The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  ~

  The south-facing tables outside Alfredo’s were bright with sunshine.

  ‘And a rum. A large one,’ Dan said.

  Alf put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Bad news, son?’

  ‘Dunno. Good and bad, I think. But probably mostly good …’

  It seemed the only way to look at it. An unofficial caution. That was all. And six weeks’ paid leave. But it was freighted with disappointment.

  Weak, he thought. Piss weak. David Myles had said there would be consequences. Really? In the here and now there were none. Long term or career-wise? Maybe. Perhaps that was what he had meant. Perhaps it summed up the service, which was the greater disappointment. Somehow the edifice was crumbling before his eyes. It was supposed to be an elite institution. He’d pinned his hopes on it – and on proving to himself he was worthy of his place in it.

  Alf put the tray down, looking on solicitously, his white coat hovering by the table.

  ‘It’s okay, Alf,’ Dan said, glancing up with a smile.

  The coffee was strong and hot, the rum intensifying the heat as it coursed through him. All his life he had faced consequences. Now he felt like a protected species, unaccountable. As a child he’d regularly felt the flat of his mother’s hand. More often it had been whatever she happened to be holding at the time. The estate and borough he’d grown up in were harsh places to step out of line. There was no escape from consequences in the navy, from above and from contemporaries. At sea, in command, the penalties were even greater, because one set one’s own. These new ground rules felt uncomfortable, the protection unearned.

  And now Clymer was to be promoted – because she wasn’t up to it at this level? No, don’t get cocky, he reflected, accepting there was plenty he didn’t know. But could that really be how the service dealt with discipline? He shook his head. Surely not. Fuck it. He sighed. Two things seemed clear. Either his imagination was running ahead of itself or there was something he wasn’t quite getting. He drained the last of his coffee and resolved he had only one thing to do: go back to the office and close the file. Play the game. Although there was an option. He could put it into cold storage. It was more or less the same thing, but it would leave a faint pulse in the case’s veins.

  Whichever direction his thoughts took, they kept arriving back at LaSalle. Surely he protected me, Dan thought. Left solely in the hands of JC, Myles and HR, it could only have gone one way. Yet there he had been, softening the blows. Why had he done that? Because ultimately it was all his own fault and he’d owned up to it? Or was it because they still had unfinished business together, regardless?

  Yes, LaSalle had bollocked him, loudly. That was clear, Dan thought. But how quickly he’d thrown a blanket over the flames. He remembered LaSalle glancing over his shoulder from the window, his gaze drifting to the place at the table occupied a short while before by Jo Clymer. ‘We can’t all be perfect,’ he’d said. ‘And nearly all our best people have a degree of – difficulty.’ Was that a reference to me, he wondered, or his own younger self?

  And the anger. Had that been at the ruination of a vital and promising case? No way, he thought. Or had he been piqued at the absolute letter of the law, his law, not being followed? And whatever his private agenda was, how would his own withholding of the information about the Bar Mhar raid have been critical? Dan looked around, pondering, trying to find some connections, a finger pinging the empty rum glass.

  In the corner of his eye he became aware of a figure. Coming down the street from the north was a man. Was this the same guy that went up about ten minutes ago? The jeans and the bomber jacket were registering in his subconscious, as was the unobtrusive walk. He lifted his eyes as the guy approached, watching him closely, provocatively. The man passed by without reaction and turned the corner.

  Dan got up from the table. At the junction he watched the leather back disappearing along the embankment. About two hundred metres away, the man stopped and spoke to someone coming in the opposite direction.

  Two minutes later Dan nodded and flashed the ID in his wallet. ‘Excuse me, sir. The guy in the bomber jacket just now. What did he say to you?’

  The man looked Dan up and down and took half a pace back. ‘Er, nothing. He was looking for Talbot Street …’

  ‘Foreign accent?’

  There was a shake of the head. ‘No. Nothing. Maybe northern?’

  ~

  ‘And that’s it, just some kind of informal caution,’ Julie said. ‘And six weeks, doing what?’

  ‘That’s what they said.’

  ‘And it means what, three strikes and out, or …?’

  Dan shook his head. ‘Dunno. I’ll ask Vikram.’

  ‘Just as it’s going so well,’ Julie said, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Is it? I’d been keeping it in. but …’

  ‘Hiding it from me.’

  ‘I wasn’t hiding it, but anyway, at work it’s out. And I know it hasn’t done me any good.’

  ‘Us. It hasn’t done us any good.’

  Dan opened his hands, pleading guilty. ‘Us.’

  ‘So come on, tell me something,’ Julie said, her voice rising.

  ‘There’s a file, okay. JC was telling me to close it and walk away. But I saw a threat and she wasn’t interested.’

  He reached across, covering her hand with his own, but it brought no response. ‘You remember before Christmas when Lars phoned, the Danish ship sank? That’s what it’s about, and it’s been going on since then. Anyway, I forced the issue and was told to close it, but I didn’t, and then I put in a written recommendation for a full case, which JC rejected – in writing. Then she told me to close the file again.’

