Lie Back And Think Of England · Part 1

Lie Back And Think Of England · Part 1 (1/2)
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I hope I don't have to kill him.

He's walking towards me, maybe 50m away now. The single light on the loading bay to my left is not helping much, but his body language is still wrong, he's tensed up, walking fast and leading with his right shoulder.

"Oi, dipshit. Calm the fuck down, ok?"

I shout it loud enough for him to hear easily. He stops as if he's run out of power, then he looks around as if confused. Daft cunt.

I motion him over, and he comes closer slowly. He's a round faced, slightly chubby man in his fifties, impressive moustache.

"Hey, nice to see you again, are you staying at the Yasmak Sultan Hotel this time as well?" He gamely recites his code phrase.

"Nah, they were full so I'm in the Legacy Ottoman Hotel."

Formalities over, I relax a bit and we move closer to get the exchange over. He hands me a duffel bag, "It's all in there, phone, papers, contact details for me and your driver, your place to stay and the hardware you requested."

I take the bag and turn away, walking back the way I came. Istanbul at 2 AM on a warm July night is pretty pleasant. I'm way out in some rundown industrial estate, but the walk here was nice, getting some travel stiffness out of my body.

The next morning I check all my gear in the shitty flat they've got me. I check what they've stocked the fridge with, most of it seems edible, send messages to my contact and the driver making sure they are contactable. Then I start on the briefing notes, and it's clear that this is some sort of arse covering exercise to protect a lot of powdered, soft backsides in Whitehall.

The mission, such as it is, is to recover Beth (Elizabeth Tabitha Drake), the 20-year-old daughter of Sir Montgomery Drake, head of the UK Intelligence committee. There had been some concern over her behaviour prior to her disappearance, and her father had arranged for discrete surveillance and tracking of his wayward daughter. They lost the final tracker on her person somewhere not too far from "The Compound" in Istanbul. Looks like everyone is afraid of upsetting Daft Monty back in Whitehall, so they've organised this charade to placate him. The assumption that she is in this "Compound" looks to be based on spit and hope. Anyway, my job is to scout the place, establish contact with someone on the inside and determine if Beth is indeed inside the compound, then I'm to call in the extradition team to support me. Just after I learn Turkish and grow a pair of breasts no doubt, fuck this.

I was supplied with a brief description of the facility: "It's a large plot of land down by the Bosporus, surrounded by a tall stone wall topped with razor wire on three sides. The western edge of the compound is open directly to the water.

The northern gate is the main point of access, with an automatic gate and manned guardhouse. Once inside, there is a short drive up to the building. It's an ornate four-story palace, restored from the glory days of the Empire. The building is horseshoe shaped, with the main frontage to the north. The two wings on either side stretch southwards, forming a sheltered courtyard. The building acts both as a place of work for the 150 or so people there as well as residential quarters, located towards the ends of the two wings, since almost all staff live on site.

There is a very large park behind the main building, with cypresses and fir trees providing shade in the scorching heat of summer. Nearest the main building is a large villa, the residence of the Head of station. There are a lot of other smaller buildings dotted around the park, discreetly blended into the landscape. At the water's edge there is a quayside and a jetty large enough to accommodate ships that can cross the Black Sea or the Mediterranean. It's not visible with the naked eye, but the complex has enormous facilities below ground. A number of armed security guards with dogs are patrolling the perimeter, particularly the seafront to the west."

Shitty briefing completed, I spend an hour or so doing my exercises before going back to bed to sleep in preparation for a recce tonight. The flat is a little over a kilometre from the compound, nice and close, I walk down there around midnight, walking the circumference of it, but keeping a couple of blocks distance at all times. There's a bigger road following the side of the compound to the south, parallel to the seafront; the wall here looks to have a staff entrance.

