by Gunn, Autumn
He reached to his side on the couch. His hand came back holding a white envelope. He placed the envelope on the table. Although we were all sitting close and his intentions apparent, he made the gesture of sliding the envelope as close as possible to me.
“This is for you. As we agreed.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I hope this money helps you with your bills. For your mother’s health.”
“Thank you.”
“I would like to ask you though. How did you not see this vessel in the first place?”
“There was a larger vessel when I entered the cove. I had to wait to let it pass. The cove has blind spots. When we came out we were sitting ducks.”
“I see. And this is when you decided to turn and head down the coast?”
“My jet ski was already overloaded. It was too heavy and too unsafe to get into a speed battle with the Coast Guard. Even though I know they’re not going to shoot, and won’t have the means or desire to stop us, I still didn’t want to put them in a position where they had to do something.”
“Such as what?”
I thought for a moment. “I would compare it to drinking in public in the States.”
He chuckled. He seemed to be getting a lot of amusement out of the start to this story. I was maintaining eye contact with the Turk since I hadn’t been introduced to the other man yet. Just a handshake, so his purpose in the room wasn’t understood. Yet.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Well,” I began. “The cops have better things to do than to arrest people drinking on the street. Sure it’s against the law and it’s probably pretty easy for them to do. The question is, is it worth the time? Does it get the headlines? Does it get voters excited? Of course not. It’s mostly a bunch of paperwork and hoping that the fine will be paid. Plus I can’t imagine chasing drunk guys is any fun.”
“Catching drunk guys is probably even worse,” he said.
“Exactly. Once you’ve got them you’ve got to process them. And if they’re drunk enough you become their babysitter. At least until you get them to the station. And cleaning puke out of the back of a cruiser is no way to spend your shift.”
“I understand, but what does that have to do with last night?”
“Well, if the drunk guy just puts his liquor in a brown paper bag the problem is solved for everyone. He can drink until he’s had his fill and the cop can do whatever it is the cop wants to do. He doesn’t have to bother with the guy. It’s a win-win.”
“So you didn’t want to rub the Coast Guard’s face in it?”
“Exactly. If I just become another one of the boats it’s not a big deal. If I challenge them then we have a testosterone battle. Guns or no guns, we don’t want that.”
The Turk took a sip of his tea. “You are smart. A calm head. That is important in this business.”
I said nothing.
“It is hard to find such a man. I thank you for what you have done. For me and for the family last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
The Turk looked to his left. The fashionable man seemed very relaxed. He had taken a laid back posture. His arms were cross. His body language seemed comfortably in charge. Judgmental, but interested. The man nodded as if to tell the Turk he could proceed.
“This is a friend of mine. His given name is Hassan. It has a few meanings in our culture. One of which is benefactor.”
“Niarchos,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Hassan.”
“You may call me Hank if you wish. If it is easier. And the pleasure is all mine.”
“As we are in Turkey I think it would be more appropriate to call you Hassan. I would like to respect the culture of where I am.”
“Thank you. As you wish. Hassan it is.”
“The family you helped last night is important to Hassan. He is thankful to you for what you have done and would like to speak with you if you have some time,” the Turk said.
I wondered why Hassan wasn’t speaking for himself. Maybe the Turk wanted him to feel important by taking the form of his messenger. Maybe it was just more of a customary thing. It was definitely clear Hassan was the dominant one in this relationship. Whatever that relationship was.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Great.”
The two men stood.
“I will be in touch,” the Turk said. “Enjoy your meeting with Hassan.”
Thank you. I reached down and picked up the envelope. I put it in my pocket. The Turk had his arm open towards the door. I exited the shop first with Hassan behind me.
“Do you enjoy the sea, Niarchos?”
“I do.”
“Great. Today is a perfect day to be at sea. Would you like to join me on my boat?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“Great. Right this way.”
He walked in front. He was walking to the harbor. The streets were narrow. With so many tourists in the area it made more sense to walk in line. Single file. It gave me time to study his body language a little and eliminated the need for small talk. It didn’t take long until we were at the harbor.
Hassan didn’t have a boat. He had a yacht. A black one. A sleek and terribly expensive looking one.
“Please. After you.”
I came aboard. I didn’t immediately see any staff, which surprised me. If you spend the money on the yacht you spend the money on the staff. At least that’s what I had been told.
