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

‘The crates arrive in Larnaca tomorrow – I have eyes on them at the airport and expect them to be classed as Turkish-Cypriot military supplies, so they won’t be stopped at Customs and will be taken by armed convoy through the UN buffer zone, up to the border and into one of the Turkish side’s border posts. Those posts are pretty big military bases and the crates will probably be opened and checked there and then sent on to one of their ports in Famagusta Bay –probably Trikomo as that’s where most of their naval operations work from. Then it’s over the Med and into Turkey, probably landing at İskenderun which is a major port and naval base. Then who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘Some terrorist group is waiting for them somewhere, but they are going to be disappointed.’

‘They are?’

‘My orders are that as soon as we get proof the missiles are in Turkish hands, we destroy them.’

Woodward had said that to me too. That was worrying. Missiles tend to have rather a loud bang and a wide destruction area.

‘How?’

‘We’ll think of something. Anyway, I expect you’d like a shower and some sleep – looks like a busy few days coming up. Restaurant’s on the ground floor.’

‘Okay, I think I might wander out and find a local place to eat.’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid you won’t. You are not even here officially, and the Turks take great care in checking for new faces at the gates. They have a snapper there twenty-four seven, if you went out your picture would be on the data scanners in Ankara Military HQ within minutes. The restaurant on base is quite good really, but stick to the steak and chips – none of the local stuff, don’t want any tummy trouble when we are on the mission.’ He laughed and left me.

Jones was right, the steak and chips – plus fried tomatoes and onion rings – was great. Then it was time for sleep. Funny how a flight drains your energy, I didn’t need any rocking.

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Breakfast in the restaurant the next morning was equally as good as the meal the day before; the full English was tempting but knowing I’d have a busy day ahead I just piled in the carbs with numerous rounds of toast and marmalade. I noticed Jones sitting at another table with two other men; all looked as fit as him so I assumed they were his SBS team. He didn’t acknowledge me in the restaurant but caught me up outside as I took a wander round.

‘The crates come into Larnaca on a three o’clock flight. Get some rest – I’ll pick you up at your room at two and we’ll get you fitted out.’

Fitted out sounded ominous, I presumed he meant with firearms. I was already getting the adrenalin buzz that concentrates the senses before a job. What fun Pip, eh?

I couldn’t get anymore sleep so I just rested. I gave Gold a call about midday to see if she was in Cyprus yet. She was.

‘I got a flight from Birmingham early this morning, managed to book a room at the Lysithia Hotel – it’s about three miles from the base. What’s happening?’

I filled her in on the details.

‘Okay, I’ll get a flight to Turkey then. I have an old friend in Ankara –not a supporter of the current regime. I’ll ask him to get a place in İskenderun tied up in case you need a bolt hole.’

‘I like your confidence in me.’

‘Nothing to do with confidence in you. You’re not on your own in this one Ben, but even if you were I’d do exactly the same – you know I would. You pay me to watch your back, so shut up and let me do my job. Make sure you have the button with you too.’ She’s so officious.

‘Okay, wish me luck.’

‘Luck doesn’t come into it. Preparation and the right tools for the job does, not luck, make sure you have those with you.’ See what I mean, so officious. Reminds me of my primary school teacher Mrs Harris.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Bollocks, and put the button in now.’

Mrs Harris never said ‘bollocks’.

Gold ended the call.

The button was a small disc the size of a coat button which had a lithium battery inside that transmitted a location signal for up to a mile and a half – pretty good range for the size of it. Gold could then pick up the signal on an app on her phone and overlay it onto an area map to see exactly where I was. It had come in very useful before; when I got into tight situations and needed a distraction she could arrange one to help get me out. I had a deep cut in the heel of my right service boot that I had cut long ago where the button lived. I prized it out with my knife and inserted a new battery from the four I keep in my rucksack pocket and pushed it back in.

Jones came for me at two and we walked across the runway and apron to the far side of the base and a brick-built single-storey building. Inside reminded me of a quartermaster’s store: shelves of various clothing, all black.

Jones pointed to them. ‘Kit yourself out, Nevis – your size will be there somewhere. Leave your clothes in one of the trugs.’ He pointed to a row of five plastic trugs on the floor against the back wall; two already had civilian clothes in them, all neatly folded too.

Pretty soon we were dressed to kill, literally. The only thing he let me keep were my boots; they were black anyway, with deep sound-resistant rubber soles, and their steel toecaps kicked at force into