The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  They had all turned to the screen, the backs of their heads to Dan. Pittman was scratching distractedly at his chin. Hak was perfectly still. Azmi shifted his chair and leant in a little more.

  ‘This is the Danske Prince and this is the Ocean Dove, and these dots are the other ships around them. This is Maputo on Monday. Now watch. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, all the time there’s other ships that can see them and they don’t get any time alone. Same on Thursday and Friday. And now Saturday, late afternoon, what do you see?’

  ‘We see,’ Azmi said, without turning, his head nodding.

  ‘You’ve got the Topaz sixty miles south-east and the Stadt Hamburg ninety west. The Prince and the Dove are on their own, at least three hours to themselves, out of sight – and what happened?’

  Dan’s eyes switched from the back of one head to another. They were still, concentrating on the screen. Hak’s thick black hair glinted under the light. Azmi’s bald head glistened, the age blotches bright with maroon, purple and black.

  ‘Opportunity …’ Pittman speculated.

  ‘For what?’ Azmi said, to no one in particular.

  Hak turned. ‘But we know the two ships were never near each other.’

  ‘That’s what the data confirms,’ Dan said.

  ‘Sure,’ Hak replied. ‘And if we don’t believe the data, what happened?’

  ‘The two ships were together and they trans-shipped the cargo.’

  ‘And can the data be manipulated?’ Pittman said.

  ‘I’m no electronics expert, but it stands to reason it can.’

  ‘Okay, assuming they do this trans-shipment?’ Pittman said. ‘This is heavy stuff, right – don’t they need to be at a port?’

  ‘They’re geared,’ Azmi said quietly, almost to himself, his head still turned to the screen.

  Geared? Dan thought. An interesting use of terminology, remembering something Hak had said in the pub the first time they met.

  He picked the point up without comment and elaborated. ‘They’ve got their own cranes. You just put the ships alongside each other and the cranes swing across. Four guns and twelve ammo containers. That’s sixteen lifts at about three minutes each, so forty-eight minutes – half that with two cranes.’

  ‘All over in under thirty minutes?’ Pittman reflected.

  ‘Yeah, basically,’ Dan said, looking around the table at each of them in turn.

  It was Azmi who broke the silence. ‘And what about the data from the ship itself – the Ocean Dove?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it yet but it won’t be much use,’ Dan said. ‘Because of its age, it’s not required by law to record longer than twelve hours.’

  ‘And that’s from when?’ Hak said.

  ‘Well, the French were on site early on Monday morning – so Sunday evening?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Pittman grunted. ‘Completely useless.’

  ‘What about the crew?’ Hak said. ‘Any suggestion of collusion?’

  ‘The Danske Prince? I seriously doubt that. Where are they now, drinking beers on a beach? And then there’s the funerals …’

  ‘Geopolitically. India … Pakistan?’ Pittman mused.

  ‘It’s hardly a rogue state getting its hands on nuclear weapons,’ Azmi said pithily, scratching his head and frowning.

  He turned in his seat, his chin on upturned hands, his narrowed eyes raking Dan’s face. ‘I don’t buy this. The crew of the Ocean Dove are seamen, not assassins. And it’s stirring up a hornet’s nest on my patch and that I will not abide. You’re barking up the wrong tree, and besides, it’s way beyond Five’s remit so why are you and LaSalle wasting your bloody time, and mine? The only one making any sense is your Miss Clymer.’

  On that note, he pushed up from the table and shuffled towards his desk, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘Keep this strictly confidential. Pakistan and India are …’

  Salim Hak and Nick Pittman looked at each other, at Dan, as Azmi sank from sight. In unison they completed his sentence for him. ‘A riddle.’

  Nine

  Rashid took a head-clearing dip in his pool at six thirty in the morning. His villa was on an exclusive estate in Dubai, which boasted a championship golf course, marina and tennis club. Part of his schooling had been in Switzerland, before an MBA from the University of South Florida in Tampa, so the more conservative regime of Sharjah didn’t altogether suit him.

  A Pakistani maid served breakfast on the terrace. She was sixteen, willow thin, the daughter of one of Hassan Khan’s cousins – a relationship that was keeping her virginity intact.

