CHAPTER 4
I arrived on the other side and stepped out onto the concrete platform. Turkish grandmothers approached island hopping travelers offering accommodation in their homes and makeshift apartments. There were tour operators offering me everything from day trips to foot massages. They were all just distractions. Across the platform there was a mailbox. To the left of the box was a man reading the newspaper. He was wearing sunglasses. He nodded to me. I walked in his direction. He folded his newspaper. Tucked it under his arm. Took off walking to the direction opposite of where we would have gone if we were going to The Turk’s shop.
The streets were narrow and crowded. I saw boxes on the street that had the customs stamps they give packages when they exit Hong Kong. Just next to those small boxes were friendly locals offering original made in Turkey scarves and housewares. I wondered if they had remembered to remove the Made in Hong Kong sticker from the bottom of each item.
I followed the man up some stairs, around a corner, and down some other stairs. We were walking in a circle. Taking the scenic route to The Turk’s shop. The man stopped just in front of a door. He pointed for me to go inside. Inside was The Turk. He stood to shake my hand. A different young girl than before popped out from behind the curtain leading into the back and left two small glasses of tea on the table.
“Teşekkür ederim,” I said, as I looked her in the eye. She blushed and smiled at the same time. She seemed very shy. Surprised that someone had even acknowledged her existence.
“Thank you,” she said. She had an accent. It didn’t sound like the ones I had heard in and around Bodrum. It was from somewhere else. I was surprised that she replied with a thank you to a thank you. I figured she was just nervous. Maybe it was one of the only English sayings she knew.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” The Turk began. He removed a stack of pictures from underneath the table. “This is the family you will transport. They will be arriving in town soon.” He was talking to me like I was an underling. Normally I wouldn’t go for that, but in this case it was good. He felt comfortable superior. In charge. Look at me and who I have working for me now. I wondered if he had already gloated to his colleagues. Even worse his competition. I studied the pictures for twenty seconds. Making mental notes of facial features. The guys were easily to remember. The girls wouldn’t be. There were no clear shots of them without covered faces. I would focus on the guys. The girls would surely be with them or close by. They wouldn’t risk separating in the darkness of night.
“This is a GPS device. You are to have it with you at all times.” He handed me a small plastic object the size of a key chain. It was simple, but effective. I had seen these units before. No bells and whistles. Just performance.
“My colleague will show you to the pick-up point now,” he said.
He stood to shake my hand. I stood. I took his hand without saying anything. I knew the tea would still be too hot to drink, and it was just a formality anyways.
The man who had picked me up at the dock motioned his hand as if to exit through the door. I complied. There was a small scooter parked outside. One hundred twenty-five cc at most. He was small, but with my added size and weight this was about to get interesting. He jumped on the front and I climbed on the back. I probably looked like a tourist getting picked up for a day trip by an understaffed or underfunded tour operator.
He drove cautiously and slowly. A big contrast from what I was accustomed to seeing in Turkey. Surely he didn’t want to attract any more attention than he already had with a huge tourist on the back of his bike. We exited the tourist area and followed the road down to the seaside. He parked the bike. We got off.
He began walking right away. I still wasn’t sure if he even spoke English. For the next twenty minutes we cut through trees and bushes. We climbed over rocks. It definitely wasn’t a place any tourist would go. I was glad we had decided not to go with the jogger scenario. It would have been so out of place it would have been comical. I could see the sea just over some rocks.
He turned around and put his hand out flat. He lowered it as if to say get low, which he did at the same time. He was in a crouched position. Half walking. Half wobbling. Eventually he was so low he had to balance himself with his hands on the ground. We came to an area where two rocks met. There was a small space between them. Very narrow and the decent to the sea between them very steep. He pointed rapidly at the flat rock that was twenty yards down. He just kept pointing as if to make sure I got the message. The rock was the perfect pickup point. It was secluded from prying eyes on both sides. It sat inside a small cove. Just enough protection from the sea. I could imagine a young Turkish boy smoking shisha and having his first kiss there. Now it was a 0300 pickup point for refugees, migrants, and fugitives. How times change. The guy then pointed at his watch. He held up three fingers and then turned his hand flat and wobbled it to each side. At or around 0300. He gave me a thumbs up and raised his eyebrows. It was a question. I returned the thumbs up and added in a nod. The gestures were universal.
He extended his palm and then quickly lifted it up, extending his finger in the process and pointing in the direction from whence we came. We walked back through the brush. Not another human in sight. About the only signs of life I saw were some small lizards and the bugs they were chasing. A sharp contrast from tonight when this stretch of coast would be packed with people. He drove me back to the port. When we arrived he just idled the bike. I guess that was all the good-bye I was going to get. I slid off. He took off. I watched him go. Expressionless throughout. I walked to the ticket office and bought a one-way ticket back to Kos.
I exited the ferry. I was looking for a storage locker. I found a small shop with a man who tagged and stored your luggage by the hour or days at a time. Next to him was a souvenir shop. I went inside the shop. An endless supply of plates, postcards, mugs, and magnets. Not a piece of clothing to be found. I walked out and saw a convenience store selling beach towels. I bought the one that was a Greek flag. I asked the cashier for a bag. He looked at me strange as if I would need a bag to carry the towel. I would have thought the same thing being already at the sea. I stepped outside. I removed the GPS device from my pocket and wrapped it in the towel. Placed the towel in the bag. I had packed the towel tight. It allowed me to roll the bag and then stuff it longways back into its own open area for the handle. It looked like an oversized burrito. I checked the bag in at the storage lockers. I hailed a cab and went right back to my bungalow.
