The first major hurdle he had faced was physically moving the Buks. Driving them through the centre of town and up to the docks had never been on the cards. He had managed to organise the hire of two low loaders to transport them. The people were, however, used to military hardware moving down to the Russian naval base and the transporters attracted less attention than would have been expected. The fact that he could only get his hands on two loaders meant the trip had to be repeated a second time. The first hurdle was overcome, the launchers and containers containing the Grizzly missiles were dockside.
The unusual nature and shape of the cargo had, in itself, presented numerous problems. Normally to transport containers, he would merely contact his shipbroker and the matter would be handled for him. The broker would find a ship and obtain a price for taking the cargo from A to B. Transporting a complete mobile ground to air missile system four times over had presented the broker with a unique set of problems. Endless back and forth communication had taken place over health and safety and terrorist threats. Understandably, the ship owners had concerns over their ship blowing up or being attacked.
Matters had finally been resolved and he travelled to the Ukraine to ensure that it went without a hitch. Watching the tourists and people having their lunch, over looking the sea, he finally felt optimistic that the cargo would sail and arrive in Istanbul. All was aboard and the ship was about to sail. He was still concerned, but felt confident that the first stage was complete as he got up and prepared to fly to Istanbul to meet the ship on its arrival.
He would have felt a lot more concern if he had known what was transpiring in Moscow.
Lesta had just received news of a concerning nature and had managed to arrange a meeting with a contact at the Kremlin. Unlike the Crimea the rain was pouring down as he entered the lobby of the hotel.
“Volkov, it is so nice to see you,” the bureaucrat rose and shook Lesta’s hand.
Lesta sat and ordered coffee “Please tell me what the problem is, Mikael?”
He paused before responding to Lesta. He wondered how to approach the matter. He knew that the man sat before him was closely connected to the Kremlin, he needed to be careful in delivering the message, “It is a delicate matter and I say, before I commence, that it may be a matter of the left hand not knowing what the right is doing. So if you are not involved, I do hope you will not be offended?”
“You know me. I am not easily upset and it is better to have things out on the table.”
Mikael suspected that that might not be strictly the case and that Lesta and his associates had quite a reputation for bodies turning up around the place if they failed to achieve their goals. In any event he had no choice but to broach the matter.” Do you know a chap called Dmytro Dovzhenko?”
Lesta of course knew, Dovzhenko, had just a few months before, spent over a million dollars buying rocket launchers from him. The same launchers and missiles he had sold on to the Driver, “The name sounds familiar.”
“I will try and refresh your memory. Dovzhenko is, well was, a small time arms dealer emanating from the Ukraine. He started off selling bits and pieces left behind when the Soviet Republic started to fragment. He then became a contractor, used in the dismantling and disposing of surplus military hardware. He was a sort of scrap metal dealer, but scraping decaying and dangerous weapons that had been left to rot, and not cars.”
“I know of him,” said Lesta.
“You may recall that there was an incident involving the shooting down of an international airliner over the Ukraine. The incident was traced back to us, or at least to Russian missiles. The situation was very tense and confused at the time. There was a distinct possibility of all out war between the loyalist Russians in the east of the Ukraine and the Western backed rest of the Country. We began moving armaments into the Ukraine in readiness. The war failed to materialise and the West went for the usual sanctions.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me or this Dovzhenko?”
“The Crimea held a referendum and joined the Russian federation. Thinking that there may be some sort of Western response, in particular targeted air strikes on Russian held bases in the Peninsula, we moved in four mobile rocket launcher systems in readiness for a NATO or European response.”
“Seems a sensible course of action,” said Lesta.
“Of course, except that left the launchers in the Crimea, and more to the point, what can be described as the smoking gun. Sitting there is the very launcher and missiles that in effect committed the war crime of blasting a jet out of the sky, killing innocent passengers. Having denied the very existence of these weapon systems ever being deployed by us in the Ukraine, four of them sitting there, as plain as the nose on your face would be, to say the least, a bit awkward.”
Lesta was himself feeling a bit awkward, having just bought and sold the very same launchers which were currently being shipped off to Syria and very likely down the road would be used against the Russian air force. “I can see that would be difficult.”
“It would be a massive loss of face for the Government to have the non-existent missiles turning up. So that is where Dovzhenko came in. He was paid to destroy and scrap the evidence. He was paid handsomely to do this with discretion.”
Lesta’s brain was working rapidly, weighing his options. What he said in the next few minutes might have severe consequences, both financially and health wise. On the one hand, he was not overly happy at losing the money he had paid Dovzhenko for the missile launchers and the profit he would make from the Driver. On the other hand, he was not keen on pissing off the Kremlin, which would be a definite death sentence.
The bureaucrat continued. “It would appear that Mr Dovzhenko decided to take the money to destroy the evidence and then not do so, preferring instead to sell the launchers on. Sadly Mr Dovzhenko is no longer with us and had no time to even spend the money. Life is very unpredictable and tenuous. Death can take us all without warning. Don’t you agree?”
