Trafford Publishing: Kiss of the White Scorpion

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Kiss of the White Scorpion

by Lucas Kyriakides

374 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #04-0731; ISBN 1-4120-2903-1; US$29.00, C$33.95, EUR24.00, £17.00

1974: Thirteen soldiers train for a dark mission, discovering their real enemies were politics, corruption and betrayal. Seventeen years later, terrorist attacks baffle authorities. There are still unfinished missions.

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about the book about the author excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

This book concerns a fictional story about acts of terrorism happening in Greece and London around 1991. Although the organization known only as Othello have not released any demands, further investigation points to an incident that happened during the Cyprus conflict of 1974. SEALS, returning from Vietnam, trained thirteen Greek soldiers to function as a separate UDT team. One of the Greeks is Gabriel Mavroangelakis, a former KYP agent that had been used to infiltrate and identify communist agitators to the military dictatorship governing at the time. The task of this secret UDT, known as the Y-Scorpions, was not clear at the time, but when the CIA realized the real mission they had to intervene to preserve the political balance that had been upset in Cyprus. So it was, these thirteen soldiers were betrayed. After 17 years, those who survived have scores to settle and missions to complete.
The story, however, is more than a mere vehicle for revenge. Beyond its cynical view and its dark humour, there are moments of touching humanity. The characters are complex, but at the same time have an earthy quality, expressed by their loss and desires. The corruption and ignorance that surrounds our daily lives is the real enemy and not the person that we were taught in school to hate.
In this labyrinth of Byzantine corridors, where the right handshake opens any door, everyone is competing to win, only to find that there is no exit. Ejder, a young Turkish immigrant is seeking retribution for his uncle's death in Istanbul.
A sinister character known as The Master recruits him into a terrorist cell. Ejder becomes trapped in a web of intrigue and violence. A British agent in Greece has almost infiltrated the Albanian mafia, headed by The Roman, reputed to be a former agent. The British believe that they supply weapons to terrorists. The Chief of the Greek police is also competing with Yiannis, a Greek agent, to uncover the mystery. Behind them is the Minister of Justice, a man with a promising career that doesn't like obstacles in his path.
They are also searching for a freelance journalist named Anne. She has a habit of getting stories and pictures that the authorities would not like to see published.
Panikos, a shopowner and frustrated gambler, is shocked when he discovers that his son, Petros, was attacked. He suspects that it has something to do with his missing son and a certain soldier, whose badge showed a scorpion.
Even though many of the scenes and characters are fictional, a lot of research and interviews were made to keep the feel of the story realistic. There are no winning sides. There are no righteous causes. All we have is a vast population with different ideas that find it difficult to live with one another. Tragedy happens around us every day, sometimes on a miniscule scale and sometimes atrocities on a global scale. One day I switched on the TV and watched the news. It showed the mothers of the people that went missing since the Cyprus conflict of '74. They held photographs of their sons and the grief on their faces was only slightly compensated by a tiny flicker of hope that they might still be alive; that they might return home. This news item was on for less than a minute. The gracious TV channel then spent half an hour discussing what nightclub some VIP would be going, to celebrate her birthday. This is an outrage. Maybe there is something more that we could do, myself included, but I hope that by penning some words together for any reader that can spare the precious time, I can preserve the memory of this forgotten chapter in history.
I cannot express enough words of gratitude that there are companies like Trafford that support creativeness and the freedom for writers to express their work, unlike those that would prefer to dissect, cut and mutilate a noble cause for their personal profit.
Enjoy.
To learn more please visit www.kissofthewhitescorpion.com

About the Author

Born in London, 1968. Raised in the UK and Greece. Has also lived in Gabon and the Bahamas. Went to Homefield School, Dorset and studied at Kilburn Polytechnic and The City & East London College. Also studied part-time as an actor at Mountview Theatre School. He likes books, films, dogs, swimming and 'decent' video games. Has worked in the casino industry for many years and lives in a quiet village in Greece.

Excerpts

Chapter One

From the stone parapets I gazed
Across a myriad of darkness
And as the enemy drew near
All our hearts were filled with fear
I never lost for once my faith
We had a gate
A great big gate.

