TURKISH DELIGHT

by Barry Faulkner

‘You just about made it then,’ said Jones, pulling me aboard. ‘Another couple of minutes and we would have gone. What the hell’s going on up there at the road – are they after you?

  I fell into the boat with a feeling of great relief as Taylor increased the revs a little, not enough to be heard on land, and we headed out to sea.

  ‘Yes, I blew up their ammo dump. I don’t think they liked that.’

  The whistle of bullets through the air above us had Jones flinging himself down joining me on the boat floor with Williams. Williams looked at Jones.

  ‘Return fire, sir? We have company starboard side?’

  We looked, and there about a mile away the lights of three fast Turkish Naval skiffs were heading our way lights blazing in the darkness.

  ‘Bloody Hell! Get onto base and have some support come out to meet us. Taylor, open her up.’

  The FB jolted into warp speed as Taylor pushed the engines to max and hit the injector switch. Williams got on the radio and Jones pulled open a compartment door on the boat floor and lifted out a bazooka and pointed to a box of rockets inside. ‘You know how to load one of these, Nevis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, grab those and let’s go.’ He hoisted the tube onto his shoulder, positioning the shoulder stop flange and knelt on the starboard side, aiming it over the edge of the FB. Took a rocket from the box and opened the bazooka lid – that’s the end cover – pushed in a rocket until it clicked into the breach before closing it and securing the hasp. I tapped Jones hard on the shoulder. ‘Ready,’ I shouted and ducked away covering my ears.

  The third one we fired hit home and the nearest skiff which was still a good six hundred metres from us went up in an explosion of fire as the rocket exploded on impact leaving burning pieces of the boat floating on the sea.

  We were now pretty much out of range of anything shot from the shore and the FB’s twin Mercedes engines were showing their class, putting evermore distance between us and the chasing skiffs.

  ‘What the...?’ Williams pointed towards the skiffs. Behind them and catching up fast were two Turkish Naval launches with machine guns mounted on the forward superstructure. We were out of range, but those boats can move so we wouldn’t be for much longer. I tapped Jones on the shoulder and shouted in his ear what we had seen. He moved his head from the bazooka sights and looked.

  ‘Jesus, Nevis! Are you sure you blew up an ammo dump and not the President’s palace?’ He shouted over his shoulder to Taylor. ‘Weave!’

  Taylor started to zigzag weave the boat. Then we heard the sound that strikes fear into any soldier out in the open: the whirring of helicopter blades.

  It was a good way away from us and coming from the direction of the beach.

  ‘Are we in international waters?’ Jones shouted to Taylor, who nodded ‘Affirmative.’

  I knew what Jones was thinking. We wouldn’t stand a chance against a ‘copter out here in the open waters, especially if it was carrying air to ground missiles, so we would raise the white flag and surrender. Doing that in international waters would limit the chances of being held for more than a couple of days; our masters would say we were just on patrol and must have strayed out of the Cypriot three-mile limit. But if we were in Turkish waters that was a different thing all together; we’d be put on a show trial no doubt, and either rot in a Tukish jail or be part of a prisoner swap.

  The whoosh of a missile had us all diving to the bottom of the boat – seems they didn’t want to take prisoners. I was wrong; the distant boom of it hitting home on one of the Turkish launches that disintegrated in a white explosion of flame and debris shooting into the air stopped my thoughts for a moment. Then as one we all turned and looked towards the Cyprus coast. Bearing down on us were two SBS Pacific 24 Mark 4 Royal Navy armed launches – the missile had come from one of them; the firepower they had far outclassed the Turkish launches. Our chasers had seen them too, the other launch and skiffs turned for home and the helicopter banked away towards the land.

  In a minute the first Pacific drew close by and a smiling face looked down on us from the rail.

  ‘I might have known it would be you upsetting the neighbours Jonesy, any casualties?’

  Jones saluted. ‘No sir, glad to see you, sir.’

  He was bloody right there.

