Breeze Across The Aegean

Cole Robert

Description

It has been two years since Nicholas lost his wife. Still bereft he decides to take a holiday on the Greek island of Rhodes, hoping that the break will help him in his recovery. Whilst there he takes a day trip to the tiny island of Halki. On the ferry he meets Alessandra, who is working as a researcher at the museum on Rhodes. Beautiful and vivacious, she and Nicholas instantly connect and make plans to meet up on their return trip. She also offers to show Nicholas around the Old Town of Rhodes. Alessandra fails to show up on both occasions and a disappointed Nicholas returns to his old life in England.A few months go by and he is stunned to hear that Alessandra has been reported as missing and then realises he may have been one of the last tohave seen her. Determined to help, Nicholas returns to Rhodes to assist the authorities. He learns that her disappearance may have been linked toher own research into one of the Ancient World's most enduring mysteries. Frustrated with the police efforts he decides to continue his owninvestigation into her disappearance.Set against the magic and the mystery of these Greek islands of the Eastern Aegean, Nicholas's search throws him into the dangerous world ofartifact looting, kidnapping and murder. Initially ill-equipped to deal with the shadowy and brutal world of these criminal networks he embarks on anodyssey of self-discovery.He will need to summon new depths of resolve and courage to save Alessandra and himself before the journey turnsdeadly.

Sujets

• Contemporary romance
• Thriller
• Rhodes

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838596637
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Robert Cole

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781838596637

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To Jo, Carlaine, Angus, Guy, Wanda and Martin for your patience, advice and encouragement. Many thanks must also go to Belinda for your valuable editorial input.

And of course to Greece and your magical islands for providing such a rich canvas for this story.