  ‘And you didn’t.’

  ‘No. But I have now. Well, sort of. It’s in cold storage.’

  ‘Cold storage?’

  ‘It’s an official status. It’s okay.’

  Dan recognised the look in her eyes, the tone of voice, the body language. Her threshold for bullshit was low, usually signalled by creases in her brow, and he realised that he was getting dangerously close to it.

  ‘You’re not taking any of this in, are you,’ she said, her eyes running up and down, her forehead showing pronounced lines. ‘You’re just getting in deeper.’

  He didn’t reply. She looked away before turning back to him. ‘So it was just you and Clymer, and she’s being what – emotional about it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Dan said.

  ‘And the facts back you up?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dan.’

  ‘They didn’t want to listen.’

  ‘No, you listen for once!’

  ‘Don’t bollock me. What do you think? You’re the PR expert. What’s best for us?’

  ‘So it’s my problem then?’

  ‘No.’ Dan sighed. ‘It’s my problem.’

  ‘So she’s got the facts on her side and you’re the emotional one. And then you undermine her. Brilliant. You think that works?’

  ‘It’s my watch, my conscience, that’s all.’

  ‘Your conscience. Your watch.’

  Julie pushed her chair back noisily from the table. He looked up at her bristling back as she fiddled with things on the worktop, moving jars and bottles about distractedly, scraping them across the surface, clunking one into the other.

  ‘Other people were involved,’ Dan said. ‘LaSalle, you know, I’ve told you about him, the deputy director.’

  She turned in an instant. ‘Deputy director – of the whole of MI5? You didn’t mention that.’

  ‘It’s okay. I told him what he wanted to hear – smoothed it over.’

  ‘Smoothed it over?’ she said, stretching the word out. ‘Yeah, right …’

  ‘It’s okay. He’s from Suffolk,’ Dan said, nodding to himself before realising the pointlessness of what he’d just said.

  ‘Suffolk? Fuck Suffolk!’ Julie cried, flinging her hands up, her shaking fists hovering with exasperation over his head.r />
  ‘But what if I’m right?’

  ‘Oh yeah, there’s always that,’ she said, before sighing with what she referred to as his full name. ‘Dan Brooks no argument.’

  He opened his mouth but quickly closed it again, feeling no response was probably the right response.

  ‘Look, you bonehead,’ she said, reaching down and shaking his shoulders. ‘No one will want to work with you. How can your managers deal with you?’

  ‘JC’s going. Been promoted.’

  ‘It’s not her. It’s the next one and the one after that.’

  ‘But what if I’m right about this?’

  She rapped a knuckle on his head before smoothing the hairs down with the flat of her hand.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ she said, staring down.

  ‘But what if I’m right?’

  ‘Stop saying that, will you! You think you’re the first? It’s not about being right.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s about … It’s about the way things work.’

  ‘Is it? Look, I don’t know what to think. One minute I’m in the shit and the next minute some senior guy is pulling me out of it – for reasons I can’t explain. And he’s some kind of impressive dude. Brain like a supercomputer. But he’s also human. And he had three cautions on his file when he was younger. He’s something else … got a big place in Suffolk,’ he added. ‘Family’s been there five hundred years. It’s got a moat – can you believe that, a moat.’

  ‘I can,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to speculate about someone I don’t know – even if their roots are in Suffolk and their ancient family seat is moated …’

  She stood in silence, staring down for a moment and turning with a flourish. Dan listened to the sound of heels on the kitchen floor, along the hallway, the bathroom door slamming shut. He knew she understood and he knew she could never accept it.

  And what if he were right? What sort of man would she be left with, he wondered? A compromised man, like so many of the others she worked with every day – the ones she advised how to compromise themselves to their maximum benefit, to their mutual benefit, because, after all, she got paid for it. Why not split their duties as husband and wife. She could walk with the money and he could stand on principle, one offsetting the other, with both consciences assuaged. Wasn’t that what a marriage was all about, balancing the metaphorical books?

  Deeper still, he knew what lay at their foundations, what underpinned them, what they had built from. It was ground they had been over before. He knew her questions, and the answers she gave herself. Why did I marry this man? Because I love him. Can I change him? Not really. Do I want to? Not really. What would I think of him? He wouldn’t be the man I love. But more importantly, what would she think of herself? It was this she would find the most troubling. From his side, he always kept it short and simple. He wouldn’t change a thing about her. And it was true.

  Twenty-five

  ‘No, I’m tired and I’m pissed off,’ Bulent said. ‘Bar-fucking-Mhar … Complete waste of time. All the way there and all the way back, just to have him spray me with a mouthful of pizza and grunt “Exactly, I knew all about it.” And he lets me bang on for about twenty minutes before he says it.’ He shook his head and ran a hand over his cheek, picking at a bite-scab under a two-day stubble. ‘I’m going home for a shower and a sleep.’

