“Infidel whore,” was written across her chest and stomach in Arabic.
“Fuck the whore,” the voice said. “Such bitches are there to serve you the sons of Jihad. She is not human. She is scum that floats to the surface when confronted by the truths of Islam.” The rant continued in the same vain, becoming almost hysterical as she was fucked. She was pounded with no regard for her body, “Fuck the whore, and fuck her hard.”
Celik had just popped down to the shops when the van stopped in the street. Before she had a chance to respond she had been dragged into the back gagged and hooded. No one reported it. Then the hell had begun. She had been taken to this filthy room and raped hour after hour. ”Filthy whore, fuck the whore, fuck the slut’s cunt fuck her arse.” It continued and continued. She screamed, she pleaded she bleed and her body tore.
“See how your slut wife enjoys it.” Rough hands forced Berat to look at the screen. Berat had been marched back to room fifteen in the Hotel Belgique. He was pinned to the chair by two individuals with a knife to his throat. Tears ran down his cheeks and he struggled frantically to free himself. He was no match for his captors. He could not cry out, his mouth stuffed with the towel from the bathroom. He slumped forward. He had lost the will to fight. He could not bear to watch his beautiful wife being used like a piece of meat any longer, He looked up at his captors pleading, a broken man.
His captor removed the gag, “well?
He gasped in air, “On the balcony in the crack above the window.”
His tormentor moved to the balcony and pushed the shutters open and looked above him. There it was. “It is here,” he confirmed to his companions. The knife was drawn across Berat’s throat and there was a gasp and a cough as the three left room fifteen.
Chapter 10
The station at Monte Carlo was packed. The race had finished and the big rush was on to get away. Tim was glad he had purchased a return ticket to Menton when he had returned earlier that day. The ticket inspectors were ferocious making sure no one entered the platforms without a ticket. There would be no fare dodging today. Tim struggled to board the train, in which every bit of space was occupied, as it pulled from the Station.
He was a little fed up with the situation. The rest of the party would be taking a limo to the hotel where a sumptuous diner had been laid on. He hoped he would be able to deal with this bit of nonsense quickly and get back to join in the festivities.
He crossed the station car park at Menton and noticed that the bag lady was still wandering the terrace and the cowboys were still occupying the corner table. He wondered if they had been there all day or if they had come and gone. He passed the Terminus Café and continued to the Hotel Belgique.
The glass door was closed and there was no sign of the concierge. Tim approached the keypad and looking at the note, passed to him that morning by the patron of the Terminus Café, he entered the numbers. There was a click and he pushed the door open. The lobby was empty and he climbed the grubby spiral staircase. He looked at the room numbers on the first floor and realised he had further flight of stairs to ascend.
The door to room fifteen was before him. He knocked but there was no response. He knocked again. He was now feeling intensely irritated thinking that the whole day had been a waste of time. In frustration he tried the handle. The door opened. He entered.
The room was in semi darkness with shutters closed and as he peered into the room he struggled to see inside as his eyes adapted. At first he thought the room empty then the figure came into view, sat at the table. “Hello?” he called.
Berat would never answer again and when Tim entered and saw his corpse, blind panic set in. He was frozen and stood motionless taking in the awful sight before him. Then his brain raced back into gear. What should he do, call the police or get back to the delegation? He made a decision. He would get back to Monte Carlo and rejoin the delegation and then contact the police. That would at least give him the full protection of the diplomatic process.
He began to descend and passed the retro stereogram. He retraced his steps and calming himself he focussed. The note had mentioned stereogram, not the code name of the writer then but a real stereogram. He looked at it. He saw the dust had been disturbed where the vase had been moved. He wanted to get out of there but he steadied himself. After all he had been sent to collect something and so he should at least make an effort. It did not take him long to find the memory stick. He pocketed it.
Tim closed door to the Hotel Belgique and he stepped onto the pavement. He tried to look normal. He was aware that the more normal he decided to act the more abnormal he felt himself acting. He thought every one was watching him. The rain had stated as the race had finished in Monte Carlo and now it was pouring here in Menton. The sky was grey and the far mountains were obscured by the mist and descending night. He looked up and down the road, He was trying to control his breathing and stay calm. Nothing had prepared him for what had confronted him in room fifteen. He saw no one but he was half expecting the police to appear from nowhere and sweep him up.
He started to walk up the street past the Café to the station. As he drew level with the side entrance to the Café the door opened and a man blocked his route. “Mr Burr a moment, please,” Tim stopped dead.
Yosuf stood in front of him, Tim struggled for a moment and then recognition crept in. He knew this man to be a translator with the Turkish Delegation. He brain raced, run, stay was he in danger? As if reading his mind Yosuf said “My name is Yosuf and I mean you no arm, Please talk with me. I assure you I merely wish to talk.”
Something in Yosuf’s manner convinced Tim to listen to him or perhaps it was the shock or the fact that he knew him by sight from the Yacht. In any event he followed him to the back of the Café.
“How did you get here,” Tim asked.