I find a vantage point, an apartment building a couple of hundred metres away, jimmy the front door open and make my way up onto the roof. There I get my gear placed, a mat to lie on, and a piss bottle, and a net to put over the lot. Ready for a boring day trying to get clear photos of all the staff starting to come in to work in an hour or two and leaving at the end of a long shift. After a long, hot day, I've got start and leaving times noted for all 30 or so staff, as well as decent shots of each of them. I wait for midnight to tick past again, pack up my gear and head back to the flat. I send all the shots back to the nest, see if anything pings, looking for immigration records, anything criminal etc. Then I go get some rest.

The next morning I allowed myself to sleep in and got up about lunchtime. My personnel dossiers have arrived. Of all Ahmets, Cengizes and Guls, my eye trips over Natasha. She's not a Turk alright, I remember taking her picture when she was chatting with a guard at the gate. Caucasian, Slavic features, reddish-brown hair, "let-me-speak-to-your-manager" haircut, mid-thirties. Her dossier confirms: Natasha Petrova, Ukrainian, recently divorced mother of two, works here for six months, sends home most of the income. Criminal record is crystal clear, no affiliation with known criminal circles in Turkey or Ukraine.

Just a single mom that left kids to grannies and went abroad to find a better job opportunity. Apparently, she's strapped for cash and has no moral obligations to her present masters. Here in Turkey nepotism is rampant, every worker seems to be related to their superior in some way, but not Natasha – she has no relatives here. My course of action is obvious.

Her schedule shifted, so I have to wait for an hour in the car. But at last I see a white minivan leaving the compound, she's in a passenger seat. I tell my driver to follow them, and he does so semi-professionally, staying a few cars behind and closing distance after unexpected turns. We seem to be leaving the city, but not quite. The minivan drives up to a car park near a large, squat building – a wholesale store, my driver explains. Natasha darts inside and I follow her. I see her pushing a large cart and piling some cleaning supplies into it, wait till she turns to some less-populated aisle and catch up with her.

"Привет," I say, "перхоть подзалупная."

"Что, простите?" she turns to me, looking confused.

"Я говорю хвала… Um… A compliment. Понимаешь?"

"Don't exert yourself, I can speak English," she replies.

"Oh, thank God, my Russian is a little rusty."

"You just called me a dickhead dandruff. That's a hell of an ice-breaker!" She smiles now, always a good sign.

"I'm so sorry, my ex-girlfriend was Russian and, I guess, she wasn't a very good teacher," I smile back apologetically.

"Did she teach you Russian before or after you broke up?" She's almost laughing now, but suddenly she tenses and her hand grips a mop handle. "Wait, how do you know I speak Russian?"

"I admit I know a bit more about you. But I mean you no harm," I take a step back, lifting my hands defensively. "I have an offer for you."

"Can I refuse?"

"Yes you can. But why should you? It's good."

"Alright, let's hear it."

"What, here?"

"Why not? Is it something indecent?"

"No, it's something illegal," I sigh and step closer. "Ok. I need to get some information about your workplace."

"What, the kitchen?"

"No, the compound. I need to find a certain young woman, and I have reasons to believe she went inside a few days ago. I can give you a thousand quid for useful info about her."

Her ears perked up, I definitely got her attention. She ponders on it for a few seconds and replies: "Do you realise I'm just a humble servant? I don't have access to the main building, I don't have friends there, I don't have ninja training. You can't expect me to do your job for you."

"You're right, that would be incredible luck. Alright, plan B then. You help me to get inside."

"Oh, that must be worth more," she grins and leans closer. "Do I get a bonus?"

I glance over her lithe tanned body captured in white uniform.

"Sure, I'd gladly do you… a bonus after this is over. So, do we have a deal?"

"It's not that simple. I need time to think it over. I'm not sure if I can live up to your expectations. Leave me your contact…"

My phone chirps, I flick it on and immediately feel the familiar rush as adrenaline is dumped into my bloodstream.

"You need to go now." I turn to Natasha.

"What? Why?"

I put my hand on her shoulder for emphasis, half shouting, "Go! Get the fuck away from here, find a new job." I give her a shove and turn to go the other way.

I've taken one step along the aisle, as two burly looking men step into the aisle. I look back, and, sure thing, two more at the other end of the aisle. They carry some contact stun guns, meaning they want me alive.

