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?'