Countdown

By John Burrows

Saddam Hussein sought great power and prestige in the Middle East. He had been secretly researching and developing nuclear weapons for years and he was determined to use them against Israel. He started his Middle East expansion in 1990 when he invaded Kuwait. It was obvious that Saudi Arabia would be his next target. However Saudi Arabia called in their old American and British friends who, with modern weaponry put the Iraqi military and National Guard into an embarrassing and bloody retreat. It had never been the intention of America and Britain to continue on into Iraq so Saddam was allowed to have what remained of his army. Maybe we thought that that would be the end of things but we were wrong. Saddam was hatching a devilish plan which would bring Israel, America and Britain to their knees. This story starts with three, seemingly disconnected, murders in different parts of the world and it ends with a terrible race against time in London and New York

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329496330

Book preview

Countdown

Countdown

An International Thriller by John Burrows

COPYRIGHT © 2015 John Burrows

ISBN 978-1-329-49633-0

All rights reserved

About this book

This story takes place in 1991. It is fiction but it is based on a lot of fact.

Saddam Hussein, by anyone’s measure, was a terrible man. Adolf Hitler was bad enough but he always got others to do his dirty work. Saddam Hussein wasn’t like that. He reveled in the pain and torture which he brought to others. He would shoot anyone in the head without hesitation and seemingly without any reason. He had political rivals immersed, live, into battery acid and he had children’s eyes gouged out in front of their parents in order to make them talk.

He also sought great power and prestige in the Middle East. He had been secretly researching and developing nuclear weapons for years and he was determined to use them against Israel. Such an act would give him great prestige in the Middle East where Israel was the common enemy. He started his Middle East expansion in 1990 when he invaded Kuwait. It was obvious that Saudi Arabia would be his next target. However Saudi Arabia called in their old American and British friends who, with modern weaponry put the Iraqi military and National Guard into an embarrassing and bloody retreat. It had never been the intention of America and Britain to continue on into Iraq so Saddam was allowed to have what remained of his army. Maybe we thought that that would be the end of things but we were wrong. Saddam was hatching a devilish plan which would bring Israel, America and Britain to their knees.

1 DEADLY COCKTAIL

ALENURVE, FRANCE. NOVEMBER 18 1990. Françoise Coblan carefully opened the bottle of Chateau Montauban burgundy. It was a very special vintage, but he didn't mind. This was, after all, a very special occasion.

He had just received the second one million US dollar payment for goods which would normally net him only fifty thousand dollars. That profit would buy him a few more bottles of Chateau Montauban burgundy and a few other luxuries as well.

Granted, the sale had not been exactly as shown on the invoice nor the true destination been that shown on the shipping documents, but, that was for him to know and for the French Export Control Department to find out.

His visitor was obviously enjoying the burgundy. He removed the glass from his lips.

Monsieur Coblan I need to remind you that it is an essential part of this transaction that it remains known only to you.

Have no fear, Coblan replied, I don't want anyone to know of this deal any more than you do.

"Good.

Do you mind if I use your telephone? his visitor asked, I must inform my colleague that the transaction is completed.

Not at all.

Monsieur Coblan waved his hand at the telephone on the table next to him. He was enjoying the burgundy.

His visitor crossed to the table, half turned, and, with a single practiced movement, grasped Monsieur Coblan's head with one hand and with the other precisely thrust home a fine steel blade. The weapon, no thicker than a pencil, entered just below the hair line and with surgical precision thrust upwards into the posterior cerebral lobe. Coblan’s death was instantaneous.

The visitor washed his hands in the toilet, picked up the money filled suitcase, and quietly left the building.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon and the office was empty, save for the body, the very dead body, of Monsieur Coblan

The sale, about which Monsieur Coblan had been so pleased, was for 720 kilograms of K176, a very high tensile alloy steel. A very special steel, sometimes used to make implosion casings of nuclear bombs.

2 DEAD ON TIME

LIVERSTONE, ENGLAND. JANUARY 17 1991. As John Dillman walked along he wondered what would happen in the Gulf.

The United Nation's deadline, for Iraq to leave Kuwait, had expired two days ago and today the news was that the American and Allied forces had started heavy bombing of Baghdad.

At sixty years old, John was unconcerned about the war affecting him. His concern was for his two sons and how it would affect them and their families if the war should escalate.

