THE CONTRACTOR Page 5

  “Saturday morning around nine.”

  Perfect. We could hook up late Friday evening, and I could stay with her overnight and escort her and Erik to the airport Saturday morning. I should have known better than to think the word perfect…

  “Erik!” I almost screamed as I threw my arms around my old hand-to-hand combat instructor. It was great to see him. I was so appreciative that he had taken the time to continue training Miss, and that he had come up with the idea of bringing her over—even if it was a little awkward on the job. He looked the same as always, thinking that tactical cargo pants were appropriate anyplace, even at the little restaurant where we were that evening. Gray cargos, a long-sleeved black jersey, gray tinted wrap-around shades and messy shocks of red hair—just the way I remembered him. It was a good feeling to have a bit of home nearby.

  We took seats at a dimly lit corner table in the small restaurant in the Kumkapi district. Candles under glass adorned the tables, and the décor was heavy with ornate woodwork, thick curtains and deep hues of brown, vermilion and gold in the traditional Turkish fashion. We chatted, chugged Raki, and after a hearty Afiyet Olsun (the Turkish equivalent to “Bon Appetite”), threw down on Kebabs. I tossed tough-guy banter back and forth with Erik and gave the “you sexy thang” eye to my lovely woman. After dinner we imbibed several pictures of beer, after which Miss and I sat blearily listening to Erik give us the entire history of Turkish Oil wrestling at Kirkpinar.

  Yagli Gures, or “grease wrestling”, is the national sport of Turkey. It’s been around for many centuries and has been held in the same field on Kirkpinar island for more than four hundred years. Apparently, it all started when some Greeks brought wrestling to Turkey in the first century BC—these soldiers found a suitable site to train and wrestle, and eventually this wrestling turned into a contest. Years later, two famous contestants wrestled for so many hours that they died of exhaustion and were buried on the island of Kirkpinar. When future wrestling champions visited their burial site years later, natural springs had emerged at the site, which was then named “forty springs” or Kirkpinar. As Erdine, the nearby city, was the capital of the Ottoman Empire for many years, the contest was formally held at Kirkpinar and has been ever since.

  The wrestlers, among the best in all the East, dress in leather pants called kipset and douse themselves in gallons of olive oil, originally used to keep the hordes of mosquitoes away. Wrestlers are raised as apprentices to a master wrestler and must become well known at other contests before coming to Kirkpinar.

  Until the 1970s, there were no time limits to matches, and some went on for hours before a winner was decided. Today the matches are limited to forty minutes, with a fifteen-minute overtime if necessary. Champions become national heroes and are afforded great attention and wealth.

  According to my martial arts friend, some of the best grapplers in the world partake in the competition, yet few outside Turkey know their names. Erik said that many of them could easily defeat the most well-known martial artists. They knew nothing of “tapping out” or even of mats. Wrestlers are thrown full force to the ground.

  Erik had wanted to witness the contest for years and finally had the time and money to do so. I could tell he was trying to contain his excitement, even through my alcoholic haze.

  “My friend,” I had to interrupt before Erik went completely off into the entire history of grappling around the world, “We need to call it a night. I have limited time with my wife.”

  “Yeah, you kids have some boots to knock. Get the hell out of here,” he said, waving us off, obviously feeling the effects of mixing beer and Raki. “I can find my way home.”

  I threw my arm around the son-of-a-bitch and told him we were going to the same street. He needed to just come with us.

  His head fell back into a raucous laugh on the realization. “Shit, you’re right my friend. Guess I better not drive.”

  We got a taxi.

  The night went way too fast, and the day ahead was too short. I actually only had half a day, because I really needed to get my ass back to the hacienda and do some route-planning with the boys.

  Nevertheless, we made the most of it. It was Miss’s first time in Istanbul, so I gave her the whirlwind tour. We hit the major historic architectural sites like Topkapi Palace, the Sultan Ahmet Camii, the Atmeydani, and, of course, my favorite—the Aya Sofya. Besides the Blue Mosque, it is the most recognizable structure in the city.

