Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

“Where and when do you need the flights from?” she asked in a calmer state.

“Need it today to Bodrum in Turkey via Munich, so I can brief Shultz on the flight,” he responded while simultaneously texting Manfred Shultz to be ready for his first mission, today.

There was no mistaking Manfred Shultz as he walked towards Cutler in the departure lounge of the München Franz Josef Strauss Airport, named in memory of the former Bavarian Prime Minister. Shultz was straight-backed, and looked like a military officer in his white shirt, toffee-coloured trousers, black tie, and blazer. He looked much improved from the man Cutler had interviewed for the position previously.

For several hours, as they waited for the flight to Bodrum, they sipped espresso coffees and discussed updates on the Werner case. Cutler explained to Shultz that he was not aware of the reason for the Code Blue, as he and Cortez had agreed not to discuss anything over the phone, but stressed it must be a matter of urgency and importance.

The flight was short and uneventful, as was the short hop down to Bodrum, except for the turbulence generated by the mountains and sea that surround the airport. The pair exited the military-style airport building to be met by Cortez, who looked dishevelled and concerned.

Cortez had hired a nondescript white Seat, which was as anonymous as you could attain in Turkey, as they were everywhere. They drove the mountain pass route from Bodrum to Turkey, driving on steep, unkempt, potholed, narrow lanes, through olive groves and open quarries that supplied the materials for local road building and repairs in the area—just not the road they were on.

As they emerged atop the last mountain before their destination, both Shultz and Cutler were engrossed in the visage of beauty that lay several hundred metres below them. It was breathtaking; the curve of the bay, with the little town of Akbuk spread over sporadic enclaves around the bay, lapped by the warm turquoise sea, dotted with gulets and fishing boats.

Cortez stopped the car on a dirt track beside the lane, and the three emerged. Cortez pointed out the main town, with its minaret from the mosque the highest point in the town. Cortez looked to the south part of the bay.

“See the two villas high up on the hill, set behind the trees, and just down from the airport approach tower?” Cortez said.

Shultz and Cutler removed their sunglasses and strained their eyes in the brilliant sun, allowing a few seconds to cope with the flood of ultraviolet light.

“That’s where our boy is. He has six Turkish minders and his German thug, Baer,” Cortez reported.

“Six is a reasonable number,” Shultz said.

“Bad news is, the other villa is occupied and the occupant has another four minders with her at all times, and a young attorney she is banging whenever she can, and she has diplomatic immunity.”

Cutler turned around quickly. “You’ve identified the delegate, haven’t you, Cortez?”

“Delegate Frau Uebering. She is as tight with Werner as a flea on a dog.”

Cutler knew Cortez would have done his homework and was professional; he did not need to challenge his words as assumptions. Cortez would never say anything unless he was sure of his facts.

Cutler knew there was more information that Cortez wanted to get over to him but did not press him on the drive down to Akbuk.

Cortez had leased a house just off the main road, a minute or so from the lapping shores of the Aegean. It became apparent why he had picked this house and this spot. The detached house was nestled amongst other similar houses in a small cluster of trees and shrubs. From the two villas high up on the hills to their left, it was indistinguishable from the other properties in the area.

The roof of the villa was a patio, which was open to the elements save for the bamboo shading above them. The previous occupants had installed a sink and BBQ in this area. During the summer months, it was far too hot to cook indoors.

Sitting in prime position at the south end of the patio was a Celestron Reflector Telescope with a thirty-seven-millimetre lens that enabled Cortez to have eyes on the villa. Cutler looked through it and could see through a gap in the foliage the unmistakable figure of Werner, sitting in swimming trunks, bare-chested. Cutler could even pick out the scarring on Werner’s chest. Sitting next to him was a stern-looking frump of a woman, who he assumed correctly was the delegate.

“Good work, Shultz. Interpol operates in Turkey. We inform them where Werner is and they will arrest him; there is an international warrant out for his detention. The delegate is a matter for another day. At least we can identify her now, and I have friends in the Secret Service who will be very interested in her,” Cutler replied.

“There’s more,” Cortez said quietly. “And I don’t think that will be what you decide on when I tell you.”

Cortez looked at Shultz, and the look gave him the invitation to leave.

“Stay, Shultz. You’re part of this team and deserve to hear everything.” Cutler said.

Cortez shrugged. “You aren’t going to like what I tell you,” Cortez said in a resigned tone.

“Well, spit it out.”

“You know I have been bugging the villa, and it’s not exactly legal, so the evidence won’t stand up in court.”

“Obviously, but when you’re dealing with the likes of Werner, in a foreign country, you need to have subterfuge and technology as part of your toolkit, otherwise we’d never get to the truth,” Cutler stated.

Cortez seemed to ponder this for several seconds and used the wall surrounding the roof patio as support. Shultz could sense that Cortez was about to reveal something damaging and personal to Cutler. He pulled up a white patio chair and positioned himself in hearing