I called Claire Abbey right away.
“We have to meet now. They’ve got GPS on me.”
“It’s on your person?”
“Checked at the dock. Probably have less than an hour and they’ll need to see it moving. Could be just having a morning coffee right now, but if it’s still longer than about forty five minutes it will look suspicious.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Not all the way. The café two turns down the hill.”
“I’m there now.” Abbey hung up.
I walked down the hill. I was at seven minutes gone already. Abbey showed up at thirteen minutes.
“Tonight is the pickup. About 0300. I saw pictures. Family like he had said. Five people. Looks like a husband, wife, son, and two daughters. Pickup spot is a secluded cove.”
“Did you drop a beacon there?”
“With what? I just have the Nokias.”
“What model?”
“1280s. No way they’re GPS enabled.”
“Anything? Any way we can find that spot?”
“Not electronically. I’ll have to explain it to you and you can get it with satellite imagery.”
“Am I going to be able to find it?”
“No distinguishing features other than maybe the pick-up point.”
“A flat rock?”
“How’d you guess?”
“They’re a favorite of the traffickers.”
Another minute gone. It took two more minutes to explain where the rock was located. Sixteen minutes since I stored the GPS. The shops in the harbor were close. If they didn’t have it on too sensitive a setting it would look like I stepped out of the boat and was still there. That would put me at twenty-one minutes.
“How does the agency want to move on this one?” I asked.
“Stick with the plan. We’re playing the long game. Just gather info. Talk to the passengers if you can.”
“What about today?”
“Right. You have the device. The café might be blown already. The al-Atrash kids or the boat captain probably gave up that place. No need to give them more. I’d stay away from the bungalow.”
“Who’s that place registered to? They’ve probably called it in already.”
“They’re Turkish. They don’t have the connections on this side.”
“Money buys connections. If his operation is as big as you say it is he’s already taken precautions.”
Abbey breathed out hard. “You’re right. I don’t know whose name is on that place. I’ll have to check with Frost.”
“Where’s Frost in all this?”
“He’s pulled off in some other direction. He’s half on this one and he’s half finishing up another case he had worked on years ago. It went dead, but some new DNA came up and now it’s hot again. The agency really wants that one. It’s a big bust. The kind voters like.”
“So it’s all about the voters?”
“No. It’s all about busting these crooks. The bigger the crook we can parade in front of the cameras the more funding we get. The voters remember the work so they’re OK with the budgeted funds.”
“How many funds are we talking?”
“We’ve got 10,800 people. Over half are special agents. It costs money.”
“How much money?”
“Two billion.”
“Exactly one hundred times the SEAL budget.”
“True.”
“Or the entire GDP of Liberia.”
“A country we’re really going after now. Trafficking is on the rise there.”
“From South America?”
“Yep. Cocaine.”
“But we’re in Greece. And we have The Turk to deal with now. When can you get me the name of the owner of the café?”
“Later today. It should be an easy pull.”
“And some clothes and gear?”
“I’ll check a bag at the daily storage at the port. It will have everything. I’ll drop off the claim ticket in your post box.”
“Too risky. They might have eyes on me. They don’t know where the ski is. You can put the ticket there. Just tape it up on the front.”
“Can’t somebody get it there?”
“It faces out to sea. It makes no sense to look there. It sways in the tide, but nobody goes over there.”
“OK.”
I told her where the ski was. She reached her hands across the table. Laid the back of her hands on the table and opened her hands. I took them in mine. We had had total eye contact since I had arrived. It was more of the business kind. Now it was more personal. She tilted her head to the side. Neither of us spoke. We just stared into each other’s eyes. It felt like time stood still. Then I remembered we were working against a ticking clock.
“I have to go.”
She didn’t say anything.
“I really have to go.”
“I know.” She seemed so at ease with her answer. Calm like she would say it but it didn’t matter because the only thing that mattered to her was staring into my eyes and me into hers. I felt the same. She leaned across the table and kissed me gently on the lips. She leaned back into her seat.
“Thank you. And be safe.”
“Always.”
I stood and our left hands came apart. Our right hands were still holding. I started to walk away. To the lockers. Our hands stayed joined until the last second when the tips of her fingers left the tips of mine. This had to work. Not just tonight. The whole thing. I had to do this for her. For Agent Johnson. And for myself. I wanted Claire Abbey more than anything. When a SEAL wants something they stop at nothing to get it.
I removed the GPS device from storage and went to the café. Now the waiting game. Hurry up and wait. A popular term in military. A favorite amongst Marines. I sat in my office most of the afternoon. I played through the events of tonight in my head, but often found my thoughts drifting. Drifting to Abbey. I had to stay focused now to make her mine later. The long game. Just think about the long game.
Late afternoon I made my way to the Jet ski. I found the ticket taped right where I asked. She had added a winking smiley face on the back side. A nice touch. I claimed the bag and went for a coffee. It didn’t make sense to sit in the café all day and as an active guy it was driving me crazy. After the coffee I dropped the bag at the café and went for a run. I kept the GPS device on me. I headed up the hills. I didn’t detect anyone tailing me, but that doesn’t mean anything. They could easily have guys stationed in the area. It was packed with tourists. Who was I to know who was who? Doesn’t matter how smart or observant you are. Have to be realistic too.
