back room of a pub. Beyond the partition wall behind her she could hear the ribald commentaries that accompanied a frame of snooker as, beside her, the association chairman rose to address the faithful. A gangling, stooped former colonel, he took a large brass fob watch from the top pocket of his jacket and laid it on the table in front of him as though waiting for the evening artillery barrage to commence.

Business began. Reports on the state of association finances – 'a balance of fourteen and threepence. I beg your pardon, ladies, that should be fourteen pounds thirty pee… deteriorated… further deteriorated… may have to consider closure of the office and we were all very sad to see Miss Robertson go…' And a row about whether the ladies' luncheon club should allow in gentlemen members. 'At our age, don't make a lot of difference,' one progressive soul offered. 'And since there are no nominations for new holders of office,' the Chairman was continuing, raising his voice above the unsavoury language that was beginning to filter through from the snooker table next door, 'I'd like to suggest that the present office holders simply continue.'

'Can't do that,' a voice objected from behind an active pile of knitting. 'And why not, pray?' the Chairman enquired.

'Miss Tweedie, our Vice President,' the knitting continued. 'She passed away last week.'

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Does make it difficult, I suppose…'

On Claire's other side, Critter beamed at them all like a dutiful son. No wonder he had them in his pocket. Could buy the lot for forty quid a year and a bus outing to Minehead. And this was the hotbed of rebellion that threatened to make national headlines by pulling behind Tom Makepeace? 'Not inevitable,' Critter explained to her as the meeting almost came to blows about the projected car-boot sale. 'But they feel so isolated, unappreciated. If only the Government could find some way of showing its concern for this constituency…' 'Like making you a Minister,' she whispered. 'Are you offering?' 'No.'

His jaw – what there was of it – hardened. 'I value what Francis has been able to do in his many years most highly, of course. Pity he doesn't seem to value me. But this isn't personal, you understand. My association is genuinely disaffected.'

'So tell them to stop it' she demanded. 'A word from you and they'd get straight back to crocheting tea cosies.'

'I shall listen, not instruct,' he muttered pompously. 'My association is very traditional. Likes to make up its own mind. On principle.'

The Chairman was drawing to the end of his remarks. Soon Critter would be on his feet. His body had turned half away from her, its language spoke of defiance, of a man preparing to leap. And he had never been able to resist jumping into a headline. 'Such a pity for you' she whispered. 'What is?' 'Your association and its principles.' 'What d'you mean?'

'I was simply wondering, Jerry, how these dear little old ladies will react to the fact that their conscientious Member takes so much work home with him.' 'What are you going on about, woman?'

'That new secretary of yours. Taking her home with you, to your apartment in Dolphin Square. Every lunchtime.'

'For work. Nothing else.' He was staring straight ahead, talking out of the comer of his mouth, unwilling to meet her eyes.

'Of course. It's simply that you men don't understand the problem. You make so little provision for women at Westminster and force us into such overcrowded surroundings that all we have to do while we're queuing to wash our hands is gossip. You'd be amazed at the rumours which get round.'

'Like… what?' His teeth were gritted, his complexion draining like a chicken on a production line.

'You know, mostly missed periods and missing Members. Like why you missed Standing Committee last Wednesday. And why a pair of your monogrammed boxer shorts fell out of her handbag while she was searching for her lipstick. We all laughed; she said you'd been in something of a hurry…' 'For God's sake!'

'Don't worry. I can think of very few circumstances in which I would be tempted to betray the secrets of the ladies' locker room. Very few. It's like a confessional.' He swallowed hard.

'Just as I'm sure, Jerry, you can think of very few circumstances in which you would be tempted to betray our party.'

The Chairman was finished now, was tapping the glass of his watch, while the flock applauded for its Member to rise and speak.

As Claire made the long and lonely drive back to London, she reflected that rarely had she heard such a comprehensive and carefully argued endorsement of the need for party loyalty than the one delivered that night by her colleague, the Honourable and Missing Member for South Warbury. The ninety-nine square miles of British sovereign territory located within Cyprus and deemed vital to the security of Old Blighty consists of a number of fragments, like a mosaic left incomplete by a bored artisan. Within the two main bases of Dhekelia and Akrotiri lies a host of facilities central to the defence effort, from radar-based intelligence-gathering operations and an airfield capable of accommodating the largest military transport and reconnaissance planes, to a full-sized cricket pitch, a Royal Military Police gaol, seven schools and several pubs. Each is separated from the other, some facilities are surrounded by barbed wire, some are not. In between there are many other facilities, including terraces of neat cubicle houses, fruit farms, ancient ruins and several Cypriot villages.