1958. Cyprus.
Georgie glanced around the town square. Some very young children kept busy, by playing with their toy soldiers on the just swept pavement. Like all kids, they were so preoccupied in their own, important little world that they hadn't noticed anything that the grown-ups would have called unusual. In their mock battle, small-scale replicas of the Knights of Templar, crafted from lead, were pitted to fight against a troop of yellow plastic WWII German Afrikakorps. Both of these military legions would have fought battles, somewhere in the blood washed sands of the Middle East. The fact that they were separated by hundreds of years completely eluded the young players' minds. They were interested in the passing of time, not its relativity. The paint worn figures were ruthlessly pelted against each other with merciless vigour. No one except Georgie took notice of them. He envied them. There was hardly a greater joy than not having to make crummy excuses for having an ungoverned imagination. That quality was better appreciated in adulthood, when fantasy started to lose the innocence it had so delicately nurtured in youth. That wasn't the only reason he envied them.
Above the low skyline of the slate-red rooftops, the rising eastern sun was playfully teasing Georgie's brow. Its warm rays mixed with the fresh morning wind to gently caress him. Through the choking charred chimneys, the smell of freshly baked flaounes uncoiled itself, like a hungry snake that had just woken from its long winter hibernation. It brought back memories of many Easters that were now gone. His mother, just like all mums in Cyprus, would always join in the baking of those cheese and egg filled pies every year, early in the morning of Easter Saturday. They would be served after the liturgy outside Agios Giorgios, the main church. The little pies were remarkable for their humble simplicity, but more important was the fact that they were delicious. Their aroma was improved, as the recipes were handed down the generations from mother to daughter, until it became eclectic. He wished, amongst other things, that he could gobble one there and then. A big grin slowly stretched across Georgie's weathered face, almost joining his ears. Even though they were used to the sight of his smile, the local Famagustians who had gathered, were baffled with his nonchalance. He was beaming like a devil in disguise, as if he thought he could bluff by holding an ace up a sleeve that was torn. Perhaps he had lost his mind. Nobody could blame him for doing so. He was always a bit loopy. His American business partner had given him the nickname 'A.C.', it stood for Absolutely Crackers. It also happened to stand for one of the recent inventions that they were importing from the States. Georgie's big, thick, curly moustache was smiling along with the rest of his face, not wanting to be left out of any mischief.
Everyone in the town knew him. It was a small place where Christians and Muslims lived together in peace, until recently. The Turkish Cypriots stayed away from today's main event. Georgie used to venture into their cafes, without problem, to play cards. This happened all the more frequent when he owed money to his own, because they weren't so daft that they would let him play again until he had coughed up every bit that he owed. Few things are easier in life than getting money off a gambler that says he'll pay tomorrow.
Most of the spectators, who stood watching him with awe and dismay, trembled with the thought of how brave he was. Nevertheless, there were also a few in the crowd who though they tolerated his behaviour in the past, considered him nothing but a reckless fool. They would have placed a bet that he would meet his maker sooner, rather than later. He had always been an avid gambler from an early age. He would spend endless hours in the densely smoky cafes playing a dice game called barbouti and he was almost always parting with shillings that he couldn't afford to give away. His patient partner had migrated from Chicago for a quieter life, when a cousin who never married died and left him his share of the business. The Yank would constantly reprimand the careless Cypriot for his nihilistic attitude and he made many futile attempts to help him quit. He spotted a gifted man who was wasting his life, as he slid into the unredeemable depths of oblivion, a man who was chasing the next release of his endorphins. He didn't know, however, that Georgie also had another pastime. Georgie never paid attention to his critics, because he was convinced that somehow, one day, he would hit the big time and wouldn't have to work for money anymore. He never realized that all he wanted was the rush that ran through him whenever he won.
Excerpt from chapter II:
1990. Athens.
There was no way possible of getting close enough to examine the remains yet. It was still too hot. Dense, black smoke obscured any clarity of vision. Noise was emanating from every direction. Sirens were screaming over every other din and just adding to the confusion. Blue lights were flashing and hungry news crews were getting in everyone's way, to get their ultimate scoop. Everyone was competing at who could shout the loudest and as a natural consequence: no one was getting heard, as was the timeless Mediterranean way. This was the story that would, no doubt, be shown and sold to television stations all around the country. There was money to be made and glory to be had. The police were having a difficult time trying to keep the inquisitive public back. The overbearing midday heat wasn't helping a great deal, either. The burnt remains of a person could just about be made out, smouldering inside the smoking vehicle. The body had not yet been identified for certain. They would have to verify dental records. The number plate, which had shot through a nearby shoe shop, almost killing a customer, indicated that the car was registered to a retired Greek general. The stench was sickening. Burnt flesh, petrol, car parts and people's sweat, were blended in the air to form an unnatural cocktail of death. The fire crew had done all there was to do. They had abandoned a very important backgammon tournament to come and sort this mess out and in the middle of all this blistering heat. Now, the rest was up to the assigned coroner. The press harassed anyone in the vicinity who looked like they might have a clue what happened. They created a Sophoclean tragedy plot. This was something that wasn't even, in the slightest, meant to stand the test of time and they all knew it. Bigger predators were skimming the ocean's surface at that time that would swallow it up very quickly. There was the recent fall of the Berlin Wall to report for example. The news scavengers had to move fast, if they were going to get any meat out of their dead prey. Scattered plain-clothed police detectives were busy flashing their ID and taking statements from eyewitnesses, who seemed to be getting off on the mayhem. It made their mundane lives seem temporarily important.
Excerpt from chapter III:
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plastic shopping bag with something inside.