I returned from the run and took a shower. It was time for sunset. I was ready to grab an early meal and watch the sun fade into night. I had found a calm place for dinner. No one would be eating at this time since most people on the island tend to eat a later dinner in the summer months. I had the restaurant nearly to myself. All I could think about was how perfect it would be if there was one more guest to share it with. Abbey. I paid the tab and headed back to the café. Time to catch some shut eye before the middle of the night wake up call.
My phone vibrated at 0220. Right on time. The message said: Go now. Just enough time to roll out of bed and have a quick stretch like a lion does after it wakes from a nap. Then I’d be on my way to the Jet ski to cross the sea to that rock. I’d arrive there right at 0300. Right on schedule.
Everything was smooth as silk. I had no trouble finding the area where the rock was. I pulled up and saw five people squatting down. Faint smiles came across their face when they realized who I was. They were excited, but they still knew what laid ahead.
I pointed to the mother. Then one daughter. Then one son. I mimicked the motion of putting on a lifejacket. They quickly fastened their orange and yellow life jackets. Bright colors, but nothing I could do about it now. The father and the other daughter would be the second trip. This way there were no girls left alone and one parent in each group.
I wanted to keep the weight centered as much as possible. I had the youngest girl slide in behind me. Behind her was her brother. The mother was in the back. I turned to the father and gave him a thumbs up sign. I motioned with my hand towards Kos, then back to the rock on which he was standing, then back to Kos. I pointed to my watch. I held up my index finger and then moved it in the direction of a circle. One hour. One hour to get everyone across safely. I expected much less, but better to set expectations on the safe side in case we ran into something. It would keep everyone more relaxed.
As we pulled away from the rock I could feel the passengers shifting. I half turned to take a look. The mother was blowing kisses back to the rock. Her husband was returning them. The kids were all waving to each other. I should have pointed to them to face forward. Stay steady. But how could you do that in a moment like this? When the family is separating with no guarantees they’ll ever see each other again. Some strange man on a Jet ski just took your wife, daughter, and son. The other point of view being that same strange man had just taken you and left your husband and daughter on a rock in the middle of the night on the side of the sea. Luckily for them I was a trained SEAL. They probably didn’t know for sure if they were going to arrive safely on the other side no matter what, but they were. I was going to see to it.
We pulled out of the cove and I looked for Turkish Coast Guard boats. All seemed clear. They had started to patrol without lights, but a trained eye can still spot them from a reasonable distance. All good.
We slowly made our way through the area they patrol. Time was ticking. Within ten minutes we were half way. I hit the gas and approached the Greek side. Abbey told me in the note the Greeks were on our side tonight. Just stick to the direct route and they’ll make sure they’re out of our way. True to plan the coast was clear. We pulled up right to the coast and docked. The family looked a mixture of elated and surprised at how easy it had been. I helped them off and walked them to the café. No hostage march tonight. Now, we were on the same team.
I opened the café and let them in.
“You have arrived safely. Everything is OK for you in Greece now. Now, I must go back.”
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” they just kept repeating.
“Don’t thank me yet. We’re only half way finished. There are beds upstairs. The couch is here. A toilet there,” I pointed. “Make yourself at home. I will return shortly, but you must remain one hundred percent quiet. No talking at all. And I must lock you inside.”
“It’s OK,” the mother said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back with your husband and your daughter,” I said and I opened the door, locked it, and made my way back into the night.
Everything was going to plan. I approached the Turkish coastline and cut my speed. I spotted a boat in the distance. No lights. I was best to wait it out. I cut the engine. It was crawling along. Northwest to southeast. Less than five knots. Less than six miles per hour. Based on the length and shape it had to be a KAAN 29-class patrol craft. Commissioned in 2001. Almost thirty-five yards in length. A top speed of about sixty knots. The Turkish Coast Guard wasn’t messing around tonight. They had a big boy out. Big but fast. But not showing off that speed at the moment. This was going to take a minute. I sat patiently and waited. And waited. And waited. I didn’t see another boat behind it. It didn’t seem to be a decoy first boat. I fired up the engine and made my way to shore.
I found the father and daughter waiting on the rock. They were elated to see me. I noticed something new. Something that wasn’t there the first time. Three bags. Likely stuffed with the standard trifecta. Clothes, cash, and coordinates. Things to wear, cash and things like jewelry that convert to cash, and journey essentials like maps and Ziplock bags. And of course two lifejackets for this one water crossing. I was able to get one of the bags stowed away in the seat. They would have to have the other two on their laps. I put the son behind me and the father in back. I was more concerned about weight than about streamlined height distribution. We probably looked like a reverse camel hump on that ski. Didn’t matter. Crude is often effective. We were all loaded up. I turned and looked at the rock. Empty. I turned back to the father and gave him the thumbs up. He returned my gesture with the same. We were off.
The minute we came out of the cove I knew something was off. A flare off to our right lit the night sky. I yelled, “Hold on,” and I gunned it. I could see it in my peripheral. A KAAN 15 Class. A Coast Guard favorite in these parts. It would have been a fair fight it if was just me and my weight on the ski. No way an overloaded Jet ski stood a chance. Plus I had lives to protect.