  ********************************

  CHAPTER 17

  Back at the base on Cyprus we learnt that the Pacifics had been on patrol in international waters looking for people traffickers’ boats coming from Syria when they picked up Williams’s call for assistance.

  And that was it – no debriefing, no written statements to do and sign, nothing. Woodward had said I didn’t exist, that I wasn’t there and the powers that be would deny all knowledge of me, but that was par for the course in my N14 days, so no change there.

  After a hot shower and a good sleep I wandered down to the restaurant and joined Jones and his crew for a full English breakfast – not as tasty as a Turkish one, but after a day without food it did the job.

  ‘I don’t know what you were doing in Turkey, Nevis, but you opened up a can of worms.’ Jones spoke between mouthfuls of sausage and fried potato. ‘Whatever you blew up could be seen from the spy satellites – the base is on red alert. You certainly annoyed somebody.’

  ‘Couldn’t be me – I’m not even here.’

  They all laughed.

  I was surprised Woodward didn’t ring to congratulate me, but I suppose it was to be expected as the Turks would have increased radio and telephone traffic surveillance in the hope of picking up some evidence of who the bomber was. I gave Gold a call.

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes, some cheap hotel with musty bed sheets – lovely.’

  ‘What about Rambart, any sign of her?’

  ‘I’ll ring you on a burner.’

  ‘Okay.’ I closed my phone; she’d ring me back on a disposable burner phone and then ditch it after the call – anybody picking up the call wouldn’t have a chance of tracing it. Can’t be too careful. My phone rang and she was back.

  ‘The whole place is at fever pitch – we must have knocked out most of their stored armaments. There’s a cafe opposite the Defence Ministry here and I’ve basically taken up residence. Rambart’s been in and out of there with some high ranking officers. They’re turning over the old town – the rumour on the street and in the daily papers is that it was the Kurds, the PKK.’

  ‘Right,’ that made sense – Turkey’s main enemy is the Kurdistan Worker’s Party, or PKK; they claim to represent Turkey’s largest ethnic group, the Kurds, who make up twenty percent of the Turkish population. They’ve been battling the Turkish state off and on for some thirty years demanding independence, and if the Turks can blame the PKK for anything they will as it gives them an excuse to crack down on them with superior firepower. Mind you, that firepower would have been a bit diminished now.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ I asked Gold.

  ‘A couple more days – the security at the airport has been ramped up, so I’ll let that cool down a bit and fly back to Cyprus and then London. What about you?’

  ‘I think I’m out of here later on a freight flight to Stansted.’

  ‘Okay, take care.’

  ‘You too.’

  Click.

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

  I was indeed put on the freight flight to Stansted and expected Woodward to meet me as I came down the gangway – nobody, not even a car to get me home. I felt like sending him a rude text but decided to stay professional. Yes, I know, makes a change! Woodward obviously had no intention of being seen with me, just in case anybody had put two and two together and linked me being out of the country and returning on a freight flight from Cyprus with the Turkish explosion. What if one of the civilians working the Cyprus base was feeding information to the Turks? It’s quite possible, if not very probable. Word of my appearance at the base, my disappearance at the time of the warehouse attac
k, my reappearance afterwards and the deploying of the SBS could be put together to give a possible scenario and get the British Ambassador called into the Turkish Defence ministry and shouted at. No proof though, but a photo of Clarence Woodward, Head of MI6, greeting me at Stansted would complete the jigsaw. If you check the perimeters of any military airfield you’ll find a band of weather hardy plane fanatics with their ears tuned to the control tower and their cameras clicking away at the planes and personnel. You’ve probably guessed what I’m going to tell you next – yes, not all these nerds are real nerds; in amongst them will be a few foreign embassy employees, clicking away with their Diplomatic Immunity papers in their pocket. Information is the most valuable commodity in the international spying game.

