Gibraltar Station: A Novel

By Joseph W. Michels

Jack Taylor, a freshly retired 42 year old U.S. Army MSgt, arrives in Gibraltar and takes up residence as an expat retiree. Informed his military pension won’t be enough to live on, thereby jeopardizing his Gibraltar residence permit, Jack is open to recruitment efforts by organizations that hire paramilitary contractors. Capitalizing on the skills he acquired during his military career as a special forces operative, Jack—working alone or with others—takes on assignments ranging from providing security services to undertaking extraction ops of high value individuals.
The CIA station chief in Gibraltar, along with agents of MI-5 and MI-6, soon begin to rely on Jack’s skills. Wishing to provide Jack a socially acceptable cover for his occasional covert operations they pull strings to secure for Jack a private investigator’s license as well as a concealed weapons permit. Jack’s debut as a bonafide private detective cements his local reputation as a resourceful person ready to assist, but he knows those who value his covert operational skills will not easily cut him loose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663251930

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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GIBRALTAR

STATION

A NOVEL

JOSEPH W. MICHELS

GIBRALTARSTATION

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2023 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by

any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author

except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue

in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © Nicola Pulham/Shutterstock.com

Credit for author photo:

Copyright © 2021 Joseph W. Michels

iUniverse

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5190-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-5193-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905556

iUniverse rev. date: 03/25/2023

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

CHAPTER ONE

J ack lifted the tall-stemmed glass of Bordeaux to his lips and took a sip, enjoying the wine’s strong aromatic flavor as he watched the sun slowly set over Gibraltar harbor. It was his first evening in the British Overseas Territory, having just flown in from Heathrow after a long flight out of Dulles.

This was all new to him—the furnished apartment he’d rented, sight unseen, in a new high-end building just north of where he was seated, the upscale restaurants along Ragged Staff Wharf, the promise of endless days of leisure now that he’d retired after twenty-two years of military service.

He figured his military pension and what he’d managed to save would be enough to see him through the first two years; after that…well…he’d have to see.

As he looked out onto the marina, admiring the yachts moored to the two main piers that jutted out from the quay where he was seated, he happened to glance at a couple seated a short distance away; the man seemed to be staring at him. As soon as the man caught him looking in his direction he gestured for Jack to come join them. Jack’s initial impulse was to ignore the invitation, or shake his head, but he didn’t want to offend. By the look of their clothing Jack felt they probably belonged in a place like this, something he certainly didn’t feel. Reluctantly, he got up from his chair and walked over, carrying his wine glass.

Please join us, the man said in thickly accented English. We figure you’re an American; we’re Russian…so we’re all foreigners, he said with a laugh.

Jack nodded, then sat down.

I am Dimitry Petrov, and this is Maria, said the man as he gestured for the waiter to bring a fresh glass. You must share our wine, he insisted, pointing to a bottle of what Jack figured was probably a very expensive Bordeaux.

Jack studied the couple. The man had to be at least in his mid-fifties; the woman—easily twenty years his junior. They both were well-tanned and wore casual but expensive yachting outfits.

Catching their inquiring look, Jack uncomfortably blurted out, I’m Jack Taylor…I’ve just arrived from the States.

But I think you are not a typical American tourist…yes? challenged Dimitry.

Jack shrugged, No, I’ve actually moved here. I have an apartment just up the street…thought it’d be a good place to retire.

And yet you are a young man…yes? pressed Dimitry.

If you call being forty-two young, replied Jack with a laugh. Actually, I’ve had a military career…one where retirement among enlistees after twenty or so years is fairly common.

So, you were not an officer, concluded Dimitry, puzzled, as he carefully poured wine from the bottle into the fresh wine glass the waiter had brought over.

Yes and no, replied Jack. I was a non-commissioned officer…a Master Sergeant at the time I separated from the Army.

Yes…you have that look, observed Dimitry soberly as he handed Jack the fresh glass of wine.