There are no signposts or other markers to indicate the frontier between British and Cypriot territories, except for Catseyes. The British seem to have a passion for marking the middle of their roads in this manner, the Cypriots do not. There it begins, and ends.

The aspect of the bases is beautiful, the duty is dull. And security is a nightmare. In the event of civil unrest, the British resort to cordoning off a few of their facilities as best they can, leaving by far the greatest area without guard or protection, and trusting in the traditional moderation and common sense of the Cypriots. Such trust is usually well founded.

Thus, when confrontation ensued at the gates of the British airfield that lies adjacent to the salt flats of Akrotiri, the proceedings had an inevitable air of unreality. Security at the gates to the airfield, which is otherwise surrounded by a double fence of chain link topped with barbed wire, was provided by two poles, painted red and white, acting as traffic barriers and swung from a central control point, flanked on either side by two small concrete guard posts that were usually unoccupied, with a sign advising that a 'Live Armed Guard' (sic) was on duty. Additional defences were provided by several well-watered rose bushes. In normal circumstances the security would not have slowed, let alone stopped, a speeding rabbit, so on this day the system was augmented by a springy coil of razor wire swung in front of the gate, a tripling of the guard (to six), and the drawing up of an ancient white Land-Rover with canvas roof and languid blue lights. Far smoother, less dated Mitsubishi patrol vehicles were available, but this was deemed to be an essentially British occasion.

The confrontation commenced with the arrival shortly after eight in the morning of the entire population of the village of Akrotiri, not a difficult logistical challenge since the village lay only some two hundred yards from the gates of the base. The village economy was dominated by the base, for which it supplied a variety of eating and drinking establishments including a Chinese takeaway, a grocery store and a unisex hairdresser. 'Elenaki-mou, what the hell are you doing here?' 'I am protesting against British exploitation.'

There was a pause in the interrogation as the questioner, a corporal who was standing guard behind the razor wire, considered the implications of what he had just heard. He was confused. He and Eleni, an attractive doe-eyed girl of nineteen, had spent the previous evening at the Akrotiri Arms pub and she had mentioned nothing of such matters then. In any event, they were engaged to be married as soon as he had finished his tour of duty. He was looking forward to it; he'd already put on five pounds.

'No talking on guard duty!' the Station Warrant Officer snapped, who seemed to have eyes in his arse. 'The natives may be hostile.'

Three young boys, one of them Eleni's younger brother, who had occupied the branches of an olive tree next to the guard hut roared their defiance, their faces covered in huge grins and smears of aniseed.

Eleni seemed less impressed. Perhaps she took that from her mother, who stood directly behind her shoulder and who was never impressed. She spoke no English, never smiled but stared. At least, after much investigation, Billy, the corporal, assumed she stared, but it was difficult to be certain since her eyes faced in different directions and made him nervous. Yet in whichever direction, they never seemed to waver. He felt constantly under her scrutiny, wherever he stood. Billy balanced his SA 80 automatic nervously in his hands as his beloved addressed the NCO.

'You've stabbed us in the back, Sergeant,' Eleni accused.

'It's Station Warrant Officer, if you don't mind, Miss.'

'Then you have stabbed us in the back, Station Warrant Officer.' Her italics had an uncharacteristically sharp edge. 'If I 'ave, it's been with me chequebook, Miss.'

'You sell us to Turks!' The cry came from an aged man seated on top of an equally aged tractor, whose passion far exceeded his command of English. A solitary front tooth gave him a ferocious aspect. Many of the forty or so protesters raised their voices and waved arms in agreement.

The SWO marched slowly along his narrow front line, ten paces, turn and repeat, his boots beating a steady cadence on the tarmac, steadying his troops. 'If they give you a hard time, remember, lads,' he growled. 'Stick it in. Give it a twist. Then pull it out.'

'Billy doesn't even get that when I'm being nice to him, Sergeant,' Eleni shouted across to him.

The soldier to Billy's right sniggered while Billy considered throwing himself upon the razor wire. The SWO turned on studded heel to face the protesters. Eleni's mother stared directly at him, without taking her eye off Billy. She hadn't got her teeth in, her gums were in constant motion as though still finishing her breakfast.

'Station Warrant Officer' he insisted once more in a throaty voice. 'Let's have a little proper respect with this riot of yours, Miss. Otherwise I might find myself forced to retaliate.' 'How?'

