by Robert White
Increasing this pasty Scotsman’s pleasure further was the fact that the Greeks had one speed when it came to organisation, so the planning of the short trip across the Ionian Sea to bandit country was going to take a while.
This could mean only one thing, a few days of sunshine, scantily clad women, and cold beer. All good, before the real fun started once we got across the water.
Bring it on, pal.
Lauren North’s Story:
The three of us had tiptoed around Rick for the first hour of his return, but it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t going to mention whatever had caused his obvious distress. Indeed, he seemed more focused than ever on our task ahead.
He’d showered, changed, eaten heartily and then set us all about organising our trip to Corfu and ultimately Albania.
With his dark disposition apparently behind him, he’d regained that confident swagger that so attracted me to him in the first place.
I had to admit, the thought of spending a few days on a sun-kissed Greek island with Rick for company did make my tummy flutter somewhat.
I’d booked us all with Austrian Airlines. Annoyingly, they had a thirty-minute stopover in Vienna, however, AA promised Rick the legroom he desired, so we all had to endure the inconvenience of a longer flight to ensure His Nibs could stretch out and enjoy his cabin service.
Despite this, the mood in the camp had been as relaxed as I’d known it. Even though we were about to travel to one of the most lawless countries in the world to assassinate a man who was about as dangerous as a wounded lion, everyone went about their tasks with a smile on their face, and banter filled the lock-up. I swear I even saw JJ smile.
I’d visited my flat to recover some more of my summer wardrobe and, even with no fighting kit to pack, I’d just managed to bring my case in under the 22kg weight limit that AA demanded. Mr Fuller, however, was a good 4kg over and would need his credit card at the check-in.
The black cab dropped us outside Terminal One and Rick and I dragged our suitcases along to the express desk whist Des and JJ, who had opted for the hand-luggage only option, wandered straight to the Escape Lounge and the complimentary drinks.
If we looked and acted like tourists, then that was not only the idea, but a fact. None of our party had ever visited Corfu, and with the possibility of a few days’ grace before we would have access to weapons and our boat, it was time to relax.
Meeting the boys had made me realise that soldiers or troupers of whatever regiment or corps knew how to use the time they had to its maximum advantage. There was no point in sitting around worrying about what might happen next. When you had a day or two to have fun, you made the most of it.
As Rick and I wandered into the VIP lounge, Des and JJ were already sitting comfortably and tucking into the cold meats and cheeses that were part of the buffet. I found a comfortable leather sofa and ordered drinks from a very handsome and friendly Polish waiter.
Guinness for Des, Peroni for JJ and myself, and an Evian for Rick.
Well, some things never change, eh?
We took off on time and I had to admit, the in-flight service on AA was excellent. As for the stop-over, well it was hardly an inconvenience, as I slept through it, so comfortable were our seats.
By the time we were making our final approach into Corfu, darkness had fallen. The aircraft passed over Mouse Island, and all I could see were the twinkling lights of the hotels and tavernas that sat alongside the solitary runway.
As we landed Rick took my hand in his, and, despite the pending danger, for the first time in many years I felt truly happy.
A short taxi ride saw us to our digs for the night. The Siorra Vittoria Boutique Hotel was situated on the edge of Corfu Old Town.
The 19th-century mansion used to be a private dwelling until the Sixties. It had been empty for many years until the new owners fully restored it, turning it into charming accommodation. Our rooms were typically Greek, simple and clean with classic wooden furniture, oak wood floors and marble bathrooms. Each room had plenty of personality though, with elegant furnishings and wooden beamed ceilings.
Des and JJ dropped their rucksacks and were keen to hit the town.
Rick insisted on hanging his clothes and changing into a clean Dolce and Gabbana shirt before we could leave.
As I said, some things never change.
Des Cogan’s Story:
A nice wee flight with free beverages, a hotel that was smart as, and seventy-plus degrees in the shade all made for a happy wee Desmond.
With my bag dropped, I considered it was time to find a good pub and settle in for the night.
As we waited for Rick to ponce about, JJ stood in the lobby muttering things about Greek-Turkish relations, or the lack of. I figured I may need to keep an eye on the wee short-tempered Turk.
Rick appeared, gave him the hard word about behaving himself, and strode off toward the town with Lauren at his side.
JJ shrugged. “I suppose we follow the love-birds eh?”
We did.
Rick pointed out the need to get our bearings, so we made for the Old Fortress via the Spianada, a patch of grass that had been seeded by the British in the 1800’s. The local kids often played a game of cricket on it, smashing hell out of the nearby parked cars with the ball.
Despite the time being well past beer o’clock the temperature was still up there, and as we crossed the sea-moat and climbed the ancient fortress battlements that overlooked the harbour, we all had a sweat on.
Once there, I realised what Rick was doing.
We stood in silence for a moment, as from our elevated position we had the perfect view of the Albanian mainland, our ultimate destination. The mountainous landscape towered behind the berthed cruise liners in the port.
“So, that’s Albania,” said Lauren. “It looks…well it looks scary.”
Nobody argued.
I caught Rick’s eye. I’d seen the look before. This was going to be a tough one.
