Castle of the Lion Read online

  'It's very kind of you to allow my problems to intrude into your privacy, Sir Joseph,' she mumbled with eyes downcast, feeling suddenly shy of the boss whose stature had never appeared more imposing, his eyes more reassuring, his attitude more kindly disposed.

  'Go straight to my study where we can talk without fear of interruption.' Cupping a hand beneath her elbow, he ushered her forward, containing his curiosity until they were both seated inside a book-lined study crammed with a treasure trove of souvenirs gleaned during years of world travel.

  'Can I get you a drink—a brandy, perhaps…?' His shrewd eyes questioned her deeper than usual pallor, the sensitive trembling of a sweetly shaped mouth that often appeared too stern, too firmly constricted.

  'No, thank you, Sir Joseph.' He was in the act of turning away from the drinks cabinet, obviously not inclined to argue with her prim refusal, when she astonished him with an uncharacteristic show of indecision. 'Oh, well, perhaps just a small one…'

  His bushy grey eyebrows rose, but without comment he poured out two measures of cognac, set her glass down upon an occasional table, then returned to his seat with his own glass cupped between his palms.

  'Now that the proprieties have been observed,' he teased gently, 'perhaps we can proceed to sort out the problem that has rendered my very capable assistant a fluster of nerves? It must be the very first time in our acquaintance,' he mused, watching silken lashes fluttering nervously as moths against waxen cheeks, 'that you've asked for advice about your personal affairs. I feel pleased and flattered to be the one chosen to render assistance.'

  He continued chatting easily, giving the cognac time to work its relaxing magic upon a slim form made tense by the humiliation of being forced to share a family secret.

  'My wife and I have often wondered why you've always been so reluctant to accept invitations to join us for a break at our home in the country. Since early youth you appear to have concentrated on your scholastic career with a dedication that shut out all human contact, except, of course for that of your brother. Head girl at school; brilliant student, talented university graduate—the praises of those who have followed your career are endless. Adjectives I've heard used are—highly intelligent, honest, reliable, loyal, nevertheless, it strikes me that a cultured young woman needs more than a good background and education to prepare her for life in the outside world.' He leant forward to stress: 'The real world, Petra, where there's excitement and glamour to be found, where there are parties and love affairs during which one learns to lean on another's strength and to tolerate another's weaknesses!'

  He realised that his lecture had barely impressed itself upon her troubled mind when a heavy fan of lashes lifted over eyes so blue that their impact never failed to leave him startled. 'I wouldn't dream of sacrificing my career for the sake of a good time, Sir Joseph, I have more important matters to deal with during the small amount of leisure time that's available. Anyway,' she dismissed with a shrug, 'the party circuit doesn't appeal to me, neither am I very much inclined towards men, alcohol, or silly social activities.' With a nervous gulp she drained her glass, then as she set it carefully down upon the table he sensed that she was about to bare her soul.

  'Sir Joseph…'

  'Yes, my dear?' he encouraged cautiously.

  'You must have heard me speak of my brother Gavin?'

  'Yes, of course.' He leant back in his chair and frowned, disappointed by the discovery that his suspicion had been proved correct. Gavin Morrison, whom he had once heard described by a member of his student brotherhood as a retarded adolescent, was following his usual practice of unloading self-inflicted burdens upon his sister's slender shoulders.

  'I saw him to the airport this morning where he caught a plane for Cyprus. Unfortunately,' Petra gulped, 'on his arrival he was arrested!'

  'Good lord!' Sir Joseph jerked upright, spilling brandy over immaculately pressed trousers.

  'Gavin's done nothing wrong,' she hastened to assure him, 'nothing other than become the victim of a stupid prank that went tragically wrong! He's been accused by the police of attempting to smuggle dope into the country. The Greek authorities have persistently ignored his explanation and have flatly refused to allow him out of gaol.'

  'The silly young ass!' Sir Joseph exploded loudly. 'I assume that whatever drugs were found upon his person were a complete mystery to him!'

