The Turkish Trap: A tense and intriguing action thriller.

by Jack Dylan

  The Turkish Trap

  Jack Dylan

  Copyright © 2020 Jack Dylan

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  Turkish Coast 13th October 2006

  The trap in Kapi Creek

  22:00 hours. Location: 36°42.05’N 28°55.65’E, six miles south of Gocek, southbound in Skopea Limani.

  The slightest crescent moon lightened the dark surface of the water with a pale metallic gleam. In the distance the lighthouse on Kizil Island cut its regular sweep through the warm night air. The faint background glow in the eastern sky from the lights of Fethiye dimmed the brilliance of the lighthouse, and made the darkness seem even more complete. To the north the Taurus Mountains bulked mistily behind the wooded coast. Ahead to the south, but only visible in silhouette, were the islands of Tersane and Domuz, leading to the hooked peninsula of Kapu Dag with its sheltered anchorages and hidden coves.

  The boat scythed through the water at high speed. It was capable of speeds that nothing else on the coast could match. The twin V12 Mercedes marine diesels emitted a deep throbbing bass tone. Unlike the showy millionaire motor yachts that passed by day, the noise was deliberately muted through the underwater exhausts. The twin stainless steel propellers produced an irresistible thrust as the powerful craft scored a white foaming trail through the dark water.

  The skipper’s hands gripped the wheel more tightly than usual. His eyes peered into the darkness, watching intently for a dark shape in the faint silvery reflection that might be a small boat invisible to their radar. His face was marked by the tense muscles in his cheeks. One more minute was all they needed. He planned to cut the engines well before they were visible from the sheltered anchorage. The journey was crazy he thought. Why had they left it so late to let them go? Why risk everything with this high-speed dash in the darkness? He knew the answer and had to accept it. He wiped the thoughts from his mind and kept sweeping the darkness with his eyes, using the more light-sensitive part of the retina away from its centre by looking to the side or below where he really wanted to see. If there was an obstruction in the water he would swerve the boat before he had time to form the thought. His thinking didn’t become conscious until after he reacted. Lives depended simply on reflexes.

  The navigator’s eyes did not leave the glowing screen for a second. He could see the outline of the coast with the islands that would soon be left to port, and the shape of the bays dead ahead. The crew wore their dark combat gear with no sign of the usual reflective markings. No-one spoke.

  “Minus One skipper,” at last the voice of the navigator came crisply through the headphones. He immediately started the slow-down and the unspoken tension began to rise in the red-lit closeness of the bridge. As the speed dropped so did the pointed bow of the sleek craft, until they were cutting through the water with minimal wake and strangely sinister lack of noise. Had there been anyone to see, they would have been puzzled by the silent gliding speed of the shadowy craft.

  As preparation for the next stage began, the surge of controlled excitement remained masked on the darkened faces of the crew. Hatches opened on their hydraulic rams, and the black-clad figures hauled their carefully prepared equipment onto the rear deck. They went about their tasks speedily and with practised confidence. The quiet efficiency of their preparations made talking superfluous.

  ***

  Alexander Fox poured the traditional celebratory tot of ship’s rum into each of the six waiting glasses on his yacht’s cockpit table. The bottle rattled slightly against the rims of the glasses, and he noticed Maggie’s questioning and worried look as he returned the bottle to its place near the binnacle. He sat on the pristine royal blue cushions in the open cockpit of his yacht. They were moored in what had once been his favourite anchorage on the coast. It had been spoiled for him, or perhaps he had spoiled it himself, but his paying guests were oblivious to the darker shadows in his mind. They were simply enjoying the final night of their week cruising the Turquoise Coast of ancient Turkish Lycia, relaxed by the generous quantities of wine with their dinner, and warmed by the feeling of achievement.

  “God you’re a lucky man Alex,” said the London accountant wistfully. “You have the perfect job and the perfect location. I’d give anything to be able to do this.”

  “Ah sure somebody has to do it,” grinned Alex using his well-practised formula. Privately he thought that if Bruce had the slightest inkling of what lay below the peaceful-looking surface he would be scurrying back to his safe job in London as fast as he could. But he knew he had to play along with the mood.

  “I think on behalf of all of us,” started the doctor with unusual formality, nodding to include Bruce and their two wives, “I would like to take this opportunity to propose a toast to our skipper Alex, and his irresistible mate.”

  “Steady on there Jack,” laughed Maggie.

  “No I use the term advisedly. I know what I mean, and I don’t apologise for it. Obviously Alex will agree with me anyway. But as I was ….”

  “Oh get on with it Jack,” urged Bruce a little testily.

