TANKER
Also by Nicholas E Watkins
Bank
Dealer
Oligarch
About the Author
Nicholas Watkins lives in Eastbourne with his wife and has four children He is a retired Accountant and has a Degree in Economics. He worked in the City of London for many years.
Copyright © Nicholas E Watkins 2017
The right of Nicholas E Watkins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and patent Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication my be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor may be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
TANKER
Chapter 1
The Hilux pulled up outside the laboratory and parked. The Moon sat low on the horizon and the first red glow of dawn lit up the dry desert sky. All was still, save for the barking of a dog. Security, for this sector of the storage facility was in the hands of the Iraqis. Despite being the only thing moving at that time of the morning, the vehicle had not been challenged and no alarms were sounded as it drove into the inner compound.
On paper the security around the complex of buildings forming the oil storage facility near Basra was impressive. ISIS had looked at it on many occasions as a potential target but determined that the security presence was too high and their losses would be unacceptable. The laboratory, situated in its own area away from the main buildings, was, in contrast, perceived as far less of a target by the owners. They had neglected it in their assessment of threat levels and so security here was far less comprehensive.
The occupants of the truck sat waiting tensely in the darkness. They were armed with assault rifles and they would have no hesitation in using them if the need arose. They were committed to the aims of ISIS and would happily die as Martyrs in achieving them.
One of the truck's occupants was no more than a boy of sixteen but he had the hatred of a thousand years in his heart. His Father and Uncles had all opposed the British occupation. It was part of his being, ingrained from childhood. He had seen how the invaders had gradually been defeated, driven back into their compound and finally isolated into a small defensive position at the airport. He had helped fire the mortars into their base. He had seen their defeat and knew they were weak. He believed in the end ISIS would prevail and the Caliphate would be restored.
His companion was slighter in build, but older, in his mid thirties and with a pock marked face. He had been part of Saddam Hussein’s army when the invasion had taken place. When the Coalition forces had overthrown the Dictator they had disbanded the army. It had left him with a gun and no income. He had had no love for Hussein and the then ruling Ba’th party but he had, at least had an income and had been able to feed his family. It had not taken long for him to become disillusioned with the so called liberators of his Country and he now saw them as an occupying force.
“He should be here by now,” said the older of the two. He looked at his watch. They had been there for nearly an hour. They waited another twenty minutes before the door to the laboratory opened and light spilled out across the compound. They jumped from the cab and slinging their rifles over their shoulders ran to the beckoning figure.
“Quiet, follow me,” said the man in the lab coat. The technician moved swiftly down the corridors turning left and right. He used his security pass to open doors and led them further into the building. He stopped and pointed to the radioactive symbol and the warning sign above the door.” My pass will take us no further,” he said leaving them outside the door and returning to his job in another part of the building.
The young boy sneaked a look through the glass panel at the top of the door. “Be careful and keep your head down. What did you see?” said his companion.
“Five of them, they are putting their coats on getting ready to go home.” They knew the shift was due to finish at six am but the intruders’ information was proving to be correct. Unsupervised they had developed the habit of knocking off early. They waited quietly until the door opened and the workers began to gather up their belongings. The first worker steeped through the door bidding goodbye to his colleagues. The boy leapt to his feet and struck him in the face with the butt of his rifle, smashing teeth and breaking bone. The technician staggered backwards into his departing colleagues, his hands clutching his bleeding face. The older of the two pointed his rifle at the group, moving it from side to side. They stepped back dropping their coats and bags to the floor.
“Put your fucking hands down. This isn’t a cowboy movie,” he said. “You know what we want so let’s not make this difficult for any of us, OK?”
The workers looked at each other and their team leader, an American, who decided to speak, “How do you intend to transport it?”
“Just stick it in a box or bag.”
“You will be exposed to a massive dose of radiation. More than an hour or two and you will get very ill and possibly die. Do you realise that? This material needs to be handled with extreme caution.”
“Do we look like the kind of people who give a fuck? Now stop pissing about and bag it up for us unless you’d like to die before it kills us.” The head technician began the process of removing the radioactive rods from the calibrating machines and placing them in boxes. He and another technician then unlocked the radiation proof safe and removed the rest of the material stored for intended future use and put it in the bag along with the rods.
“Give us your cell phones.” The workers did as they were told, while the duo ripped the internal phones from the walls. “Now we are trying to let you live but we need to escape without you causing us a problem. We'll lock you in and smash the key pad on the other side. We know that will only keep you in here for a very short while but think on this. If you raise the alarm all of you will be dead by this time tomorrow and all your families will be dead by the time you get home. You are all Iraqis apart from this man and you live here. We know you. We know your families. We know where you live and we will kill anyone who betrays us.” He drew a small pistol and shot the American head of department in the face to underline the message. The rest of the group
cowered and watched in shock as their boss fell to the floor. They had the message loud and clear.
