by Rik Stone
The ship had indeed stopped in the Crimea before making way to Odessa, but Borislav hadn’t boarded there, Jez knew. However, the paperwork suggested he had. But Borislav worked in Tula and was only a sergeant; he didn’t have the authority to sanction such movements.
“Then you should have more papers,” Jez said, holding his hand out once more.
The redness in Borislav’s face darkened. He thrust a hand inside his overcoat and took a document from his inside pocket. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes,” Jez said as he studied the paperwork from under the glasses. He folded the document and handed that and the ID back to the sergeant. “Very well, Sergeant Georgy, everything is in order. I apologize for the intrusion.” Bowing his head, Jez took a breath and turned to Mehmet. “And you, why are you taking pictures of this gentleman?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I wasn’t taking photographs of him. I was taking shots of everything so I can show my family when I get back to Istanbul.”
“Clearly you’re Turkish, but that’s no excuse for being stupid. Taking photographs anywhere in the Soviet Union without prior permission is strictly prohibited. You should know that. Let me see your papers, quickly.”
Mehmet cowered as he handed Jez his identification. Jez thumbed the pages. “Visa, I see no visa. Where’s your visa?”
“I have none. I wasn’t getting off the ship. I–”
“Enough!” Jez yelled. Mehmet made a silent protest as Jez pulled the camera from his hand and put it in his pocket.
“Excuse me, Sergeant Afanasiy,” Borislav said to Jez, “but I need to catch a train to Tula and it’s important I leave now. Can I go? You seem to have everything under control here.”
Jez gave him a preoccupied look. “What? Yes, no … yes, you can proceed.”
“What about the film in that camera,” he asked.
Jez took an identical camera out of his pocket to that which he had confiscated from Mehmet and pulled the roll of film from it. He tore at the leader until the film was fully out of its casing. “Is that alright?” he replied.
Borislav nodded and smiled gratefully. Jez held the camera out towards Mehmet. Mehmet reached to take it back, but Jez let it slip from his hand and fall over the side and into the sea. “Oops,” he said, turning to Borislav and giving him a mischievous grin and a wink. Borislav laughed with appreciation and left.
Out of sight, Jez turned to Mehmet. “Well done, my young friend. Now we have a photograph, a full name, and his place of work. It’s doubtful Pavel will lose him, but if he does, he should be easy enough to pick up again.”
“I assume you are Jez,” Mehmet said. “I have heard a lot about you.”
“I am, and Anna has told me much of you. I look forward to us working together in Turkey,” he said.
“Are you and Anna sailing back there now?”
“No. Another colleague, Pavel, he is following Borislav as we speak, so I wait here with Anna until we can travel together. For the moment, I’m not sure even Michel knows our next move. Speaking of your return journey, have you made arrangements? The captain will think it a bit odd you going straight back. With the ID of a Smersh officer, I can straighten him out if you wish.”
“It’ll be alright. Anna told me to tell him that I was meeting a Soviet official and when business was done I would return to Istanbul. If you look to the fore, you’ll see the skipper staring towards us. Just your standing there gives credibility to my story.”
Jez smiled and nodded. “Until later then,” he said and hurried off. He needed to get details of what he’d learned of Borislav to Pavel before the train left.
*
Pavel watched from the entrance of Odessa Railway Station as Jez approached. He went inside to check that Borislav was still comfortable in the café before showing himself again and waving Jez over. Jez gave him the camera containing the photos of Borislav and told Pavel what he’d learned of the sergeant while on the ferry.
“The way the orders currently stand, Pavel, I’ll be waiting at the Morskoy Hotel for your return.”
“Just make sure you’re not worn out by the time I get back,” he laughed.
“Funny,” Jez replied, grinning sheepishly.
Jez slipped away and Borislav surfaced from the café. Pavel stood in line behind him in the ticket office. What Jez had told him suggested the sergeant would go to Tula, but instead he purchased a first class ticket to Moscow and then moved off towards the platform.
