Dealer (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 3)

by Nicholas E Watkins

  “We have worked hard on this. The fact that it is high profile is what we wanted. It draws attention to the Arab cause. It inspires other Muslims to join us. It attacks them in the own homes, the brothers, sisters and children are all potential fighters for God,” said Adnan.

  “Yeah I know all that but you will forgive me if I don’t share your vision of paradise and deal with the reality of Turkish interests at home and abroad.”

  “Three thousand dollars”

  “Six”

  “Five,” said Adnan.

  Mehmet paused, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  A half an hour later the border post received a phone call.”

  “Go,” said the guard and pushed the girls across the border on foot, the bus having left hours before.

  They were near collapse when Adnan spotted them. He waived to the waiting car from the truck where he had been seated observing. Two young men approached the girls and led them to the vehicle and drove off. Adnan drove in the opposite direction into Turkey, he had an arms shipment to sort and these girls had already cost him too much time and effort.

  Chapter 6

  Volkov Lesta sat back in his chair at the Mikhailovsky Theatre in St Petersburg. Tonights performance was Tosca and he was not looking forward to it. He considered himself more of a practical person than a lover of the arts. The prospect of sitting through a couple of hours of some women wailing about her lover then flinging herself off the battlements when he gets himself hung did not appeal at all. Dmytro Dovzhenko did however find it appealing and had specifically requested his usual visit to the theatre when meeting up with Lesta.

  Lesta had known Dovzhenko since before the break up of the Soviet Union and they had owned a little black market business together, when times had been hard. Lesta’s KGB connection had allowed Dovzhenko to carry on doing his dodgy business dealings without fear of police intervention. It had been beneficial to both of them in the lean times.

  As Dovzhenko sat back to enjoy the opera, Lesta allowed his mind to drift onto to the matter in hand. He knew that Dovzhenko had gotton himself into a tight spot. The Ukraine had, over the past few years, been engaged in a civil war with large parts of the population with ethnic ties to Russia wanting closer integration with the Motherland and the remainder wanting to move towards the West. Russia was supporting the one and the West financing the other. As part of the conflict, Russia had seized back the Crimean Peninsula and the West, and in Particular the United States, had imposed sanctions, the very sanctions that he, Yerik and Nikhil were getting round with their joint enterprise in the Baltic bank. Dovzhenko did not have the problem of laundering his money. In fact his problem was the opposite in that he had no money.

  Dovzhenko was Ukrainian and after the break up had found himself sitting on the other side of the border. There were opportunities to be had, one of the most profitable was the military hardware left over in the former Soviet states. The Soviet Union had abandoned literally tons of arms when the split had come and the so called Cold War finished. Dovzhenko with his connections to Lesta and with some funding had started up in the arms business. He picked up arms cheaply, or just helped himself in some cases, where the former storage facilities had just been left unguarded in the chaos immediately following the Russians departure from their former territories.

  The trade had been good and the profits vast. He and Lesta had become immensely wealthy. Lesta had diversified into the opportunities that appeared in Russia itself and increased his fortune in the timber industry. Dovzhenko had stuck with what he knew, arms dealing. He had seen the Russian Ukrainian conflict as a massive opportunity and went on an arms buying spree in anticipation. It did not pan out as he expected and now he had vast stockpiles and no way of shifting them.

  Lesta knew that his old friend would be looking to borrow from him, or more precisely the Baltic Bank. Nikhil, Yerik and he had been busy with their new bank. They were now making fortunes laundering money for Oligarchs and Dictators across the Globe and making loans at high rates of interest to fund all kinds of illicit activity, from drug dealing and people trafficking to arms dealing.

  The chairs at the Mikhailovsky Theatre, which admittedly were very attractive, were not however conducive to comfort and Lesta was feeling his bum going numb. The chairs were more like carvers than theatre seats and he felt that this was definitely a case of style over substance. They had the interval and had a few shots of vodka. Now, he wanted a pee and to stretch his legs. He focused back on the action. Tosca had just visited her lover in the slammer and he was about to get the chop. Not long now, he thought, a bit more caterwauling and she would sling herself off the walls. It was a relief when they stood up to applaud and the circulation returned to his neither regions.

  Back in the Imperial Suite at the Hermitage Museum Hotel the vodka was opened and the food was on the table. Lesta and Dovzhenko settled down to eat supper. The eating phase was short but the vodka stage continued as they settled in round the coffee table.

  “Where are we are at?” said Lesta.

  “Volkov, we have known each other for many years.”

  “I know that Dmytro, but we both know that this is not just a social call.”

  Lesta continued. “No it isn’t but I need help. So who else should I come to? I am sure you know I have too much stock and not enough buyers. It is bleeding me dry, storage costs, security, warehousing, light and heat. Money and more money.”

  “You need a good conflict, my friend.”

  “I thought I had one in my home country, but you Russians and the Americans are supplying both sides direct for free and have cut out the middleman.”

  “Annoying of them and both, such good capitalists, who would have thought it?” joked Lesta.

  Dovzhenko allowed himself a smile and took another swig of vodka before continuing,” Five million.”

