Sword of Allah

by David Rollins

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Matheson. He’d been watching the chase, helping the boarding crew get kitted up, waiting for the summons to the bridge for a good fifteen minutes. He enjoyed firing the Browning, the power of it never failed to amaze him. Matheson stepped out of the bridge onto the port wing and into the salt-loaded twenty-five-knot wind generated by the Arunta’s passage. He fitted the earplugs and slipped on the anti-burn balaclava and gloves, followed by the Kevlar helmet. The Browning .50 cal heavy machine gun was locked in place on its gimbals, the cover removed and folded. Being the gunner of the watch, Matheson had checked this weapon, so he already knew that the gun was serviceable, well oiled and the barrel clean and clear. Nevertheless, he quickly gave it another once-over, removing its red-flagged safety pins as he went. Matheson unlocked the gimbals and checked that the weapon’s movement was full and free. ‘Ready, sir,’ he said to Briggs, who had joined him on the wing.

  The executive officer nodded and stepped back onto the bridge. The Ocean Trader now loomed large in the captain’s binoculars. Into his boom mic Briggs said, ‘Captain, gunner of the watch is ready. Operations also have a firing solution with the one-twenty-seven.’

  ‘We getting any compliance from the Trader, X?’

  ‘Negative, sir. Still proclaiming innocence. Tractor and irrigation parts, apparently.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said the captain to himself. There was something that just didn’t add up about this chase, something more than the obvious.

  ‘Sir,’ said Briggs, ‘operations ask if we want fish tonight?’

  ‘Pardon, X?’

  ‘Have a listen to this, sir. It’ll make your day. Channel twenty-seven.’

  Drummond touched his command screen to change the communication channel on his phones.

  ‘I have lovely peesh! You love peesh! You buy from me! Very good!’ The man was yelling into his microphone in order to be heard over the unsilenced diesel chugging away beneath him. ‘You buy, you buy!’

  ‘It’s the fishing boat, sir,’ said Briggs.

  ‘Great timing,’ said Drummond. It happened occasionally, or rather, used to happen. The locals would sell their catch to the allied warships on Gulf duty, and then one blew itself up while alongside a British navy supply ship in port – an oiler loaded with diesel that went straight to the bottom with most of its hands. Everyone had wised up since. Under the brilliant sky, steaming on a perfect blue ocean, it was easy to forget sometimes that they were fighting World War III, a different kind of war that didn’t distinguish between soldier and civilian, fought out with increasing brutality and guile across the globe.

  The Ocean Trader’s master, a Pakistani, had his binoculars trained on the warship now steering a parallel course off his starboard stern. It’d been closing at a fifteen-degree angle. The course change, along with the final warnings over the radio, could only mean one thing. He shifted the view to take in the fishing boat. It would be touch and go, he thought. ‘Give us more speed,’ he said through the intercom to the ship’s engineer.

  ‘That’s it. I’m very sorry to tell you, but we’re going as fast as we can,’ said the engineer, who also happened to be the master’s brother-in-law. It wasn’t his fault that the tanker’s massive engines were long past their use-by date.

  ‘Well…do what you can,’ said the master.

  Briggs spoke briefly to Drummond through his mic and then nodded at Matheson. The gunner of the watch pulled back the Browning’s bolt, arming it, and sighted the barrel on a point roughly seventy metres ahead of the Ocean Trader’s bow. He squeezed the trigger and the Browning bucked. A burst of tracer spat from the weapon’s muzzle.

  The master brought the binoculars back to his eyes in time to see the muzzle flashes from the warship’s bridge. Moments later, red tracer arced through the air well ahead of his bow. If this went on, the warship would get serious and, rather than a machine gun, the large gun on its bow would be employed. If that were to happen, he would probably lose his life, as would his crew. The Americans and their allies were becoming increasingly impatient these days. His ship would burn for days if it didn’t sink, leaking a million barrels of oil into these beautiful, deadly waters. ‘Have I been paid to die?’ the master asked himself aloud. No, I have not. Indeed, there were now two million American dollars in a Cayman Islands bank account waiting for him. The fishing boat was out of harm’s way and his job was done. ‘Give us full astern,’ he said distractedly into the intercom, keeping the binoculars trained on the warship.

