TURKISH DELIGHT: Ben Nevis and the Gold Digger book 1

by Barry Faulkner

  ‘Any more luggage, sir?’

  ‘No, everything I need is in here.’ I tapped my rucksack. Inside it was a change of underwear, fresh socks, a razor, lockpicks, eight-inch double edge knife in leather sheath and my Walther PPK, plus a box of a hundred bullets. ‘And my name is Nevis. Don’t call me sir.’ I hate any deference.

  He smiled. ‘Okay, Nevis. I’m Jones.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jones.’

  He walked me over to a three-story barrack block and saw me into my room on the second floor. Small, compact, bed, shower, wardrobe, table and chair – who could ask for more? Jones brought me up to speed.

  ‘The crates arrive in Larnaca tomorrow – I have eyes on them at the airport and expect them to be classed as Turkish-Cypriot military supplies, so they won’t be stopped at Customs and will be taken by armed convoy through the UN buffer zone, up to the border and into one of the Turkish side’s border posts. Those posts are pretty big military bases and the crates will probably be opened and checked there and then sent on to one of their ports in Famagusta Bay –probably Trikomo as that’s where most of their naval operations work from. Then it’s over the Med and into Turkey, probably landing at İskenderun which is a major port and naval base. Then who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘Some terrorist group is waiting for them somewhere, but they are going to be disappointed.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘My orders are that as soon as we get proof the missiles are in Turkish hands, we destroy them.’

  Woodward had said that to me too. That was worrying. Missiles tend to have rather a loud bang and a wide destruction area.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We’ll think of something. Anyway, I expect you’d like a shower and some sleep – looks like a busy few days coming up. Restaurant’s on the ground floor.’

  ‘Okay, I think I might wander out and find a local place to eat.’

  Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid you won’t. You are not even here officially, and the Turks take great care in checking for new faces at the gates. They have a snapper there twenty-four seven, if you went out your picture would be on the data scanners in Ankara Military HQ within minutes. The restaurant on base is quite good really, but stick to the steak and chips – none of the local stuff, don’t want any tummy trouble when we are on the mission.’ He laughed and left me.

  Jones was right, the steak and chips – plus fried tomatoes and onion rings – was great. Then it was time for sleep. Funny how a flight drains your energy, I didn’t need any rocking.

  **********************************

  Breakfast in the restaurant the next morning was equally as good as the meal the day before; the full English was tempting but knowing I’d have a busy day ahead I just piled in the carbs with numerous rounds of toast and marmalade. I noticed Jones sitting at another table with two other men; all looked as fit as him so I assumed they were his SBS team. He didn’t acknowledge me in the restaurant but caught me up outside as I took a wander round.

  ‘The crates come into Larnaca on a three o’clock flight. Get some rest – I’ll pick you up at your room at two and we’ll get you fitted out.’

  Fitted out sounded ominous, I presumed he meant with firearms. I was already getting the adrenalin buzz that concentrates the senses before a job. What fun Pip, eh?

  I couldn’t get anymore sleep so I just rested. I gave Gold a call about midday to see if she was in Cyprus yet. She was.

  ‘I got a flight from Birmingham early this morning, managed to book a room at the Lysithia Hotel – it’s about three miles from the base. What’s happening?’

  I filled her in on the details.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get a flight to Turkey then. I have an old friend in Ankara –not a supporter of the current regime. I’ll ask him to get a place in İskenderun tied up in case you need a bolt hole.’

  ‘I like your confidence in me.’

  ‘Nothing to do with confidence in you. You’re not on your own in this one Ben, but even if you were I’d do exactly the same – you know I would. You pay me to watch your back, so shut up and let me do my job. Make sure you have the button with you too.’ She’s so officious.

  ‘Okay, wish me luck.’

  ‘Luck doesn’t come into it. Preparation and the right tools for the job does, not luck, make sure you have those with you.’ See what I mean, so officious. Reminds me of my primary school teacher Mrs Harris.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Bollocks, and put the button in now.’