  “I’m trying to but everyone keeps interrupting,” stammered Jack, “What I’m trying to say is how much we have all enjoyed the week, and how much Alex and Maggie have done to make it the perfect cruise. So let’s raise a glass to toast our superb skipper and mate – and many happy sailing days together.”

  The six people in the cockpit raised their glasses and the four paying guests seriously intended that this was an experience they would repeat. Alex and Maggie relaxed in the warmth of the genuine appreciation, which seemed to be the norm when people first experienced a week of sunny Mediterranean sailing.

  “Well I have to say that you have all done really well,” started Alex in response. “We have enjoyed having crew who actually wanted to learn and who were able to do so much of the sailing themselves.”

  “Hear, hear,” a
greed Maggie, enjoying the ritual bonhomie.

  Alex felt rather than saw a slight movement in the boat. As if a wave had passed, the bow seemed to dip ever so slightly and the stern to rise – just a subtle shift that none of the others had noticed. He automatically looked forward and was stunned to see a black-clad figure haul itself over the bow of the boat and land crouching on the foredeck without a sound. Something about the silence and the strength with which it was done conveyed instantly that this wasn’t just another teenager climbing the mooring rope after a swim. There was such menace and power in the action that the possibility of resistance didn’t occur to him.

  Alex started to rise to his feet. He looked round as he rose, for he sensed another movement at the stern. His heart sank as he watched an identical black-clad figure step lightly from the jetty onto the stern of their boat behind Maggie. Without looking, he knew as he felt the movement of the boat that another was stepping aboard behind him.

  Unseen by the celebrating yacht, hidden by the western hillside, the sleek speeding craft had performed a final turn and slowed to a gentle halt. Two rubber dinghies had instantly separated from the white craft, followed by a third just seconds later.

  Surprise was as important to them as speed for this part of the operation, so they had motored with muffled engines gently into the anchorage. Had Alex been watching, he would have seen the dark shapes make unhesitatingly for their target. The jetty to which Alex was moored ran east to west across the inner southern end of the bay. The bow of his yacht was pointing out of the bay to the north, the stern closely moored less than a metre from the jetty. There were about ten other yachts similarly moored, with Alex third from the outer, western end.

  One of the dinghies had come ahead of the other two and with night-vision binoculars identified Alex’s yacht. A black figure had attached a signal light low on the bow, invisible to those in the yacht’s cockpit, but clear to the other intruders.

  A second dinghy made for the outer end of the jetty, and a black figure swung effortlessly onto the walkway. Simultaneously an identical figure from the third dinghy climbed silently onto the inner end of the rough, wood-planked construction.

  There was no hesitation or uncertainty about the way they moved along the wooden surface. The suddenness, silence, and the black unmarked combat-wear allowed them to reach Alex’s stern before anyone registered their presence.

  A split second after Alex became aware of the black figures, Maggie and then the four guests started in alarm as they became conscious of the intrusion that had fractured the warm mood of the evening.

  The figure that Alex sensed behind him spoke,

  “Mr Fox.” It was issued as a statement more than a question. Alex was already half-way to his feet, and it was as if this was sufficient answer to the implicit question.

  “Mr Fox, you are under arrest from the Turkish Sahil Guvenlik, the Coastguard. We have a warrant to search your boat, and you will be taken to Headquarters for questioning. All of you are required to remain below in your cabins.”

  “You can’t do this,” started Alex with an uncharacteristic hoarseness in his voice. His shakiness conveyed his shock, but also an element of embarrassment. He hadn’t seen the crewman who even as they spoke was readying the boat for departure. The engine started, lines were cast off, and the yacht moved under the command of the black clad figures. There were now five of them on board, Alex later guessed the final two had stepped from the yachts on either side of him, but at the moment he was in a state of shock, not able to think.

  Maggie and the four drunk, frightened and tentatively outraged guests were directed down the companionway to their cabins inside the yacht. Alex was under no misapprehension about the irresistible nature of the invasion. The speed, assurance, and professionalism of the operation left no doubt about its authenticity, and he knew that it was already too late to try any form of resistance. In fact there had never been a moment when it would have been possible.

  “Just do as they say,” he said flatly to the others, his voice a dull fraction of his earlier confident self. “We’ll get this sorted out later but for now there’s no point in arguing. Just do as they say and we’ll be all right.”

  He knew that the searchers would very quickly find what they were looking for. The operation had been so suddenly successful that there had been no warning – not even the 15 seconds he needed to jettison the package overboard. Why had no-one seen them coming? How could they have appeared without The Greek’s men getting the warning to him? Watchers in Gocek and Fethiye, as well as on the water, were supposed to be ready to warn them of any unusual movements. He knew that the other boat waiting for tomorrow’s rendezvous must have been the subject of a similar operation. It was over.