When life gets primal I think back to my time in Africa. You don’t have to be the fastest gazelle, but you can’t be the slowest. That and I knew they didn’t want an international incident. They weren’t going to fire their weapons. No way, but I still didn’t want to put them in a position where a trigger happy guy looking for a little action under the cover of darkness now had an excuse. A chase at high speeds on the sea is only going to make the testosterone pump harder. I veered left. I remembered that the pick up spot was chosen because it’s a location other refugees weren’t using. They were further down the coast, but not much. And at this hour the sea was sure to be packed with rubber rafts making the journey.
I kept the speed solid, but safe. I’m sure the KAAN 15 Class was wondering what I was doing. I only needed to make it a mile. I looked down at the speedometer. Fifty-two kilometers per hour. Just over thirty-two miles per hour. A distance of one mile takes one minute fifty-two seconds. One fifty-two at fifty-two. I started counting.
The KAAN 15 Class was closing the distance. I zigged right. Waited. Waited. Waited. The KAAN 15 Class zigged right. I zagged left. The KAAN 15 Class had a decision to make. Where was I going and what was my strategy? Would I take the likely path I was on when they first found me? Would I continue south to who knows where? Or would I zig and zag my way to nowhere fast? That and how much gas did I have? I was fueled up. I was good there. I was back on Plan B path.
The KAAN 15 hadn’t zagged yet, until it did. It was back in pursuit. I continued on my way. I wasted a full fifteen seconds on my cat-and-mouse game. I was still well over a minute out, but closing distance fast. The KAAN 15 Class was closing on me even faster. I had to cut speed. We were getting close to a dangerous area.
As we came upon it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Raft, after raft, after raft of refugees and migrants. I had never seen anything like it. It was beauty and chaos at the same time. The struggle to escape from which you came. The struggle to get where you wanted to go.
I had to cut speed more and look for an opening. I couldn’t risk a few miles per hour and then accidently sink a raft. The Turkish Coast Guard couldn’t risk a public relations nightmare. I veered left even more. Back to the coast. The line of rafts was long and thick. I saw an entry point ahead. No more than thirty meters. I slowly approached and veered right to enter the hole. It would put a wall between the Coast Guard and me.
As the rafts realized what was happening they began to cheer. It was strange, but I felt like a hero. Like superman. We were all in this flight to safety together. I just had a little bit bigger horse. A big, winged, white Pegasus. They started waving. We waved back. I made it through the boats and we turned right. Back in the direction of Greece. We sputtered along. Slowly passing each boat. Offering each one smiles and waves. Unspoken encouragement. I also kept an eye on that Turkish Coast Guard boat. He no longer followed me. He had slowed to a stop. Pulled out his megaphone and began shouting at the rafts. They didn’t care, and I wonder if the Turkish Coast Guard did either.
We made our way past the last boat at the front. Nothing behind. Nothing to the right. No surprises from the left. If the Turkish had called me in at this point it didn’t matter. I was coming up on half way. They weren’t going to try anything with me in these waters. I was Greece’s problem now. Out of their hair.
I righted the ski and headed back up the coast to our original path. I knew we had a small window of safe passage up there. That and easier and more direct access to the café. As we got closer to the shore you could see the lights. I could feel the father reach over his son to pat me on the back. We did it, he was saying. Not with words. With emotions.
I parked the ski and within minutes we were walking in the door. The family united in one big hug. There were smiles, laughter, and tears. Handshakes for me. Handshakes delivered with two hands. I hadn’t had one of those since I rescued a two-year-old in Benghazi three years earlier. The kind of handshake where you know what you’re doing matters. The kind where you know the world is good. The kind that rip at your heart and strengthen the resolve of your soul at the same time.
But this was no time to get emotional. These were likely high-end drug dealers. Sure they were people, but the products they offered ruined the lives of people they didn’t know. People all around the globe. Enjoy it now, I thought. I’m going to take your whole operation down. Me and Claire Abbey.
My phone vibrated around lunchtime. The message was simple. Next ferry to Bodrum. You take. It was from The Turk’s number. I had dropped the family off at the asylum application office about two hours ago. They had surely called in their successful crossing. The only question was how much information about that crossing had they provided. I was about to find out.
That wasn’t the only discovery of the day. I was also going to find out the contents of their luggage. Abbey had texted me and provided me additional information. The metal locker was actually an x-ray device. I couldn’t open their bags and look. It would raise too much suspicion. I could offer to store their bags in my locker. Just in case someone should try and break into the café. They hadn’t resisted. They were too busy celebrating their crossing. When they eventually passed out I hit the button on the back of the locker, which ran the scan. Today we’d be finding out just what they were transporting. Finding out and documenting. First I had the meeting in Bodrum.
I had a case of Groundhog’s Day when I arrived at the dock. Same flow of tourists scampering off the boat. Same grandmothers’ offering accommodation. Same guy by the phone booth waiting for me. This time he didn’t have a newspaper. He was just standing patiently. About as non descript as you could be. He did have aviators. Certainly a Ray-Ban knock off. They’re everywhere in Turkey and although you can’t always tell why they’re not the originals, you know they’re quite right.
There was no need for hand and arm signals today. He started on the same path as before. Before I knew it I was being ushered into the same shop on the same little street. That’s where the similarities ended.
