An uneasy truce between IRA assassin Declan Rath and ex SAS soldier ‘Spider’ Webb adds to the spiralling tension as a Tuzla-bound convoy battles through war-torn Bosnia to bring aid to the beleaguered city. Targeted for destruction by Croatian Military Intelligence and Serbian para-militaries, the convoy, unwitting carrier of smuggled arms, is prey to all sides.
THE TUZLA RUN
Robert Davidson
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Copyright © 2010 Robert Davidson
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
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For Wendy,
whose belief and support made it possible
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Thanks to the Canadian element of the editorial team at Ocean Highways Books for their sterling work in ensuring the quality of The Tuzla Run for publication.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Endnotes
THE TUZLA RUN
PROLOGUE –
“In every transaction there must be trust. Naturally, you are aggrieved because it is you who must do all the trusting. However, consider. You cannot officially obtain customs documentation, bills of lading and transportation for the consignment. An end-user certificate would be impossible in light of the embargo against your country. You have no chance. I would suggest to you that I am your only opportunity for the specific weapons you so earnestly desire.”
The diffused light from the desk lamp gave the sallow features an ethereal glow. A misshapen lower lip curled in the semblance of a smile as Stösser leaned forward.
“But, since we are having this conversation, you know all this. Why else would you be here? Do not overlook the fact that, should we agree to conclude this transaction, I can arrange that the consignment will be delivered to Tuzla.”
The man sitting opposite took a deep drag on his cigarette and narrowed his eyes in question.
“You can provide exactly what I have asked for?”
“The Stingers with projectiles, the M136 AT-4s also with projectiles, AK-47s with ammunition, grenades and all in precisely the numbers requested? Yes, most definitely. Some of the weapons may not be new but knowing that they have been used before must provide some reassurance as to their reliability?” He smiled again. This was definitely his market, a seller’s market, and he had no doubt whatsoever that this deal would go through.
“Transportation?”
“The consignment will pass through Croatia—”
“The whole point of my coming to you is that we can no longer afford to allow the Croatians to make off with twenty-five per cent or more of our supplies.”
“—and will not, I assure you, be subject to examination by the Croatian authorities,” the dealer continued, ignoring the interruption. He paused. “I can commit to ‘best effort’.”
“Best effort?”
“There are no guarantees in this business. I can promise that every reasonable effort will be made to accomplish delivery but sometimes a force majeure, unexpected events or bad luck all conspire to render our intentions futile.” Again, there was a confident pause.
“We do business?”
There was no immediate response. However, this deal was not going to go away. He waited.
“Agreed.”
CHAPTER ONE
Doctor Denis Macaulay, a senior lecturer in Political Science at Queen’s University, had likened Belfast to Beirut in his lectures and writings. The presence of danger, often intensified by the acrid smell of burning rubber and petrol, together with the pervading sense of fear, conjured up the Lebanese cauldron. The bombed shop-fronts and burnt-out buildings, the tense unforgiving air of permanent conflict, heightened the similarity. Macaulay was a streetwise academic who had taught at Beirut’s American College. He had, however, read the handwriting on the wall and left before the spate of kidnappings caught the world’s attention.
That morning he awoke in a foul mood to find his Red Setter lying across his ankles. Pushed off the bed, she grunted in complaint but waited on the landing to accompany him downstairs. In the spacious kitchen, the academic prepared breakfast for them both. Wagging her plump rear quarters, the dog waited, knowing she would eat first. Macaulay put the bowl on the floor and pushed it with his foot to meet her lowered nose.
He went to the hallway to pick up the morning paper.
Back in the kitchen and seated at his breakfast bar, he scanned the front page then leafed through to the book review section. His mood lightened as he read the review that was of most interest to him.
Thirty-five minutes later, he opened his garage door, slid behind the wheel of the BMW and drove off towards the University. Unnoticed, a Ford Escort followed as he filtered into the stream of traffic on the Malone Road.
As a lecturer in Political Science, his life was neither demanding nor overly exciting. He had published once again and, as a result, had made an appearance on television to promote his most radical book to date, To Cure the Ills. The theory espoused was extreme. It had caught the attention of the more right-wing members of Ulster’s elected representatives at Westminster. He was cognisant of, and unashamedly pleased by, the rumour that the Unionist political machine in the province had pencilled him in as a prospective parliamentary candidate.
However, he was unaware that others in Ulster had also taken note.
One element of Northern Ireland’s many divides found his premises and solutions particularly unacceptable. True, the postulations expounded were no more rigorous or harsh than those they had tried to enforce in the many years after Partition. They, too, did not consider tolerance to be a virtue. They abhorred non-partisanship, detested compromise, and wasted little time on political solutions. Macaulay was therefore an annoyance that could well represent a threat in the future.
