The rain had stopped but the hills beyond were still bathed in a grey mist and rain and the distant sound of thunder could still be heard. He looked at his phone checking the Grand Prix update. It was raining in Mote Carlo as well and the start of the race was under threat. He had now waited for nearly an hour and half. Enough he thought and made his way inside to settle up.
No one was to be seen clearly service was not a priority at the Terminus Café. He heard voices from a side room. He stood and waited for a while. In the end, with no sign of anyone he made his way towards the sound. He stood in the doorway. The family were sat around a table, covered with a red and white plastic check table cloth, having their breakfast. He stood. They looked quizzically at him. “The bill,” he said.
Reluctantly the wife got to her feet and making him feel as though he was a nuisance by being a paying customer she walked to the bar.. He followed her. His French was poor, GCSE standard. He could not understand the number being requested and pointed to the till which should have displayed the amount or printed off a bill but did neither. This caused a blast of French. The till was clearly not in the regular habit of being used. Cash in hand was the order of the day here. He removed ten euros and offered it to her. Success, change and he tipped her fifty cents. He had to admit that although not salubrious the Terminus Café was value for money.
He turned to leave feeling that the morning had been a waste of time and effort. “Monsieur pour vous?” she handed him an envelope from behind the bar. It was addressed “L’homme Angletere,” vague but effective.
Outside he pulled out the note and read.” Hotel Belgique, Room 15, Rue de la Gare. After 10 the concierge goes at 9. Code 8476, Stereogram.” His heart sank. He would have to come back tonight. This was not the fun break he had hoped for.
He realised he was already in the Rue de la Gare. He glanced down the road and could clearly see the Hotel Belgique. He considered the note. “Who calls them self Stereogram?” he said to himself as he made his way across the car park to the railway station.
The rain had stopped in Menton at least. He had purchased a return ticket in Monaco so he went straight to the platform. The train was on time but crowded with race goers. The journey took ten minutes with two stops. Then the problems began. He knew he needed to buy his ticket now for his trip back to Menton that evening. The queues would be huge after the race. Leaving the train he tried to make his way to the main ticket concourse but was blocked by a group of race officials. The crowds were being controlled by the seat numbers to their positions around the circuit. He tried to explain that he wished only to purchase a ticket but that was clearly not in the remit of the marshals who ushered him off in the opposite direction. The station, he had to admit, was spectacular clad in pink marble and spotlessly clean. Despite its architecture and splendour, he was losing interest in its elegance as he walked the whole underground route to end up at the other end of the town.
The streets were packed with race goers, street traders and race officials marshalling the pedestrians. Everywhere was jammed and everyone, it appeared was going in the opposite direction to him. The rain had started again and was tipping down. He was very wet and fed up by the time he finally made it back to the station ticket office. He finally bought his return ticket to Menton. It was nearly two o’clock by the time he returned to the hotel to find everyone else had all left for the yacht. A pass to allow him access to the Marina had been left behind the desk, but he would have to get himself there. The Ambassador and the rest of the party had had a nice escorted limo drive. He on the other hand would be back in the crowd, marshalled and wet. He set off with his recent purchase of a grey and white souvenir Monaco umbrella.
Chapter 3
Berat woke to the smell of tea, simit bread and the sound of hammering downstairs. His Mother was busy in the room next door, where she and his Father slept and where they all ate and watched television. Although it was just seven in the morning he knew his Father had been up for hours working in the shop downstairs.
The whole flat smelt of leather, always of leather. They lived above his Father’s cobblers shop. By the time he and his brothers were fed in the morning and they went down the stairs to go to school his Father would be busy at work. Piles of shoes were stacked up in the house, in the shop or outside, waiting in pairs on the pavement either for sale or collection. His Father was not the only cobbler in the street. The whole street up and down had the scene repeated. His trip, anywhere always started by passing between piles of footwear on the pavement surrounding his home in either direction.
His friends Emir and Ahmet were waiting to walk to school with him, He made his way past shoes and said goodbye to his Father who sat on the floor with a bradawl in his hand and a shoe on the last. He Father always said, “Work hard and get an education. You don’t want to end up doing this all your life.”
He took on board what his Father had said. So he had worked hard and had an education. Now a grown man he sat on the wall over looking the Bosphorus. The noise of the traffic on the road behind him was deafening. Vehicles of all shapes, sizes and ages streamed passed many blasting thick plumes of oil burning smoke. He suspected that Turkish emissions laws for vehicles, like many other laws were not strictly enforced. In some ways the Country had come a long way since he was a child in others it was going backwards. Ataturk the Father of the modern Country had created a secular government distinct from the religion. For a while, with the exception of the odd military coup, it had functioned but now the State was more repressive and fundamentalism was on the rise.