The two men walked out to the truck struggling under the weight of their radioactive load. “Why are you letting them live? They could raise the alarm?” said the boy.
“The tall ugly one is my cousin.”
********
At the petrol station at Qa’im just inside Iraq on the Syrian border, two ISIS fighters waited in a Ford Galaxy mini bus which was rapidly becoming hot and sticky inside. They had been there for some time and one of them got out and relieved himself. He returned to the bus, “Do you think they are coming? They are very late.”
“We wait.”
“We are very exposed here. The Security Forces could easily pick us up.”
“We wait,” said the other with finality.
So they waited and finally the convoy of heavy trucks came through the checkpoint at the border. They were escorted by guards travelling in lightly armoured vehicles. Scant attention was paid to the convoy and they were more or less just waved past by the Iraqis. The border was like a sieve and smugglers for the Government and the opposing factions travelled virtually unhindered between Iraq, Turkey and Syria. Trade between the three was probably more vigorous than before the conflict had started. The region had descended into total chaos. Fighters were going one way and insurgents the other, guns in, guns out, drugs and Jihadi brides were passing for good measure. The whole area was a complete security shambles.
The convoy pulled over to swap the escort for the next leg of the journey. The drivers got out of the assorted trucks and HGV’s, relieved themselves, ate, faced towards Mecca and prayed. The occupants of the Galaxy joined them in prayers. By now a small fleet of trucks and cars had arrived in the area. It was apparent that on crossing the border, the truck drivers all had small business ventures going with various locals, smuggling items from one side of the border to the other. The gas station had descended into a mini bazaar.
It was a very simple matter for the mini bus occupants to help the driver of the truck carry the large box and place it in the rear of the Galaxy. “Sorry for the delay lads,” said the driver “got held up on the road. It seems there was a change in the group that controlled a stretch of the highway. It took an age to sort out the bribe to allow us to pass. It cost me another eight hundred dollars to deliver your goods.”
They knew that he was bumping the price up and they guessed he had probably paid a tenth of that. They were in no mood to haggle and gave him the extra. The driver was almost embarrassed by their lack of bargaining but he of course accepted the extra cash.
The Ford Galaxy pulled away from the stop and headed south. If anyone had pointed a Geiger counter at it, they would have seen the needle go off the scale.
******
There were three bombings in Baghdad that day and over a hundred people were either dead or injured. The hospitals were struggling to cope with the injured and dying. ISIS was under pressure and they had been losing ground recently. They were stepping up their bombing campaign, part in retaliation but also in order to let the World know they were still a force to reckon with.
The University was in a state of chaos. A targeted bomb had left the Campus in disarray. Students and staff were among the dead, dying and injured. Ambulances, security forces, police and militia were all engaged in the action. Chaos and panic had spread across the Campus.
The three ISIS members were looking for the Metallurgy Faculty and referring to a map of the building, soon located the secure facility. Security, today however, was totally lacking following the carnage outside. The combination of suicide bombings and the random shooting into the crowd of students had made anyone with the slightest self preservation instinct get well clear of the Campus. They marched along the corridor to the store of radio active material and literally just blew the doors off with a small plastic explosive charge. They walked back out with a holdall stuffed with the deadly radioactive material. Got in a car and drove off.
ISIS had just gone nuclear.
Chapter 2
The rain dripped through the hole in the sun awning into the bucket placed on the terrace by the bar owner. There was a large puddle where the bucket had over spilled. A young couple made a dash for the cafe and the male, wearing flips flops, slipped and nearly fell. The female was more sure footed and reached their table in a less dramatic fashion.
The tables and chairs, on the terrace outside the Terminus Café, were a random collection of plastic, cane and metal. They had obviously been collected and replaced over the years and were a total mismatch. The Patron came out and, nearly slipping and falling himself, emptied the bucket, which filling at such a rapid rate in the downpour served little purpose. Tim looked at the sagging awning, the red strips faded into the greying white background and wondered, given that the rip in the awning was no bigger than six or seven centimetres, why the owner had not applied a piece of duct tape. Perhaps duct tape was rare in France or perhaps the owners just could not be bothered and accepted the heyday of the Terminus Café, located directly opposite Menton railway station, had long since passed.