When I entered the shop The Turk was there. To his left was a new figure. Well dressed and relaxed. He wore Gucci loafers. The ones with the horse bit. I had seen them before in Milan. The supplier to a big fashion house we were watching couldn’t seem to take them off his feet. We even had surveillance photos of him in his temporary apartment at night in them. Them and only them. With a retail price above €500 I guess they counted as an entire wardrobe all unto themselves. He wore white cotton pants. His shirt was a blue polo. It looked expensive. I wondered if he was a value shopper simply taking advantage of his geographic location being so close to Egyptian cotton and Turkish clothing factories, or if fashion was his business. He stood to shake my hand. He did not offer his name. I didn’t ask. The Turk also offered his hand.
“Please sit down.”
I sat. A different young girl came and left us each with a small tea. Again the server ducked behind the curtain leading to the back as quickly and efficiently as she had appeared. As always the tea was scalding hot. Too hot for any normal person to drink for at least another ten minutes. The Turk and his guest each immediately took a sip.
“I heard about last night.”
I didn’t say anything. He seemed serious, but also happy.
“We must thank you for what you did.”
My first thought was who were the we he was referring to. The second was what did he hear.
“You were fast with your thoughts. That could have been a big problem for everyone, but it was not. Thanks to you.”
He reached to his side on the couch. His hand came back holding a white envelope. He placed the envelope on the table. Although we were all sitting close and his intentions apparent, he made the gesture of sliding the envelope as close as possible to me.
“This is for you. As we agreed.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I hope this money helps you with your bills. For your mother’s health.”
“Thank you.”
“I would like to ask you though. How did you not see this vessel in the first place?”
“There was a larger vessel when I entered the cove. I had to wait to let it pass. The cove has blind spots. When we came out we were sitting ducks.”
“I see. And this is when you decided to turn and head down the coast?”
“My Jet ski was already overloaded. It was too heavy and too unsafe to get into a speed battle with the Coast Guard. Even though I know they’re not going to shoot, and won’t have the means or desire to stop us, I still didn’t want to put them in a position where they had to do something.”
“Such as what?”
I thought for a moment. “I would compare it to drinking in public in the States.”
He chuckled. He seemed to be getting a lot of amusement out of the start to this story. I was maintaining eye contact with The Turk since I hadn’t been introduced to the other man yet. Just a handshake, so his purpose in the room wasn’t understood. Yet.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Well,” I began. “The cops have better things to do than to arrest people drinking on the street. Sure it’s against the law and it’s probably pretty easy for them to do. The question is, is it worth the time? Does it get the headlines? Does it get voters excited? Of course not. It’s mostly a bunch of paperwork and hoping that the fine will be paid. Plus I can’t imagine chasing drunk guys is any fun.”
“Catching drunk guys is probably even worse,” he said.
“Exactly. Once you’ve got them you’ve got to process them. And if they’re drunk enough you become their babysitter. At least until you get them to the station. And cleaning puke out of the back of a cruiser is no way to spend your shift.”
“I understand, but what does that have to do with last night?”
“Well, if the drunk guy just puts his liquor in a brown paper bag the problem is solved for everyone. He can drink until he’s had his fill and the cop can do whatever it is the cop wants to do. He doesn’t have to bother with the guy. It’s a win-win.”
“So you didn’t want to rub the Coast Guard’s face in it?”
“Exactly. If I just become another one of the boats it’s not a big deal. If I challenge them then we have a testosterone battle. Guns or no guns, we don’t want that.”
The Turk took a sip of his tea. “You are smart. A calm head. That is important in this business.”
I said nothing.
“It is hard to find such a man. I thank you for what you have done. For me and for the family last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
The Turk looked to his left. The fashionable man seemed very relaxed. He had taken a laid back posture. His arms were cross. His body language seemed comfortably in charge. Judgmental, but interested. The man nodded as if to tell The Turk he could proceed.
“This is a friend of mine. His given name is Hassan. It has a few meanings in our culture. One of which is benefactor.”
“Niarchos,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Hassan.”
“You may call me Hank if you wish. If it is easier. And the pleasure is all mine.”
“As we are in Turkey I think it would be more appropriate to call you Hassan. I would like to respect the culture of where I am.”
“Thank you. As you wish. Hassan it is.”
“The family you helped last night is important to Hassan. He is thankful to you for what you have done and would like to speak with you if you have some time,” The Turk said.
I wondered why Hassan wasn’t speaking for himself. Maybe The Turk wanted him to feel important by taking the form of his messenger. Maybe it was just more of a customary thing. It was definitely clear Hassan was the dominant one in this relationship. Whatever that relationship was.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Great.”
The two men stood.
“I will be in touch,” The Turk said. “Enjoy your meeting with Hassan.”
“Thank you.” I reached down and picked up the envelope. I put it in my pocket. The Turk had his arm open towards the door. I exited the shop first with Hassan behind me.
“Do you enjoy the sea, Niarchos?”
“I do.”
“Great. Today is a perfect day to be at sea. Would you like to join me on my boat?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“Great. Right this way.”
He walked in front. He was walking to the harbor. The streets were narrow. With so many tourists in the area it made more sense to walk in line. Single file. It gave me time to study his body language a little and eliminated the need for small talk. It didn’t take long until we were at the harbor.
