by Rik Stone
A fish restaurant nestled in a pine-clad hillside gave the backdrop for the meal and Mehmet thought that if Beyrek’s club was in a similar setting, it would be easier to remain unobserved.
“I want us to spend today on reconnaissance,” Yuri said, chewing messily at a fish kebab. “We need to have a look at the club and get a feel for the local terrain. It’s a couple of kilometres back from the sea on the outskirts of Icmeler. Anna said it’s surrounded by forested hills, same as here, but more mountainous. The ordinance map shows that roads wind around the hills where the club stands. We’ll take the van as close to the top of the hill facing the club as possible. We find a hiding place for the arms and have a good look at our target. Later, probably tomorrow, one of us has to go into the club and test out the Russian girls.”
“Test out?”
Yuri let his body deflate and he sighed. “No, don’t get excited. You don’t actually get to touch the girls.”
Mehmet left the conversation where it was, but he couldn’t help wondering what sort of man Yuri thought he had turned into. Maybe his father?
After the meal and refreshments, they jumped into the Transit and crossed the peninsular along narrow, unmade roads, Yuri driving. To the north of Icmeler, they drove up the mountain-like hill on the blind side of the club. Yuri stopped the van when they came to a passing place forged out of a granite face.
“This will do,” he said, pulling the van near the rock-face and shutting down the engine.
They scrambled to the summit with the bags slung over their backs and Yuri looked for somewhere to hide the weapons.
“Here,” he said, nominating a thick clump of pine trees hovering near a steep drop above the club. “At some point in recent history there’s been a landslide, maybe an earthquake. Whatever it was, it’s left us with a clear view through the fissure to the bottom.”
Yuri removed the contents of all but one bag and put them under and in the shade of the trees.
“It will be difficult making a quick getaway with the girls, never mind humping this lot back down the hill.”
“Don’t worry; we leave everything here bar the handguns.”
Mehmet was suddenly distracted and swatted at a small cloud of mosquitoes before lying belly down next to Yuri. Simultaneously, they lifted binoculars to their eyes and glassed the valley below. The spot Yuri had chosen was in dappled shade, so they could use the equipment without catching a glint from the sun. Once in place, the mozzies returned, having found a large sunbeam that had squeezed through the branches and their legions swarmed a metre overhead.
The Turkish Delight, Beyrek’s club, was the only building in the gulley, so if a firefight kicked off, the chances of the alarm being raised were slim. Yuri reached for one of the Dragunov SVDs and scoped the ravine. The gun’s sights doubled as an illuminated range finder and Yuri used them to gauge distances.
“The club is about seven hundred metres away. If we have to make a stand from the mountaintop for any reason, these sniper rifles can kill with ease and still have a few hundred metres of raw power to spare – one reason we’re using Dragunovs.”
Mehmet picked up the rifle, rested his face against the cheek pad and scoped the area to keep up with what was going on. But Yuri took the rifle from him, laid it next to his on the ground and passed him a pair of binoculars.
“Here, you need a wider view. Take in everything you can about the club and the surrounding area. Watch and absorb for ten minutes, then we’ll go back to the gulet to eat and make drawings of what we’ve seen.”
After making mental notes, they returned to Turgutkoy and ate at the same restaurant, because it was the only one there. Back on the gulet, Yuri set out an artist’s pad on the navigation table.
“Right,” he said, “start with anything that comes to mind.”
Mehmet closed his eyes. “It was like a Spanish hacienda. White stucco walls. The main building had a red-tiled hip roof and was two storeys high. The main entrance had an open storm porch with a similar red-tiled roof and timber posts holding it up.” He stopped and opened his eyes to see the progress.
“Good,” Yuri said. “All window frames on the main block had steel bars, bowed outward so the windows can be opened, but no one can get in or out. There were no fire escapes at the front of the building, so, if there are no stairs out back, any people trapped upstairs will remain trapped. There was a courtyard at the rear with single-storey rooms forming a rectangle, probably where they hold the girls.
