Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

Sabah took a seat at one of the tables, appreciating the outside panorama of beach and ocean as he sipped the drink and waited for the arrival of his host.

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HARRYTurpin was the type of scoundrel that only London's East End could produce. He was now close to seventy years of age, and had begun a life of petty crime while still in the knee pants of his generation. By the age of thirteen he had a rap sheet at Scotland Yard that rivaled that of many older criminals. He spent more time in juvenile confinement than on the streets, but he learned the craft of the Artful Dodger well, prospering between times in the lockup. When National Service drafted him into the British Army in the 1950s, he was running several profitable rackets and cons, and had developed a craftiness that won the respect of older gangsters.

As could be expected, his Army career was a total disaster. If ever a young man existed who could not adapt to military discipline, it was Private Harry Turpin. Even several trips around to the back of the barracks where hard-fisted corporals and sergeants treated him to punch-ups, did not improve his attitude. After less than nine months' service, the young hood was demobbed and sent back to Civvie Street with a bad-conduct discharge.

Unfortunately for him, Turpin's attempts to restart his former activities were seriously thwarted by upstarts who had come on the scene during his absence. They displayed an amazingly fierce dedication to territorialism. As far as they were concerned, Turpin was an outsider trying to move onto their turf, and they stopped him cold. The ex-soldier, however, looked up an old friend--a loan shark and fencer of stolen goods--who hired him as a debt collector. Unfortunately for the business arrangement, Turpin was a fellow who succumbed to temptation like a Cockney drunkard to cheap gin. After several months of making collections from his boss's debtors, temptations stimulated by the exposure to all that cash brought him to ruin. He made a clumsy attempt to abscond with a couple of thousand pounds sterling, and the end result was that a contract was issued on his life. This was a no-win situation and, ironically, Turpin had to turn to the military to escape from the threat. He fled the U. K. to join the French Foreign Legion.

The Legion did not care about Turpin's past. In that year of 1958, they were in the midst of a guerrilla insurrection in Algeria, and needed bodies to throw into the fray. They signed him up; gave him a new name--John Morris---and sent him out to fight the insurgents. This time Turpin's attitude toward military discipline was radically changed. Ninety percent of the noncommissioned officers in the Legion during the 1950s and 1960s were World War II veterans of the German armed forces. And this included the elite and deadly Waffen SS. It didn't take Turpin long to figure out they would do much more than give him a bloody nose if he misbehaved; those Teutonic bastards would continually send him out on near-suicidal patrols and raids until a burst of submachine gun fire from a rebel ambusher would rid the Legion of the troublemaker. Consequently, the English hoodlum began to tow the line, did his duty, and even earned a promotion to caporal After three years of this enforced good soldiering, the situation turned more to his favor.

When the politicians in Paris decided to grant independence to Algeria in spite of the French Army crushing the revolution, the victorious officers, soldiers, and Legionnaires felt they had been betrayed. In April 1961 a mutiny broke out that spawned such organizations as the murderous OAS, the French acronym for the Secret Army Organization. The resultant bombings, assassinations, and other violence created a vacuum into which Caporal John Morris--ne Harry Turpin--flourished. He joined the OAS, first as a gunman, then as a procurer of arms from military arsenals. Eventually, the OAS was brought to its knees through betrayals and attrition. At first this defeat looked bad for Turpin, but he figured out a way to turn the downfall into a private enterprise to benefit him personally. Wheeling and dealing his leftover weaponry wares to African revolutionaries and despots led to great profits, which eventually evolved into a full-scale, worldwide business that sold all sorts of arms to the highest bidders.

Now, over four decades later, Mr. Harry Turpin was a billionaire, still making the big bucks with his ever-expanding enterprise.

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HAFEZSabah lounged on the patio, languidly smoking a cigarette as he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the upscale neighborhood. It felt good to be away from the sleaziness and hurly-burly of his job. The thing he disliked the most about his assignment in al-Mimkhalif was having to deal with infidels; but as soon as Allah permitted the great Islamic victory over the nonbelievers, that unpleasantness would be permanently eliminated. Such delightful environs as these would be enjoyed by the true followers.

"Ah! Good morning, Mr. Sabah."

Sabah turned to see Harry Turpin stride onto the patio. The Englishman had a bouncy step in spite of his heavy weight. His face was round and rosy and what was left of the hair on top of his head was combed straight back. He went to the bar and poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass, then joined the Arab at the table.

Sabah nodded to him. "How are you, Mr. Turpin?"

"Bluddy great," Turpin said in his Cockney accent. "And 'ow're you keeping?" .

"I enjoy good health, thanks to Allah."

"I expected you to come by for a visit," Turpin said. "In fact, I've been waiting for you."

"What made you anticipate my calling on you?"

"A great big fucking coincidence," Turpin said, smiling. "I bought a cargo of Stingers some days back, and me warehouse man calls up and says they're the very ones I had sold to you not 'ardly a month ago. Blimey, says I, 'ow could that 'ave 'appened?"

"We paid for them, but they were never delivered into our possession," Sabah said carefully as he prepared for some verbal sparring.

"Sorry, mate," Turpin said. "But you see, I paid for the bluddy things again. So they're my property now, ain't they? Wot's the old saying? Possession is nine tenths of the law."

Sabah gave up any idea of broking a deal. "Who did you buy them from?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," Turpin said. "Business ethics and all that, wot?" He took a deep swallow of whiskey. "I take it you'll be wanting to purchase them again. Or do you 'ave some other type of weaponry in mind?"

"We need the Stingers," Sabah said. "I hope we shall not have any unpleasantness about an increase in the price."

"O'course not," Turpin said. "You Arabian blokes is good customers. I wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of you now, would I?"

"I wish you would tell me who sold them to you," Sabah asked again.

"Can't do it," Turpin said. "I keep me good name by being discreet. But you'll find out soon enough on your own, won't you?"

"It's just a matter of time."

Turpin laughed loudly. "Right! Just a matter o' time."

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UNITED STATES EMBASSY

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

1 OCTOBER

MIKE Assad enjoyed a special apartment in the embassy building in a secure section on the second floor. This was cut off from the rest of the structure and watched over by a twenty-four-hour interior guard. This was where the embassy staff quartered people like Mike and other incognito persons who were involved in risky and clandestine operations. At other times, contemptible but helpful scoundrels who were useful to American causes were also lodged in the area.

The first thing Mike did when he moved into the residence was take a hot, steamy shower and give his dirty, tangled locks a vigorous shampooing. Having to wear his hair mujahideen style was one part of his undercover assignment the SEAL found particularly distasteful. Next he turned his attention to his body, building up a thick lather of soap to wash away the smell of the al-Mimkhalif camp and the Pakistani jail.