Here we find Anthony on his way to meet the Turk. A deposit is paid for the mercenaries services and the die is set. Determined to revenge his mother's death, Anthony must first let the Turk know who is in charge.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The mixed aroma of strong Gauloises cigarettes,
alcohol and hot food hung in the air outside the Café Parisian, an old building that sat in
the west corner of place Sadi-Carnot, its faded green woodwork bathed in bright
sunlight. In front of the old façade, several old men sat at small red and
white check covered tables, playing cards while onlookers, mostly locals, sat
sipping beer. Inside the smoke filled cafe, a chess game was in progress, both the
players engrossed in stratagem. Despite the loud idle chatter, the players
seemed unperturbed.
A
little silver haired man dressed in a gray suit sat across the table from
Anthony, frustrated by moves one of the chess players was making. His white
eyebrows rose and lowered while a low hiss escaped his parted lips. Now and again
he crossed or uncrossed his legs.
Anthony
looked at his watch for a second time. Gerard, the Turk’s lieutenant, had
arranged for a ten o’clock pick up at the cafe. Gerard was to arrive by taxi
and take him to the Hotel Concorde, a
pension hotel situated on the beachfront at the edge of the tourist sector of the
city. It was 9.57am.
Totally
absorbed in watching the square outside, Anthony was unaware that the little
man had stood up to face him. He brushed the creases from the front of his
trousers, and then pulled the corners of his jacket down with a sharp tug. His voice
broke Anthony’s concentration “Monsieur,” he said congenially, “I’m Pierre - perhaps
you would like me to take you to your appointment?”
Anthony’s
eyes flickered back to find the man standing over him, indicating the entrance
behind them with an open hand. “Pierre who? Where’s Gerard?” The man seemed amiable enough but Anthony
objected to the open hand.
“My
name is not important, Monsieur…..certainly not as important as yours. Gerard
you will meet later.” He bowed very slightly with both hands by his side. “Now
perhaps you would allow me.” He stepped forward and past Anthony, making his
way toward the door. Without replying,
Anthony picked up his case and followed Pierre out of the café just as a taxi
pulled into the curb. The driver beckoned both men in.
Driving
out of the square, Anthony realized they were travelling in the opposite
direction, away from the Hotel Concorde.
“We are not going to the Hotel Concorde?” Anthony asked.
The
driver gave him a long stare in the driving mirror before shaking his head.
Pierre said nothing. The taxi sped along Rue Colbert and into Cours Belsunce.
Within minutes they were on the Rue de Rome and headed out towards the city
suburbs. Anthony tried to remember some of the buildings as they flashed past.
He was now concerned.
Death
would come eventually but not at the hands of the Turk. A debt owed his mother
remained unpaid. His mouth twitched as he recalled the bloody knife, the letter,
and the promise he made to himself. Pierre broke into his thoughts.
“Don’t
worry, Anthony, the Turk always keeps his word, so long as you keep yours,” he
said. “Do you have the money with you?”
“Yes,
I have it here.” Anthony tightened his grip on the small attaché balanced on
his knees.
“Then
I suggest you let me have it.” Pierre’s eyes darted to the driver who nodded. Anthony
caught the exchange and let his fingers relax. Pierre slid the case to his lap,
opened it and checked the contents. A few seconds later, he looked up and
nodded toward the driver.
The
taxi swerved around several corners into a dilapidated housing estate and
pulled up next to a derelict parking lot. From a balcony on the third floor of
one of the blocks of dingy apartments a man waved to the driver. Anthony
followed the two men into the stairway and up to the apartment. The foul stench
of urine on the concrete landing caught in Anthony’s throat.
Stepping
through the open door, Anthony found himself looking at the same bald-headed
thug who was at the first meeting. He held his arms aloft.
“That
won’t be necessary today,” called the Turk. “Come through and let us talk.”
Anthony
passed the thug and walked into a sparsely furnished living room. Like the
cellar in which the first meeting took place, a desk and two chairs sat in the
middle of a bare wooden floor. A thin spiral of smoke from a recently stubbed out
cigarette rose from an ashtray on the corner of the desk. A thicker cloud
swirled across the room toward yellowed net curtains covering the opened
window.
