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

gave me time to assess my position. I was about to go uninvited into Turkish military territory, and they aren’t exactly known for their adherence to human rights; I was to find and destroy some missiles, and if Nicholas Rambart shows up kill him to claim my eight hundred grand bounty from his wife. Easy peasy – be back in time for breakfast, eh? No way.

Time to move.

‘Okay, this way.’ Jones led as we ducked our way through the undergrowth until he stopped, sank to his knees and brushed away the dead leaves and twigs on the ground to reveal a large steel ring on a hinge overgrown with grass and weeds. It took Jones a few heaves until the grass gave up and released a metal cover, much the same size as a street manhole  which Jones pulled open.

‘In you go – you’ll need your head torch on.’

I flicked it on and took a tentative step onto the first rungs of a steel ladder leading down the tight entrance. Ten steps later I was at the bottom and saw a tunnel leading off; above me Jones was in and pulled the cover back down, shutting out and light from outside. He joined me at the bottom of the steps.

‘I’ll lead,’ he said, ducking into the tunnel which was square but only about four foot high, meaning we had to crawl on all fours along it. It was pretty basic, not exactly state of the art – just a hole hewn from the solid rock; the only benefit was that it sloped away from us as we crawled along, which meant any rain that had come in had flowed away and the floor was pretty dry. After ten minutes Jones stopped and looked round.

‘Take a breather. You okay?’

‘I’m fine. how much further?’

‘Nearly there. It comes out on a hillside – originally it was dug by the Greek Cypriots who were taken prisoner in the war, only they travelled the other way of course.’ He smiled.

‘Of course.’

‘It comes out on a steep slope in dense undergrowth, so the Turks don’t go there and haven’t found it. Last bit coming up, ready?’

‘Yes.’

At least there wasn’t a ladder to climb at the end, just an overgrown open hole that took us a few minutes to hack through and emerge into the undergrowth on the hillside. Obviously the tunnel wasn’t in regular use.

We sat there, looking through the foliage down to Famagusta Bay about two miles away; lights were beginning to twinkle as day moved into night.

Jones flicked on his comms. ‘Jones to Coms,’

‘Comms reading you loud and clear, Jones.’

‘Update please, Comms.’

‘Comms to Jones, we have satellite coverage of the lorries – they have passed Prastio and turned right at Lefkoniko, heading towards Trikomo or maybe Bogaz. Both those places have docks, but Trikomo is clear at present and Bogaz has two freighters moored dockside and some activity loading one of them.’

‘Thank you, Comms. Looks like Bogaz then. Williams, are you hearing this?’

‘Williams to Jones. Yes, got that.’

‘Okay, good. Move to three miles offshore within twenty minutes of Bogaz.’

‘Williams, will do.’

‘Jones over and out.’ He turned to me, ‘Right, we need some transport to get us to Bogaz.’

I was a little confused. ‘Why are we going this way when a fast skiff from the base could get us there in half an hour?’

Jones laughed. ‘You’re right, it could – but a fast skiff leaving the base and going towards Bogaz would be picked up by the Turks’ radar and have three Turkish fast skiffs for company within a couple of miles. Turkey claims sovereign rights over a three-mile coastal water zone around north Cyprus; it’s disputed of course, but they tend to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Coming overland is the best option of arriving unobserved.’

We moved at a pretty fast pace down the slope towards the lights, and pretty soon we hit the Prastio road and followed it, keeping a good fifty metres off to the side of it, sheltered by the trees and bushes. After a mile we stopped and ducked down; a hundred metres in front of us a truck stop in a wide parking area beside the road shone out its lights into the now total darkness, illuminating the vehicles waiting as their owners took a break inside. It was busy, the vehicles ranging from lorries to motorbikes; the customers were coming and going from inside the building from where we could hear a general hubbub of noise, music and laughter. The woodland gave us cover right up to the back row of parked cars furthest from the building.

Jones motioned towards a Lexus which was furthest from the building and nearest to us. We moved up beside it; I knelt behind and aimed my C8 carbine at the truck stop door as Jones used the stock of his to smash the driver side rear passenger window, before reaching through to open the driver’s door, slip inside, smash the thin plastic covering the steering column, yank out the wires either side of the ignition switch and touch the bare ends together to start the engine. Reaching across he opened the passenger door for me to get in and we were off out of the car park and on the road to Lefkonico where we turned right towards Bagaz. Most of the traffic was military so we didn’t want to stay with the Lexus for too long as its ID would be sent over the airwaves quite quickly after the theft was reported.

Bagaz is an old Cypriot village that has re-invented itself as big seaside resort; skyscraper hotels adorn the front promenade looking out over the bay and modern villas and apartment blocks surround them, with the old town and dock a little further up the coast towards us. At this time of year