Lesta got the message loud and clear and decided to confirm his part in the affair. ”I was not aware of this and I bought the systems from Dovzhenko in good faith. In fact, I was more doing him a favour. He was struggling with the storage costs.”
“Of course, an act of selfless generosity on your part”
“Exactly so.”
“And what are you going to do, now that you are aware of the facts?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“As a good Russian and friend of the Kremlin, we would expect that these embarrassing items just disappeared”
Lesta was beginning to squirm. “That may prove a little difficult. I have sold them on you see.”
“Oh dear, that is indeed a little difficult. To whom, may I ask have you sold them?”
“To an arms dealer known as the Driver”
“Where are they now?”
“They are heading for Syria.” Lesta was now really beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I have no means of stopping them.”
There was a long pause while the bureaucrat contemplated the situation before speaking “We do, however, have the means to stop them.”
Chapter 18
The Drivers’ cargo had arrived in Turkey at the terminal in Haydarpaşa at the Southern entrance to the Bosphorus and that is where it looked like it was destined to remain.
“Why did you let me get it here if you didn’t have the paper work?” he was shouting down the phone to Adnan.
“The paper work was organised, but unfortunately our contact making the arrangements was murdered.”
“But I am fucked. I have your goods sat on the dockside and the only reason it has not been seized is that I managed to get the paper work for onward transmission to Saudi Arabia. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Ship it to the Saudis and ask them if they would ship it back so it can be stuck here again?”
Adnan could hear the desperation in the Drivers’ voice but had no solution. “I am sorry, get the cargo to Syria as agreed and
we will pay you.”
The Driver slumped to the ground on the dockside and sat staring at the activity on the quayside. He needed a miracle if he was to walk away alive from this one. The one hundred and seventy five million dollars was due to be re-paid to the Russians in under a week. The clock was ticking to his death.
He could run and hide, but they would find him in the end and it would only end one way. These were not the kind of people that let you default. The situation was hopeless. He had phoned Benedict to see if he had any suggestions. The conversation had gone badly. Faced with the loss of the twenty five million he had put into the venture, he was less than impressed that the Driver had not foreseen the possibility of a hiccup in Turkey. He had rightly accused the Driver of not being hands on enough. He should have organised the paperwork in Turkey himself rather than entrusting it to some Jihadi, as Benedict referred to Adnan.
The Driver knew that Benedict was right. He had cut corners to get the deal done, in his eagerness to get in the big time money he was now facing the consequences. Relying only on one individual, Mehmet, had always been risky. His death had been unforeseeable, but he should have insisted on a belt and braces approach, a back–up, or that he had the necessary paperwork before the cargo left Sevastopol. This was all easy with hindsight, but now, too late to be wise.
He looked up to see the trucks arriving. The four Volvo loaders lined up with the two accompanying, covered articulated vehicles. An elderly Turk got out from the lead truck and wandered over to him. The other drivers gathered in a group talking, waiting for instructions. The driver spoke English, “Call me Jazz,” he said, “are we ready to load?”
“Your English is very good?”
“That’s what you get if you live somewhere for ten years. They deported me eventually, but not before I had made enough to buy a truck when I got back and start in the haulage business,” he smiled. “So what’s up?”
“No paper work, we are stuck on the docks on bond.”
“Well you have paid for the trucks and the drivers. So either way I am a happy man. Shall I go or do you want to load?”
He was right he had paid for the trucks and the labour. ”Load them up.”
The trucks were loaded and sitting on the quayside as darkness fell. Their drivers sat around in the trucks eating or playing cards. The Driver had tried everything he knew to get the cargo out of the docks. He could neither bribe, nor talk his way out. It was an impasse and only a matter of time before customs seized the shipment.
One of the men listening to the radio in his cab, jumped from the vehicle and rushed across to the Driver and Jazz. An excited conversation followed and the whole crew ran to turn on radios.
The Driver followed Jazz to the radio, now turned up full volume. “What is it?”
“A coup, the army is trying to seize control. Parliament attacked the bridges in Istanbul, across the Bosphorus, are barricaded with tanks.”
The drivers began to run from the docks leaving the trucks unattended, “Where are they going?”
“To their families,” replied Jazz. In the end, two drivers and Jazz remained listening intently to the news reports, with Jazz periodically translating. It appeared that a faction of the army had broken away and, calling themselves The Peace at Home Council, were attempting to overthrow the President and gain control. The coup was taking place in the capital, Ankara, and Istanbul.
Chaos reigned while the President was on holiday in Marmaris, in the south of the country. He had avoided capture and was organising the counter attack. For a while it looked as if the rebels would succeed, but the balance of the army remained loyal and the President was slowly organising the counter insurgence.
Jazz’s mobile rang and was answered. The conversation seemed frenzied and almost hysterical to the Driver. Jazz was almost crying and shouting at the same time. He put the phone down.
“I must go,” he said and ran to the articulated truck and began to uncouple the cab from the trailer. The other drivers stood around confused.