Hassan didn’t have a boat. He had a yacht. A black one. A sleek and terribly expensive looking one.
“Please. After you.”
I came aboard. I didn’t immediately see any staff, which surprised me. If you spend the money on the yacht you spend the money on the staff. At least that’s what I had been told.
We took in the ropes. Hassan fired up the engine. We were off.
“Do you like football?”
“American or European?”
He laughed. “Oh, that’s right. You Yanks prefer to call it soccer.” It was friendly in the way he said it. Not condescending.
“Sure. It’s a nice distraction.”
He flipped on the TV. “Big match this afternoon.”
“Who are you pulling for?” I said.
“I cannot support a team that is not Turkish through and through. I am pulling for Galatasaray. Fenerbahçe is managed by a Portuguese.”
“So you are Turkish?”
He laughed. “I’m not. But we are Arab brothers. Maybe you have heard of Muslim Brotherhood.”
It was a statement, but I took it for a question. “The Egyptian political group?”
He laughed. “Not in this way. I am not into politics. I am referring to the way of how Muslim men are all brothers. We are united under one religion. One way of life.”
“So you prefer to support teams that have Muslim roots?”
Again he laughed. “I don’t care so much. About football or about religion. But my business clients care. And I am about business. All business.”
“A smart business man,” I see.
“And Galatasaray has twenty Turkish league titles. More than any other club. Fenerbahçe is second.” He paused. “With nineteen.”
We both laughed.
“And business is about winning. And I am a winner. And I support winners.”
“I know what you mean. Losing’s not my thing.”
He smirked at me. The boys and I had played a lot of poker during the lull in action on assignments. You start to pick up on tells. This was definitely a tell. His nonverbal clues were tipping me off. I’m sure he feels comfortable surrounded by his eager to please minions, but that’s not what he’s going to get from me.
We slowly made our way out of the harbor. As we exited we passed luxury yacht after luxury yacht. I had never seen anything like it since Monaco. The contrast was incredible. There were primitive local fishing boats which could be had for €500 dwarfed by yachts easily surpassing €50 million or more.
“Mind if I check out your head?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
I knew a yacht of this would have a number of heads. I wanted to check out what was below deck.
After descending the stairs the first thing I saw were paintings. I don’t know anything much about paintings, but these seemed a little more sexy than I would have expected for someone doing business with a lot of Arab associates. There were a number of doors. Some had markings. Some didn’t. The ones that did had markings in Arabic. Perfect. I had no idea what they meant so it gave me the excuse for trying them all.
I went to the end of the hall and turned the knob. It was unlocked. Inside was a bed. Perfectly made. It had a panoramic view of the sea. This guy was really living the life. There were two books on the table. They were in Arabic. I couldn’t determine the subject. On top of the books was an ashtray. Next to the ashtray was a small wooden box. The lid was ajar. Inside were cigars. I could see the Romeo Y Julieta bands. I took a step back and looked back into the hall. No one. To my right was another door. I opened it. It was some sort of storage closet full of brown boxes. Again the letters were in Arabic. The boxes were sealed.
I had already been gone over a full minute. I needed to find the head and get topside. I pulled another handle. It looked like an entertaining room. There should be a head in there. I entered and found a head in the back. The head was immaculate. The furnishings were gold plated. It looked like it was designed by Versace. An over-the-top display of wealth. I wasn’t sure if I should admire it or urinate on it. If he was associated with The Turk it was likely ill gotten.
I finished up and made my way topside.
“Anything interesting down there?”
I wasn’t sure if he had surveillance or was just making strange conversation.
“A lot. I pulled a few handles before I found the head. Wound up in the gaming room. Beautiful boat you have.”
“Thank you. I designed most of it myself. Care for a drink?”
“I thought Muslims didn’t drink,” I said.
“Some of us do. It’s bad form to get drunk, but a glass or two of champagne at sea isn’t going to kill or offend anyone.”
Hassan turned to the table on his side. A bottle of Dom Perignon White Gold was already chilling in a bucket of ice. Next to it were two empty champagne flutes, two glasses half full of water, a separate bucket of ice, and a pair of tongs. He filled each flute half full of champagne. Then he dug his tongs in the ice for cubes. He was very precise in his search. He pulled one cube out. Inspected it. Dropped it in the glass of water. He searched for a second. Same procedure. Then a third. He repeated his ice hunt until the second glass also had three cubes. All the same size. All carefully placed in the water. They fell into the glass like perfect divers. No splash. No touching the side.
I could see Hassan was a very precise guy. It made sense. Boating, or yachting, requires precision. This was over the top though. I had never met someone who was anal retentive about ice. He offered me the glass of Dom. As per Arabic culture I accepted with my right hand.
“To the bow. Shall we?”
We walked around to the bow.
“Mr. Niarchos.” He paused. “You have done me a big service, but it seems I know very little about you.”
I said nothing.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the States.”
“Yes, you call football soccer. I remember. But your mother is Greek?”
“Yes.”
“Miláte Elliniká?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Do you speak Greek?”
“No. I never picked it up.”
“That’s a shame.”
I said nothing.
“Your mother never spoke Greek in the home?”
“Sometimes on the phone. And when she was angry.”
I raised my glass. Hassan followed suit.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers, my new friend,” Hassan said.
There were always a lot of uncertainties on my missions abroad, but one thing held nearly one hundred percent accuracy. If someone you just met refers to you as my friend, they’re not your friend.
