O Sullivan S Investment

O’SULLIVAN’S INVESTMENT

The old man trudged wearily into the little coffee bar overlooking the ruined monastery at Bellapais in North Cyprus. He was dressed in black work clothes which were worn with age and covered in dust. His grey hair was dishevelled and unkempt and his iron grey Stalin style moustache hung bedraggled and neglected. The boots he trudged along in were scuffed and split along the seams. To the casual observer, he was a picture of dejection and misery.

The town of Kyrenia lay far below with its little harbour overflowing with ships bringing provisions to feed an army. On the horizon, the dark coastline of Turkey loomed like a brooding giant slipping in and out of view in the shimmering heat haze.

Two men sat in a corner of the café and they watched him make his way to a table by the window. The café had once been a popular haunt of the British expatriates who lived out their retirement in the area but now it was mostly deserted. Few feet trod the clean, well swept floor boards, no longer would tourists laugh whilst drinking the excellent local wine crowding around the neat little tables. Only the cats were still in residence stalking around their territory or sleeping peacefully in a shaft of warm sunlight.

It was the beginning of September, 1974 and Cyprus had been partitioned along ethnic lines after Turkey’s invasion of the northern part of the island. The old man, part of the once thriving Greek community was now a foreigner in the land of his birth.

The owner brought him the small cup of glyko and a glass of water he had enjoyed every day for the past forty years and sat down opposite him. They had been friends for many years but now the events of the last few weeks placed a wariness between them. The owner of the coffee house was a Turk.

“I thought you were dead Andreas” said the owner. “Where have you been since the invasion?”

“I’ve been hiding in a cave in the mountains,” said the old man sadly. “My sons went away to fight and I haven’t heard from them since. I have no food left and I don’t know what to do.” He took a sip of the coffee. “I hope my boys are safe in the south.

“I would like to sell my land and go to the south to find them but there is no one to buy it.” He stopped talking and stared miserably into his coffee.

The owner got up from his seat and disappeared behind the counter returning a few minutes later with a plate of food and a glass of wine. He placed the food and wine on the table in front of Andreas and went over to check on his other customers. “Can I get you anything else gentlemen?” he enquired of them.

The bigger of the two men looked up at him and nodded,

“Bring us a bottle of Ouzo Demetrius,” he said genially.

Demetrius picked up the empty beer bottles from the table and headed towards the bar. He was glad of their custom but he had to admit he felt threatened by them, especially the big one with the scar. He was always pleasant enough but there was an air of danger about him that never seemed far from the surface. They were staying in a small boarding house just down the road from the café and had introduced themselves as O’Sullivan and O’Connor. They had been around for about a fortnight and had been visited by a string of the local militia and criminals in that time. They were obviously here to make money from the chaos that had followed the invasion.

O’Sullivan the younger of the two appeared to be the senior partner. He was a giant of a man with a mop of black curly hair that hung down to his shoulders in the fashion of the time. Thick side burns fronted his ears and he had a long ugly scar on his left jaw line that had healed but was still livid and with the marks of some rough stitching still visible. His wide shoulders and long heavy boned arms ended with hands the size of dinner plates which rested casually on the table. Lean and fit, he looked like a heavy weight boxer. These were accompanied by a malevolent stare which gave the impression that there would be little regard for the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules.

O’Connor, by contrast, was a small, wiry individual and his little close set eyes darted around the room like a weasel watching for an unsuspecting rabbit. When they walked the short distance between their lodgings and the café, they were like a Doberman and an accompanying Terrier, menacing and inquisitive.

“Your friend looks in a bit of a state,” said O’Sullivan when Demetrius returned with the Ouzo, “what’s the matter with him?”

“It is very sad,” Demetrius replied. “We have all lived together for many years; Andreas and my father were friends from childhood. Now we have been divided by war.” He sighed as he picked up their empty beer glasses. “Men like Andreas must run to the south or be killed by the criminals who will try to steal his land but he needs to sell it to get some money for the journey. It is a vicious circle.

O’Sullivan smiled a knowing smile. He knew a bit about civil war and ethnic cleansing himself. He had thrived on it in his native Belfast. Always big for his age he had been drawn into the gangs who fed on the fears of poor hard working people. He began as a teenager throwing stones at police patrols and later as an armed thug robbing banks to find the money to buy guns and explosives to fuel the fires of civil unrest. Gradually he had worked his way into the confidence of the men who controlled him and who were stoking the fires of hatred for their own ends. He was now the main arms buyer for the Republican gangs who ruled the streets, killing British soldiers and anyone else who stood in their way.