One thing was certain. The holiday in Egypt, that he had planned for Margery and himself, would have to wait. They had been looking forward to the pyramids and Luxor, but, it would have to wait for another time... maybe they would go to Majorca again. They had enjoyed it a lot, last time.

John Dillman enjoyed Thursday evenings. As regular as clockwork he left the back of the house at 6-30 PM and briskly walked the mile to the Public Library. Once there he would deposit his three library books and then browse around the shelves for half an hour looking for three more good novels. He found the fiction a relaxing change from his technical reading.

He enjoyed the walk back too. At this time of year the cool evening air cleared his head and made him feel good. As usual it was giving him an appetite. Maybe Margery would fix him up a snack when he got back.

He turned into Woodfield Lane. He was on the home run now.

It was a quiet suburban neighborhood and this secluded lane ran directly down to the rear of his home.

Woodfield Lane had street lighting but it was what the local council called 'rural lighting'. You could see the lights themselves but they did little to light the street. The lane was mostly darkness and shadow.

He stopped.

Was that a movement?

John Dillman sensed it rather than saw it.

There was a swift lash and a heavy blow dropped him to his knees.

Take my wallet, take it, he cried.

The blows continued.

He fell forward on to his face.

Consciousness left John Dillman but unrelentingly the blows continued.

There would be no holiday in Majorca this year, or any year.

John Dillman was dead.

For the last twelve years John Dillman had worked as an Inspector at the Windscale Nuclear Plant.

3 NO WAY TO DIE

REDFERN, CALIFORNIA. MARCH 5 1991. Frank Slessinger, Managing Director of the Cybertronics Corporation, was a self made man. Although it was a public company, he was that public. He owned 86% of the stock, and why not? It was Frank Slessinger who had started the business from a small back room some 14 years before. With blood, sweat and tears, he had brought it to its present position, an annual turnover of a hundred million dollars and a work force of two thousand eight hundred.

All right, he had cut a few corners on the way up but which good businessman hadn't? He had certainly proved that an 'electronic whiz kid' could have good business acumen as well.

Now, at thirty nine years of age, Frank was looking forward to an even brighter future.

Despite the size of the company the business was continuing to expand. Next year the turnover was projected at one hundred and twenty four million dollars. In fact, in the last two years sales had really taken a leap, mainly due to some lucrative military contracts.

It all seemed very good to Frank. All, that is, except for one thing which continually crossed his mind.

He had been shocked to find that his Sales Director had been involved in some shady deals. Documents had been falsified to conceal the true nature and destination of some very sensitive equipment.

His Sales Director had been with him from the beginning so Frank was inclined to overlook it and give him another chance. On the other hand, if the Commerce Department got to know about it they would flay him alive and he would lose some really good contracts.

He decided to think about it on the way home. He needed to come to a decision..

He looked at the clock. As usual he had worked late. It was

7 PM but his work for the day was finished.

He picked up his briefcase, crossed to his private elevator, and descended the six floors to the basement garage.

At this time of day, as usual, there were few cars in the garage.

Frank Slessinger's Mercedes was parked next to the elevator. He opened the door, flung his briefcase onto the passenger seat, and sat down behind the wheel.

It was at that instant that he realized he was not alone.

There was a slight movement behind him and a cold, metallic, pressure in the nape of his neck.

Then he heard the last word he would ever hear.

DOWN!

The pressure in the nape of his neck forced his face down onto the steering column.

The bullet entered through the brain stem and left his skull through the left eye socket, but, to Frank Slessinger it was irrelevant. He was already dead.

The Cybertronics Corporation specialized in advanced electronic systems, including a sophisticated sequencing mechanism, sometimes used as an arming sequencer for nuclear triggering devices.

4 ENTER, HARRY LAW

WIGFIELD, ENGLAND. The murder of John Dillman in Liverstone did not go unnoticed in Wigfield seventeen miles away.

The article, taking up five column inches of the Wigfield Gazette, occupied the attention of Harry Law, Private Detective.

Harry, who spent more of his time looking for detective work than actually doing it, found the article interesting. Who knows, there might just be work there that someone would pay for. He badly needed it. He circled the article with a red pen as an item to follow up when next over in that direction.

Two days later found Harry over in Liverstone on other business so he decided to find out what he could about the local murder. He had already gleaned some information from the article in the Wigfield Gazette.