  Called the Hagia Sophia in Greek, it once was the greatest church in all Christendom. The Emperor Justinian had the church built in the early sixth century when Constantinople was considered the “new Rome.” It was one of the most massive structures ever built at the time, with an immense dome supported by forty huge ribs constructed of hollow bricks. These ribs rest on massive pillars hidden within the sanctuary walls. Hundreds of candles illuminate about thirty million gold mosaic tiles called tesserae. The greatness of Christianity was lost in the East in 1453, when Mehmet the Conqueror took the Sophia into his own possession along with the rest of the city. He has his builders change various parts of the building in order to turn it from a Cathedral into a Mosque, which it remained until 1935, when Ataturk turned it into a museum. Even with its minarets and Arabic symbols, it still retains much of its original form.

  Miss and I wandered through its labyrinths, stood in awe under the vastness of the great dome, and took in the air filled with history and mystery. I couldn’t help but think that the last time I was under the dome of a mosque, missiles crashed through and sent searing heat and tons of concrete and rebar crashing down on me and my good friend Joe Corrino—the bastard. This day was going much better.

  We took the short walk over the Galata Bridge into the modern city and grabbed a quick lunch in the bustling Taksim square. After what were probably too many mimosas, we thought it a good idea to head on over to Cemberlitas Hamami for a nice old-school Turkish bath and massage.

  Although there are many baths and massage establishments throughout the city, I had learned through trial and error that some were reputable, and some were…not. Many were sex shops, and I thought it best for Miss to see the less seamy side of the trade.

  Cemberlitas is a double hamam with both men’s and women’s baths. Many locals come to simply enjoy the steamy baths as a break in their day, while others come to discuss business. Many come for the traditional scrub and massage, as we did.

  After changing in the camekan, we wrapped ourselves in the thick cotton pestemal wrap and put on the small slippers called terliks. We entered the wide bathing room, which was semi-dark, illuminated only by a long glass window in the ceiling, which dripped with condensation gathered from the steam of the baths. Miss and I took adjacent alcoves and sat ourselves on the warm goebekatas, raised stone platforms heated from below, where we waited until we worked up a good sweat. Once the sweat poured off us like camel piss, the attendants came to take us to the baths. Miss seemed a bit embarrassed as I dropped my towel and sat in the basin. I told her to fo-ged-aboud-it. There were a couple people in shorts, but most wandered around naked and damn proud of it. This wasn’t one of the touristy baths in the hotels—this was the real deal. People didn’t gawk, they just went about their business, so down went my robe. Miss just shook her head as she headed to the women’s baths.

  Anyhow, we got scrubbed down and lathered up and felt like a couple of kids in a bubble bath. But no shit, when the attendant was done, I felt like I had new skin. After a rinsing and a moment of privacy in order to scrub where the sun don’t shine, the massage began.

  Back into our cubby holes we went, both of us with rather large masseurs who kneaded and pummeled us into submission. Joints were rotated, muscles pushed and pulled, backs loosened, and feet massaged. The slightest touch of a fragrant oil made the attendants hands, fingers and elbows slide with ease in, out, and over every muscle in our bodies. We both heard each other groan a couple of times, which made me chuckle. The bath and massage were such an awesome divers
ion from my mission that I actually let it slip from my mind for a few hours.

  Before we knew it, it was time to go, but at least I felt secure knowing Miss would be with Erik for a couple of days. There certainly wasn’t anyone more qualified to keep her ass safe. I was sure she would enjoy the wrestling matches and all the cultural events surrounding them, and I would do my best to catch up with the two of them before they took off. If that couldn’t happen, then I was simply glad to have had the time.

  We met up with Erik at the hotel and found out that while we were having our carcasses pampered, he had found a judo club and got a good workout in.

  For me, R&R was over—it was back to tactical mode.

  The kitchen table looked like a gun factory. Without really taking an inventory, I could tell that there were at least two Glocks, a Kimber, a Smith, and a Sig in pieces. Dave was making some adjustments to the trigger pull on his M4. While Dave worked making his minute adjustments, Rusty pushed and pulled a Teflon cleaning rod in and out of the barrels of his rifles, removing the old and attaching a new cleaning pad on each pass. It was gun porn at its best.

