The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  Julie smiled. The friend she was meeting was a journalist on a style magazine and she had a critical eye.

  ‘How many ways can you spell Mubarak?’

  Julie looked at him, her expression clearly suggesting she had no idea at all what his question meant.

  He tried another. ‘Why does a senior bloke purposely crap-up his office? Smart place, expensive stuff, but he’s littering it with junk. And it’s dirty – won’t let the cleaners in.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Julie said with a shrug. ‘Who?’

  ‘Azmi, head of India at MI6.’

  ‘And he’s Indian?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s an ascetic,’ she said, turning and heading across the hall.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Look it up. Use that D thing I got you. And don’t say “crap-up”. It’s so … ugly.’

  ‘How do you spell it?’ he called after her.

  At the sound of the front door closing, he reached across for the dictionary, eventually finding the entry. After looking at it for a while, the only conclusion he could come up with was maybe. If Azmi was an ascetic, it still didn’t throw any useful light on the thrust of his original question.

  Putting the dictionary away, he turned to an email he’d received a week or so before from Lars. He’d read it thoroughly, more times than he could remember. It was close to a hundred pages, padded with preambles, protocols, biogs of investigating teams, pictures of ships, maps and cargo lists. Once again, there were photographs of the missing seamen, including the boy who had so narrowly missed his eighteenth birthday.

  He flicked through, going over old ground. Only a limited amount of debris had been recovered from the accident site and he’d seen it with his own eyes on exhibit tables at the Danish Maritime Authority. There were two lifebelts and a hard hat, each marked with the ship’s name. DNA analysis confirmed with ninety-nine per cent accuracy that the hat belonged to the chief engineer.

  The mate of the Danske Queen had sailed previously on the Danske Prince and had long admired the captain’s binoculars case – made from a distinctive leather with an elaborately tooled clasp. He confirmed the case was certainly Captain Pedersen’s.

  There was a residue of blood on the elbow of a shirt. It had belonged to the second engineer. His wife confirmed he suffered from eczema and was apt to scratch it, especially around the elbows.

  Dan sighed. It was hard to concentrate on such details while his mind insisted on returning to the timber fragments. The explanation was too neat, too logical. He shook his head and scrolled on.

  Lieutenant Boissy was routine and anodyne, raising his head above the parapet with an opinion just once – to praise Captain Mubarak and the Ocean Dove’s crew. Well, he thought, what could he expect to read here? There was little chance of a line starting: ‘Then to our surprise we discovered four cases of Bofors guns and twelve containers of ammunition …’

  Captain Mubarak’s own statement was logical and comprehensive. He was evidently intelligent and a man of feeling, Dan thought. All his actions were correct by any code he might be judged by – humanity, professionalism or the code of the sea. There was nothing new to glean. He and his crew were the only witnesses. They were plausible witnesses. They added authoritative weight to what was appearing to be the accepted, and acceptable, assumption.

  The further he read, the more it seemed to want to head in a certain direction. To call it a whitewash would be too strong. But it had a clear tone. Perhaps the authors were unaware of it. Perhaps they would be disappointed to hear they were giving that impression – to at least one particular reader in London.

  The report closed by stressing its findings were preliminary and no conclusions could be reached at this early stage. The investigation was ongoing. But he had to conclude his case seemed to be weakening. What would his colleagues think, especially Clymer? They would repeat their argument. The incident’s cause was clear. Where was his defence going to come from? ‘But,’ he said to himself, out loud, with a shake of his head, ‘that timber’s not right.’

  He closed the file and logged into the AIS website. After Mozambique, the Ocean Dove had steamed north to Mombasa and was now showing an ETA in Umm Qasr, Iraq, for the end of February.

  From the amount of time the ship spent in Mombasa, he concluded it had been loading. So, well done Bulent Erkan, how clever of you. He knew that a ship was supposed to earn its money on a trip to East Africa, where outward cargoes were scarce, and anything a ship could load out of Mombasa was generally thought of as a bonus.

