On a dark mahogany desk, in the corner of this large airy room, lay a black keyboard specked with a fine layer of dust through disuse, at an angle against the edge of the wood that was painful to the OCD’d symmetry seeking eye. Behind it stood a stock monitor, of obscure Chinese make, bought on sale from the local supermarket, accompanied by a black laser mouse on the right, that had tagged along with it in the bargain. A carafe, an infinity bottle of scotch, home to an amalgamation of cheap and precious malts over the last couple of years of residence, peeked from behind the left side of the monitor, now 3 quarters empty with a settled dark amber liquid, pleasing to the eye, glistening against the mellow light of the lamp that stood on the other end of the monitor. He had quit this vice a few months ago, but he kept the carafe in plain sight to test his resolute, and to entertain the rare visits from limited acquaintances on this mediterranean island. The liquid had been his companion on many nights of solitude and writing, but now he had resorted to seeking company of the stars in the clear night sky, and the cooling air moistened by the gentle touch of the waves of the sea, a few hundred feet away, as it gently caressed his face as it passed him by on the generously sized verandah where he spent many a evening on a rattan chair, gazing at nothing in particular, just taking it all in.
But not today. There was a job to be done. He was under the clock to submit an article for the Sunday supplement in a prominent daily back home. ‘A piece that should capture the imaginations of the Sunday afternoon reader, a perfect long read for our digital print patrons.’, the editor had demanded. Writing fiction for dailies and other publications over the last few years had served him and his repute well, that afforded this little rental close to turquoise blue waters on this laidback paradise; But now the money was waning thin, and so he had taken up this new gig to conjure up Sunday entertainment for readers back home. And it paid well, kept the rental going. He pulled the light rattan chair inside the room, through the open sliding glass doors, through the white cotton curtains swaying gently in the wind, and propped it in front of the mahogany desk. He stretched his back, pulling his body upwards, holding the stance for a good few seconds, and then settled into the chair that squeaked slightly under the new weight. He lifted the cover of his MacBook, hidden in the compartment below the desk face, to wake it up from its slumber; the secondary monitor now displaying the pages application, his tool of choice for writing, with his previous publication open, that he skimmed through subconsciously, appreciating his own work. He pressed Command + N, cracked his fingers and started writing…
…The flight was almost full, an AIRBUS A321-neo, with three seats on either side of the single central aisle. It was a short haul Aegean Airlines 631, from Dublin to Athens, with an anticipated time of the 3h50m in the air. There was almost a sense of relief in the passengers, a silent calm engulfed them as they embarked finally on a holiday to a sunny island, after a long couple of years stuck at home due to a global pandemic stemmed from a virus that only impacted a very minute vulnerable minority of the population and yet had seen a series of lockdowns imposed on the masses in a bid to try and curb the spread.
Globalisation had fanned the spread of the virus to almost all geographies, and further propelled by media stations hoping to cash in on this unprecedented phenomenon in the west, it had become the only news for the last two years.
This had resulted in copy cat techniques, often ineffective, draconian to the free movement of people, employed by ill informed, out of their depth and yet arrogant politicians across the developed and developing world, tangled in the numbers game of cases, in a naive bid to try and get the numbers down to zero.
It had been a long road to normalcy; the politicians found themselves in a deep rabbit hole, after having subjected masses to lockdowns for months at end, and with the numbers not showing any sign of recess, and the fatalities from this rather flu like virus, at a level lower than most other causes of fatalities for human-kind, it had been a painful process of slow re-opening of life, revoking the compulsion of wearing masks in public places and social distancing that had been a mandate, in a deliberate slow manoeuvre to try and hide the mistakes of the government in the handling of the crisis, further veiled behind a vaccine rollout program, that saw administration of ill tested vaccines on the vulnerable, which eventually lost steam, as the attention span of the people moved over to economic recovery, waning away from the numbers of the virus, and the media followed suit. But that was in the past. Now, three months later, the short haul flights were back in full swing, the tickets much dearer than the pre-pandemic times, but that did not hurt the pockets of the middle class, that constituted the majority of this flight, who had toiled hard, working from home, taking almost no holidays, and had but no choice to save up salary, as almost all places that catered to the vices of indulgence, vanity, exuberance and entertainment had been forced to shut shop through the pandemic.