“What is happening?” shouted the Driver as he physically retrained the semi hysterical Turk,
“The coup has failed and my son is trapped with his tank crew by the mob. I need to get his wife and my grandchildren and get away before they are taken.”
The Driver thought, “I have a plan, Listen we can make use of the confusion to save your son and move my missiles.”
The other crew members had fled the docks leaving Jazz and the Driver on their own. The Dock entrance was unguarded and they drove the Buk, complete with its rack of missiles, off the loader. They had removed the trampoline from the Buk exposing the vehicle in its full glory. It was an imposing piece of military hardware as it sped from the dockyard.
Jazz was constantly on the phone to his son and army buddies. His son was a Colonel and was guaranteed to die in the post coup crackdown, as were those under his command. Their only hope was to get out of Turkey. The Drivers’ skill in driving soon came into its own and he soon had the launcher trundling north to the city. Trying to come south, in a truck, were Jazz’s son and six rebels, their three wives and four children.
“They have been stopped by loyalist forces,” said an almost crying Jazz.
As they rounded a bend, they could see in the headlights a truck surrounded by a group of soldiers. The Driver stopped. “Listen to me and get a grip.” He made sure that the Turk understood and then he started the Buk and drove towards the road block
He waited in the cab while the soldiers stared open mouthed at the massive rocket launcher. Jazz began to speak to the Major in charge of the road block. The Driver noticed that there was a lot of arm waving and milling about. The young officer in charge got onto his mobile, there was more milling and arm waving. Then the truck with Jazz’s son and the other soldiers, wives and children was allowed to pass. The Driver turned the Buk and they made their way back to the dockyard.
The dockyard was unguarded as the Driver and the truck drove back to the quayside. They stopped the convoy. After a brief introduction the soldiers loaded the Buk back onto the loader. Wives and children were boarded and the convoy set off on the road to the Syrian border.
“It worked, I can hardly believe it. Thank you,” said Jazz as he drove the truck.
The soldiers were all for arresting Jazz’s son and his fellow deserters when the missile launcher had arrived. In fact they did not even know that the Turkish army owned such a missile system so their surprise has been twofold. Jazz had interrupted proceedings by thanking God that the crew had arrived to operate the launcher.
He explained that the Buk was to be moved to the border to defend the Country against possible Russian or Syrian air strikes. Their President feared that in the chaos their enemies would use the opportunity to take advantage of their weakness. He and the Driver, who had remained in the darkness of the cab of the Buk, were just mechanics and had orders to ready the launcher and had gone in search of the crew to man. It.
The soldiers blocking the road were suspicious but none was sufficiently senior to countermand a direct order, perhaps from the President making his way back to restore order. The major had phoned a superior and explained he had detained a Colonel his men and a mobile ground to air missile launcher. The General on the other end of the phone knew nothing of this capability, but again, assuming that the reason for that was the sensitive nature of it, that was understandable. He also had no desire to interfere with the air defence system of the Country and had given the go ahead for Jazz’s son and his fellow rebels to be let go.
The Driver had done it. He was driving his cargo to Syria. It had taken a failed coup d’etat, a deported Turk, his son and half a dozen deserters, their wives and children, but he was on his way.
Chapter 19
The road to the border between Turkey and Syria was closed and the Drivers convoy came to a halt. The Lorry Park was crammed with vehicles and he and his motley mix of deserters, wives and children settled down to a make shift meal. The
attempted coup had failed and the country was completely under control and the arrests had begun. The leaders of the coup were first, but the government used the failed attempt to crack down on all possible opposition to its regime. Colleges were closed, teachers arrested and, for some unknown reason, so were the vast majority of judges.
The border was chaos with no one clear as to what was happening. On the Syrian side there was a steady stream of refuges fleeing the conflict, hoping for a better life further west. On the Turkish side there was a sea of humanitarian aid from the various countries in Europe. Some were vast, twenty or thirty trucks, others just consisted of a local effort of just one small lorry.
The Driver knew that he could not stay in this impasse situation but could see no immediate way of crossing into Syria. The soldiers had discarded their uniforms in an attempt to avoid capture but, lacking documentation, their prospects of escaping the purge taking place seemed remote.
An English voice could be heard in the hubbub of the humanity, vehicles crowded together waiting to cross. “Two of the trucks for fuck sake! Don’t we have enough problems stuck in this shit hole?”
He wandered in the direction of the raised voices out of curiosity to see a convoy plastered in red crosses. The problem was immediately apparent. One truck, looking like it had been built when Noah was riding the flood, had its bonnet raised and steam issuing from the radiator. The other, not much of an earlier vintage, had a total collapse of the rear suspension.
“That seems well and truly buggered,” said the Driver to the angry Englishman..
“That’s a bleeding understatement. I can’t fucking believe it, I get all this way and then the bloody things give up on me, just as we are about to get into Syria. He introduced himself as Dave Bennet, London cabby. “How the fuck am I going to get new trucks in this shit hole?” he asked rhetorically.
Dealer (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 3) Page 7