  Though he knew his face only from LinkedIn, the overriding image in his mind was of a really short, fat guy, all Armani, Gucci and giant Rolex. He turned, gazing absently towards the window. I’d like to meet you, Bulent. That would really be something. I want a good look at you. I want to know what you’re capable of. Are you a front for some sort of terrorist group, and who are they, what are they? Or are you just a thief, a modern-day pirate, stealing to order, but for whom? Who are you really, Bulent Erkan?

  Just before ten o’clock, he closed the laptop and reached under the sofa. Julie was going to be home by eleven. Just a small one, he thought, pulling the weed box out and starting to roll a joint. A few draws, Dennis Bovell on the headphones, in bed by the time Julie got back.

  He was tamping down the roach when his mobile rang.

  ‘Hi, it’s Melissa. Not too late, I hope? I’ve just got the analysis back and I know you wanted to hear right away.’

  Dan nodded as she ran through the processes before reaching the conclusion.

  ‘It’s a what?’ he said, the joint crushing to dust in his fist.

  Nineteen

  The Ocean Dove was nestling at a berth in Jebil Ali, Dubai, closing its hatch after the cranes had placed the last bulldozer on the bed of a waiting trailer. Umm Qasr had come and gone without incident and, as a bonus, the ship had fixed some construction equipment being demobilised from a contract in Iraq. It was only half a cargo and it had paid badly, but it was better than nothing.

  It was Saturday, 12 March. Just before noon Choukri took the Metro into Dubai, where the line ended, before hailing a cab to complete the journey to Sharjah. Saturday was a normal working day, the first of the week. Everyone was at work.

  In Bulent’s office, Choukri pressed his hands flat on the meeting table. They were still dirty from supervising the unloading, a fingernail torn at an ugly angle, the bandage around it stained.

  ‘Gabon? No fucking way!’ he said. ‘Don’t even think it.’

  Jawad, Bulent and Rashid looked at each other, then at Choukri.

  ‘So we’ll take the feedering,’ Bulent said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Bulent had two employment options for the ship. One of them was a cargo to Gabon. The voyage would take them south around the Cape and up the coast of West Africa. The schedule would be tight, without any hitches. Choukri was not prepared to risk languishing in Africa while they tried to find a suitable cargo to reposition the ship back in the Indian Ocean, in Pakistan, where nothing was going to stop him from keeping his appointment with Khan.

  There was also some feeder work, but it was only for thirty days.

  ‘A month’s work. Then we find a cargo to India or Pakistan,’ Choukri said, turning to Rashid and making sure his irritation was clear in his voice.

  Rashid had backed Bulent’s argument for the Gabon cargo, pointing out it paid better – acting the role of the astute businessman. Choukri could accept Bulent’s default position would always be to do what was best for the ship. But Rashid, what did he know about ships and why should he care? He just wanted to hear his own voice and find some higher ground to look down from. Jawad, Choukri noted, kept his own counsel until asked and didn’t hesitate to back the feedering.

  ‘Okay. We do the feeder work,’ Rashid said, as though he was chairing the meeting.

  ‘Of course we do,’ Choukri said. ‘What are you thinking – or not thinking? We’re so clos
e now I can almost smell it and you’re pissing about over a few dollars. And yeah, I’ve got the date from the Emir. It’s all approved.’

  Choukri leant back. The reaction around the table was clear. They sat in silence, knowing what it meant – that the Network’s planners and strategists had completed their studies, their modelling of the human and financial costs, the impact on the victims’ and nation’s psyche, and the long-term prospects on the long and tortuous road to recovery.

  ‘And what does it look like?’ Jawad said after a while.

  ‘Like everything we can dream of,’ Choukri said, nodding to himself. ‘Thirty, forty thousand, maybe more …’

  ‘Dead?’ Bulent said.

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘And injured?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ Choukri pondered. ‘A quarter of a million – we can only hope …’

  Eyes dropped to the table. Further questions were redundant.

  ‘Anyway, what’s happening at Moritz?’ Choukri said, looking across to Jawad.