I lean forward and start accelerating as hard as I can, but I'm not a fast runner. At worst, they will stun her, deal with that later.

I gain speed for each stride, decide the smaller guy on the left is then most dangerous, and change course to run straight at the bigger guy on the right, the mouth breather.

I stop at the last second and plant my left foot as a pivot, so I can apply every muscle in twisting my torso, driving my right fist around towards him and extending my arm a little, driving the punch at the side of his head.

It connects just above his ear with a crunch, and he drops sideways, falling without any muscle control. 1 down, 4 to go.

I change my momentum again, getting my weight back on both feet and starting to rotate my shoulders back the other way, he raises his hands further to protect his head and I drive the heavy boot on my right leg through the kneecap on his right leg.

It buckles backwards and lets out a shrill, high-pitched scream. As he starts collapsing, I step in, giving him a well aimed Glasgow kiss on his way down. 2 down, 2 to go.

I turn, expecting the other to be pretty much on me, but instead I stop and gawp. Gawping is not part of my standard operating procedure, gawping will get me killed, gawping and getting personally involved is exactly what I don't do. Ever.

I stand there gawping. Natasha has shoved her cart towards the other two, grabbed a shelf post, jerked it free, causing some crates to fall from the upper shelves. I should start running back to her, but it would make zero difference.

The way she fights is everything I hate in an opponent. She spins one final time, ending in a blur, and a wet crunch as Mr 4 drops like a bag of meat. She turns to me with a slightly disapproving look: "Are you done? Can we go now?".

Chef, eh? My hairy arse.

Natasha is standing unfazed, her opponents sprawled amongst broken crates, upturned shelves and industrial-sized bottles of detergent. One of them is coming around and tries to get up.

"Shit, they must have followed me. Come," I make a motion to grab her hand, but think better of it and just jog to the exit. She followed.

"What did you say about your ninja training?"

"It's not Ninjutsu, it's Sambo."

We trot past cashiers and agitated security, exit the store, and I see a few more angry looking men running our way across the car park. With a squeal of tires, my car appears from around the corner and drives up to us, honking. We jump in and leave our pursuers in a cloud of exhaust.

My driver smiles in the mirror.

"Thought they got you."

"Maybe they would have if you hadn't tipped me off. Thanks."

"You good paying customer, Mr. Catterick. Good customer hard to find."

"So, Mr. Catterick," Natasha tosses in. "I think you owe me an explanation. Are you a private, or is it some Her Majesty's Secret Service shit?"

"You first. You're obviously not a single mother of two. I mean, look at your body."

She groans and rolls her eyes.

"Right, you're a private. Otherwise, you'd know I'm not supposed to blow my cover in front of some local, saving my ass notwithstanding. No offence."

"No taken," the driver throws in.

"But my mission most likely has gone bust already, so what the hell. I'm with Interpol, Ludmila Arkatova, Ukrainian Bureau. I'm investigating the disappearance of some of our citizens around Istanbul and the evidence points to that compound. I managed to infiltrate it as a low-level staff member, but I can't get any deeper. They mistrust foreigners, and probably had me followed."

"That explains the assault," I nod. "They must have been following me too, and when they saw us together they decided to act."

"Anyway, I can't go back now. Can you drive me to the Ukrainian Consulate? I need to wrap up my mission."

"Sure. Or… We can go back to the compound. Yes, your mission went a bit pear-shaped, but now they expect you to bail out. The element of surprise is on our side."

She looks at me, and I see I'll need to work on my persuasion skills.

I can't believe I let him talk me into it. Our whole operation depends on a flimsy assumption that low-level compound security wasn't immediately notified about that little "an Interpol agent in our kitchen" thing. That and my knowledge of guard-post CCTV dead zones. What's most surprising, my brass has approved it. Apparently, Andy's story has been verified. Our plan is simple – go in, break into the main building, find some big shot or someone high enough in the chain of command and pump them for information. What can go wrong, really?