“Give me a first class cabin on train thirty-six to Moscow,” Pavel requested of the attendant.
“Sorry, the gentleman in front of you bought the last one,” he said.
“Oh, okay, give me a second class ticket.”
“All second class tickets are sold out, too. The tickets go quickly because it’s a fast train.”
Pavel sighed in exasperation. “Is there anything left on the thirty-six train?”
“I’m sorry, but the availability on the train is not my fault.”
Pavel tried to relax what was clearly an angry expression on his face. “No, of course it isn’t, Comrade. Anything will do.”
The attendant let his focus roam through a couple of paper forms. “Hmm, yes we have one third class bed. It’s the last side berth and it’s located in the passageway. Or you could go fourth class and travel without a berth.”
Pavel smiled. “I’ll take a third class ticket,” he said, pulling his wallet and counting out the notes.
Borislav was on the platform, hands behind his back, raising himself to his tiptoes before dropping back onto his heels. He was still rocking back and forth when the train came in.
Twenty-six hours after pulling out of Odessa, the coaches terminated at Moscow’s Riga Railway Station and Pavel made sure to be amongst the first off. Out on the platform he stretched up, out, and back; it had been an uncomfortable ride. Borislav came from one of the front coaches and walked past Pavel with his head in the air and a spring in his step: first class. Pavel followed him to the Metro and onto a train to Prospekt Marksa. From there, he took a short stroll southwest and then east towards the Kremlin where he met up with a captain at the Kremlin walls and disappeared into the arsenal.
Pavel stood in a doorway and waited. Not the best spot for surveillance, the Kremlin had a multitude of exits, but it wasn’t long before Borislav came back out of the same door. He crossed the Kremlin grounds, exited into Red Square, and went along one of the boulevards parallel with the Moscow River. When he got to the Hotel Rossiya, he checked in. Pavel returned to the arsenal to see if he could find out who the captain was and then went on up to Dzerzhinski Square and into Lubyanka. Using Afanasiy’s ID, he got into the building easy enough, but Michel’s expression was not welcoming when he got to his office.
“You shouldn’t have come here like this,” he said, furiously. “Apart from anything else, my aide hasn’t been fully vetted. He alone could be the end of us. This just isn’t good enough. You should have used the same method as Jez – met me by the river or at the goom– but no, not you, you’re too tough to play silly games.”
Pavel tried his cheeky, boyish grin, but Michel wasn’t having any of it. He turned away, shaking his head in resignation, and said, “So, what have you got?”
Pavel gave him his report.
The general said, “So he met with a Captain Ferapont before going into the arsenal. Okay, I’ll take a closer look at him. I want you to make sure Borislav returns to Tula and when you’re satisfied he’s back into his legal routine, return to Odessa. Wait there with Jez and Anna until further notice.”
“What about the drug exchange in Turkey?” Pavel asked.
Michel’s voice softened. “I don’t know where I’m going to need you. Until I’ve investigated your information I want to leave the drugs and explosives alone. I don’t want the Soviet side of the deal going to ground, and it’s those people that I’m concerned about. The drugs aren’t my business and I don’t want any more of my people getting hurt becaus
e of them. Having said that, I do believe if the military control here can be brought to an end, the drug providers would look elsewhere for a conduit.”
Pavel nodded. “Okay then, I’ll wait with Jez and Anna in Odessa until further orders.”
Pavel left the office with Michel following a safe distance behind until he was out of KGB headquarters. He winced on thinking of the Smersh sergeants. Michel had been right; apart from those little men knowing him, who else might? He should never have barged into the building unannounced.
