TURKISH DELIGHT Barry Faulkner (i love reading txt) 📖

‘You’re clear,’ came through my earpiece. I stopped and waited as Gold caught me up. The road crossings would have shown if anybody was tailing me.

‘Do you know who he is?’ she asked as I gave her my earpiece and battery pack which she put into the shoulder bag.

‘No idea, just a chancer I suppose.’

‘No, he wasn’t a chancer.’

I looked at her. ‘No?’

‘No, I clocked him earlier today. He was dressed normally then, suit and briefcase, It didn’t register with me at first ‘cause he was looking in the shop window like any other person would but when a resident left the building he was quick to get to the door before it shut and go in – I thought maybe he was just another resident. He didn’t stay inside long so I got a good look at his face when he left. That was him again tonight, all togged up for a job – I reckon he went in earlier to take a look at the layout and what the locks were. I take it he made for Rambart’s apartment?’

‘Well, he came onto her floor, yes – her landing. No other apartments on it, just hers.’

‘So he was there for a reason.’

‘Guns.’

‘Guns?’

‘That holdall you saw earlier is full of PPKs, maybe he was picking them up. I should have checked his pockets, he may have had a key.’

‘So it looks like she’s either arms dealing for herself or part of hubby’s firm?’

‘Both make sense.’

‘Could be the million quid job offer is her takeover move to get rid of Nicholas. Are you sure you want to be part of that? Sounds a bit dangerous to me?’

‘You could be right. I think I’ll sleep on it and see if she hassles me –  the forty-eight hours is up tomorrow.’

       ********************************

CHAPTER 3

‘Well well well, this is a surprise.’

I looked up from the morning newspapers I’d been looking through for any mention of the previous night’s escapade – nothing yet. The man stood before me in my office was Clarence Woodward – Commander Clarence Woodward, although he’d never been in any line of fire except from maybe a few expletives from the Home Secretary when things in MI6 go wrong. Woodward is a civil servant, he had progressed through the Ministry of Defence and then into MI6, quickly climbing the ladder to the top where he had been my boss during the latter part of my N14 service – N14 being the select group of individuals who did the jobs that even the SAS declined: political hits to assist regime change, destruction of enemy threats and nuclear progress installations, things like that. You would never know Woodward was anywhere near that stuff; slightly built, dark hair neatly combed back, fawn overcoat, pinstriped suit, regimental tie, shining brogues and always with his umbrella for company, he gave the immediate impression of ‘somebody in the city’. Behind him his two bodyguards waited by the door. The common perception of a bodyguard is somebody the size of a barn door with hams for hands and no neck. Maybe that’s true for the underworld but in the real world of espionage they are well trained, fit and intelligent. Just like me eh? Okay, maybe the ‘fit’ bit could do with a little tuning up.

Woodward pulled out a chair and blew away any dust before sitting and facing me. He didn’t look amused; I got the impression from his expression this wasn’t a social visit.

‘Enjoyed yourself last night did you, Nevis?’

He sat back waiting for my answer. He wasn’t going to get one, not before I understood how the hell he knew about my Rambart visit. After few seconds of silence he nodded towards the newspapers on my desk. ‘You won’t find any mention of your evening’s work in there.’ We held each other’s gaze for another few seconds. ‘You’ll be glad to know he’ll live – no major organ damage, a broken nose, three broken ribs and a perforated lung being the collateral damage caused by one of the ribs.’ The silence fell for a while again before he continued. ‘It was a classic unarmed combat attack, straight out of the textbook: hard hit to nose incapacitates the victim and if hard enough sends him to the floor. This was hard enough and did send him to the floor, where phase two – a good stamp on the stomach – winds the victim and leaves him basically paralysed whilst the attacked makes a getaway.’

I stayed silent. So Gold was right: the intruder was a pro, not a chancer but an MI6 operative. So were they onto Rambart or her husband, and the man I decked on his way to look for something in the apartment?

Woodward took out his iPhone and clicked on a video before passing it across the desk for me to view. I guessed what I was about to see. I was right. It was a video of me coming out of the Rambart building and crossing paths with Gold before walking out of shot along Knightsbridge.

Woodward pulled it back, turned it off and put it back in his pocket. ‘Unfortunately it’s only a static camera – no operator, we just download every twenty-four hours. We have lots of them around the capital – very small, ideal for surveillance of second degree suspects when manpower is stretched. The Rambarts are, or should I say were, second degree suspects – just a couple we liked to keep tabs on knowing the kind of business they are involved in. Every month or so we send a man in to do a physical check on the premises, just in case a bomb factory has started up – can’t be too careful. The next visit wasn’t due until next week, but on checking the