  ‘Full ahead and now full astern,’ muttered the engineer. It was likely the engines wouldn’t survive this treatment, but the ship’s master knew what he was doing, didn’t he? Besides, the engineer had been promised a huge bonus just to make the voyage, so why argue? He made the appropriate adjustments on the engine’s control panel and the enormous cylinders wheezed to a stop momentarily before reversing. There was a sickening shudder through the thick steel decking under his feet. Yes, he thought to himself, this would be the Trader’s last voyage.

  Commander Drummond saw the white water swirling under the tanker’s stern as its monstrous propellers began making turns in reverse. He was relieved that its master had finally come to his senses. ‘Okay. Trader has pulled over, X. Let’s go breathalyse her, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Briggs.

  ‘Carry on, X,’ said Drummond, glasses still trained on the tanker, way coming off it quickly now. What’s bugging me about this?

  The fisherman swept the tanker and then the warship with his old brass telescope, the one that had belonged to his father and his father’s father. The ploy had worked as they said it would. A tanker obviously full of illegal oil and claiming to be a cargo vessel? It was the perfect decoy, the perfect diversion – almost too perfect. Perhaps this warship was a recent arrival in the Gulf, its captain too keen to charge in. The fisherman allowed himself the moment of smugness, if only because the terror of being discovered had passed. Calling the warship up on the radio and volunteering to be inspected by offering to sell the infidels his catch was an enormous risk. But it had paid off. The reality was that he had been heading away from the warship as fast as his old diesel could manage. Also – and this was the level of risk he was playing with – the fish in his hold were old, their eyes cloudy. If the warship had called his bluff, it would have been the end. Fortunately, the manoeuvring had concluded in his favour. The warship was engaged in boarding the tanker and, because of this, he had escaped detection. They’d seen him as a harmless fisherman, which, ordinarily, he was.

  The approach had been made via the company that most often bought his catch, even when the harvest from the sea was thin. They had asked him not to fish on this trip, but to rendezvous instead with the Ocean Trader and take on a different cargo. The meeting had taken place before sunrise, under floodlight. The fisherman had been worried about his little wooden boat being dashed against the side of the steel tanker by the swell of the sea. He saw the first load being lowered in by rope netting: around a dozen wooden crates wrapped in heavy clear plastic. The contents, he was told, were urgent medical supplies, but he knew better. Medical supplies had United Nations approval. And they didn’t need to be smuggled into Saudi Arabia. Besides, he had seen crates like these before and he knew they contained guns.

  They then asked him to turn his back as the next load came aboard. Whatever it was, they didn’t want him to see it. But, as chance would have it, a rogue wave arrived, picked up his little boat and slammed it against the side of the tanker. In the confusion that followed, the fisherman turned to make sure his boat had survived the contact and, in that moment, he had seen two steel drums in the netting swing precariously and clang noisily against the rusting sides of the tanker. The fisherman looked away again, like he was told. Next came the ice, several tonnes of it, covering the contraband, followed by the fish. It was a good disguise, only the fish had been dead at least a week.

  The fisherman knew he was being used, but he didn’t mind. The
re was a war on and the faithful had been called on to defend Islam. He loved Mohammed, may His name be praised, but he was not a fanatic. And he needed a new boat. The money he would earn from this trip would buy one, as well as a new home for his wife and six children – soon to be seven children. The fisherman sighed. More soldiers for Allah.

  The transfer had been completed just before dawn. An hour later, the warship was bearing down on the tanker with just enough separation between his boat and the Ocean Trader for the fisherman’s vessel to avoid suspicion. Even so, his heart was still beating like that of a frightened bird, not so much for the detection and arrest he’d just avoided, but for the evil that now seemed to hang about his boat like a limp and blackened sail.

