The Turkish Trap: A tense and intriguing action thriller.

by Jack Dylan

  Iannis Junior nodded patiently. He had rehearsed the plan endlessly to his father since he and Arif had conceived the idea for this big, big, coup. It was more lucrative than anything they had done before. In fact it was more profitable than all the previous deals added together. It was going to be the last time they needed to work, and because it was the last time, they didn’t need to be small insignificant players. This time people might talk, but they wouldn’t know who had pulled it off. They wouldn’t be able to pin the deal to Katharos (pere et fils) because of the complexity of the linkage between Greece and Turkey; Turkey and Cairo; Cairo and Sudan; Sudan and the impenetrable DRC; Amsterdam and Lichtenstein; Lichtenstein and London. It was so impenetrably convoluted that only those who conceived it could follow it. There was no way that links could be made between the disparate parts of the chain because it was a new chain, forged purely for this one deal, and never to be used again. That was the beauty of it.

  “Don’t worry. The flights are booked and confirmed for Sunday.” He looked across at the Turks, who were watching the exchange carefully. Any sign of the Greeks backing out and they had their instructions from Arif. They hoped that things were going to go well. “My father is going to have to endure the discomfort of a holiday charter flight to Amsterdam. It is the most inconspicuous way to travel from Turkey to Holland, it is full of late season cut-price holiday-makers. He will hate it, but it is a good way to travel without being noticed. Many people use Schipol as a hub for these flights and the security is not tight. We will conclude the business on Monday, and after that there is nothing to find, no documents, no objects, nothing to stop us taking a more luxurious route back to London. But in fact we will take the train. Again it is inconspicuous, and so many English people are taking Eurostar breaks that the security is slight. In any case there is nothing to fear.”

  “It is clever. Very low key,” agreed the senior Turk. “We also will be low key, but not on the same flight, as you know. We will meet you in Amsterdam on Monday, but not before that and not after that. As you say, it is very secure.”

  They signalled to the barman to bring another round of drinks, and nodded sagely to one another about the cleverness of the planning for the operation. Old Iannis puffed his cigar but looked reluctant to join in the mood of mutual congratulation.

  Chapter 42

  The Rodos to Tomb Bay

  Oct 2006

  The Rodos refuelled in the marina on Friday morning and then gently made its way across the Gulf of Fethiye. Sheltered by the encircling land the sea was smoother and the day more peaceful. They motored across towards Gocek to allow the passengers to enjoy the scenery, but didn’t enter the busy marina. Instead they turned South around Gocek Island and pottered down the even more sheltered waters of Skopea Limani.

  Tourist gulets occasionally crossed their path, fulfilling late season twelve-island tours. They looked into the bays that attracted the gulets before dropping their lunchtime anchor in a quiet spot round the headland from Kapi Creek. The crew set the table for the four guests and sent the tender round the headland to the taverna at Kapi to bring back some freshly cooked fish and bread. Despite all his preconceptions to the contrary, old Iannis Katharos began to luxuriate in the seductive pleasure of the unspoiled beauty of the place. Now that he was threatened by no further open sea crossings, and he felt secure in the sheltered bay, he was able to appreciate why people spent such time and money on this sybaritic pursuit. He sat back in the canvas director’s chair and sipped the cold white Turkish Chankaya wine. He mopped up the remaining oily juices from his plate with the unfamiliar village bread, and sighed contentedly as he contemplated the nearby landscape.

  It looked to him as if they could be thousands of miles from civilisation rather than the few short hours they had travelled. A small herd of black goats was nibbling its way along the margins of the bay, while a patient donkey stood tethered in the shade of a wizened tree where the stony beach gave way to the dry grassy vegetation of the gorge behind. He could see an old track leading up through the bushes and scrub until it disappeared behind the rocky hillside at the side of the bay. It brought back boyhood memories of the unspoiled islands he had visited as a child, and he almost winced at the contradictory emotions that were inextricably linked to the old national animosities. Yet here he was in a Turkish bay, undeniably enjoying the food and drink, and contemplating a business venture with his son’s Turkish friend that carried a higher reward than any of his previous activities. He didn’t dwell on the commensurately greater risks, as he knew they had done everything they could to minimise them. To quibble now would be to question his son’s judgement and his trust in Arif.

