I nodded again.
“Smith’s dead. I’m sorry.”
I could feel my body go numb. I was shocked. Petty Officer Second Class Smith wasn’t ever going to die. He was tougher than all of us.
We had met at BUD/S. And that’s what we had become. Best buds. We spotted each other. We looked out for each other. We helped each other with family stuff.
This last mission I was due to return stateside. I took it. Smith wanted to grab a little incentive pay before the holidays. Hazardous duty. Demolition. If he was lucky hostile fire. That was our favorite pay to receive. We knew no one in the world was going to drop a Navy SEAL, but if they wanted to send rounds our way we were more than happy to line our pockets and send rounds back their way. The difference? They could send as many rounds our way as they wanted. All we needed was one round going back and the threat was going to be eliminated. We didn’t just feel that. We didn’t just know that. We lived that. The year before, in Iraq, an insurgent shot at Smith for over two hours.
“Let’s just see if we can bleed out his ammo.”
We all laughed.
Two hours later, Smith rolled over and delivered one single, fatal blow. When we went down to secure the area where he had been we counted over five hundred shell casings. Five hundred to one. The one won.
That was Smith for you. A good ‘ol boy from Hugh-stone, Tek-sus. His daddy was a rancher. So was his daddy’s daddy before him. And his daddy’s daddy’s daddy.
“So Smith, you gonna be a playin’ ‘round with them cattles once you’re done shootin’ bad guys?” We were training with the U.K. Special Boat Service and they were having a lighthearted go at him. “You gonna be a, what do you Yanks call it?” One of the other SBS men spoke up. “I think it’s called a cow-boy.”
We were all lying in our racks after a long day. It was nearly lights out. The Brits were having a good laugh. We were too, waiting to hear what Smith was going to fire back with.
“Actually, gents. I think I’d rather fancy a go at a teahouse on the south side of London proper. That’s what real men do, is it not? Tea and cakes in the mid afternoon good chap!” His accent was spot on. We were rolling on the floor. Busting up.
“Quiet down in there! Lights out!”
The roar coming from our Quonset hut could have woken the dead. Even I, Smith’s best friend, didn’t even think he knew where London was on a map, let alone how well he nailed the accent, and the put down.
His comeback could have woken the dead that day, but there was no waking Smith now.
The numbness in my body turned to rage. I felt my nostrils flare. My blood boil. Rodriguez could see it in my eyes. In my intensity.
“We don’t need anybody playing hero down here. Nobody needs to go on tilt,” he said referencing our never-ending poker battles when abroad with time to kill.
“But I wanted to get you down here as soon as possible. We know who did this. And I know you want to be the one to deliver the payback.”
I nodded.
That’s one thing I really liked about being a SEAL. We were tight. There was no talk about me being too close to the situation. Too emotionally vested. Not at all. If anything the opposite. This guy was going to pay. We were all going to make sure of it. And my team was going to let me deliver the knockout blow. However it was to come.
“Colombian national. Goes by the name of Devlin. We’re trying to confirm as that name is of Irish descent. I’m Latino and this guy is Latino as me. Don’t know how he could have wound up with a name like that.”
I nodded. “This is the sub guy?”
“Yes, this is the sub guy. We’ve been trying to pin him down for three years. We’ve found his operation. Lots of recon involved. Lots of swamp, and mosquitos and who knows what else. But we found him just like we always do.”
Rodriguez said recon. If Smith was on a recon team he was probably in a two-man team. Rodriguez read my mind.
“Smith was on a two-man team with Williams. Rounds came down range. Smith took a round. Killed instantly. Williams saw it. Had to pull back. They were closing in on all sides. We’ve sent a few eyes and ears close since then. We know they’re on high alert. They brought in more firepower and spread their perimeter out farther. We’re not sure if they’re going to stay put or try and beat feet.”
I nodded. It all made sense.
“We’re waiting on orders. I suggested we take him out now. While we can. It’s going to take a lot of prep, and we have to get it approved, but I think it’s going to go through. I knew you’d want to be part of the team to do it.”
I nodded confirmation.
“Unless you have any questions you’re dismissed.”
I stood up and walked out. Normally and casually. If Devlin’s eyes had found a way to get eyes on us at least they wouldn’t be able to make out our rank structure.
Back in the makeshift barracks I grilled the guys for intel. They gave me everything they had gathered on Devlin. Smart guy. Supplier. Doesn’t seem to use the hard stuff. Clever. Always a step ahead. He did have two weaknesses.