  Manila, Philippines

  Jeff Kalas sat by the pool at the Manila Diamond Hotel and watched the waiters scurry from guest to bar, shuttling drinks. The hot sun danced on the inviting blue water fed by a waterfall tumbling through faux rocks. The guests lounging poolside were the usual mix found at fivestar hotels throughout the region: businessmen of various nationalities, but mainly Japanese and American, accompanied by wives with dimply thighs and designer costumes, and a family or two with noisy children. One particularly attractive blonde also occupied a chair, her every languid movement kept under surveillance by the married men who wished they weren’t and spent the day dreaming of what might have been had their wives stayed home.

  Jones and Smith. Smith and Jones. Kalas wrote the names on a napkin already covered in figures, the record of his meeting with the pair. An unlikely duo, a camel jockey and a power point. Kalas was unsure of the source of their wealth, but it certainly wasn’t legal. The question Kalas asked himself was whether he wanted to know what that source was, and immediately decided that, no, he did not. They obviously had money and plenty of it, with more to come. Surely that was all that mattered?

  This was Kalas’s first face-to-face with his new clients. He’d received the ticket, itinerary and one thousand US dollars in crisp hundred-dollar notes in the UPS handdelivered package. There was also a typed note promising another ten thousand US dollars if he turned up at the appointed time at the Manila Diamond Hotel. And here he was at the specified place and time. Smith and Jones had been good for their word. He eyed the pregnant envelope on the table in front of him and replayed in his head the relevant parts of their earlier conversation.

  ‘We are making a lot of money in your country and we want to get it out,’ Smith had said.

  ‘If I can be blunt,’ asked Kalas, clearing his throat, ‘how much money?’

  ‘Anywhere between a hundred and fifty and three hundred million US.’

  Kalas had somehow managed to keep his poker face on at that moment, frowning professionally when, inside, he was doing cartwheels. This was, quite possibly, The Jackpot.

  Other aspects of their requirements were quietly discussed and then, finally, the question of his fee. They’d argued that, given the sums, he should expect no more than two percent. That was ridiculous, of course, because he was taking on the risk of imprisonment. As such, he argued his return should be far more substantial, in the vicinity of twenty percent. There was much haggling, but eventually twelve percent had been settled on. Twelve percent! Jesus Christ! He did the sums and shook his head slowly with disbelief and pleasure.

  The club sandwich and San Miguel he ordered arrived, bringing Kalas back to the present. Droplets ran down the beer bottle’s sides as it sweated condensation in the heat. He held his hand up to stop the waiter from pouring the beer, ruining it. It was a little thing, but Kalas preferred no head on a beer, maximising its effervescence, the cleansing effect. He took a bite from the sandwich and wondered what his fellow bankers would be up to back at the office in Sydney. Worrying about various currency movements, no doubt, that and plotting their rise up the corporate ladder, treading on co-workers they pretended friendship with while they swapped footy observations and guessed lewdly at the sexual proclivities of their female colleagues. Kalas could feel his heart rate rise. Steady, Jeff. You don’t have to do that shit anymore…

  Twenty years he’d given the bank, and the bastards had rewarded him with retrenchment. His computer and potplant had been passed on to his successor, some bitch almost fifteen years his junior. The bank had handed him his redundancy cheque – four lousy months’ pay – accompanied by a bunch of crap about what a worthwhile asset he’d been. And then, because he was so shit-hot at his job, they said, they’d employ a placement consultant at their expense to find him ‘something else’.

  That something else had never materialised. Banks didn’t pick up foreign exchange screen jocks pushing forty. If he hadn’t done a little strategic financial planning on the side for one of his clients, he’d have been cactus. Mortgage payments on both the family home and beach house, car payments, boat payments, school fees for two children by his second wife, alimony for his first wife…the money dropped out of his account at a frightening rate every month. He was down to his last twenty thou’ when the envelope with cash and the ticket had arrived. It was like manna from heaven, a lifeline, fate. Whatever, it was meant to be.

  As for that work he’d done on the side? Financial planning, he’d called it. Others less charitable would have said money laundering. He’d done it for a restaurant syndicate with a chain of noodle houses owned by a well-known Melbourne family of crooks. Why not do it for Smith and Jones? There was a mild concern: how did they know Kalas could organise things for them? If the word was out, surely it wouldn’t be long till he came to the attention of the authorities. Perhaps the advertised specialty of his failing consultancy business – offshore currency dealings – was the bait in this instance. Kalas fingered the thick cotton napkin with the scribbles on it. Twelve percent. Jesus Christ almighty. Twelve percent of three hundred mill’ US was…The figure in Australian dollars made him feel somewhat giddy and he drank half the beer to steady his excitement.

