Consequences Unforeseen

Istanbul - May 1991

Istanbul – Late May1991

The city of Istanbul shimmered and glistened in the late evening moisture that drifted upwards from the Bosporus in ghostly waves. The onshore breeze gathered wisps of them together moving them in swirls higher into the night reflecting the streetlights to form thoudands of colors.

A cold front passed through earlier in the day, the enabler that allowed the water to slowly boil and create the evening humidity common in late May and early June. The sea water whether at night or in daylight, shone a turquoise, almost luminescent hue. This characteristic taken on its own transforms this city into a magical place, full of promise and exotic possibilities. It had been so for centuries and the very name translating into ‘let’s get back to the capital.’ said everything there is to say about the metropolis.

The big speedboat drew few glances from the many seated diners and tourists strolling along the sea wall that stretched down to the private marina below. The boat navigated precisely through the busy waterways moving the last few yards at below wake speed. Hardly a ripple disturbed the other vessels and only a slight but deep burble from the powerful engines escaped into the night.

Bill Douglas absorbed the sight of this magnificent city while reflecting that seen at night from the waterway, it was a vision never to be forgotten. He recalled wryly the number of times this thought hit him on his journeys on this waterway which divided and created a melting pot between the Western and Asian worlds on its banks.

Right above him he saw clearly the diversity of people and the contrasts between the stately Mosques rising so majestically into the night. Lit up by powerful beams, their spires sparked as if struck by lightning. Below them stretched a boulevard of endless bars, restaurants and nightclubs. The girls flirting so openly with their boyfriends were dressed in modern western styles, with low cut tops and shorts and skirts so close to their underwear that they might as well have left them at home.

Climbing out of the boat and maneuvering with care up the stone staircase brought Bill face to face with a merry but not yet drunk group of young women who gathered around him happily.

When, and if, they were observed by the casual passer by or two, the obvious fact was that they were waiting for the arrival of a wealthy friend as they led him away into the night arms linked and laughing and giggling with abandon.

This anonymity was much to his liking and such a natural cover in such a cash rich part of the city.

They continued their laughing and backslapping progress heading north along the banks of the strair, passing many enticing bars and the accompanying food displays, to say nothing of the aromas pressing in on their senses.

All of them knew where they were headed though, so none of these things distracted them. Bill could see his destination in his minds eye; the cobbled street leading up the steep incline into the darker and less well lit neighborhood of Sariyer, that he preferred to the bustle of Tarabya Yenikoy Caddessi.

He could almost sense the blooms of the Judas trees nestling around the ancient walls of his Istanbul base. This was one tower, the Serica Kulesi, of an old Bosporus castle called Rumeli Citadel.  

This wonderful castle was built in 1450 at the command of Sultan Mehmed II ‘The Conqueror’ as a complement to a similar structure on the other side of the Bosphorus Straight. Together they allowed him to control the flow of ships in either direction and provided a knife to slit the throat, so to speak, of his Constantine enemies. Douglas’ Uncle John told him on a visit here years before that helping and ensuring the speedy construction of the structure had been his ancestor Archie and a team of Master Masons from Douglasdale. “No wonder I feel so secure and comfortable here,” was always in his mind as he approached. Déjà vu all over again.

Today most of the castle was open to the public and hosted tourists and city dwellers alike with entertainment and concerts regularly held throughout the year. All but for the one nine story tower held dear in Douglas’ mind.

The public entrance to the castle was a long walk away on the other side of the structure and the group of apparent revelers entered a busy little bar and restaurant on an adjacent street. From here they would make their way underground via an impressive walkway and upwards into the tower itself. But first some wonderful kebabs and cold beers to wash them down.

The patrons of the bar were obviously unaware that this Scottish owned venue provided the doorway to the heart of British Intelligence for the region and was financed from the deep pockets of the Government.  

The Turkish Government also endorsed its presence because of the reciprocal protection the British Government provided against Syrian insurgence in the East. The American influence at Incirlik Air Force Base also carried much weight and influence. In fact the Turks in the know were delighted to have such an organization in the center of their homeland

For Douglas it provided a familiar safe haven, a place to have a beer with great food and to meet and greet contacts from international boundaries far and wide.

The castle itself simply reminded him of his roots and his early years in the family home. He felt safe here. Déjà vu was huge.

Tonight and tomorrow, he was hosting the British Prime Minister, for whom he had little regard, George Fraser, his boss, and several Turkish Special Forces people.

His mission would be endorsed tonight but as far as he was concerned this evening was but a side bar on what he was going to do in the idyllic setting of the Crimea. This jumping point provided him access to Syria, Iraq and Iran while on previous missions. It was ideal for this trip to Foros on the Crimean Peninsula

The information gained beneath the Kremlin earlier was known only to him and to his guests for the evening. Quite how he would deal with the attempted Russian coup and potential assassination would remain his and his alone.

This and the fact that he had another and long reaching agenda with a score to settle over the loss of Heather Doyle in Formentor almost twenty years earlier. The KGB commander responsible for that sad event was also paramount in the upcoming coup attempt and Douglas was determined to have the cold revenge he had promised himself as he crossed from Mallorca to Ibiza.

Heather was in his head again as he climbed the staircase to his ninth floor chamber at close to two in the morning.

As he entered the room, the past rushed at him and sent a chill into his blood. The fire in the far wall blazed bright and hot, but he could not feel its warmth. The room was finely but sparsely furnished with computer workstations, comfortable couches and tables and a well stocked bar.

The highlight of the place for Douglas though was the King sized bed set into the twenty foot thick wall and separated from the room by a magnificent Persian carpet which hung from ceiling to floor.

He saw none of this, because he could smell scent of Heather in the air as if she were right there in the room and he heard her words drifting through his mind saying once again, “Hush ye, Hush ye, don’t ye fret ye. The Black Douglas, He’ll no forget ye.”

Drifting off to sleep, he wondered if the Russian was still haunted by similar words…