There was a silence and Ejder stared at the bag, as if he could see right through it.

"What's in the bag?" he asked. No reply. "Is it what I think it is?"

"Don't think too much. You must not know too much," replied the man with the moustache, "you would be surprised what some of these devils can find out, just by staring at your eyes. It takes a very experienced man to hide what he knows."

"And where is the address?" asked Ejder, trying not to show that he was nervous. The spliff wasn't helping either. It was beginning to make him feel paranoid. All he needed now was to start hallucinating as well to totally freak out.

"King's Cross Underground Station."

There was a flash inside his head, as blood swirled around it. It dawned on him what game he had got himself into. It wasn't the one he imagined at home. It was almost as if he had forgotten that his mind was set. He was intelligent enough to realize that he would be murdered if he backed out now. Even with the little that he knew, the fact was that he had seen their faces. On the other hand, these men trusted him by agreeing to meet him. They trusted his connection's word for him. If he fucked up, he would be condemning his friend as well. No, this was something that had to be done. It had nothing to do with his cause, but this would be a start. They said that they would help him, if he did the same for them. He had to show good faith and, after all, they were all Muslims, even though his country did not al-low religion to play a direct role in politics. Western culture was cor-rupting Turkey itself, even though Ataturk's legacy dictated that eth-nic pride would never be defeated, at any cost, even the demolition of democracy. Geography and politics played a very significant part in making Turkey a strong ally of the Americans. This helped the Yanks bring the Cold War to a stalemate around the time of the Cuba missile crisis. The planet was saved a roasting. Why would these two trust a young man whose country helped the Americans? Maybe they knew more about him than he gave them credit for knowing. His hate did not stem from religious duty. This was about getting even with the terrorists who took his uncle's life. This was about blood.

"Will you be able to do it?" asked the man with the moustache.

He sensed the young man's nervousness and wanted to make sure that he was up to it. This was all very sudden for Ejder. He was hop-ing that he would be gradually trained and psychologically prepared to do something like that. He didn't expect that his war would start before the meeting had finished, but what else could he say?

"Of course I will," he replied. "Around what time?"

"It will go off at 09:30," said the man with the moustache. "That's when most people are on their way to work. Rush hour, I think that's what they call it. Just mingle with the crowd and drop the bag in one of the litterbins as you get off the Piccadilly Line. The rest it will do itself. It has already been set. When you're out of the station, call this number and just say you dialled wrong and hang up."

He gave Ejder a small piece of paper; torn from the corner of a white envelope with a phone number written on it.

"Already set? But what if I had changed my mind? What would you have done with it then?" asked Ejder.

"We didn't think you would do that. That's why we came to see you in person. We don't do this for everyone who joins us you know," said the man with the moustache. He gave him the bag. Ejder's curi-osity burned to look inside the bag. He wanted to see what this device looked like.

They were all startled, as a man wearing a flat cap and riding a bicycle that looked as if he had inherited it from the Jurassic period, strolled down the alley from the direction of the café. They didn't have to worry. The man saw them, but didn't think much of it.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya", he said.

