“When are they due?” he asked.
“It could be an hour, it could be a few days. It is the nature of the process. It is not like popping to the local shops,” replied Adnan.
The rebellion in Syria started in 2011 following the success of the so-called Arab spring that saw regime changes in Libya and Egypt. ISIS, by the middle of 2014 had become the main anti-government force. By 2015 Qatar, Saudi Arabia and Turkey were openly backing the various groups making up, what they called, the Army of Conquest. ISIS was now in control of a third of Syrian territory and most of its oil and gas production.
Nizar sat in the truck cab with Adnan and waited. In the back of the flat bed sat six further armed ISIS fighters. The food and basic supplies were running well but he decided that he should check out the situation and get to know for himself the nuts and bolts of the supply process. The supply lines were virtually immune from air attack running through Turkey, which being part of NATO could not be attacked by the opposition forces. The Turks defended their air space vigorously and had even shot down a Russian fighter that had encroached. The trade routes also extended outwards southwest where friends in West Jordan and Saudi Arabia aided them and extended the logistics network that covered Eastern Europe and Africa.
Nizar was, however, struggling with the supply of arms. In 2011, weapons left over in from NATO’s intervention in Libya were sent to Turkey and then ended up in Syria. The CIA had virtually set up an arms depot in the annex to the US Consulate in Benghazi to supply arms to Syrian Rebels, a lot of these weapons ended up with ISIS. Recently it had become increasingly difficult to keep his army fully equipped. Whilst they had recycled mortars, light arms which had been taken from opposing forces, ammunition, to feed the guns was a constant headache.
So far the Russian air strikes had been firmly targeted to help the President, Bashar al-Assad, to overcome the immediate threat to his regime and had not had a much impact on ISIS activity, but Nizar knew that it was only a matter of time until international pressure changed all that. He wanted to be ready and he knew that he needed to re-equip.
Adnan interrupted his thoughts. “They come.”
Nizar looked up to see the convoy arrive. Thirty articulated trucks just rolled over the border unhindered. Turkey’s ambiguous political stance and the greed of the highest officials to the lowest border guards made it all so easy.
Adnan jumped out of the Toyota pick-up and Nizar followed. The Drivers of the trucks alighted and made their way to a coach that would take them back home to Turkey. The opposite process was taking place on this side of the border. The ISIS Drivers disembarked from the coach, parked two hundred metres from the Toyota and made their way to the now vacant cabs of the articulated trucks. They would take over the driving for the Syrian leg of the journey.
Adnan approached the two men that had accompanied the convoy in the air conditioned Mercedes. Nizar followed and observed. The process was simple. A tablet was produced and the internet connection made. The transfer of funds over, the parties would return to their vehicles and set off.
“That is all there is to it,” said Adnan as they drove back into Syria.
“We have beans and rice but we need guns and ammunition. That is our problem. It is getting harder to source the weapons we need to keep the momentum going.”
“We are doing our best but the international pressure is building. Even the British are being put under pressure over their arms supplies to the Saudis. The old sources like Croatia are just simply running out of armaments to sell. It is hard.”
“There are other sources,” said Nizar.
“There are and there are other conflicts that the arms dealers can make their profits from that they do not run up against the CIA. The US has more sympathy for these other causes and do not conflict with American interests. Given the choice of making an easy buck in Latin America or Africa, why would you put yourself in the CIA firing line?”
“I have had all the commanders’ reports assed and given to me. It is clear we need re-supplying on a vast scale. It cannot go on as it is. The Russians will turn their forces on us eventually. Sooner or later they will work with the US. They need to. At the moment their interest lies historically with supporting Assad ,so they are attacking the rebels forces that are closest to overthrowing him, but that will change. They need to improve relations with the West and they will turn on us in their own self interest. We need to be ready.”
“There is a man. They call him The Driver. He worked for a major player who has left the arms dealing business.”
“Can he get what we want?”
There was a moments silence as they bounced along the road at the rear of the long convoy. Adnan considered what he knew of this man. The truth was he knew very little. As head of procurement for ISIS in Syria he knew how vulnerable they could be to CIA stings. Going to a new source was risky. If this Driver was a CIA front man then they could lose money and personnel and at the same time hand a lot of valuable information to the opposition. He knew Nizar was under a lot of pressure to take firm control of the situation. The constant targeted attack on the leading figures by drones and strikes were having the desired effect on the command on the ground. The truth has always been the same, an army is only as good as its supply lines and those supply lines were beginning to creak.
“We have no choice. We need to make contact. In fact, I need to make contact. There is too much at stake and too much money involved, just to leave the negotiations to an intermediary,” replied Adnan.
He knew Adnan was right, but he could not afford to lose him to a CIA sting. “Must you negotiate personally?”
“I will contact the Driver.” There was no more to be said as they drove deeper into ISIS held territory.