“I followed you. I was on the station at Monte Carlo and you came onto the platform and I saw you. I merely got off when you got off and watched you go into that hotel. I was hoping you would lead me to a friend and colleague. I believe he was to meet you?”
Tim felt the panic rise. This man was looking for the man whom he had left for dead no more than two minutes ago. He struggled for words. What could he say? Yosuf interrupted before he had to respond. “Did you meet?”
The rain began to fall harder. Tim nodded. He didn’t know why he answered but he did. Yosuf gestured for Tim to follow him inside. They sat at a table hidden from the street and coffee was ordered and put in front of them. “I need to warn my colleague Berat,” continued Yosuf. “He is in terrible trouble. I was hoping when I followed you that you would lead me to him. Please tell me if he was in the hotel? Is he still there?”
“He is dead. He was dead when I got to the room.”
Confusion, fear and shock all progressed across Yosuf’s face. “That cannot be?” There had not been time for Turkish intelligence to locate him and they could not have followed Tim as Berat was dead before he got there. In any event they would not have risked murder on foreign soil. They merely had to wait for his return and arrest him. At that point they could consider their options.
Yosuf calmed himself and lent forward. Everything had changed from when he spotted Tim on the platform and followed him. His first intention had been to follow him from the boat but he had not seen him aboard. He had decided to take the only course of action open to him and that was to flee before Mehmet acted against him. He had his escape kit in the form of his large bag with him and the rail ticket to Italy was in his pocket when he had seen Tim on the platform. On the spur of the moment he had decided to follow him and try and warn Berat.
Now Berat was dead. “Do you have the memory stick? Do not fear I do not want it but if you do I think you should be very careful indeed.”
Tim considered the matter. He felt that this man was not out to hurt him and in a strange way knew that he was sad to hear that his friend was dead. “Why should I be careful?”
“I think as the Americans say we are both �
�dead men walking. You have something my Government wants and wants badly. Worse or not much worse it is something ISIS wants. I, Mr Burr, am on the run from my Government at this precise moment and I am in no doubt I will disappear quietly should they catch up with me. You think you can take what you have and give it to your Mr Delonge I will warn you that this will not result in a good outcome. In fact by doing so you would be guaranteeing your own death I fear.”
Tim was struggling to understand. Yosuf continued, “I have no interest in the matter but having failed Berat, for that is the name of the man you have just left in that hotel, I will give you this small amount of advice. Your Mr Delonge is under an obligation to Mehmet and he must help them get the object you have. You my friend will be an obstacle to keeping Mr. Delonge safe. The solution I fear will be your disappearance from this Earth.”
“Who killed your friend?”
“I cannot be sure but clearly not my Government they merely had to wait for you to return with the package silence you and take care of Berat at the time and place of their choosing and deal with me at their leisure. I fear it was ISIS and if you have the stick it will not be long be for they are looking for you. Turkish security is very leaky and infiltrated with sympathisers.”
Tim took a sip of the now tepid coffee as he allowed the events of the last few moments to sink in. “What does your Mehmet have on Jason Delonge?” Yosuf told him exactly what kind of man his boss was. Tim was feeling as if the World he thought he knew never really existed. He involuntarily put his hand to his pocket and felt the memory stick.
Yosuf noticed his action.” You are holding your death warrant but perhaps with some luck we may turn what you hold into our salvation. Come we must go.”
He stood up and picked up his big black bag. Tim followed. What choice did he have?
Chapter 11
The Thames was glistening in the sunlight and the slight film of oil on the surface of the green water reflected back the colours of the rainbow. The cruise boats could be seen going back and forth under Westminster Bridge. The tourists were busily snapping pictures of themselves and the Palace of Westminster. The loudspeaker systems on the boats could clearly be heard, their running commentaries describing the sights, the Houses of Parliament, the Abbey and Big Ben.
Jason Delonge stood on the terrace overlooking the river, a pink gin in his hand. The terrace was crowded with MPs, Lords and visitors. It was a clear sunny day and everyone took the chance to grab a break at lunchtime and get a bit of fresh air. He had changed his plans and after a bit of string pulling managed to get a flight from Nice to the London City airport that Monday morning. He had been schedule to return to the Paris Embassy but the events in Monte Carlo had necessitated the change.
He sipped the gin, bitter sweet in his mouth and nodded to the odd face he recognised. He had been waiting for nearly an hour but the Minister he wished to speak to was a busy man, He waited patiently watching the traffic back up on the bridge. Big Ben struck and on the last strike as though by design or coincidence a voice spoke behind him. “Jason, it is good to see you.”
The speaker was a slim man with greying hair, with not a single one of those hairs out of place. His grey lightweight woollen suit was immaculately tailored to fit his slim frame, nails manicured and the white silk shirt was finished with a deep blue tie signalling his party allegiance. Jason proffered his hand and the polite handshake was exchanged. Although Terrance Mailer had professed his pleasure at seeing Jason his manner contradicted his verbal statement.
“I do apologise but I have a very tight schedule and can only spare you a little time,” he continued.
“I think we need to find somewhere a little less public,” Jason said.
This was greeted with a look of reluctance on the others behalf. “I really do not have much time.”