'Me and the lads might have to stop visiting your uncle's pub, Miss. Be a great pity, that.'

But he had lost the initiative once more. Shouts and gesticulations broke out amongst the Cypriots, their eyes raised skywards. The SWO looked up to see, a few hundred feet above him, the fierce yellow wings of a hang glider. It was a sport much practised from the cliffs of Kourion a few miles along the coast, and this glider was pushing his luck. Not only was he well into unauthorized territory but he was also, except for his harness, completely naked, his golden-olive body clearly detailed against the outstretched wings.

'Now that is what I call a real man' Eleni mouthed in a stage whisper. 'I wonder if he has trouble steering.'

'That'll bugger up Billy's private life' a guard muttered.

'And bugger up our radar ops, too,' the SWO added. 'What the hell will they make of that?'

As the glider made a lower pass the young girls giggled while the older women shook their heads in memory of times past. The atmosphere had deteriorated to good-natured farce as everyone gazed into the sky, except for Eleni's mother, who still maintained a wary eye on the freely perspiring Billy.

'But you're still all right for tonight?' Billy ventured hopefully to her daughter.

'Not if I catch that one first,' Eleni announced loudly, her thoughts still floating aloft in the cloudless sky.

The confrontation had been defused, for the moment, but for how long the SWO was not sure.

'What d'you reckon, Sir? Dickhead at – what? -two hundred metres? Vertical shot. Into the sun. Want me to give it a try?'

The SWO had suddenly lost his humour. 'You might well have to try, lad. Soon you might well have to try.' Billy's future mother-in-law munched on. 'Damn.'

A brace of sapphire-tipped peacocks echoed the cry. He stood on the terrace of his chateau, set in the heart of the golden hills of Burgundy, and cursed again. The great house, all turrets and echoes of tumbrils, stood overlooking some of the finest vineyards in the world, row upon row of liquid gold. On a distant escarpment stood an old fortified abbey, ancient stone glowing in the melting evening sun, in between lay nothing but the thousand acres of his empire. Early tomorrow morning the first of nearly two hundred friends and business associates, drawn by the prospect of the view and the vintage, would start arriving to pay gentle homage and to savour the restored imperial splendours of his home. An empire built on oil.

But now there was too much oil, a whole drumful of it which had been poured over, across, around, everywhere on the cropped lawn leading down to the carp lake. Vandalism as grotesque as a morning raid on the Bourse.

He shouldn't have fired the gardener. He should've sliced off his balls and any other vital part of him then thrown the rest down one of the wells. And he'd still do it, if ever he laid hands on the little bastard.

'It's appalling,' his wife was complaining at his elbow, 'how much damage a little oil spread in the wrong places can do…'

Suddenly his nostrils dilated, sniffing the wind like a fox approaching a familiar copse. He smelt oil, cloying crude as it spurted like virgin butter, as it would spurt one day from rigs off the coast of Cyprus. It was a deal he had lost. But which hadn't yet been signed.

'Could be worse,' he consoled his wife. 'Might even get better,' he reflected, wondering what vandalism might be inflicted on the peace agreement by a little oil spread across its neatly trimmed edges. 'This is scarcely going to help.' Claire thrust a copy of the latest wire report across the desk at Urquhart. He read it quickly.

Industry sources revealing the existence of oil in the waters off Cyprus. The Turkish waters off Cyprus. Exploitation rights expected to go to British companies…

'Excellent,' he pronounced, throwing it back across the desk. 'More jobs for Britain.' He picked up his pen and continued writing. 'But it will infuriate the Greeks.'

'Why?' He stared inquisitorially across the tops of his half-moon glasses. 'They're losing out.' 'Even if these reports are true, they'll be no worse off tomorrow than they were today.' 'Even so, they won't like it. Wounded pride.' 'I suppose you're right. They'll probably go right over the top. There's no accounting for the excitability of Cypriots, is there?'

'And a British judge, too. This will make everything more complicated. We've jumped from a row about a few graves to one about several billion barrels of oil. Instead of hundreds of protesters there'll be… thousands. The peace deal. The election. Everything. Suddenly much more complicated.'

'As usual, Claire, you display a remarkably agile and perceptive mind behind those inspiring eyes of yours.' He went back to his writing.

Sensing the end of his interest – had it ever started? – she reclaimed the sheet of paper and began to leave. 'I wonder who leaked it?' she enquired, almost to herself, as she crossed the room.

'I've no idea,' he whispered as the door closed behind her. 'But it has saved me the trouble of doing it myself.' 'CYPOS HIT OIL', the Sun screamed.