The shooter, as he liked to call himself, as a consequence of his profession, sat cramped in the decently sized middle seat of the greek national carrier, between a couple, who seemingly individually preferred the aisle and the window seats, his eyes fixated on his target sitting a few rows ahead of him on the corner seat, across the aisle. The shooter, dressed in black, dark Lycra jeans tucked under a pair of black stock army boots, a black t-shirt hugging his athletic frame and a black denim jack over it, seemed out of place in this transport to Greece and summer. The shooter was contemplating how best to take a photo with his smartphone without raising suspicion, of the target, who was a man in his late sixties, well groomed, with an envious shock of white hair for his age, dressed soberly in a light pink silk shirt, and khaki trousers, complemented immaculately by a pair of brown loafers. He was talking in a calm demeanour with his wife, much younger to him, dressed for the summer, in an airy blue dress and a jetty side hat, and pair of top label sandals. The target was the deputy minister for external affairs, in the newly elected government, that had sprouted from the grass roots. The previous government that had ‘steered’ the country out of the pandemic had been vehemently rejected in the election by the tired fed-up masses; the leaders, who were initially hailed as heroes in the early onset of the pandemic, now sat portfolio less in the opposition, under the helm of new leadership, that had been instantiated to take corrective actions to try and save the existence of their party. The new government saw new faces come into power, promising fast economic reform and stringent dealing with the EU, whose very foundations of interstate collaboration had been rendered weak by the pressures of the pandemic. There was a palpable unease in the aircraft, as the hostesses offered food and drink; the people still used to wearing masks and social distancing found it unnerving to be sat so close to strangers, and the lack of hand sanitisers was incomprehensible. The little kids in the flight, the two to five year olds were perplexed; this was a completely new experience; they had not known of travel holidays and the possibility of traveling out of their county, let alone the country, since they had a handle on their consciousness. Some cried out their lungs, others posed never ending questions of what where, why and how to parents who uncharacteristically answered them all out of their own child like excitement.
The shooter, finding a chance post the meal service, walked to the front of the aisle, with the pretence of using the lavatory, and got a good glance at the target, and managed a clear zoomed in shot of him from the front of the cabin; pictures of aircraft interiors was commonplace these days on instagram, as commoners took back to the skies. Happy with this little endeavour he settled back into his seat, and resorted to the callings of light slumber.
There was chaos outside the terminal at Corfu. The loud cacophony of a multitude of languages and accents, hung heavy in the heavy moist air of the island. Eager tourist guides and drivers vied for customers, and coaches of travel companies that had sprung up new after the fall of the giants like Thomas cook, waited for entire aircraft load of British tourists ready to be transported to their resorts on the east of the island. In the chaos, there was an evident sense of eagerness and a sense of respite for the island that sustained itself entirely on tourism, and had withered away desolate under the spate of a pandemic that seemed alien to this remote piece of paradise in the middle of the ocean.
The shooter had followed the target, through the Athens airport, grabbing a quick snack of an iced Nescafe and a crumbly nettle spanakopita in a cafe inside the terminal, and onto a scheduled departure to Corfu, on a dash-8-q400 propeller aircraft that induced butterflies in the pits of the stomachs of even the most seasoned of travellers, let alone a bunch of pandemic weary holiday goers, who had not flown for 24 months of more.