“So she insisted on English. I find it strange she didn’t keep with her customs. With her homeland. Greeks are usually a very proud people. Rightfully so.”
“I guess she wanted me to embrace the new culture. To make it in America as they say.”
“I guess,” Hassan said.
“And you had no brothers or sisters growing up?”
“Just me. Only child.”
“I am fascinated by your hustle. Your business hustle. What gave you the idea to transport the refugees? Of all the businesses you could have chosen, you choose that one.”
“Basic economics. Supply and demand. Preferably a demand with a high paying customer. A customer not in the position to ask for refund. A black and white business. Either you provided the service or you didn’t.”
“So then you went out and bought a Jet ski?”
“My mother had one.” Time to deflect. “What about your family, Hassan?”
“Well, I come from the Arabic world so family is very important to me. Our whole life revolves around our families.”
I could sense some hostility in his voice. “And you think the West has lost this?”
“Yes. The original generation that goes West does what they can to keep the culture, but it often proves futile. As the first generation born on foreign soil assimilates, the culture slips. It used to be a little each generation. Now it’s nearly gone in the first generation.”
“And you see this as bad? Adapting to the environment someone chose to enter.”
“There is a saying your U.S. military has. Adapt and overcome. You can adapt to your surroundings. You do not have to become your surroundings. You can overcome them.”
“And the families migrating now will adapt and overcome, or am I wrong? Will they be swallowed up?”
Hassan took a drink of champagne. “I wish that they overcome. But I do not think this wish will be granted.”
Religious fundamentalist. Check. Hypocrite. Check. Narcissistic control-freak. Checkmate.
“And how do I fit into these plans, Hassan?”
“What plans?”
“The families that are migrating? The families that you wish to keep true to their roots.”
“You can not fit into these plans. You are not one of us. You are only our delivery boy!”
Hassan’s hand swung widely from behind his back. In it was a Marakov pistol. Standard issue for the Soviet Army for forty years. Also used in the Soviet-Afghan wars in the eighties. They were simple and cheap. Still preferred and used by many Russian military and police.
“Who do you work for?”
“I work for myself.”
“The government?”
I said nothing.
“Which one? Which agency?”
“I don’t work for the government.”
“Abdullah?”
I said nothing.
“El-Sayed?”
I just stared at him.
“Khalil?”
Still nothing.
“The Colombians?”
The key to this situation was to remain calm. Not get Hassan worked up. I doubt he did his dirty work often. He had a comfortable grip on the gun, but looked awkward holding it. He planned to kill me. That I was sure. Just buy time.
“I work for myself. I was looking for an opportunity to make money.”
“Liar!”
“You never let me finish.” I took a sip of my champagne.
“What? Tell me or I shoot you now. No one ever finds you then.”
“I work for myself,” I let it hang in the air. “But I’ve been contacted by some people you might be familiar with.”
“Who? Tell me.”
I didn’t have enough information yet to throw any information Hassan’s way that might rile him up. Make him ask me more questions. Make him need to keep me alive a little longer. Time for a Hail Mary.
I turned to face the sea. As if I was contemplating whether or not to tell him. I wanted to look torn in my decision to reveal or not. And just buy some more time.
“Tell me or I shoot you!”
I slowly tilted my head to the right until our eyes met. I opened my mouth and lowered my voice.
“Devlin.”
I could see the fear in Hassan’s eyes. His face went blank. His stare cold and distant. He was processing the bomb I had just dropped on his world. Somewhere in his twisted world sat Devlin. I’m guessing at the top. The question was at the top of what?
In my peripheral I saw that his grasp on the gun had loosened just a bit. The champagne was still in my right hand. I grabbed the railing with my left. Looked back out towards the sea, but kept Hassan in my peripheral.
He was still processing. Thinking of what to say next. What information he could gather from me.
I bent my right knee slightly. Gaining some leverage in the process. I came up on my toes of my left foot. I got one more look in my peripheral at Hassan. The gun had dropped to just two inches above my hip level. I locked in that position in my mind. I dropped the inside of my right knee and pivoted on my right big toe counter clockwise. As I spun back and around counter clockwise from my hips that torque and leverage that had started on the inside of my right knee transferred through my hips and mid section. Through my left leg. Into my left foot. It settled right against the inside of palm of Hassan’s right hand and right into a Soviet issue Marakov pistol.
The pistol left his hand with such a velocity that it carried right over the railing and into the Aegean Sea. My left foot touched down. I followed through with the last remaining torque in my hips and fell forward into the counterclockwise rotation. I brought my right arm up and caught Hassan by the side of his neck. I had him around the neck but face to face. No leverage. I instinctively raised my left knee and just in time. His right knee rose to meet it. Four inches below my testicles where he had been aiming. My left knee had bent in to block the blow. I leaned my body weight into him as the power from my left knee drove my left foot into his shin. He buckled forward towards the ground.
I landed on my back with Hassan on top. The lying equivalent of the standing position we had just been in. I was on the bottom. I slid my left knee over the top and rolled right on my right hip. As we spun I pulled my right arm out from behind my head. I was on top of him. He was on his back. There was no way he was getting up.
I reached down with both hands and began choking him. He swung widely at my face.
“Where is Devlin?” I yelled.