Chapter 20
The Seed Barn, Icmeler
Adam Mannesh and Hassan watched the gleaming black limos drive into the barn and park in the bays opposite the mezzanine floor. Five stepped from one car and four from each of the others. The drivers moved off to wait outside the barn as the doors began automatically closing. Those left in the barn formed a group in the centre of the vast, uncluttered area and Adam bellowed like a banana republic dictator, “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! Come, we have plans to make.” But before a step was taken, a police car roared into the barn at speed, squeezing between the doors while there was still room to do so. Several people reached hands to inside pockets, but then the policemen climbed from the car and smiles replaced the formerly concrete expressions. They chuckled and shouted greetings to the officers before turning to approach the stairway. Adam smiled, shook hands, patted backs, and squeezed arms as his crew herded past him and into the conference room. When the last of the group was seated, Adam sat at the head of the table and Hassan hovered behind him. A waiter and waitress offered refreshments and canapés to the new guests. Hassan took water because he liked a clear head when doing business; plus, he and Adam believed it made him look like the hired help.
“Get me a cold lager,” Adam told the waitress and several of the group echoed the request.
The atmosphere relaxed and most lit up cigarettes. Clouds of sweet-smelling smoke from roasted tobacco rose and hovered overhead. Adam slurped from his glass, tilted a nod, and Hassan went to the windows and pulled cords on extractor fans.
“Right,” he said, cuffing froth from his moustache then twirling each end of the thick, matted hair between thumb and forefinger. “If you’re settled, we’ll go straight to business. I have many people, but I’ve chosen this particular group for your individual skills.”
When he looked at those around him he knew an unknowing eye would never believe they were probably the most effective assassins in Ankara. In the most they were tall and gangly or short and wiry. Except maybe one of the women, Helga; she appeared more of a freak than a gangster. Her short, bottle-blonde hair had a touch of the ridiculous, the way it hovered over a dark skin bordering on being black. She wore a man’s suit of box-cut design. The short jacket squared her heavy build further and she looked like a muscle-bound doorman. He twirled his moustache and sniggered when thinking that hers was almost as heavy as his. She wasn’t much use with firearms, but some of her other attributes put her way above the rest. A final slug at his glass killed off the lager and he brought his mind back to business.
“We are about to take command of a drug empire operating out of Icmeler. I had an informant who’s given me detailed information of the dealings and there is big money to be made. All we will have to do is oversee a business that almost looks after itself. Then why bring in such a crew? you ask. Because first we have to overcome the current traders.”
He would eventually tell them of the Russian authorities and how they are trying to bring the trade to an end, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to bring too many problems to the table at the same time. He’d give Yuri a mention, but leave out the others.
“Corrupt Russian military are supplying explosives in exchange for drugs from the east. They will be our new partners. I don’t know what happens to the explosive, but the heroin is processed and shipped west. The operation is simple and will be easy to run once the opposition has been dealt with.”
“Sounds like we get the payload. What do the Russians get out of it?” Ata Abbas asked.
Ata was one of the strangest members of the crew; almost two meters tall, but as thin as a pipe cleaner, he looked like he’d snap in half if the wind blew the wrong way. Not a pretty man either. A shining bald head and huge glaring eyes gaped from above a long, slim nose heralding from a sunken face with a stumped chin. Apparently, he got his sexual thrills from cutting slices of flesh from his victims. He loved his knife and Adam had to admit, it was the fastest blade he had witnessed in action – including his own.
Adam answered openly. “Money and control will be theirs. They get the biggest end of the wedge … But, believe me, even after their payday, there is more than enough for us.” He shifted his oversized rump in the seat and coughed. “I know some of you have done the occasional job in Istanbul. Because of that you may have had dealings with a man called Yuri Aleksii.”
There were even more mumblings than Adam had anticipated and they weren’t extolling Yuri’s virtues.
“I agree,” he said. “But we need him for the initial takeover. When the time is right, however … Well, let us just say, I know his weaknesses.”
A few questions bounced back and forward, but generally everyone was happy to be onboard.
“My resources have had our friends here transferred in from Ankara,” Adam continued, opening a hand towards the three policemen who had driven into the barn as if they were some sort of daredevils. “I know they’ve helped each of you out on more than one occasion. On that basis, I suppose there’s no need for introduction, but I don’t want them caught in the crossfire, so I want you to commit their faces to memory – Sergeant Amoun.”
