TURKISH DELIGHT

by Barry Faulkner

  I stayed silent. So Gold was right: the intruder was a pro, not a chancer but an MI6 operative. So were they onto Rambart or her husband, and the man I decked on his way to look for something in the apartment?

  Woodward took out his iPhone and clicked on a video before passing it across the desk for me to view. I guessed what I was about to see. I was right. It was a video of me coming out of the Rambart building and crossing paths with Gold before walking out of shot along Knightsbridge.

  Woodward pulled it back, turned it off and put it back in his pocket. ‘Unfortunately it’s only a static camera – no operator, we just download every twenty-four hours. We have lots of them around the capital – very small, ideal for surveillance of second degree suspects when manpower is stretched. The Rambarts are, or should I say were, second degree suspects – just a couple we liked to keep tabs on knowing the kind of business they are involved in. Every month or so we send a man in to do a physical check on the premises, just in case a bomb factory has started up – can’t be too careful. The next visit wasn’t due until next week, but on checking the footage our people saw a holdall and two characters on our surveillance list go in during the afternoon so we brought the visit forward. Of course, after the unsavoury incident on the stairs we reviewed the video, and hey presto! You and the Gold Digger make an appearance, or should I say exit. So putting that together with the type of attack our chap endured, I would say the circumstantial evidence points to you. Assault and battery – nasty episode, five years minimum.’

  I reached for the phone. He guessed my reaction.

  ‘Don’t bother, you don’t need a lawyer. I don’t think I mentioned anything about pressing charges, did I?’ Woodward smiled, the sort of smile your chess opponent gives when he’s made a move that says ‘checkmate’. ‘I have no intention of pressing charges. I want to know why you were there Nevis, that’s all.’

  Time to break my silence, ‘Eve Rambart came and asked me to do some security work for her – she’d been recommended. I was just checking the premises out, seeing what alarm system would be best, checking the locks. She said somebody had tried to break in recently so when your man showed up I thought it was the same person coming back,’ I lied, hoping it sounded reasonable. I didn’t think I’d better mention the small matter of a million quid to kill hubby.

  Woodward shifted in his chair and let out a long breath. ‘I’m going to take you into my confidence Nevis, and if any of this makes its way into the public domain I will have no problem in pressing the charges I spoke about and making sure your PI Licence is revoked, understand me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. We have had the Rambarts under surveillance for some time – we know her husband supplies Iran with illegal arms, and they then send those arms onto ISIS, Al-Qaeda and other terrorist groups in the Middle East. We need to know how they get there. Of course diplomatic channels have put pressure on Iran, but their denials are just the normal lies; the Revolutionary Guard have no scruples, and their main raison d’etre is to basically blow up the West so if they can supply arms to terrorist groups they will. However, recently their armaments have got more sophisticated and include missiles capable of being nuclear tipped for both ground and air launching. We have evidence that Rambart is the supplier. He doesn’t handle the product himself, he’s too clever to take that chance – he is a middle man between supplier and buyer. He is also the legal middle man between suppliers and buyers in the West, which is how we think he operates. He fuses the two, buys on behalf of a Western country or a Western Allied Middle Eastern country, which enables him to get his orders signed off by the governments of the Arms Suppliers countries without any fuss – the UK Ministry of Defence included – and then the product gets diverted on route to countries that are not signed up to the Non-Proliferation Treaty.’

  ‘And the original country doesn’t ask where are our missiles?’

  ‘Depends – depends how much their current Minister of Defence takes in bribe money and showers around to keep eyes closed and mouths shut. Sometimes if it is a genuine order that goes AWOL and into Rambart’s plan the country won’t want it known as the news of such a loss they would mean they certainly wouldn’t get authority to purchase anymore.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘You’re going to work for us.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Either that or time in one of Her Majesty’s establishments awaits you and the SIA will revoke your PI licence. Your choice Nevis.’

  ‘Looks like I’m working for you then.’

  Woodward gave another checkmate smile, ‘Good, I thought you might prefer that. It’s a very simple job: get inside the Rambarts’ organisation and feed back their contacts and their buyers to me – and most importantly find Nicholas Rambart; he’s gone off the radar for the past three months, disappeared, which means he’s putting together a big deal somewhere and doesn’t want to be disturbed. That’s worrying us, it means he’s probably handling armaments he’s not licensed to handle. He is the top suspect for supplying the missiles that destroyed Saudi Arabia’s oil tanks and if one of his terrorist friends are planning a similar attack who knows where it could be. We and the US have operatives looking for him, but so far we haven’t located him. You now have an inside position in the family as Eve Rambart’s security advisor and that could be our best shot yet. You are of course nothing to do with the department, and if anything untoward happens to you we will deny even knowing who you are.’

  I was beginning to regret saying I was working for Eve Rambart, but circumstances and video footage had pushed me into a position I didn’t want to be in. I had no exit.

  ‘That was always normal procedure, nothing new in that.’

  ‘Quite, and you report directly to me.’