'Billions of barrels of oil have been found off the tiny Mediterranean island of Cyprus. The discovery is expected to bring a smile to the face of the sun-kissed tourist haunt – and to the British oil companies who are queuing up for exploitation rights

By its second edition the reporter had made further enquiries and rewritten the piece under the headline: 'TURKISH DELIGHT'. The Independent took a more cautious line.

'Large deposits of oil are reported by industry sources to have been discovered off the island of Cyprus which could amount to the largest such find anywhere in the Mediterranean…

'The reported discovery comes at a delicate time in the peace process between the two Cypriot communities who are due to sign a final accord in London soon. The oil deposits are believed to lie exclusively within the continental shelf areas reserved by the Watling arbitration tribunal to the Turkish Cypriot sector.

'Last night Greek Cypriot sources in London were demanding to know if Britain, whose deciding vote awarded the disputed area to the Turkish side, knew beforehand of the likely existence of oil

The response of the leading daily in Nicosia was far less conditional. In a banner headline across its front page, it announced simply: 'BETRAYED!' They had organized a demonstration outside the Turkish Embassy in Belgrave Square. The call had gone out that morning on London Radio for Cyprus and even at short notice a band of nearly two hundred had gathered, even tried to get inside to deliver a letter of protest, but the entrance to the embassy was guarded by bomb-proofed security which saw them coming before they'd begun to cross the road. They were orderly; a single armed policeman from the Diplomatic Protection Group turned them back and they spent the morning staring sullenly and shouting sporadic protests from behind security barriers. By the weekend their numbers would have grown tenfold.

Passolides was not amongst them that morning. As so often in his life he'd ploughed a lonely furrow, taking himself not to the house of the hated Turk what was the point? – but to the gates of Downing Street, where the source of this latest betrayal could be found.

Had not the British betrayed his people more consistently than any other conqueror? Stealing the whole island for almost a century, stealing the bases for even longer. Stealing his brothers. And their graves. Now taking the oil. You knew what to expect from a thieving Turk, they made no pretence at their nature. An absolute, uncomplicated enemy who would spit in your eye as they sliced through your throat. You could trust them to be what they were. But the British! They showered you in hypocrisy, fought with weasel words. Smiled and talked of the rules of cricket as they shafted you and sold your homeland into slavery.

He'd been gripping the barrier by the great iron gates of Downing Street for nearly half an hour when a policeman, wondering at the intensity of the old man's concentration and whitened knuckles, approached him. 'What are you doing, grandad?' 'Minding my own business.'

'If you're standing there, it's my business too. What are you doing?' 'Waiting to see your Prime Minister.' 'You're in luck. He's just on his way out.'

As the Daimler rushed through the gates it slowed before entering the traffic of Whitehall, and Urquhart looked up from his papers to see an old man staring at him from across the barrier. Their eyes met, held each other for no more than a moment, but in that short time the force of those eyes burning ruby in hate had scorched across Urquhart's mind. And dimly, through the blast-proof windows, he heard the one word which the man's cracked voice hurled at him, and remembered its meaning. 'Prodoti-i-i-i!'

He recollected the first time he had encountered it – how could he forget? Carved into the chest of an eighteen-year-old boy they had dragged from the side of his family in the middle of his sister's marriage service and shot as he cringed against the church wall like a rat in a barn. Traitor. There are few obvious targets for an anti-British protest in Nicosia. British Leyland no longer exists, British Rail doesn't run that far, even intermittently. The British High Commission provides an exceptionally unpalatable opportunity, being stuck by the accident of invasion on a finger of land barely a hundred metres wide which squeezes past the armed watch towers of Nicosia Gaol on one side and the still more heavily armed watch towers of the Turkish Cypriot border patrols on the other. The chances of surprise are nil, the chances of success even poorer, the chances of a bullet from one side or the other excellent, so most Nicosian dissidents search for other options.

The British Council down from the Paphos Gate is scarcely more welcoming. Since the last riot on its doorstep it has been heavily fortified behind steel shutters from which bricks and bottles bounce pointlessly, even if the sentries in the barracks at the end of the street co-operate by turning a blind eye.

So Dimitri, who had responsibility for the organization but who had little concept of the Britishness of institutions such as Marks amp; Spencer and Barclays Bank, opted for British Airways and its glass-fronted operational headquarters which lay on the Avenue of Archbishop Makarios III.

The vanguard arrived soon after dusk, transported from the now-permanent camp of protest outside the Presidential Palace aboard a convoy of mopeds, vans, even taxis. Soon they were joined by many others on foot or using their own resources. The Word had spread.

