Robert Stone - Chasing Black Gold: The Incredible True Story of a Fuel Smuggler in Africa

Theres a race of men that dont fit in,

A race that cant stay still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

Robert Service, The Men That Dont Fit In

For my two beautiful children and in loving memory of my wife. In my search for riches I lost sight of the fact that the love of your family is the most precious treasure we can find in this world. Thank God I realised this before it was too late.

Greg C. and Matthew H., the lawyers who master-minded my case and whom I now consider to be extremely close friends. They quite literally saved my life.

I could not have written this book without Alan Wilkinson. He worked tirelessly over the years helping me weave together the complicated threads of the past.

Reverend Lesley, who helped me survive through the grief-filled years after my bereavement.

Humfrey H., thank you for your continued efforts to make Chasing Black Gold a global success and for the faith you have had in the project from day one.

Thanks to Mark B. from The History Press for having the courage and belief to take this book on, and thanks to Rebecca N., Rachel J. and the rest of the team for your efforts in bringing the work to publication.

Beth P., thank you so very much for patching me through on those three-way calls to my family from the various prisons in the USA that I was incarcerated in. Without you, my time away from them wouldve been so much harder.

Jimmy M., who first helped me to gather together and organise my notes for this book.

Thank you to Joan D. for your cheerful and positive guidance during the editing stage.

Roberto C.P., whose friendship and advice helped me immensely during the very difficult times while I was fighting extradition from Switzerland.

The late Hans Hass your book Diving to Adventure inspired me and gave me the belief that there was a better world out there. I wished I could have met you to thank you in person.

The late Charlie McWhorter always there when I needed him. Thanks for rounding up the Good Spooks to look after my family and me.

A very, very special thanks for my G.G. Since you came into my life, your love, trust, belief and support has made me want to dance again.

Up ahead, there was a row of stationary cars, half on the road and half off it. Men were standing beside them in small groups smoking and talking. Others were squatting on the ground. One or two were cooking over little fires. In the distance, maybe half a mile away, I could see the coloured flags of the gas station. Jesus, some of these people would still be here next month guys who were being paid by the day to line up for fuel, which might be available and might not. I felt a momentary pang for my part in the shortages. But then I told myself, same as I always did, if it wasnt me operating the black market hey, it would be somebody else. Thats Nigeria for you.

Just as I thought we were clear of the hold-up, Solomon put his foot on the brake, bringing the Landcruiser to a halt. A car had rammed a minibus and a couple of injured people were lying on the road. Passers-by glanced at the scene and hurried on. The policeman in his bright-orange kiosk waved us past.

We were out of Warri now, onto the main road, leaving behind the piles of trash where kids fought over anything worth having: a screw-top plastic jug, a discarded T-shirt or a deflated football. We were speeding between rows of low trees, swinging out to pass the occasional motorbike that puttered along, piled high with sacks of produce.

Solomon leaned forward and switched the radio on to catch the hourly news bulletin. I was half listening, in case there was a story I hadnt heard already, but it was the same old thing. Some asshole decides to help himself. Maybe he has one of those DIY refineries back in the swamps. Drills through a supply line straight into a pressurised flow of light oil. Up she goes and fries half a dozen innocent kids. Next thing, a politician waddles out onto the steps of his mansion flanked by bodyguards and tells the reporters, no, he never took any bribe. Then, news from the coast another fishing area has been wiped out after an oil spillage.

After a mile or two, I got Solomon to turn the damned thing off. It made me uncomfortable. Besides, any day that ends up with a drive to Lagos along that potholed piece of shit they call a road is not a good day to listen to bad news. Theres enough on your mind with the gun, loaded and cocked, sitting in your lap, ready for the ambush you just know will happen, sooner rather than later.

And then theres the past, always there in the background, tainting everything you do. Right now, it was threatening to screw up my new life, the life that had started when my kids came along. That changed everything. Suddenly I was thinking it might be time to get the hell out of Nigeria take the money and go. All my life, since I ran out on my mother, Id been like a gambler on a hot streak. Right now, I had to be worth 30, 40 maybe 50 million although, as someone once said to me, a man who can add up exactly what hes worth usually isnt worth much. Maybe this was the moment to scoop up my chips, cash them in and spread the money out on the table. For the family.

But even as all this raced through my head and the green of the jungle flashed past, I found myself thinking about the new tankers. They were going to bring a whole new dimension to the black market oil side of the business. No more shitty little barge loads picked up in the night in mosquito-infested swamps. No more dealing with punk bandits brandishing gold watches and guns.

Every time I did the sums, I found myself breathing hard. We were already taking just about every gallon they produced in Warri. No wonder there was nothing left to sell to the locals; no wonder there were lines a mile long at every gas station. I was making a million and a half bucks profit a month with a 6,000-tonne vessel, and now my man The Admiral had fixed it for me to bring a 90,000-tonner right slap bang into the refineries in Lagos and Port Harcourt. Ninety frigging thousand. Welcome to the big league, Rob.

I shifted forward in my seat as I caught sight of the oil drums lined up across the road and the uniformed figures lounging around them. Normally I would have a navy guard in the vehicle with me, rifle poking out the side window, and wed sail through but today the whole crew had gone missing and nobody could tell me why. Even as Solomon slowed the car I was fumbling around in my briefcase, feeling for the bundles of 20 and 50 naira notes.

It was the mobile police, the guys with face shields and black uniforms, leather helmets hanging low at the back to protect their necks the Kill-and-Go, who could gun down an innocent civilian any time they wanted and walk away unpunished. Evil bastards which is why I got a unit of them stationed across the road from my base in Warri, a unit whose commanding officer, Lieutenant Ogabie, now drew a nice monthly stipend from yours truly. But these guys we were approaching, they wouldnt have a clue who I was.

As we pulled up, three or four of them sauntered towards the car. One tapped on my side window with the barrel of an Uzi. I wound it down. Open the back, he said. I nodded to Solomon, who clicked the tailgate release.

Where are you going to? the guy with the Uzi asked.

Lagos, I said.

Where have you come from?