Stretching in front of him was the sea glistening with patches of oil and pollution. The oil tankers lined up to enter the Bosphorus, the twenty mile long north-south strait that joins the Sea of Marmara to the Black Sea and separates Europe and Asia. The ships were so large and appeared so close that you felt you could reach out and touch them. They seemed like toy boats in a bath. He had grown up with this sight all his life but it still continued to captivate him. Now in his mid thirties, working as a civil servant he longed for the simplicity in his life as it had been as a child playing in the streets of Istanbul.
The Bosporus was just a part of his everyday life and from childhood he had taken it for granted. He remembered, as he gazed on the comings and goings of the vast ships, the day he had gone to University. His Father had gathered the whole family, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles and friends to celebrate. His Father’s pride was so great that he felt the burden to succeed weighing on him. He set himself to nothing but study and achievement. He did succeed, a first class degree followed by a masters and a well paid secure job in government. He had taken extra language courses and spoke perfect French and English. He now travelled frequently around the World acting as translator for the great and good in government and commerce. He knew that the English name Bosphorus came from the Greek bous meaning cow and poros meaning crossing, cow crossing. The legend went that Zeus had an affair with Io. When his wife Hera got wind of it she turned Io in a cow and created a horsefly to sting her bottom. It hurt so much that Io, the now cow, jumped across the straight.
He smiled to himself as he thought of cows jumping over the queue of tankers waiting to move oil around the Globe. His smile faded as he thought of Emir and Ahmet, brothers. He had grown up with them, shared school, fights, and sexual adventures. They were more like his own brothers or his family than friends. Their lives, of course had diverged, he to University while they had remained in the grubby backstreets of Istanbul scrapping a living as best they could. They were still close but their life experiences were separated by a gulf wider than the Bosporus. He knew that with their increasing frustrations and poverty they had become more and more fundamentalist in their beliefs.
Behind him he could hear the call to prayers ringing out across the city. It was not that he was a bad Muslim, it was that he was more tolerant and inclined to live and let live. He valued peace. He had seen enough suffering acting as a translator round the Globe to k
now that the World did not need a helping hand down the road to more pain. Ahmet, the younger of the two brothers, had first become involved actively with the Fundamentalist Brotherhood when he was in his late teens. Like all young men, he had imagined himself the hero, fighting for truth and Allah, saving the poor, fighting the good fight. Berat reflected, as a child watching the old kids’ television programs of jousting knights rescuing damsels, he had also seen its appeal. He knew all young boys yearned to be heroes and brave and the Muslim Brotherhood movement offered the chance to fight the corrupt and gain glory.
Ahmet started attending the more hardcore seminars held at the Mosques, meeting with other frustrated young men and searching the internet for like minded individuals. It was not long before his brother Emir was being drawn into the more radical form of Islam as well. Now in their thirties they wanted change. The idea of secular government was an insult to them, their beliefs and above all to Allah. A trip to Syria had hardened their resolve and they were committed to the cause. Berat to an extent humoured them, not wishing to lose touch with that part of his life and his roots in the streets of Istanbul. He had been guilty to an extent, of letting them think he was right there with them.
Celik his wife was their younger sister. Berat had known her as the little pest that the three of them had teased as children. That had changed one summer when he came back from University. They fell in love and married. She was a good wife but shared many of her brothers’ beliefs. Berat knew that as her husband she respected his wishes and never voiced her opinions to his more secular colleagues they mixed with.
As he sat watching the sun coming down turning the sky bright red, yellow and lavender it seemed to him that it was like an omen. His World was changing, he had not asked for it but it was. He now had choices, choices that Allah should ask no man to make.
Berat had been excited at being part of the delegation going to Monte Carlo. Of course French was his specialist language and he would head the team of four translators working with him. It was a chance to influence the British. They all knew their support was key to Turkey’s entry into the European Union. He knew that every opportunity would be taken to polish their record on human rights, their commitment to fighting terrorism and to demonstrate their commitment to the West.
He was finalising the details with his team when Yosuf had asked him to step into his office. Berat immediately sensed that this was not the usual checking on final details type of meeting.
“Take a seat,” Yosuf commanded. This was unusual Yosuf was not a command type of person. Berat feared he had made an error and was to be hauled over the coals. “There is a problem, a big problem,” Berat feared that his job was on the line as Yosuf continued.
“You are married to Celik and she has two brothers does she not, Emir and Ahmet?” he did not pause for a reply.” “As I said there is a problem.” He seemed to struggle to find the words to continue. The word problem hung in the air. He took a deep breath. “They are to be arrested.”
Berat’s mouth hung open in surprise, “Arrested, for what.”
“Security matters”
“My wife?”
“She will be fine, do not worry on that account; I have vouched for you both. I told them I know you to be a loyal servant of the State and totally dependable.”
At that moment Berat realised his suspicions of Yosuf were well founded. He had always suspected that there was far more to Yosuf’s role than just head of the Foreign Office translation department. He now realised in that role Yosuf could travel around and liaise with his Country’s espionage resources globally. He had worked with him for nearly seven years and this confirmed that he was definitely part of Counter Intelligence. With hindsight Berat began to see historic events in a new light, burglaries, disappearance and killings fell into focus. He was not just a translator. He was part of the cover for the State to carry out what it needed to do.
