‘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. There 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.