As we walked beneath the New Fortress ramparts, we were all surprised to find a synagogue there. JJ pointed out that the Germans sent thousands of Corfiot Jews to Auschwitz to be gassed during the war, then destroyed a quarter of the town, including fourteen churches.
He was becoming a proper little historian.
I pointed out that in more recent times, the most dangerous thing the Teutonic types did was take up all the sunbeds at six in the morning, whilst the Scots were still sleeping off there fuckin’ hangovers.
Fifteen sweaty minutes late, found us back at the cricket pitch and the Liston, a promenade of arcaded terraces and fashionable cafés. It had been built by the French, when Corfu was part of the First French Empire. I was beginning to ask myself just who hadn’t successfully invaded this island, until JJ pointed out it was his own race.
I made another mental note to keep an eye on our tetchy Turk. It was like dragging a Rangers fan around Celtic Park.
Finally we flopped in a café, guzzled cold beer, forgot the foreboding mountains of Albania and Greek-Turkish relations, and talked shite until the wee small hours.
My kind of night, pal.
Rick Fuller’s Story:
I liked Corfu town. It had everything, great history, architecture, food and hospitable people. There was no doubting the Corfiots’ love of the British, even if we’d done our best to destroy the relationship in recent years by being, well, just by being Brits abroad.
Fortunately, Peter Black hadn’t visited me in the night, indeed I’d somehow managed to square what had happened away in my head. Of course I would never forget the kid, or my error, but I wasn’t going to beat myself up over it any more than I already had. I’d broken the rules, I’d saved lives. End of.
That said, I think visiting his grave had been a positive experience for me, and given me the closure that I needed.
Once again…Time heals, they say.
The next morning, whilst the others slept off their hangovers, I hired a nice-looking Audi Q7 S-Line 3.0
L turbo. It was big enough to take the four of us in comfort and at 229bhp, the Quattro had enough grunt to take our party around the notorious hairpins of Corfu Island. It also had a tow-bar.
By 1000hrs we were on our way out of town, and on the Paleocastrista road.
We quickly realised that getting around the island was a little tricky, as once you ventured outside Corfu Town, there were no road names or house numbers. It was just a question of following the map and asking directions when you got there.
Within forty minutes we were winding down the final hill toward our destination. The Q7 swept silently between fragrant cypress trees and olive groves, whilst dealing admirably with the shocking road conditions. After one very tight right-hander, we were treated to the stunning view of the bays of St George and Arillas.
“Now that’s bonny,” said Des, sticking his bare feet out of the rear passenger window and popping a cold can of Greek beer.
“Bit early, isn’t it?” I commented.
Des took a deep swig and handed the can to JJ. “Fuck off,” he said. “You need to lighten up, I’m on ma fuckin’ jollies pal. Can you recall the last time you had a holiday?”
I tried to remember, and shook my head.
“I can,” said Des, prodding me in the back to make his point. “Fucking 1986, pal…that’s when. Where was it now? We went to Benidorm…you remember?”
JJ drained the rest of the can. “You should have visited Turkey, Rick, it is wonderful country, so much better than Spain…or Greece.”
I shook my head at JJ’s persistence.
Lauren looked over from the passenger seat. She was beautiful in a lemon Karen Millen shirt, white Levi cut-off shorts and Gucci sandals.
“Maybe it’s time you had a break eh?” she said quietly.
“Maybe,” I said, knowing she was right.
Arillas was popular with the hippies during the late Sixties and early Seventies. According to the locals, the place still retained spiritual qualities. Some tour operators made small fortunes selling package holidays that promised unworldly adventures to middle-aged Europeans seeking divinity in the sands of the resort.
Our hotel, however, boasted no guru or group meditation sessions, just quality rooms, a nice pool and a beachfront location.
The Horizon was a casual hotel of quality and I liked it, and the resort of Arillas, instantly.
Our four rooms all overlooked the sparkling Ionian Sea, and fortunately faced west, away from Albania. This ensured we could relax, enjoy the view and forget the malevolence of the dark coastline that awaited us.
That afternoon we swam, ate, drank and laughed together, and it was good.
Des Cogan’s Story:
On our second afternoon in Arillas, Lauren and JJ took the Audi to Acharavi, a medium-sized town by Corfiot standards, situated on the north coast. Their task was to source some comms for us, nothing fancy, just some F27’s and G shape earpieces. They are a basic walkie-talkie with a decent range and more importantly, as we would be getting wet, the handset is waterproof.
As for Rick and me, well, we were off to meet the extended Makris clan, Pericles and Konstantinos.
The guys owned one of only two late bars in Arillas, The Coconut. It was a short stroll from our hotel and when we arrived Pericles was just opening up for the lunchtime drinkers. He was a smartly dressed guy and wore chinos and a polo shirt. His short-cropped hair was receding slightly, but this did not detract from his handsome features.
Having no idea who we were, or the reason for our visit, the guy greeted us as he would any other thirsty tourist.
“Give me a minute to open eh, boys,” he said. “The malakas (wankers) didn’t leave here until five-thirty and I am still asleep in my head huh?”
