by Jack Dylan
“OK chief, ready to go.” The others nodded their readiness to get into action and with a curt dip of the leader’s head they were off.
Group Alpha looked like English tourists from a Gulet. They wore an odd collection of safari jackets, boating-style fleece jackets, and trousers that were zipped around knee level for conversion into shorts. On their feet were the sort of stout walking shoes that the English and Germans seemed to favour. They made good time round the rocky path to their holding point and stared intently into the darkness of the bay for a sign from Group Zebra. It was a still night, the voices from the gulet and the rattle of the backgammon dice were clearly audible across the water. One hundred metres beyond them they could hear nothing but the occasional rattle of glasses and an infrequent burst of laughter from the taverna. They had no idea how many people were there, but suspected it was very few. All the better for their purposes if everyone was taking an early night.
Group Zebra were puzzled. When they left the slate-grey patrol boat, they took a route curving out into the middle of the bay and almost to the south coastline, before continuing the clockwise turn so that they approached the jetty from behind the protective bulk of the motor yacht. They could not see into the taverna, nor could anyone in the taverna see them. They edged quietly to the bow of the Rodos and slipped the anchor spike into place. More like a horse-shoe than a spike, it was a hardened steel bar coated with black rubber. It slipped through a link in the anchor chain, the two heavy ends hanging down either side, while the rubber coating ensured it made no noise. They retreated in the dark dinghy so that they were virtually invisible from the shore.
Now that they had a clear view into the open front of the taverna they were puzzled. They could see that only one table was occupied. Both of the small sailing yachts were showing signs of life. One had lights showing from the cabin below, while in the cockpit of the other yacht two people were talking quietly and occasionally sipping from glasses of amber liquid. At the taverna table was a large hunched man who looked as if he matched the older Greek target. The other figure did not match their remembered photographs of either the younger Greek or the two locals. They waited.
Group Alpha were fretting at their holding point. They waited the five minutes they had been allocated and then waited another one. The group leader muttered his impatience and sent a single flash of his torch into the dark. This exacerbated the uncertainty on the dinghy. There was no sign of the target in the taverna moving, and they had no certainty about the other three. It was exactly the scenario the young officer had stopped himself from raising.
“The other three must be on board. I don’t think that target four is talking to another of the target group. Where is the taverna owner? Maybe that’s him. That makes sense. The other three have gone back to the boat and left him talking to the taverna guy. Let’s signal three to Alpha, so they know to pick up one ashore. The fat guy won’t get far.”
“OK, one long and three shorts, let’s hope this works.”
The torch flashed its message from the dark, and Group Alpha at last stretched their legs and moved briskly past the thorny bushes along the rocky path to the taverna. They had understood the message, and one of the group was detailed to check the taverna and the toilet block to apprehend the fourth target. The other three would saunter gently down the jetty looking like crew from the other yachts, trying to raise no alarm until they were within reach of the motor-yacht. The surface of the path became loose stony chips, then pebbles and shingle for the final fifty metres. It was impossible for four men to move quietly on it. They felt like sprinting to maintain the element of surprise, but knew it was counterproductive if they were to maintain their cover as tourists trekking along from the Gulet for a late night drink, or as crew returning late to the sailing yachts. They continued to plod their way noisily along the shore path, cursing the taverna for laying the noisy stone path.
Old Iannis could move surprisingly quickly for someone of his bulk. His alarm registered when he saw the series of flashes from the darkness of the bay. They were too structured and orderly to be random flashes from an innocent yacht’s dinghy. He was already on his feet when he heard the first of the crunching footsteps approaching from the northern side of the bay. Tolga heard the footsteps – in the still of the night they sounded like an approaching army. He peered into the darkness, unable to see beyond the lights of his taverna. He was ready to welcome some late customers, probably from the Gulet, so was similarly on his feet and starting to move towards the bar.