First, like most guys at his level, whether politics, business, or a number of other high alpha endeavors, he was addicted to power. He had to have control and he had to have power. All the time. And he didn’t tolerate anyone questioning him. Ever.
His second downfall. Short, voluptuous, blonde girls.
“Zamora. Earth to Zamora. Are you with us, Zamora?” It was Abbey. She was standing over me.
“I’m just thinking.”
“About what?” she said.
“Devlin.”
“Do you always think with your eyes closed with noises coming out of your mouth?”
“My eyes weren’t closed.”
“Your eyes were closed and you were talking to yourself. You passed out.”
“How long?”
“Maybe twenty minutes.”
“Oh.”
“It’s OK. We all need some rest. Did your unconscious come up with anything?”
“Working on it. We’ve got two angles.”
I stopped and thought for a second.
“What color hair did Johnson have?”
“Blonde. Why?”
“How tall was she?
“Not very. We always joked she got a waiver for being vertically challenged.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You look serious. What’s up?”
“We have to go at Devlin. Force his hand. Right now.”
CHAPTER 6
I pulled out the Nokia that had The Turk’s number. I typed: White Belarus. 1pm. Lunch. Hit send.
Less than thirty seconds later my phone vibrated. The message said: OK
Abbey was looking over my shoulder.
“What’s White Belarus?”
“A strip club.”
“A strip club? Who in their right mind goes to a strip club for lunch?”
“No one in their right mind. Only addicts, hedonistic tourists, and shady businessmen.”
“You think you’re going to catch someone there?”
“No.”
“Then why are you going?”
“I’m not going to catch someone. But I’m going to set a trap.”
Against Abbey’s persistent pleas, I went back to my bungalow for some rest. I wanted to look normal. Only a scared dog runs. I wasn’t scared. And I sure wasn’t about to run. I woke up just in time to get ready, grab half of my pay from the first job, and take the ferry over to Bodrum.
I walked into White Belarus three minutes before one. I looked for a booth in the back. The lunch shift hadn’t even started. Two girls were standing at the bar having cigarettes. One looked like she inflated her chest with a one hundred twenty volt air compressor set on high for forty-five minutes. She was five foot ten. Didn’t weigh over one hundred ten pounds. I guess the air in her boobs, and brain, didn’t add any more. She was there for what you’d call the boob men. Her friend was there for what you’d call the butt men. She loo
ked like she could serve drinks off the top of her derrière. Like she spent her entire day doing squats. Sometimes at the gym. Sometimes probably in the VIP room in the back.
They may have had a number of shortcomings, but it didn’t matter. They offset it with exactly what I wanted. The exact thing that drives most men around the world, including Devlin, wild. Blond hair.
At 1300 sharp The Turk walked to my table and sat down. I hadn’t seen him enter from the front and hadn’t seen him at another table.
“How is everything?”
“Great,” I said. “Just enjoying the view.”
“Not much of a view until later. You should come back tonight.”
“You know this place?”
“A little.”
“Your place?” I asked.
“No. My friend owns it.”
Not at all surprising. Birds of a feather flock together and these were both dirty birds.
“Nice place.”
“Yes, it is. So, you called this meeting. What is on your mind?”
“I thought we could expand our business.”
The Turk gave me a curiously surprised look.
“And how do we do that?”
“Who has the money in Turkey? The men or the women?”
“Is this a real question?”
“Just stay with me for a second.”
“We are an Islamic country. The man is the man. He makes the decisions. He controls the money.” Exactly what I expected him to say, but I also wanted to laugh. In my experiences in the Middle East the man makes the money, but just like almost everywhere it’s the wife who’s in charge of budgeting and expenditures for the house.
“Right. And in business we want to transfer the money from the buyer, the men, to the seller, us. We want to offer a fair and honest product or service in exchange for this man’s money.”
“The point?”
“The point is there are few products that are truly addicting to men. Or in some cases grown boys pretending to be men. There are sugary foods, video games, gambling, drugs, cigarettes, caffeine, and alcohol. Am I forgetting anything?”
“Women.” The Turk said proudly as I had set him up with that question to look smart.
“Exactly.”
“You help seven people cross a few kilometers of sea and now you think you’re ready to open a brothel? A house for whores?” He was laughing furiously. “What do you know about sexy girls?”