  As the guests lingered and relaxed in the October sun, the crew of the Rodos cleared the debris of lunch before weighing anchor and motoring gently north-west across Skopea Limani to their arranged overnight anchorage in Tomb Bay. The Captain was worried that they would not be allowed to tie up to the wooden jetty where he had promised Arif they would be waiting. He was ready to deploy long stern lines to the shore beyond the jetty if the locals were worried about the weight of his craft damaging the fragile-looking wooden structure.

  He needn’t have worried. The taverna owner in Tomb Bay was so pleased to see the expensive yacht making for his jetty that he expressed no worries about their mooring. They dropped anchor rather than use the local sunken mooring lines, but made sure not to entangle the taverna’s chain and rope that rested on the sea-bed. By mid afternoon they were securely moored to the Tomb Bay jetty.

  Katharos senior trod warily across the passerelle to the jetty. He walked carefully along the head of the T-shaped structure to the shaft of the T, and slowly to the landward end. The taverna was an open wooden structure, which seemed to be no more than a framework supporting a roof held together by entwined vines. There were old sailcloth curtains rolled up to roof level on the three landward sides of the structure, while the seaward side was open to the view and to the winds. At the rear of the area was the more permanent structure of the bar, where the owner waited smilingly for the lumbering guest.

  “Welcome, welcome my friend,” he said warmly as Iannis came within the sheltered area and made his way between the empty tables. “Would you like a beer, or perhaps you would like a shave?”

  Iannis raised his eyebrows at this unusual query, and then noticed the sign for the barber’s lean-to construction alongside the bar. The barber sat in his own chair reading a paper and nodded his head in relaxed greeting to Iannis.

  “I think the answer is yes to both of those,” smiled the old man. He made his way slowly and carefully between the tables to the barber’s chair, while the barman reached in his fridge for a cold beer. Iannis lowered himself with a grateful sigh into the chair, and relaxed into the old familiar ritual as the barber shook the towel then wrapped it with a flourish round his client’s shoulders.

  Iannis enjoyed the shave. Turkish barbers were renowned for the pride they took in their work, and Elias was no exception. He lathered Iannis thoroughly, and with an old-fashioned cut-throat – of which Iannis silently approved – he shaved him with gentle touch once, then lathered and shaved him again. The spirit-based rosewater stung his face deliciously, and the soothing cream was massaged carefully into all the freshly shaved skin. To his surprise and delight his head and shoulders were strongly massaged before the barber bowed theatrically and swivelled the chair so that Iannis could stand.

  He sat by the bar and sipped his beer. At the jetty there was a brightly painted long local open boat, and across the T of the structure just one other small sailing yacht was moored twenty metres from the grandiose Rodos. The view across the expanse of Skopea Limani and the Gulf of Fethiye was spectacular. Blue sea fringed with green hillsides, and in the distance great grey mountains loomed majestically. A helicopter flew noisily overhead and interrupted the peaceful calm of the afternoon.

  “What are they doing?” Iannis asked the taverna owner.

  “Rich people go
ing to Gocek to their boats. Fethiye too. They fly to Dalaman and then a short helicopter ride to the marina. Too much money. Too much hurry.”

  Old Iannis watched the helicopter and then let his eyes drop to the rear of the Rodos where his son was towelling himself after a swim in the bay. He could see how easily the younger man was seduced by the style and the glamour of the yacht. Too much pleasure makes men careless, he thought to himself.

  The afternoon slipped gently by as he sat in the shade of the taverna and sipped another well-chilled beer. A few sailing yachts appeared later in the afternoon and circled the bay looking for an anchorage. Each time a yacht appeared the taverna owner roused himself from his newspaper and walked to the end of the jetty, waving an optimistic welcome to the yacht’s crew. Only one of the yachts accepted the invitation and reversed slowly back to the taverna’s jetty. Iannis watched from a distance as they threw their mooring ropes and made the yacht secure.

