After days of sadness, not knowing what had happened to her parents, this strange, but friendly British soldier had made her happy again.
Reynolds said nothing, as the little girl played again and again with the toy. Then, after a while, he suggested he get them something to eat.
‘I expect you’re still hungry.’ He raised himself from the floor and went to walk out of the cupboard, towards the kitchen. To his surprise, still clutching the sea lion, Elma followed him.
Aware of her movements, he didn’t want to startle her and just kept on walking as she continued to follow close behind.
In the kitchen, Reynolds went back over to the stale loaf he had eaten half of, the previous evening. He showed it to Elma. ‘Would you like some bread?’
He reached for the bowl of fruit and picked out a date for her. Elma grabbed for the bread and started to eat as if she had not eaten in a week — which was probably the case. Reynolds also took some. ‘Good bread,’ he said. The girl pointed to it, then to the cooker. Reynolds read this message clearly. ‘Your mother made it?’
Elma nodded, her mouth still full. When she finished her meal, she ran into another room.
Reynolds thought of stopping her, in case she was trying to run away, but she soon returned with a bottle of water and handed it to him. She went to a cupboard pulling out two clean white ceramic cups, then placed them on the table in front of him. He opened the bottle and poured the fresh clear liquid into them, and the girl pushed her chair closer to him as she lifted the cup to drink.
Reynolds told her more about his daughter, about her school and what she liked to do when he had the time to be with her. After a short while, Elma gave a yawn. Reynolds checked his watch. Outside, it was beginning to get dark, but it was still and quiet. He didn’t like it, and had to decide what to do — but for now, he would allow her to sleep and just watch over her.
As she nestled on the two chairs beside him, he now felt responsible for this little girl, needing to think of a plan which would need to suit them both.
He sat over her until his own eyes began to sag into unconsciousness. Forcing the energy to bring the remaining two chairs together, he set himself down.
Next morning, Reynolds felt a tapping on his head and opening his eyes to see Elma smiling at him. Reynolds raised himself, slightly annoyed that he had accidentally dozed off while she had slept.
Elma reached for the fruit bowl and took a pomegranate. As Reynolds rubbed his eyes, he watched, transfixed, as she prepared it easily. He gasped with amazement as she began to break up the segments to eat the seeds.
‘Wow, that’s very clever.’ He reached for another one, gave it to her, pointing to his chest. ‘Would you please do one for me?’
Elma took it and prepared it for him in the same way. Reynolds placed his hand into his backpack, pulled out a map and splayed it out on the table. He pointed to Nicosia. ‘Have you been to Nicosia?’
Elma remembered that she had, many times, with her parents. Her grandparents lived there.
Reynolds needed to know where he was and using the map pointed to the ceiling of the house. Elma placed her finger on the map, pointing to a place called Agronapia. Reynolds checked the direction and distance between this enclave and the airport and, working out that he was about fifteen miles to the south, he made a decision.
‘Right, listen to me Elma. We need to go to the airport. There are other British soldiers there, and probably soldiers from other friendly countries as well. They will look after us, give us food and help to find your mummy and daddy.’
He wasn’t sure these were the right names to use, but seeing she nodded to him, assumed she had understood what he had been trying to say. He suddenly thought of something else.
‘Elma, has your father got any clothes that I can use?’
Half an hour later, with Elma still clutching the sea lion toy, Reynolds was wearing a pair of grey trousers, a white shirt and a beige jacket. Emptying the fruit bowl, he lined the pockets and set out along the road which led them out of the village. He also carried his backpack, which contained the map, a compass, another bottle of water and the last pieces of the home-baked bread.
With his pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers and covered by the hem of the jacket, Reynolds knew he was taking a big risk. If a wandering Greek patrol spotted them, he would have to judge whether or not to act. His objective now was to get them both to the airport and to the safety of the UN.
Chapter 24
Alex Swan walked down a side street in the late evening light and through the welcoming and open doors of the Topkapi Palace, an exclusive gentlemen’s club run by Eltan Babak.
Inside, besuited men of various nationalities sat at tables, with elaborate-looking drinks in front of them. Occasionally, one picked up a pipe that led down to a hookah filled with shisha tobacco, puffing out the aroma around them.
A waiter, wearing a red fez and a thin drooping moustache, approached him. ‘Good evening sir, may I show you to a table?’
Swan gave him a courteous smile. ‘Is Mr Babak in tonight?’
The waiter paused. ‘Please, may I ask who is enquiring this?’
‘Please tell him Alex Swan is here to see him.’
Swan watched the waiter turn on his heel to walk towards a door marked ‘private’. Before he entered, the waiter, looking like something out of a 1940s spy film, stared back over at him, then disappeared.
While waiting, Swan observed the cabaret entertainment, hoping that the waiter would emerge with the man he had come in to see. He was armed only with questions.
On the small stage, bordered with coloured lights, an attractive girl in a loose turquoise outfit danced provocatively to typical Turkish music. Her head was covered with a jewelled veil, and her enticing dark eyes kept fixing upon certain men in the audience. Occasionally, they moved onto Swan as he stood leaning on the bar, observing this almost hypnotic scene. The third time their eyes met, she gave him a coy smile beneath the veil.
Swan was suddenly distracted by the return of the waiter.
Behind him was a smaller man, in a grey Savile Row suit; a big, beaming smile was on his face, showing recognition of the visitor who had asked to see him. ‘Alex Swan! It has been a long time, my friend. It is good to see you again!’ They shook hands.
‘Likewise, Eltan. How’s business?’
Eltan Babak surveyed his club with a wave of a hand. ‘Business is good Alex, as you can see.’ He gestured for them to sit down. ‘Come, we will go to a table and watch the dancing.’
Swan allowed the small Turk to guide him to a vacant table next to the stage. A table obviously reserved for Babak’s more refined clients.
‘I saw you watching Zahra. If you wish it, I can arrange that you could buy her a drink, after her performance. Then perhaps, retire to her dressing room?’
Swan moved his left hand into view, causing Babak to glance at the shining gold band. The Turk grinned. ‘What is this? The great spy and my old adversary from MI5, is now married?’
Swan nodded.
‘So, what brings you to see me, Alex?’
‘Actually Eltan, I was hoping you could help me with one of my enquiries. Are you familiar with the international female assassin known as the Praying Mantis?’
Babak looked down at his own perfectly-manicured hands. ‘If I was to say “no”, you would then present me with evidence to contradict this. Just like you did in the old days. So, yes, I have heard of her and, in my former profession, actually had some dealings with her. What is your interest in this woman then, Alex?’