  His eyes followed her gently swaying hips as she turned and went back to the house, the tip of his tongue on dry lips. His gaze dropped, her image fading and Choukri’s appearing in his mind.

  They were both the same age, thirty-two, born within weeks of each other. But Rashid was painfully aware that one of them was just five feet six tall and had a soft paunch spilling over the top of his swimming trunks. But at least today, with his father incapacitated, he wouldn’t have to endure seeing his eyes light up at the sight of Choukri.

  Bulent’s car was already there when he drove his AMG Mercedes into the car park.

  ‘Looking good,’ Rashid said, stepping across to where Choukri was standing.

  The handshake was crushing. He steeled himself and kept the pain from his eyes, welcoming Choukri like an old friend.

  They stood back and ran an eye over each other; Choukri in chain-store working clothes, Rashid in pearly white jeans and a black Dolce & Gabbana shirt with silver trim and buttons.

  Rashid apologised with a grin for his inability to operate the big Italian coffee maker in his PA’s side room. ‘There’s a vending machine in reception,’ he said, glancing to Bulent.

  Bulent raised his hands. ‘I’ve got it.’

  Rashid’s office was large and expensively furnished. To one side was a meeting area with fluffy white carpeting and black leather sofas around a coffee table the size of a honeymoon bed.

  Choukri had his back to him, looking at photographs on the walls. Rashid asked after family and health, receiving a singular ‘Fine’ to each enquiry. His own father’s health was open knowledge and while he hoped for the return of the courtesy, it was not forthcoming.

  ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to the meeting area as Bulent returned from the reception hall, his hands cradling plastic cups.

  ‘It has to be Moritz,’ Choukri said, wasting no time.

  Rashid sat back. ‘Yes, Bulent said that was one of the options you were considering.’

  Choukri leant forward and put his coffee down. ‘It’s not an option.’

  Rashid looked across but failed to catch Bulent’s eye. His phone call last night had left little room for doubt that Choukri’s mind was made up, and he would have welcomed support.

  ‘There are alternatives,’ Rashid said. ‘They’ll work just as well. And besides, we don’t have the money.’

  ‘They won’t work. I’ve seen the firing scenarios from Khan, and we have the money. The Emir has pledged it.’

  ‘I don’t think the Emir realises the cost,’ Rashid said.

  ‘The cost for what?’ Choukri said. ‘For you? If we go to some other terminal there will be people. They’ll see us, they’ll phone the authorities within one minute, and five minutes later some hero in another ship will ram us.’

  ‘They want too much,’ Rashid said. ‘Seven and a half million dollars. Ridiculous. Plus dismantling and packing, shipping, import taxes, reinstallation. And a lot of the plant is outdated technology. It needs updating, so that’s another five. You’re looking at a fifteen mill project. It’s crazy money.’

  ‘Then negotiate. Isn’t that what you do?’ Choukri said.

  Rashid smiled. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  Bulent broke the silence. ‘More coffee?’

  ‘No,’ Choukri said irritably. ‘How much then?’

  ‘Two, maybe three million. No more,’ Rashid said.

  ‘And the dismantlin
g?’

  Rashid’s head wavered from side to side as he estimated the figure. ‘Maybe three quarters.’

  ‘So, we pay that and get the price for the plant down to three, maybe four million – all to be paid upfront before they allow us to put the ship in and load the cargo?’

  ‘Yeah, it has to be upfront,’ Rashid said.

  ‘We can arrange stage payments,’ Bulent added, ‘spread the cost of the plant and the dismantling over about three or four months, but everyone will want final payment before there’s any talk of the ship coming in and taking the cargo away.’

  ‘Then it’s clear,’ Choukri said. ‘And we have a budget of five million.’

  ‘Which we don’t have,’ Rashid said, stabbing the air with a finger.

  Choukri turned to Bulent. ‘How long will the dismantling take, two months?’

  ‘Three will be safer.’

  ‘Okay, so we wrap up the negotiations for the plant by the end of February. The dismantling contractor works through March, April, May, and the cargo will be packed and waiting on the wharf, ready for loading. The ship arrives on a Thursday morning. We take the pilot on board and berth at about noon.’

