The Turkish Trap: A tense and intriguing action thriller.

by Jack Dylan

  At 3:00 o’clock James escaped from the golf club. He cursed himself for making the double mistake of going there in the first place and then letting “Cunningham hyphen Browne with an e” know that it was his birthday. He had taken no pleasure whatsoever in the birthday drinks since he had to buy them, nor in the otherwise adequate Sunday lunch. By economising all week he could just about afford the price of the lunch for one. The cost of the drinks was going to provoke a premature crisis in his cash flow. In the foulest of moods James contemplated avoiding the little reading-group that he had agreed to attend. If he hadn’t promised Lavinia so absolutely he would have taken the bus straight home. As it was, his well-ingrained sense of duty saw him trudging rather than striding down the winter-grey tree-lined road, to the fine block of Georgian apartments where Lavinia’s group was waiting.

  Chapter 4

  Lavinia: Dublin December 2005

  The party

  Lavinia, in her early thirties, had found herself the beneficiary of a modest but comfortable inheritance, and was energetically turning her life into the sort of existence she wanted, rather than the pampered and constraining cocoon that life with her mother had been. Too much money, too many romantic novels, and a streak of perfectionism in her personality, had left Lavinia as the perpetual bridesmaid. However part of the grieving process for her mother had been the liberating decision to start organising life for her own enjoyment, and not to hold on to the incapacitating dream of the perfect relationship that just didn’t come her way. She now was fit, healthy, and was enjoying taking initiatives in organising her life. The reading group had been going for about eighteen months and was working so well that she wanted to recruit some new members to the original group of herself, William, Steve and Sinead. Hence the introductions of the studious and serious Simon, and poor James, whose circumstances she vaguely appreciated, but whose poverty she hadn’t fully grasped.

  Steve was the least likely but increasingly the most active member of the group. About 35 years old, he seemed to scrape a living through a mixture of basic temping jobs in Dublin offices, along with his vague status as occasional artistic agent for a small number of long-standing friends who were singers or actors. He habitually wore jeans, sometimes with a t-shirt, sometimes with a casual sweater that looked expensive but was probably on its second owner. Lavinia had never been able to tempt him to give all the details of his artistic agent role and she had stopped prying. Steve had emerged as an insightful and humorous group member, and better still, was working on his own novel. The glimpses they were allowed of his personal life added to the mystery. There were hints of a prosperous past ended by the untimely death of his father. His frequent illnesses and sometimes gaunt face had been explained after the first few months by his revelation of what it was like to live with his regime of anti-retroviral drugs. His domestic arrangements seemed to involve moving back to live with his widowed mother, but his social life did not appear to be curbed by any maternal disapproval. Lavinia found him strangely inspiring, and she promised herself that she would learn from his honest ability to be himself, whatever the complexity and problems that lurked in the background.

  Sinead was a more obvious group member. She was a mature student in her late twenties. She had studied Anglo-Irish literature at Trinity, so brought greater knowledge of classic literature than the others could offer. Her new studies could hardly be more different. She had decided to reinvent her career, and had enrolled for an accountancy course as a way of getting out of the badly paid office job in the university and into the blossoming industrial opportunities in the newly-successful European Ireland. Short, chubby, and with the features that people unkindly labelled as “homely”, she was a practical, able and energetic member. The book group afforded her a welcome contrast to her dry accountancy studies. She usually dressed in a three-quarter length black wool coat that owed nothing to fashion, but this afternoon was wearing an uncharacteristically stylish black linen trouser suit – with a long jacket that disguised her dumpiness. Lavinia had been amused and touched to discover that the fashion advisor who had taken her shopping was none other than Steve.

  “Has everyone grabbed something to drink?” Lavinia raised her voice to try to make sure that she was heard by all the members of her strange little group of friends.