He seemed a good bloke, instantly likeable and straight-talking. I held up my hand. “You take your time, pal, no hurry.”
Peri pushed open the folding doors to reveal a room that would hold maybe two hundred people. There was a long, well stocked bar off to the left and a stage and DJ booth to the right. As we stepped inside, I saw climbing plants crawling across the ceiling and large old fashioned fans whirring above out heads.
Peri clicked on the lights, switched on the TV screens and pressed play somewhere behind the DJ booth.
He reappeared and gave me a big smile.
“So, you are Scottish, my friend, yes?”
The boy knew his accents. “Aye, from Glasgow originally, pal.”
Rick had remained silent. “And your quiet friend?”
“London,” said Rick climbing on a bar stool. “But we all live in the north of England these days.”
A light came on in Peri’s head. “Ah, so you are Richard and…?”
I held out my hand. “Des…I’m Des. Our friends Lauren and JJ are out shopping.”
Peri pulled two frosted glasses from a chest freezer and started to fill them with ice cold Mythos. “Then you have the better of the two jobs…beer okay?”
“Beer is fine,” said Rick. “Where is your brother, Peri? You cousin Kostas tells me, he can help us with our …issue.”
The boy gave a shrug, a movement common amongst the local men when faced with any issue that involved any modicum of difficulty.
“My brother? Now? He was here till close also…so he will be asleep or having sex. And yes, if Kostas tells you this, then it is true. Me? I run this bar, look after my family, and keep my nose out of these matters…understand?
We nodded.
Peri handed over the beers. “So, boys, have a few drinks on me and relax, I will call Konstantinos shortly.”
Shortly, turned into two hours.
Peri obviously had no intention of disturbing his brother’s slumber or sex life before two in the afternoon, and by the time Konstantinos pulled up outside The Coconut in his BMW, we were four beers deep.
The two brothers couldn’t have been more different. Konstantinos stepped into the bar wearing nothing but red shorts and mirrored sunglasses. He was lean and muscular with long dark hair that touched his shoulders. He displayed hawkish features, and when he removed his shades, unveiled eyes that held a touch of madness in them.
I got the instant impression that Konstantinos was not a man to be messed with, and made another mental note to keep him and JJ apart.
He strode over, gave us a beaming smile that only made him look even more insane, and shook our hands.
“Hello, boys,” he said in a sing-song voice. “I take it you have come to see your boat?”
The drive to San Stefano harbour was just over a mile. Konstantinos drove like a fuckin’ madman and spent the whole journey on his phone. I was very glad to step onto the jetty, I’ll tell you, pal.
The Greek pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head and pointed at a fiberglass pleasure boat with a 30hp outboard that bobbed up and down in the dock. The hull appeared to be a quarter full of seawater.
“Don’t worry about this, we will fix the leak before you go,” he said, waving his Aviators in the general direction of the very tired looking craft. “And anyway, it is not far where you go.”
He then slapped Rick on the back, a movement that I considered as dangerous as any ride in a knackered boat.
“And it is not likely that you come back anyway eh?” bawled the Greek, before bursting into fits of laughter.
Mercifully, Rick managed to stop himself from throwing Konstantinos into the water and we wandered back to the Beamer and suffered another white-knuckle ride back to The Coconut.
Once in the bar Konstantinos led us through the back, up a rickety wooden staircase and into a storage area.
The Greek rooted about in a large wooden chest and removed a rolled-up blanket. He placed the blanket on the floor and proudly unfurled it.
Inside were the weapons we had been promised.
There were two handguns. The first was a WWI German Officer’s Luger PO8 pistol.
The Luger was famous with weapon aficionados, for its 9×19mm Parabellum cartridge. Thi
s name came from the Latin, si vis pacem, para bellum, meaning, ‘If you seek peace, prepare for war.’ Personally, I didn’t give a shit about the Latin meaning, the gun was over a hundred years old.
A quick inspection revealed just one round in the chamber and three in the cartridge.
The second handgun was a little newer, but equally Teutonic. The Walther P38 was intended to replace the Luger, as it was cheaper for the German army to buy. Even so it was a WWII weapon. It had an eight-round, single row, detachable box magazine, but just as worrying, ours had only five rounds to its name.
Lying at the side of the two handguns were two single-barrel sawn-off shotguns. All manufacturers’ names and serial numbers had been ground off, but I figured them to be cheap, and older than me. A box of 24 cartridges came with them, loaded with 00 buckshot. At least they were man-stoppers.
Konstantinos looked us both in the eye, his broad smile fixed in place.
“Good, yes?”
I thought Rick may strangle him.
“When was the last time these were fired?” he said managing to keep his voice level.
The Greek looked at us like we were mad. “Easter of course.”
The Greek was unusually stating the obvious; in addition to smashing pots and urns worth thousands of pounds during the Easter celebrations, the Corfiot men felt it necessary to fire any old firearm into the air at random intervals and hang the danger to everyone else. I could feel Rick’s temper rising. “Easter when? Fucking 1939?”
It appeared that either Konstantinos didn’t realise or didn’t care what physical danger he was in. The smile remained firmly in place and he committed another mortal sin by placing a reassuring hand on Rick’s shoulder.