TURKISH DELIGHT: Ben Nevis and the Gold Digger book 1

by Barry Faulkner

  A fair amount of noise had been made during all this, so I moved quickly away to a far corner and sat out of sight behind a crate, getting my breath back and waiting to see if there was anybody else around who might have heard something and be coming to investigate. I gave it a couple of minutes – all quiet, time to go.

  Getting out was a damn sight easier than getting in now that I had the code to the side door. I shut it behind me, clicking the lock into position; nobody would know I’d come in that way and once over the wall I lifted the tarpaulin off the razor wire and put it back over the sand heap. The razor wire looked a bit flat and anybody checking would see that there was where the intruder got in, but that didn’t make any odds really – I was out.

  I kept in the dark and made my way back to my car; the guard in the gatehouse was sitting at his table reading. I wondered how Gold had coaxed him out? No doubt she’d tell me later. She didn’t.

  I drove out of the industrial estate and tried the comms; no reply, she was obviously out of its reach so I gave her a call on the mobile.

  ‘What’s happening? Where are you?’

  ‘Coming up to Marble Arch, they haven’t stopped on the way.’

  ‘Okay, stay with them – he must be going home for the night so we could get a break on where he lives.’

  ‘He might be going to the Knightsbidge place. How did you get on, are you out?’

  ‘Yes, got a lot of photos of crates and papers for Woodward. He should be happy.’

  ‘You leave a mess behind?’

  ‘Nah, you know me – a couple of bodies, that’s all.’

  ‘Typical. I hope one of them wasn’t the guard from the front gate, that would have spoilt his best shift ever.’

  ‘Really, how come?’

  ‘I’ll tell you some other time, or maybe I won’t. Hey ho! It’s not Knightsbridge, we’re off up Park Lane.’

  ‘Okay, call me when you stop at wherever it is they’re going.’

  ‘Will do.’

  I thought it best to avoid my office; once the bodies were found I could expect a visit from Rambart. Nothing I had said to him could tie me into it, but he might think it highly coincidental his warehouse got a visit so soon after his visit to me – well, wouldn’t you?

  Gold didn’t call me until I was home and brewing up a coffee – home being a two bedroom apartment in a modern serviced block overlooking the Thames and Jubilee gardens at Waterloo. Costs a bomb, but being serviced nobody gets in that doesn’t live here, and anybody visiting has to get past the security chaps on the door who ring up for permission first. That way I know who’s coming up and know who – if anybody – has been asking for me. Nobody had tonight. The underground car park also gave a separate way out if I ever needed to leave without using the main doors. Well you never know, do you? The final piece of my security was that the apartment was not leased in my name – George Hadlow was who I was registered as with the landlord. George was the first name I’d come across on a gravestone in a great plague cemetery off the York Road. Nobody would be able to trace him, that’s for sure. A man I know who knows another man who knows a man who does fake passports and credit cards provided me with all the documentation and references I needed to secure the lease. It’s not what you know in this world, it’s who you know.

  ********************************

  CHAPTER 9

  Gold was following Rambart’s car off Park Lane and through a side street before it turned off and disappeared down a ramp into the Hilton Hotel car park. She couldn’t follow as the barrier was key card protected, so she drove on and found a place to park a few hundred yards away; double yellow lines, but Nevis could pay if there was a ticket on her windscreen when she came back. She hurried to the hotel; it was busy – very busy. A coach load of tourists were signing in; not much chance of spotting Rambart and the other man in this crowd, but she did the rounds and checked the restaurants and bars in the hope she’d see them. No joy. Oh well, plan B then.

  She walked through the foyer to the ground floor corridors that led to the rooms. As she expected, the half moon side tables at corridor junctions each had a vase with a large bunch of fresh flowers in the middle. She stopped at one, checked around to make sure she was alone and lifted the flowers out, wrapped their stalks in the small table covering cloth and made her way to Reception. The Reception desk was very busy – good, that meant they wouldn’t want to waste time on a delivery girl. She approached the nearest receptionist and interrupted her dealings with a resident signing in.