  'Exactly,' she confirmed eagerly, totally oblivious of his sarcasm. 'He thinks the reefer cigarette ends may have been planted in his pocket by a fellow student, but that's merely theory and can't be proved conclusively.'

  Her boss snorted, then in a tightly controlled tone he used only when violently aggravated, spelled out plainly:

  'I'm sorry, Petra, I'd like to help, if only for your sake, but there's nothing I can do in my professional capacity, because the Greeks, more than any other nationality, have made it quite plain in the past that their resentment of the attempts of foreign diplomats to interfere in matters of internal policy runs deep as the seas around their islands. To be blunt, my dear, the island of Cyprus in particular has often been referred to by my colleagues as a political tightrope. One false step made by myself, or by any member of my department, could place all our careers in jeopardy.'

  Petra jumped to her feet. 'You surely can't expect me to do nothing about my brother being falsely arrested and incarcerated inside a Greek gaol!' Her agitation was so great she forgot her shyness, forgot even that the man she was berating was her superior, a man highly rated in diplomatic circles for his shrewdness, integrity, and devotion to duty.

  'I most certainly do!' Sir Joseph rose to tower over her. 'The position of authority you hold in the Diplomatic Corps demands that your brother's situation must be allowed to run its natural course. Any action of yours—were it to become known that you're second in command to a senior British diplomat—could be construed as a breach of privilege. Members of our profession must be above reproach, we cannot be as free as others to act in any way we wish, especially abroad,' he reminded sternly. 'On the contrary, we're expected, indeed, it's our bounden duty, to act at all times as ambassadors of our government!'

  Petra stared, shaken to the core by the unaccustomed reprimand. But in spite of his stern call to duty, in spite of his demand for loyalty to the crown, Gavin's plight still tugged at her heartstrings, the tie of blood claiming precedence over every other consideration.

  'Then it appears I have no option but to tender my resignation.' She trembled back into her chair and clasped her hands over suddenly shaking knees, wondering if she had merely spoken her thoughts aloud or if she really had flung the gauntlet at her boss's motionless feet.

  His was the first voice to break the stunned silence. Sadly, he sighed. 'I would ask you to reconsider that decision, my dear, were it not that I suspect that the same obsessive dedication you've devoted to your career has also been lavished upon those fortunate to have gained your love. I shall accept your resignation,' he decided gravely, 'unwillingly, regretfully, yet nevertheless glad to be relieved of the enormous worry that one of my staff might be provoked into a course of action that could have serious repercussions. As a private individual, you can feel free to explore any avenue that may lead to your brother's release.'

  Her scared blue eyes followed his progress towards a paper-strewn desk and remained fixed while he rummaged through drawers, then finally pounced upon a slim leather-bound address book, with a grunt of approval. Seconds later he slipped a scrap of paper into her nerveless fingers.

  'I shouldn't be doing this,' he admitted gruffly, 'but because I admire your pluck, and trust you to be discreet enough to keep my name out of any subsequent conversation, I feel I must give you what little help I can. It's the address of the only man known to me who possesses sufficient authority to overrule the charge that has been brought against your brother—a government Minister, Stelios Heracles. If you're lucky, you may find him in residence at his home, Buffavento Castle, situated somewhere on the heights of Cyprus's
Mount Olympus.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Larnaca airport was teeming with tourists. Three passenger aircraft had landed within minutes of each other, and as Petra withstood the crush inside the Customs hall, dawdling at the end of a long, long queue, she was struck for the very first time— in spite of many previous visits to Cyprus—by the brusque manners and grim expressions of Customs officials and by the intimidating stature of policemen with gunbelts slung low upon their hips, patrolling the perimeter of the crowd.

  During a succession of happy holidays spent in the company of parents who had met and married on the 'Island of Love', the supposed birthplace of the goddess Aphrodite, she had had no cause for fear, no reason to delve beneath the surface of sparkling blue sea; long, seemingly endless beaches; everlasting sunshine; the mind-dizzying music of lyra, tambourine, dulcimer; and the incredibly generous hospitality, in search of the hardcore characteristics of a race which for centuries had fought off hordes of invaders, inspired during their struggle for independence by the battle cry: Freedom or Death…!