“You realise you must not warn them, nor tell your wife, don’t you?”
Berat nodded but he knew that he would and that decision would change his life for ever.
Yosuf knew he should not have warned Berat, but he was fundamentally a descent man. Turkey was such a contradiction. The State was becoming more oppressive, reversing women’s rights and curtailing the media and on the other hand it was fighting a campaign against ISIS and terrorism. He knew Berat was a good man and he genuinely hoped that with this warning he would keep himself and his wife well clear of her radical brothers. His hopes were to be in vain.
Berat knew he would betray his boss even as he was warned to stay silent but he also knew he could not stand by and not warn his wife. He left the office and changing trams had made his way to the Grand Bazaar. He knew this could be a trap to test his loyalty and feared that he may be followed. He hoped that the most crowded area in Istanbul would give him a chance of not being observed by anyone sent to follow him. He mingled in the crowds, stopped, doubled back and hoped he had avoided a tail if there had been one. He entered the phone shop.
Berat had purchased the cell phone for cash with credit on it. Sent the text to Celik warning her with instructions for her to destroy her phone and dispose of the sim. All the authorities could trace then would be an anonymous text from an unregistered phone but the content of the message could not be retrieved. Berat removed the sim from his new phone pulled out the battery and dumped it.
Celik ran down the road looking from side to side. She knew people were watching her. She was sweating and panicking. She ran as fast as she could. The text had been clear “Your brothers are to be arrested for terrorism. Do not use any phones they are tapped, warn them and destroy evidence.”
Her lungs hurt as she ran up the winding staircase to the flat where her brother’s were. She banged on the door. The door opened onto a normal scene. “Grand Theft Auto” was paused on the Playstation and they had been drinking coke and eating crisps as they played.
“What’s all this noise,” asked Ahmet standing in the doorway dressed in shorts. “Is there a fire?” She pushed past into the room.
“The police are coming and you must get rid of any incriminating evidence, do not use the phones.” The look of panic was in their eyes. Frantic activity began as she left.
“Take this. Someone will contact you for it,” Emir pushed a memory stick into her hand. She kissed her brothers and ran again. She was a street away when she heard the sirens.
When Berat arrived home he found Celik upset and distraught. She had followed his instruction to the letter. “They were arrested. I warned them and they gave me this.” she gave him the memory stick. Berat plugged it into his computer but could make no sense of its contents. He did know, however, what was on it should be in the hands of the State but handing it over would put the final nail in the coffin of his own wife and her family. He could destroy it and not warn anyone but he was sure that that would result in the deaths of innocents in their hundreds or more. The alternative of giving it to ISIS when they contacted Celik, which they surely would was also not an option.
Chapter 4
The race was due to start at four and it rained like it can only rain on the Mediterranean Coast. Warm and wet, it continued to rain and then as if on cue the rain eased and the race started under the safety car. It did not take long before the drivers became bored with driving in convoy so they decided that the conditions were good enough and then the air was filled with the full glorious roar of Mercedes, McLaren, Renault and Ferrari. It was loud, Formula 1 loud. The cars were a blur as they passed in front of the yacht. The Lady Heloise moored in Monaco was a hundred million dollars worth of some one’s toy that looked like it had never set to sea in its life.
She was moored at a beautiful location on the straight with bends visible at both ends. The Marshals in their red overalls lined the track along the quayside in front of them. The lower deck had been laid out as a dance and buffet area while the upper decks were for the Brits and drinkers whose glasses were constantly filled with c
hampagne. The lower deck was crowded with beautiful people. A video operator filmed the guests from every angle with a camera suspended from a gimble and a stills photographer snapped incessantly. A black girl with almost an afro in a very flimsy bright yellow dress and her white friend in a bikini made sure they danced their way into every shot. Other young girls were scattered around like cushions to add to the décor.
Tim positioned himself on the top deck and watched the cars going round the track behind the safety car, He then watched as Verstappen crashed and his Red Bull car was hoisted clear off the track by a crane, as the race continued under the virtual safety car. The virtual safety car required the cars not to overtake and follow the car in front at a non race pace until the green flag sign was illuminated signalling full racing was to recommence. As the race resumed Tim was approached by the Ambassador.
“Ah you made it? Sorry we couldn’t hang on for you but as you know there is the schedule to keep to in all these affairs.” He smiled broadly as he spoke. He had a full face, a face that seemed to ooze affability and understanding and eyes that focussed on whomever he was speaking to, letting you know that you had his full, undivided attention. It made no difference if you were the cleaner or the Premier of China, that face was always totally absorbed and interested in what you had to say. He did actually sound genuinely sorry for leaving Tim to wander through the crowds in the pouring rain while he was chauffeured in luxury.
Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1) Page 2