Having walked a kilometre with his light bag that contained a couple days worth of clothes, and his equipment, the shooter rented a small Peugeot, well past its prime, a fresh layer of rust forming on its underbody thanks to the lack of activity in the pandemic, and was now zipping on the 3 lane highway to Palaiokastritsa, a village on the northwest of the island, across the entire width of the island from the airport. The drive was pleasant, windows pulled down, a cooling breeze, a welcome contrast against the balmy Mediterranean climate, from the ionic sea passing through his hair, driving past olive groves and kumquat cultivations, on a wide road flanked by mighty cypress trees in places; This was a massive contrast from the Irish conditions, where he seldom opened the car windows. Having reached the village, around two in the afternoon, the Peugeot pulled into a nondescript small supermarket on the side of the road, with a wide sandy parking lot in front. The supermarket had the usual beer and other descriptions of alcohol, umbrellas, sunglasses, souvenirs, scuba equipment, processed snacks and drinks, frozen food, and a little section that kept fresh bread and vegetables. The owner was a man in his forties, with a decent paunch, sitting shirtless behind the counter, listening to the radio that sat next to him; He was an epitome of the slow life endemic to the warm weather islands across the world. The shooter negotiated a room in the one story apartment block that made up for the area behind the supermarket, bought a 6 pack of water, and a bottle of mini Ouzo that he remembered from his last assignment in Greece. The room was of decent dimensions, with a queen bed with a flimsy mattress, that took up majority of the orange tiled space, a small flat screen television propped on the wall, a mini refrigerator on the end of the room, followed by a small shower and bathroom. That would do, for his budget and intentions. He wasn’t here on a holiday, he reminded himself, even though he was glad to be out on assignment after years of inactivity back in the Irish capital. He settled with a glass of ouzo, that turned milky after being diluted with water, and sat outside in the little ground floor verandah, watching little kittens frolic around the solitary olive plant in the garden in front, as he set about meticulously cleaning his equipment. Now, all he had to do was to wait for the right moment.
The minister and the missus, were now settled in their comfortable room, featuring a large poster bed with fitted white satin silk sheets and equipped with a private marbled jacuzzi and a view of the beach, in their resort in Gouvia about 8 kilometres north of the airport. They had been whisked away from the terminal in a chauffeur driven black window Mercedes to their abode for the next three days. Unlike the plethora of resorts, that catered to the hordes of middle class tourists that flocked to the island, this was a resort reserved for the select few who could afford splurging on the finer things in life, in an inflated economy where prices of private, safe, escapades had sky rocketed. The resort came with its own private beach, a five star taverna, and all drinks on the house. The public servant position presumably did come with its fair share of kickbacks. The minister had worked up the ranks in the political system over the years, majority of which were spent in obscurity. The political turmoil and overhaul that ensued post the pandemic had given him a decent portfolio that had propelled him into public light, and this little escapade was the celebration.
The shooter knew he would have no access to the minister in the privacy of the resort, which was across the island from where he was staying, even though booking a reservation in the in-house taverna in the resort for a meal was an option, it was heavily riddled with risk. Anyways, he knew his meagre budget, that had to be reported back and claimed, did not allow for such indulgences, as he walked to a local rustic looking souvlaki shop to get some dinner in the main Corfu town, where he had driven to in the evening to bide some time, after having done a recce of the minister’s resort. Chewing on the fresh off the grill skewers of marinated pork, walking along narrow streets, passing hung out laundry on window sills of the Venetian French buildings, he knew he had to wait for mister minister to come out of the resort for sight seeing. Most patrons were happy in the interims of the exclusive resort; why’d anyone leave wondered the shooter if the drinks were all paid for and were served with a little umbrella to you in a shallow infinity pool overlooking the beach? Yet, he hedged his bets on the need for the young missus minister to satiate her need for some instagram worthy photos, and he knew that Palaiokastritsa was just the right beach for such endeavours, based on almost all travel blogs that showed up when searching for ‘ the most photo worthy beaches in Corfu’ on Google. He knew the minister would show up, and he would be ready, perched in his spot, waiting, watching through his zoomed lens. Back at his room an hour later, after his modest dinner, the shooter, drinking the chilled diluted ouzo, mindlessly scanned through the seven greek channels available on the television, before settling into bed, calling it an early night. On the other side of the island, in the fancy premises of the taverna, the target and his consort - tipsy from the hot jacuzzi or the cocktail of drinks that followed was hard to say - had a dinner of sofrito (veal cooked in wine sauce, garlic and white pepper), pastitsada (chicken cooked with fresh tomatoes, cinnamon, wine, onions and different spices served with pasta), made to order gyros, accompanied by a glass a Metaxa Private Reserve, selected from an expansive buffet and à la carte selection on offer that was irrefutable proof of the taverna’s head chef’s sobriety in the 24 hours preceding the spread.