  ‘To you?’ That was surprising as MI6 operatives usually have a handler as a point of contact, not the big boss.

  ‘Yes, to me and me only. There will not be any leaks on this assignment Nevis.’ He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a burner phone which he put on the desk. ‘This phone is programmed to go straight through to me, just press the call button – it has a lithium battery so you’ll get five days continual use before it needs charging. The number it calls is my personal phone, which is programmed to take your call and override any other call that I may be taking at the time. If it looks like it might fall into other people’s hands at anytime, press 999 and all call logs on it will be cancelled and scrambled.’

  ‘And no doubt it has a tracing app installed?’ I knew it would have – of course it would have. Woodward wanted to know where I was, of course he did.

  He just smiled and rose to leave.

  ‘Whoa.’ I had one item for discussion. He turned back to me and I held out a hand, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together. ‘You forgot to mention?’

  He smiled. ‘Remuneration? You haven’t changed Nevis, have you? I seem to remember you were always the one with, shall we say, rather high expense claims?’

  ‘Can’t live on fresh air and doing one’s duty to the country alone.’

  ‘Five thousand a week...’ He had second thoughts, ‘No, six thousand a week and no expense claims.’

  ‘Okay,’ It wasn’t a great deal compared with what I could earn from the likes of Jameson Reynolds, but I was already thinking ahead to the endgame of a million pound hit on Mr Nicholas Rambart; for MI6 to be paying for my time whilst I was reconnoitring and assessing how to achieve that suited me just fine. ‘My bank details are still the same. I’ll be checking every week.’ I gave him my copy of his checkmate smile.

  ‘I hope to hear from you within forty eight hours, Nevis,’ he said, and gave one last nod and a smile and left flanked by his two bodyguards

  Forty-eight hours, where had I heard that before? Time to tell Mrs Rambart she had a deal, but first I’d better call Gold and tell her to clear her diary, we’ve got work to do.

  ***********************************

  CHA
PTER 4

  ‘Shit.’

  Gold looked over to the table where her phone had started buzzing. One look told her it was Nevis. She put down the horsewhip she was holding and answered it.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ve got news, we are now in the pay of MI6 at five grand a week.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘You’d best come over, I don’t want to talk on the phone.’

  ‘I’m working.’

  ‘Oh, okay – come over when you’re finished. Anybody I know?’

  ‘Lord Herbert of Chantbury.’

  Nevis laughed. ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Just about. I’ll come over now, His Lordship can wait.’ She shut the phone, picked up her shoulder bag from the table and put the whip on it, collected her coat from the chair she’d draped it over, counted out two hundred pounds in tenners from the five hundred on the table, moved over to the bedroom door and shouted through it, ‘Sorry Lord Herbert, gotta go – family business. I’ll call next week,’ and quickly made her way out of Lord Herbert of Chantbury’s Belgravia apartment.

  His Lordship emerged from the bedroom in an ill-fitting maid’s uniform, high heels and an overdone application of rouge on his cheeks and stared bewilderedly at the door.

  ***************************

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘I didn’t think you would be able to resist,’ Eve Rambart spoke into her mobile. She was standing at the front window of the apartment looking down onto Knightsbridge below. ‘You can’t come here, too many of my husband’s people are around here. I’m sure he has them watching me. Apparently there was an unsavoury incident inside the apartment block last night – probably a rough sleeper getting beaten up. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but if any of my husband’s people had found him near the apartment he’d be lucky to still be alive. You understand what I am saying, Mr Nevis – my husband moves in particularly nasty circles, his business involves such people. I know you are well-versed in that sort of company – no disrespect meant by that remark – but that and your past military career as told to me by Jameson Reynolds is why I paid you a visit. You will be getting into dangerous waters, Mr Nevis – waters with hungry sharks in residence. I have to go to my bank in the morning, Coutts in the Strand – I will be there at ten. If you are there we can transfer a retainer into your bank account – I think two hundred thousand should be about right? Returnable of course, if your mission fails. And don’t forget, Mr Nevis, I move in the same circles as my husband and know people who would answer to me should you try any silly business with the money. No completion of the job means no money, understand?’

  She didn’t wait for an answer and closed her phone.

  ************************************

  Nevis closed his phone and looked across the office desk at Gold who raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Two hundred grand upfront.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘And it stays in my account until we complete the hit. If anything goes tits-up I don’t want her people coming round for a refund of money that’s not there.’

  ‘Okay, so all we have to do is find her old man now and bang bang.’ She made the shape of a gun with her hand.

  ******************************************

  The business at the bank went okay – mind you, I got some funny looks from the manager who handled the transaction. Might have been my Status Quo T-shirt and faded jeans, they didn’t seem to fit the opulent Coutts Bank offices; the antique mahogany furniture, hushed tones and dark-suited staff. He raised his eyebrows when I gave the account I wanted the money sent to.

