Tidal Rage by David Evans (bill gates books to read txt) 📕

the looming Mont Blanc. The game was nearly up before it started as an astute French cop wanted to know why Bauer had parked the van in the parking lot beneath the cable car. The sign clearly stated in several languages ‘No Campervans Allowed’.

The cop wanted to see Bauer’s driver’s license, and then checked over his radio that it was not stolen, and Bauer’s credentials were real. Had the cop looked inside the Winnebago he would have seen a familiar face staring at him from a sitting position on the van’s large bed, for he would have seen the face in the picture that had been circulated that very morning from Interpol. Luckily for Werner, the cop was sloppy.

From Chamonix, and with his ears still ringing from the metallic lambasting from Werner for his stupidity, Bauer drove through the Mont Blanc tunnel, paying the fifty-euro toll fee at the entrance. Crossing over to the Italian side of three mountains, the vehicle emerged high up, driving on the valley floors of the large, peaked mountains on either side. Stopping only for fuel, Bauer carried on driving past Lake Como before he was forced to stop at Lake Garda for a few hours of sleep. This time he found a campervan park on the lake shore and just signed in as himself, showing his passport.

The next day he took the motorway down to Venice and bought an Anex ferry ticket for the two-day sailing to the port of Patras in Greece. The port authorities did not check the interior of the vehicle, so Werner remained hidden inside as they boarded.

The Winnebago was directed into the bowels of the large ferry and parked inches away from the next campervan. What they had not expected was that Bauer was ordered out of the vehicle, under protest, as they did not allow drivers to stay with their vehicles. Once Bauer exited, another campervan was directed to park inches away from the driver’s door he had just exited, thus trapping Werner in the vehicle for the two-day crossing. Bauer tried to get down to the deck later that day but found all access routes locked. He fretted away the two days in the bar, purchased a cabin to get some fitful sleep, and ate and drank some more.

They docked early in the morning, and it was thirty minutes before he was allowed on the vehicle deck. Bauer was unable to get into the vehicle, as he had to wait for the campervan parked alongside to disembark. Eventually he climbed in through the driver’s door, and the stench of urine and detritus hit him.

“Dummkopf!” was his metallic greeting from Werner.

Bauer could see that the campervan was in a total mess, and the carpet outside the toilet was stained with urine.

“Nothing in the fucking van works without a hook up to electrics or off the leisure battery, which is immobilized when you lock the goddamn door!” Werner fumed.

“They got me out so quick; I didn’t have a chance to do anything!” Bauer pleaded.

“You locked the door, asshole, no lights, no water, and no toilet flush. I have had to live off the bottle of water by the bed because I couldn’t see what food was in the cupboards. Do you know how dark it is down here when they close the doors and turn off the lights?”

Ten minutes later they had disembarked the ship with no immigration to go through due to the open borders of the European Union. Bauer parked a mile along the beach road and began the clean-up of the van on Werner’s orders.

They crawled the hundred and eighty kilometres to the port of Piraeus, due to the Greek government running out of funding for a new toll road, and which was now renamed the ‘road of death’.

On arriving in the port that serves Athens a short distance away, Bauer bought a ticket for the Winnebago and himself. This time, the Blue Star Ferry that would take him overnight to the Greek island of Kos had a motorhome deck, where the owners could stay with the van, as it was open on one side and well ventilated. Only the use of liquid petroleum gas for cooking was banned, so the trip was far more pleasant than the initial crossing.

The shock came when they purchased a ticket for the Turkish Sea Line ferry from Kos to Bodrum. The ship was not a ship, but a converted wooden gulet, which had enough room on the back for two vehicles or one motorhome. The access ramp was moving, and would rise up three feet or so on the dockside with the swell of the Aegean, almost causing the Winnebago to topple off as it hung on with two wheels on and two wheels off the gulet, in a precarious position.

Werner sat in the toilet as Bauer took an hour to complete the document control and purchase motor insurance to cover Turkey. They had been warned beforehand that customs would pop their heads into all incoming vehicles for a brief look, which they did, but it took all of three seconds.

Akbuk was mainly a Turkish resort with a minority of Brits and French expatriates. For ten months of the year, the crystal-clear turquoise Aegean Sea shimmered in the sunshine. The traditional Turkish restaurants would deliver their splendid cuisine daily; unfortunately for Werner, this had to be blended so he could consume it.

Kurt Bauer stayed with Werner for three months while he set up a network of Kurdish minders, men with whom he had a long-standing relationship with. With the help of the Kurds, he also set up links with corrupt local police officers, who would relay any information that may affect Werner’s stay in the area.

The team of six Kurdish minders was split into three shifts to ensure that there were always two of them with him, for twenty-four hours per