‘It’s okay, sir. We are a British army medical unit…’
Reynolds smiled at his attempt to communicate. ‘That’s okay, mate, I think you’d better relieve yourself, before you do it in your combats. Oh, and do it in front of the wall, as I have a little Turkish Cypriot girl with me, behind here.’
The soldier hesitated. ‘You’re English. Who are you?’
‘Sergeant Pete Latham, SAS,’ lied Reynolds. He reached down his neck and grabbed for the false set of dog tags that had got him out of so many scrapes in the past.
The soldier checked them, then disappeared back behind the wall. Reynolds heard a zip and shortly, the soldier reappeared. ‘So, what are you doing here, Sarge?’
Reynolds decided to concoct a story that he had been separated from his unit after running into EOKA B fighters. ‘I took refuge in an abandoned house in one of the villages down the road, where I found this young thing, hiding.’ He raised his hand to shield his mouth. ‘I think the Greeks took her parents,’ he whispered.
He looked over the man’s shoulder, seeing the other man, named Joe, impatiently emerging from the open turret. Joe’s eyes were fixed to the scene that played out a few yards in front of him. ‘What’s going on Harry? Who the hell’s this bloke?’
Harry turned around to address him. ‘It’s alright Joe, he’s one of us, mate. He’s SAS.’
‘Pete Latham,’ shouted Reynolds. ‘Wouldn’t happen to be going anywhere near Nicosia by any chance, would you gents?’ He gave them a friendly smirk, knowing full well that being on this road, they were no doubt heading in that direction.
Harry nodded, ‘Looks like it’s your lucky day, Pete. We’re just heading there now.’
Reynolds emerged from the gap in the wall. Having convinced Elma it was safe, he nonetheless clutched her hand as the three of them walked back to the Saracen.
The rear doors of the vehicle suddenly opened and two other soldiers stepped out, both wearing Red Cross arm bands. Joe remained up on the turret, while the conversation flowed below him, beside the vehicle. Then, realising these two people could probably use a lift in a cool, air-conditioned environment, Harry escorted them to the rear and ushered them inside.
‘Welcome to sally-two-six,’
Reynolds understood that this was the unit’s callsign. Joe then gave the order to the driver, and in seconds the six huge wheels started to turn and the APC continued along the road.
Inside the Saracen, Elma sat secure in her seat. The interior was cool and the little Turkish Cypriot girl laughed as the cold air constantly tapped her face.
Reynolds was silent, deep in thought, thinking again about his men. He had been quizzed about his presence, but the personnel who sat with them knew that no information about whatever mission this soldier had been sent on would be forthcoming.
Forty minutes later, they sensed the vehicle coming to a stop. ‘Looks like we’ve arrived,’ announced Harry.
Outside, the Saracen had arrived. It drew up to a square, parking in the middle of the road. Harry pulled on a lever, which opened the rear doors, and the beating hot sun invited itself inside.
Reynolds took Elma by the arm and gently stepping down, grabbed her waist and lifted her to him.
So, what now for this little girl? What was he to do with her? He shook the hands of the men who had helped them get this far. They then wished him well, climbed back into the back of the Saracen and lumbered off down the road that led out of the city.
Further into the built-up areas, the mercenary and the little refugee walked slowly along the cobbled streets, passing the rows of boarded-up shops and businesses. Reynolds couldn’t help noticing the devastation caused by Turkish air raids, and the multitude of bullet holes that peppered almost every building in Ledra Street, including churches along their route. Of course, he had seen it many times before in places such as Aden and in central Africa. Sometimes, these had been far worse.
He looked down and smiled at Elma, as she held his hand, doing his best to hide his real intention of handing her over at an International Red Cross outpost, which he guessed must be around here somewhere.
He studied the hordes of other people, both Greek and Turkish Cypriots, flustering their way along the street in search of things to sustain them throughout this uneasy ceasefire. Both sides of the population moved as one, confused and dejected about what was really happening to their beloved paradise island.
People scuffled along the road, carrier bags filled with whatever they could lay their hands on. Some walked along with suitcases, desperate to escape the city, heading south for the safety of the coast.
Vehicles that wove in and out of them, were full to capacity with tired and frightened faces. A heavily-laden bicycle passed, stacked high with bags as the cyclist rode haphazardly through the crowds.
Reynolds had been here before. He remembered this place: it had been pleasant and friendly with open cafés, street dancing and the happy-faced market traders. A moment now lost, somewhere in time.
Reynolds was brought out of his reminiscence by a shouting female voice, calling out the name of the person he was attached to.
Looking around him, he saw it was coming from an elderly woman, wearing a long black dress. She had a shawl over her head, to protect her from the sun.
She shouted again, saying ‘Elma’ many times, then speaking in rapid Turkish.
Reynolds noted Elma’s response — the way her eyes came alive each time she heard her name being called out. He looked at the woman as she came striding towards them, her arms splayed, ready to scoop them both up.
At first, he tensed, but on seeing how the little girl reacted as the woman approached, knew there was some connection.
Elma started to talk back to her in Turkish. The woman bent down and pulled the child into her. Reynolds suddenly saw floods of tears streaming down both of their faces. This woman was part of Elma’s life, that was for sure.
He tapped the woman on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, but who are you?’
The woman turned her head, but kept her arms around the child. ‘Yaya’; she kept repeating the word to him.
Reynolds looked at Elma for some sort of help, to understand what she had said.
Smiling, the little girl soon informed him in English. ‘This is my grandmother,’ she announced excitedly.
At a few minutes to nine in the evening, EST, Tremaine sat down in front of the television with a bourbon in his hand. Three minutes later, he was looking at his president, who was sitting at the resolution desk in the oval office of the White House, ready to address the nation.
For the next four minutes, Tremaine listened as Nixon announced how the Watergate affair had affected him to the point he could no longer continue in office. Tremaine sniggered to himself. He had known for weeks that because of the ‘smoking gun’ tape, this result was inevitable. He continued to listen as the man looked at his notes set down on the desk, sombrely reading his words as if he was reciting a last request before execution. Throughout this arduous period in American political history, Tremaine, although not involved in Watergate, had seen colleagues being added to the list of the accused.
Tremors of deceit had gradually rocked the constitution to its core, as each of the rotten apples had fallen from the tree. He had steered well clear of these accusations and arrests. Even a false suspicion would’ve proven hard to shake off, in these turbulent times.
As the president continued his speech, he mentioned other things that had been brought to the attention of the people, declaring they now needed a leader who could fully concentrate their efforts on these matters.