Morgan anchored off of the west coast of Corfu a mile out at sea. He was positioned some eight miles north of the resorts of Glyfada and Ermones in sheltered waters. Here he waited for Spiro to arrive, to confront the man about his ill-fated journey. He was exhausted after making the last five days from Crete alone, and it showed in his red eyes and thin body. Now Morgan was anchored off shore he relaxed. He was back in one piece and had overcome the most terrifying experience of his life. He had been confined to the yacht with men he had been warned strongly about, but he had not imagined how intense it would be to be watching his back 24hrs a day. Spiro had a lot of questions to answer when he arrived. If he couldn’t answer them confidently, friend or no friend he would die. Die like the other two Turks who had been planning to kill the boy ever since he had met them at the taverna back in Cyprus. George Gallas and Ismene had been right to warn him and so because of their advice he had kept a close eye on them.
Fourteen days before Morgan had set sail from Larnaca. His two passengers had ventured below deck to make themselves at home. Cunningly the boy offered them a bottle of vodka to drink, and as they became merry they sang songs until the early morning before falling into a deep drunken sleep. It was then that Morgan looked more closely at their bags and hardware. He found a number of pistols in Mustaffa's bag. Pieces of a fold away snipers rifle, along with explosives were found in Youessef’s. He left everything how he found it and returned until daylight at the crafts wheel.
The next day he took a break to get some sleep and left them on the deck, when Morgan was woken by the sounds of an Italian radio station from the main cabin. He was not best pleased. It was then either due to his stern words or what they had heard on the radio, that their mood changed. They started to ask a lot of searching questions about him and where he was from. It was clear to Morgan that they had guessed who he was, for the next few days until he reached Crete he dare not eat or sleep in case they poisoned him or slit his throat.
On the sixth night he was exhausted and so fell asleep at the wheel, while they slept below, he was glad of the sleep because the next day he needed to keep his wits about him as they navigated nearer to the Ionian Islands. The Turks who it was plain to see were no sailors, began to take a keen interest in the nautical maps and their location. Morgan had been alerted to them, soon they would show their hand and reveal whose side they were on. It wasn’t until late that evening after they had listened to another radio news channel, that they actually confronted him about his identity.
The boy knew that if he were going to survive he would have to keep his pistol hidden until the last minute. As they argued between themselves in Turkish, Morgan could see that Youessef was not so keen to follow through his companions plans. However it was too late to convince Morgan otherwise, both Turks would have to die.
It was after midnight when it happened, and Mustaffa came onto the deck with his gun poised out in front of him. The man was trying to surprise but had failed miserably, he had lost his advantage hours before. As the gunman made actions to Youessef to search the other side of the yacht Morgan produced a knife from his shoe, it had been there ever since his arrival on the yacht, and now he was relieved that he had more than one weapon.
There was shouting from the back of the boat as Youessef ventured down into the cabin, presumably to check that Morgan had not sneaked back inside without their knowledge. The boy watched from behind the boat’s sails in a kneeling position, as the silhouette of Mustaffa’s body waved his gun toward Morgan’s hidden position. It had been that moment or never and as Morgan leapt like a leopard the few seconds of surprise enabled him to stab the man in his favoured arm. The blade sank into muscle and sliced at the man’s forearm, Mustaffa dropped the gun onto the deck, and it fell overboard as the assassin let out a cry for help from his companion.
Morgan was surprised at how strong the Turk was as he started to fight him. The man landing punches on the boy’s body and head knocking him to the floor. Morgan sliced away at his attacker, and then stabbed him in the leg as he fell. Mustaffa repeatedly kicked him, until the blade went deep and wedged into his bone as they continued to fight the knife blade broke off and blood gushed from his wounds, soaking the assassins clothes as he fell to the floor unable to walk. Morgan quickly picked himself off the floor to finish the Turk off, but a bullet whizzed past his ear. Youessef had jumped into action and now sprayed the deck with bullets. Morgan narrowly avoided death by dancing his way to the front of the craft. Moments later Morgan was settled in a comfortable position his pistol outstretched waiting for his opponent to show himself. When bullets came thick and fast through the sails, Morgan was nicked in the arm as he returned fire, instantly he heard the thud of a body as it fell onto the decking.