As the four figures emerged crunching along the final stretch of shingle to the bar, Tolga called out a welcome, and happily moved a couple of chairs back from a table to indicate that they could sit and have a drink. Although they were dressed like many of his customers, they were moving with more purpose than most. Tolga didn’t think it all out right away, but later remembered that they looked different. Prospective customers emerging from that path usually slowed up and paused when they were able to survey the bar and the wooden tables. They usually grouped together and discussed where to sit, before moving hesitantly between the tables. One of the four looked intently at him for a moment then looked inland past him, and strode firmly towards the primitive toilet block. The other three scarcely gave him a glance before walking past him to the start of the jetty, focused entirely on the boats on the outer end. His words of welcome were ignored, and his offer of a drink on the house was obviously irrelevant.
The land-based officer approached the toilet block, mentally rehearsing his approach to each of the two doors. The other three officers were covering the final few paces of shingle before setting foot on the long wooden jetty when a voice rang out and the plan changed.
“Iannis! Fiye! Go! This instant! Go!”
The voice came from the hillside above the jetty, from the impenetrable looking woods on the southern arm of the bay. Old Iannis had not wasted his time in idle chatter during the afternoon. He had learned from Tolga about the old path with its almost invisible entrance just beside the taverna. It climbed up through the dense trees and bushes on the southern curve of the bay before turning inland and up through the steep cleft between the hills. Tolga had told him about the ancient path that he used some nights to return to his uncle’s house just over the hilltop behind the bay. With a wink and a wily grin he had hinted that the route had been useful over the years for more than just innocent access to the bay. Old Iannis had looked long and hard at the entrance between the bushes that afternoon.
With an initial rumble and then a blatant roar of exhaust, the engines on the Rodos started. Iannis Junior started casting off the stern lines while shouting imperiously to the skipper,
“Go, go, go!”
The skipper had been roused instantly by the commotion. His habit was to doze in the high central bridge of the boat until everything was shut down for the night. All he had to do was swing his legs off the white leather bench onto the deck and he was instantly in action. He checked that Iannis was casting off from the jetty and hit the button to raise the anchor. The powerful electric windlass turned and the chain started to rattle over the bow-roller. He needed to use the anchor to pull the yacht out from the dock, and then get it raised from the seabed before he could use the engines to motor away. Suddenly there was a solid dull thud and the anchor windlass went silent. They weren’t moving. He pressed the ‘Up’ button again but he heard only a click. Nothing from the motor of the windlass.
Iannis was now screaming at him from the stern of the boat. The first pull of the anchor had tightened the remaining stern line and made the rope impossible to work with. Iannis was not an expert, and he could make no impression on the bar-tight mooring rope and the knot that held them fast.
The skipper knew that the windlass fuse had tripped, and he needed to go below to reset it. He registered the problem that Iannis was having with the stern rope and could see two of the other passengers ineffectually wrestling with it but getting in one-another’s way. He planned
to reset the tripped fuse and get a knife to cut the rope.
Meanwhile the three customs officers had given up all pretence of being innocent tourists as soon as the voice rang out from the hillside above the jetty. They were quickly but carefully picking their way round the ropes, buckets, and broken planks that made the jetty a continual hazard. They couldn’t run for fear of ending up in the water, but they could hear the Rodos’ frantic attempts to leave. They didn’t panic. They had expected the solid clunk as the hardened steel anchor-chain spike met the bow roller on the boat. They knew that until the crew identified the problem there was no physical possibility of the anchor being raised.
The remaining stern rope was still holding the yacht firm so it was an easy leap for the agile officers from the jetty onto the low bathing platform at the yacht’s stern. No weapons were needed. As they flashed their Sahil Guvenlik ID, the two Turks shrugged and resignedly slumped against the polished wood at the side of the yacht. Iannis Junior picked ineffectually at the rock-hard knotted rope, refusing to accept that until the strain was released, it was impossible to free the knot. Alone he ranted at the others and scrabbled at the knot, until he realised the futility of his efforts and stood limply looking at the three officers.
The skipper emerged from the interior of the yacht and silently dropped the knife on the saloon carpet before trying to ensure that the Sahil Guvenlik knew he was simply the hired skipper and not part of whatever it was they were after.
