Dealer (A Tim Burr Thriller Book 3)

  Dealer

  Also by Nicholas E Watkins

  Tanker

  Bank

  Oligarch

  Steel

  About the Author

  Nicholas Watkins lives on the Coast with his wife and has four children He is a retired Accountant and has a Degree in Economics. He worked in the City of London for many years.

  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.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  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 Desert and the Andes disappeared in one fell swoop. The first 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 stage 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 feeling of disappointment running through the team, after the first stage had been cancelled, owing to the bad weather. The Driver gathered his team together and decided on a night out to improve morale. “Let’s get some good Argentinean steaks down us,” he declared.

  As a child, Formula One had been his initial passion. 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, 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, 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 alongside 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 G40s when he was fourteen. He had his moments but never had any real consistent success. He never got the wins, 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 days racing. His father was driving him home. The 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 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 his parents he was going to travel first. Reluctantly they agreed and again came up with the money. Looking in 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 and drugs and an 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 visa expired and now aged twenty-two 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, 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 intact, 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 driver, 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 poured a glass of red wine. The wine was expensive, 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, 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 and it made him happy, 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 I can do without. Now you are bright and young.”

  Over the next six years the Driver took on more and more and Benedict got his retirement. The Driver was now working on his own and working 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 meantime there was racing to be done.

  The beef was the best and he and the crew relaxed laughed and ate their fill. The rain briefly stopped as they made their way back to their apartments. 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 works teams. They drove the stage in their minds one more time before heading for the bedroom and sleep.

  The Driver sped 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 they 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, as if in slow motion the car slid. The Drive 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, the stage cancelled. The dream was over.

  Chapter 2

  New York was as cold as Buenos Aires had been wet. The snow had been pushed from the roads but Manhattan was still struggling after the cold snap. The three Russians in the stretched limo had been used to the cold in Moscow, but now they were more accustomed to the warmth and sunshine of the Cote Azure or the tropical islands of the Caribbean. With the wind chill it was twenty below on the sidewalks.

  “Don’t you miss Russia when you see this weather?” asked Vasiliev Nikhil. He was a man in his late fifties, almost bald with a long straight nose, which had been broken on various occasions in the past. The elegance of his attire could not mask the fact that he was a man hard in nature and unforgiving in attitude. In fact his two companions, Sokolov Yerik and Volkov Lesta, shared the hard edge. They were of a similar age and had met at the Andropov KGB spy school in Russia. They had worked in the intelligence services for most of their careers until their fortunes changed and Russia became a free for all, almost the Wild West, when Boris Yeltsin gave up the Presidency.

  “Do I fuck,” said Lesta. They were driving past Central Park and the “Trump Ice Rink” was up and running. “See it is like Gorky Park,” he pointed through the window.

  “Good idea, we should put our names up and charge for skating,” said Yerik.

  “We should walk down Seventh,” said Lesta, “they are selling things cheaply.”

  “You seem to forget we are now honest hard working businessmen and rich. We only have the best. If it is on sale then it means people did not want it so they sell cheaply. If other people did not want it then it is not good enough for us,” said Yerik.

  “You are just getting to be a fat and lazy bastard,” said Nikhil.

  “I am not a bastard,” They all laughed, he could not argue the fat or lazy.

  The limo continued down town to the New York Stock exchange and Wall Street. It stopped, the Driver rolled back the divide.” It is down there, I cannot make a turn here.” He started to get out of the car to open the doors as he spoke.

  “It is OK, my friend is not yet so fat and lazy he cannot open his car door.” The Driver smiled and thought to himself that they were definitely a pair of bastards even if they were not fat, but said nothing as they exited.

  Mel Levy had them shown into his office. He was nervous. He needed these people to back him. After the collapse in the banking system, owing to the credit crunch, he had found himself exposed and overstretched. With no access to borrowing he had gone from the darling hedge fund manger of Wall Street to one of its biggest fraudsters. He was out of jail now, had his freedom and little else but his brain. These men needed him to solve their problem. He knew it would all depend on personality. It always did.

  “Good morning, I am Mel Levy.”

  “We know who you are but do you know who we are?” said Nikhil.

  Levy was unsure how to respond. He certainly knew who they were. They were, what the World now called, Russian oligarchs. They were people who had seized, their opportunity, when Russia was in a state of flux, to grab large chunks, of the old industries, from the State for themselves. They were the modern day equivalent of the old Wild West “carpet baggers.” His dilemma was, should he just openly say they were a bunch of crooks or should he play the respected business men game? He thought and replied trusting his instinct,

  “You are, I fear, the same as me, crooks.”

  There was silence. Levy felt the tension. “Yerik broke the silence. “ My day is getting better I have been promoted from a fat, lazy bastard to crook.” The atmosphere eased as they all laughed.

  “To business?” asked Levy. They nodded and he began to explain his strategy for extracting their and their colleague’s wealth. Billions of dollars and shielding it from US lead sanctions against Russia, that were put in place after the annexation of the Crimean peninsular from the Ukraine. They all knew that the Americans were determined to hit the likes of Yerik, Nikhil and Lesta in the pocket, where it would really hurt and exert pressure for policy change.

  “Iceland has a problem and we have a solution,” began Levy. “They have depositor’s money locked up in their banks and cannot return it without collapsing their banks and their economy. We have the solution.”

  The scheme was complex and he took his time explaining. They listened for over an hour and questions were raised. Yerik finally spoke to summarise. “So we will be the owners of the Baltic Bank and we will allow any and all depositors, with the consent of the Icelandic regulators, to transfer their fund from the existing banks into our Bank?”

  “It comes at a cost of twenty percent to the depositors. For examp
le they have one hundred dollars in the Icelandic bank, when the transfer they have eighty hundred dollars in the Baltic Bank,” said Levy.

  We wash our and our partner’s dirty money through a special purpose Bank in Vanuatu, where there are no real checks, to give them their money anywhere in the world. Ostensibly, it is their deposits we are refunding but is in fact our money now nice and clean, laundered as the say?” continued Yerik.

  “The Icelandic government will need to levy between ten and fifteen per cent on deposits held there. It is the same savings grab used in Cyprus if they are to keep afloat. We have factored in twenty so we should even make a profit,” said Levy.

  “Why would the Icelandic regulators go for it that is what I don’t understand?” said Lesta.

  “They are not going for anything. They are just allowing money to move internally and we will ensure there is sufficient liquidity to allow their banks can keep trading. They need to re-establish credibility with the depositors. This does it for them. They can do detailed checks on the source of funds and technically have clean money in their system, from the Baltic Banks holding company, in Vanuatu. Everybody ticks the right boxes and they move on, until the next banking scandal hits the markets at least.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “I must highlight the only weakness to you. You have to sign the papers I am about to give you in your own names and have them notarised. These signatures will link you to the money you have, shall we say, invested overseas. They need to be shown to the regulators in Iceland. But beyond that they will be kept secure, away from prying eyes,” said Levy.

  “Do we have a choice?” said Lesta.

  “No”

  They signed and handed the papers back to Levy.

  “Congratulations Gentlemen, you are now bankers,” said Levy.

  Chapter 3

  Adnan and Nizar waited on the Turkish Syrian border for the convoy of trucks to arrive. Nizar had just found himself in charge of the ISIS led forces in the North, following a successful US drone attack on the previous incumbent.