Andreas Karpasitis - The Isle of Olympia

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38

The Isle

of

Olympia

Andreas Karpasitis

Andreas Karpasitis was born in 1984 in Larnaca, Cyprus. Since then, he has had an all evolving and changing path. From his studies in Motion Pictures and Computer Science at the University of Miami, where he graduated in 2008, to the world of television, real estate, fiduciary services, and currently in the tech sector as a software engineer. He has always been immersed in the creative space, from focusing and perfecting his photography to writing articles and short stories and getting involved with short films. His first real and experimental creative work as an author was the short fictional story, How the Devil Mocked Me, self-published sometime in 2016, then released online and now available for free. He originally started working on The Isle of Olympia around 2009 when he wrote his first page. More than ten years later, during the crippling coronavirus pandemic, he managed to complete his work and realize his self-publishing ambition.

www.karpasitis.net

© Andreas Karpasitis

The Isle of Olympia

ISBN ePub: 978-84-685-5596-6

ISBN Paperback: 978-84-685-5571-3

ISBN eBook (PDF): 978-84-685-5572-0

Editado por Bubok Publishing S.L

Legal Deposit / Depósito Legal: DL B 3814-2021

First Edition: February 2021

Copyright © Andreas Karpasitis. 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Cover Illustrator: Patricio Rodriguez

The Isle of Olympia is a work of fiction. While some of the events and characters are based on historical events and figures, this novel in its entirety is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, with the exception of some historical events, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life public and/or historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Year 2011

It was a lovely warm Friday night. Clear skies, the leaves of the green trees motionless. As he walked along the side of the pavement, Murphy watched his shadow overtaking the cobblestone street of Paris. The narrow streets in that area were fairly quiet. He carefully placed his feet on each stone, slightly slipping at times. It had been a long couple of days, and he had felt the need to wind down.

He paused at the corner of the street and looked at his wristwatch. James, another agent who he had the pleasure to work with before, had been bugging him for a few days now, trying to convince Murphy to tag along. A way of getting a second set of eyes in his investigation and possibly a reassuring acknowledgment. Murphy had finally run out of plausible excuses, so they arranged to meet.

Murphy pulled a cigarette from his almost empty, wrinkled package, watching as the tip ignited. He leaned against the streetlight as he took a few deep drags. It’s going to be quick, he tried to convince himself. Murphy was a handsome, somewhat tall young man in his late twenties. He had been working in the Central Intelligence Agency for some years now, and he was enjoying the challenges he faced. He enjoyed traveling and meeting new people. It was his dream job. Serve his country and, at the same time, live a life of excitement.

An old but clean and polished Peugeot suddenly appeared from the end of the street. Its tires screeched as it stopped in front of Murphy. The passenger promptly stuck his head out of the window.

“Let’s do this, Murph,” the man said in a strong, British accent as he extended his arm.

Murphy approached the car and tossed his cigarette on the sidewalk.

“Yes, indeed, let’s get it out of the way, James,” Murphy replied as they shook hands.

He opened the back-seat door to a stale plume of cigar smoke, and made himself as comfortable as possible amidst the mess.

Leaving skidmarks as the only indication that it had been there, the car sped through the picturesque and busy streets of Paris. People gathered at cafés and bars, starting to enjoy the beginning of the weekend. Murphy just sat there silent, trying to avoid any unnecessary conversation.

James, in the passenger's seat, grabbed some painkillers from his pocket and, without hesitation, swallowed three. He seemed to be having a crippling headache that wouldn’t be calmed by the recommended dosage.

“This is not too much?” the driver asked with a deep French accent as he puffed away on his nub of a cigar. “You are trying to kill yourself or what?” He laughed.

“I’ve taken more, Lucas,” James replied with a smirk of shame on his face.

Murphy was well aware of James’s story regarding his injury after taking a bullet to the shoulder and his denial of his addiction, numbing himself with painkillers. It was a story that James would share all too often, as long as he felt a sense of security with the conversing party. Murphy knew that if it came out, James would lose his position at MI6.

Murphy watched as the flashing lights and the cars on the opposite side blurred together. The conversation between Lucas and James was a muffled buzzing in his ears.

“We are almost there,” Lucas said as he scratched his scruffy beard. “French police at her Majesty’s service,” he continued and laughed. “I thought MI6 was done with investigating Princess Diana’s death; it has been more than ten years now. No?”

It was a bit shy of fifteen years, actually, but neither Murphy or James attempted to correct him and gently nodded their heads in agreement.

“We are looking into some new information,” James replied as he turned to follow two glamorous women walking on the sidewalk. The use of the plural was an understatement. Murphy knew that it wasn’t MI6 that was carrying out the investigation but James himself. MI6 was not aware and would not approve of the investigation. James had told Murphy that he was looking into some information he recently had gotten ahold of and was using his connections in Paris to investigate further.

“But MI6 should have more information than the French Police,” Lucas continued the inquisition. “Why come here?”

“We are checking some conflicting parts of the incident, and we wanted to come here, up close and personal,” James replied.

“Well, whatever it is, I am just following orders,” Lucas continued as he suddenly honked the horn to a slow and clearly unpredictable driver that led the way. “What is your view about all this, Mr. Murphy?”

Murphy was reluctant to answer; he thought he might need to ask James for one of his pills. His eyes connected with Lucas’s through the mirror while he got another cigarette from his pocket and lit up.

“I think it’s a wild-goose chase, and to be honest, I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories,” Murphy said, taking a drag from his cigarette.