“All secure forward.” It was the voice of Group Zebra. The two men had waited in the dinghy for the doomed attempt to raise the anchor, and then expertly hoisted themselves aboard at the bow, using the jammed anchor chain and their quickly deployed boarding ladder. They stood, arms folded, looking menacingly ready for action in the black combat gear that would have been more comfortable attire for the incongruously dressed Group Alpha.
“Tie them up,” instructed Group Alpha leader, and the three targets found innocuous-looking black plastic cable-ties biting painfully into the skin of their wrists and ankles. They were bundled onto the luxurious bench seats in the saloon, unable to make any move without causing even more pain where the ties threatened to cut their skin.
The fourth member of Alpha appeared on the jetty.
“How many of them here?” he urgently enquired.
“Three.”
“Shit.”
“Where is he?”
“Got away. Wasn’t in the toilets and I can’t find him in the dark. Must be somewhere up the hillside. Sorry.”
Alpha leader didn’t respond. He pulled out the handheld VHF from his now ridiculous safari jacket and called the patrol boat to report their partial success and to start the land-based hunt for the fourth target, who was now being referred to as ‘the fat Greek’.
The serious search for the fat Greek started early next morning. The coastguards were convinced that no-one could have escaped over the high hills behind the bay. They took all day to search the path from bay to hill-top, and then gradually retraced their steps searching in the vegetation for six metres on either side of the path. Old Iannis hadn’t travelled far. The sudden dash up the steep path combined with the anguish of a lifetime’s caution shattered on this accursed Turkish shore, proved too much for his aged sclerotic body. Within seconds of shouting his warning to the son whose scheme he should have questioned, he tumbled awkwardly backwards into the dense undergrowth, clutching his chest as a low groan emerged from his clenched mouth. No time for regrets or reflection on why he had allowed fear of antagonising his son to over-ride a mounting feeling of unease. No time to replay the many occasions when he had almost voiced his suspicions, but decided to give his son room for his coup. No time to curse the ease with which he had accepted the explanations of helicopters, of easy passage, and of lack of customs formalities. Just the vague perversely inappropriate feeling that he had been right all along.
Chapter 44
Mugla jail.
Next day.
Alex lay back on the disgusting bed despite his revulsion. He was exhausted, and couldn't bear to sit on the edge any longer. He gave in to the need to lie down, but couldn't stop the whirling worries in his burdened brain. It was mid-morning, and he had heard the clanging activities of the guards as they took other prisoners from their cells and later returned them. He listened carefully for clues to the activities, and waited impatiently for any sign of the guards opening the door to his cell. He had used the zinc bucket in the corner of the cell, and the smell of his urine mingled with the stale legacy of all the previous unwilling inhabitants.
He desperately wanted to ask someone what had been done with Maggie. He worried that his policy of keeping her in the dark about the operation would mis-fire. She wouldn't be able to answer as cleverly as she otherwise would had he briefed her honestly and fully. It was too late now for second thoughts. The die had been cast in Dublin when the surprisingly effective William had taken charge of events.
He heard different footsteps approaching along the bare corridor. Accompanying the usual heavy clumping of the guards' boots, there was the sharp clicking of a different pair of feet. He could picture the polished formal shoes of an officer. The group halted at his door and the metal peephole rasped open to allow the guard to check the prisoner. Satisfied that Alex was safely on the bed, the guard unlocked and swung open the heavy door.
The guard stood respectfully to one side and saluted the crisply dressed officer who stepped forward into the open doorway. He wore the formal black jacket and trousers of a senior officer in the Navy or Coastguard, Alex couldn't be sure which. The gold rings round the cuffs of the jacket indicated an impressive seniority, and the peaked cap held in regulation style under his left arm bore the gold decoration on its peak of a very senior rank indeed. The impeccably pressed outfit, highly polished shoes and air of careful grooming looked thoroughly out of place in the smelly and undignified surroundings.