  “You know these people Tolga?” He asked, as he now knew to call the taverna owner, when he returned to the shady bar.

  “Yes, they come every year. Quiet people, no trouble. You will have peaceful night here. Tonight we have lamb shish and we have fresh fish. Fresh this morning. You stay for dinner?”

  The old Greek confirmed that they would be spending some money that night, but was actually not entirely sure what his son and the rest of the crew would be planning. He decided that he would tell them that they were eating ashore. He felt secure in the taverna. He had come to feel well-settled on his ancient wooden chair, and in an unsettlingly inappropriate way was experiencing feelings of coming back to his roots. He dismissed the thought with a wry smile. A Greek feeling at home in Turkey! What was happening? He chuckled quietly to himself as he lifted the cold, condensation-covered glass again. His eye ranged over the nearby rocky hillside, and then over the expanse of blue water stretching to the distant mountainous shore. He sighed. It could easily be Greece. It was undeniably beautiful, but beneath the beauty was the same challenging rocky landscape and potentially treacherous sea from which his compatriots and ancestors had wrested a living. The fishermen on this coast seemed no different from the fishermen he could see from his cousins’ taverna in Thessaloniki. The boats were almost identical in shape – having evolved over the generations to cope with the same demands from fishing in the eastern Mediterranean. Was he wrong to have harboured all those hatreds for all of his life? He banished the complex thoughts and worries and tried to settle back to relax in the shade as another helicopter thudded past on its way to Fethiye. He sipped his beer again and watched the machine shrink and finally disappear into the distance.

  It was late afternoon when he padded his way gingerly down the jetty to the Rodos. Young Iannis was lying back in the gentle sunshine, while the two Turks were playing cards in the shaded saloon. There was no sign of the skipper, but the deck-hand was making his way laboriously along the near side of the yacht, polishing the bright-work and smoking a cigarette. His unhurried repetitious movements with the rags were reflected in the calm water, and provided the only sign of energy and life in the bay.

  The old man stepped on board and lowered himself into the director’s chair beside his son.

  “Everything all right?” his son enquired sleepily.

  “I‘ve just been resting in the taverna. You should have a shave. They are real craftsmen here, just like Athens. Better than anything you get in London. We’ll eat there tonight.”

  “Better tell the crew that we aren’t eating on board then. They’ll expect to serve dinner for us unless we tell them different.”

  “I’ll leave that to you. You know these people better than I do. But now that you are awake, do you have the information about Alex on the other boat?”

  “I’ll ring the guys in Kapi and check he’s there. I have the list of where he has been all week – they faxed it through earlier – can you believe it they’re still using fax here!”

  “I want to be sure that everything is set up for tomorrow and we don’t have any disruptions to the plan. I worry that someone is watching us and that this is all going to go wrong.”

  Iannis Junior looked quizzically at his father and chided him gently,

  “Look dad, this isn’t your usual routine I know, but these guys are professionals. Arif knows what he’s doing, and you put the fear of god into Alex so he’ll do as he’s told. Relax, and this time tomorrow we’ll be on our way back to Fethiye – unfortunately. The day after that we’ll be in Amsterdam, and by Monday it’ll be all over.”

  “What about those helicopters?”

  “Just shuttles from the airport to the big yachts – happens all the time – I checked with the skipper.”

  “I thought you were getting lazy,” chuckled the old man with a smile, “but you were on guard after all.”

  “I told you, just relax. I’ll check the other boat now.”

  The smug young man went into the saloon, smiling to himself that he had predicted how the old man would check up on the helicopters, pleased that he had been prepared. He went forward to the office-like communications desk where he had left the fax from their contact in Fethiye. It listed each day of the week so far and indicated what harbour or anchorage had been used by Alex that week. With typical efficiency it signed off ‘everything in place for Saturday.’