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter One
Rhodes
Nicholas felt cold, dispirited and alone. Perhaps a final drink in the hotel bar would help. He pushed open the frosted glass door to find Lindsey Buckingham singing “Go Your Own Way” to a cheerless, windowless room. Dimly lit, gilt uplighters did little to improve the atmosphere. Only two others sat in the gloom. Both looked like businessmen. One was slumped in a corner nursing an ouzo; the other tapped tiredly at a laptop.
He opted for a stool at the dark-wood bar with its polished brass countertop and untouched bowls of pistachio nuts. He ordered a large Metaxa, took a sip and thought over his day. Searching the home of a virtual stranger, however necessary, had felt intrusive and alien to him. What was the abandoned apartment trying to tell him? It had looked as though it had not been lived in for some time, but its occupant had clearly intended to return. He ran a weary hand over his face, brushing hair still damp from the evening drizzle from his eyes.
Distracted with his thoughts he didn’t notice someone take the stool next to him. Hearing a woman’s voice order a red wine in Greek from the barman gave him a start and he glanced at her. She took a couple of measured sips, then turned to him and said, in accented English: “You are Nicholas.” It wasn’t a question.
Recovering his surprise Nicholas studied her before answering. She was slightly older than his 37 years, dark-haired and dressed immaculately. There was a small birthmark high on her left cheek.
“Yes I am. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“No, I am afraid you don’t.”
Was she trying to flirt with him? He wondered how to respond. He would be happy to have some brief company after his unsettling day – and she was attractive, if in a rather formal way. He was shocked out of that notion when her eyes narrowed and, lowering her voice, she said: “I want you to listen to me very carefully. You are getting yourself involved in things that do not concern you. Whatever it is you think you are doing you need to stop. And you need to stop now.”
Nicholas felt anger rise. “Who the hell…?” She interrupted him with a raised hand.
“At the moment, Mr Adams, we will leave this as a warning. Go back home to your work and your life in England and nothing further will happen to you.” She took a deliberate sip of her wine and, leaving a half-full glass, stood up and put on her coat. Smiling down at him she said quietly “You will not be given a further chance” and walked out of the bar.
Feeling shock, Nicholas stared unseeing at his brandy. He did not think to follow the woman. Her words, and their quiet menace, had stunned him. He had never been threatened before – such things didn’t happen in his world. He looked up and tried to focus. Nothing in the bar had changed. The businessmen had not stirred and the barman was now engrossed in polishing glasses. For the first time, he wondered what he had got himself into. Coming back to Rhodes had seemed the right thing to do. He lingered for a time over his drink, trying to take it all in. Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” played on in the background as he thought back to what had led him to this: the day he had met Alessandra.
—
It was a Friday in mid-October. There was a sweet-scented cooling breeze. It was not unwelcome, as it promised to be another warm day. A dog slumbered in the shade under an old red Fiat parked outside the taverna. Sitting beside the water in the tiny port of Skala Kamirou, Nicholas was savouring a strong black coffee. Fishing boats bobbed and scraped in the swell. The early morning sky was cloudless. A seagull eyed him expectantly from the low wall that enclosed the taverna. There was no sign of the ferry, but it was still early. For the first time, he felt a sense of expectation. He had been alone on this holiday for too long already and, to his surprise, he looked forward to being among people. Apart from enforced interactions with his work colleagues and keeping in touch with his parents, he had avoided social encounters for a long time.
Nicholas had come to Rhodes a week ago, as a last-minute decision. He shook his head in amusement at the very idea that he had acted on a whim. Planning was one of his strengths; spontaneity naturally made him uneasy. He had been to the island once before, many years ago, and lingering memories of sun on his face, rocky coves and welcoming locals had brought him back. He had needed to get away – not just from the autumnal grey of England, but also to escape from the pervasive thoughts that crowded in. He had felt out of sorts for too long.
He had rented a white-fronted villa set on a hillside among olive groves, overlooking the sleepy village of Pylona, just inland of Lindos, on the east coast of the island. Clad in purple and red bougainvillea, with a swimming pool to the rear, the villa was the perfect spot for a romantic getaway, but he was alone.
The name of the villa had intrigued him. Villa Cleobulus, according to the bookings website, was named after a local tyrant king of the sixth-century BC. Paradoxically he was also known as one of the Seven Sages of Greece, a contrast in attributes that had resonated with Nicholas. Rhodes, and the little village he had chosen to stay in, suited his present mood. With only villagers and watchful stray cats as neighbours, he was already feeling more relaxed. He needed time to think. He wanted to go home with at least the beginnings of an answer. He hoped this brief break away might allow him to move on.
As the sun climbed higher, he saw the ferry edge its way across from the headland and through the small harbour entrance. A bus emblazoned with “Aegean Tours” in blue lettering clattered along the dusty streets, then swept past through the square, where straw-coloured weeds lined the kerbside. It stopped below the granite cliff. Passengers emerged, blinking in the morning brightness before huddling on the dock, waiting for the arrival of the morning ferry to Halki. Nicholas looked at his watch. There was forty-five minutes before it was due to leave. The cicadas chorused the rising heat. A woman in a red skirt and white top with the badge of the tour operator flirted with the young ticket seller. Another coach arrived. The largely middle-aged and elderly passengers disembarked carefully.
Nicholas’s coffee was long finished when the Nikos Express reversed slowly towards the harbour wall. The gangway was lowered, its rusted chains grinding, amid shouted instructions from the crew. He watched the ferry being loaded with boxes of canned goods, vegetables and large plastic water containers. A crane at the back was hoisting a palette of cement bags. As he looked out over the jetty at the gathering crowd he joined their shared anticipation of visiting a new place. He was happy to be with others. Back home he had become too accustomed to his own company. Now, he felt more positive, almost buoyant.
“Efharisto,” Nicholas said with a smile and nod to the elderly grey-faced waiter. He was not a linguist and felt embarrassed by the limitations of his vocabulary. He paid and left the taverna.
By the time he had bought his day-return ticket all the seats downstairs in the cool of the air-conditioned cabin had been taken. He climbed the stairs to the upper level to find shade under a canvas awning, and squeezed in among the excited tourists. The forced jollity, loudly orchestrated by the animated tour leader, made him feel uncomfortable. His British reserve took over as his new optimism receded. Was this trip going to be a nightmare, rather than the pleasant diversion he had hoped for? He opened his guide to Rhodes and the Dodecanese and prepared to bury himself in the section on Halki, but his attention was drawn to the woman to his left. Dressed in a blue, tie-dyed T-shirt, white shorts and sandals, she was young, attractive and ta