  A movement caught his eye. It was the blonde. She was no longer lying down sunbaking, but standing. Her skin was golden and her hair hung thick and straight, the colour of caramel-flavoured milk, halfway down her back. Her bikini was brilliant white, brief and worn low, tied at the hips with thin spaghetti laces. She grabbed a purse from her bag and began to walk towards him. A breeze caught the edge of her sarong, parting it, revealing long brown legs. The breasts were small and firm, but her nipples were hard, Kalas guessed, from a recent dip in the water. Kalas was aware of the stirring in his groin. He took another tug on the San Miguel as the blonde swept past his table towards the bar, trailing the scent of coconut oil and jasmine, her firm buttocks moving rhythmically up and down as she walked like two eggs in a wet hanky.

  Kalas was no ladies’ man, but he felt powerful, charged by money and opportunity. He twisted the wedding ring off his finger and weighed it against the fact that he was a long way from home. He tried to rein in the growing force between his legs and cleared the dry feeling in his throat. Pleasure would have to wait. He had work to do, and that was how to launder a shitload of money. Three hundred million! The cash could not be placed in a bank account in Australia where the income would be earned, because the banks were required by law to report deposits of over ten thousand dollars to the Australian Tax Office, the ATO. Deposits of lesser amounts, say nine thousand nine hundred dollars, would overcome this but when millions had to be socked away the number of banks and bank accounts required would make that kind of strategy unworkable. No. Back to the drawing board.

  ‘You wan’ ’nuther beer, sir?’ asked the Filipino waiter, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘Yes…thanks,’ he said, not looking up, concentrating on the nest of scribbles in front of him.

  ‘Can I get you some paper, sir?’ asked the waiter, eyeing the linen tablecloth covered with circles, lines and figures.

  ‘Huh?…er…sorry, yeah, if that’s okay.’

  The waiter removed the empty glass and bottle and returned to the bar.

  Kalas con
tinued to doodle. He’d leave a tip to cover the minor vandalism. What if cash businesses were purchased, such as pubs? Half a dozen cash registers could be operated, but only a handful of them declared to the ATO…No. Again, the money requiring a good scrub would accrue too fast for that – over a period of between two to four months. Horseracing? He could always find a bookie who, for a healthy commission, would write winning tickets after races had been run…Again, no. Any mug could do that kind of inelegant crap, and besides, the taxman would smell that a mile away.

  Kalas realised there was something important he was missing. And then it struck him. The people were earning money fast and needed to get it out of the country fast. They didn’t have long-term business interests with profits that needed to be hidden. They just wanted to make their money in Australia, not spend or invest it there. Okay, then – this was different. The problem wasn’t that they needed the money laundered, they needed it exported.

  Kalas absently admired the blonde’s arse as she loitered at the bar. He wondered how old she was and decided probably around twenty-eight. The perfect age: enough time on the planet to have learned a little about life, but still young enough for her assets to be winning the continual fight against gravity. He again felt himself stir. It was a bloody long time since he’d had a fuck – a fuck with a capital F, U, C and K. Sure, he had regular sex with his wife, if monthly could be called regular. But doing it in the missionary position in bed with the telly on had become about as exciting as ironing his own shirts.

  The waiter returned with a small sheaf of paper serviettes, which brought him back to the problem at hand. Exporting money. It wasn’t practical, let alone possible, to leave the country with suitcases stuffed with cash. The serviettes, he noticed, were heavily branded with the hotel’s moniker: ‘The Manila Diamond Hotel’, with the initials DH in a twee kind of script. Kalas wondered why the hotel’s logo didn’t have any pictures of diamonds around it, and then decided that perhaps that might look cheap. And then Kalas smiled. The answer was right in front of him. Shit. The timing would be tight but…Kalas saw the plan clearly in his head as if it was three dimensional in form.