  “Nick!” Rusty yelled from the kitchen as I entered the apartment. “Did you lube the old tally-wacker?”

  “Damn, dude,” I yelled back, “What do you think?”

  “I think your woman is finer than a M4 with quad rails, a Trijicon, and a M203 on a tac sling with a Hajji terrorist in your sights—so you better have reminded her why she is married to you, or so help me God, I’ll be on that faster than flies on stink.”

  “Dream on, you fat fuck,” Dave said in his quiet voice and back-handed Rusty on the side of the head.

  “Whaaat?” Rusty whined.

  Merlin just chuckled as he sat on the couch reading a Soldier of Fortune.

  “So, we gonna get down to some business?” I asked rhetorically.

  Dave looked up from the firearm he was caressing with a cleaning rag. “So now you’re ready to get down to business? Where were you last night while we were figuring out our routes, Mr. Casanova?”

  I knew he was just busting my balls because when big Dave is actually pissed off, he goes silent. He had the same steel glare that Jim Solis had; may his crusty-assed soul rest in peace. “So, did you guys plan out the route, or were you waiting for my approval?”

  “Approve this!” Rusty replied, grabbing his own crotch.

  “Yep, we are all set. We are outta here at 0-dark-thirty tomorrow, pick up the Ambassador, and gun it all the way back to the border. A long friggin’ trip,” Dave told us.

  Shit, yes it was. We were going to have to drive three quarters of the way across the country, and then who knew how far into Iran. Then it hit me like a drunk hits his red-headed step-child—why the hell were we driving? Why not fly? I posed the question to the other two stooges.

  “Dudes, why are we driving?”

  There was a deafeningly silent Duh from my compadres.

  “We got hookups—let’s get some birds or a jet. Even if we can’t get it to go all the way, at least we can get to Van.”

  The guys thought my idea was just smashing! But I needed to run it by Saadi. He was the one approving expenses on this little venture, but I was pretty damn sure I could convince him. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Guys, I am outta here. I’m headed over to Saadi’s, and we are gonna find a way to fund a flight, cause I ain’t driving for fifteen hours if I don’t have to.”

  Merlin volunteered to accompany me. He may have been interested in helping convince Saadi to let us fly, or he may just have been bored with Rusty and Dave’s banter. Then again, he may have been interested, like I was, to see what Saadi was up to. He hadn’t been to the apartment in a day, which was slightly unusual for a team leader the day before deploying.

  Before we headed over to his apartment, which was just down the hall from ours, I grabbed a bottle of Balvenie and three Arturo Fuentes from my bag. Consensus building, especially if you want things to turn out in your favor, demands a little more than crafty conversation.

  I have to admit, Balvenie whiskey was the one good thing I got from my shitty relationship with Corrino. It was the smoothest damn stuff on the planet as far as I was concerned. Mix that with the smoky flavor of a fine Fuentes cigar, and your taste buds do the jig of joy. Besides, I had had enough of the local beverages, and had smartly prepared before leaving the states. I dropped a couple of c-notes on a box of AFs and beaucoup more than that on a case of the fine Scottish spirits. The cash was worth it.

  Merlin observed my preparations and nodded his approval. He understood that we would start this out as a social visit, then work our way into how driving the whole day was a damn waste of time, and how I was the man with a plan, and how we would soon be kicking back in a comfy Embraer cruising at thirty thousand feet.

  For a moment after banging on Saadi’s door, I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t letting us in. I even told him I had brought refreshments, but he still was giving us the “Hold on just a second.” Hold on? We’ve got snuff and puff out here, and he was just being cold. As soon as he opened the door, however, we understood that it wasn’t our banging that was important, but the fact that he apparently was finishing up with his own banging.

  The door swung open, and Saadi greeted us with a towel wrapped around his waist and a very hot little Japanese lady wrapped around his arm. We gave him the “sorry, dude” but still barged our way in, waving the bottle and cigars in the air. His little Geisha looked up at him inquisitively.