"Mr Fox." It was the same semi-questioning statement that had started the exchange on the yacht a life-time ago in Kapi Creek.
"Yes?" responded Alex hesitantly.
"Mr Fox, you are free to go. On behalf of the Sahil Guvenlik I thank you for your part in this operation, and apologise for the inconvenience to you here."
The guards exchanged puzzled looks behind the officer, but knew better than to voice their puzzlement.
"Take Mr Fox to the guard-room, and make sure that he is returned his shoes and other belongings," the officer instructed the still-surprised guards.
"Can you tell me where my wife is please?" Alex could no longer restrain himself.
"When we have completed the formalities here you will be taken to meet her. She is well and is comfortable in Gocek. Do not worry Mr Fox, your nightmare is at an end."
Alex couldn't help himself. Tears welled in his eyes as he struggled to contain the long-controlled emotion. The guards waited uncomfortably, shuffling their feet as Alex wiped the tears from his weary face and shakily stood up to go with them to whatever awaited.
"Maggie!" The one word was all he could say as he threw his arms around her and choked back the threatening tears. Maggie was less successful at controlling herself. She sobbed and kissed him and then held tight as if trying to drive out the horrors with the warm physical reassurance. She more than ever knew she didn't want to be separated from this man. The thousand questions and even the recriminations that had swirled round her brain in the last twelve hours would have to wait. For now she just held on tight and couldn't let go.
Alex had been brought by car from Mugla to the guest quarters in the officers' block at the Gocek Coastguard base. His deferential host had indicated the shower and toiletries available to him, but they could wait. Alex asked for Maggie, and with a smiling nod of his head the officer disappeared. He returned to usher Maggie into the room, but immediately withdrew and quietly closed the door. He knew they needed some time before being summoned to join the senior ranks for a very late lunch.
"Tell
me it really is all OK now - tell me it's over." Maggie desperately begged for the confirmation that the uncertainties and dread of the past night were genuinely the last act in the nightmare.
"It's over. I'm so sorry I've put you through all of this, but I just didn't know how it was going to work out. Believe me they kept me in the dark too. I'm just making sense of it all myself and I really didn't know what was happening last night. There's a guy from the UK Revenue and Customs that we'll meet later. I hope that he can help me get my head around all the missing bits of the story."
"I should be really cross with you that you have been keeping more crucial facts from me - I thought that was all over since Kapi last year."
"I'd understand if you were mad at me, but you'll see later. It was one of the conditions of going ahead with the whole thing that I couldn't talk or even think about what they might set up. It was hammered into me that the slightest unconscious slip could have warned Katharos that things were not on the level, and that slip would probably cost me my life. I had the feeling that my life was the least of their worries!"
"Who was it said 'to understand all is to forgive all'?"
"I don't know but that's exactly right. At least I hope you can still say that later when it all comes out."
"Don't worry, I think I've worked out the overall picture so it's only the mechanics of it that I need to find out about. In case you had forgotten I'm not totally dense you know."
"Really! Who'd have thought it!”
She hit him quite hard for that, but it shifted the mood from the intensity of the emotional reunion to a light-hearted release of tension. Laughter was waiting to burst out. Smiles and tears were inexplicably interchangeable. The atmosphere had palpably moved on to one of almost school-holiday hilarity and frivolity. The black cloud of the last two years wasn't just lifting, it was being blasted, vaporised and banished with a degree of relief only possible because of the weight of the cloud itself. The upsurge of spirits, and the sudden lightness of heart, were in direct proportion to the previous burden. Alex at last allowed himself to stare his old fears in the face, able to acknowledge them fully now only because they couldn't bring him down. The release from his stinking and oppressive imprisonment into the warmth and cleanliness of the guest quarters, seemed to be a metaphor for the mental and emotional prison he had inhabited since Katharos ensnared him more than two years earlier, and only as he looked back from the sunny relief of his release could he acknowledge the full horror of his previous state. He shuddered at the memory and shook his head as if to rid himself of the last vestige of that stinking blanket of blackmail and deceit that had threatened to overcome him.