Chapter 4
Elaine Wilkins had settled quite comfortably into her role as head of MI5, which is more than could be said for the latest pair of shoes she was wearing. She was sat in the River Room in the Savoy Hotel with her deputy Jeff Stiles. They had managed to get a window seat overlooking the Thames. The air was damp and there was a slight mist forming in the fine drizzle that fell on London.
“How did you manage to get a table at such short notice?” asked Jeff.
“I didn’t. I am supposed to be having lunch with the Home Secretary, his office booked it. He cancelled, so I thought, what the hell, let’s treat ourselves anyway.”
“Why would that mean bugger be buying you lunch?”
“What, you don’t think I warrant a free scoff on MP’s expenses?” She smiled. “You’re right, though there is no such thing as a free lunch. I am guessing it is to do with this Select Committee looking into arms sales to the Saudis.”
“He was business trade and what not minister, before he got the Home Secretary job wasn’t he? When is he due to appear?”
“Some time next week. It is a tricky one really. The Saudis are big spenders and the arms manufacturers need the business,” said Elaine.
“Only problem is that the Saudis seem to be funding and supplying arms to Syria and the Yemen, supporting Al-Qaeda and ISIS. We just keep granting “End User Certificates” knowing that the arms are being used to kill women, children and the civilian population all over the Middle East.” Manufacturers, or anyone exporting arms, are subject to the Export Control Organisation rules that require them to provide information as to the final destinations of the weapons and an assessment of risk of the arms falling into the wrong hands at the licensing stage.
“I think the inquiry has pretty much noticed that no export licenses have ever been turned down.”
“Just goes to show what good guys the arms dealers’ are.” said Jeff.
“Or just how skewed the system is in favour of the exporters.”
“What’s that got to do with us?” he said.
The waiter interrupted their conversation with Elaine’s Caesar salad. They sat in silence as the waiter went through his bit of theatre preparing the salad at the table. Jeff had to admit,
watching the waiter going through the ritual of making the dressing and delicately arranging the leaves on the plate did somehow make you feel as if your money had been well spent on, essentially, a bit of lettuce, dressing and a few bits of fried bread. Jeff had avoided the healthy eating option and had gone for lamb, cooked in various ways and vegetables.
“Yours looks nice,” said Stiles with little sincerity.
“It’s an age thing, you’ll get old one day and your belly will start to overtake your chest.”
“Getting back to the dear old Minister, what does he want from you?”
“Well, you know in the Falklands war, some of the weapons we sold abroad were used against us in the conflict? He is trying to head off the Committee at the pass and avoid, at least, the accusation that exported arms have ended up in the hands of Jihadis who are committing acts of terrorism in Europe or here.”
“And are they?”
“You should know,” she said
“Well they are of course, but I meant what is the position we are adopting?”
“Tricky isn’t it? It is a bit of the Donald Rumsfeld logic, how did it go?
Jeff took out his mobile phone and read” There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But, there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.” He laughed.
“Exactly our position,” said Elaine,
“In other words you were going to give him a, we suspect and know but cannot prove it, answer.”
“Well it does not pay to hang the Hone Secretary out to dry. It cuts both ways, we will fuck up at some stage and we need friends at Westminster.”
“Doesn’t politics just give you a warm glow of satisfaction? Anyway enough of that, how’s the family?”
“My husband’s no better.”
“I am sorry”
“Don’t be. I have mentally prepared myself for the inevitable. My son is doing well and prospering in business land making money. Something we won’t do in this job. How is yours?”
“They are well thank you.” He replied as the waiter cleared the plates. “There is one small point on security that might be pertinent to your brief to the Minister. I am getting reports that ISIS or Al Qaeda fighters in Syria are in the market for a big buy of arms. We and the US are supplying the rebels, who are not allied to ISIS, with hardware, but have put pressure on them to source their own.”
“What was the source?”
“GCHQ have picked up traffic on the web showing they are looking for brokers and dealers in the UK. Someone is operating here but seems to keep just off the radar.” GCHQ is the Government’s eyes and ears and is situated just outside of Cheltenham, constantly monitoring all forms of communication. It is responsible to the Secretary of State for the British and Commonwealth and is not part of the Foreign Office as such.
“More of an MI6 problem really,” said Elaine.
“”True, but I thought I would liaise with Special Branch and just do a bit of digging. It does no harm to know who is operating on our patch and might just lead us to some links to potential terrorists based here.”
“We have scarce resources and following arms deals for export does not seem a good use of what we have. Does it?”
“You know me, I am nosey and like to keep my ear to the ground.”
“On this occasion you’ll just have to curb your natural curiosity. Let’s order a taxi, I think I may have problems making the entrance lobby in these shoes.”
Chapter 5
The bus terminal in Istanbul was packed. The three girls were struggling to force their way through the unruly crowd that pushed and shoved their way onto the departing coaches. The crowd did not form orderly queues to board but mobbed each bus. It was a totally alien environment to their daily lives in Walsall, near Birmingham in England. They had set out in the early hours of the previous day from their home town. The Big Red Bus had delivered them at Victoria in London. They had taken the Gatwick express to the Airport and spent an uncomfortable night sleeping there, before catching the early morning flight to Turkey.