  Mrs Harris never said ‘bollocks’.

  Gold ended the call.

  The button was a small disc the size of a coat button which had a lithium battery inside that transmitted a location signal for up to a mile and a half – pretty good range for the size of it. Gold could then pick up the signal on an app on her phone and overlay it onto an area map to see exactly where I was. It had come in very useful before; when I got into tight situations and needed a distraction she could arrange one to help get me out. I had a deep cut in the heel of my right service boot that I had cut long ago where the button lived. I prized it out with my knife and inserted a new battery from the four I keep in my rucksack pocket and pushed it back in.

  Jones came for me at two and we walked across the runway and apron to the far side of the base and a brick-built single-storey building. Inside reminded me of a quartermaster’s store: shelves of various clothing, all black.

  Jones pointed to them. ‘Kit yourself out, Nevis – your size will be there somewhere. Leave your clothes in one of the trugs.’ He pointed to a row of five plastic trugs on the floor against the back wall; two already had civilian clothes in them, all neatly folded too.

  Pretty soon we were dressed to kill, literally. The only thing he let me keep were my boots; they were black anyway, with deep sound-resistant rubber soles, and their steel toecaps kicked at force into an assailant’s shin would break his tibia – if aimed a couple of feet higher he’d never have children. And, of course, the button was in the heel. Other than that I had a bulletproof back and front vest, a groin protector that resembled a cricketer’s box, and a one piece black stab-proof onesie that went over everything and zipped up down the front that had thin titanium shin guards sewn in the legs. I also had supple gloves with steel knuckle covers, a balaclava, head torch, night goggles and a small black rucksack that I put them in, slipping in my gun, Woodward’s mobile, and my own phone at the same time.

  ‘The material is stab-proof, but not bulletproof – so you may feel like Superman inside it, but you’re not,’ Jones warned me. ‘Here, clip this to your belt.’

  He handed me the comms battery and the headset that plugged into it before pressing numbers into a keypad on a steel cabinet on the back wall. He opened it and took out a Sig P226 pistol and C8 SFW carbine with two magazines, both full, and a box of ammo for the Sig. I filled the Sig magazine and slotted on the DCF magazine, putting the rest into the rucksack. Next out of the cabinet were two bricks of orange coloured Semtex explosive wrapped in greaseproof paper and two timer fuses. You can drop Semtex on the floor and it won’t explode, it needs the fuse. One brick and a fuse into my rucksack the other into Jones’s.

  ‘That’s all you get – hopefully you won’t need to use the guns. All the registration marks are filed off, so neither weapon can be traced back to anywhere if you get caught. I expect Woodward told you that as far as the UK is concerned you don’t exist – none of us do – but I am reliably informed that you have past experience in this sort of operation.’ He smiled knowingly at me. ‘Okay, I think we are ready. Sort your comms out,’

  I did that and flicked the button on the battery box to on. I could hear Jones as he checked his team.’

  ‘This is Jones. Comms, are we online yet?’

  ‘Comms online.’

  Good. Williams, you there?’

  ‘Williams loud and clear.’

  ‘Good. Taylor, you there?’

  ‘Taylor loud and clear.’

  ‘Good.�
�� He looked at me. ‘Nevis, you there?’

  ‘Nevis loud and clear.’

  ‘Good. Williams, update.’

  ‘Crates have left by lorry and making towards the border – they are through Pyla in the UN buffer zone heading towards Pergamos. Williams out.’

  ‘Okay, myself and Nevis will take over at Pergamos. Description please, Williams. Jones out.’

  ‘Three HGVs, all deep green, no markings, driver and mate in each. Williams out.’

  ‘Right. Williams, you two lot back off now and make ready for plan B.’

  ‘Will do. Williams out.’

  Jones took an internal phone off its base on the wall and stabbed in a number. Somebody must have answered pretty quick. ‘Jones here – we are ready.’ He looked at me. ‘All set?’

  ‘Yes, I like the code names, Taylor, Williams and Jones .’