Amoun stood so that everyone could see him. And there was plenty to see. His shoulders were wide and he tapered to a narrow waist, solid meat and muscle, like a champion bull. He’d been a Turkish oil wrestler in his time and the strength needed for that was clearly still with him. His short hair was flattened out with grease and his face carried a blue beard that wouldn’t be discolored by an attack from any razor. Unforgiving years had forged a scowl into his face.
People nodded acceptingly and Adam said, “Thank you, Sergeant, and now we have Officer Savas.”
Savas struggled from his chair. He must’ve been around a hundred and fifty kilos – and he wasn’t a tall man. His large, round face appeared lubricated and he was forever patting sweat from it. Because of the sweating, his hair was matted in spikes onto his forehead. He steadied himself and blew heavily from the effort of getting up. Slow to get out of a chair, but according to Amoun, Savas could overturn him and pin him to the floor in the speed of a breath.
A few people sniggered and Adam capitalized on it. “Thank you, Savas, you can take the weight off your feet.” When the group laughed loudly, Adam switched allegiance. “That’s enough!” he yelled with venom. “Right, last but not least we have Officer Nazar.”
Nazar stood and bowed around the table, stopping to give a withering grin to those who’d been first to laugh at his friend Savas. He was medium height, slender, and his skin was the color of olive oil from the virgin press. A good-looking man, he kept himself pristine and held himself with pride. Even now his head was cocked back as he smoothed a finger along his Errol Flynn moustache while arching slightly and resting his free hand on his left-slung holster.
“Yes, thank you, Savas. I’m sure no one will forget you.” Again, everyone laughed. “Good, we’re all one happy family, so let’s celebrate. Hassan, tell the waiters to keep the drinks coming while I outline the next steps. Oh, and bring in the girls.”
*
“The last leg of the journey from Odessa has left me feeling grimy,” was the greeting Yuri got from Mehmet when he boarded the cruiser. “I need a wash down. Is there anything you want me to do first?”
“No, Mehmet, you go ahead,” Yuri said as he languished under the Bimini hood up on the flybridge. The air was pleasantly warm and Yuri’s thoughts wandered aimlessly with the sound of Mehmet’s disappearing
footsteps. His eyes hooded and his head grew heavy. Even before Mehmet’s return, Yuri had tried sitting upright, staying alert, watching over the open bay towards Marmaris. But the heat had got to him. Sleep invaded his mind and Pinar Yeter filled his thoughts.
Pinar was a senior reporter with Istanbul’s Hurriyet national newspaper. When he was in the city, he lived with her. That had been going on for over ten years now and marriage was featuring more and more in his mind of late. He was over fifty and he felt his working life was coming to an end, and he’d had enough. Pinar was the woman with whom he’d like to share the next chapter. His eyes flickered and his semi-conscious state ploughed through every compatible characteristic they shared, and they were plentiful.
At the end of reasonable thought, more intimate similarities came to bear, but then a drumming noise vied for control of his mind, shattering the peaceful delirium. Something had buffeted up against the outside of the hull. He sighed negatively, got up, and tottered over to the edge of the flybridge. When he looked over the side an unwelcome shiver ran through him – Adam and Hassan. They were maneuvering around the boat in a water taxi. He pulled back and his thoughts sobered. Panic coursed through his veins. Mehmet; he didn’t want Adam to know Mehmet was here. He skipped the steps down into the saloon.
“Mehmet!” he called.
Mehmet came up behind him from the aft cabin. “Yes.” He was toweling his thick mop of hair with one towel and had another wrapped around his waist.
Yuri spoke to him softly, almost a whisper. “Mehmet, get back into the aft cabin. Adam Mannesh has just turned up. Don’t ask me why, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t trust the situation. Stay out of the way, but listen in to what is going on. If I leave with them, get in touch with Michel.”
“Bit over the top; they’ve been nothing but helpful so far …” Mehmet began, slinging the wet towel from his hair onto the saloon seating.