Tim sat with his back to the Café with the open glass door to his right giving him a clear view of the terrace, the station car park and the coming and goings of those entering and leaving the railway station entrance. He stirred his double espresso, three sugars, too many. He kept meaning to cut down but somehow forgot each time he put spoon to cup.
To his left there sat the cowboys. Two almost identically dressed men with white beards stained orange with nicotine. They wore black leather sleeveless jerkins, white stained T shirts and black faded leather cowboy hats with large cross stitching on the brims and crowns. Their sleeping bags and Worldly possessions were stacked under cover in a shop doorway to the left of the Café. Their hands shook as they lifted the coffee to their lips, which the patron’s wife had placed on the table in front of them a moment before. They were obviously regulars. The dog which emerged from the Café ran to greet them and was instantly scooped up onto one of their laps by trembling hands.
On Tim’s right was a large red and white bag on a chair. Beside it on the table were three further smaller plastic carrier bags stuffed with old clothes. The owner appeared from the Café and stood by the bags. She was in her fifties, hair long and dirty. Her hands also trembled as she struggled to raise a cup to her lips. The drug and alcohol abuse were etched in her face and thin body. She was dressed in flimsy, floral patterned beach trousers, leopard blouse and a beige wrap around cardigan. Her feet were dirty, her toenails uncut and her toes forced over and under each other by the large bunions on the side of her, flip flop clad, feet. At some stage she must have had a life and obviously had loved her high heeled shoes. Tim imagined her as a young girl dressed smartly with her designer shoes and handbags going to the Casino in Menton or dancing in the night clubs. No longer desirable, broken and addicted, all her possessions in bags, she relied on the Terminus Café for her morning ablutions. She hopped nervously around the table, taking alternate sips of coffee and dragging on a roughly rolled cigarette which occasionally stuck to her lips.
Tim took another sip of his very sweet coffee and looked up to see a group of four men running from a black van to the cover of the terrace. There was more slipping and sliding on the treacherous wet tiles before they reached the safety of chairs and sat at a table. The bucket was now overflowing as the rain continued to pour down. Thunder could be heard in the distance. The patron appeared with croissants and coffees and greeted the arrivals. Their jackets showed them to be railway workers. A fifth man dashed in and joined them and was greeted loudly by his co-workers.
So far not one of the Café’s customers fitted the bill of the man he was expecting to meet. He ordered another espresso and again put too much sugar in it. Tim whose real name was Anthony Burr had acquired the nick-name Tim, from his schoolmates. They had been unable to resist the opportunity for the joke a “chip off the old block, timber,”
so the name stuck with him. He had been waiting at the Café for nearly an hour so far. Tim was forty one and looked out of place as he sat in the rain in the faded establishment. His clothes were a cut far above those of the other customers and his well groomed appearance made him conspicuously noticeable. He felt uncomfortable.
This weekend had certainly not turned out as expected. He had anticipated spending a jolly few days at the Hotel Lewes in Monaco, watching the Grand Prix and perhaps getting a bit of sun. Today was race day and he had his place reserved on a nice yacht facing the track. Instead he was sat in the probably the grubbiest café in the Cote D’Azure doing some else’s job in the rain.
He had joined the civil service after he left Selwyn, Cambridge. He had done well enough with a two one degree to get a job in the Home Office. After a few years, he was transferred to help out the long suffering Ambassador in Paris where he would use his knowledge of foreign affairs to brief him daily with what was happening in the World. Technically he was employed as an intelligence officer. Sounded like a spy but in reality he read the local papers, checked the briefings from the various government departments and made sure the Ambassador had a clear picture of the current situation and a clear understanding of what the current policy thinking was. After working in Thames House for a couple of years he finally got Paris and was on this beano in Monaco. Along with Ambassador, staff, some trade delegation chaps, he had managed to wangle the invite for himself to watch the Grand Prix from a yacht booked by the Turkish trade delegation, in the Marina.
A note had been passed to the Ambassador’s aide and as they had no one spare, here he was sat in the rain, waiting to meet a contact who presumably had a bit of inside information on trade or some such thing, while everyone else was tucking into a champagne breakfast on a luxury yacht.
He looked at his watch. His contact was late. The couple had left and the railway workers were making their way across the car park to the station. The itinerant cowboys appeared to be texting. How odd the World was. Nowhere to sleep but you had a mobile phone. The table on the other side of the door was now occupied by a black man with a large suitcase on wheels, not his contact, traveller perhaps? Not so, he clearly was the supply centre for the horde of beach hawkers than sold cheap goods on the beaches. He was approached by further Africans and goods were swapped around and money changed hands. The bag lady was looking at a mobile phone on offer from a beach trader, but there was still no sign of his contact.
Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1) Page 1