‘There must be more to it than that?’
‘Of course there is. Cyprus is strategically placed to dominate the eastern Med – that’s why we’re here. Hence Turkey doesn’t want the Greeks to get it, and the Greeks don’t want the Turks to get it. We, of course, don’t want anyone to get it. If Cyprus becomes Greek the first thing that will happen is that we will get booted out, and the Greek government will give the Soviets our bases here . . . the last thing we want. Am I losing you?’
‘No, Captain, not so far. Surely America and Israel would have something to say about that?’
‘A Third World War, probably. Cup of char?’
A young soldier with dull police flashes on his uniform had arrived with two enormous mugs of tea. I’ve told you before that the MPs make the best tea in the world. I sipped mine – it was as sweet as girls’ kisses. Then I asked him, ‘Tell me about the troubles. Who’s killing whom most frequently, and in what order?’
‘The Greek terrorists are killing us, and then we kill them back. We are killing more of them than they are of us, but sometimes it’s touch and go . . . then, they are killing our women and children as well.’
‘Then why don’t you send the civvies home, and reduce the number of targets? This is exactly what happened in Suez when I was out there – haven’t we learned anything from that?’
‘It so happens that I agree with you – which is why my family is still in Aldershot – but there are several reasons for not evacuating the non-coms, both political and cynical. The government is determined not to press the panic button, and declare what’s happening in Cyprus a civil insurrection – although it is. They argue that that would encourage the terrorist, the agitator and the bolshie Hellenic government. It would also bring us under pressure from home to crack down even harder here, and that, in turn, could bring the UN down on our heads again.’
‘So we encourage serving soldiers, civil servants and policemen to bring their families out here, and watch them get killed in the streets?’
‘Some are, yes, despite our best efforts. Good summing-up of the situation.’
‘What a cock-up!’
I looked around the room properly for the first time. It was a long, low, air-conditioned brick-and-concrete box. A soldier outside was washing the wired-glass windows. At the far end, with her back to me, was the woman from my flight, murmuring into a telephone. Collins followed my glance and said, ‘Liaison officer between the military and civil police powers. She came in on your flight, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. I noticed her.’ I don’t know why, but even with her back to us and maybe forty feet away, I’m sure she knew we were talking about her.
‘What can I do to skew the odds in my favour?’ I asked him.
‘Exactly what I said. Obey the army’s rules, and stay alive. From now on never go out without a side arm. You have one?’
‘I might have,’ I said cautiously.
‘In that case it will be a dinky little private piece with the stopping power of a blancmange – am I right?’ I nodded. ‘Get Tobin to issue you with a proper weapon. A Colt or a Browning, I’ll sign the paperwork. And never go out without it, OK?’ I nodded again. ‘He’ll also get you military uniform without flashes. Wear that too.’
‘Won’t that just invite someone to have a pop at me?’
‘If you were a terrorist who would you be most likely to shoot at – an apparently unarmed civilian, who can’t fire back, or what could be a British soldier, carrying a gun?’
I took a deep breath. At the other end of the room someone had turned on a radio and tuned it to Forces Favourites. Tex Ritter was singing that there was blood on the saddle and blood on the ground, and a great big puddle of blood all around. Just one of God’s little messages. I nodded again – slowly – and said, ‘OK. I understand.’ I took another couple of gulps of the strong tea, and asked, ‘Tell me again, who are these people who will be trying to kill me?’
‘They call themselves the EOKA organization. The Ethniki Organosis Kyprion Agoniston. They are not your usual Brighton Pier glee club. They believe that it will be necessary to get us out, before turning on the Turks and joining up with Greece. Their preferred method of negotiation is walking up behind Brits in the street and shooting us in the back. How good’s your hearing?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘When you hear a click assume that someone’s cocking a gun, and dive for cover. If you hear a shot – even half a mile off – get off the street. Don’t expect a Greek to help you if you get into trouble. If you need help and there are no Brits around, find a Turk.’
‘How do I know which ones are Turks?’
He smiled at last, and stroked the cat on his upper lip.
‘They have much better moustaches.’
There was another half an hour of this sort of advice. The dos and don’ts of Cyprus. How to stay alive in a country where the Brits were at the top of the Hit Parade, and it was nothing to do with music. Some streets were already off limits between 1700 and 0700. That Ledra Street in Nicosia I’d been told about was one of them. In fact whole chunks of Nicosia were closed to British soldiers after dark. It reminded me of Ismailia in 1953 – one half of the population, it seemed, was after your money, and the other half after your blood. I asked him about the outlying areas.
‘Cyprus is an exceedingly beautiful island, Charlie – particularly up in