This was a predominantly Irish area. There were others, but Kilburn even sounds Irish. The rider left the vicinity and the man with the beard, who had hogged the spliff, burned his fingers on the roach. He flicked it across the alley into a puddle containing rainwa-ter, engine oil and urine (canine and human). Ejder wished he could control his thoughts, so he could focus on his mission, on his jihad. This might be the salvation from all his recent nightmares. He would purify his mind from all these random thoughts, which the Western culture had forced into his brain. There was so much he didn't un-derstand. Who was he fighting for? Who were the people who had killed his loving uncle by setting off that bomb on a crowded bus in Istanbul? If his thoughts were clear, he might not have sided with the people who were sitting in a cold alleyway, sharing their wacky baccy with him.

***
As he climbed the escalator, he looked at his watch. It was 8:35. Less than an hour was left. He was desperate for the toilet. He didn't think he would last. He kept his head down all the time. They would be checking those videotapes for as long as it takes, to find their primary suspects. He didn't have to be told. He was smart enough to figure out certain things. It was curious why the strangers hadn't coached him, though. Were they so disorganized? He looked back down the escalator. So many people. So many different colours. He felt nauseous. Maybe he should just run back down and take the bag. Maybe he should stop thinking about it. What was done was done. He was out of the station. The traffic outside was almost at a standstill, with drivers cursing their luck, whilst motorcyclists comfortably threaded through the gaps blessing theirs. He looked at a vagrant woman who was sprawled outside the station, begging for spare change to buy a cup of tea. She was saying some funny things. Some of them rude. She got up and started chasing a man in a grey suit that said something rude back to her. She was cussing and swearing at him at the top of her voice, but he tried to dodge her, without saying another word. He looked embarrassed out of his skin. Ejder felt a bit relieved. His mind was diverted from the crime that was taking place. He found a phone booth and made the call. He let it ring many times, but there was no reply. What was he supposed to do now? Had something gone wrong? Had they set him up? What if he dialled the wrong number? Shit. He put the phone down. Should he dial again? What if they gave him the wrong number? He'll leave it and take a chance. The important thing was that the bomb had been delivered to its destination. He bought a newspaper and went into one of the cafes across the street. He ordered a cup of tea, then rushed to the toilet. He didn't know what to do first, drop his guts, or chuck them. Afterwards, he felt much better and lighter. He anticipated what was about to happen, but he aimed to leave the vicinity soon. So what was he doing here? Was he mad? He should be on a bus to Angel. No. He should be having breakfast near the scene of the crime. What could be more natural? Who would suspect him? He looked at his watch again. This was becoming a regular occurrence, which he would have to force himself to stop. It would raise suspicion later, when people start recollecting what they saw on the day. He flicked through the paper and gulped down his tea at twice the speed that he would under normal circumstances. His anxiety was almost out of control. Before he could burp he paid and was walking towards Islington.

Excerpt from chapter IV:
The heavens opened up and it poured like it was the end of the world. These freak November rains didn't do Athens any good. The gloomy expression of Yiannis reflected off the bulletproof glass of the Justice Minister's office window. The full moon had disappeared behind the storm clouds and only the lights of the city gave it life. Traffic was already bad. Now it would be horrendous as the old cars, owned by the not-so-well off, would start to break down in the middle of the roads that turn into canals of mud from the slightest sign of a downpour. Yiannis would extend his stay in the Ministry for as long as he could, to let the traffic die down a bit. He looked at the Minister's reflection on the window. He was behind him, sitting down at his antique desk and reading the files Yiannis had brought. There was a deep expression in his spectacled face. Lines of concern looked like tidal waves across his forehead. A lit cigarette sent chaotic wisps of smoke into the high ceiling. He had almost forgotten about it, when his slightly nervous hand picked it up and brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left the magnetic words in the file. A long strand of ash fell in the brass ashtray.
"Has the Chief been in touch?" he asked after a long pause.
"No. Not yet. He's still up there in Thessaloniki," replied Yiannis.
"He's taking it all very seriously, don't you think?"
"He's dedicated to this case. I think he wants to impress you. I understand that you were once friends with..."
The Minister shot a momentary upward glance at the spy, before continuing reading.
"Acquaintance," said the Minister. "Ministers of Justice don't tend to have too many friends when they become Ministers of Justice. You never know who you'll have to prosecute the day after tomorrow."
Yiannis made a small guffaw, enough to assure the Minister that he was a person of wit, and turned to face the window again. The wind was blowing the rain hard against the window. Within the hour a lot of the roads in Falliro, near the coast, would be flooded.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a plastic shopping bag with something inside.

