TURKISH DELIGHT by Barry Faulkner (learn to read activity book .txt) 📕

our best guess would be to Iran. Both Turkey and Iran have a bad habit of arming terrorist groups – Iran is quite open about it, Turkey not so. Now the point is that you may remember a missile attack on the Aramaco fuel depot in Jeddah a couple of years ago?’

I nodded, I remembered it vaguely. An oil storage plant was hit by missiles and blown up, oil prices shot up but the Saudis had it back on stream pretty quickly.

Woodward continued. ‘The missiles came from Yemen, fired by the Houthi rebels. Not of general knowledge is that the missiles were British made; and when that was confirmed the Saudis went bloody mad because we are signed up to the UN Covenant on who you can sell arms to and who you can’t, selling to Yemen is strictly forbidden. The markings also showed that those missiles were bought from a UK arms manufacturer and the paperwork trail leads from them to Rambart, with the final destination being India. Those missiles obviously didn’t go to India, they went to the Houthi via Cyprus, Turkey and Iran. If we pull Rambart in he will have his back well covered, and no doubt have the proper documents from India listing their receipt of the missiles; money buys anything in India, especially from Government officials, so no point in going down that road. However, now we know the route his clandestine missiles take we can be with the ones from the Purley warehouse all the way to their real final destination and get the proof we need to shut him down.’ He smiled at me. ‘Or should I say, you can be with them all the way and get the proof we need.’ He sat back with that checkmate look on his face again.

‘I can?’ I didn’t like the sound of this. ‘How?’

‘Rambart has his crates booked on a freight flight Heathrow to Lanarca the day after tomorrow. You are booked on a military flight from RAF Wattisham to our base in Akrotiri, Cyprus tomorrow afternoon. Flight leaves 2pm – have whichever passport you are using at present and don’t miss it.’

‘And what do I do in Cyprus?’

‘You follow the crates to their destination, you get proof Rambart is breaking international law and shipping them to Turkey, and then destroy them’

‘Destroy armed missiles?’ That sounded a bit dodgy to me.

‘Yes, of course – can’t have them being used, can we.’

‘And just how do I destroy them?’

‘Oh no doubt you’ll find a way – as long as you don’t launch the damn things against a friendly power, I really don’t care.’ He rose and buttoned his coat. ‘Have fun, Nevis – and of course if anything goes wrong we will deny all knowledge of you and the operation. Turkish jails have a reputation for being rather insanitary, so do take care.’ He gave me a curt nod and left.

My mobile buzzed. It was Gold.

‘Was that Woodward?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, I hung around to get a look at him so I know him in future. He had two shadows.’ The top people in the security networks never go anywhere without a couple of bodyguards along for the ride.

‘How do you fancy a few days in Cyprus?’

‘Cyprus?’

‘Yes, apparently that’s where Rambart’s crates are going and my job is to follow them from there to establish their final destination and destroy them.’

‘So how do I fit in?’

‘I want you to follow me, watch my back. I’m dispensable and I’m too young to die in some far Eastern cesspit jail. I’m on an RAF flight to the British base at Akrotiri tomorrow afternoon – the crates are being flown out to Larnarca the next day.’

‘All a bit of a rush, isn’t it?’

‘Can you manage it?’

‘Of course I can. I’ll give you a bell in Cyprus.’

‘Don’t forget your sunscreen.’

The line cut off.

That’s what I love about Gold, no if and buts – whatever I throw at her she can handle. Nobody I would rather have in my corner.

     *****************************

 

CHAPTER 11

The flight was boring, Looking down at clouds is very soothing but after a while very boring. I was the only passenger on a freight plane full of military supplies. My mood lightened as the clouds dispersed and Cyprus appeared below us drenched in sunshine sitting in the middle of the deep blue Mediterranean. At the Akrotiri base I had assumed I would be met by somebody and given a room. I was, that somebody was a young Lieutenant Commander. He was waiting at the foot of the steps as I came down from the plane, my small rucksack of essentials over my shoulder.

‘Mr Nevis?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Lieutenant Commander Jones.’ He introduced himself, saluted and shook my hand. ‘I’m your local lead partner on this mission, sir.’

A Lieutenant Commander? He looked about twenty four – I thought that senior ranks were older? Mind you, James Bond was a Commander in the books and he wasn’t very old either, so I must be wrong. Jones was in dark blue shirt and trousers, very informal; he looked very fit and sported a tight one-inch crew cut that accentuated his sharp features. I thought he was probably SBS – most UK military bases on coastlines have an SBS unit woven in.

‘Any more luggage, sir?’

‘No, everything I need is in here.’ I tapped my rucksack. Inside it was a change of underwear, fresh socks, a razor, lockpicks, eight-inch double edge knife in leather sheath and my Walther PPK, plus a box of a hundred bullets. ‘And my name is Nevis. Don’t call me sir.’ I hate any deference.

He smiled. ‘Okay, Nevis. I’m Jones.’

‘Nice to meet you, Jones.’

He walked me over to a three-story barrack block and saw me into my room on the second floor. Small, compact, bed, shower, wardrobe, table