Tanker (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 1)

by Nicholas E Watkins

  Mem and his brother Akram, who was just a toddler, were not aware of these factors of course. They went to school, .played with friends and applied themselves to their studies to the extent that children do. From an early age their Father would lecture them on the importance of education. He was proud of his two sons and hoped that one day they would follow him into medicine.

  Mem would come home from school and find the downstairs of their house filled with patients from the village. His Mother had met his Father at the hospital when he was a junior doctor and where she was a nurse. When he qualified they had moved back to the village where her parents and family lived and set up the practice. Mem’s aunties, uncles, cousins all lived within half a mile, all Sunnis in a predominantly Shia area.

  Mem’s closest friend was Gabir and they used to do everything together. As he entered his Father’s waiting room he saw Gabir’s Father sitting in the waiting area. He called Mem over and reaching in his pocket handed him a sweet. ”Were you and Gabir well behaved at school today?” He withheld the sweet teasing him.

  “Of course,” he replied cheekily grabbing the sweet.

  “Come to our house tomorrow we are having a BBQ,” he called as Mem disappeared upstairs.

  “Are you eating a sweet,” asked his Mother sternly. “You will not eat your meal and you will have no teeth,” she cautioned.

  Mem remembered the family evening meals together, sat around with the delicious treats his Mother would cook up, then television before homework and bed. His Father was very strict about the homework. Of course as he become older he would try and wriggle out of the homework part and extend the television part, but on the whole he had worked hard and was doing well at school.

  Gabir’s home was a far more modest affair than Mem’s house, a single story building in the Shia part of town. There was a plot of land to the side of the house. It was more a dry patch of scrub and gravel where the open fire was spitting when Mem arrived for the BBQ. The neighbourhood as a whole was run down and the houses unkempt and Gabir’s house was no exception.

  “Welcome,” shouted Gabir, as they approached. “We have lots of food.” Iraq had lots of shortages from milk to medicines and the simple basics like washing up liquid. The US sanctions led the way in imposing restrictions of Saddam Hussein’s regime. After the attack on the Twin Trade Towers in New York the Americans seemed to be looking to take revenge and Iraq fell into the firing line. Although the attacks had been mounted by Al–Qaeda and Saddam Hussein’s ruling Ba’th party had vigorously opposed them, this did not seem to matter to the Americans or the British. The American president, George Bush and the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair were committed to the toppling of Saddam Hussein’s regime.

  “It smells so good,” said Mem and they rushed over to the BBQ. Akram held onto his hand struggling to keep up.

  Things changed suddenly. No one knew at first how much life would change but they all were hopeful for things to get better. The news was filled with propaganda extolling how the great Iraqi army would obliterate the imperialist, infidel invaders and remove them from the face of the planet. It was to be in Saddam’s words “The Mother of all Battles.” It did not quite turn out that way.

  The war started with an air strike on the Presidential Palace on twentieth of March and despite the rhetoric the War was over within months. Saddam Hussein was gone and the coalition forces had taken control. Mem remembered his Father and Mother being so happy when Saddam Hussein had been toppled. They had danced in the streets. They had embraced their friends and neighbours.

  It had not remained that way. Friends and neighbours soon turned on each other. There were no police, no military and no law and order. Militia roamed the streets and the Country became dived into differing Muslim factions. Looting, killing and bombings in the street and markets became the norm.

  Mem’s Father tried to carry on doing what he knew best, being a doctor. Helping and treating the sick but the Shia Muslims were becoming more empowered and resentment and religious fever took over. The sectarian violence spread from city to town and from town to village. Then one night it reached into Mem’s home. Mem, Akram and his Mother cowered upstairs as his Father was dragged by the mob from their home. Mem could not bear it and broke free from his Mother’s arms and ran downstairs.

  He saw his Father pushed along the street by the mob to join the men and older boys already gathered in a fearful, beaten and bloodied mass. The mob chanted, beat and spat at them as the herded them to the edge of the village.

  He hid in the darkness as the group was lined up. He could clearly see his Fathers face, his uncle, grandfather his entire extended family outlined in the moonlight. He could hardly believe it as Gabir’s Father stepped forward from the crowd, holding a gun. He was joined by others. He spat at Dr Jaffer raised his gun and shot him in the face. He remained standing for a brief moment, then to a cheer from the mob, his knees buckled and he sank slowly to the ground. Mem watched frozen as the rest of his extended family suffered the same fate. Mem would never forget the look of satisfaction on Gabir’s Fathers face as he watched the doctor die.

  “Father is dead,” he said simply with grief and dignity to his Mother, “We have to leave this place. They will not let us live if we stay.” He remembered gathering together some clothes and a blanket. He picked up the book his Father had given him. Schooling had stopped months before. It was far too dangerous to attend the Mosque. It just made them too easy to be identified by the vigilante groups, who wanted to dispose of them, His Father had tried to keep up his education and his study of the Koran. Dr Jaffer had given Mem the book only days before on history and civilisation “Gods of Ancient Egypt.” He put it in his rucksack. It was all he had left of his Father.