An exceptional degree of discipline was evident in the early proceedings. Banners were handed out, instructions and advice issued. It helped, of course, that the stewards were theological students, many of whom were from the same village as Dimitri and his brother. An extended family. The Firm had been carefully constructed on foundations of rural solidarity and tribal loyalties; it wasn't going to fail its most famous son.

It also helped that the demonstrators far outnumbered the police, who seemed content to stand back and monitor proceedings. Several were smiling.

More demonstrators were arriving, the avenue was blocked. The police contingent began to concentrate its effort on diverting the traffic. One of the stewards chattered into a mobile phone, listened attentively, then nodded. Slowly his hand began to circle around his head, stirring the cauldron. The crowd, peaceful up to that point, began chanting, waving their banners, surging forward like a human oil slick on a flowing tide, lapping around the building and clinging to its plate-glass windows. The sound of oil was everywhere.

'British Out! Bones and Bases!' they shouted; not very creative, perhaps, but there is little originality in anti-imperial protest. 'Make War, Not Peace' was also much in evidence.

The windows, great sheets of glass set between concrete pillars, were pounded – they bent, buckled, bowed, but did not break, not until a sledgehammer had materialized and one by one they were all systematically shattered. Even then, the control was exceptional. They didn't ransack the offices; instead, the steward exchanged his mobile phone for a can of spray-paint and covered the walls and display units with slogans.

By the time he had stepped outside again, two barrels of oil had been positioned either side of the shattered doorway; from the lintel above was hanging a spittle-drenched effigy of Nicolaou. A placard around his neck stated simply: Turk Lover'.

The shouting reached a crescendo, the pressure of numbers was growing, it would be difficult to control for much longer. It was time. Into each of the barrels was dropped a flare, and out of each began to pour vast quantities of choking black smoke. Oil smoke, which gushed into the night air, smearing the faces of those standing nearby, infesting every corner of the shattered building and burning itself into the morning's headlines.

As soon as he saw the smoke, the senior police inspector on the scene began issuing his first substantive orders. Lights flashed, sirens moaned, a fire tender began to edge through the crowd. But already the protesters were beginning to melt away into the Nicosian night, mission accomplished, message delivered. Not a single arrest was made.

Dark spots of hate were breaking out across the Cypriot night. Three streets away, in the back of his official Mercedes, Theophilos replaced the phone. A good evening's work. Exceptional work. God's work.

Francis Urquhart, when he heard about it, was of the same opinion. Amidst the stormy seas of stratagem devised by man, outcrops of nonsense stick defiantly above the waves. None stuck more defiantly than the case of Woofy.

Woofy – in fact, his full name was Woofer – was a three-year-old King Charles spaniel, the pet in loco infantis of Mr and Mrs Peregrine Duckin who lived in comfortable retirement in a white stucco villa overlooking Coral Bay, a sand-strewn corner in the south west of the island. Their Greek was fragmentary, as were their relations with the indigenous population, which amounted to little more than a nodding acquaintance with several local traders, but a substantial number of the five thousand or so civilian Britons who lived in Cyprus did so in this area and they did not want for friends.

The Duckins were to need them. For when they returned from a bridge party organized by one of their more distant neighbours they discovered that their cherished villa had, inexplicably and without warning, burnt to the ground.

What was worse, there was no trace of the still more cherished Woofer. All night long they searched, crying his name, calling out across the bay, cursing for the fact that the Cypriot fire brigade seemed to have taken an unconscionable time to arrive, then crying some more. But Woofer was nowhere to be found.

Dawn rose as the Duckins stood amidst the smoking ruins of their home, imploring all passers-by for news of their beloved dog. One of those passers-by happened to be a freelance journalist enjoying a few days' break but, wherever intrepid journalists tread, disaster is sure to be found. He sympathized, listened carefully, took photographs, shared with them their inexplicable loss – although, in light of other anti-British outrages, the loss was perhaps -no, surely – less inexplicable than at first seemed. A story for its time, lacking nothing but raped nuns.

It duly appeared the following morning, splashed across the front page of Britain's leading tabloid. A forlorn British couple standing amidst the ruins of their shattered Cypriot dream. Caught between the growing crossfire. And beneath a blazing headline. 'CYPOS ATE MY WOOFY.' The effect of halogen lights spraying across old black brick at night gave the scene a distinctly monochrome cast. A little funereal, perhaps, Urquhart mused, but appropriately melodramatic. He adjusted his tie. Behind him, the Secretary of State for Defence stood starchly to attention. News cameras flashed as the Prime Minister stepped, stem of mouth, to the Downing Street microphones.