  When the airport formalities had finally been completed she lugged her suitcase outside the building, feeling sweat trickling between her shoulderblades as she approached a line of waiting taxis. Gratefully she handed over her burden to an eager young driver before diving into the back of the cab to close her eyes against the glare of brilliant sunshine.

  'Police headquarters, Larnaca, if you please,' she instructed fluently in a tongue learnt at her mother's knee.

  The driver's astonishment struck her as ludicrous, but she shrank back into a corner of the cab and once more closed her eyes, intending to rehearse the approach she would make, the arguments and pleas that were frighteningly imminent.

  But the cheerfully grinning driver apparently felt duty bound to entertain his passenger. Immediately the ignition was switched on the radio started blaring and throughout the entire journey Petra was bombarded with snatches of song and witty conversation tossed across his shoulder while he drove, shouting greetings to other taxi drivers, cursing, and even lifting both hands from the steering wheel to make menacing gestures to other motorists. Concentration was impossible, so much so that she was reduced to saying prayers beneath her breath, placing her trust in the hands of Divine Providence when it became apparent that safety was the last thought in the driver's mind.

  She was still shaking when she was shown into the office of a police official whose response to her request to be allowed to see her brother was blank and noncommittal.

  'You have written permission to visit the prisoner?'

  'No, but—'

  'Then I'm sorry, thespinis, but unless you have a letter authorising such a visit your request cannot be granted.'

  'But you must let me see him—I've come all the way from England! In any case,' she flared, forgetting all her diplomatic training, 'you have no right to hold him here—my brother is innocent, he wouldn't dream of committing such an offence!'

  'I'm sorry.' She backed away in alarm when the official loomed menacingly, then choked back; a gasp of relief when she realised that he was merely anxious to show her to the door. 'Please go now,' he ordered with steely politeness. 'Come back with a letter or not at all.'

  The thought of Gavin being so near and yet so far, confined somewhere within the depths of the same austere building as herself, prompted an act of desperation. Because of Sir Joseph's reluctance to become involved she had decided against following up his suggestion, nevertheless she found herself blurting to the grim, uncooperative official.

  'Then can you tell me where I might get in touch with Stelios Heracles?'

  The man's eyes narrowed. Though his expression remained wooden, his tone sounded much less peremptory.

  'You are acquainted with the Minister?'

  'Yes,' she lied recklessly, 'we're very good friends. It was he who begged me to look him up if ever I visited Cyprus.'

  She saw a flash of uncertainty in the official's eyes, followed by a cloud of doubt. Then, much to her palm-damp, weak-kneed relief, he decided to err on the side of caution by giving her the benefit of the doubt.

  'At this moment,' he glanced at a wall clock, 'the Minister will no doubt be busy with his affairs in Nicosia, where all government offices are situated.'

  'Good,' she bluffed. 'I'll call a taxi.'

  'That will not be necessary.' To her dismay, he blocked her exit with a detaining arm. 'I will be happy to provide you with transport and also with an escort who will be instructed to remain with you until he is satisfied,' his smile exuded hidden menace, 'that you have been received by the Minister and that, consequently, transport will not be required for your return journey!'

  Nursing the very definite impression that she might be in danger of being prosecuted for deliberately wasting police time, Petra sat huddled like a prisoner in the back seat of the police car, her mouth parched as the eternal dust rising from dunes spread like powdered cement along the highway. In less than an hour her bluff would be called and she would be ignominiously returned to face the implacable, steely-eyed official who she sensed would not hesitate to extract some vengeful punishment for her impulsive lie.