None of the girls had been abroad before, apart from a school trip to France. Mariam and Haniya were fifteen and in the same class at their local faith school. Aleena was Mariam’s younger sister by a year. Mariam had been the prime mover behind this trip. Eighteen months ago she had begun exploring her sense of self and her faith. In a very short time she found herself talking to a young woman, called Fatin, on an Islamic site. Over a period of months their friendship grew and Fatin told Mariam the joy of living as a true Muslim. She related to her how she had found happiness and contentment in her marriage to true Muslim man. She also described how handsome and brave he was. How he fought for his beliefs, a true hero.
As time progressed, their conversation, like their friendship became more intimate. Fatin would send her tracks, commentaries on the Qur’an, showing the true meaning of the Holy Book. How life could be idyllic if she lived life as the Prophet described it. Soon, Mariam began to see how the West was corrupting the true way of life and how they were waging war against Islam.
She began talking to her sister Aleena and her best friend Haniya. At first it was like having a secret that they shared, almost an adventure game. Soon they were all in regular contact with Fatin and her words and vision of Islam became more and more beguiling to the girls.
A sexual tension grew in the girls, fed by Fatin with her visions of strong handsome warriors fighting for their God, These young men became heroes to the girls. The picture was painted of them fighting against the evil forces of the West, defending the poor and the oppressed and forging a path of freedom for their downtrodden brothers and sisters. It was a romantic picture of the life and aims of the Jihadis in Syria.
Gradually, Fatin turned the conversation to the stoicism and lonely devoted life of these heroes. She relayed how she was a true obedient wife to one such fighter. She lived in paradise as a true Muslim without the defilement and the corruption that was imposed by the West. She described her life of pure bliss living as a devoted and obedient wife to a great fighter.
The seduction was complete, the instructions as to how to save money, how to use their parent’s credit card to buy plane tickets and what to pack for the trip came in the emails. The pressure built and the young girls, fully immersed in the fantasy, set off to Syria. They were eager, excited in the anticipation of meeting their brave, handsome new husbands.
The coach trip across from Istanbul to the Syrian border was, in truth, the worst thing the three had experienced in their lives. Life in their comfortable homes in England had not prepared them for the rigours of Turkish travel. They had never encountered the Arab style toilet with two raised foot shaped pads to stand on and a hole to defecate in. Squatting and relieving themselves was almost impossible for them, not having the necessary flexibility in their ankle joints, having been used to sitting on a western style toilet all their lives. The bucket and sponge had further added to their discomfort. The food was alien and all three had stomach bugs, making their trips to the alien toilets more frequent.
They stepped from the bus dehydrated with badly upset stomachs, exhausted and weak. The crossing was manned and documents were being inspected. They looked at each other and realised they stood out from the crowd, the guards were already glancing suspiciously in their direction long before it was their turn to present their papers.
Unknown to the three back in the UK, their parents had already raised the alarm. The police had already cracked their emails and knew they were headed for Turkey. The press had the story and their whole lives were being microscopically examined. They did not know it, but they were on the run. They were now part of a game, political and ideological they had no real understanding of.
In an instant they were seized by the Turkish border guards and led away to a small locked room where they were left while phone calls were made. Aleena began
to sob as the whole experience translated from a romantic fantasy into the reality of sitting tired, hungry and unwell in a stifling small room.
Adnan, the second in command to the new ISIS leader Nizar, was the first to get a call. He was waiting across the border for their arrival. The guards were in regular contact with the fighters in Syria. Not friends, but grateful of the income the smuggling activities brought the them
The next recipient of a call was Mehmet, the deputy head of Turkish security. Mehmet had been educated in the West and with his connections to the ruling elites he had risen rapidly in his post. He was a feared man. To cross him was a very bad thing to do. His sophisticated western veneer when scratched revealed a totally ruthless man who was totally self serving. He would do what it takes to serve himself and his country. He would murder, torture, prostitute women and children. He was a man with no moral compass and used his position to satisfy his desires without concern for the victims. Highly intelligent, he was a sociopath and never hesitated in following his baser instincts with no remorse. He was a very dangerous individual who served his masters exceedingly well.
The pressure was on Turkey to find and return the girls to the UK and Mehmet knew this. On the other hand, there were other considerations to be taken into account, not least the large bribe he had just been offered by Adnan to let the girls cross into Syria. There was a working relationship and common interest as well as conflict between Turkey and the various groups that operated in Syria. The strange situation had developed into such a state of confusion that one ISIS faction could be carrying out suicide bombings in Turkey while the Turks would be lending air, or even ground support to another ISIS faction in fighting the Kurds. The, your enemy is my enemy therefore you are my friend, logic played out in the region daily.
“Adnan its Mehmet” he called the Jihadi. “I am not sure about this one. There is a lot of flack. It might well just be easier to send the three slags back home?”
Dealer (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 3) Page 2