'Ladies and gentlemen, I have an important announcement to make. Events in Cyprus have taken a further turn for the worse. Not only has our High Commissioner still not been returned, but it is obvious that the Government in Nicosia is unable to guarantee the safety of British assets or personnel. Clearly the situation is being exploited by people of ill intent, and I have a duty to protect British citizens and military personnel. Therefore, with great reluctance and purely as a precautionary measure, I have been forced to place the British bases on a state of alert and restrict Cypriot access to them. British lives and property must be protected, and our troops will have full authority to do precisely that. This is a sensitive matter, and I ask you to treat it with the seriousness it deserves.'

The scrum of reporters in front of him swayed as they pushed in unison, hands thrust forward waving microphones, tape recorders and assorted electronic tendrils like a harvest of triffids. One scribe who looked as if he had only moments before clambered out of bed was all but bent double over the security barrier in his attempt to get as close as possible. 'Prime Minister, what does this all mean?'

'It's a message to troublemakers. Keep off our patch.'

'Doesn't this rattle sabres, raise the stakes, though?'

'The stakes have already been raised by others. Those who have kidnapped our High Commissioner. Who attacked British property and placed British lives in peril. I have a duty to respond.' 'To attack?' 'This is an entirely defensive measure.' 'Will the Cypriots see it that way?'

The expression around Urquhart's mouth grew yet more stiffly grim; he couldn't betray the ironic smile that played around the paths of his emotions. He knew the Cypriots, their passions – and their polemicists, in whose hands a state of alert would be turned into something akin to a force of invasion. This was going to get much, much worse before it got better. He couldn't smile, so he simply shrugged.

'Do you have the permission of the Cypriot President for this move?' 'I don't need it. Our bases in Cyprus are British sovereign territory. I no more need permission to put our troops there on alert than I would to move tanks across Salisbury Plain. I have, of course, informed him.' 'How did he react?'

In agony. With pleading. Said it would inflame the hotheads. Would play into the hands of those who opposed the peace deal, increase the pressure on British bases. Begged to be given a few more days to obtain the release of the High Commissioner. But he'd already had several days…

'He regretted the necessity for this action. As do I. But men of goodwill everywhere will understand and must support this action. My first duty is to protect British interests.'

'Play hell with the island's tourist trade, Prime Minister.' 'Sadly, yes.' Threatens to knock it on the head. 'Where does this leave the peace deal?'

'That's for the Cypriots to decide. I cannot help bring peace to Cyprus if they will not bring peace to themselves.' 'And where does this leave the election?'

'On course. This is a move in the national interest, not for party purposes. I expect the support of all responsible politicians, all sides of the political debate. I don't expect this to become an issue in the election.'

No, not an issue, mused Dicky Withers, the issue. I'm watching a piece of banditry, the hijacking of the election campaign as Urquhart casts himself in the role of statesman, defender of the national interest, the British way of life, the rules of cricket, warm beer, sunny afternoons, Blackpool beaches, morality, virginity and any other -inity to which votes might be attached. And Makepeace, he's got Makepeace trussed up as tight as a gutted chicken. As tight, presumably, as is our High Commissioner. Francis, you old bastard.

'And Tom Makepeace?' Withers prompted. 'Where does this leave him?'

The smile was demanding to emerge, as much in recognition of Dicky's perceptiveness as in self-congratulation. Makepeace was shafted. Adrift. Nowhere to go except to hell and back. A journey for which he would find few companions.

'Where does it leave Mr Makepeace? I have no way of knowing. Perhaps you'd better ask him.' As the first rays of dawn spilled slowly across the salt flats of Akrotiri, a battered Bedford bus coughed its way uncertainly towards the entrance of the base. It sounded very sick. In better days it had carried children from the village to their schools and produce to the local market, but for almost a year had been languishing behind the pizza bar, its rust levels having been pronounced terminal. The arrival of the bus before the entrance to the base was heralded by a noxious belch of oil smoke and a groan in the manner of some disembowelled dragon. Then it slewed, fell and died, blocking the entire entrance. By the time the smoke had cleared and the guard had crept forward to inspect the prehistoric monster, it was empty.

They took more than an hour to move it. Attempts at restarting the engine failed, and it was difficult to get a tow truck hooked to either end. They tried to raise it on jacks but the suspension collapsed and the beast retaliated by rolling onto its side. Eventually they were forced to bring along an earth-mover and push it out of the way.