  “Of course I always say that Turkey is the new Greece,” continued William, content with the tall thin glass of gin that matched his own physical characteristics – tall, thin, and positively bubbling. His angular frame was, he thought, stylishly clad in jeans, but they had an incongruously formal-looking sharp crease down the long legs. They sat neatly over the surprisingly small and highly-polished black Barker loafers that he thought right for this semi-formal party. He wore a fine woollen sweater in bright yellow over a check shirt and tie, and looked as if he felt quite pleased with himself. William enjoyed his status as a slightly mysterious businessman and auctioneer, who had brought an apparently successful business from Edinburgh to Dublin. His thinning hair was still a definite brown, and he had convinced himself that people would not guess that he tinted it. The worry lines on his face and a slightly hunted look in his eyes appeared when his guard slipped and he momentarily stopped projecting his chosen buoyant image. He continued, “and quite honestly I can’t understand why anyone would buy property anywhere else these days. In fact, just yesterday…”

  “Simon,” Lavinia interrupted again, “what can I get you?”

  “Nothing at all at present thank you,” responded the ever-correct Simon.

  Lavinia as hostess had earlier almost chosen her conventional little black dress, but at the last minute had decided to be more daring, and wore a multicoloured extravaganza of embroidered flowers on a light flowing fabric. It was cut to hang sensually, and moved with a swing as she walked. She was enjoying showing off her new liberated style. Simon meanwhile was dressed as conservatively as he spoke. Lavinia wondered if she should encourage him to break out from the cheap chain-store shirt, tie, slacks and blazer that he had worn every time they had met. Perhaps his scholarship from Pretoria University was not very generous. She decided to be tactful.

  “As I was saying,” continued William with a slight increase in volume, “the property market in Turkey is going to be the hottest investment opportunity this year. We have three new developments…”

  “Excuse me sir, but is there not a risk that failure to gain entry to the EC…” Simon was cut short.

  “Don’t you worry about that! Whatever happens, people are going to want sunshine, sand, and cheap food. Can’t lose I’m telling you. Take our Bodrum apartments, last year they sold at £75k, this year….”

  “But surely the threat of terrorism is becoming greater every….”

  “Don’t you believe it sonny,” countered William a little brusquely, his accent just beginning to slip.

  “James, how lovely to see you!” Lavinia raised her volume, partly because of her anxiety to make James welcome, and partly out of frustration at William’s continuing dominance.

  “Do come in. What can I get you? G & T all right? William would you mind awfully getting James a drink? Simon come and meet James, I don’t think you met him last week.”

  As William obediently made his way into the kitchen to find the gin, tonic, ice and lime, Lavinia quickly drew the two out of earshot.

  “You’ve got to help me. This is going to be a disaster. James, you know my sister Hermione?” James nodded, but was puzzled. He was out of touch with the backstabbing character assassination and rumour mongering that passed for the social whirl round Dublin, but he was sure that Hermione had not been part of Lavinia’s world for years.

  “O God, I can’t believe this is true. You won’t believe it. You couldn’t invent it – It is too awful to be happening.”

  “Lavinia, will you please tell us what you are talking about. Simon and I will help if we can, but you really need to explain.”

  “Where the hell do you keep the lime Lavinia?” c
ame a voice from the kitchen.

  “In the fruit bowl in the corner – there should be one started.”

  “Got it. Sliced and ready! Won’t be a second.”

  “Oh no! Look I can’t explain now. Just please you two be ready to rescue me. Don’t run away, and please, please help keep things going.”

  “There you are James,” burbled William amicably. “And what mischief are you three cooking up? You look like three school-kids caught smoking in the toilets. Come on, spill the beans.”