  It was nice to sleep in my own bed and well past nine before I rose the next morning. I sat with a cup of coffee, looking through the French doors that led out to my balcony at the Thames and the river traffic as I thought through my position. The basic job of killing one or both of the Rambarts had been compromised by Woodward’s intervention. His request, or should I say order, had been carried out; he now knew both Rambarts were arms-dealing to the Turks and any missile sales from them to a terrorist organisation had been knocked on the head – that is until they sent another lot through. Perhaps I should have a quiet word with him – MI6 isn’t adverse to knocking off somebody who poses a threat to the UK. If I could get a verbal contract, and it would only ever be a verbal one, with a few grand attached, then this whole thing could end up as quite a good earner for Gold and me.

  I wandered into the office at about 10.30 and half an hour later Woodward and his goons arrived; I was expecting them – he would have had my apartment and office under surveillance since I got back.

  He fluttered his handkerchief over the chair seat before sitting down. I suppose if you go around in a beige Crombie you have to be a bit careful; I made a mental note to put a bit of chewing gum on the seat edge prior to his next visit.

  ‘Well Nevis, glad you got out in one piece,’ he said, pushing the handkerchief into a side pocket. ‘You seem to have gone a bit over the top – our Ambassador has been called in at Ankara and I myself have had to endure a rather brusque meeting with the Minister of Defence, and all our Mediterranean bases are now on red alert. Your action reminds me somewhat of a line in my favourite film: ‘You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.’

  Thankfully he didn’t try to copy Michael Caine’s Cockney accent.

  ‘You did tell me to destroy the missiles,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Indeed I did, Nevis, and you successfully achieved that with a little help from the SBS by sinking the freighter. Mission accomplished – home, James.’

  ‘His name’s Jones.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The SBS commander who was with me – Jones, not James.’

  ‘It’s an idiom.’ He paused and took a deep breath, doubting my knowledge of the word’s meaning, ‘Google it.’

  ‘So if my mission is accomplished like you say, that’s it, I’m out?’

  ‘Well I really don’t think I can let you do anymore damage, do you? Two dead at Purley and God knows how many on the freighter and in Antakya. You’re a walking Grim Reaper.’

  ‘What about the Rambarts?’

  ‘My department will cover that – you just carry on with handling security for Eve Rambart as she asked you, and feed me back any relevant information on her and her husband’s arms dealing.’

  I’d forgotten about that little lie I’d told Woodward about being hired for security reasons. I nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Has she been in contact since she’s been back?’

  My heart skipped a beat – since she’d been back? Gold would have surely let me know if Eve Rambart was on her way back to the UK. Now all of a sudden I was worried about Gold; was she all right? Had her cover been broken?

  ‘I didn’t know she was back,’ I said as calmly as I could.

  Woodward nodded, ‘Must have flown in last night – she’s been seen at the apartment. I take it she didn’t see you at anytime in Turkey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes if she had recognised you.’

  ‘Why don’t you arrest her? You’ve got the photos of her getting on the ship.’

  ‘Not enough – she could have just been a passenger to Turkey taking a holiday. Freighters do carry the odd passenger.’

  ‘Naval freighters?’

  ‘I want to let her run, Nevis – see who else we might net in the Rambarts’ circle of business partners. So it could be useful having you on the inside with Eve Rambart. But just remember that as far as my department goes, you don’t exist.’ He stood and brushed down the back of his coat. ‘Good day, Nevis.’ He stopped at the door and turned back. ‘Oh, and as far as I personally am concerned, well done.’ He gave me the briefest of smiles and was gone.

  The first thing I thought was that Woodward hadn’t taken back his mobile; people like him don’t forget things like that, crafty bugger.

  The second thing I thought was, how the hell did Eve Rambart get back to the UK without Gold knowing? I took a burner from the drawer and dialled her number.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Wonderful, my clothes are beginning to smell as musty as the bed. Hang on, I’ll go outside – too many people in this café. Everybody’s on edge; there’s a fifty thousand lira reward for information leading to an arrest.’

  I could hear a babble of talking and chairs scraping on a tiled floor as she left the cafe.