  ‘It’s good,’ he said, straightening in his seat and clearing his throat. ‘The contractors are doing well. Everything’s on schedule.’

  ‘And you?’ Choukri said, turning to Bulent.

  ‘Same. The agents are lining it all up, the customs, the stevedores, everything.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Choukri nodded.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ Rashid said. ‘We were wondering what we’re going to be doing, where we go, you know … No one’s said anything and we’d like to stick together, us three.’

  Choukri affected to listen as Rashid went through the lack of information and the vagueness of the instructions they had received. His eyes switched to Bulent and Jawad, who exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Neither of them looked in Rashid’s direction, distancing themselves from his use of ‘we’.

  ‘But you’re going in the morning?’ Choukri said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rashid said, ‘but …’

  ‘What more do you need?’

  ‘We’d just like to know. Where, what, you know.’

  Choukri shook his head. ‘They know you. They know what you can do. You’ll go where they need you.’

  ‘But you don’t know where that is?’

  ‘No,’ Choukri said, surprised that it was assumed he might. He also made sure there was a conciliatory tone in his denial, meant for Bulent and Jawad, letting them know that he understood Rashid was speaking for himself and not for them.

  To placate Rashid, Choukri turned and said, ‘You’ll all be fine. I was going to talk to you about it anyway. Let’s have two minutes together at the end.’

  Jawad broke the silence. ‘You know STC has been sold?’

  ‘No?’ Choukri said.

  ‘Venture capitalists in Singapore. They’ve got an office here in Dubai. Thirty-five million.’

  ‘Dirhams?’

  ‘Dollars,’ Rashid said, his tone reproving.

  Choukri pondered, but ignored the slight. ‘Capitalists … so much …’

  ‘The completion date’s set for the first of the month,’ Jawad said. ‘So if we want to get paid you’d better not arrive early at Moritz. We want to hold the money – they can hold the baby …’

  ‘And buyers are looking at the Ocean Tern in Djibouti next week,’ Bulent added.

  Choukri nodded. ‘Khan’s doing well. He’s going to be ready.’

  The feeder contract was good news. Choukri was keen to tell Mubarak and the crew, who would be particularly pleased. It was comparatively easy work, carrying containers for a big shipping line to and from the smaller ports that the big ships didn’t call at – feeding containers to and from the mother ships. They’d be given a set rotation of ports in the Arabian Gulf and stick to a strict schedule, always knowing where they would be on a given day. It was routine, which could be dull in the long term, but it would also be a welcome break. As a bonus, it was three days before they were due to start, in Fujairah, which meant shore leave.

  ‘By the way,’ Choukri said, ‘I got the Danish preliminary report. They like the IED. They’re buying it.’

  ‘It was worth all the trouble – getting the right stuff,’ Jawad said, nodding his head.

  ‘You got the report from India?’ Bulent added.

  ‘Exactly. But I also got it from London, where everything is …’ Choukri said, scowling, his voice trailing off.

  ‘Is what?’ Jawad said. ‘Problems?’

  Choukri shook his head. ‘Nothing. I got it covered.’

  Bulent pushed up from the table. ‘Just give me a few minutes. I need to reconfirm it with the brokers.’

  Choukri turned to Jawad, his eyebrows raised questioningly. ‘Can you just …’

  ‘I’ll get a coffee,’ Jawad said, leaving Choukri and Rashid alone.

  Choukri turned to him and leant across the table. ‘You shouldn’t have sent those messages.’

  Rashid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I just wanted to make …’ he started to say.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ Choukri repeated, before raising his hands and patting down any response in a calming gesture, his voice soothing. ‘You don’t have to worry. Your talents are known. They know this. They need people like you, leaders, business leaders, people with special talents. I don’t know where you will go or what you will do there, but I know they need you.’

  Choukri had only received a summary of the messages from his contact in the Network, but he knew they had broken every kind of protocol. The coffee was cold and bitter. He swallowed a mouthful of it to mask the unpleasant taste of both his previous words and those still to come.