“Find it,” Jason voice held a note of firmness that shook the other, “unless you want the World to know about some of the parties we go to.”
Mailer was visibly taken aback and glanced around him to check no one was in ear shot. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Jason said nothing and Mailer let out a sigh of resignation. “Follow me.”
Given the exterior grandeur of the Houses of Parliament, the Minister’s office was surprising small and cluttered. The building was not in a good state of repair and it was clear that remedial work was desperately required. To date all Governments had been reluctant to spend the billion or so to restore the building and find an alternative for the five years or more that it would take to bring the whole thing into the modern digital age. Jason sat himself in the shabby leather chair and Mailer sat himself on the edge of the desk having made space by pushing a pile of papers to one side.
“Well what is this all about?”
Jason relayed the events of his weekend in Monaco. He finished his tale by saying. “If I do not aid our Turkish Intelligence friend Mehmet in recovering the missing details of the ISIS plot I will be joining the list of paedophiles prosecuted by the police under operation Yew Tree. And more to the point I do not intend going down alone.”
Mailer’s face drained of colour. He knew that the threat was not idle. The scandal would bring down a large number of current and past leading figures in the political elite. “I understand. Well what’s to be done old boy?”
“Firstly we need to locate Tim Burr. You can get that done. It is your area of remit. Get you lads in MI6 to trace his phone, credit cards or whatever but find him.”
Mailer nodded, “What about this Yosuf. Are the Turks sure that he and Burr are together?”
“It is the only explanation as to why Tim did not return to the hotel yesterday. I expected him to come back, give me the memory stick if he had it and I would have quietly handed it over to the Turks. Now we have a dead man in Menton and two missing employees, Tim and Yosuf. The Turks will obviously be hunting for their man.”
“What happens when we locate them?”
“You may not need to find Tim of course, he may well turn up at M15 or M16 and hand over the goods. However that does leave us with the prospect of you me and our little group facing a long stint in the clink on bread and water.”
“So we find him?” Mailer paused “And?”
“We let the Turks deal with it. They get the kudos of stopping an ISIS plot and Tim and Yosuf quietly disappear.”
*******
Berat’s assassins sat in the small room above the carpet shop in Istanbul. Downstairs the tourist were being served free tea and being sold overpriced carpets by the shopkeeper. The atmosphere was tense. “This is a copy.” The memory stick was thrown on the table between them.
“How were we to know?”
“Your instructions were precise, you had the make and there was a small mark you were to check. You were too keen to kill my friend.”
The three fidgeted nervously as the silence continued. Finally it was broken. “Fortunately for you three, there is a second chance for you to serve the Cause. Our brother working in Turkish intelligence has informed us that two men are being sought.”
He threw the two photos of Tim and Yosuf on the table. “Find them, kill them and destroy the original. We will be updated as to their whereabouts as and when the Turks find them.”
Chapter 12
Tim looked out the window of the bus as it drove up the Rhone Valley. He felt tired and stiff. Sleep had been difficult with the movement of the vehicle, the cramped seat and the concern he felt as to this undertaking. He knew that his only hope was to make it to London and hand the memory stick to someone other than Jason. The problem was getting to London alive and avoiding leaving a trail. Yosuf seem to have the knowledge in that area. He, also like Tim, had a vested interest in avoiding Mehmet and Jason and he hoped that with the help of British Intelligence, he would be able to start a new life in the UK with a new identity.
Under Yosuf’s instruction they had placed their mobile phones in padded envelops and posted them to different locations before board
ing a bus for Nice. There they then transferred to the bus heading to Paris. The rain finally stopped as the bus arrived at Lyon. It slowly made its way over the bridge, through the rush hour chaos outside. They were tired and hungry.
“We need to get off here and take the train. This is too slow,” said Yosuf. They made their way across the road through the line of traffic and sat in a café. After a coffee Tim felt more awake. He felt the tension of being hunted and the uncertainty of being with a stranger that he had met only hours before and in whom, it would appear, he would have to trust if he wanted to stay alive.
“I feared that this day would come and I should have to flee. Turkey is difficult,” said Yosuf, “Freedoms you take for granted are not that easily come by for us. The press, television, the internet, they are all censured. We say we fight terrorism than brand the Kurds terrorists so we can have the excuse to terrorise them. We help people to cross to Syria to join ISIS while we do a deal with the European Union to block the refugees fleeing the conflict. We want to join the EU but we do not make the slightest effort to comply with the requirements of membership, a fucked up policy.”
Tim looked at him as he took another sip of coffee. “So you prepared?”
“I prepared. Fake passport, currency and unregistered phones all are in my big black bag. I have seen too many disappearances in my line of work, too many so called accidents and I really do not want to be an accident and if I am to disappear I decided I would be the one to do the vanishing trick.”
They paid and left. After a two hour train journey they arrived at the Gare de Lyon in Paris and then a trip on the Metro to the Place du Concorde followed by a walk to the Place du Madeleine and the hotel Madeleine. The room was adequate but sparsely furnished.
Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1) Page 5