We took in the ropes. Hassan fired up the engine. We were off.
“Do you like football?”
“American or European?”
He laughed. “Oh, that’s right. You Yanks prefer to call it soccer.” It was friendly in the way he said it. Not condescending.
“Sure. It’s a nice distraction.”
He flipped on the TV. “Big match this afternoon.”
“Who are you pulling for?” I said.
“I cannot support a team that is not Turkish through and through. I am pulling for Galatasaray. Fenerbahçe is managed by a Portuguese.”
“So you are Turkish?”
He laughed. “I’m not. But we are Arab brothers. Maybe you have heard of Muslim Brotherhood.”
It was a statement, but I took it for a question. “The Egyptian political group?”
He laughed. “Not in this way. I am not into politics. I am referring to the way of how Muslim men are all brothers. We are united under one religion. One way of life.”
“So you prefer to support teams that have Muslim roots?”
Again he laughed. “I don’t care so much. About football or about religion. But my business clients care. And I am about business. All business.”
“A smart business man,” I see.
“And Galatasaray has twenty Turkish league titles. More than any other club. Fenerbahçe is second.” He paused. “With nineteen.”
We both laughed.
“And business is about winning. And I am a winner. And I support winners.”
“I know what you mean. Losing’s not my thing.”
He smirked at me. The boys and I had played a lot of poker during the lull in action on assignments. You start to pick up on tells. This was definitely a tell. His nonverbal clues were tipping me off. I’m sure he feels comfortable surrounded by his eager to please minions, but that’s not what he’s going to get from me.
We slowly made our way out of the harbor. As we exited we passed luxury yacht after luxury yacht. I had never seen anything like it since Monaco. The contrast was incredible. There were primitive local fishing boats which could be had for €500 dwarfed by yachts easily surpassing €50 million or more.
“Mind if I check out your head?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
I knew a yacht of this would have a number of heads. I wanted to check out what was below deck.
After descending the stairs the first thing I saw were paintings. I don’t know anything much about paintings, but these seemed a little more sexy than I would
have expected for someone doing business with a lot of Arab associates. There were a number of doors. Some had markings. Some didn’t. The ones that did had markings in Arabic. Perfect. I had no idea what they meant so it gave me the excuse for trying them all.
I went to the end of the hall and turned the knob. It was unlocked. Inside was a bed. Perfectly made. It had a panoramic view of the sea. This guy was really living the life. There were two books on the table. They were in Arabic. I couldn’t determine the subject. On top of the books was an ashtray. Next to the ashtray was a small wooden box. The lid was ajar. Inside were cigars. I could see the Romeo Y Julieta bands. I took a step back and looked back into the hall. No one. To my right was another door. I opened it. It was some sort of storage closet full of brown boxes. Again the letters were in Arabic. The boxes were sealed.
I had already been gone over a full minute. I needed to find the head and get topside. I pulled another handle. It looked like an entertaining room. There should be a head in there. I entered and found a head in the back. The head was immaculate. The furnishings were gold plated. It looked like it was designed by Versace. An over-the-top display of wealth. I wasn’t sure if I should admire it or urinate on it. If he was associated with the Turk it was likely ill gotten.
I finished up and made my way topside.
“Anything interesting down there?”
I wasn’t sure if he had surveillance or was just making strange conversation.
“A lot. I pulled a few handles before I found the head. Wound up in the gaming room. Beautiful boat you have.”
“Thank you. I designed most of it myself. Care for a drink?”
“I thought Muslims didn’t drink,” I said.
“Some of us do. It’s bad form to get drunk, but a glass or two of champagne at sea isn’t going to kill or offend anyone.”
Hassan turned to the table on his side. A bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold was already chilling in a bucket of ice. Next to it were two empty champagne flutes, two glasses half full of water, a separate bucket of ice, and a pair of tongs. He filled each flute half full of champagne. Then he dug his tongs in the ice for cubes. He was very precise in his search. He pulled one cube out. Inspected it. Dropped it in the glass of water. He searched for a second. Same procedure. Then a third. He repeated his ice hunt until the second glass also had three cubes. All the same size. All carefully placed in the water. They fell into the glass like perfect divers. No splash. No touching the side.
I could see Hassan was a very precise guy. It made sense. Boating, or yachting, requires precision. This was over the top though. I had never met someone who was anal retentive about ice. He offered me the glass of Dom. As per Arabic culture I accepted with my right hand.
