The effect on the crowd was immediate, as though a starting pistol had been fired. They began to surge forward, pushing against the cordon of guards in front of the steps like dogs at a deer. Nicolaou, bewildered and still only at the early stages of fear, found himself borne aloft in the arms of Panayotis and hustled through the main door, which was slammed shut behind them. Within seconds from the other side there came a primitive baying and a barrage of blows against the wood. At the same time the gates to the palace grounds that had been holding back the main body of protesters were swept aside as anger turned to rage at the sound of gunfire and thousands came streaming up the long driveway.
'For God's sake, now will you go?' Panayotis barked. 'Elpida,' pleaded Nicolaou.
But his daughter was already running down the circular staircase from the private quarters, past the antiquities, the stone heads and torsos, a small harvest of the island's ancient heritage which would soon lie smashed and strewn upon the ground.
Father and daughter tried to embrace, but Panayotis was already pulling them apart and dragging them down the long corridor with its Moorish arches and youthful tapestries that led through the heart of the U-shaped building. Running beside them was the sound of shattering windows, raised voices, wrecking. Then more gunshots.
Panayotis led them to a part of the palace Nicolaou had never visited, at the back of the kitchens. A door. Stone steps. Another door for which Panayotis had a large key. Then they were in a tunnel hacked from the bare rock.
'Makarios Avenue,' Panayotis whispered grimly. 'His escape route at the time of the last coup.'
It was cool, dimly lit, at least two hundred metres long, perhaps longer – Nicolaou had lost all sense of proportion in the confined space. His thoughts were befuddled, still worrying about his commander's words. 'The last coup.' Was this, too, a coup?
They emerged through another door at the far side of the swimming pool, beyond the amphitheatre where Nicolaou had entertained groups of schoolchildren and where, in a previous time of trouble, the British had played tennis. Then they were in the woods, vast stands of eucalyptus which glowered in the moonlight. Behind them the noise of wreckage was growing ever more relentless.
They crossed the shale and loose rocks of a dried river bed – Nicolaou lost his footing and was once more hauled aloft by the ready arms of his commander – and they came upon the chain-link fence which separated the palace grounds from whatever lay beyond. There were no protesters here, they were too busy in the Palace. They heard the sound of a muffled explosion. Panayotis dragged them on.
Another lock on the gate through the fence. Another key. Panayotis seemed well prepared. Then they scrambled up a bank and were standing on an empty road.
'Where to, Sir? A British base?' That was where Makarios had fled, to Akrotiri, into the arms of the old enemy and away from the waving fists of his own people, but Nicolaou decided he had already that evening donned too much of the Archbishop's mantle. 'No. Not to the British. To the mountains.'
Then there were headlights advancing upon them. Panayotis drew a gun.
'Stay in the bushes, Sir,' he instructed, and stood in the middle of the road, waving his arms.
The car stopped. No rioters, only an elderly couple driving home after an evening meal. A German couple who spoke neither Greek nor English, but who understood all too well the unmistakable language of Panayotis' gun.
With a cry of alarm the man put his foot to the floor and sped off into the night. Panayotis shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was he supposed to do, shoot a couple of elderly and unarmed tourists?
'Leave it to me,' Elpida instructed and pushed him aside.
The next car contained an accountant, who stopped and listened with growing incredulity to the pretty girl. He apologized, he was almost out of petrol and his mother was expecting him home, but he would be happy to take them as far as he was going. The President of the Republic of Cyprus, his daughter and the Commander of the Palace Guard thanked him as one and climbed into his battered Renault. They'd argue about distance and destination later.
Nicolaou looked behind him in the direction of his home. An angry orange moon shone down like a celestial torch, brushing the tree tops and sprinkling them with fire. The view brought tears to the President's eyes as they drove away. It was only when he had dried them and was gripping the hand of his daughter that he realized it wasn't moonlight at all. He was watching the glow as, once again, the palace was being burnt to the ground.
SEVEN
The battered Renault and its increasingly disorientated driver got them as far as a Hertz parking lot. There Panayotis acquired an alternative vehicle. It had no ignition key but the full tank of petrol seemed more compelling since the few coins Panayotis kept in his trouser pocket for the cigarette machine proved to be the only money they had between them. Nicolaou found comfort in the knowledge that Panayotis hadn't thought of everything; somehow it made him feel less of a fool.
As soon as they were beyond the city limits of Nicosia on the road to the Troodos, Nicolaou fell into a deep sleep. The tension and – yes, he admitted it – fear had drained the energy from his veins and he was overcome by a most oppressive exhaustion. They had no idea whom they could trust – was this simply a riot or a full-blooded coup attempt? And if a coup, had it succeeded? Such matters could be determined from the Presidential Lodge in the mountains from where, for a few weeks in the height of the summer and if necessary for the next few days, the country could be run.
He did not wake until they were less than ten miles from their destination and the road had begun to wind and curl its way around the mountainsides. They were amongst thick pine forests, the heavy trunks picked out in the headlamps, standing patiently like queues of hovering tax collectors. Not until they had turned off the main road and were approaching the compound along a narrow, steeply descending lane did their spirits begin to rise as the car lights played comfortingly across the familiar picket fence of the driveway.
'Home from home' Elpida whispered, for whom the mountains had always been a place of adventure and refuge.
'And from here it's a straight drive down to Akrotiri. If necessary' Panayotis added, practical as ever.
Nicolaou remained silent, winding down the window and allowing the sweet resin air to flood in and revive his bruised soul. From beneath the wheels came the sound of pine cones being crushed. No flag was flying and there was no one in the guard hut, no welcoming flash of light or howl of dogs, but no one had known they were coming. The familiar green roofs – all corrugated iron, as was the fashion in the Troodos, to deal with the snow – flashed past as though in an old film, and behind the low wall of the vegetable garden the tomato plants were flourishing, waving gentle welcome in the breeze. The car circled slowly around the drive and approached the front of the Lodge. The moon, so angry above the skies of Nicosia, here in the mountains was the colour of ripe melon and surrounded by a million shy stars. It gave greeting, dusting the front of the house and lighting their path to the green double door. Everything was as it should be.
'It's open' Elpida muttered in relief as she tried the handle.
'Let me, Miss' Panayotis insisted, and led the way into the dark hallway. He was fumbling for the light switch when he noticed a chink of light coming from under one of the doorways leading off the hall. Some fool of a maintenance engineer, leaving doors open and lights…
They entered the sitting room and looked around in numb amazement. It was busy with armed men, all standing, and pointing guns in their direction. Only two people were seated.