  He laughed. ‘They are the top three surnames in the UK, we don’t even know what each other’s real names are – saves any confusion.’

  He opened the door to the building and almost immediately a UN liveried Transit pulled up as close as it could to the door and its side door slid open. Jones jumped in and motioned me to do the same. As soon as I was inside the door was slid shut by a blue beret UN soldier who stepped through from the rear into the front passenger seat as the driver moved us off.

  ‘The UN?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. They are the peacekeeping force out here, and what we are doing is trying to keep the peace, isn’t it?’ He smiled.

  I shrugged and looked out of the one-way tinted side window.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jones continued. ‘If we had walked across the base dressed like this and taken a British jeep we would have been picked up by satellite and raise concerns in Turkey. A UN van travelling along the UN border on a regular patrol won’t.’

  I nodded. Who was I to question the logic in that?

  **************************

  CHAPTER 12

  It was a bumpy ride over an unmade back road to get into the UN buffer zone and then an equally bad road that meandered along between the Greek security fencing; and barbed wire a hundred metres to our left and the Turkish security fencing and barbed wire a hundred metres to our right. Every now and again a watchtower showed above the fence on the Turkish side, but whether they were manned or not, I couldn’t tell. Seeing that there hadn’t been any real flare-up between the two sides since 1974, I doubted it.

  After thirty minutes or so the UN soldier in the passenger seat turned and spoke.

  ‘We are coming up to the forest now, the tree canopy covers the road so you two can jump out here. No watchtowers up here – and Jones, you know where the tunnel is don’t you?’

  Jones nodded, ‘Yes.’

  The tunnel? This was beginning to sound like a World War Two prison camp escape film.

  A couple of minutes later the tree canopy covered the road sheltering it from prying drones, the van pulled up and passenger jumped out and slid the side door open. We jumped out and I followed Jones into the undergrowth towards the Turkish side, hearing the door slide shut behind us and the van drive off. Twenty metres into the bush Jones hit the ground and I copied and lay twelve feet to his right. All was quiet.

  ‘Give it ten minutes – they fly drones, so if we were seen they should have a patrol up here by then. We’ll be able to hear their vehicles if they do.’

  The wait gave me time to assess my position. I was about to go uninvited into Turkish military territory, and they aren’t exactly known for their adherence to human rights; I was to find and destroy some missiles, and if Nicholas Rambart shows up kill him to claim my eight hundred grand bounty from his wife. Easy peasy – be back in time for breakfast, eh? No way.

  Time to move.

  ‘Okay, this way.’ Jones led as we ducked our way through the undergrowth until he stopped, sank to his knees and brushed away the dead leaves and twigs on the ground to reveal a large steel ring on a hinge overgrown with grass and weeds. It took Jones a few heaves until the grass gave up and released a metal cover, much the same size as a street manhole which Jones pulled open.

  ‘In you go – you’ll need your head torch on.’

  I flicked it on and took a tentative step onto the first rungs of a steel ladder leading down the tight entrance. Ten steps later I was at the bottom and saw a tunnel leading off; above me Jones was in and pulled the cover back down, shutting out and light from outside. He joined me at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘I’ll lead,’ he said, ducking into the tunnel which was square but only about four foot high, meaning we had to crawl on all fours along it. It was pretty basic, not exactly state of the art – just a hole hewn from the solid rock; the only benefit was that it sloped away from us as we crawled along, which meant any rain that had come in had flowed away and the floor was pretty dry. After ten minutes Jones stopped and looked round.

  ‘Take a breather. You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. how much further?’

  ‘Nearly there. It comes out on a hillside – originally it was dug by the Greek Cypriots who were taken prisoner in the war, only they travelled the other way of course.’ He smiled.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It comes out on a steep slope in dense undergrowth, so the Turks don’t go there and haven’t found it. Last bit coming up, ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  At least there wasn’t a ladder to climb at the end, just an overgrown open hole that took us a few minutes to hack through and emerge into the undergrowth on the hillside. Obviously the tunnel wasn’t in regular use.