  ‘Lloyds Bank in Southwark?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  He obviously was more used to such amounts being transferred to offshore tax havens or maybe Middle Eastern banks. He printed off a receipt for the transaction and another for Eve Rambart and she thanked him and we walked out of the dim bank interior into the bright sunshine in the Strand. A shiny black Merc with tinted passenger windows pulled over and stopped as we walked out. The driver in chauffeur’s uniform got out and came round to open the rear door.

  ‘I don’t want to hear from you again until you have completed the job, Mr Nevis. Do not contact me under any circumstances, understood? If I think I have anything that will help you I will text you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I nodded. ‘But don’t hassle me – these kind of jobs have to be planned and can take a while.’

  She laughed. ‘I won’t hassle you, Mr Nevis. But the sooner it is done, the sooner another eight hundred thousand pounds makes its way to Southwark.’ And with a beaming smile she got into the car and was gone.

  ‘Nice car,’ Gold said as she joined me from across the road where she’d been covering me.

  ‘Get the number?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll get an ex of mine to run it through ANPR.’

  *********************************

  CHAPTER 6

  Well, where do you start looking for a man even MI6 can’t find? I sat down in my office the next morning and started on a computer search: his background, his companies, their files at Companies House, any relatives – anything at all. He was obviously a private man; one who valued his privacy greatly as the only lead I could find was a paparazzi picture of him and Eve at Ascot three years ago, and that wasn’t much help as the top hat and large sunglasses kept most of his head and face hidden. I hoped Gold was having more luck; she was twisting arms and pulling strings with her contacts in the upper class echelon of her ‘client’ list. It had worked for us before; household names and celebrities were always most keen to help when shown snippets of videos Gold had of them in scenarios they really wouldn’t want released on social media. Button cameras can be so useful.

  I pulled up the Ascot picture on my Adobe, cropped it to just Nicholas Rambart’s face, enlarged it and printed it off. I sat back and studied it. Where oh where are you now, Mr Rambart?

  The answer came quickly as the man himself, preceded and followed by two rather large gentlemen in long overcoats and dark glasses came into the office. No words were spoken whilst one of his goons checked the kitchen was empty; the other one stood outside the office door assuring his master of undisturbed privacy. I recognised the one checking the kitchen even behind his dark glasses: Grant Rankin, ex-Sergeant Grant Rankin, Met’s Organised Crime Squad. I never worked with Rankin but he had the reputation as a bit of a loner; kept himself to himself and spent most of the time I knew him deep underground, mixing amongst the East London Eastern European population where organised crime gangs from Romania were embedded. He had Iranian parents who fled when the IRGC started persecuting academics – both were teachers; he’d obviously quit the Met and gone into private security like me.

  ‘It says knock,’ I said, pointing at the notice on my door, and then sat back and crossed my arms, hoping to give out a relaxed image.

  Nicholas Rambart took the chair opposite me and pointed to the printout. He smiled, ‘Ascot 1919.’

  ‘Did you back a winner?’ Well, what else could I say? There I was caught bang to rights looking at his mug shot.

  He smiled. ‘I did not – I don’t gamble, Mr Nevis. However, it seems you do.’

  I raised my eyebrows and gave a slight tilt to my head. ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes, and I fear you have backed a loser in Eve, my wife,’ his turn to raise the eyebrows and look at me for an answer. I stayed silent. How much did he know of the deal with Eve Rambart? Did he know anything at all other than she had been here, or was he fully aware of our arrangement? And more importantly, would I get out of here alive if he did? The goon at the office door didn’t look the sort that took prisoners.

  Rambart sat back and let out a long breath. ‘She wants me dead, doesn’t she Mr Nevis? She would have told you that and offered a considerable sum of money for you to carry out the...’ He paused, searching for the word; he found it. ‘The hi
t – I think that is the term you people use, hit.’ He shook his head a little, side to side like a headmaster would when wondering what to do with a repeatedly naughty child. ‘Trouble is, Mr Nevis, you took the money, so I assume you do intend to kill me.’ He held up a hand to silence me as I was about to concoct some sort of denial. ‘Please don’t deny it, not unless you have a copper-bottomed reason for your visit to Coutts yesterday and the money transfer?’

  I should have known; a man in his position would have all the angles covered. The bank manger probably made a call as soon as we had left; maybe the chauffeur was a plant put there to keep an eye on the wife? It didn’t matter, Nicholas Rambart knew I had taken a payment to kill him. I had my Walther PK380 in the desk drawer, but would I get to it before one of his men got me? I should probably have a go, as it was obvious I wasn’t going to be allowed to make good on my deal with Eve Rambart. I uncrossed my arms, ready to go for the drawer.

  Rambart stroked his chin, sensing the change in my body language. ‘No, Mr Nevis, I am not going to kill you. In fact, I quite admire you for taking the job; she asked four other people before you and they all refused. You must be very confident in your ability to complete the job – either that or you must be very hard up. I think it’s the first, I think you have confidence in your ability. I like that in people, Mr Nevis, I could use more people like that in my organisation. In fact, I am going to offer you a job.’