  Feverish thoughts had rendered her blind to her surroundings—so much so that her heart reacted with a leap of trepidation when the speeding car slowed down to a crawl. The driver had begun negotiating the narrow streets of a sprawling, untidy capital—part of an old city that seemed soaked with the atmosphere of an Eastern bazaar, a place where camels had trodden cobbled streets lined with old houses, flower-filled courtyards, and balconies almost meeting overhead; where dark, cavernous shops had stocked everything from animal feed to incense; where the sound of many hammers had risen in the air while silver and coppersmiths sat crosslegged on the ground fashioning articles of their trade.

  When they emerged from the labyrinth the car picked up speed. Petra spotted a green oasis of parkland bordered with palm trees, a shimmering lake and a variety of ornamental shrubs before the car was braked to a standstill outside of a modern building where a ceramic mural decorated with actors' masks seemed to indicate a theatrical connection.

  Her escort soon disabused her of this notion. Sternly, obviously determined to carry out orders to be polite, he opened the rear door and indicated that he wished her to alight.

  'The House of Representatives,' he pointed proudly. 'Admission to members of the public is forbidden, but if you would please accompany me into the foyer I will ensure that the Minister is informed of your presence.'

  She felt his grip upon her arm and wondered if he could sense her inward quaking, whether his grim smile had resulted from his awareness of her frantic mental scrabbling for some magic password that might gain her entry into the office of the man who had chosen to live in close proximity to gods who reputedly resided upon the heights of Mount Olympus.

  Her guard, as she had mentally tabbed him, did not relax his grip until they had been shown into a reception room where they were asked to state their business.

  'Well, thespinis,' he smiled thinly at Petra, 'what message of introduction would you like to have sent to your friend the Minister?'

  Desperation caught her by the throat. She felt pinned, cornered, so like a condemned prisoner within sight of the gallows, decided she had nothing to lose by gambling all on one last defiant act of bravado.

  Unconsciously adopting the attitude of quiet authority that had been expected of a senior diplomat's secretary, she withdrew a notebook and pen from her handbag and scribbled a few terse words on a blank page.

  Minister, I have an important message from a mutual friend which can only be delivered verbally.

  Carefully she folded the note and handed it over, praying that the sceptical policeman was unable to translate from English. Then she sank down upon a chair to wait, preparing herself mentally for the ministerial dismissal that would undoubtedly seal her doom.

  When the receptionist returned less than five fraught minutes later, Petra found it hard to decid
e who was the most surprised, herself or her police escort, by the response to her note.

  'The Minister will see you immediately, thespinis. Please follow me, I'll show you the way to his office.'

  Too stunned even to cast a look of triumph in the direction of the obviously nonplussed policeman, Petra trembled to her feet and was guided along passageways lined with offices bustling with activity and resounding with the clattering of typewriters, into a lift that swooshed upwards to a level of silent corridors carpeted to deaden every footfall and lined with doors each bearing an impressive brass plate denoting the name and status of the occupant.

  Her thumping heart reacted with a lessening of tension to familiar surroundings, to the atmosphere of a calm, unhurried efficiency in which she had spent most of her working life. All ministers with whom she had come into contact, she consoled herself, had been kindly, elderly gentlemen possessing impeccable manners and having a tendency to treat all members of the opposite sex with charming, old-world courtesy. Stelios Heracles would be no different from the rest, she was assuring herself firmly as she stepped inside a lofty, book-lined room that could have accommodated an entire cabinet of ministers yet did not manage to diminish the dominating stature of the man who rose from his seat behind a paper-strewn desk.

  'Kalispera, thespinis…!' He broke off, then as if a glance at the note he was holding had reminded him that she was English, he abandoned the Greek greeting. 'How do you do, Miss…?'

  The quirk of a black, enquiring eyebrow prompted her to respond.

  'Morrison. Petra Morrison.'

  'Please sit down, Miss Morrison.' He waved her towards a leather-covered armchair placed strategically so that she was positioned directly within his sights when he resumed his seat behind the imposing desk.

  'Curiosity, one of my many vices, forbids me to leave anything doubtful and undecided,' he explained gravely, 'which is why, in spite of the fact that I am overburdened with work that must be completed before the summer recess, I could not wait to be informed about the important message you are carrying from a mutual friend.'