  Lesta sat and studied his old friend. It was a small amount in terms of the arms trade. He knew that Dovzhenko had nearly three hundred million dollars worth of weaponry ready to be shipped. He also knew that if the loan went into default that he couldn’t just turn up with a repossession order and sell the guns off at the local auction. He sat quietly and sipped his vodka.

  “Where and when will you be able to repay? Do you have a buyer?”

  It was clear from the expression on Dovzhenko’s face that he did not. He shrugged his shoulders and sat quietly. It was clear to Lesta that this was a man out of options.

  “You know that I would be mad to lend you this money. Tell me how much are you in for?” Lesta knew the answer already but wanted to know that Dovzhenko would tell him the truth.

  “Ninety five million and if you advance the five then a round hundred million”

  He was being truthful. The silence hung between them. It was not a negotiating ploy on Lesta’s part. He was genuinely unsure if he wanted to be involved, after all he was making big bucks letting the Chinese chop down tress and hauling them off without lifting a finger and his share of the money laundering, using the dodgy Baltic Bank and its subsidiaries, was bringing in goodly amount. Greed got the better of him, unsurprisingly.

  “I will give you one hundred and ten million for the lot.”

  Dovzhenko’s jaw nearly hit the floor as the offer sank in. He went through a range of emotions from shock to anger ending with a nervous laugh. “You are joking of course? They are worth five times that.”

  “Only if you can find a buyer and only if you can find a buyer fast enough. Do you have a buyer?”

  He knew he didn’t have a buyer and if he did not have the five million within a few days, he knew it would be in no position to find one as the people in the arms trade were not the sort of people to let you run up debts. Either you paid up or you became a paid up member of the graveyard club. “One hundred and fifty”

  Lesta knew he had him. “One hundred million, my next offer will be lower”

  “I’ll take the one hundred and ten”

  Lesta let hi
s friend sweat. “OK, one hundred and ten million. Now let’s drink to it.”

  They did drink to it and they carried on drinking vodka throughout the night. They passed out on the chairs and woke with raging thirsts and even more raging headaches. It was like being young again, only the hangovers were worse and Lesta felt like his liver wanted to leave his body and go on holiday. Finally, they sobered up enough to walk and continue the rest of their day.

  Dovzhenko stood in the doorway and asked the question. “Do you have a buyer?”

  “I think I may well do,” smiled Lesta.

  “You fucking smug bastard, you never change,” was Dovzhenko’s parting comment as he closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 7

  It was the Sunday morning of the race and the despite the rain the streets of Monaco were filled with race goers. It was the day of the Grand Prix. The crowds moved around the town, passing the stalls that lined the side roads and the approach to the seating erected around the track.

  The Jimmy, the Driver could not miss such an event and his mentor, and former boss Hambros Benedict, had invited him. Having retired from the arms broking business, he had bought a multi million Euro apartment over looking the course. From his balcony he had the perfect view of the circuit, where the formula one cars powered up the hill, before descending the gradient to the harbour.

  The Driver had arrived that morning via helicopter from Nice Airport. He was greeted warmly by Benedict as he entered the apartment. Though slightly garish, the furnishings were a mix a contemporary with what the Driver assumed to be very expensive antique statement pieces.

  “The apartment is amazing,” he said to Benedict.

  “My wife, she has the eye and designed the whole place herself.”

  “How is ..?”

  “Mimi,” he finished the sentence, “she is fine and lively as ever.”

  There was a slight awkward pause and the Driver moved towards the balcony. Benedict pressed a button on the remote he had picked up from the coffee table and the blinds slowly ascended, allowing the grey morning light to filter into the room. The Driver slide the windows open and stepped out onto the large terrace. Another button was pressed on the remote and the sun canopy unfurled itself and acted as an umbrella. The rain had just increased in intensity and the view from the terrace towards the harbour was obscured by the haze.

  “Not the best day for a Grand Prix and not the easiest circuit in the wet,” he observed.

  “Hamilton needs the win and he is good in the rain. I think he has the edge over Roseburg in these conditions but they are both so good it will be close,” said Benedict. They walked back inside and moved to the dining room. A young man appeared and poured the coffee. The table was laid with cereal, fruit and croissants. They sat. “Would you prefer a cooked breakfast?”

  “No I am fine. I ate on the plane, sort of.”

  “It is nice to see you again,” said Benedict warmly. They had grown close over the years in the high pressure environment of the arms trade. A kind of affection had grown between them over that time, a mixture of trust and paternal feelings on Benedict’s part. With the loss of his wife and daughter some of that affection had been transferred to the Driver.

  There was a noise from another part of the apartment and the door opened. Mimi stepped into the dining room. “Hi, nice to see you again,” she said to the Driver as she bent over to kiss Benedict.

  She was wearing a completely see through wrap made of the most diaphanous, translucent fabric the Driver had ever seen. He could not fail to be impressed with her body. She was Pilipino in origin and her beauty was undeniable, she made sure she displayed as much of it as she could for men to admire. As she leaned forward to kiss her husband her breasts hung away from her body and the Driver could see the dark raised nipples revealed as the wrap gaped.