I take a deep breath and walk up to the guard. It's not easy to look relaxed carrying a heavy bag.

"Merhaba, Kerim!"

"Salam, Natasha!" he looks friendly enough, doesn't shoot me on sight. "Bu gece geç kaldın."

"Özel siparişler. Bana yardım et?" The strap "slips" from my shoulder and the bag thuds on the tarmac.

Kerim is happy to oblige, he walks over, stepping outside of the camera view cone, and picks the bag.

"O ağır…" he says and starts wheezing as Andy steps from behind a cypress tree and puts him in a chokehold. The bag thuds again. I don't wait for Kerim to pass out, rip open the Velcro strap of his flak vest, hitch up his shirt and slap a knockout patch on his chest. He's done in ten seconds, and most likely will be out at least till the morning. Andy lays him down in the sharp shadow of the cypress and nods for me to proceed inside the gate. I take Kerim's RFID badge, pick up the bag again and walk to the wicket door. The badge works as intended, I walk through and peek into the guard box.

"Kerim, iki saat sonra çiş molası…" says the other guard. "Ne?.."

"Kerim orada… Tutmak!" I toss him Kerim's badge. The guard grabs it awkwardly with both hands, breaking his contact with the alarm button. And then Andy shoves me aside, barges in and does his thing in a swift and brutal manner. We stuff both knocked-out bodies in the guard box.

"Posh helmets," Andy remarks. A couple of helmets in question are hanging on the guard box wall – black, glossy, with mirrored visors.

"Don't you want to put one on?" I ask. "It may make this infiltration thing a bit easier."

"No, princess. I'd rather use the Force."

"Suit yourself."

Personally, I'm fine with my dress. I'm still in my kitchen uniform. It's white, but now I'm relying more on familiarity than stealth.

"Shall we?" asks Andy, grabs my bag (well, his bag actually) and takes off towards the main building, crouching behind some shrubbery along the path. I shrug and walk the path openly.

The path is lit by a row of lamplights, but the surrounding park is dark. I hear growling and freeze, but it doesn't matter already. A couple of big, well-fed and probably combat-trained Dobermanns enter the circle of light ahead of us. "Fare, ne buldun?" I hear, and, sure thing, the dogs are accompanied by two guards. "Salam!" I say and wave my hand, trying to look casual. Guards are not amused. One of them mumbles something into his radio set. I can't hear the reply either, but the guard points at me and shouts "Atak!" Well, even Andy wouldn't need it translated for him.

Dogs rush at me. My combat training doesn't really include animal countermeasures other than "Run, dammit!", and the distance is too small for that to work. I half-dodge, half-push away the first dog, but the second leaps at me and knocks me over. "Andy!" I call out, but by this time the park is filled with shouting, barking, bustle and rustle, and my voice is lost in the noise easily. I'm holding the dog by its neck, keeping its teeth away, but I can do nothing to prevent the other one from running around and snapping at my clothes. Guards gather around, there are more than two already. One of them grabs the dog by its collar, while another bends down over me and presses something to my neck. My head explodes, my spine tries to crawl out, and I go off into a faint.

Well, so much for smooth infiltration. Ludmila's plan to pass as staying-out-late staff failed pretty much immediately. I saw everything unfolding, saw armed guards running, but couldn't really do anything short of starting a war, results being quite predictable. Instead, I've done the sensible thing of putting distance between the centre of commotion and myself. At least that's what I keep saying in my head.

From the distance I see the hustle subside, guards drag overexcited dogs away and carry unconscious Mila into the main building, not through the main entrance, but through an ominous looking semi-basement metal door. The door is guarded by a single armed and armoured schmuck. I watch him from behind the bushes, evaluating my chances to sneak up on him, when he removes his helmet and puts on a pair of headphones. Headphones! On a watch duty! My old sergeant would have fucked him in the ass with an entrenching tool for that! The melomaniac must suffer. In less than two minutes, he starts grooving with his eyes closed

Lie Back And Think Of England · Part 1 (1/2)
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