  ‘Okay, all clear now.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me Rambart had flown out?’

  There was a brief silence. ‘She hasn’t, she’s still here.’

  ‘Woodward says she flew into London last night.’

  ‘He’s wrong – I’ve seen her go into the Defence Ministry again and she hasn’t come out yet.’

  ‘So who did his men see in her apartment last night?’ I was asking myself the question as well.

  ‘It wasn’t Eve Rambart.’

  ‘Something funny going on here.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s sent a double to take the heat away from here? She must realise she’s in the frame for illegal arms-dealing after the freighter and warehouse explosions; pretty obvious to her that somebody’s trying to disrupt the business. She’s definitely still here.’

  ‘Okay, I think I’ll go and get a visual at her apartment – see who it is.’ I could hear sirens in the background over the phone.

  ‘I’ve got company, I’m fifty metres from the cafe and a jeep full of armed police has just stormed in. I’m off – I’ll give the hotel a miss, I’ve got my passport and cards with me so I’ll go to the airport and see if I can get a flight out; if not I’ll mingle with the departure crowds – it’s a busy airport so I should be able to blend in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I’ll call you, don’t call me.’

  Click.

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

  CHAPTER 18

  Knightsbridge was busy – isn’t it always? The jostling crowds of shoppers made it impossible to see if I had a tail. Gold would have spotted one in an instant. I was taking a chance but I needed to know if in fact Eve Rambart was back home or somebody else was being used to create a diversion for her.

  The street door into the office block we watched from was open; it was only 3-o’clock, business hours, I made my way up the stairs to the first floor and checked the office we’d been in before; it was still empty so I used my debit card to slip open the Yale lock on the door and went inside. I left the door ajar so anybody seeing it would think I was a prospective tenant taking a look; the landlord wouldn’t be around – these places are owned by major investment companies and they do everything through agents.

  I looked across the road to Eve Rambart’s apartment and took a small pair of binoculars from my pocket and homed in on the windows. The blinds wer
e open and I could see through the lounge into the kitchen where she was sitting at the breakfast bar, drinking a cup of something and reading a magazine. Woodward was right, she was home – Gold had missed her somehow.

  I could do the job right now: walk across the road, up the stairs, ring the bell and bang bang – be a million pounds richer when Nicholas Rambart paid me out. If he paid me out, I certainly wouldn’t be meeting him to collect the promised fee – probably collect a bullet not a cheque if I did. No, he could do a bank transfer and then I’d make good my debt to Eve Rambart, you see I have got some principles, kill him and be safe. But I wasn’t going to do the job right now; as I said before, I plan jobs, plan them to the slightest detail. I knew where the bodies would end up: a council crematorium in Streatham. I had a cash deal with two of the workers. Money talks, even in death.

  My phone rang. It was Gold.

  ‘I’m on a local flight back to Cyprus.’

  ‘Well done, you got out alright then?’

  ‘Yes, so much confusion at the airport it was quite easy.’

  ‘Good, I’m in that Knightsbridge office overlooking Rambart’s place – she’s inside, Woodward was right.’

  ‘He wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, he wasn’t?’

  ‘Eve Rambart is on this flight sitting four rows in front of me.’

  I was silent for a moment checking the binoculars. There she was, sitting at the breakfast bar. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Then who am I looking at in the apartment?’

  ‘Or who am I looking at sitting four rows in front of me on the plane?

  ‘Two Eve Rambarts?’

  We both said the obvious in unison. ‘Twins?’

  My mind raced. ‘That’s brilliant, bloody brilliant. One acts normally and is on show, whilst the other’s hidden in the background doing the dirty deals. Jesus, it’s brilliant!’

  ‘What do you want me to do, stay with her? What if she gets a flight from Lanarka to Heathrow?’

  ‘Let me know. I think she probably will – nothing in Cyprus to interest her. Just let me know and I’ll pick her up at Heathrow and see where she goes, and then you get a later flight back here.’