Copyright © Nicholas E Watkins 2017
The right of Nicholas E Watkins to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and patent Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication my be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor may be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Dealer
Chapter 1
The Dakar Rally had turned, into the Argentinean Rally, with a day trip to Bolivia. It had been set to run across Latin America, but Chile withdrew and Peru followed. The organisers persevered and managed to keep it on track. The stages, through the Atacama Dessert and the Andes, disappeared in one fell swoop. The fast stages would now take place on closed narrow tracks, but the rally now lacked the full open stages.
Jimmy, known to all, as the Driver, had financed his own team. This adventure had been in the planning for a long time and the dream even longer, from childhood. He and his team were staying in the Poetry Building, located in the Recoleta area of Buenos Aires. Although adequate, it was not ideal. It was more or less self catering. The weather was a mix of torrential rain and searing blistering heat. The effects of El Nino seemed to become more marked with each passing year.
There was a feeling of disappointment, running through the team, after the first stage had been cancelled, owing to bad weather The Driver gathered them together and decided on a night out to improve morale “Let’s get some good Argentinean steaks down us,” he declared.
Formula One had been his initial passion, as a child. He had badgered his parents into letting him take up go karting. His poor father had spent nearly every weekend driving his son to meetings and spending a small fortune on machinery. He had not made the grade and rallying took its place.
Jimmy sat in the restaurant drinking, coca cola and watched his team animated, discussing the car and all the tiny technical details. They had worked so hard to get here and he could not have wished for a more dedicated group. The smell of roasting beef filled the restaurant. There was a charcoal fire pit with the beef pinned on a frame spit in the window.
He had been good and had raced along side Lewis Hamilton, now the World F1 champion. He had beaten him once or twice, in the early years, on the Karting track. The dream had slowly died. He had progressed to racing Ginettas G40, when he was fourteen. He had had his moments, but never had real consistent success. He never got the wins and so the sponsorship money never came.
He remembered the day, halfway through his second season, when he was nearly sixteen and he had come in midway through the field, at the end of the day’s racing. His father was driving him home. His race car was on the trailer and the sun was beginning to go down, dark clouds seemed to gather in, as his Father began to speak. “I am really sorry,” Jimmy knew what was coming and he did not want to hear it. He felt tears welling up in his eyes as he turned his head away and stared out, of the side window, of the car, so his Father would not see. “I just cannot afford it anymore. I’ve tried everywhere to obtain some sponsorship but the results are just not there. You know that your Mother and I believe you can do it but...”
The sentence just hung there and that was the end of a dream for a young boy. Now, the Driver was here, in Argentina, ready to compete. Tomorrow would be the first real stage, approximately eleven kilometres in length. He was excited and hopeful.
The Driver had been academically gifted and put in just enough work, at school, to pass the GCSE’s, that would give him the opportunity to go to University. At eighteen he told he parents, that he was going to travel first. Reluctantly, they agreed and again came up with the money. Looking from the outside, it was obvious, that his parents indulged their only child. His Father may well have spoilt him less but his Mother always took his part and indulged him. So avoiding conflict, his Father came on side and off he set on his travels, with a monthly allowance.
He was nineteen and gullible. He had his twelve month, round the World, air ticket and his working visa, for Australia and New Zealand. Young and naïve, Thailand was his first stop. A cheap hut, beaches, drink, drugs and a STD, was how his first months were spent. Gradually, he became a little more worldly wise and grew up a bit. He moved onto Australia and did a diving course. He did not return after his twelve month sabbatical, but stayed on, crewing boats and giving diving lessons.
His visas expired and now aged twenty two, he arrived in San Francisco, penniless, apart from the money he could wheedle from his Mum. His Father had realised that any chance of Jimmy coming back and getting an education had long since gone. His Mother worshipped her son and continued to believe and support him.
