At the border, Zdravko and Rusim were met by two Turkish cops. Redjeb had the cherubic look of an assassin. Gulbie could have been a stooge but her hands gave her away. Unless cows had hands. From the border they drove in convoy to Fenerbahçe. The day looked like another perfect day, only Turkish.
Vila was right about one thing. That Balkus was a beautiful sight. To say she took up a berth was like saying the Vatican was just another arms factory. To get in wasn’t hard. Gangplank style. Front door. Direct to the middle of a dance floor. All tasteful in a super yacht kind of way. Up the stairs. Somewhere would be the guy or girl in charge of going nowhere.
“Tell me what you see,” said Zdravko. Rusim was poking his nose round the door to the bridge.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“It’s not really that good. There’s no one up here.”
“Upward then.”
Rusim duly walked onto the bridge. Three storeys up was where the DJ used to be, twiddling his four thousand thumbs. Spinning his wheels. Steering the dance floor to open sea.
But that wasn’t right, was it? A fridge with a whole room to itself.
Zdravko wandered round, admiring the gizmos. Gulbie checked the windows, stalking the views one by one. Redjeb studied everyone else from the doorway.
“Let’s take this thing for a spin,” said Rusim.