I take it, you’ve spent some time in the Russian military, commented Jack.

Indeed, replied Dimitry. but that was a while back. I was an officer in a Spetsnaz unit with the rank of Major.

And now? inquired Jack.

Now? mused Dimitry, Now I tend to business from my yacht…that lovely vessel tied up just to the right of where we’re sitting.

Jack glanced over and couldn’t help being impressed as he gazed at the luxury motor yacht—all hundred and fifty feet of it—resting against the edge of the quay. So you live aboard…even during the off-season, such as now?

We do…but only while it is tied up in a marina like this one. If we choose to relocate…perhaps to France or Monte Carlo…Maria and I will often fly…returning to the vessel only after it is berthed in a suitable marina at our destination.

So, you have a full-time crew? speculated Jack.

Of course, replied Dimitry, as if it went without saying.

Jack had a hard time imagining life on a yacht, though the idea of it appealed to him.

"But tell me…Jack…I can call you Jack…yes?

Jack nodded.

Did you have a combat specialty…or were you in an administrative unit?

Like you, Dimitry, I was in an elite special forces unit, replied Jack sharply.

Ah…very good…very good, commented Dimitry admiringly. We have much in common then, he added.

Jack merely shrugged.

We must have you aboard for drinks, said Dimitry as he slipped some money under his wine glass and stood up. Do you intend to patronize this café often?

I imagine so, replied Jack. It’s close to where I’m staying and I like the place…why do you ask?

So we’ll know where to find you, explained Dimitry.

Probably it’s best if we simply exchange cell phone numbers, said Jack, smiling.

Yes…of course, said Dimitry, who proceeded to take out a business card and hand it to Jack. "It has both my cell and my satphone numbers, along with the particulars regarding the vessel.

Jack read Dimitry’s phone number, then took out his own cell phone, entered Dimitry’s number, then texted him. There…you’ve got my number," said Jack as he slipped Dimitry’s card into the inside pocket of his blazer.

So…two old warriors striking up a friendship over a glass of fine Bordeaux…what could be better? announced Dimitry as he shook Jack’s hand.

Jack laughed, bid good night to Maria, then watched as the pair walked leisurely the short distance to the boarding ramp of their yacht. After they’d climbed aboard, a crewman standing watch walked over. He pulled up the boarding ramp and closed the railing gate, then continued his rounds.

Jack lingered for while, enjoying the gentle evening breeze and wanting to give himself some time to think about the wealthy Russian who’d just befriended him. Jack supposed the man acquired his wealth through some sort of political machination, but given how closely politics and business were linked in Russia he couldn’t fault the man for having worked the system successfully. More worrisome, perhaps, would be any indication the man chose to befriend him out of some ulterior motive, but Jack dismissed that thought, convinced the man’s approach was genuinely spontaneous. Anyway, the man knew nothing about Jack…that is, until they’d begun to talk. What he couldn’t entirely rule out was the possibility the man would seek to use Jack now that he had some idea of the skills Jack possessed after a long Army career in an elite combat arms unit.

Realizing further speculation wouldn’t get him very far, Jack signaled for his chit.

The waiter came over, a bit embarrassed, I’m sorry, sir, but the Russian gentleman paid your bill.

Oh, is that so, commented Jack, a bit irritated. Well…good night, then, he said as he handed the waiter a generous tip.

Thank you, sir…and good night to you.

Jack got up from the table and threaded his way between the tables, heading for the narrow passage that connected the marina quay to the street. The street was quiet—Jack’s realtor had made that a selling point. She argued the South Port Gates end of town didn’t suffer the congestion and the throngs of tourists more typical of streets closer to the central part of town. He glanced up at the new apartment building as he walked, searching the balconies on the seventh floor in an attempt to identify the one that was his. It seemed a hopeless effort; several equally possible apartments were without lights—probably seasonal tenants he supposed.