“I want you to go in there tomorrow and play at being a Russian sailor from Marmaris marina. If there is nothing in the club that might upset our plan, we go ahead.”
Mehmet scrunched his brow. “But playing a Russian sailor would mean there’d have to be Russian yachts in Marmaris marina. What if they know there are none?”
“Ah, but there is a very large Russian yacht in the marina, so never mind that. Let’s get back to the drawing.”
Mehmet closed his eyes again. “The single-storey buildings have pitched and tiled roofs.”
Yuri took over. “The terrain around the building is clear of ground cover for two hundred metres,” he said, finishing the drawing.
He passed it over and Mehmet nodded. “Yes, this is pretty much how I remember it.”
“Good, the rest of today is your own, but you should get as much rest as you can; tomorrow, you’ll need to be alert. But first, I’ll run the razor around your head to keep the look they gave you at the embassy.”
Mehmet winced.
Chapter 45
The following morning, Mehmet and Yuri went to the mountaintop, lay under the cover of the clump of trees and glassed the ravine below.
“Look, since we were here yesterday, there’s a truck parked up outside the club,” said Mehmet.
“A bus,” Yuri replied. “Probably the latest consignment of girls.”
Four people, three men and a woman, came out of the club and walked the perimeter.
Yuri said, “The gang, and they’re clearly Eastern Bloc. I expect they’re the ones who delivered the girls.”
“Do we still go in?” asked Mehmet, voice giving way to fear.
Yuri smiled and nodded. “Yes, Mehmet. Don’t worry, it’s natural enough to be afraid. You have to learn to live with your fear and do it anyway.” He laughed, lifted a hand and let it shake. “We know as much as we’re going to from watching at this distance. The guards have gone back inside. We’ll give them time to settle and then put the plan into action.”
But before the guards had chance to do that, another bus full of people showed up.
“That’s Beyrek,” Yuri said, as Beyrek stepped from the bus and waited at the entrance porch. He watched the others climb from the bus and gave instruction as they took along what looked like photographic equipment.
“What’s that about?” Mehmet asked.
“Anybody’s guess,” Yuri said.
Mehmet glared at Beyrek, feeling full of hatred. He felt an overwhelming urge to pick up a Dragunov and blow his head off, but considering the girls in the club, he bit his lip and left the thought where it was, in his head. All the same, the daydream ran its course, over and over again. He’d finished blowing the top of Beyrek’s skull away for the umpteenth time and was restarting the fantasy when Beyrek came out of the club – this time with a much larger crowd than had gone in with him.
“That didn’t take long,” Mehmet said, thinking maybe five minutes had passed.
To his surprise, Yuri told him. “It was easily an hour.”
The group got on the bus, took the photographic equipment with them and left.
“Good,” said Yuri. “A lot more leaving than what came; that means there’s only the barman down there.”
“It’s not like you to jump to conclusions,” Mehmet said.
“I know, but it isn’t as if they’re expecting visitors. No, the barman will have been left in charge. Okay, Mehmet, go for it. We’re ready. But don’t take chances. If something isn’t
right, walk away.”
Yuri would follow with the explosives, climbing down the mountainside through the fissure. Mehmet had to appear to have come along the road from Icmeler, so he scrambled down the hill at a slant and came off at a bend on the mountain road further along. He dusted himself down and walked along to the hacienda. The intense heat of the sun had sent a swarm of flies to harbour under the storm porch. Swatting his hand in front of him, Mehmet ducked his head and moved swiftly past and inside. With hands on hips, he stopped, scanned the area and tried to give off an air of superiority.
A stench of sweat had mixed with cheap perfume, and the smoky atmosphere constricted his throat. One side of the room comprised a stained, wooden dance floor with four tables around it. The other half contained a cluster of tables, one of which was occupied by two men drinking and appearing enthralled with each other’s company. The men were Russians and Mehmet was surprised to see his entrance did nothing to disturb their fixation on one another.