“To the bow. Shall we?”
We walked around to the bow.
“Mr. Niarchos.” He paused. “You have done me a big service, but it seems I know very little about you.”
I said nothing.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the States.”
“Yes, you call football soccer. I remember. But your mother is Greek?”
“Yes.”
“Miláte Elliniká?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Do you speak Greek?”
“No. I never picked it up.”
“That’s a shame.”
I said nothing.
“Your mother never spoke Greek in the home?”
“Sometimes on the phone. And when she was angry.”
I raised my glass. Hassan followed suit.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers, my new friend,” Hassan said.
There were always a lot of uncertainties on my missions abroad, but one thing held nearly one hundred percent accuracy. If someone you just met refers to you as my friend, they’re not your friend.”
“So she insisted on English. I find it strange she didn’t keep with her customs. With her homeland. Greeks are usually a very proud people. Rightfully so.”
“I guess she wanted me to embrace the new culture. To make it in America as they say.”
“I guess,” Hassan said.
“And you had no brothers or sisters growing up?”
“Just me. Only child.”
“I am fascinated by your hustle. Your business hustle. What gave you the idea to transport the refugees? Of all the businesses you could have chosen, you choose that one.”
“Basic economics. Supply and demand. Preferably a demand with a high paying customer. A customer not in the position to ask for refund. A black and white business. Either you provided the service or you didn’t.”
“So then you went out and bought a jet ski?”
“My mother had one.” Time to deflect. “What about your family, Hassan?”
“Well, I come from the Arabic world so family is very important to me. Our whole life revolves around our families.”
I could sense some hostility in his voice. “And you think the West has lost this?”
“Yes. The original generation that goes West does what they can to keep the culture, but it often proves futile. As the first generation born on foreign soil assimilates, the culture slips. It used to be a little each generation. Now it’s nearly gone in the first generation.”
“And you see this as bad? Adapting to the environment someone chose to enter.”
“There is a saying your U.S. military has. Adapt and overcome. You can adapt to your surroundings. You do not have to become your surroundings. You can overcome them.”
“And the families migrating now will adapt and overcome or will they be swallowed up?”
Hassan took a drink of champagne. “I wish that they overcome. But I do not think this wish will be granted.”
Religious fundamentalist. Check. Hypocrite. Check. Narcissistic control-freak. Checkmate.
“And how do I fit into these plans, Hassan?”
“What plans?”
“The families that are migrating? The families that you wish to keep true to their roots.”
“You can not fit into these plans. You are not one of us. You are only our delivery boy!”
Hassan’s hand swung widely from behind his back. In it was a Marakov pistol. Standard issue for the Soviet Army for forty years. Also used in the Soviet-Afghan wars in the eighties. They were simple and cheap. Still preferred and used by many Russian military and police.
“Who do you work for?”
“I work for myself.”
“The government?”
I said nothing.
“Which one? Which agency?”
“I don’t work for the government.”
“Abdullah?”
I said nothing.
“El-Sayed?”
I just stared at him.
“Khalil?”
Still nothing.
“The Colombians?”
The key to this situation was to remain calm. Not get Hassan worked up. I doubt he did his dirty work often. He had a comfortable grip on the gun, but looked awkward holding it. He planned to kill me. That I was sure. Just buy time.
“I work for myself. I was looking for an opportunity to make money.”
“Liar!”
“You never let me finish.” I took a sip of my champagne.
“What? Tell me or I shoot you now. No one ever finds you then.”
“I work for myself,” I let it hang in the air. “But I’ve been contacted by some people you might be familiar with.”
“Who? Tell me.”
I didn’t have enough information yet to throw any information Hassan’s way that might rile him up. Make him ask me more questions. Make him need to keep me alive a little longer. Time for a Hail Mary.
I turned to face the sea. As if I was contemplating whether or not to tell him. I wanted to look torn in my decision to reveal or not. And just buy some more time.
“Tell me or I shoot you!”
I slowly tilted my head to the right until our eyes met. I opened m
y mouth and lowered my voice.
“Devlin.”
I could see the fear in Hassan’s eyes. His face went blank. His stare cold and distant. He was processing the bomb I had just dropped on his world. Somewhere in his twisted world sat Devlin. I’m guessing at the top. The question was at the top of what?
