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 looked 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 give me some real information, but he paused and changed direction. “Yes, everything is OK.”
“And the business plan?”
“It could work. I will need time to think it over and give it the attention it deserves. In a quiet space at a quiet time where I can weigh all the advantages and disadvantages.”
“I don’t mean to put any pressure on you, but now is the time to move. It’s summer so we could also get clients from Turkey and even some of the wealthy refugees and migrants. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. Some are just migrants posing as refugees. They are men and they are carrying a lot of cash. And it’s been a long time since they’ve been with a woman. They’ve been traveling for days. They could use a break.”
“To refresh,” he said.
“To refresh,” I said.
“I will think about it,” he said. I could tell he was ready to go. His attention started to wander.
“Thank you for your consideration. I can only leave this offer to you for three days. If you are not interested I understand, but then I must take it to someone else.”
Just like that I had his full attention back.
“You have others you are speaking to about this?”
“Not yet.”
“Which others would you take this to?”
“Confidentiality. I’m sorry, but I can not say.”
“And you are keeping our business confidential?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. This is important. There are always other eyes and ears. Others who want a piece of the action. Or in some cases all of the action. The pie is big enough for us to split now. In the future it may not be so.”
“It’s never big enough for some people.”
“Unfortunately this is true.”
I left our meeting and took the ferry back over to Kos. I always took a different position on the ferry. I was trying to keep an eye on the other passengers through my sunglasses. See if I recognized anyone twice. Keep an eye out for a tail. That’s what had happened to Smith down in Colombia.
Smith had been going to a bar down in Medellín a couple times a week. Not to drink, but to appear to drink. And to gather intel. He’d order a vodka tonic. The shot of vodka on the side. They’d deliver the drink to his table. He’d discretely dump the vodka into the potted plant on his table, or between the cracks in the wood, or just mix it into a separate drink. A double fisted gringo at a bar isn’t lonely. He’s a friend waiting to be made.
He mostly shot pool and practiced his Spanish. At least that was his cover. A Spanish student looking to improve, and have a little fun in the process. He kept his eyes and ears open and his head down.
He got into a pool match one day with a guy who didn’t seem to understand fair play. Every shot of Smith’s didn’t count for some unknown, fabricated reason and every shot of the señor’s did.
Smith wasn’t going to cause a scene. He just finished the game and walked back to his table. The days leading up to that day Smith was just fishing. He’d bait his hook so to speak, casually throw it into the water, and see what came back. He knew the bar was hot with drug runners. He was just waiting for one to bite. He didn’t just get a bite that day. He hooked into a whale.
“Don’t chu know who that is, gringo?” A guy he had had a few friendly games came over to the table where Smith had sat down after the game.
“Should I?”
“Does a salmon swim upstream? If you get caught around that guy you are going to be trying to swim upstream for the rest of your days. The remainder of which won’t be long because a giant bear will come out and knock you down with its paw and eat you.”
“What do you mean?”
“¡Ponte las pilas!” And he walked off.
Smith had never seen him so concerned before. Had always taken him for a pot-smoking hippie. He had heard that last term before. ¡Ponte las pilas! It translated to put your batteries in. Colombian slang for be careful. Careful wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.
He decided to stay put. See what developed. A fight broke out between the man he had played pool with and another local. Seconds later he heard gunshots. He just kept facing the same direction. Same bent over the table posture. Still drinking his vodka without alcohol.
“What ‘chu lookin at?” the man shouted to the entire bar in Spanish. No one was looking. They went back about their business. The man slammed the money for his drinks on the pool table and walked out.
Smith continued to sip at his drink until he was the last customer of the night.
The waitress came over.
“I know you’re not sucking on that same drink. And I saw you throw that shot in the plant. Saw you do it the day before too.”
She wasn’t aggressive. Just playful. Smith was well built and good-looking.
“What’s your name?”
“Josh Smith. Nice to meet you?”
“It’s my pleasure, really.”
And that’s how it all started. Smitty arranged a date. He really liked her. That was his primary motive, but he was down there on Uncle Sam’s dime. A waitress in that bar could be a prime source of intel.
They had been together over three weeks when the topic of how they met came up.
“I thought you were going to die that day?”
“Why is that?”
“Don’t you know who that was?”
“No.”
“Really. I thought everybody knew.”
“Not this body.”
She laughed. “That’s one of the narco-subers.”
“What’s that?” Smith already knew the answer.
“Those guys who build the subs for their drugs. Then take them up to your country and sell them.”
“Really? They do that?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know?”
“No. I thought they used airplanes.”
“They used to. Still do some. Mostly too risky now.”
“How can those guys build subs?”
“I don’t know, but they have guys that do it.”
“You’re messing with me.” Smith poked her in the side. Teasing her as she pulled away in laughter.
“I’m not!”
“Well if they are, then where in the heck are they doing it?”
“In the jungle, silly.”
“This whole country is a jungle. Silly!”
They played and teased some more. Smith got her to open up about the suspected location. She said she knew because a cousin of hers used to go there to work. Suddenly they didn’t see him any more. She knew he was an engineer. And she knew he suddenly had more money than he ever had before he disappeared.
Smith reported back to his unit. The intel he had gathered was priceless. If the U.S. government could take this guy out before he opened his mouth about any of his political relationships it would save a lot of potential embarrassment. Plus they’d have a big head to hang on their wall right before election time.
Smith and another SEAL got set up for a two-man intel team. They were sliding, swimming, crawling and doing whatever they had to do to make their way through the rivers twice a week. Getting close to the compound. Coming back with photographs and then working with Navy cartographers to plot the exact area. This was before drones became so popular. One day they got a little too close. Too far past the pre-established point. Too deep into enemy territory. That in itself wasn’t a foul. It was that someone else had slipped in behind them.
I wasn’t going to let anyone slip in behind me on this deal with The Turk. But I wanted The Turk to feel like someone might slip in behind him if he didn’t act. And if Devlin was in the area and anyway tied to anything with the refugees as the DEA suspected, he’d be the one most likely to try.