But not before, in an envelope attached to the steering wheel and addressed to Billy, they had found Eleni's ring. They were outside again, in greater number than ever. What, less than two weeks before, had begun as sporadic demonstrations by handfuls were now constant and too large to estimate accurately.

They were also intensely personal. Nicolaou was the name – the target – on everyone's lips. They displayed as much logic, perhaps, as when the mob had come to condemn Christ in the marketplace, but condemn him they did.

The head of presidential security had demanded an audience, interrupting Nicolaou in the first-floor living room where he was listening to his daughter, Elpida, play the piano. Beethoven. Something loud and long, to block out the insistent noise coming from beyond the gates.

'We must disperse the protesters, Sir. They're a danger to traffic, to themselves. To you.'

'And how would you propose to accomplish that, Commander?' He was seated, his eyes closed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in both concentration and anxiety.

'I'd have to call in troops, there are too many of them for my guard.'

Nicolaou was wide awake now. 'I can scarcely believe my ears. You want me to set the army against the people?'

'These people – Sir – are nothing short of a dangerous mob. They've already burnt buildings, their numbers are growing, their demonstrations have been playing havoc all over Nicosia. My duty is to preserve peace around the presidential palace.'

'And it is my duty, Commander, to secure the peace throughout our country. That's what is at stake here, nothing less. I will not permit you to use troops and tear gas against them.'

'But I don't have enough men to guarantee the security of the grounds or this building. That means you, Sir.' 'I have no concern for my own safety.' 'And your family?'

Nicolaou turned towards his daughter, who was still at the piano. She meant everything to him. When he was lonely because his wife was once more absent, Elpida was there as companion. When he grew outraged at his wife's indulgences, she was there to remind him of what he owed to his marriage. When he was uncertain, she acted as inspiration, raising him above the short-term and trivial to the Cyprus of tomorrow. Elpida's Cyprus. Balm for his every wound.

'It is precisely for her that I must say no. I can't sign a peace treaty with the Turks if there is blood on the streets of Nicosia.'

'Sir!' The commander was pleading now. His voice dropped to prevent Elpida from hearing. 'As an old friend. The choice you're facing is not so much if there will be blood, but whose blood it will be.'

The President walked over to the window, from where he could see out over the floodlit statue of Makarios and the cypress trees to the impressive panorama beyond. 'Panayoti, come here.'

The Commander walked to the President's side. Nicolaou opened the window. 'What's out there?' 'A rabble. Baying at your doorstep.' 'But what do you see out there?' 'The lights of the old city.'

'And beyond that, in the darkness, is the other half of our country. Isn't it time, Panayoti, to bring those two halves back together again? After all these years and so much blood?'

'That's politics, Sir. Your job. My job is security. And I tell you we've got to do something about those people out there.'

With the window open the howl of protest had become unrelenting. 'Then I shall talk to them.' 'This is no time for humour.'

'Let a few of them in. I'll talk to them from the steps.' 'Madness!' 'Perhaps so. But I shall do it nevertheless.' 'At least talk to them from the balcony.'

'The balcony where hangs the British Royal Standard? Peeking out from behind the imperial lion? I think not. No, let it be from the steps.' 'But I can't guarantee your safety!' 'Then leave that task to God.'

And Panayotis, as he had been trained throughout his career, no matter how unacceptable or unreasonable the command, had obeyed. They had planned on perhaps two dozen but numbers are impossible to control when thousands are pressing against the gates, and nearer two hundred had crowded their way in by the time the gates were forced shut once more. They gathered on the driveway before the main entrance, guarded by two ornamental cannons, assorted gargoyles, a couple of flower tubs and a cohort of the palace guard.

Shouts of fury erupted as Nicolaou appeared, waving his hands above his head for calm.

'Cypriots, countrymen. Allow me to be heard. Allow yourselves to hear.' 'Turk lover!' came the cry. 'I love only one thing. Cyprus!' 'Then why give it to the filthy Turks?' – 'And the British!'

'No one has suffered more than I from the thought that our country is divided. I weep for those who have lost families. Homes. Everything.' 'And won't lift a finger to help them.'

Panayotis was growing increasingly nervous. It was already clear that Nicolaou had railed to gain control of the crowd, was entering into a dialogue of the deaf. His logic and sincerity stood no chance against the raw emotions of a mob.