He waited what seemed like an age and then scrambled his way around to check out the wounded. He found Youessef with his head half blown off; there were brains all over the back of the boat. There was no sign of Mustaffa only, a bloodstain that had followed his crawling body back inside the cabin. Morgan was reluctant to go back inside, so waited ten minutes before attempting to enter, immediately a bullet from a rifle repelled him. It was too dangerous to go inside so Morgan simply closed the hatch and locked the injured man inside. It wouldn’t be long until he would bleed to death.
The next morning he was shocked to see that Mustaffa was still clinging onto life, he took the man’s rifle away and questioned him. As he beat the man, he offered him a quick or slow death, all he had to give was the name of the man who was paying him. Morgan ran out of patience and shot him through the heart. It did not make any more of a mess, the contents of his body washed backwards and forwards like waves in unison with the sea.
Morgan dumped their bodies over the side of the yacht, attaching them to the two spare anchor’s kept below in the engine room. He tried extremely hard to clean up all the blood, but by the time he had cleaned the cabin the sun had dried blood into the decking. No matter how hard he scrubbed, it remained evidence of his ordeal.
Once everything was tidied away he Inquisitively turned on the cabin radio, then phoned Spiro to let him know of his Estimated Time of Arrival. He sat and listened to the chattering speedy conversations of the Italian presenter, but he could not understand any of it. He played with the dial until he reached the BBC world service; sat back and listened to the man with an eccentric English accent speak. The man described to his surprise the recent sighting of Morgan in Cyprus, but as yet the authorities there had not been able to confirm his arrival on the island. Morgan laughed at the man’s comparison to the scarlet pimpernel, and Lord Lucan who may to this day be still at large somewhere in the world.
The man then returned to more serious matters in Italy and described the recent attacks on judges and politicians up and down the country. A total of twelve VIP’s had been killed. Sources inside the country believed the assassinations were linked to a powerful Mafia turf war. The series of killings occurred over the night of June 16th, and was now known as ‘The night of the long knives.’ It was the night that the Turks had tried to kill him. He listened on for another hour to see if he could make any more links with the news, and his difficulties before venturing once more onto deck.
Morgan peered up into the cloudless sky with blood shot eyes and threw another bucket of water over the decking and used a brush to expel the water over the side. He then sat and spied through his binoculars the approaching boat making speed out of the nearby-secluded bay. Not a moment too soon Spiro and Stavros were nearing the yacht and Morgan couldn’t wait to get off it.
‘Yia sas.’ They shouted as they threw a rope to the boy.
‘Come aboard!’ Morgan leant a weary hand his arm ached from his bullet graze.
‘Ti kanis?’ the old man asked and smiled looking around the boat for the Turks.
‘Entaksi! However, I’ve been better.’ the boy led them to the yach
ts seating at the rear of the boat.
‘Where are the boys?’ Spiro asked as he brought out a cup of strong coffee for them all.
‘Who the Turks?’ the boy sat, drank some coffee and crossing his legs.
‘Yes! Where are they?’ Spiro looked puzzled as Stavros peered into the cabin then disappeared inside.
‘Their with the fish!’ Morgan announced to his elders surprise.
‘Where?’ the old man was more confused when Stavros shouted from the cabin and then brought out the men’s bags. He scratched his head and gestured with his hands. ‘What is this? I asked you to bring me cargo. Now you tell me that they are dead?’ Spiro was annoyed, he sat forward to look the boy in the eyes.
‘I had no choice...’ he began to speak but was cut off.
‘Choices are simple! Consequences are what we all have to live with for the rest of our lives.’ The old man wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead.
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Morgan asked.
‘It means these men were supposed to come here and help me and help you! You stupid boy!’ Spiro got up from the seat, lit a cigar and walked around to the steering wheel. He was mad as hell, and his face showed it. ‘What are we going to