  At that moment the door opened again. Two figures appeared, one of them recognisably Lavinia’s sister – the same svelte good looks, the same dark hair, and the same twinkle of mischief in her eye. Hermione was wearing a tunic-style grey and pink top over tight black leggings, and looked every inch the successful and confident journalist. However it was the other who caused the affable smile to leave the previously bubbling William’s face. In contrast to the suavely chic Hermione, she looked distinctly masculine. She wore a severe trouser suit in a dark pin-stripe, and sported an Oscar Wildean green buttonhole, matching the pale green silk tie tucked neatly into the suit-top. Like a punctured clown, William gasped for air. His mouth worked at forming words, but nothing emerged. His tall gin hit the tiles with an explosive crack.

  “Don’t worry William, I’ll get you another. Everybody I’d like you to meet Hermione, my long lost but never-forgotten dear sister. And this is Pat, Hermione’s new partner. William I’m awfully sorry I should have said something, but I didn’t expect Hermione till later. I was going to tell you. Honestly.”

  “Pat!” William exclaimed a little hoarsely. “I had no idea……”

  “Oh honestly William. You are a scream. You’d think that I was a ghost. When I heard that you were going to be here I just couldn’t think of a better way of announcing the news. But really darling, I thought you were just a little more blasé than this. Don’t think I can ever remember a grown man dropping his drink when I walked into the room!”

  Chapter 5

  William: Dublin December 2005

  Philosophising

  It was Monday afternoon, the day after the end of the world in Lavinia’s, and William was walking up Grafton Street, avoiding the temptation of a sticky bun and coffee in Bewley’s. The embarrassment of the previous afternoon had forced him to think long and painfully about his shortcomings; his long catalogue of mistakes; and where he was going with his life.

  His preoccupied wanderings led him through force of habit into the old market near the corner of St Stephen’s Green. He walked through the multi-coloured alleyways, his eyes roving aimlessly over the curious mixture of third world handicrafts and discarded first world junk. He was cursing himself for the laughable sequence of ill-considered decisions that had punctuated his life so far. His self-flagellation was interrupted when his eyes stopped their unseeing roving and came sharply into focus. In one of those strange mental connections that seem to work unconsciously, he suddenly saw it. A bit like the odd sensation when, without conscious analysis of the piece or the space, he unexpectedly found he knew exactly where a piece of a jigsaw fitted. It was just suddenly there.

  He had read an article in one of the auction journals about the price that the Pears Soap Company was prepared to pay for a lost piece of their history. It was a rather crude little china advertising gimmick, showing a mother washing the hair of her mud-stained child, with the scolding words “You Grubby Boy” wrapped round the base of the ornament. All that Pears could find were pictures of the item, and it was the one gap in their collection of advertising memorabilia. Even so, he had been astounded to read of the enthusiasm with which they were searching for an undamaged example. And there it was – looking at him from between a scrappy old lampshade and an obsolete portable tape player.

  It cost him one Euro. His ever-optimistic assessment convinced him that he was going to sell it for hundreds. That meant that he could pay enough of his bills to give him some peace of mind for the rest of the month.

  William had ended up in the auction and antiques business by accident. He had intended to be something totally different, but that was typical of the quality of his planning and his life. He still hated to think of the sequence of ill-advised decisions, or sometimes the absence of decision, that had led him to the precarious career he had carved out – teetering from one successful sale to the next three disasters. He didn’t just act as auctioneer. Like most of his colleagues he couldn’t resist a little buying and selling himself – not just the odd antique, but worse still the odd bit of land, the not-to-be-missed overseas investment opportunity. He was having a bad spell.

  He reflected on his decision making. In restaurants he always put off ordering what to eat until the waiter was looking expectantly at him, and everyone else had chosen. At that moment, when there was no more room for thinking, the decision usually came easily. Earlier, when there was time for exploration, analysis, and imagining alternatives, he appeared paralysed. However his brain was far from inactive. He could see the options from so many points of view. He could usually see possibilities so many steps ahead that apparently simple analysis became a major undertaking.

  So he had been very pleased with himself, he remembered. For once he had been spontaneously decisive. The waiter wasn’t hovering, the deadline didn’t loom. His first career choice had been initially briskly decisive.