  They had set out with their meagre possessions his Mother carrying what she could with Akram tied in a shawl across her chest. They had been set upon before they left the village and anything of value plundered from them. Telenaz had wept as they took her jewellery the last connection she had to her husband.

  They were surrounded by the mob as they reached the edge of their village. They began to shout and abuse her physically. Like frenzied dogs the pack mentality was in control. The mob began to tear at her clothes and grabbing at her exposed naked breasts. Mem tried to fight them but was held firmly by two of the men. Gabir’s Father stepped forward and fired his gun into the air. Silence feel and they all looked at him. “Let them go,” he said. She was spared rape but that was all. Every ounce of dignity had been taken from her. Battered, bruised and with nothing they escaped.

  Mem remembered days of walking and hunger. At times so tired, so hungry it was all that could be done was to put one foot in front of the other. There was some kindness along the way but mostly indifference and cruelty. The whole country was broken, no government, no police or administration. It was a free for all where the only way to survive was to arm yourself and band together. The Americans and the British, having disbanded the mechanism of government left by Saddam had to rely on the various militia factions to keep some form of order.

  The trek to the border took weeks, Day after day of walking, hiding, hunger and more hunger and fatigue but after three months they reached Turkey. The boarder had proved very easy to cross and still proves the same today with ISIS entering more or less when they wanted. Of course ISIS were not a reality then but Iran was causing as much mayhem as they could in Iraq by supplying weapons and funds to the various factions in a bid to humiliate the Americans. From the cauldron of fragmented groups across the region ISIS would coalesce into a force to threaten all before it, with it goal of reviving the Caliphate.

  Mem would take the book out and read it everyday. It became a symbol of his Father’s love and a trigger for the memory of his life before this now permanent state of wondering and hunger. He read it. He memorised it. He saw the pictures of the Ancient Egyptian gods. He wished they existed and would punish those that had destroyed his entire family. He looked at the book an
d imagined them being called by Annubis, the jackal headed god to be judged by Thoth, with the head of Ibis, who would then weigh their souls against a feather. Those that failed and judged evil would be fed to Sobek, the crocodile god. He wanted so badly that those guilty of so many crimes against his family would be ripped to pieces and fed to the crocodiles.

  When they eventually reached Turkey there was no sympathy or respite, just more discrimination and violence, hunger and isolation. He remembered the camps where rape, theft and murder were an everyday occurrence. His Mother struggled and eventually worn down by grief and fatigue just gave up. She just stopped living. He watched her die. Mem tried the best he could to survive stealing and scavenging and bringing in what money and food he could to keep himself and Akram alive. But he was only fourteen and he could not do it on his own. The Red Crescent visited the camps and he and Akram were rescued and taken to a home for orphans.

  “Mem,” he remembered his Mother’s dying words as he stood before her clutching his brother’s tiny hand. She was shaking and tears ran down her face. “You must be strong for you are now a man.” He was far from a man but for a moment he felt strength which soon faded into despair

  The children’s home was a dingy filthy building with little food, no education and bug ridden mattresses to sleep on. Mem would be awakened at six and the local farmer would pull up in the truck. ”Come on get a move on you lazy trash.” The farmer shouted as the boys climbed up on to the back of the flatbed. The mornings were cold and their breath could be seen in the frosty air. They sat exposed on the back of the truck, the wind chilling them further.

  With numb hands and chattering teeth and hunger in their belly, they were set to work. The farmer treated the boys as animals. “Faster,” he would shout. Always faster, he was indifferent to their pain. He had paid the home for labour and he was going to get his money’s worth. The food was meagre and infrequent but the farmer made sure they just got enough to keep them working. The people in charge of the home not only benefited from the direct payment for the child labour but they could also pocket the savings they made from not feeding the boys.

  Sometimes a limousine would drive up from Istanbul and collect the children for so called parties in the houses of the rich. Mem being older was less popular than the younger boys but he had been to the parties and forced to perform sexual acts and be sodomised. He hated them all and wished Annubis would descend and gather them up. He didn’t.

  The torment was worse when they took Akram. Small with big oval eyes and soft olive skin he was a favourite, he was often taken in the limo. Mem would try and comfort him as he lay on a dirty mattress sobbing and bleeding from his anus, his small body covered in bruises and lips swollen. He just would huddle in a ball holding his stomach and clinging to Mem. Mem’s hatred grew day by day.

  Then one day the limo came and took Akram but this time it did not bring him back. The next day, Mem was frantic. He tried asking the lout in charge where his brother was but he was beaten for his pains and ignored. Akram never came back.

  Mem grew and became strong and he started killing when he was seventeen. First the sweaty pig who ran the home and then each and every one who had used and abused him and his brother. As the years passed he became very good at killing and people paid him well for his talent. He had one last one person he needed to kill for his brother. He did not know his name but he would never forget his face, the man who came to collect him in the big shinny car and never brought him back.