  “Yuki, meet Team Cadillac. Well, at least two members,” Saadi said before turning to follow us into the sitting room and giving Yuki’s extremely tight ass a smack. There wasn’t even a jiggle through the pink and white boy-cut panties. One thing was for sure: he had a very agreeable taste in women.

  Most of us had the same chick rule: body had to be tighter than a gnat’s ass stretched over a beer can. Well, at least that was the rule for the young guns. The old guys had old wives, at least some of them did, and you couldn’t bust on them for it, cause those women had put up with their shit, their world travels, and their wounds, drinking, and buddies for years. You had to expect they’d have a little patina on them. Maybe they weren’t young babes anymore, but they were probably able to kick any of our asses if we made any comments. And you had better call them “babe” or “darling” or “sweetie” or you would definitely be pulling their boot out of your tucas.

  I knew Saadi was about to ask us what we were doing there when he saw the bottle and started to wonder. “Ok boys, what do you want from me?” He wasn’t playing; he knew we wanted something. Nevertheless, we did our best to lie.

  “Nothing at all—we just hadn’t seen you, and we thought you might want to share a nip and a smoke,” I answered, doing my best to make sure there was no change in expression.

  “Just a nip and a smoke? Okay, that works for me. I guess I need to send Yuki happily on her way.”

  “No, no,” I told him. “She can stay.”

  Merlin winked at me. He was enjoying the view.

  “She doesn’t talk much, which you know makes her the perfect woman for me,” Saadi said half-jokingly.

  We chuckled as I peeled the plastic and pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle with a “pop.” I ran my nose over the mouth of the bottle, took in a whiff and enjoyed its smoothness. I then lifted the bottle and enjoyed the simplicity of its black and tan label, pivoted it in my hand and let the kitchen light filter through the amber liquid inside. Saadi had already rummaged through his black ditty bag that sat under the coffee table in the middle of the sitting area. He found four shot glasses.

  “What the hell is the likelihood that you brought four shot glasses with you in your bag?” I had to ask.

  “My friend,” he started, “There is more to a good EP mission than just close protection, fast driving, and guns! You gotta be like the American Boy Scout—you must be prepared.”

  “What other goodies did you bring with you?�
� Merlin asked as he ran his hand over the smooth polymer finish of a black SOCOM that had been standing in the corner.

  “Let’s see,” the Team Leader said with a smile as he went back to the large black bag in the living room and began to pull item after item out onto the couch. “We have band t-shirts, we’ve got a couple pair of size thirty-two jeans, some cheap cigars, a carton of cigarettes, a huge Ziplock bag of nips that I stole from the last hotel I stayed in, and of course, a couple of popular CDs, a box of flavored condoms, two porn DVDs, and finally, if all else fails, a large wad of cash.”

  “Daaaammn.” Merlin drew out the word for effect.

  Well, that just made me love the foreign bastard even more. I may not have learned anything tactical from the man, but I have to say, I picked up some tricks of the trade.

  “So, Branson, you just going to hold onto that bottle or are we going to drain it?” Saadi called from the living room. His command of English colloquialisms was out-fucking-standing, and just a bit unsettling when said with his eastern accent.

  With one hand I spread the shot glasses across the tiled countertop and filled each to the thin gold line encircling the rims.

  Saadi and Yuki picked up their glasses and carefully walked back to the couch, ensuring that they committed no acts of alcohol abuse (spilling). Merlin and I bellied up to the counter and clinked glasses.

  “Sköl,” I said, using a phrase I had learned from Erik.

  “Bite me!” Merlin responded. I don’t think that salutation came from any culture in particular.

  “Kanpai!” Yuki and Saadi said to each other, using the common Japanese toast.

  Down the gullet it went. Not even the slightest burn. Perfect.

  “So seriously—what did you guys really want?”

  I looked at Saadi, and he stared back at me. In the next second I was either going to control the conversation, or my face was going to betray my real intentions. Fuck it. The truth was always better than trying to bullshit a bullshitter.