The Turkish Trap: A tense and intriguing action thriller.

by Jack Dylan

  “Yes,” agreed Lavinia thoughtfully, “I suppose it was better that way. But all the same, poor William. I’m really surprised in a way that he did survive it all. I don’t think I would.”

  “When you think about it all it’s actually easy to excuse his rather pompous ways and his awful dress sense. It’s not as if he is a tough little cookie who could just get through it all and say “Fuck you” to the world.”

  “Hermione! Your language really is getting worse! I don’t think I know anyone else who uses language like that.”

  “Oh yes you do. They just keep it wrapped up because you project such a proper nun-like atmosphere. Swearing in front of you is like swearing in front of the Mother Superior.”

  “How can you say that! I’m not at all prissy… “

  “No I didn’t mean it – that came out much less cleverly than I meant it. But you are so polite and proper it does keep people generally behaving in a similar way.”

  “Do you think I’m showing any signs of getting better? Do I mean better? Maybe I mean worse? You know what I mean.”

  “Yes I think you are showing signs of behaving less well, which is better. I can’t believe you’re making me get my head round this after what you did to my poor brain yesterday.”

  “Consenting adult?”

  “Yes, OK. But anyway, back to William. If he keeps going the way he is I think he’s going to become a very attractive older man. He has improved so much, and if he gets his money sorted he’ll move out of that horrible little Sandymount bedsit and you’ll see – he’ll be one of those mature eligible bachelors that rich widows prey on.”

  “Hermione you are incorrigible. I think that all that business about Brenda that came out in the heat of the moment will have knocked him back three years. I didn’t know he had a sister - I presume she’s in Edinburgh too?

  “No, she lives up near Belfast. Did what Pat did in reverse I suppose. Met a guy from the North at university, and moved over from Edinburgh shortly afterwards. I don’t know much about her apart from the odd scathing comment from Pat. Pat couldn’t stand her. I suppose the superficial progress of Brenda’s marriage, nice house, two children, just looked such a contrast to Pat and William’s childless existence – which that old biddy of a mother never failed to point out when they had family gatherings. Can’t you hear the tight-assed Edinburgh accent “Isn’t it naice to see the bairns! Ach they just make the family don’t they. Isn’t it naice Pat?””

  “No wonder she had it in for Brenda.”

  “But she really didn’t have it in for William. She knows she shouldn’t have told those ‘William and Brenda’ stories. That’s just how it worked out. She is absolutely wretched today. When I left she was still refusing to get out of bed. Groaning and cursing herself. I thought I’d leave her alone for a bit.”

  “What about William? Should we do something?”

  “Just be good humoured about it next week at your book club. I presume it’s still going?”

  “Yes, I should see him next Thursday.”

  “He’s OK. He’ll probably have an abject apology from Pat before then, so I think you’ll see him back to his buoyant old self, yellow sweater and all. Just pray that he doesn’t combine it with those awful pink chinos. I think I prefer the jeans with the creases.”

  “They are so wrong somehow aren’t they! Don’t worry, I have a little plan.”

  “So you are interested!”

  “No I’m not. I just have a little thought about sorting out his style. In fact I think it’s quite a good idea.”

  “No doubt I’ll find out about it in the end. But look at these photographs! I’m so slow today I hadn’t really stopped to look.”

  Hermione walked round the kitchen, stopping and cocking her head at each of the prints while Lavinia sat quietly hoping that she really liked them. Hermione asked about the location and then remembered the sailing holiday, and everything fell into place. She completed her tour of the accidental exhibition and then went back to the moonlit shot of Kapi Creek.

  “This really is very good you know. I think I could get this printed in the paper. Next time we’re doing a travel piece about Turkey or the Med I’ll drop a hint. Would you mind?”

  “Oh Hermione! You’ve made my bloody day!”

  “Lavinia!”

  .

