Chapter Eleven - Hatred And Resolve

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Another chapter that had to be spot on. Here we find out what is going on within the mind of  Anthony, the man who plans to bring about the death of Hrisacopolis and the demise of the Hrisacopolis family. It had to be a chapter that held the readers interest , as there is little action. There is, however, a hint of how he plans to achieve his ambition. He is alone and within reach of his goal. Money, the only obstacle between him and revenge is now hanging on the wall in front of him. Not only that but he won't feel guilty taking from Barbara - because he's going to make sure she gets her property back. 

Anthony took one last look around the stateroom and felt a deep sense of guilt. Barbara had not called and that was a relief. He knew she would be upset, not just at losing the paintings but also at him for betraying her trust.  Anyway, he would be dead by the time she found out. And she would get the paintings back. It would take the dealer several weeks to find a collector who did not ask too many questions. In the meantime he would tip the police off from the safety of a boat moored off Malta.

       He peered out of the windows at the harbor lights. It was an hour away to the art dealer, De Sauveterre. At that time of night the traffic was light and the Rolls would be back in the marina garage before the manager arrived at eight in the morning.

       Each painting proved easy to remove from its frame before he rolled it into a cardboard tube.  Another twelve paintings hung on the walls of cabins and the stateroom. Money raised on the three he had chosen would be enough.

       Baris tip about De Sauveterre proved invaluable. The man was easy to deal with and very greedy. Anthony’s asking price was a fraction of the true ‘backstreet’ value and the dealer didn’t argue. Now all he had to do was deliver the paintings and pick up four million American dollars in cash; one million reserved for the Turk. The rest would buy the two patrol boats, arms, and explosives.

      

Anthony had first heard of the Turk three years previously when the ship he was sailing in had to put into Genoa for engine repairs. In conversation with some other seamen in a bar, they had told a story about being mercenaries in North Africa. Their leader, a big Turk, had hired them to fight in Angola. He had a reputation as a gun for hire and arms dealer who, in underworld circles, was a dark legend.

       Three years on, Anthony heard rumors in the red light district that the gendarmes was seeking a man called ‘Turk’ for a horrific attack on a prostitute. Later, a local prostitute confirmed the Turk was a deserter from the French Legion.  It was also rumored he had a fifty thousand franc bounty on his head.

        After finding out he would be looking after Barbara’s yacht, Anthony seized the chance to plan revenge on Hrisacopolis, the man who had ruined his life, and knew the Turk would be ideal as an accomplice, even if an uncomfortable one.

       It took several days to get a message to the Turk. Anthony moved from one bar to another, meeting with past shipmates and prostitutes he’d known, spreading rumor that the Turk’s services were required for a million dollars. If the Turk swallowed the bait one of his men would have a local point Anthony out.

       He also spent two days asking around in the busy east end of Vieux Port.  Nothing turned up except some wary stares from fishermen on Belges quay and sealed lips in the seafood restaurants huddled between the southern quay and cours d’Estienne-d’Orves. The Belsunce quarter lay on the other side of the boulevard. Notoriously rough, the quarter was mainly an Arab area. It was an area Anthony wished to avoid but knew if he was to meet the Turk it would be there. He had walked into the area the day before and made enquiries at some cab ranks where Turkish drivers hung out.

       Anthony stood smoking outside a restaurant the following day after lunch when a cab pulled into the curb. The driver called him over. He was one of the Turkish drivers Anthony had spoken to. A small unshaven man with balding gray hair, he drew and exhaled on a Gauloises that drooped from his lips. The pungent odor escaped from the driver’s open window. 

       Anthony climbed into the back of the battered green cab, an old Citroen, without a word. They pulled away from the curb amid squealing tires and a cloud of oily smoke. Five minutes later they drove up to Rue Tapis Vert, part of Belsunce and stopped opposite a covered alleyway on the other side of the road.

       “There is a large blue door down there,” said the driver, pointing across the street. “You’ll be met.”

       The cab sped away, leaving Anthony standing next to a crowd of Arabs. He crossed over, looking around him, and walked hesitantly into the passage. A huge man with shaved head and a small gold cross hanging from an ear leaned against the wall with arms folded. Secured behind a wide black leather belt he wore a sheathed knife. He beckoned Anthony with large fat fingers.

       “I’ve come to see the Turk,” said Anthony, holding the man in a steady gaze. The man stared back and unfolded his arms. “Well, where is he?”Anthony put his hands on his hips and glared.

       The thug grabbed him by the neck and spun him into the wall, running both his huge hands down the front of Anthony’s body and both sides of his legs.

       “I don’t have anything, I just want to see the Turk,” Anthony told him, gasping.

       The door opened and another man, smaller than the first, appeared. Jerking his head in the direction of the steps, he disappeared back down the way he had arrived.

       The first thug tightened his grip on the back of Anthony’s neck and pushed him to the stairs. The door closed behind them and in the gloom Anthony stumbled several times before reaching the bottom. He found himself in a dingy cellar lit by a small bulb hanging from the ceiling. There was no furniture save a desk and one chair. On it, in the dark, sat the Turk.

       “Stand in the light. I want to see a man who has balls.”

       Anthony clenched his fists and took a step forward. A fist smashed into his jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor. Excruciating pain shot across his face. He picked himself up and stood, rubbing his jaw.

       “What do you want?”

       “I want someone killed.”

        “You want someone killed. Don’t we all?” The Turk laughed, his deep guttural tone echoing off the walls of the small cellar.

       “Paul Hrisacopolis is nothing to laugh about if you are a true Turk.”

       The laughter stopped abruptly. The Turk leaned forward into the light. His shaven head bore a deep red scar that ran slantwise across the top from above his right eye to behind his left ear. His large nose looked as though it might have been broken at some time. Another small scar ran from the corner of his mouth in a downward slope. It left his bottom lip curled permanently to one side. Tattoos that had faded with time covered the rest of his face, neck, and muscular hairy arms. One, a large serpent, draped its body over one shoulder with its head appearing over the other, mouth open.  Both arms bore a cross with the word ‘Death’ written across one and ‘Honor’ across the other. Dark brown eyes bore into Anthony, studying him for several moments. “What’s this about Hrisacopolis? Who is he to you?”

       Anthony shook his head. “Wouldn’t you be more interested in a million dollars as well as revenge on this murderer of our countrymen?”

       “Ah, you are Cypriot.” The Turk wanted to hear the story but Anthony resisted, giving the man a rough outline of the mission and what he required including twenty men trained in the use of automatic firearms and an explosives expert. Hrisacopolis was to be left for Anthony to deal with.

       “You would kill him yourself?” asked the Turk.

       Anthony nodded and promised half the money on his next visit. The Turk agreed and they shook hands, arranging a time and place for the meeting.

Anthony left the Golden Daffodil with the tubes under his arm and climbed down into the zodiac.  The outboard spat into life and he headed for the pontoon.