He moved around the West Coast, making a living as best he could. He would deal weed and take casual jobs. Never wholly criminal, but on the margins, he got by. He finally put his driving skills to good use. Car dealers and individuals often needed cars moved from one part of the States to another. He would drive a car from LA to New York and deliver it, and then if lucky, he would pick up a commission, to drive and deliver to Miami and so on back to LA. He became a preferred Driver, reliable and keeping the cars in tact, he attracted work.
Hambros Benedict started to use him regularly and seemed to have cars, that needed driving, all over the States. He progressed from moving cars to being his personal driver and then into a friendship. Sitting in Benedict’s apartment in Manhattan, things then changed forever. The Driver sensed that Benedict had been sizing him up and scrutinizing him more and more, over the previous months.
“Drink?” asked Benedict and without waiting for a reply pored a glass of red wine. The wine was expensive, and so was, the apartment and its furnishings. The Driver did not know, what Benedict did, to earn his money, but he did know, he earned a considerable amount of it. The apartment was in the twenty million dollar part of New York and the clothes and trappings, that surrounded Benedict, were in the billionaire spectrum, of wealth.
“You have been working for me for a while now.” The Driver said nothing. “I like you. “The Driver feared that an awkward gay moment was on the way, but not so.
“I am getting on and want to have time, well in a cliché, want to have some time, before I die, to enjoy the fortunes of my labours.” The Driver was confused, but nodded his understanding. He knew that Benedict’s wife and young daughter had died many years ago, in a tragic car crash. He also knew, that he had recently taken to a young mistress. A gold digger, but he could afford it. It made him happy and it certainly was none of the Driver’s business.
“I have been looking to ease out of the business, for a while now, but in my line of work, that is easier said than done.” The Driver had no idea what Benedict’s line of business was and wondered, if he should ask, or just wait for the conversation to develop. He waited.
“Do you know what I do?” before the Driver could reply. “Arms” said Benedict
“I don’t understand?”
“I source weapons and broker a deal between buyers and sellers. There is always conflict in the World, and Governments and individuals, need the right tools, to deal with problems. In this case it is the right gun, missile, bomb or tank. I supply the tools and make a commission. No different to selling realty or insurance. You just need the right contacts and the skills to negotiate, plus a willingness to do a lot of travel.”
There was a silence, as he allowed the Driver, to absorb what had been said. He began to speak, but Benedict held up his hand, to silence him. “I am getting old and this is a young man’s game. The travel no longer appeals and the negotiating is a stress, that I could do with out. Now you are bright and young.”
Over the next six year
s, the Driver took on more and more, and Benedict got his retirement. The Driver was now working on his own and for himself. He was an international arms dealer but, Benedict had left him, in the small league. The deals could involve countless million to finance. True, the Driver had millions, but to get into the big time, he needed more. The next deal would change all that, but in the mean time, there was racing to be done.
The beef was the best. He and the crew relaxed, laughed and ate their fill. The rain briefly stopped, as they made their way back to their apartments, in the Poetry Building. The Driver and Enrich Sloganeer sat down, over the timing sheets and route map in the apartment, they shared. The next day, was a prologue to the rally proper. It was eleven kilometres and Sloganeer was one of the best navigators to be had. He had never done the Dakar, but had co-driven with the best in the World and won rally championships. The Driver was determined to make this his race. He had spent as much on his car and team, as the work’s teams. They drove the stage in their minds one more time, before heading for the bedroom and sleep.
The Driver speed away from the start, Sloganeer calling the track, “Left, right right, break power, power.” The information came loud and clear, thick and fast through, the headset. The adrenaline coursed through their veins, as the bounced, skidded and jumped their way, through the stage. The Driver was elated. He lived for this. The spectators crowded the track, excited and eager to glimpse the speeding cars, at the limits, of man and machine.
Then it stopped and as if, in slow motion, the car slide. The Driver tried to correct, over corrected then lost control. The car rolled over and over. The spectators tried to scatter and still the car rolled, then silence and black. Ten injured, two spectators and Sloganeer, dead, and the stage cancelled. The dream was over.
Bank (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 2) Page 17