Accordingly, they scheduled an appointment for the doctor with the “Removal Man.”
* * * * *
“I wonder who he is?” Marie McCracken asked, indicating the room above, with a jerk of her head towards the smoke-darkened ceiling. Despite the apparent naiveté of the question, she was aware that the lodgers they accommodated always had a connection with the Provos. The nature of this one’s stay appeared no different from that of previous ‘guests’.
“Shut it, woman,” growled her husband through a mouthful of food. “Just shut it. It’s no business of yours. You should know better than to get nosy over this kind of thing.” He scowled and shovelled another forkful of beans into his mouth.
“Aye, but—”
“No bloody buts. Just shut it.” He had half risen, brandishing the fork.
She sighed, spread another slice of bread with margarine and passed it to him.
* * * * *
The weak light partitioned the McCracken’s dingy upstairs spare room with blocks of broken shadow. Mingled in the light’s feeble strands, indistinctive back-street sounds drifted upwards and into the gloom. Declan Rath sat motionless on the edge of the bed staring at the head-and-shoulders photograph of a middle-aged man smiling assuredly from the dust jacket of a book. He put the book aside.
As always, he would prepare thoroughly. Methodical, painstaking preparation eliminated error. Standing before the
flyspecked mirror of the wardrobe, he checked his appearance. The sleeves of the woollen shirt reached the backs of his hands and the dark green corduroy trouser-cuffs hung adequately over his scuffed suede boots. A circular movement of his muscular neck confirmed that the tie was not restrictive. Blending with the milieu would be paramount in the approach phase. The reflection revealed the epitome of a mature student.
From a side pocket of the long sports holdall beside him, he removed a small bottle of olive oil. Pouring a drop into his cupped palm, he rubbed both hands together. After massaging his face and ears, applying the lubrication evenly, he rubbed his closely cropped hair vigorously until the excess was gone.
As soon as possible after the hit, he would shower to remove all traces of cordite, and the oil would make the job easier. He would burn the clothes.
After closing the bottle, he returned it to the pocket of the bag and removed a pair of surgical gloves, dulled with talcum powder, from the same compartment. Pulling them on, he made sure his wrists were covered and then, threading his fingers together, eased the rubber into place.
He reached into the body of the carryall to grasp the Ithaca Model 37 pump-action shotgun by its pistol grip. Positioning the weapon vertically, butt end on the floor, and gripping it with his knees, he unscrewed the top of the tubular magazine. He took a handful of cartridges from the holdall and spilled them onto the bed beside his right thigh.
The size 4 cartridges contained a heavier shot than those used for game. He wiped each cartridge with a small cloth before feeding it into the magazine. When the tube was full, he inserted the threaded end of the cap and screwed it closed.
Rising effortlessly, he pulled the canvas sling over his right shoulder and released his hold, allowing the weapon to hang barrel downwards close to his body. He reached inside the wardrobe for the dark duffel coat and adjusted the fit over his shoulders. With it unbuttoned, his reflection returned his critical stare, looking for tell-tale signs of the gun. Satisfied, he placed his feet apart, flexed his calf muscles and slightly bent his knees. A short, sharp backward movement of his hand flared the coat open and the same hand unerringly located the pistol grip to swing the shotgun forwards and upwards. His waiting left hand confidently grasped the slide action to cock it with a pumping action as the muzzle swept up into the firing plane. The barrel was now pointing at the torso of his reflected image. After a prolonged pause, he applied the safety catch and dropped the weapon to its previous downward position. A cursory flick of the coat swiftly masked the gun. He removed the coat and laid it on the bed, placing the shotgun next to it.
It was unusual for a specialist to keep his own weapons due to the danger of detection, but he enjoyed the added risk. Reaching down, he removed a toilet bag from the holdall and took out a Smith and Wesson. He slid the released magazine from the butt, then, using the ball of his thumb, flicked the 9mm rounds onto the cloth spread across his thighs. Painstakingly, he wiped each brass shell with the cloth. He reloaded the mag, designed to hold twelve rounds, with just eleven, to lessen the possibility of jamming. He confirmed the resilience of the spring by pressing down on the uppermost bullet with his thumb.
Replacing the magazine, he chambered a round, applied the safety catch and placed the automatic in the right-hand patch pocket of the duffel coat. The lining was heavy, durable plastic. The fingers of an open hand would go unfailingly to the grip, the thumb to the safety catch and the gun would clear the pocket without problem.. The plastic lining ensured a snag-free release.
Unlike those who preferred revolvers, he believed the advantage of the additional rounds far outweighed the possible disadvantage of a stoppage. High quality ammunition, maintenance and frequent practice reduced the risk of such failures.