There was a silence and Ejder stared at the bag, as if he could see right through it.

"What's in the bag?" he asked. No reply. "Is it what I think it is?"

"Don't think too much. You must not know too much," replied the man with the moustache, "you would be surprised what some of these devils can find out, just by staring at your eyes. It takes a very experienced man to hide what he knows."

"And where is the address?" asked Ejder, trying not to show that he was nervous. The spliff wasn't helping either. It was beginning to make him feel paranoid. All he needed now was to start hallucinating as well to totally freak out.

"King's Cross Underground Station."

There was a flash inside his head, as blood swirled around it. It dawned on him what game he had got himself into. It wasn't the one he imagined at home. It was almost as if he had forgotten that his mind was set. He was intelligent enough to realize that he would be murdered if he backed out now. Even with the little that he knew, the fact was that he had seen their faces. On the other hand, these men trusted him by agreeing to meet him. They trusted his connection's word for him. If he fucked up, he would be condemning his friend as well. No, this was something that had to be done. It had nothing to do with his cause, but this would be a start. They said that they would help him, if he did the same for them. He had to show good faith and, after all, they were all Muslims, even though his country did not al-low religion to play a direct role in politics. Western culture was cor-rupting Turkey itself, even though Ataturk's legacy dictated that eth-nic pride would never be defeated, at any cost, even the demolition of democracy. Geography and politics played a very significant part in making Turkey a strong ally of the Americans. This helped the Yanks bring the Cold War to a stalemate around the time of the Cuba missile crisis. The planet was saved a roasting. Why would these two trust a young man whose country helped the Americans? Maybe they knew more about him than he gave them credit for knowing. His hate did not stem from religious duty. This was about getting even with the terrorists who took his uncle's life. This was about blood.

"Will you be able to do it?" asked the man with the moustache.

He sensed the young man's nervousness and wanted to make sure that he was up to it. This was all very sudden for Ejder. He was hop-ing that he would be gradually trained and psychologically prepared to do something like that. He didn't expect that his war would start before the meeting had finished, but what else could he say?

"Of course I will," he replied. "Around what time?"

"It will go off at 09:30," said the man with the moustache. "That's when most people are on their way to work. Rush hour, I think that's what they call it. Just mingle with the crowd and drop the bag in one of the litterbins as you get off the Piccadilly Line. The rest it will do itself. It has already been set. When you're out of the station, call this number and just say you dialled wrong and hang up."

He gave Ejder a small piece of paper; torn from the corner of a white envelope with a phone number written on it.

"Already set? But what if I had changed my mind? What would you have done with it then?" asked Ejder.

"We didn't think you would do that. That's why we came to see you in person. We don't do this for everyone who joins us you know," said the man with the moustache. He gave him the bag. Ejder's curi-osity burned to look inside the bag. He wanted to see what this device looked like.

They were all startled, as a man wearing a flat cap and riding a bicycle that looked as if he had inherited it from the Jurassic period, strolled down the alley from the direction of the café. They didn't have to worry. The man saw them, but didn't think much of it.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya", he said.

This was a predominantly Irish area. There were others, but Kilburn even sounds Irish. The rider left the vicinity and the man with the beard, who had hogged the spliff, burned his fingers on the roach. He flicked it across the alley into a puddle containing rainwa-ter, engine oil and urine (canine and human). Ejder wished he could control his thoughts, so he could focus on his mission, on his jihad. This might be the salvation from all his recent nightmares. He would purify his mind from all these random thoughts, which the Western culture had forced into his brain. There was so much he didn't un-derstand. Who was he fighting for? Who were the people who had killed his loving uncle by setting off that bomb on a crowded bus in Istanbul? If his thoughts were clear, he might not have sided with the people who were sitting in a cold alleyway, sharing their wacky baccy with him.

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