  ‘Delivery for Mrs Rambart,’ she said with a smile. ‘The lady must have an admirer.’

  The receptionist returned the smile – she didn’t really want to, she’d rather tell this courier to piss off or wait at the back of the queue. But she wasn’t allowed to express her real feelings, not in this job – best to get rid of the pest. ‘We haven’t any staff free at the moment, you’ll have to take them up yourself if she’s in. Sorry.’

  Gold nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll have to be quick though – taxi’s waiting.’

  The receptionist checked her screen. ‘What is the name?’

  ‘Rambart.’

  ‘You’re in luck, it’s occupied. 324, it’s a suite on the third floor,’

  Gold nodded her thanks and made her way to the lifts. There was a crowd waiting for them so she took the stairs and on the first floor dumped the flowers on the first table in the corridor and made her way out of the hotel and back to her car. No ticket.

  *****************************

  I was taking my first sip of a welcome cup of coffee and just switched on the TV when Gold called.

  ‘He’s got a suite at the Hilton.’

  ‘Really? Living the life, eh?’

  ‘Yes, they drove into the Hilton car park so I had to park about a bloody mile away and walk back. I checked the Reception area and restaurants – couldn’t see them, but it was busy so I could have missed them. I nicked a bunch of flowers out of a vase and played the delivery scam – he’s in suite 324.’

  I was surprised. Top class hotel reception staff wouldn’t fall for the delivery scam and would never give out room information; apparently the Hilton isn’t a top class hotel.

  ‘Good work,’ I congratulated her. ‘I’ll check tomorrow and see if it’s a permanent booking – probably is. You want to sleep here tonight?’

  ‘No, I’ve got a few things to do at home. You in the office tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I’m going to play safe and stay away for a couple of days. Once Rambart hears about the goings on at his warehouse he might want to have a chat with me.’

  ‘Yes, probably would. Okay, I’ll see you for lunch at the usual place about one tomorrow. I’ve got some unfinished business with Lord Herbert of Chantbury to sort out in the morning.’

  I laughed. ‘Okay, take care.’

  I sat back and taking Woodward’s mobile from my pocket I sent him the pictures from the warehouse. He wouldn’t be able to say I was slacking on the job.

  *********************************

  CHAPTER 10

  The usual place for lunch with Gold was the cafe on the concourse at Charing Cross station; not the kind of place to take anybody you were trying to impress, but the food wasn’t bad and a window table gave a good view of anybody coming towards it. You can’t be too careful. Golden rule in my game, always meet in crowded public places, there’s safety in numbers and you don’t stand out, nobody notices you.

  We sat there with our fish and chips and talked over the previous day’s work. I had checked the local radio and television news stations and the South London press, but no mention of my warehouse escapade of the night before.

  ‘Rambart obviously doesn’t want the coppers inside the place,’ Gold said, trying to shake some tomato sauce from an obstinate bottle. ‘Two murders in a warehouse would have them crawling all over it by now if it was legit.’

  ‘Self defence, not murders,’ I corrected her.

  ‘Oh yeah? No jury woul
d ever believe that if they knew you.’ Rather more tomato sauce than she needed decided to leave the bottle and overwhelm her piece of fish. ‘Shit!’

  My mobile buzzed. It was Woodward.

  ‘We need to meet.’

  I looked at Gold and covered the phone. ‘Woodward wants to meet, you okay with that?’

  ‘No – nobody knows I work with you and that’s how I want it to stay. Give us twenty minutes to finish lunch and have a coffee and then meet him here. I’ll be around.’

  I nodded. If Gold thought Woodward doesn’t know we work together she’s wrong, but I didn’t say anything and went back to Woodward on the phone. ‘I’m not in my office – giving it a wide berth for a few days. I’m going to get something to eat in half an hour at the cafe on Charing Cross Station, how does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds pretty ghastly, but I’ll see you there in thirty minutes.’