  He had finished university in Dublin and was back in Edinburgh itching for something different. VSO floated into view. Voluntary Service Overseas. It sounded romantic, exciting, and a little scary. He researched it; wrote his application; and in due course impressed at interview. He knew he had it.

  His mother didn’t see it that way. He could still remember the letter she sent him when she heard the news.

  “Now first of all you are not to worry about me. I will be fine. Dorothy will look after the shopping I think (she’s awfully good – but you know she isn’t well at all) and Tom will fix that lock on the back door. You mustn’t worry about it. It is great that you can get away – you must be so organised to have everything ready to leave for such a long time. I’ve been a bit tired but mustn’t complain. The important thing is that you have a good time and don’t worry about me. Mum”

  In other words, “How can you possibly do this to me, I’ll probably die while you are away enjoying yourself!”

  Then a chance encounter with his old supervisor in Dublin raised the chance of a research post for a year, possibly two. It would be a superb career opportunity to work with this respected name. The research was not just interesting; it was sexy, current, and potentially big news.

  He accepted. It was another briskly decisive move. The apology to VSO was difficult, but he was full of self-righteous satisfaction at the responsible decision made without agonising. He would start in Dublin in October.

  The letter arrived in Edinburgh on a Saturday. A Dublin postmark. Trinity Psychology Department. “Dear William, I am very sorry to have to tell you that as the research funding has been withdrawn, I will not be able to….” Shit.

  A friend brought him to an auction near Haddington the following week. Davy’s father was a minor auctioneer and dealer, so he knew his way about. They pooled their money to buy an old desk – he’d now call it an escritoire – and made what seemed like a fortune when they sold it the same day to a city centre dealer. He was hooked. The rest, as they say, was history. “More like tragedy really,” thought William.

  .

  Chapter 6

  James: Dublin December 2005

  The day after the party

  James lowered himself onto the cold park bench. He had not ended up there deliberately. The only deliberate thing about him this afternoon was the way he had to concentrate on placing one foot after the other without tripping or staggering.

  James’s world was a harsh mix of simple economic constraint and vividly expansive imagination. He no longer had a car; that had gone with the job. He still found it embarrassing to admit th
at he didn’t have one. He hated the bus – the unpunctuality; the corners of the floor that were never properly cleaned; the smell.

  He had spent the morning in the library, using the free internet access to explore and to dream. He had researched GPS receivers – the sort you can hold in your hand while they pick up the satellite signals, process them, and tell you to within 3 metres where you are on the face of the earth. They even showed the direction of travel and the precise speed. He was fascinated by the technology and longed for one. He fussed loudly in the library over securing a printout of his list of GPS units, and carefully folded it into the inner pocket of his jacket before at last allowing himself to take refuge in O’Neill’s bar, possibly for lunch.

  Lunch didn’t seem necessary after his second pint, and he relaxed into the fuzzily carefree state of the early afternoon drunk. He maintained a reasonable show of respectability with his good-quality jacket, and his shirt and tie, but by 3:00 o’clock he was a mess. He stumbled up Grafton Street to St Stephen’s Green, and sat on the bleak wintry bench as the false euphoria of O’Neill’s evaporated and guilt seeped in.

  Yesterday in Lavinia’s had been awful. For once he had been more embarrassed for others than for himself. In fact the awfulness of the situation had provided a welcome relief from feeling that he was the subject of the whispered conversations. Poor William. He must be looking for a stone big and heavy enough to crawl under even now. He had never met William’s ex-wife Pat before. He hoped he would never meet her again. What on earth could they say after that debacle?

  He suddenly saw William striding into the park through the corner gate some hundred metres away. James’s instant reaction was to avoid him. It was an unthought, instinctive drive to avoid an embarrassing and complicated encounter. He made for the little bridge over the duck-pond, surprised at his unsteadiness, and didn’t look back. He might have noticed William’s wave had he risked a glance.