The man who had been killed, John Dillman, was sixty years old and had left a wife, two sons, a daughter and four grandchildren. He had lived in the area for thirty two years and throughout that time he had worked at the nuclear energy plant at Windscale, thirty five miles away. It went on to say that the police from Liverstone and Thurston were investigating the case. Apparently the murdered man's wallet, briefcase, and various other items were missing and the police seemed to think that this was just a case of mugging that had got out of hand.

Harry was no stranger to the local force. Police Sergeant Jack Brighouse's hulk was poised on a stool behind the desk.

Hi Harry, how's it going? he asked.

About normal . . . dead slow he smiled back. Just wondered what you could tell me about the local murder, Jack

Don't think there's much to tell really, Harry, but it's Detective Sergeant Relton who is handling the case, along with some of the lads from Thurston. Why don't you have a seat, he should be back here shortly. He radioed in not long ago to say he would be back in a few minutes.

Harry thanked him, pushed some coins into the vending machine and sat down with a plastic cup of dark liquid masquerading as coffee. Liverstone hadn't changed much, and the Police Station even less. Harry had visited it a few times as a boy. Same old dark wood desk, same old pendulum clock and maybe the same old papers hanging off the shelves at the back. A small modern extension had been built on at the back but the main office was just as Harry remembered from all those years ago.

Harry took his passport from his pocket and browsed through it to kill the time. He had been thinking of a cheap package holiday in Turkey but he wasn't sure how the tour companies would now react to the trouble in the Middle East.

He turned over the pages. 'Issue date, 5 September 1981'. God! what a ten years that had been, He grinned to himself as he looked at the passport photograph. He looked so bloody immature. Height: five feet eleven inches. Complexion dark. Distinguishing mark five inch scar left knee.

Well, he guessed he hadn't changed too much. A little greyer around the temples, maybe, and definitely not so naive. Or was he? He certainly ought not to be so naive after all that he had been through - but then again - he had become a private detective and what could be more naive than that? Maybe he was just plain dumb. He'd been in the business for eleven months and had spent most of that time chasing jobs. Things were certainly slow compared with his previous life style. Ah, well, maybe things would pick up.

Harry was now forty two years old.

Between school and the age of twenty he had done various jobs but had been unable to settle at any. Looking back he guessed that life had simply been uninteresting.

At the age of twenty, when he had started to confide more in his father, and had talked to him about his need to do something different. His father had laughed. You are just like I was at your age.

His father had gone into the army when he was twenty two. Hadn't enjoyed it very much, particularly at first. Said it had been a kind of a love hate relationship, but, that there had always been plenty to do. With hindsight he could see that it had done him a lot of good.

Harry needed a change. One week later found him in the army and signed up for twelve years.

The year was 1967 and he was in the Corps of Signals. He trained as a Radio Technician, took a parachute course, was selected by the War Office Selections Board for officer training, and worked his way to become Second Lieutenant Law.

He had been in the army three years when the opportunity arose for him to train for Special Operations. He already knew a little about Special Op's. They were respected as an elite group who were hard trained in special techniques of warfare and survival, and were often used on secret missions.

Harry had grabbed the opportunity.

His initial training had lasted four months, and had been tough. He quickly realized why four out of five failed the course. The training had been intensive, and sometimes dangerous, but Harry had loved every minute of it. He had traveled a lot and gone on many covert missions. In 1982 he had been made up to rank of Captain but in 1984, after seventeen years in the army, it had come to an abrupt end. A bad parachute drop had put him in hospital for six months with a damaged spine and numerous multiple fractures.

When Harry left the hospital he was told that it would be at least twelve months before it would be known if he could return to, limited, Special Operation's duty. Alternatively, his background made him a suitable candidate for a vacancy that had arisen at MI7.

MI7 had sounded interesting and he had spent enough time doing nothing. He needed to get on with something useful as soon as possible. He settled for MI7.

Harry went over to the vending machine and pushed a coin in the slot for another cup of liquid. It was no better than the usual sludge that came out of these machines. He looked up at the wall clock and checked his wrist watch. Relton ought to be here soon.

Harry had found MI7 different. There was much about it that he had found interesting and demanding, but it was just so different from Special Operations where the emphasis had always been on intense physical activity.