  Bulent was tapping a thumbnail on his teeth. ‘Thursday won’t work,’ he said.

  Choukri turned. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s no customs office at Moritz. They’ll have to send a customs guy to clear the ship and do the crew immigration and so on. And that guy will inspect the entire ship, and the hold …’

  ‘We can deal with him,’ Choukri said.

  ‘Sure we can, but he’ll go missing and they’ll be looking for him.’

  ‘Shit. You’re right,’ Choukri said. ‘Then we arrive on Friday. No one will miss him for a few hours. And the pilot’s no problem. He’ll go straight to the bridge and won’t know what’s in the hold. We just put him ashore and say thank you.’

  ‘What if the customs inspection is late?’ Rashid said.

  Choukri shrugged. ‘No problem. If the guy is late or doesn’t show up, we just carry on.’

  Rashid sat in silence, chewing it over. It sounded so definite and Choukri was brooking no doubt. And he had no doubt that it was going to happen just the way Choukri said it would. There was exhilaration at being part of it. But it was tinged with fear and regret and resentment at what he stood to lose. He had made his pact with the Emir, as had his father before him, and Bulent, and the Emir had made them all what they were today. This day had to come and they all knew it. No amount of wishful thinking would make it go away.

  ‘So,’ Choukri said after a while, ‘it’s agreed.’

  Rashid shifted in his seat as Choukri got up, stepped around the coffee table and sat down next to him.

  ‘Make it happen. Go next week,’ Choukri said, gripping his arm.

  His face was barely inches from Rashid’s own, his pupils shrinking to dots. Rashid felt himself squirm but Choukri only gripped his arm more tightly, before letting it go with a flick of his fingers.

  ‘I can’t go!’ Rashid said, feeling blood rushing hotly to his cheeks.

  He pushed up to his feet, pacing about the room and flexing his arm, which he knew would show bruising within the hour.

  Behind him, he heard Choukri’s level voice. ‘Yes you can.’

  ‘I can’t fucking go,’ Rashid said, his anger rising. He stopped and turned. ‘It only puts the price up. What do they think when the CEO suddenly flies in? Ah ha, they want this plant, we have them … This is business – things you don’t know.’

  Bulent raised a mollifying hand. ‘He’s right. Better to send Jawad.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Rashid said. ‘Jawad’s a chemical engineer, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘And he’s sharp,’ Bulent said. ‘He’s perfect for it.’

  Choukri was quiet for a moment before conceding. ‘Okay, Jawad can go next week.’

  ‘No!’ Rashid snapped. ‘He doesn’t go next week. He talks to them next week and tells them he’s busy with other projects but will fit it in his schedule soon.’

  ‘Besides,’ Bulent added, ‘it’s Christmas, the new year. Nothing gets done.’

  ‘Okay,’ Choukri said, getting to his feet. ‘But no delays.’ He looked about the room at the various doors, adding, ‘I’ve got to take a shit.’

  ‘Out in the hall on the right,’ Rashid said, pointing to a door at the side and not to his private bathroom.

  When Choukri’s back had disappeared through the door and the sound of footsteps had faded, Bulent patted down the air with his hands. ‘Be cool, Rashid.’

  ‘Cool? I hope this is the last time I see that fucking psycho.’

  ‘He’s just thick-skinned.’

  ‘Skin? That’s not skin, that’s scales.’

  Bulent pushed himself up and stretched his legs. ‘Don’t part on bad terms. Make your peace. If he thinks there’s a weak link, you know what can happen …’

  Rashid breathed out heavily. ‘I know. But would that be so bad?’ he said, adding an ironic smile.

  ‘Let him know you are with him,’ Bulent said.

  Choukri came back through the door with fresh coffee in his hands, giving them each a cup before he sat down. Rashid had seen this in the past. With Choukri, if it was carrot and stick, it was nearly always stick, but how the carrot was appreciated when it appeared. He’d seen the effect on others and he recognised how he too was drawn in.

  He got up and went across to Choukri, taking the seat next to him.

  ‘Don’t doubt it’ll be done. It will be,’ he said, nodding his head and narrowing his eyes for emphasis. ‘Now, you leave tonight, but before that you must see my father. He’s only got weeks to live.’

