The flight from Akrotiri lasted less than fifteen minutes, even equipped with the cumbersome rainmaker buckets slung beneath Mission Three-Zero Alpha and its sister craft Bravo. They'd flown in formation up beyond the Kouris Dam which diverted the precious emerald waters from their rush to the sea and towards the concrete oven of Limassol, the drone of the twin gas turbines bouncing back from the valley sides, extending still further the footprint of noise and declaring their imminent arrival even before the villagers of Monagri, Doros and Trimi-klini could rise from the tending of vines and spot them in the sky. They climbed, the four-bladed rotors grabbing more urgently at the thinning mountain air, the torque increasing as the craft fought to maintain formation and speed, crewmen tightening in anticipation as, ahead of them, the malevolent swirl stood out dark against the clear skies.
They found their water supply less than two minutes from the source of the fire, the tanks of a trout farm full of fingerling and grower fish. In one mouthful each Wessex scooped up a hundred and fifty gallons of water and yards of protective netting – half a year's work for the farmer, whose cries of despair and incomprehension were lost beneath the flattening roar of whirling rotor blades. With an ironic bow of acknowledgement the two Wessex left the farmer to his tears of frustration and headed for the Lodge. On instructions from his brother, Dimitri had checked the bonds of the four hostages, ensuring that they were immobile and had no chance of escape by tying their legs as well as their upper bodies. As always, he took particular care with Elpida, his eyes groping and hands brushing across the cotton of her blouse as he tested the bonds, running his callused palms around her thighs, squeezing, wine-sour breath falling across her cheeks. His eyes were glassy bright, pumping with adrenalin and anxiety.
'Before this is over, my beauty, I'm going to show you what a real man is made of,' he smirked.
'Please, not so tight, you're cutting the circulation in my leg.'
He settled on his haunches in front of her, removed the ligature, raised the dress high above her knees and began massaging the muscles.
Elpida smiled, a look of pure plastic, then kicked him straight in the crotch.
It was only as he regained his breath and was no longer squirming in agony that the threats began to tumble forth. How he would have her, no matter what his brother said, and what he would do to her warm moist flesh. He stumbled to his feet, still bent, clutching himself with one hand while the other drew back and unleashed itself in fury across her cheek. His ring scoured a plum-coloured graze; he sneered and stooped close in expectation of submission. Her father shouted in alarm.
There were tears in her eyes but again Elpida smiled, and spat in his face.
Dimitri was about to strike her once more when his collar was grabbed and he was cuffed about the head. He went sprawling in surprise and, rolling over, discovered the figure of his brother looming over him, arm raised to threaten him again.
'Fool!' Theophilos snarled. 'Is there no time when your brain rises above your belt?' Dimitri prepared to growl and snap, Theophilos to strike, when they both froze, their dispute forgotten in an instant. For in the distance they could hear the rumbling thunder of helicopters. The two helicopters came in at three hundred feet, skirting the jumble of tourist shops and cheap restaurants huddled below the mountain top and dropping down through the gorge of ancient black pines. Even at that height they could feel the cauldron of heat bubbling beneath them, the pilots struggling to maintain control as bursts of super-heated air hit the underside of the fuselage. The fire had farmed out, catching the mountain air and swirling it into innumerable eddies and currents which were then thrown out in all directions, the flames following. Climbing the mountainside. Creeping nearer the Lodge.
Mission Three-Zero Alpha was the first to start its bombing run, the pilot guided by the instructions of the crewman in the rear. Even leaning out from the fuselage in the embrace of the despatcher's harness it was difficult for him to determine a precise point of impact; from above all that could be seen was an angry swirl of thick dark smoke being blown forward above the flames. The first run would be no more than target spotting, suppressing the smoke screen to provide a clear line of sight.
Alpha hovered to get its bearings before moving decisively forward, slicing across the leading edge of the fire. It was travelling at forty knots, the pilot throwing anxious glances at his torque meter as he was forced to use near-maximum power to cope with the unhappy combination of height, sudden heat and heavy payload which turned the craft from a porpoise into a mother duck. He could screw up the transmission if he wasn't careful. It didn't help that he was practically blind, the limited forward vision provided by the droop-nosed Wessex all but obliterated by plumes of smoke. He was in the hands of God and his crewman, one of whom, he knew for a fact, had slipped in an extra pint of Guinness last night.
The crewman was latched firmly to the handrail and had one foot perched on the wheel of the undercart to give himself extra inches of reach and sight. 'Steady. Steady. Left ten. God, it's bloody hot. Steady.' The craft was in his hands, the pilots following his commands as he tried to find the right release point. A gust of wind snatched at the smoke below, carving out a gap through which he thought he could see it. It was as good a bearing as he was going to get. He yanked the cable that fired the rain-maker release. The newly liberated Wessex leapt forward as half a ton of water spread out and drenched two hundred square yards of forest. Yet already thousands were in flame.
The first Wessex was already heading back towards the trout farm when Mission Three-Zero Bravo manoeuvred into position. Perhaps the rear crewman directing the approach was a shade hesitant, for from above it appeared as though he'd covered the almost identical section of forest as Alpha, a wasted run, but from below the action looked spectacular, for a passing second the rainmakers creating great rainbow arcs in the sky before the pall of smoke and new steam once again covered the sun. Hope, heat, darkness, and still more flame marked the time as the rearmed Wessex craft returned to resume the onslaught. But still the fire was not out. The flames licked forward like the tongue of a fire serpent, enraged, defiant, setting about everything in its path, which led directly to the Lodge.
And the trout pond was empty. A new water supply had to be found, more vital minutes away. The attack was beginning to falter. 'For pity's sake, Mr Urquhart, the fire is less than a hundred metres from the Lodge.'
The Bishop's tone had altered. The bluster had disappeared, ground away by anxiety as he had watched the assault of the helicopters being repulsed by the forces of nature.
'They are doing their best. Another helicopter has been scrambled from Akrotiri.' Yet even Urquhart was sounding less confident. 'Their problem is finding a suitable water supply.' 'Enough of your excuses, Englishman!'
'Bishop, let me evacuate you and your men. I give you my word…'
'As I have given you mine. If I am forced to leave this place, one of the hostages will remain behind. And her death will be on your hands.' 'What more can I do, Bishop?' 'Pray, damn you. Down on your knees.' 'I already am.' The flames were only seventy metres from the Lodge, advancing remorselessly. They had already encountered the fence of barbed wire thrown around the perimeter of the compound and reduced it to a cat's cradle of blackened shards. Glowing embers were soaring on the convection currents, thrown high into the heavens before cascading down upon the lawn in front of the Lodge and bouncing off its metal roof.