It had been 1989 when Harry had begun to feel restless. Maybe it was the result of pestroika and the easing of East - West tensions. Maybe it was his change of life - he had just reached forty. Maybe he simply longed for the old action filled days in Special Operations. Whatever it was, he began to ask himself if he wanted to be stuck at MI7 for ever.

It was just about that time that he had run into Dave Armstrong again. He met him quite by accident.

Harry had been wandering around a security exhibition at Olympia, had turned a corner, and walked straight into Dave. At first they hadn't recognized one another. They had both apologized and walked on.

Seconds later his memory jogged him. 'Who the hell was that?' He hesitatingly turned back and peered around the corner only to find that Dave Armstrong had done the same and was standing there looking as puzzled as Harry

It is you isn't it?

Harry?

Bloody hell, it's Dave Armstrong!

It had, after all, been six years since they had suddenly parted company due to Harry's accident.

Harry smiled to himself, now, at the memory of it. The two of them had acted like a pair of kids. They left the exhibition, had a drink, reminisced, had another drink and reminisced some more. It had been a good time.

Harry looked at his watch again and then down at the three empty coffee cups. He was just wondering what the hell Sergeant Relton meant by 'just a few minutes' when he came walking in through the door.

He glanced at Harry as he walked over to the shift desk.

Harry joined him there. He knew Bob Relton vaguely. It's Harry Law isn't it? Bob Relton asked.

That's right, Harry replied.

What can I do for you? Bob Relton queried, looking at Harry suspiciously.

Harry explained that he was a bit short of work at the moment and, having read the write up about the local murder, wondered if there was any angle which he could follow up.

The look on Bob Relton's face said it all. Police business was police business and not something for some half baked private detective. Sorry, he replied, but I don't think there's anything for you there.

At times like this Harry could have easily been tempted to use his Special Op's or MI7 influence, but that wasn't his way of doing things and, anyhow, he was still sworn to secrecy by the Official Secrets Act.

Instead, Harry just smiled and said I wouldn't like to turn up anything that your lads had overlooked.

Relton's action was instantaneous. With a mumbled bloody cheek he disappeared out back and reappeared two minutes later with a folder in his hand.

He handed Harry the folder. Here help yourself, he said, and then crossed over and sat down at the corner desk.

Harry sat down and opened the folder while Relton watched him out of the corner of his eye.

The file contained all of the usual stuff.

Life photographs; death photographs; personal details; location of the body; estimated time of death; Coroner's Report; Doctor's Report; statement by the persons who found the body, and a number of Police Reports.

Harry read on.

At about 9-15 PM, during the hours of darkness, John Dillman had been walking back from the Public Library, about a mile from his home. He had been attacked in Woodfield Lane, a quiet road approaching the rear of his home.

There had been no witnesses and the body had been found by a married couple some forty five minutes, or so, after his death.

He had been severely beaten about the head with a blunt instrument and had died quickly from a fractured skull and brain hemorrhage. Various items had been stolen including his briefcase and wallet. The Coroner had labeled it 'Murder by person, or persons, unknown.'

Harry went through everything in the folder. The photographs, the reports, the statements, but he could find nothing that opposed the police view that this had just been a mugging that had got out of hand.

He went through the folder again, from cover to cover, but could find nothing more.

He handed the folder back to Bob Relton.

Well Sherlock, have you solved it? Relton sneered.

Maybe he deserved that. Harry just said thanks and left the station.

Harry stood outside and wondered what to do next. Should he call Dave and tell him the outcome?

Dave Armstrong had a security and detective agency, of his own, in Brentwood. In fact, following the reunion with Dave in London, they had become firm friends again and it had been Dave who had influenced Harry to leave MI7 and go into business on his own.

He and Dave kept in touch with each other on most things and, although Dave's home and business were forty five miles away in Brentwood, they met two or three times each week, discussed cases, and had a few drinks together.

He had told Dave about the Liverstone murder and that he was going to try and find out more about it.

He wondered now whether to phone Dave, but then decided against it since he had no news other than that the police version seemed to be correct.

In looking through the folder he had made a note of one or two interesting points and had noted the phone number of the Dillman home. He wondered, while he was in Liverstone, if he should phone and see if he could talk to someone there.

He never liked to leave any stone unturned but he hesitated to disturb the family at this time and, strictly speaking, it was nothing to do with