The ashtray they shared was full of stubbed-out, cardboard-tubed cigarettes and the men’s nicotine fingers clung on to burning dog-ends. Smoke clouds mushroomed overhead and drifted to where Mehmet stood, inflaming his nostrils and stinging his eyes as well as his throat – Druzhba cigarettes, Yuri’s addiction. The men being Russian meant they were part of the gang. Yuri had been wrong; they hadn’t all gone with Beyrek.
“You having a drink or are you going to start pirouetting?” the barman asked sarcastically.
Mehmet cleared his throat. “Err… no Turkish well very speak,” he answered, deliberating over every word. “Give vodka.”
The two at the table turned their heads as he made his order. They gave him the once-over and returned to what he was now convinced was mutual admiration.
“And a nice Turkish girl?” the barman grinned.
“Niet, no. Not girl now, maybe later,” he said, painstakingly slowing his words.
The Russians stood up, flicked ash on the dance floor, nodded to the barman and left. An engine fired up and a car drove off.
“What, you Russians aren’t very friendly with each other.” He nodded towards the door. “You are all from that yacht in the marina, aren’t you?”
“Dah, but we no speak. I not Russian,” he said, looking to the door through which the men had left and making a spitting gesture. “I Chechen.”
So, the men were from the Russian yacht; Yuri had been right about the gang leaving after all.
Grinning, the bartender raised his eyes skyward, all-knowing. “Right,” he said, moving his interest to polishing glasses.
Mehmet made way to a table and swilled the drink around his glass. There was time to kill; Yuri had to get down the mountainside with the bag they’d left packed. Occasionally, he wet his lips with the vodka but didn’t swallow any: he hated the stuff.
A couple of Turkish girls sauntered in from the open courtyard and stood at the bar, posturing. Their voices rose and they began pulling at each other’s blouses, pretending to argue, pushing one other, shoving, hands brushing breasts, heads thrown back and hair shaking – just about anything that might draw Mehmet’s attention. Much as he wanted to take them up on what looked a very promising offer, he showed no interest and they eventually drifted back to wherever it was they’d come.
“You don’t seem to like girls and you’re not exactly a big drinker. Why come to a place like this?” the bartender said derisively, studying Mehmet suspiciously.
“Not big drinker, no, but maybe want girl now.”
“What do you mean, you want a girl now? They’ve just been and gone, and you didn’t seem very interested,” said the barman.
“Because want Russian girl, treat like shit – told you, I Chechen, not like Russians.” He spat when saying the words.
“There are no Russian girls here.”
“Not true, marina friend tell me. You Russians have. No worry, I pay plenty.”
He considered Mehmet for a moment. “Well, there might be one, but you pay me the money and keep your mouth shut about it. Do you hear?”
“Dah, dah, just woman bring.”
The bartender clicked his tongue and disappeared into the courtyard. Mehmet sat alone for ten minutes and began to feel twitchy, but the barman came back with a girl. About eighteen, she looked nervous, a peasant, definitely not a whore. Her corn-coloured hair struck Mehmet as probably being long, but it was braided and wrapped. Her blue eyes were large and wide apart, gaping fearfully. The dress she wore wasn’t hers: too tight, probably why he’d taken so long to get back with her. The clothing made her figure look full and her skin was pale. If she was destined for Istanbul, the Turks would come in droves for their turn.
“She’s still untried,” the bartender said in Turkish, “so you’ll get your money’s worth. She only speaks Russian but you shouldn’t have too much trouble with that.”
Mehmet grinned. “Not matter anyway. No need words.”
“One thing: if the girl is damaged in any way when you’re finished, I will damage you. Nobody’s supposed to be using them.” He towered menacingly over Mehmet as he gave the warning.
“Not worry. Nothing show.”
The barman sneered and pushed the girl to Mehmet, but then smiled and nodded on taking a roll of lire in exchange.
“Use the room in the corner at the other end of the courtyard. The door has a number ten painted top centre,” he said, pointing.