  The phone went dead.

  ‘He’s coming here, thirty minutes.’

  ‘Okay.’ Gold had cleared the sauce off her fish and was tucking in. ‘Should be interesting.’ She pointed her knife at me to make a point,’ You’ve got a couple of decisions to make Ben, and Woodward being in the picture doesn’t exactly make them any easier.’

  ‘Decisions?’

  ‘Well, for a start you have a contract on both the Rambarts – which one are you going to honour? The way I see it, if you hit Eve Rambart you lose eighty grand, and if you hit Nicholas Rambart you lose a million. From the money side of things you should hit Eve and end up with a million from Nicholas, plus the two hundred thousand Eve’s paid already.’

  ‘If he pays up and doesn’t have me killed.’

  ‘There’s always that scenario. You should have taken an advance of him too. These chips are cold.’ She put her cutlery down onto the plate, wiped her mouth with a tissue from her shoulder bag and gave me a ‘make your choice’ smile. ‘Right, I’m going to dig a bit more into Eve Rambart. I’ve a feeling something’s not quite right with her.’ She stood and swung the bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll call you later.’ And she was gone, merging into the commuters outside.

  My chips were okay, so I finished my meal and fetched a coffee from the counter. Two sips in and Woodward stood in front of me, a disdainful look on his face; nobody could look more out of place in the Charing Cross Station cafe than Clarence Woodward. He took a handkerchief from his light brown overcoat and flapped it at the seat before sitting down. I fought hard to keep from smiling too broadly.

  ‘I shall refrain from passing comment on your choice of meeting place, Nevis – suffice to say it wouldn’t have been mine.’

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Good Heavens no, I shouldn’t think the coffee here has been within a thousand miles of a coffee bean.’ He undid the top button of his coat and pulled out a printed paper from his inside pocket. ‘You did have some fun last night didn’t you, eh?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘We’ve had the Purley warehouse under surveillance for some time – your antics there were seen and watched, although apparently those of a young lady working with you were far more interesting to our chaps than yours, but we won’t go into that. I take it she is the one known in certain circles as Gold Digger?’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  He smiled. ‘Of course you don’t. Anyway, it seems two bodies were removed from the premises shortly after the arrival of the day shift this morning – the day shift that comprises of a minibus of illegal immigrants who are kept in a house a few miles away in Croydon. You see Nevis, we do have an idea what is going on with Rambart inside that warehouse, although it all seems perfectly legal on the outside; but we don’t have enough information to get a warrant issued and take a look. No need for a warrant now – your photos confirm our worst fears. Rambart is an arms dealer; a perfectly honest one on the outside, licensed annually, always gets the necessary export documents for the product he moves – all above board. But unfortunately he exceeds his license; he’s very clever and we have not been able to nab him so far, but these photos show us a crack in his operation where we may be able to get in and bring him down.’

  ‘They do?’ I should have gone for more than five grand a month.

  ‘Yes, indeed they do. The markings on the crates are Turkish – the crates are destined for Cyprus. As I am sure you are aware Cyprus is divided into two halves, one half Greek and the other half Turkish, with a UN buffer border between the two factions since their little altercation in 1974. So the arms in those crates are destined for Turkey via Cyprus, and then from Turkey to who knows where, but our best guess would be to Iran. Both Turkey and Iran have a bad habit of arming terrorist groups – Iran is quite open about it, Turkey not so. Now the point is that you may remember a missile attack on the Aramaco fuel depot in Jeddah a couple of years ago?’

  I nodded, I remembered it vaguely. An oil storage plant was hit by missiles and blown up, oil prices shot up but the Saudis had it back on stream pretty quickly.