  Chapter 19

  Turkey October 2005

  Alex and Maggie on board

  They slipped the mooring ropes from the rusty quayside rings and motored gently out of the harbour into the sheltered expanse of Skopea Limani, the 12-mile wide bay that protects the towns of Fethiye - the ancient Telmessus - and Gocek, on the south-western coast of modern Turkey.

  After picking their way through the boats at anchor they reached open water, where they turned directly into the wind to hoist the mainsail. It flapped noisily at first, but as they turned to allow the sail to fill, the flapping stopped, the noise disappeared, and the yacht heeled gently as the force of the wind pushed on the strong white fabric.

  They were just as much at the mercy of the winds and weather as the pre-Christian traders, and later the pirates, who had sailed these waters. And just like a walker or a horse rider, they were travelling at a pace that the ancients recognise. The shape of the hills; the pattern of the morning and afternoon winds; the autumn risk of a sudden thunderstorm; all created the same conditions that St Paul sailed through on his way from Myra to his eventual shipwreck.

  Alex stopped the intrusive diesel engine to reveal the seductive sounds of water chuckling happily past the bow and along the side of the boat. It was a transformation from a noisy mechanical progress through the water to a more basic use of the elements. It was also a transformation in time. It left them feeling more in tune with their surroundings and having more in common with the travellers who for thousands of years had used those same winds to cross that same stretch of water. It took the same time today to sail from Gocek to Fethiye as it had when Alexander plundered his way through.

  They were leaving the smaller of the two towns – Gocek – and were planning to visit some quiet anchorages before risking the bustling Fethiye with its market later in the week. They looked just like all the other tourist yachts enjoying the late-season sun.

  They turned due south, eased the sails a little, and set a course for a sheltered inlet on the north of Kapu Dag, where they knew they could spend a safe night, and where they could enjoy a view where neither modern buildings nor roads were visible. Centuries ago, the area had been a haven for pirates, who at first eluded even the fleet of the Roman Empire, and made this coast one of the most dangerous in the ancient Mediterranean.

  Kapi Creek looks at first like a perfectly formed miniature fjord. But unlike a true fjord the narrowing stops after two-thirds of the length, and the inlet broadens into a sheltered basin that gives the best shelter for miles around. Clean blue water leads to a rocky shore, giving way to the unmistakable green of olive trees, and to the honey brown of the dried grass that the goats and cows nibble. Crosswise at the head of the inlet is a rickety-looking wooden jetty, whose underwater supports are pine trunks not much thicker than a domestic Christmas tree. Nailed on top of these irregular trunks are planks of bleached wood, recovered from other building projects and sawn not very precisely to size. It is picturesque, tempting and popular. It provides the perfectly natural rendezvous, as yachts coming from the Greek Islands in the Aegean use it as a peaceful refuge from the strong winds that drive them along the Turkish coast.

  Alex confidently predicted that as they sailed into the inlet a figure would appear on the jetty. He hoped it would either be Mehmet or one of his cousins to help them tie up to the jetty, greet them with effusive Turkish kisses to both cheeks, and tell them what wonderful food they would have that evening. It was a landfall that never ceased to please, and a harbour so perfect that they could spend hours sitting and gazing at it. It seemed a sacrilege to spoil it.

  As they came into the inlet they dropped
the sails, tidied them away, and prepared the mooring warps. In Turkey it is the norm for yachts to approach the jetty in reverse. This means that they end up with the open cockpit right by the jetty, and the bow facing back out to sea. It allows easy socialising and a perfect ringside seat for whatever evening promenade may be taking place. It also focuses attention on the jetty and on the land. Fewer people notice what is happening out in the bay.

  Alex reversed carefully back to the jetty, and as predicted Mehmet and his cousin Ishmael caught the stern lines and held the yacht steady as Alex secured the lazy line to the bow cleat. He made fast the two stern lines, checked that all was well, and stopped the engine. Alex stepped nimbly onto the wooden boards and greeted Mehmet and Ishmael with genuine affection. They hugged him in return and joked about when he was going to make babies with Maggie. A little embarrassed he turned the chat to eating that evening and the two cousins went off laughing. Mehmet winked as he left.