Mehmet took the girl’s arm and marched her through the double-arched doorway into a courtyard. She whimpered. Five girls sat at open-air tables. They fidgeted as Mehmet passed and looked at his girl sympathetically – they were Russians too. Shingle crunched underfoot and his face burned from their scrutiny.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to harm you,” he whispered in Russian to the girl, but pushed her along as he said it. “We need to talk.”
There were six doors up one side of the quadrangle and the same on the other, another eight along the rear and looking back to the main building, two on either side of a large archway – twenty-four rooms. No fire escape at the rear of the main building, so no exit from upstairs other than the stairway in the bar.
He guided the girl through the door with the number ten painted top centre. “Sit on the bed,” he told her. “What’s your name? Quickly.”
She stiffened. “Natasha.”
“Okay, Natasha, I don’t know what you’re aware of here and I have no idea what these people have in mind for you,” he lied. “But it’s my job to get you out. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“Yes,” she sobbed. “And I do know what they’re doing. They’re going to use us as prostitutes and then sell us on to the highest bidder.”
Mehmet waited a moment to let her tears subside, but she had nothing to add.
“Are the girls in the courtyard part of your group?” he asked.
“Yes, some were already here. There were six of us collected together in a Moscow district, at a club called The Red Lite in Balashikha. We were all excited. We believed we were going to be trained as ballet dancers. But we found out their real plans when we crossed the Black Sea.”
Mehmet sighed. How many girls had slipped this net? The ones here now had a chance if the task was successful, but those who’d come before…
He let ten, fifteen minutes pass and told Natasha the plan while they waited.
“I suppose we’ve been here time enough for what was intended,” he said at last and smiled to himself, remembering his swift performance with Dagmar at the club in Istanbul. “I’m leaving now. When the other girls come back, tell them what we’re doing and to stay calm. And don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He only wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
He crossed the courtyard and the bartender came towards him, shooed the five girls into number ten and followed them in. Mehmet assumed it was to check Natasha’s condition. He went back to an empty bar.
“You want more vodka?” the barman asked on his return.
; “Dah, vodka.” He grinned and chuckled. “And I buy you drink. Russian girl good.” He feigned spitting on the floor because he’d said Russian.
“Thanks,” he said and poured a Raki.
The main entrance door creaked and Mehmet spun his head. Yuri had climbed down the mountainside and was now walking towards the bar. He made no acknowledgements as he positioned himself along from where Mehmet stood. The barman was looking down as Yuri approached and without forewarning, pulled a pistol from under the counter and aimed it at Yuri’s face. Mehmet felt his eyebrows reach for the sky.
“Yuri, it’s good to see you, especially as you’re worth such a lot of money. Beyrek has the word out on you.”
Yuri looked surprised. “Umut, hello. I didn’t know you’d left Istanbul.”
He might have looked surprised but he didn’t sound overly troubled, unlike Mehmet; ‘shit’ was the only word his thoughts could conjure up. He couldn’t believe it; the barman knew Yuri. His thoughts then turned to the Stinger air pen they’d brought from Istanbul. It had a concealed dart-like missile, but doubled as a fountain pen. Yuri had told Mehmet to bring one with him. If he could calmly take it from his trouser pocket now, maybe he could distract Umut. His hand shook as he reached for the pen and then, still trembling, he slid a beer mat across the counter and began writing.
Umut turned the gun on him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Mehmet shrugged, showed him the Stinger. “Pen, want write,” he replied, going for a deep voice, but hearing a high-pitched crackle in its place.
Umut skewed his head slightly to focus on the pen and then returned his attention to Yuri.
“Fuck!” Mehmet shouted. “Look!” Holding the pen in shaking hands, he pointed it towards Umut. When Umut gave him his attention, Mehmet twisted the knurled front ring a half-turn and released the dart from under the loading of a heavy spring. The missile flew and proved Mehmet was as bad a shot with a pen as he was with a gun. Instead of hitting his eye where he had aimed, he merely pierced his ear. Umut yelled and followed his natural instinct to lift a hand to the injury. It was enough to give Yuri an opening.