“I know prostitution is legal in Turkey. And I know most people don’t know that. And I know there’s a huge opportunity passing you by.”
“Please. Make me laugh. What is this opportunity?”
“Have you ever heard of Viking Exotic Resort?”
“The river cruises on the Nile?”
“Not quite. That’s Viking River Cruises. Maybe you’ve heard of Charli’s Angels. Charli without the e at the end.”
“That is a movie. And was a television program. Both had sexy girls.”
“True, but not what I’m talking about. Charli’s Angels Resort and Viking Exotic Resort are adult resorts for men. Men who want escorts, holiday, and what they consider to be a VIP package all in one.”
“Sounds like nice brothel.”
“Not even close. Way more advanced. These are private resorts in the Dominican Republic. Eastern European prostitutes posing as escorts or girlfriends during the duration of the visitor’s stay. Golf courses. Massages. Swimming in the Caribbean. Dancing and partying the night away.”
“I see.”
“And they are legal. Just like prostitution is legal in Turkey.”
The Turk didn’t say anything.
“You’ve heard of Matild Manukyan?”
“No.”
“Turkish businesswoman. Originally from Armenia. A madam who owned and ran thirty-two brothels. Thirty-two! In the early 1990s the Turkish government announced she was the largest taxpayer in the entire country. For five years in a row!”
“You have my attention, but what makes you think I need you for this business.”
“The guys behind Viking Exotic Resort. Those guys were investment managers at the largest Swiss banking institutions. They understood secrecy and confidentiality. In other words, they had trust.”
“Yes. Trust is important.”
“I don’t mean to insult you or your people, but I must speak freely to make my point. European and American people will trust me much more than a Turkish man. It’s the truth.”
Sales 101. Make your offer and shut up. I wasn’t going to speak first no matter what. He just stared at me. I could see his mind half crunching the numbers and the other half determining whether to believe me or not. As usual greed won out.
“And how do you propose this?”
“Equal partners. I put on a suit and tie and bring in the wealthy clients. Build trust in the big markets. You supply the women.”
“And where do you think I will find such women?”
“This is Turkey. I’ve seen them at the docks in Istanbul on their way to Odessa in Ukraine. I’ve seen them coming and going. Antalya too. Everybody knows what they’re doing. There are no secrets. Surely you know someone in Istanbul who can speak with them.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we get on a plane and go party our butts off in Kiev until we find some who are beautiful, willing, and able.”
The idea seemed to be growing on him.
“Turkey is a land of mystery to the foreign man,” I said.
“I thought they just made jokes about us at Thanksgiving holiday.”
“They do, but it’s in good fun. The reality is they are curious. You are the bridge between Europe and Asia. James Bond goes there often in his films. You have your own totally self-sufficient culture. Like Italy, but better.” Predictably he liked that one-liner. “You have your own religion, your own way of life, your own airlines, Turkish baths, shisha, beautiful women, music that is sexual and makes us think of gypsies, no offense, Turkish ice cream, Turkish delight, Turkish coffee, even Turkish toilets.”
“We call them Chinese toilets.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you. The point is I could go on all day. You have what the foreign executive looking for high priced female companionship wants. We just add the female companionship in a discreet location and then comes the money.”
He was still looking at me inquisitively. It appeared he had wrapped his head around the business idea. He liked it the more enthusiastic I became speaking about it. The question was did he like me.
“Where did you come up with such an idea?”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“You are desperate?”
“No, but my mother needs money, as I told you. Her medicines and doctor visits are only going to cost more money in the future.”
“Good. I don’t like desperate people. Especially for business. But I do like family people. It is our way here.”
“I understand.”
“Speaking of my family, how was your time with Hassan?”
“Very good. A generous man. Beautiful yacht. Beautiful day. Beautiful conversation. I enjoyed it very much.”
“And what was your conversation about?”
“With all due respect, Hassan asked to see me separately. Alone. I think he wanted his thoughts kept between he and I.”
“I see.”
“Confidentiality. Just like the business I proposed to you. It is very important.”
“It is,” he said. He paused for a minute. He tapped his finger on the table. The first time he had done so. A tell. Just like in poker. “And have you seen Hassan since your time on his yacht?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“No,” I said
He was silent. He seemed to be thinking.
“Is everything OK?” I said.
“H-,” he said, not finishing his word let alone his sentence. He was going to say “he” and possibly gi
ve me some real information, but he paused and changed direction. “Yes, everything is OK.”
“And the business plan?”
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