  The young man entered and poured coffee. The wrap was beginning to unwrap and one of her breasts was fully exposed. She made no attempt to cover it as the young mans eyes openly lingered on her. The Driver watched Benedict and saw that he was watching the reaction from the waiter. He clearly enjoyed his wife’s exhibitionism.

  “I am excited about the party tonight,” she said to her husband, “it has been a while since I have had some real fun.” Turning to the Driver she asked. “Will you be here?”

  “Of course he will. He is here for the weekend.”

  She turned and looked again at the Driver. It was a provocative look. She continued to question her husband. “Who is coming?”

  “Lots of old friends, Jill and Marie, with their husbands of course and lots of young men, some you haven’t met,” he said.

  “Lots?”

  “Lots,” he confirmed. “I need to have a quite word with our friend here in private, so you organize lunch with Chef while we talk a little business.”

  The Driver was puzzled by the conversation Benedict had with Mimi. “Are you married?” he asked as they moved into the office.

  “Spur of the moment thing. I am getting old and so, why not, live out a few fantasies,” he smiled.

  “Congratulations”

  “Thank you. Now, are you still in the business?”

  “You would be forgiven in thinking I had retired but I am still working. It is just that the traditional markets are not there. Latin America has quietened down and the Chinese are catering to Africa,” said the Driver.

  “There is no shortage of demand in the Middle East, Iraq and Syria.”

  “It was never our area and I just don’t have the contacts.”

  “Well someone is looking to make contact and has been asking about you. An Arab chap called Adnan. Heard of him?”

  “Not a dicky, who is he?”

  “To be honest I haven’t that much interest these days but he is with one of the factions fighting against Al-Assad in Syria. When I say ISIS it could be Al Qaeda, but now of course they claim to be unconnected and merely freedom fighters hoping to get support from the Americans. The US isn’t having any of it and won’t arm them. So they are out in the market place looking to acquire quite a lot of hardware.”

  “Not the best idea to go head to head with the Americans though.”

  “That is true of course, but it is also true that if you do and succeed than there is big money to be had.”

  “How large?” Since his ill fated expedition to Argentina and the Dakar rally the Driver had been mostly inactive. The loss of his co-Driver and the deaths of the spectators had left him with a decline in confidence. He sold weapons, but in truth had never been close to their actuall use. It was a business transaction and remote. The Driver had learnt one thing from the experience and that was that he was a coward. Like all cowards he knew that he would do anything if push came to shove to save his own neck.

  “Close to three million dollars worth of ammo, ground to air, rifles, RPGs and machine guns. All small stuff, but a lot of it.”

  “Shame they don’t want a tank or two, less to move about and much higher value.”

  “They have no air cover, anything big would be obliterated by Assad, the Yanks and its allies, or even the Russians if they deicide to change policy and hit ISIS as well as the direct opposition to the President.”

  “How do I meet him, this Adnan?”

  “He will be at the party tonight.”

  The rain cleared up just after the start of the race, they had an amazing view, drinking champagne and sitting on the terrace. Their nostrils were filed with the smell of high octane fuel and their ears deafened by the raw power of the Formula One car engines. The race had all the thrills that Monaco can bring to the event. Verstappen crashing at the start, safety cars, rain and virtual safety cars were all part of the spectacle that day. Hamilton won the race and the Driver could only think back to his go-karting days and dream of what might have been.

  Chapter 8

  The three girls Mariam, her younger sister Aleena and Haniya had been travelling for days. It was hard for them to reconcile the reality o
f the situation in Syria, with the romantic picture they had been encouraged to form in their minds by the woman they knew as Fatin. They were in the back of a dusty bouncing truck. Their western clothes had been taken and swapped for traditional dress. Only their eyes were visible as the truck drove past bombed, collapsed buildings and craters in the road. They were very young and very afraid.

  “When do we meet Fatin?” Mariam had asked ask when they boarded the truck, just after they had crossed the border from Turkey.

  The men had just laughed and responded vaguely that it would be soon. The subject was ignored from there on in as were most of the questions posed by the three girls. Mariam clung to the vision she had created in Walsall, whereas her sister and Haniya were experiencing severe doubts as to their fate. The reality was a far cry from the picture Mariam had painted.

  Haniya’s period had started a day ago. She had gone to her backpack to recover the tampons she needed. It was at that point that the situation they had put themselves in was rammed home. The young man who had done most of the driving had observed her, He was dressed in the obligatory battle fatigues and was never far from his automatic rifle. The first thing the girls had become aware of was how badly their two hosts stank. They made no attempt at personal hygiene and seemed immune to the stink of their mutual body odour. The Driver was the worst by far. Small in stature with bandy legs, he was far removed from the Jihadi heroes the girls had seen on the internet and he stank.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted as he got to his feet and walked towards Haniya.

  She showed him the box of tampons. “It is my time of the month.”

  He snatched them from her hand and threw them into the ditch that ran along side the road. “Stinking western whore,” he ranted.

  The other man stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on the Driver’s shoulder. “Forgive my friend he comes from a very strict background where the girls are kept intact. Their grandmothers usually attend to these things when they are eight or nine,” he led his friend away.