  Alex swam out from the boat to the centre of the inlet and lay spread-eagled on his back, feeling the chill of the water on his overheated head, and listening to the little cracking and popping noises in his ears. The salt content of the water was high, so his buoyancy made it easy and relaxing to lie as if on an endless waterbed.

  He worried quietly about the mess he was in. He hadn’t meant to be mixed up in anything illegal, but one thing had led not just to another, but to an irresistible avalanche. At 52 he should have known better. Anyone seeing the slightly jaded businessman arriving from London would have thought him respectable and reasonably well off. In fact he was more than a little jaded. And he was virtually broke. His well-used deck shoes, fashionably faded blue linen shorts, and old Musto sailing shirt gave no clue to the disastrous state of his finances and the threat to his freedom. He worried about having dragged Maggie unwittingly into the mess.

  They had met last year, both nursing thundering hangovers, and both taking refuge in the classics library in London University. There in the quiet tower building in Malet St, Alex was pursuing his hobby of digging out accounts of the English gentleman-explorers who had mapped the ancient cities and treasures in his favourite corner of the old Ottoman Empire. Maggie was trying unsuccessfully to find material for a book that was obstinately refusing to be written. She was recently 40, and her long dark hair was tied back to reveal a strong sunburned face, with dark but bloodshot eyes. How many love affairs have started with the line,

  “Excuse me but you wouldn’t possibly have a Paracetamol would you?”

  They had scarcely been apart since. Her book was temporarily abandoned as she tried to help Alex build up his two businesses – chartering in the summer and consultancy in the winter. Both knew it was going to be tough.

  After swimming Alex dried off lying on the swimming platform at the stern of the yacht, sometimes reading, sometimes absorbing the scene around him. He let his right foot dangle into the cool water beside him.

  As he looked back towards the land at the head of the inlet, the scene started on his left with a conical hill, rocky and with scrubby bushes. On the top of the hill a red Turkish flag was flying in the wind. It was the signal that all was well. No Jandarmes or Coastguards were prowling. Allowing his eyes to drift down to the right, the scrub gave way to olive trees, and then at the head of the inlet was the wooden roof of the little taverna. It was open on three sides, with a large rectangular chimney built into the centre of the roof – a reminder that early and late in the year a fire in the big open fireplace was a welcome sight. Directly in front of him at the head of the inlet were the semi-submerged remains of an ancient house, and on the honey-brown shore some goats and a couple of cows picturesquely posed and give scale to the scene.

  As smoke drifted from the wood-fired oven, and smells of cooking teased his appetite, Alex relaxed with a scene that seemed as many years as it was miles from London.

  He was wakened from his reverie by a shadow falling over the book he was almost reading. He looked up and saw Mohammed, the eminence gris of the family who ran the taverna.

  “Merhaba Alex Bey.”

  “Merhaba Mohammed. Nasilsin?”

  “Iyiyim”

  “Alex Bey. I have a message for you again. Can I speak to you?”

  “Come on board.” Said Alex, seeing that his old friend looked uneasy.

  Mohammed stepped onto the stern of the yacht and the two sat facing each other across the cockpit table.

  “Alex I know you a long time. It none of my business but you know what you doing. People say to meet them in middle of bay at 10:00 tonight again. I not know this. I not see this. Nobody see this. Alex why you do this?”

  “Mohammed I’m really sorry. I hope this is the last time. You know I don’t want to do this. I can’t tell you the whole story but believe me I don’t like it any more than you do. Let’s just keep it like it is. The less you know the better. As I say, I hope this is the last time. I’m really sorry to do this but I honestly don’t have a choice.”

  “Alex you my friend. I trust you. I don’t like these men. You be careful. I go now.”