  Iannis picked up his mobile phone and dialled the Kapi Creek number. He didn’t need to explain who he was. There were a few grunts from him as he received the message and jotted down on the free space on the fax, ‘Alex in Kapi, package pickup completed OK Monday, all OK.’ He left the paper on the desk by the computer and fax machines – knowing that his father would have a look to see what the message was about, and wanting to show him just how efficient and smooth Arif’s operation could be.

  Chapter 43

  Rodos Raided

  Friday 13th October 2006; 22:00 hours

  The slate-grey launch, showing regulation red and green navigation lights and a white ‘steaming’ light, came gliding gently round the headland protecting Tomb Bay. Hugging the coast on the northern side, it felt its way along the shore until it reached the old stone quay which provided an alternative landing place for visitors to the tombs. Nosing gently in to the dock, the navigation lights disappeared as two silent crew stepped ashore and tied lines to the recently installed mooring posts. The peace of the night was scarcely disturbed, and the tourists on their Gulet 200 metres along the bay looked up only briefly from their game of backgammon to note the arrival.

  The group leader on board the grey launch gathered the six operational officers around the red-lit navigation table for a last look at the late-afternoon reconnaissance photographs from the Coastguard helicopter. The photographs showed the deep encircling bay, protecting at its innermost point the taverna and T-shaped jetty. The white bulk of the motor-yacht dwarfed the two sailing yachts moored along the T. His finger pointed to the spot on the northern shore of the bay where they had just arrived. It was about 700 metres round the shore from the main jetty.

  “Group Alpha, this is the path along the shore that you will take to the jetty. You will go as far as this point and wait until Group Zebra signal you.” He pointed to a tree-sheltered indent about one hundred metres before the path reached the taverna. It was safely out of sight of any staff or customers at the taverna.

  “Group Zebra, no lights, you will take the dinghy to the bow of the Rodos and insert the spike. Do it quietly and as near to the bow as you can without alerting the crew on board. Then pull back so that you are in the darkness but can get a clear view of the taverna. When you are sure that the target group – all four of them – are on board the Rodos, signal to Group Alpha and wait until you see them on the jetty. Understood?”

  He looked round the six faces peering intently at the photograph and listening carefully to his repeat of the instructions already rehearsed.

  “What if there are only three, chief?”

  “Wait for the fourth. If he doe
sn’t appear in five minutes signal to Alpha that there are three on board. One long flash and three short instead of four. Alpha, you send one man to the taverna to locate the fourth target and the other three continue to the Rodos.”

  “What if there are only two, or one?” It wasn’t a stupid question; it was the voice of experience that knew how often the careful plans were screwed up by a factor they hadn’t thought of.

  “We can only guess that there will be four eating together in the taverna. It would not be usual for the crew to eat with them, so three crew should be on board. If you cannot identify anyone in the taverna as the targets, we have to assume that they are all on board. Just make sure that you don’t mistake people from these two yachts as the target. If they go back to their yachts early that’s good. If they are sitting up late in the taverna or in their yachts let’s just try to keep them at a distance.”

  “So what if there are only two we can identify in the taverna?” persisted the young officer.

  “It is possible, but unlikely, that the two Greeks and the two locals will separate. Maybe two will eat on board and two in the taverna. I doubt it, because they won’t trust one-another, so they’ll all want to watch the others. They’ll be together wherever they are – and most likely the taverna.”

  “But if there are only two?”

  “Signal ‘two’ to Group Alpha and continue as planned.”

  The young officer didn’t dare ask about the vague possibility that only one of the targets was in the taverna and the others not visible.

  “When you have secured the ship, radio me here, then get ready to take the lot of them to Gocek. Don’t give any of them a chance to dump evidence or to interfere in any way. Use the cable-ties to disable them and secure them. As soon as the skipper sees your ID he’ll co-operate. The crew have no incentive to cause trouble, so go for the four targets right away. We’ll let the specialists search properly back in Gocek, just don’t lose anything.”