  Woodward continued. ‘The missiles came from Yemen, fired by the Houthi rebels. Not of general knowledge is that the missiles were British made; and when that was confirmed the Saudis went bloody mad because we are signed up to the UN Covenant on who you can sell arms to and who you can’t, selling to Yemen is strictly forbidden. The markings also showed that those missiles were bought from a UK arms manufacturer and the paperwork trail leads from them to Rambart, with the final destination being India. Those missiles obviously didn’t go to India, they went to the Houthi via Cyprus, Turkey and Iran. If we pull Rambart in he will have his back well covered, and no doubt have the proper documents from India listing their receipt of the missiles; money buys anything in India, especially from Government officials, so no point in going down that road. However, now we know the route his clandestine missiles take we can be with the ones from the Purley warehouse all the way to their real final destination and get the proof we need to shut him down.’ He smiled at me. ‘Or should I say, you can be with them all the way and get the proof we need.’ He sat back with that checkmate look on his face again.

  ‘I can?’ I didn’t like the sound of this. ‘How?’

  ‘Rambart has his crates booked on a freight flight Heathrow to Lanarca the day after tomorrow. You are booked on a military flight from RAF Wattisham to our base in Akrotiri, Cyprus tomorrow afternoon. Flight leaves 2pm – have whichever passport you are using at present and don’t miss it.’

  ‘And what do I do in Cyprus?’

  ‘You follow the crates to their destination, you get proof Rambart is breaking international law and shipping them to Turkey, and then destroy them’

  ‘Destroy armed missiles?’ That sounded a bit dodgy to me.

  ‘Yes, of course – can’t have them being used, can we.’

  ‘And just how do I destroy them?’

  ‘Oh no doubt you’ll find a way – as long as you don’t launch the damn things against a friendly power, I really don’t care.’ He rose and buttoned his coat. ‘Have fun, Nevis – and of course if anything goes wrong we will deny all knowledge of you and the operation. Turkish jails have a reputation for being rather insanitary, so do take care.’ He gave me a curt nod and left.

  My mobile buzzed. It was Gold.

  ‘Was that Woodward?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, I hung around to get a look at him so I know him in future. He had two shadows.’ The top people in the security networks never go anywhere without a couple of bodyguards along for the ride.

  ‘How do you fancy a few days in Cyprus?’

  ‘Cyprus?’

  ‘Yes, apparently that’s where Rambart’s crates are going and my job is to follow them from there to establish their final destination and destroy them.’

  ‘So how do I fit in?’

  ‘I want you to follow me, watch my back. I’m dispensable and I’m too young to die in some far Eastern cesspit jail. I’m on an RAF flight to the British base at Akrotiri tomorrow afternoo
n – the crates are being flown out to Larnarca the next day.’

  ‘All a bit of a rush, isn’t it?’

  ‘Can you manage it?’

  ‘Of course I can. I’ll give you a bell in Cyprus.’

  ‘Don’t forget your sunscreen.’

  The line cut off.

  That’s what I love about Gold, no if and buts – whatever I throw at her she can handle. Nobody I would rather have in my corner.

  *****************************

  CHAPTER 11

  The flight was boring, Looking down at clouds is very soothing but after a while very boring. I was the only passenger on a freight plane full of military supplies. My mood lightened as the clouds dispersed and Cyprus appeared below us drenched in sunshine sitting in the middle of the deep blue Mediterranean. At the Akrotiri base I had assumed I would be met by somebody and given a room. I was, that somebody was a young Lieutenant Commander. He was waiting at the foot of the steps as I came down from the plane, my small rucksack of essentials over my shoulder.

  ‘Mr Nevis?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Lieutenant Commander Jones.’ He introduced himself, saluted and shook my hand. ‘I’m your local lead partner on this mission, sir.’

  A Lieutenant Commander? He looked about twenty four – I thought that senior ranks were older? Mind you, James Bond was a Commander in the books and he wasn’t very old either, so I must be wrong. Jones was in dark blue shirt and trousers, very informal; he looked very fit and sported a tight one-inch crew cut that accentuated his sharp features. I thought he was probably SBS – most UK military bases on coastlines have an SBS unit woven in.