'My friends, remember what split our island. What brought the Turkish Army to our shores. It was when we Greeks fell out amongst each other. When Makarios stood here on these very steps and they refused to listen to him.' His hands stretched up one of the sandstone columns that stood to either side. 'See these holes. Where the bullets struck. When they tried to kill our Archbishop.'

A scattering of neat cylindrical holes and craters had been gouged from the columns, bullet holes, relics of the coup which Makarios had ordered to remain, like the royal standard, as part of the heritage. Stigmata in stone. Now Nicolaou's fingers crept towards them, stretching out, reaching for the mantle of Makarios. The tips of his fingers were almost there when another hole appeared, accompanied by a cloud of dust. Only then did he hear the gunshot.

The effect on the crowd was immediate, as though a starting pistol had been fired. They began to surge forward, pushing against the cordon of guards in front of the steps like dogs at a deer. Nicolaou, bewildered and still only at the early stages of fear, found himself borne aloft in the arms of Panayotis and hustled through the main door, which was slammed shut behind them. Within seconds from the other side there came a primitive baying and a barrage of blows against the wood. At the same time the gates to the palace grounds that had been holding back the main body of protesters were swept aside as anger turned to rage at the sound of gunfire and thousands came streaming up the long driveway.

'For God's sake, now will you go?' Panayotis barked. 'Elpida,' pleaded Nicolaou.

But his daughter was already running down the circular staircase from the private quarters, past the antiquities, the stone heads and torsos, a small harvest of the island's ancient heritage which would soon lie smashed and strewn upon the ground.

Father and daughter tried to embrace, but Panayotis was already pulling them apart and dragging them down the long corridor with its Moorish arches and youthful tapestries that led through the heart of the U-shaped building. Running beside them was the sound of shattering windows, raised voices, wrecking. Then more gunshots.

Panayotis led them to a part of the palace Nicolaou had never visited, at the back of the kitchens. A door. Stone steps. Another door for which Panayotis had a large key. Then they were in a tunnel hacked from the bare rock.

'Makarios Avenue,' Panayotis whispered grimly. 'His escape route at the time of the last coup.'

It was cool, dimly lit, at least two hundred metres long, perhaps longer – Nicolaou had lost all sense of proportion in the confined space. His thoughts were befuddled, still worrying about his commander's words. 'The last coup.' Was this, too, a coup?

They emerged through another door at the far side of the swimming pool, beyond the amphitheatre where Nicolaou had entertained groups of schoolchildren and where, in a previous time of trouble, the British had played tennis. Then they were in the woods, vast stands of eucalyptus which glowered in the moonlight. Behind them the noise of wreckage was growing ever more relentless.

They crossed the shale and loose rocks of a dried river bed – Nicolaou lost his footing and was once more hauled aloft by the ready arms of his commander – and they came upon the chain-link fence which separated the palace grounds from whatever lay beyond. There were no protesters here, they were too busy in the Palace. They heard the sound of a muffled explosion. Panayotis dragged them on.

Another lock on the gate through the fence. Another key. Panayotis seemed well prepared. Then they scrambled up a bank and were standing on an empty road.

'Where to, Sir? A British base?' That was where Makarios had fled, to Akrotiri, into the arms of the old enemy and away from the waving fists of his own people, but Nicolaou decided he had already that evening donned too much of the Archbishop's mantle. 'No. Not to the British. To the mountains.'

Then there were headlights advancing upon them. Panayotis drew a gun.

'Stay in the bushes, Sir,' he instructed, and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms.

The car stopped. No rioters, only an elderly couple driving home after an evening meal. A German couple who spoke neither Greek nor English, but who understood all too well the unmistakable language of Panayotis' gun.

With a cry of alarm the man put his foot to the floor and sped off into the night. Panayotis shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was he supposed to do, shoot a couple of elderly and unarmed tourists?

'Leave it to me,' Elpida instructed and pushed him aside.

The next car contained an accountant, who stopped and listened with growing incredulity to the pretty girl. He apologized, he was almost out of petrol and his mother was expecting him home, but he would be happy to take them as far as he was going. The President of the Republic of Cyprus, his daughter and the Commander of the Palace Guard thanked him as one and climbed into his battered Renault. They'd argue about distance and destination later.

Nicolaou looked behind him in the direction of his home. An angry orange moon shone down like a celestial torch, brushing the tree tops and sprinkling them with fire. The view brought tears to the President's eyes as they drove away. It was only when he had dried them and was gripping the hand of his daughter that he realized it wasn't moonlight at all. He was watching the glow as, once again, the palace was being burnt to the ground.