Written In Stone - A Deposit For Murder



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?”