O’Connor had been involved as his guide and adviser on his first few missions overseas but O’Sullivan suspected he was actually there to spy on him for the faceless men who pulled the strings.

This was their third weapons buying trip together and he was making the most of it, drawing out information about O’Connor’s contacts in the Middle East and biding his time. On this trip he had bought a container load of arms from the munitions officer of a Turkish regiment while it was still on the jetty at Kyrenia. They had spirited it away to a lonely farm in a hidden valley east of Bellapais and hidden it in a disused barn. The captain of a fishing boat had agreed to ferry the weapons to Lebanon where they would be hidden in a cargo ship for transportation to the sea west of Cornwall at the edge of the English Channel. There they would be transferred to another small boat and smuggled into one of the myriad Loughs on Ireland’s west coast.

He had already despatched the weapons and explosives required by his masters back home and was now trading some surplus for his own advantage. There was three thousand pounds sterling in his jacket pocket from a local gangster he had dealt with that morning and a small fortune in various currencies hidden in a box under the floorboards of his room down the street. Unfortunately he would have to share it with O’Connor to keep him quiet. O’Connor still had contacts he needed meantime but as soon as he had them for himself, he would ditch the little parasite and work alone.

“That’s a truly shocking tale,” said O’Sullivan gravely. “Get another glass and bring the old boy over,” His grin took on a wolfish look as he added “and bring one for yourself as well.”

Two hours later old Andreas was negotiating away his precious land.

“It is worth twenty thousand Cypriot pounds,” he said beating the table with his fist. “I need the money to help my sons to start afresh in the South.

O’Sullivan poured him another glass of ouzo and still grinning, replied, “Ah but Cypriot pounds are worthless round here now, what you need are pounds sterling.” He looked at Demetrius, “Bring another bottle my friend,” he said and emptied the one he was holding into O’Connor’s glass.

He tapped his bulging pocket, “I’ll give you all I have in here for your land and you can head south first thing in the morning.”

Andreas looked at the pocket and weakened. “How much is it?” he asked and O’Sullivan knew he had him. “More than enough to get you through the Turkish lines and find your sons safe in the south,” said O’Sullivan reassuringly.

By the time they were half way through the fourth bottle, Andreas was signing over his land and house to O’Sullivan for three thousand pounds sterling. It was a fortune in a land ravaged by greed and suspicion.

Demetrius laboriously wrote out a document on a page torn from an old school jotter. It was in English with copies in Greek and Turkish underneath. He and O’Connor signed it as witnesses to the agreement between Andreas and O’Sullivan, who solemnly shook hands after the signing. After the transaction was complete, O’Sullivan shared the remains of the bottle between their four glasses.

“To peace and prosperity,” he said raising his glass and draining it in one swallow. They drank the toast and the two Irishmen made their way home leaving Andreas counting his money and talking excitedly with Demetrius about meeting his sons again and using the money to set them up for a new life in the South.

Demetrius made some more food for the old man before he sent him on his way with a firm handshake and all his good wishes.

“You will be alright now,” he assured his old friend. “You were very lucky these men were here at the right time.”

Andreas nodded and smiled. “The big man is not so clever as he thinks.” He said with a sly smile. “A shell hit the house on the first day of the war and he has bought nothing but some bare land and ruined buildings. Thank God my Maria passed away last year and did not see our home destroyed.”

Next morning the two Irishmen left Bellapais and drove down to Kyrenia. They registered the sale of the farm with the help of one of O’Sullivan’s new friends and caught the ferry to Turkey.

Six hours later a patrol of Turkish soldiers came into the village and stopped at the café. The officer in charge asked Demetrius to come out to their truck to look at a body they had found about half a mile outside the village. Demetrius was shocked to the core and almost collapsed in the dusty street when he saw the pitiful remains lying in the back of the lorry. It was Andreas. The old man’s head had been almost ripped from his body by someone very powerful and ferocious.

His assailant must have caught him from behind as he walked unsteadily home along the dusty road, gripping him round the chest with one arm and holding his chin to twist his head violently round and upward. His head now dangled loose like that of an old rag doll with the face looking lifelessly back over the right shoulder. The button down inside pocket of his jacket where he had carefully hidden the money from the sale of his land had been ripped open and the money was gone. As Demetrius was signing the form which formally identified the body of old Andreas an official at the land registry in Kyrenia was counting the five hundred pounds sterling the big Irishman had given him as a bribe to ease the passage of the paperwork that would confirm the purchase of his new property. Carefully he wrote a note on the amended title deeds to the effect that permission would be granted to demolish the existing buildings and build a new villa in their place as soon Mr O’Sullivan found it convenient.

His family would eat well tonight…..