The radio clock on the bedside cabinet showed half past seven in the morning. Twelve more minutes and it would be time to leave. He made a final check of the textbooks, ring binder and Queen’s scarf in the shallow wicker-shopping basket beside the bed.
“All set, Doctor. Ready when you are,” he murmured.
Stretching out on the bed beside the coat and shotgun, he put his gloved hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He smiled and shook his head when he heard the raised voices and sounds of a scuffle downstairs that culminated in the thud of a body against furniture.
* * * * *
Her man had already left for ‘work’ and she was alone.
Thank God!
She heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs, then the sound of the front door closing. She crossed to the front window in time to see the duffel-coated figure of their lodger.
Wearing one of those college scarves. Fancy!
As she watched, her thoughts eddied to her own problems. She touched her nose gingerly and saw the blood on her fingers before she wiped them briskly on her apron.
Money, always money. Or drink. A woman was entitled to ask for her housekeeping without fear of a beating.
“For the last time...” she swore to herself, but recognized immediately that it was hopeless.
Jesus, though, they were paying him for putting up the hard men and she had to do the cooking and cleaning!
It was not as though he had no money for his drink... but hardly ever enough for food and rent.
Oh no, that came a poor second. No money for that. Well, it is going to stop.
She nodded emphatically as though she had spoken aloud.
But how?
She had hated McCracken for years but how could she change things?
Considered himself to be a big, big man, he did, because they trusted him to—
The answer struck her forcefully, like a bolt. She remained motionless, her face flushing. The idea grew. She felt giddy as the enormity of it flooded her consciousness.
Would she dare?
Just you wait and see, Billy McCracken.
She scuttled over to the dresser and rummaged through the drawer for the seldom-used writing pad and envelopes. With a stub of pencil, she started to write.
* * * * *
Parked several yards from the newsagents at the end of the road was a dark blue Cortina. Stealing a Cortina was child’s play, and for that reason, they were a great favourite with the young joyriders of the city. The vehicle was nondescript enough for its intended purpose—a simple delivery. It would not draw undue attention.
Scrutinizing the man who was nonchalantly eating crisps and leaning against the left side of the bonnet, the Removal Man noted that the air of disinterest shown was overdone. It faded as he drew nearer.
The fellow moved from the car, crumpled the crisp packet in both hands and dropped it. Both hands remained in full view and his posture stiffened. The gunman glanced at the other side of the street and saw the watcher, located twenty yards diagonally opposite, reading a newspaper. His job would be to report that the car and occupants had left for the assignment. The driver nodded, and opened the rear door of the car. Ignoring him, the big man climbed into the front passenger seat.
With a glance at the other side of the street, the driver shrugged and walked round to the driver’s door. The Removal Man casually noted the ripped housing round the steering wheel and watched the driver start the engine by joining the loose wires.
In less than a minute, they were on Newtownards Road and heading south on Short Strand towards the Ormeau Bridge. The car negotiated the right turn onto the bridge and headed to University Street where it pulled into the kerb. As the passenger got out of the car, the driver said,
“Our day will come.”
The Removal Man turned, stooped to look back into the car and stared stonily at the other man, then smiled in return, an unexpectedly boyish grin.
“Tiochfaidh ár lá.”
He straightened, and scanned the surrounding area for uniformed police or Army patrols. With none in sight, he started to walk towards the Queen’s Film Theatre.
* * * * *
Macaulay paid scant attention to the other vehicles in the traffic stre
aming towards the city centre. His thoughts were on the reception his latest effort was having on the reading public. The doctor, in no way commercially naive, accepted that furore created, or at least improved, marketability. He had dutifully followed his agent’s advice and increased the rhetoric to the point of rabidity.
While he did not desperately need the money, it was nonetheless welcome. Exceptional sales confirmed his professional competency to those he wished to impress and unveiled his hitherto low-key reputation to the masses.
In political circles and academia, there was not so much admiration as respect, albeit tinged with envy. In debate, he had a sharp acerbic wit, which, together with his undoubted intellect, he used to deadly effect.
As an analyst of policies and their probable effect in both general and specific terms, he was infallible, or so his supporters claimed. Even his detractors said he had the ability to see behind political smokescreens and identify the secret agendas. He himself would say that he was aware and unashamed of his visionary prowess.
However, he failed to register the Ford that overtook him and led the way to the University car park.
* * * * *
Earlier that morning, in Palace Barracks, Holywood, on the outskirts of eastern Belfast, the sergeant major of the Special Air Service contingent strode down the hallway of the unit’s accommodation and opened the door to room six.
As he reached for the light switch he sensed, rather than saw, the movement in the darkness; they were already awake and watching him. As the dim light came on, legs swung to the floor.
“The Queen’s job is on. There’s an ‘O’ group with the Boss in twenty. Christ, can’t you people leave a window open?”
The Tuzla Run Page 1