  We sat there, looking through the foliage down to Famagusta Bay about two miles away; lights were beginning to twinkle as day moved into night.

  Jones flicked on his comms. ‘Jones to Coms,’

  ‘Comms reading you loud and clear, Jones.’

  ‘Update please, Comms.’

  ‘Comms to Jones, we have satellite coverage of the lorries – they have passed Prastio and turned right at Lefkoniko, heading towards Trikomo or maybe Bogaz. Both those places have docks, but Trikomo is clear at present and Bogaz has two freighters moored dockside and some activity loading one of them.’

  ‘Thank you, Comms. Looks like Bogaz then. Williams, are you hearing this?’

  ‘Williams to Jones. Yes, got that.’

  ‘Okay, good. Move to three miles offshore within twenty minutes of Bogaz.’

  ‘Williams, will do.’

  ‘Jones over and out.’ He turned to me, ‘Right, we need some transport to get us to Bogaz.’

  I was a little confused. ‘Why are we going this way when a fast skiff from the base could get us there in half an hour?’

  Jones laughed. ‘You’re right, it could – but a fast skiff leaving the base and going towards Bogaz would be picked up by the Turks’ radar and have three Turkish fast skiffs for company within a couple of miles. Turkey claims sovereign rights over a three-mile coastal water zone around north Cyprus; it’s disputed of course, but they tend to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Coming overland is the best option of arriving unobserved.’

  We moved at a pretty fast pace down the slope towards the lights, and pretty soon we hit the Prastio road and followed it, keeping a good fifty metres off to the side of it, sheltered by the trees and bushes. After a mile we stopped and ducked down; a hundred metres in front of us a truck stop in a wide parking area beside the road shone out its lights into the now total darkness, illuminating the vehicles waiting as their owners took a break inside. It was busy, the vehicles ranging from lorries to motorbikes; the customers were coming and going from inside the building from where we could hear a general hubbub of noise, music and laughter. The woodland gave us cover right up to the back row of parked cars furthest from the building.

  Jones motioned towards a Lexus which was furthest from the building and nearest to us. We moved up beside it; I knelt behind and aimed my C8 carbine at the truck stop door as Jones used the stock of his to smash the driver side rear
passenger window, before reaching through to open the driver’s door, slip inside, smash the thin plastic covering the steering column, yank out the wires either side of the ignition switch and touch the bare ends together to start the engine. Reaching across he opened the passenger door for me to get in and we were off out of the car park and on the road to Lefkonico where we turned right towards Bagaz. Most of the traffic was military so we didn’t want to stay with the Lexus for too long as its ID would be sent over the airwaves quite quickly after the theft was reported.

  Bagaz is an old Cypriot village that has re-invented itself as big seaside resort; skyscraper hotels adorn the front promenade looking out over the bay and modern villas and apartment blocks surround them, with the old town and dock a little further up the coast towards us. At this time of year it was dead, except for the locals and the military from a small base nearby. As we approached it Jones slowed down and took a right turn into a small lane off the main road.

  ‘You know the way. Been here before?’ I asked.

  ‘No, just want to dump this car away from the main area – don’t want it found in the town. Hopefully if they find it they’ll think it was just kids having a joyride.’

  The lane wound through thick forest; every now and again a shaft of moonlight fought its way through the canopy and lit the bumpy lane ahead of us which soon petered out and came to an end at a wooden five bar gate. I could see the ocean in front of us but no beach, must be a cliff edge. We got out, climbed the gate and walked across a fifty metre grassed area that ended at the edge of a steep cliff with the sea smashing against it far below.

  ‘Just the job,’ Jones smiled at me. ‘Hold the gate open whilst I bring the car through.’

  We went back to the gate and I did as he said and watched as he drove the car slowly towards the edge, jumping out a few metres before it nosedived over. I remember doing that on the South Downs a long time back with a Ford Consul that had two bodies in the boot and the bloody thing sticking on the edge, with the front over it and the back on the ground. Nowadays with four-wheel drive, no problem – if it’s in gear the back wheels push it over.