  And with that he was off, taking his troubled look and his strong shoulders with him, but leaving Alex with a heavy rage that he couldn’t do anything about. The serenity he had experienced earlier was shattered. His anxiety had returned in full measure, and he threw the book down as he knew he couldn’t hope to concentrate on the story while worrying about the night ahead and then the weeks to come.

  Maggie reappeared on the jetty having walked up the hill for some land exercise, and joined him in the cockpit with a quizzical look on her face.

  “I thought you’d be relaxed and enjoying yourself this week. No charter customers to please, just ourselves, and there you are looking as if you have the cares of the world on your shoulders. What’s the matter love? There’s something you need to tell me isn’t there?”

  “Sorry – didn’t mean to look downcast – I’m not really – I do love this place and I do love being here with you.”

  “That’s not what I asked and you know it.”

  “Look there is one little thing that is a hangover from times gone by that I don’t want to involve you in. It’s better if you don’t know anything about it, but every now and again it just pops its head up and bites my bum. My personal black dog. It isn’t anything that affects you and me, and you have to believe me that you are better just not knowing about it.”

  Maggie’s face darkened, she leaned forward and looked him very fiercely in the eye,

  “I know there is something not right. I know it dates back to before my time but I think I have a right to know what it is because I’ve given up a lot for you, and I’m giving everything I’ve got for you. I’m not holding anything back and you know it. Alex I know you think you’re protecting me from something, but I don’t know what way your mind works if you think you really are.”

  “Maggie this is really killing me. I can’t tell you and it’s because I love you and want to protect you and you’re going to have to believe me.”

  Maggie leaned even closer.

  “OK then. Let me tell you what I know already, so you’ll see you aren’t actually protecting me from very much. If I took the trouble to go back to the log book I could find dates for about 3 other visits this year to this bay when you have had a visit from Mohammed, looked like shit afterwards, and disappeared for a while in the dingy later that night.”

  Alex’s eyes were widening as he realised how obvious he had really been.

  “I’m not totally stupid you know. Each time that happened was not long before a trip back to London – two of them were our planned trips but the other one you came up with an excuse at short notice for flying back and you were on edge until you made the trip. I take it I’m warm so far?”

  Alex nodded numbly.

  “You’re a hopeless liar, and you’re also hopeless at hiding things. I’m really surprised the customs people haven’t pulled you in. You looked so guilty on the two trips I made wit
h you. You fussed over your bag, tried to look nonchalant, tried to joke and chat through customs, so you were obviously carrying something.”

  Alex despite his long-term suntan was looking pale and shaken.

  “The other part of the jig-saw is that creepy Greek guy in London.”

  “How on earth did you figure that out?” whispered Alex.

  “Wasn’t hard. There was a phone call from him the first time we got back to London, and you disappeared for about 3 hours that evening – you had to tell me where you were going because I answered the phone. I didn’t hear the call the other time but you were gone for the same length of time that same night, and you were odd about talking about where you had been. Two and two definitely made four. And you were so relieved after you had been to see him – presumably to get off your hands whatever you had been carrying since picking it up here.”

  “You’re in the wrong job. And so am I obviously. I’m really sorry. Shit. The only thing you don’t know is why.”

  “And that’s what I’m really looking forward to hearing.”

  “OK, let’s go below and I’ll tell you the whole story if you can bear it.”

  They stood up and hugged in the most heart-felt, relieved, loving embrace that Alex could remember.

  They left the yacht at 20:00 to eat in the taverna. Walking arm-in-arm along the jetty, they both felt a closeness that was born of sharing everything – even the shameful history of the last 18 months that Alex had not been able to share with anyone. He felt a temporary relief that lightened his heart even though he knew it was only going to last a short time. As they walked slowly towards the stony open area where the tables were populated by a couple of dozen other sailors, Alex confided,

  “I don’t know why I feel so relieved. It’s been more of a pressure than I realised to have that secret area that we didn’t talk about.”