Once in the building, he took the elevator to the seventh floor, then looked for the number over the door that marked it as the one he’d rented. After unlocking the door he stepped inside. The only personal item in the sparsely furnished parlor was his military duffle, now stuffed with civilian clothes. It lay on the carpet near the door to the bedroom. He hadn’t bothered to unpack; he’d just put his hand luggage on the bed, dropped his duffle, then headed for one of the restaurants on Ragged Staff Wharf.

He stood for some moments, letting the ambient light coming through the large windows leading to the balcony bathe the room in a shadowy jumble of silhouettes. It impressed upon him the stark aloneness of his situation. True, he’d made a start earlier that evening, but knew he’d have to work at it if he hoped to build a circle of friends, or at least a handful of persons who he could be confident were aware of his presence.

Drawn by the night sky, Jack left the lights off and approached the sliding glass door to the balcony. He slid it open and stepped out. It seemed to him to be an unusually long balcony, with railings that invited one to take steps up and down its length. He gazed out over the marina below, struck by the beauty of the many soft lights shining through portholes of liveaboard yachts tied side by side along the piers. He turned his attention to Dimitry’s yacht tied to the quay seemingly immediately below him. It was bathed in light—overhead deck lights as well as cabin lights. He caught a glimpse of a crew member straightening pillows on the afterdeck settees. After a final look at the large ocean-going freighters anchored just beyond the harbor breakwater, their anchor lights twinkling as the sea’s restless current moved them about, Jack turned and stepped back inside.

CHAPTER TWO

J ack woke up late the following morning; he told himself it was probably due to jet lag. He slipped out of bed and headed for the shower. As he toweled himself off he reviewed in his mind the things he’d probably like to accomplish that day and realized the most important was applying in person for a residence permit. He hurriedly finished his morning bathroom routine, then slipped into his clothes. A glance at his wristwatch persuaded him he’d have to get breakfast afterwards if he was to be somewhere near the front of the queue at the Civil Status and Registration Office.

He checked his pockets to assure himself he was carrying all relevant documents, then hurried out the door and down the hall to the elevator bank. He rode down with two other tenants; neither spoke despite Jack’s hearty good morning. He shrugged it off and exited the elevator ahead of the other two, not wishing to offer further polite remarks to the two unresponsive gentlemen.

Fortunately, the office was close by—on Secretary’s Lane; just off Line Wall Road and easily accessible using the narrow passage under the rampart wall that connected Queensway Road, west of the ramparts, to the streets within the fortified settlement.

The office was in an historic building called the Joshua Hassan House—an attached two-story gray stucco structure with blue shuttered windows. Several people were standing outside the wrought iron grillwork at the oversized U-shaped entrance. Jack joined them.

The sign indicates it’ll open shortly, said a woman reassuringly, noting Jack’s hurried approach. He smiled in acknowledgement, catching her decidedly American accent.

Are you also applying for a residence permit? he asked.

Yes…I’ve put it off for far too long. My boss insisted I take care of it this week, she explained.

So…you’ve been here for some time, surmised Jack.

About a month, replied the woman.

Jack shrugged, I just got in last night…thought I needed to take care of it right away.

The woman smiled indulgently.

I’m Jack Taylor, he said, extending his hand.

I’m Betty Williams, she said as she shook his hand.

So, you’ve come here to work, commented Jack.

Yes…it’s an American company that invests in various startups. I work in the finance department…and you?

Nothing so grand, replied Jack. I’m here as a retiree.

Betty looked at him carefully, You seem far too young to be retired.

Jack laughed, I’ve been told that before. The Army offers a full pension after twenty years…in my case, twenty-two.

If you don’t mind me asking, what made you choose Gibraltar as a place to retire to? asked Betty.

Oh, I don’t know…it seemed a good place to land if one hoped to ultimately make the countries of the Mediterranean one’s stomping grounds.

I thought you were going to say it was because of Gibraltar’s long military history, countered Betty.