Early next morning, before the sun was high up in the sky, the shooter stood out like a sore thumb on Palaiokastritsa’s main beach in his characteristic black attire. A contrast against the various levels of undress of the others on the beach, hoping to catch the early morning waves, and a decent place to prop up their umbrellas and beach mats for the day. The shooter, oblivious of the stares of the locals selling fresh cut fruits, beer and water, and tourists alike, surveyed the beach; a narrow little sandy patch, not more than hundred metres wide, opened up to calm turquoise blue waters, flanked on both sides by huge green cliffs that narrowed away from the beach, giving the beach an enclosed look, before opening up to the wide expanse of the sea beyond. It was a picturesque little beach surmised the shooter, right out of a Mediterranean post card. There was no way the missus would miss this, and she would bring the target in tow, he thought, a content satisfaction at his own ingenuity forming on the contours of his lips, a rare smile.
On the left edge of the beach, perched up on the edge of the cliff was a little bar, that was now dilapidated as a consequence of the pandemic, that provided a panoramic view of the beach, a perfect vantage point. A few metres short of the beach, from the main access road, he nimbly made his way up a short rocky way, dodging overgrown thorny foliage, to the bar. The bar’s outer straw structure was still intact, with a few plastic chairs and tables strewn around. From here, he had a perfect view of the beach. The panoramic beauty of the terrain and sea beyond held little appreciation in the eyes of the shooter, possessed with the task at hand. He sat down on a flimsy plastic chair, at a distance from the edge that enabled him a clear view of the beach, but where he remained invisible beyond the rocks for anyone who glanced up from the beach or from the main road below. Satisfied with his position, he opened up his bag, gingerly took out his equipment, and busied himself scrupulously in its assembly.
In the back of the Mercedes, the young missus craned awkwardly into her latest iPhone, scanning through recent instagram photos of the beach they were en route to, seeking inspiration for like worthy shots, as the slightly hung-over minister skimmed through the politics edition of the RTE news, and other publications from the neighbouring UK and beyond. He was dressed casually, for the beach, in shorts, a vest that loudly shouted Corfu! on the front, a customary gift from the concierge at reception back at the resort.
As the Mercedes stopped elegantly right at the couple of footsteps leading down to the beach from the main road, the shooter lay ready, watching the lady stepping out of the vehicle, with the door held open by the chauffeur, through the ultra telephoto lens. A few moments later, the minister opened the door on the other side of the vehicle, and stepped out in his touristy attire. The chauffeur led them to a little setup pre-prepared on a prime location on the small beach, with a wide beach umbrella, a couple of sun beds and an expensive looking icebox filled with Champagne that looked out of place on the sand. The concierge back at the resort knew how to please his clients well.
The shooter, ready at the trigger, the target clearly captured through his lens, cherished the moment, as he saw the target in his most vulnerable, laying on the sun bed, watching his wife taking selfies a few metres away, a far cry from the secure government buildings back in Dublin. This was a culmination of his plan, the climax, that he had brought him to this remote island. With a satisfied grin, the shooter pressed the trigger…
As the minister shot up straight from his sun bed, for a refill of his champagne glass, the shooter, propped up away on the cliff, pressed the trigger few more times, taking invaluable photos of the minister on vacation, that were sure to propel his career as a freelance journalistic photographer, and jolt the very foundations of the government pushing austerity measures, with one of its ranks, enjoying a dream vacation on a remote island, oblivious of the worries of the citizens still reeling from the shock of the economic downturn that followed the pandemic….
…..As he finished writing, he withdrew his fingers from the keyboard and cracked his fingers with an inherent satisfaction of having completed the task at hand, and stood up from the rattan chair that thanked him with a light creak; He broke into a grin and laughed out load, surprised at the ability of his mind to conjure up an incredulous thought of a world wide lockdown inducing pandemic. He wondered the editor’s reaction to this piece, and wondered if it was too fictional for the Sunday supplement. He glanced at the digital clock on the wall, it was way past midnight; ‘I will change the plot tomorrow to something more plausible’ he said to himself, as the clock blinked a minute ahead to 3.09AM on the 11th of March, 2019.
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