  Annubis, as he was now known to those who employed his services, sat in an airless room listening to the ISIS representative. “This is your target,” he said and passed an envelope across the floor.

  “Why are you employing me? Why not use your own people?” said Annubis as he picked up the envelope.

  “You do not need to know but we specifically want this individual dead. We do not have the expertise for this, bombings and military action yes but targeted assassination is not what we have the training for. This man is heavily protected at all times. He just killed someone close to me.” Nizar looked down at the picture of his brother killed, in Wood Green in London, two days ago. Nizar and his brother had both left England together and went Syria to train. Nizar had remained and had risen through the ranks of ISIS. His brother had returned to Turkey and coordinated ISIS activities in the West.

  Annubis left the room counted the money and looked at the photograph. Mehmet looked back at him. His heart raced with elation. At last he had found him, the man in the limo, now vengeance for his brother was his to take.

  Chapter 21

  The passengers streamed out of Westminster Station into the early morning rain. Elaine Wilkins joined the mass of bodies squeezing into lines to navigate the ticket barriers. She was not looking forward to her day at work, a day that had actually begun at two o’clock that morning with frantic phone calls from Government officials and heads of departments.

  As she jostled her way out of the exit she glanced up at Big Ben and decided she had time for a coffee. She stopped at the newspaper seller and picked up a copy of a poplar tabloid before entering Starbucks and ordering a double espresso. She needed something strong and black to get her started this morning. Struggling to carry her oversized briefcase, paper and coffee she managed to elbow herself onto a raised seat facing the window. The workers scurried past, umbrellas drawn all trying to get to work on time. She on the other hand really felt the opposite. She really didn’t feel like facing the shit storm that would be her day.

  At this precise moment, she felt the need for a cigarette and pondered if it had been worth the effort of quitting when it was quite obvious that with a few more days like this she would die of a stress induced heart attack. She rummaged in her coat pocket and found her reading glasses and now spectacled she turned her attention to the newspaper. She did not need to read long. There on the front page was all that she needed to know.

  “Drug battle on streets of Capital,” it read. She read on,” Eight dead in shoot out on streets of London.” It got worse comparing London to Chicago in the nineteen thirties and pointing the finger at the police and the security agencies.

  She got up, binned the paper and trudged reluctantly along Millbank to Thames House and MI5’s headquarters. The walk was longer than she remembered. She had a car at her disposal and was usually collected from home and chauffeured to her office. She had today fancied a change and felt the need to connect with reality and feel what it was like to travel on the overcrowded London transport system. She was seriously beginning to regret that decision as her feet started to throb in her expensive high heeled shoes. She loved her shoes and she indulged herself frequently in that passion. Although the shoes looked fabulous they did fail in one major aspect, that of being a shoe. They were completely unsuitable for walking in. She gave up after a hundred yards, flagged a black cab and rode the rest of the way.

  The door open and Jeff Stiles walked into her office. “Good Morning.”

  “Don’t be so fucking cheerful,” Elaine said by way of a greeting. “What happened?”

  Jeff sat down and recounted the sorry tale. He had organised the surveillance on the kebab shop in Wood Green the previous night in the hope of making contact with Tim and Yosuf, He had two men sat in a car down the street watching the shop. The plan was simple. If they were on foot they would follow them on foot or alternatively in the car, find out where they were and tell Stiles who in turn would have a chat with them and find out what was going on. Sadly things had not turned out as planned.

  Jeff had got into the car, “Anything?”

  The driver responded,” Nothing as yet., a few people buying kebabs and a few dodgy types going in and staying in.”

  The passenger continued eating a burger and sucked a large drink in a cup through a straw. “Hold that,” he shoved the burger and drink over his shoulder towards Jeff, who was sat on the back seat. For a brief moment he looked like he would be wearing a burger and showering in cola but he ma
naged to get control of the meal avoiding the consequences. He placed the half finished burger onto the seat next to him.

  He raised his binoculars to his eyes and then passed them to Jeff. “That’s them, Sir.”

  Jeff could clearly see the two characters walking down the street hauling a suit case each. He hastily grabbed the file from the passenger seat and in the process knocked the cola over the back seat and himself. He compared the photos to the two men as they came closer. “Yes that is definitely them.” They entered the takeaway and disappeared from view, “Have you got some serviettes?” he threw the meal out of the car window and began to mop his leg and the car seat.

  While they waited for them to re-emerge Jeff had ample time to moan about his sticky wet leg. The driver said,” Do you see that black van?”

  “What about it?”

  “Wasn’t it parked here when we arrived?”

  “So”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that it hasn’t picked up a parking ticket? We had to have a quiet word with the warden or we would be festooned in them by now. So why isn’t that van plastered with them?”

  “Give me the bins, I think I can read the number plate from here.” said Jeff. He focussed the lenses and managed to get half the plate in view. “Fuck CD.” Corps Diplomatic, an embassy car, it had diplomatic immunity. Most governments voluntarily complied with local laws and paid fines but some didn’t and exercised their right not to pay. “Run the plate.” He managed to figure out the rest of the registration.