  Chapter 2

  Mugla regional jail: Saturday 14th Oct 2006

  Alex in jail

  Alex sat on the edge of the bed. It was a rough metal construction, hinged to the wall on its inner edge, and supported by two metal legs on the outer corners. The mattress was thin, stained and smelled distinctly of stale urine. The blanket was similarly uninviting. Alex was still dressed in his sailing clothes, but his deck shoes had been removed when he was delivered to the cell.

  He was anxious about Maggie. When he was bundled from the coastguard launch into the waiting jeep, he had seen his yacht alongside the coastguard jetty, but he could pick out only the coastguard crew as they secured the mooring ropes. He had no idea if Maggie had been transported to this regional jail or kept in Gocek. He hoped the latter.

  The jeep had arrived at the jail at about 4:00 a.m., and they were obviously expected. He was marched briskly into a bare, harshly lit guard-post, where he was searched and processed by the admitting guards. Paperwork from the delivery guards had to be stamped, signed, exchanged, and filed. The Ottoman Empire’s administrative legacy lingered on. Once inside the clanging gates, two sleepy-eyed guards took him to a cell on the first floor, down a disinfectant-smelling corridor lined with metal doors. They indicated that he should remove his shoes, which they took away, and without any exchange of words pointed him to the bed and locked the heavy metal door. He heard their retreating footsteps and wondered what they were finding to laugh at as they disappeared from his hearing.

  He didn’t even try to sleep. He listened for sounds that would let him know if Maggie was brought to the same place. He couldn’t work out why she would have been brought separately. Perhaps she was safely in the relative comfort of the coastguard station in Gocek. About thirty minutes after his arrival, he heard the same process repeated three times. He thought he could hear three sets of footsteps make their way down the corridor each time. He could distinguish the solid confident steps of the guards in their regulation boots, and the softer shuffling sound of a reluctant prisoner wearing everyday shoes. There was no conversation to be heard, but as the last of the three doors was slammed closed, he heard a shouted exclamation which could have been in English. He wondered if the other prisoners were connected to the operation that had captured him. Without being able to consciously analyse why, he was sure that none of the shuffling footsteps had been Maggie’s.

  His thoughts went back to the long and complex path that had led him from peacefully humdrum married routine, to a bare, stinking cell in a Turkish jail. But strangely his spirits were not deflated. He was numbly resigned to his own incarceration but he was worried about Maggie, what she was thinking; what she was experiencing. He went back to piecing together the combination of stories that had drawn together Dublin, London, Edinburgh and Turkey. Making sense of the sequence of the unfolding histories kept his mind active and was sufficiently absorbing to at least reduce his consciousness of the cell.

  Chapter 3

  Dublin: December 2005

  James Findlater:

  James Findlater was 45 today. To boost his morale he put an extra shine on the classic brown brogues, and chose his second best remaining Magee tweed jacket. He looked at himself in the mirror and approved the
well-pressed grey slacks, the discreet check in his jacket, the knitted tie and the slightly country-style Jaeger wool shirt.

  James needed to boost his morale. His minor public school, his moderate academic performance, and his well-bred accent had led to a career founded more on his family connections than on his own brilliance.

  ‘Redundant at 44’ seemed like a death sentence. It certainly explained why he lived in a down-market flat in what the estate agent had euphemistically called an “area with potential”. He checked his tie again and marched in a vaguely military style down the stairs to make his way to the golf club he could no longer afford.

  James was burdened with a disturbing level of insight into his situation. He suffered no illusions about his qualifications or his ability. His father had seen to that. He knew exactly how unappealing he was to potential employers. He wouldn’t even employ himself, and that didn’t make the situation any more bearable. He knew that he couldn’t survive long in his current state. His money would soon run out. He felt that his sanity was hanging by a thread. He imagined what it would be like to be in the identical situation, but blessed with impregnable self-confidence. Some of his ex-colleagues in the bank had exuded such confidence, and despite being a similar age to James, had picked up jobs right away. James didn’t think he would. Perhaps this lack of confidence was so pervasive that it escaped as soon as a potential employer opened the envelope with his application. Like some pernicious vapour, the air of pessimistic desperation leaked out and damned the process.

  So far he had been invited to two interviews, neither one of which he could bear to remember in detail. Lack of confidence bred lack of coherence. He had stumbled and stuttered through answers so badly that he was glad to escape, and didn’t even bother to wonder if he might have been successful.

  He caught the bus in the general direction of the golf club. It simply wasn’t done to arrive by public transport, so he skulked off the bus half-a-mile away from the entrance, and tried to give the impression of someone enjoying his Sunday walk.