There is that, as well, explained Jack, but mostly it’s because the Mediterranean region has always attracted me…its cultures and history. How about you? What induced you to take a job so far from home?

Oh…the usual…a change of scene…adventure, replied Betty dismissively.

Jack studied the woman whom he figured must be in her mid-thirties. She wasn’t tall—a little over average height he supposed; trim and slender, with a good figure. He liked the way her long auburn hair, shot through with blond highlights, cascaded around her shoulders. She was wearing flats, close-fitting blue jeans, and a V-neck blouse under a light-weight knitted cardigan.

Just then, a man came out and unlocked the metal grillwork gate then beckoned those standing outside to enter.

Can we catch coffee afterwards? asked Jack.

Betty had already turned to go inside; she looked back at Jack, met his look, then nodded, Sure, she added with a smile.

Jack followed her in.

He was directed to a desk where a young Hispanic woman was seated. The name plate on her desk read Kaylan Cruz.

Jack placed his passport, his TriCare health insurance card, a copy of the lease to his apartment, and the most recent monthly statement from his American bank on her desk, then sat down across from her.

While she was examining Jack’s documents, he studied her. He figured she was in her late twenties, but in his mind she seemed to affect the stern countenance of an older woman. She wore a tailored white shirt under a gray suit jacket; no jewelry was visible.

She looked up at him, Mr. Taylor, there are some documents missing. Do you have proof of employment?

Jack shook his head, No, ma’am…I’m retired. As you can see from my bank statement I receive a pension from the Army…it’s credited to my account each month.

The woman studied the bank statement, Do you have other sources of income, Mr. Taylor; I’m afraid the amount of your pension, even with the generous balance currently in your account, won’t be sufficient to support you as a retiree.

I believe it will, ma’am…at least for about two years. By that time, I’ll have secured a further source of income.

Well, you’ll need to push forward your search for additional income, Mr. Taylor. Under our rules, we can grant you a Civilian Registration Card that’s good for six months. After that, you’ll have to show evidence of an income source that, together with your military pension, is sufficient given the cost of living here in Gibraltar. The renewal will be for five years, so please take that into account when you come before us next time.

Yes, ma’am, said Jack as he began to collect his papers.

One last thing, Mr. Taylor, said the woman, you’ll need to open an account at one of the banks here in Gibraltar.

I planned to do that today, Ms. Cruz, Jack assured her.

Good, she commented, then added, I’ll have your Registration Card ready shortly.

While he waited, he looked over at Betty who was talking to a man at another desk. He figured she was also almost done as she had begun to place her documents back in her purse.

Here you are, Mr. Taylor, and welcome to Gibraltar, she said, smiling, as she handed Jack his Registration Card.

Jack got up from his chair and headed for the exit, confident Betty would be joining him soon.

As he waited outside he breathed in the fresh, sea-tinged air…a far cry from the hot, humid air of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where he’d spent his final two years in the military. He idly touched the residence permit in his breast pocket for reassurance. Somehow, just knowing he’d now become an officially recognized resident of this iconic British Overseas Territory gave him a good feeling.

Betty appeared only moments later.

You up for a walk over to Ragged Staff Wharf? he asked. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m told the restaurants over there offer a pretty good spread.

Sure…why not…I could eat something myself, replied Betty

So, why did the company you work for choose Gibraltar? I imagine the firm began as a U.S.-based outfit? inquired Jack as they began walking.

Betty shrugged, All I hear is that management was attracted by the low corporate tax rate…around ten percent…and believed the place was becoming a magnet for international start-ups of the sort the firm was interested in.

I suppose that makes sense, commented Jack sympathetically.

Betty changed the subject, How’d it go with your examiner…did she give you trouble about being retired?

Jack shrugged, A bit; she was fairly skeptical I’d be able to support myself without supplementing my pension with some sort of job.

What do you think you’ll do? she asked, curious.

"Well, first of all I disagreed with her…at least in the