Dressed to impress – hair slicked back, sharp Italian suit gleaming under the streetlights – Christo looked every bit the man of success. The old friends embraced and sat down at the terrace while Christo signaled a waiter to bring them two beers.
“What do you do these days?” Michaelis asked, after Christo had dropped a vague hint about making serious money.
“We’re getting them—all of them,” Christo said conspiratorially, eyes glinting darkly.
“We’re getting them—all of them,” Christo said conspiratorially, eyes glinting darkly.
Michaelis studied him, uneasy. Knowing Christo, it had to be something dangerous. Still, he couldn’t help wishing he too had a way out of his dreary, defeated existence—the one he’d been trapped in ever since fate had crushed his youthful dreams of success.
“What do you mean, ‘getting them’?” he pressed.
Christo drew a polished silver cigarette box from his breast pocket and offered one across the table. He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly, smoke curling like punctuation in the lamplight. “There’s a new business thriving on the island,” he said, his grin broadening. “Weapons.”
“This place is teeming with action, man!” he added, flashing that confident, cocky smile that once charmed entire crowds.
Michaelis stayed silent. He yearned for the comfort and status he’d lost, but danger had always unsettled him.
“What’s the matter, Mick?” Christo teased. “Michaelis Angelidis—the soccer star! The golden boy! Cat got your tongue?”
But Michaelis didn’t smile.
Abruptly, Christo’s tone shifted. “We rob weapons,” he said flatly. When Michaelis blinked in disbelief, he added, “We hit transfers. Transports.”
Michaelis chuckled in disbelief. “Get away!” Then, catching Christo’s unblinking stare, he sobered. “You’re serious.”
Christo leaned back, smoothing the lapel of his silk suit. “Does this look like a joke to you?”
Michaelis stood, agitated. “Hey, man—”
“Sit down,” Christo said smoothly, gesturing. “We’ve been doing it for a while. Perfect system. You looked like a man needing a way out.”
Michaelis sat again, uncomfortably aware of his clean but threadbare shirt against Christo’s expensive fabric.
Christo spoke of how the revolutionary spirit that once burned across Cyprus had dissolved into greed and disillusionment. “Without money,” he said bitterly, “freedom’s just a slogan. I’ll be damned if I let governments or politics make a fool of me again.”
Michaelis shook his head, overwhelmed. Christo, once the idealist, was now stealing arms for profit.
“Money’s the lifeline back to power,” Christo continued fiercely. “Without it, life’s not worth living.”
The irony hit Michaelis hard. American dollars—the new revolution.
“It began as something noble,” Christo went on, suddenly softer. “We passed stolen weapons to a group fighting to take back our land. But they turned corrupt—lining their pockets, grabbing power. We risked our lives for them!”
“So now you sell to anyone?” Michaelis asked.
“The highest bidder,” Christo said carelessly. “Lebanese Muslims, Christians, Greek-Cypriot ‘freedom fighters’—what difference does it make?”
Michaelis gave a bitter laugh. “Hurrah for loyalty in the face of alienation, eh?”
Christo shrugged, indifferent. He tossed a few coins on the table, pulled out a thick wallet, and asked if Michaelis needed money.
Soon, Michaelis was drawn into Christo’s world—alongside Plato, Hector, Erastus, Mikis, and a handful of other exiles. By day, they were displaced men adrift in peacetime; by night, daring thieves executing perfectly timed ambushes.
Michaelis joined as a lookout, nervous but tempted by the pay. Twice he watched from the shadows as Christo’s crew struck—swift, silent, efficient. One night, as a small pleasure boat unloaded wooden crates onto a darkened shore, the scene unfolded with surreal precision: a leopard pouncing from the bushes, a boa constrictor descending from a tree, and a whale—metaphorical or perhaps imagined—swallowing the sea itself. Within moments, the job was done. Four men lay stunned, money vanished, weapons spirited away.
Christo’s brilliance lay in this coordination. Each member of his group modeled himself after an animal’s strength—the leopard’s stealth, the boa’s strangling power, the whale’s intelligence, the fox’s cunning, the monkey’s distraction, the insect’s persistence—and together they called themselves Animals United.
Michaelis, weary of scraping by as a waiter, finally relented. “Maybe I could drive,” he offered one day. Something less direct—still daring, but safer.
“Fine,” Christo said. “You’ll be the driver next time.”
But when Michaelis demanded details, Christo refused. “You’ll know what you need to know when you need to,” he said.
“That’s not good enough!” Michaelis snapped.
“The strength of this operation,” Christo countered calmly, “is discipline. Each man plays his part. No more, no less.”
Michaelis stormed out. Christo called after him: “Do what you like, brother. It’s your choice—and your loss. Animals United.”
Michaelis turned back sharply. “What did you just say?”
Christo smiled. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Cut the crap, Christo!”
“I’m ready when you are,” Christo said with a shrug. “You wanted a driver’s job. It pays well. Oh—and I bought a boat. Call me.” He slipped a card into Michaelis’s hand and disappeared into the street.
A week later, Michaelis called the number.
“Christo here.”
“Mick. I’m in.”
“Perfect timing!” Christo sounded delighted. “You’re ready.”
That evening, over drinks, Christo briefed him. Michaelis was to act as the eagle—a lookout from a distance, detached yet watchful. The mission went smoothly, and the money was good.
The second time, not so much. Another armed group appeared, a rival pack of “animals,” and the operation collapsed into chaos. Terrified, Michaelis fled. A monkey from the other team later spotted him at a nightclub, but by then he had found a dazzling woman—the “mare”—whose company helped him slip away, transforming his desperation into survival instinct.
The fox advised Animals United to go underground for a while. Michaelis agreed. He promised himself he was done for good.
Weeks later, Christo found him again. “One last job, Mick. Then I’m out too.”
Michaelis hesitated. “I don’t know, Christo. I don’t think I can handle another stunt.”
But Christo kept talking, smooth and persuasive. The sum he offered made Michaelis’ head spin—a return, perhaps, to the life he’d lost.
As they said goodbye, Christo added casually, “You’ll be fully briefed this time. It’s the big one.”
Money, as always, worked like a magnet. When Michaelis finally joined the others at the Paradise Mansions square, he recognized nearly every face.
“Nobody outside this circle knows a thing,” Christo said. “That’s our strength.”
Michaelis stared at him. “So you recruited me. Our ‘chance meeting’ months ago wasn’t an accident.”
Christo nodded. “You’ve got what it takes—natural athletic skill. You could still work your way back to the top.”
Michaelis tensed, feeling old anger boil up. Christo smirked ever so slightly.
“What happened to your football career, Mick?” he asked smoothly.
Michaelis clenched his jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. “Never mind,” he hissed. “Count me in.”