“Cognac,
Anthony. Let us drink to the successful outcome of our joint venture.” The Turk
was sitting at the desk, holding up a bottle of cognac. Pointing to a magazine
lying on the table, he announced he had been reading about the marbles and wanted
to know how Anthony would steal the priceless Frieze. “I want to know how you, a mere little Turkish
gigolo, intend to take this great prize from Hrisacopolis.” His guttural laugh
boomed around the empty room.
Anthony
sat across from the Turk, picked up a glass, and held it out. The Turk had been
investigating him. It was to be expected. So were taunts. Swapping insults
would be easy but he needed to stay focused. He raised the glass as though
toasting the Turk. A grin froze on his face long enough to imply insolence, but
he said nothing.
Behind
him the thug, dressed in dirty T shirt, raised a hairy arm, ready to strike. Anthony
wrinkled his nose as body odor filled his nostrils.
“No.”
The Turk waved the thug away and pointed a finger at Anthony. “I said you had
balls and I was right. I admire that, Cypriot, but don’t test me.”
Anthony
let the remark pass. “If we’re to work together,” he replied, looking into the
Turk’s eyes, “then the least you can do is lose the violence.” He swallowed the
cognac in one gulp and held the glass out for more.
The Turk filled the raised glass while making
it clear before they got down to business, there had to be an understanding
about the operation. “My men are to remain under my control at all times.” He
shifted in his seat and leaned forward, one hand tapping his own chest. “You
send orders through me… understand?”
Anthony
agreed with a shrug, if only to please the man. There wasn’t any point in
arguing about who would give orders. “I agree.” He held up a hand.
The
Turk was a cautious man and that was good. Anthony looked around the room at
Pierre, sitting in one corner, and the thug hovering over him, arms folded.
“Perhaps it might be a good idea to talk in private. That way you can tell your
men only what they need to know.”
The
Turk smiled. “Okay.” He looked up but said nothing. The room emptied and when
they were alone, he said, “Have you got the market you spoke of for the
marbles?”
“I
have an interested party… But first the business at hand,” Anthony said,
picking up the attaché case and pulling out some drawings from beneath the
money. He spread a chart of the Mediterranean Sea and a cross section sketch of
the ship over the table. The Sea Empress, he explained, would leave London in two weeks. Hrisacopolis
and an assortment of lackeys, politicians and a clutch of dignitaries would be
aboard.
The
Turk’s finger traced the cross section of the ship and stopped midway between
the bridge and the bow. “This is a cargo area where the marbles will be
stored.” It was more of a statement than a question. Anthony remained silent.
The
Turk growled, “How are we going to move these marbles into our boats?”
Irritated, he waved a hand across the drawings. He glared at Anthony and
thumped the desk with a fist. “You didn’t think about that, Cypriot. We can’t
drop them down into the boats and we can’t take the time to lower them on a
derrick. That’s if we can get them to the ships rail.” He stared at the drawing
and shook his head. “Impossible.”
“We
won’t have to take them to the rail,” answered Anthony. He paused and sipped cognac. Avoiding the
Turk’s eyes, he said, “The marbles will be in storage. There are double loading
doors either side of the hull for access to stores and baggage. Your men will
throw the marbles into the sea from there.”
“The
sea?”
Anthony
ignored the remark as the Turk poured more cognac.
“This,”
explained Anthony, tapping the chart, “is the course of the Sea Empress.”
Two
days after leaving London, Cadiz was the first port of call. Then a short stop
to take on more guests and hold a dinner hosted by the Spanish President. From
there the ship sailed through the Strait of Gibraltar and made her way to an
anchorage off Nice the following day. She would stay for two nights. A banquet
planned for the second night in honor of the British, French, and Spanish
Ambassadors to Greece highlighted the purpose of the cruise. All ambassadors
supposed to have been influential in having the British return the marbles
would attend. The Greek ambassador to London was the principle guest.
“Four
ambassadors.” The Turk rubbed his chin. “Are they staying on board?”