  ‘And maybe he’ll have a story for me,’ Choukri said, his face brightening.

  ‘This afternoon?’ Rashid said.

  ‘We’ll do that.’ Choukri nodded. He paused before adding, ‘Now this is important. When I was with the Emir we discussed the lead-up. For some months there will be random operations – airports, streets, clubs, where there’s people, where they’re relaxing. Europe, the US, anywhere it hurts and gets attention. It will be a distraction and …’

  ‘Keep the security forces occupied …’ Rashid said, glancing across to Bulent. Neither of them had mentioned the bomb at the Galatasaray match in Istanbul, among Bulent’s own people.

  ‘Exactly,’ Choukri continued. ‘What they call lone-wolf attacks. They think we’re weak, only capable of small things. And when the public panics, they must be seen to be busy, so they use all their resources. And while all this is happening they are thinking that we have never been further away. They think it’s all in the past, that they are winning … So, the Ocean Dove trades on, STC makes plans for Moritz and our brothers around the world make noise. They don’t know why, but they know it must be heard in the highest places, and it will.’

  He drained the last of his coffee. ‘There’s something else. People have been asking around in Pakistan. It’s just one guy doing the asking.’

  ‘But he’s in the way,’ Rashid said, allowing his tone to suggest it was a statement rather than a question.

  Choukri’s head rocked from side to side. ‘I don’t know too much about him yet. Could be better just to feed him some good news. Our guys know what he wants to hear.’

  ‘And if that doesn’t work?’

  ‘Then we deal with him.’ Choukri shrugged.

  Rashid opened his hands questioningly. ‘It’s just routine?’

  Choukri nodded. ‘Sure – the guns, the Ocean Dove going to Bar Mhar. They’ve got to ask …’

  ‘Whose security, the Americans?’ Bulent said.

  Ten

  Dan stepped into the office and handed across a package wrapped in tinfoil.

  ‘Julie’s Christmas cake,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Vikram smiled. ‘You had a good time – did you go to Suffolk?’

  Dan looked down. ‘No, we didn’t make it …’ But then his face brightened. ‘Otherwise it was p
erfect. Did absolutely nothing. A major improvement on last year. And you?’

  ‘Great thanks,’ Vikram said, raising a trouser leg theatrically and flashing lurid new socks.

  Dan raised his eyebrows. ‘Get you. Sexy beast.’

  ‘What happened last year then?’ Vikram said.

  Dan sat down. ‘You know our flat … We had my mother over with her new boyfriend. Total slimeball. Couldn’t hold his drink, pissed by lunchtime and calling me Captain – thinking he’s very clever. Next thing I know he’s in the kitchen and he’s got his hand on Julie’s arse. You know, up her skirt. And I mean right up!’

  His eyes rolled to the ceiling as the image flashed through his mind. The grope was bad enough, but it was the leer and dribble from wine-stained lips that he would never forget. ‘So Julie’s whacked him and he’s getting stroppy – can you believe that? And I’m ready to …’

  Vikram grimaced. ‘So he had turkey in hospital?’

  ‘It was Christmas.’ Dan shrugged. ‘My mother was there. Peace and goodwill to all men …’

  Last year’s celebrations were a struggle he had difficulty forgetting and, looking on the bright side, a resounding success this year. The only drawback was returning to work. With money tight and enthusiasm for festivity scarce, they had closed the door, done absolutely nothing and seen no one. Julie’s parents had won a cruise and Dan’s mother had gone away with another new boyfriend.

  ‘You’re just like your fucking father,’ had been her parting words last year – a father he couldn’t remember. She knew they were the worst six words for him to hear. It came as no surprise that they didn’t speak to each other until the summer.

  Both Dan and Julie had taken some extra time off and devoted it to each other and Phoebe. They had examined the family budget and set a spending cap – no unnecessary outlay until June. A resolution had been made about the unhappy state of their careers. Julie would try to find a way to get paid by her clients and find clients and work that was profitable, and Dan would make a conscious effort to understand, live with, and bend himself to the security service. If one or both of them made no progress, they would be free to start again with something else. This was also to be reviewed in June.