Hassan just kept swinging widely with his fists. Most of his swings hit my shoulders. A few found their way to the side of my head. Because he was on his back he was generating very little leverage with his blows. I blew him a kiss in exchange for the love taps he was giving me. The effeminizing kiss only irritated him more. I squeezed harder around his neck.
“Where.” I paused. “Is.” I breathed out in a yell. “Devlin!”
He said nothing. Just squirmed under the pressure. I released the death grip. No need to kill a source of information. I looked around for something to tie him up with. Nothing. We’d have to do this the hard way. I delivered a medium punch to his nose. Blood gushed everywhere and his eyes watered. I drilled him in the kidney. He was now immobilized with his vision blurred. That’s good enough for now. I kneeled next to him and then flipped him over. I grabbed him by the hands and drug him across the deck. I lowered him down the stairwell. Dropping him the last eighteen inches. I swung down the stairwell hole and was back on top of him. It was overkill. He wasn’t about to go anywhere. I took him into his master bedroom where I had done recon ten minutes earlier. I pulled the sheets from the bed. I hog tied him and pulled him into the hall where I could keep an eye on him.
I went back into the room with the boxes. Pulled out the one on top and threw it on the floor. I ripped the top off.
Condoms. Cases and cases of condoms. I pulled down another box. More condoms. I opened a case. The condoms were individually wrapped. I squeezed them. They felt normal. I opened two from each big box. Totally normal. I was surprised.
I made my way through the rest of the yacht. Each area seemed more extravagant than the last. I pulled paneling off the walls. Nothing. Hassan wasn’t stupid. Except for the part where he tried to take me down. He might be involved in shady stuff, but he’s keeping an arm’s distance. He’s not going to serve himself up on a platter for law enforcement.
I went back topside and surveyed the area. We were still the only boat in the area. I didn’t have the phone with Claire Abbey’s number. Only the Nokia I used to communicate with The Turk and his men. How to play this one?
I played out a few scenarios. None of them ended well for Hassan or The Turk. Then I came to my senses. One dumb move and all the work Abbey and Frost had done up to this point was wasted. Not only bad for them, but I’d be facing some stiff charges, and the streets of Europe would have a lot more heroin. Triple no.
I went up to the yacht’s bridge. The controls to run this thing were beyond my comprehension. How did Hassan not have a crew? It’s not that he didn’t have one, it’s that he chose not to have on for his meeting with me. Maybe they were expecting him. Surely the vessel had GPS. Somebody somewhere was watching.
Luckily the controls were labeled in English. I ran through their meanings in my head. That and how they probably go together. I was running out of time, but they were finally making sense. Net sounder. Sonar. Echo sounder. Conning. Radar. Underwater trawl visualization. I could make this work. And I had my best friend. Autopilot. And I was starting in open water with no one around so I could practice in this parking lot in the sea before I pulled out into real traffic. First to check on Hassan.
Hassan was still hog-tied and looking no better. It wasn’t worth the risk to leave him down there, but I also didn’t want to bring him up in case I did something stupid at the controls that got called in. If the Coast Guard came aboard I’ve got problems. Problems Abbey can probably work out, but who knows what information leaks before then. And how do I tell my story. Sorry, just give me a minute to go ashore, run to my apartment, get my unabomber Nokia, and call the DEA. Don’t worry everything will be OK. That’s not going to fly. At least not right away and not very well. Not covertly either.
I left Hassan hog-tied and stuck him in the bathroom. In the tub. I wedged a big table against the door. In case he did manage to work his hands free he wasn’t going to get out of that room.
I got the yacht going in the right direction. Surprisingly it was easier than I thought. Years of working with smaller vessels definitely helped.
When I got within sight of shore I slowed down her speed. I could see the café we were using in the distance. At five hundred meters I started to get her stopped. It didn’t go exactly as planned, but at three hundred meters from shore I had it under control. I dropped anchor and searched the cabin for a pair of swim trunks and a dry bag.
I found various sizes of swim trunks in one of the guest cabins. None looked like a good fit. I cut a hole in the side of one of the pairs and cinched them tighter with some rope I frayed and cut with a knife from the galley. It would have to do.
I put my things in a dry bag and made my way to the ladder at the stern. I began the swim to shore. There were a few other yachts in the area, but they were too busy drinking and sunbathing to take much notice of me. I swam right up to shore and came out in front of a café. There were two brunettes in sundresses leaning on one other for support. An afternoon likely filled with ouzo and now drowning in the aphrodisiac from the finished oysters sitting on their table. They waved little waves my direction. One blew kisses. Not now. No time ladies. The only girl on my mind was Abbey. Personally and professionally.
I arrived at the café. Pulled my clothes from the dry bag and removed the keys. I put the keys in the lock and turned. I didn’t hear the turn of a lock unlatching. It was already opened. I took a step back and kicked the door open with my foot. Taking cover behind the outside wall. No noise. I popped my head around the corner and back. Empty. I stepped in side. The filing cabinet had been turned upside down. The drawers were out and empty. I ran upstairs. The mattresses had been removed from the frames and thrown on the floor. The frames were upside down.
Somebody got here before me. I ran back down stairs to find the other Nokia brick. It was missing.
No way to call Abbey.
No idea where she was staying.
And a hog-tied guy I had kidnapped on his yacht I had just stolen parked just around the corner and three hundred meters offshore. Not good.