“Why,
is that a problem for you?”
“Of
course not.” There was a quick chuckle. “You better be right about this,
Cypriot, or my knife will cut off your balls.”
“You
are worried about my plan?”
The
Turk was silent for a moment, staring at him through slitted eyelids. “The only thing that worries me is your planning,” he hissed.
Anthony
thought of nothing but the plan. The itinerary for the cruise and the guests
attending had been widely advertised in the media. He looked down at the chart.
“There is nothing wrong with the plan. There will be at least twenty bodyguards
plus more with Hrisacopolis. I want you to have enough men to take care of
them.”
“You
bastard Cypriot!” the Turk exploded. “You think you are better than me? You
think you can tell me what I need to do the job?” He grabbed Anthony around the
throat and pulled him halfway across the desk. “Maybe, little Cypriot, you should
show a little more respect,” he snarled.
Their
noses touched and Anthony smelled cognac and strong cigarettes on the man’s
breathe. “I have planned very carefully,” he wheezed, “How are you going to
know how many men you want unless you know how much security there is?”
The
Turk rose and threw Anthony back into his chair. He walked to the window and
looked down at the parking lot. “Perhaps it might be better to take the ship
before it reaches Nice.”
Anthony
straightened his shirt and swallowed hard. “No,” he insisted, “I need the
Ambassadors on board the ship before we take over.”
The following day the ship arrived in Naples
and in the evening entertained the Italian Prime Minister at a formal dinner
party. Then it began its final leg of the cruise started the cruise; south to
Sicily and through the Malta Channel, and then on to Athens.
“I
take it you plan to move somewhere between the Malta Channel and Crete?” The
Turk was poring over the chart.
“Exactly.”
Anthony disliked the Turk but found he respected the man’s maritime knowledge.
“The
water is deep. How do we retrieve the marbles?”
“That’s
the easiest part. Let’s concentrate on taking the ship first.” Anthony unfolded
another chart showing the layout of the ships decks and storage areas. He
stared at the chart, deep in thought. For nearly twenty years he had studied Hrisacopolis
and his life as well as his business interests and had committed everything to
memory. The man was part of his daily diet.
“We will need more men than I originally asked
for.”
“That
is not a problem.” The Turk lit a Galois and tapped the chart. “And so?”
“I estimate there should be a hundred crew,
perhaps another fifty men on security. Your men will already be on board.”
“How?”
‘Details
later,” replied Anthony.
“Okay,
so I have two of my men on board.” The Turk sat down, his face expressionless. “What
next?”
“What
happens next depends on whether you have managed to secure two fast cruisers.
Getting the two men on board is going to be the hardest part. Getting the rest
of you on is simple.”
The
Turk had two cruisers moored in Nice and the contact wanted money.
“That’s
not a problem. I’ll have the money tomorrow.” Anthony looked around at the
dirty apartment. “Your man can pick it up from me in the Parisien. I
don’t care to come back here.”
“I
don’t suppose you do.” The Turk grinned broadly, showing a row of nicotine
stained teeth.
Anthony
let the remark go. “You will have the cruisers moved to Mgarr harbor on the
island of Gozo. Do you know where that is?”
“Of
course I do its north-west of Malta.” The Turk tapped the side of his nose. “Two
strange foreign cruisers, each towing a large inflatable and over twenty men on
board are going to look very suspicious. Tongues will wag on the island, my
friend.”
“No,
I doubt it. Not on Gozo,” replied Anthony.
Careful
planning, double checking and several exploratory trips to Malta and Gozo in
the last month had got him this far. Anthony knew as long as the Turk had two
men aboard the ship in Naples nothing could go wrong. Now he was ready to move
to Malta.
Anthony reassured the Turk. The cover story
was plausible. They were wreck diving and salvage experts if anyone asked.
There was prepared paperwork that would satisfy any local authority. Gozo was a
quiet place. As for the men, not all of them had to be there until the day before
they sailed.
The
Turk looked at the ships layout. “The two men aboard the ship will open one of
these stores doors you spoke of?”