  ‘We don’t always get on, Rashid, but I know you and they know you. Everyone knows what you can do. We need money, and who could be better? You do things I can’t begin to understand. You know things I will never know. Who is more valuable? You are. Not me. So just wait. Be patient. Trust your brothers as they trust you. Okay?’

  Rashid sat back, his chin lifting a degree higher with each of the honeyed words. Choukri looked at him, trying to summon compassion to his eyes as contempt spun through his mind, expecting Rashid’s first impulse, fortunately suppressed, would be to acknowledge the accuracy of his eulogy and add weight to some of the finer points. But, luckily for both of them, it seemed another voice within was telling Rashid to be quiet.

  Choukri stood up and extended his arm across the table, careful not to crush the soft hand that met it. ‘Please, will you ask Jawad if he has two minutes for me.’

  When Rashid’s back disappeared through the door, Choukri swirled his tongue around his mouth, reached for the coffee cup and spat into it.

  While Bulent made his calls and sent confirming emails, Choukri sat alone with Jawad, going over his plans of the Moritz terminal, studying the sketches and photographs, comparing images on Google Earth, adding to his own mental picture of the layout and location.

  ‘And the main building?’ Choukri said.

  Jawad thumbed through the dossier. ‘Here,’ he said, showing him the relevant photos. ‘It’s pretty rough now – pigeons in the rafters, broken windows, bird droppings on the floor.’

  ‘When I stand on the jetty and look across the river, what do I see?’

  ‘Straight across you’ve got the warehouses and workshops. Behind that are the exhibition centre and airport. Then upstream is the fuel storage depot.’

  Choukri nodded. ‘North-west.’

  ‘Mainly west. Only a little north.’

  ‘Exactly. And downstream, this development place with the bar?’

  ‘It’s four hundred metres away. There’s a creek on the plant’s eastern border, then the development. It’s angled to look away from Moritz – no one wants to see it.’ He shrugged.

  ‘And the bar?’

  ‘I had lunch there – not a bad cheeseburger. It was winter, quiet, but it’s busy in the summer. There’s a big terrace on the river. It’s a typical bar-meets-diner-meets-speakeasy kind of place. Wooden floors, brick walls, black-and-wh
ite pictures of Buddy Holly and Marilyn Monroe, Cadillacs and transatlantic liners – you know.’

  Choukri acknowledged, though he was uninterested in the hospitality industry’s generic design and marketing concepts. He continued to turn pages, collecting his thoughts and honing his perception. He’d studied the maps and charts, plotted GPS positions, measured degrees, minutes and seconds. He knew the location better than anyone. But he hadn’t been there and felt a gnawing hunger to experience it. ‘Here, in the old gasworks,’ he said. ‘The trees will have grown by summer?’

  ‘But not tall. It’s scrub, just wasteland.’

  ‘Okay,’ Choukri said, returning to the pages and muttering about electricity substations and exhibition centres. After a while, he pushed the report to one side. ‘So, the position’s strong. We’re exposed to the open river, but on one side we’ve got the creek and the old gasworks on the other. At the front of the site there’s a steel fence and the main building is between it and the ship. And it’s abandoned, no one there, just two security guards – and our ship on the berth …’ He paused, lifting his eyes and adding emphatically, ‘This is the place.’

  As they wrapped up, Choukri nodded to himself and said ‘good job’, with no indication of whether he was referring to the generality of the discussion, the accuracy of Jawad’s plans, his handling of the Moritz acquisition, or simply everything.

  Jawad’s reticence was rewarded when Choukri added, ‘We can use more like you,’ glancing across and then down at his bandaged finger. ‘Fuck. Trigger finger,’ he said, again with the hint of a smile.

  Bulent’s head appeared around the door. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Fully fixed. Thirty days feedering.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Choukri said, getting up and gathering his things without a backward look.

  ~

  The crew had heard the news by the time he arrived back at the ship. Snoop and Assam were already on the quay, scanning the horizon for the taxi they had ordered.

  ‘We’re taking Faisel. Gonna get him laid by a big fat mamma. She’s gonna sit her onion on his face and piss all over him, yeah,’ Snoop said.