  Jawad ran his eye over him. ‘Well, you’d better ease up on the coffee.’

  Bulent looked down at the mug in his hand, blinking distractedly. ‘You should see it. Arsehole of the world. Nearly all the way to Iran. Dead shit all over the road – camels, goats, cows, and the flies and fucking mosquitoes. Hassled at every police and army roadblock, and I’ve got a driver who only speaks Urdu or whatever it is, and a clapped-out old Toyota that stinks of exhaust fumes.’

  Jawad listened patiently to his ranting, knowing it would burn out quickly. Yes, it had tired him and offered no opportunity to experience the finer things in life, but to his own mind it had not been a waste of time. It had served a very meaningful purpose.

  Well,’ he said. ‘At least we know we’re one jump ahead.’

  ‘There’s that,’ Bulent conceded.

  ‘And he knew the raid was coming?’ Jawad continued. ‘He knew the date and time, but didn’t warn us – so we’d act more naturally?’

  Bulent threw a hand up. ‘Yeah, just that. He knew there wouldn’t be anything incriminating so he let it go right ahead. And it wouldn’t surprise me to find out he was behind it … well, maybe. He kept banging on about how important the emails between OceanBird and the yard were – you remember?’

  Jawad remembered well enough how Choukri had emphasised the importance of a plainly visible dispute over shoddy workmanship. ‘It was an insurance, that’s all. A good insurance, but only in the unlikely event of some sort of raid happening.’ He shook his head. ‘But he had a hand in it? No. I don’t buy that.’

  Bulent’s face screwed up. It seemed to Jawad that he was clearly of the opinion that Choukri was capable of anything. He sat back, chewing over some of the other things Bulent had told him, trying to put everything in order and perspective. He was surprised at the reach and depth of the Network’s intelligence. They had people everywhere, he knew that, but he was shocked to imagine the levels they had penetrated to.

  The information in Choukri’s hands was coming straight from the top. At every stage, starting with the Danish Maritime Authority report, they had known what their opposition was thinking and doing. The security services had established that the first opportunity for the Ocean Dove to intercept the Danske Prince with any degree of privacy had been late on the Saturday afternoon. They had considered the trans-shipment scenario and examined the satellite imagery. Fortunately, the frames were heavily blurred and the artfully disguised RIB had been dismissed as a migrating whale – as intended. The dhow fragments were found to have been impregnated with SAPET’s unique ammonium nitrate formula, and every available piece of tracking data proved conclusively the Ocean Dove had not been within a dozen miles of the accident – until it went to help.

  Just one person had formed a dissenting view and everyone had dismissed his opinions. It all seemed to boil down to this one guy. Bulent had evidently been unable to find out which security service he worked for – while implying that he suspected Choukri knew but wasn’t prepared to divulge it. The guy was ex-navy and he’d served time on merchant ships, which meant he’d been able to look at it all with an informed eye. But he was new to the security services and no one was backing him. They believed the facts and the data, the facts and data that Choukri had so painstakingly contrived.

  ‘And the guy making all the trouble was taken off the case even before the raid?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what Choukri said,’ Bulent replied. ‘And the case itself is low priority now – just some sort of political football they’re kicking around.’

  ‘You think he’s CIA?’

  ‘Guess so. The London office? But I don’t know for sure. The satellite and whale people were definitely American. And like I said, he told me loads of stuff about him, but not who he is.’

  ‘It’s weird. A guy in his thirties, married with a baby daughter, ex-navy, ex-freighters, chasing a guy in his thirties, married with a baby daughter, ex-navy, ex-freighters …’

  ‘It’s totally fucked up,’ Bulent said, pausing. ‘And Choukri liked it. He didn’t say it but I could tell. He liked it all right.’

  Jawad pondered the symmetry, the parallel lives. Choukri had a target and it wasn’t necessary. It was personal, matching himself with his own mirror image, wanting to know who the better man was. If the guy’s case was effectively dead, then why bother? The threat had passed, but Bulent was clearly under no doubt that this guy was still figuring largely in Choukri’s sights.

  ‘Why keep it up?’ Jawad said. ‘He’s not a problem any more and it will only draw unnecessary attention. The fire’s gone out so why go back an
d pour petrol on it?’

  Bulent didn’t reply, the look on his face expressing the words for him: you know Choukri.

  And on top of all this, Jawad realised, in a matter of days the Network’s intelligence had established that the security services considered OceanBird benign. The raid had unearthed nothing of relevance and, informally, they were spreading the word that interested parties should not hold their breath. They had wasted their time and money – except for the fringe benefit of furthering relationships in the Emirates.

  He exhaled. ‘And now we’ve got an open road ahead of us.’

  ~

  At seven o’clock on Saturday morning Choukri was standing in the forward end of the hold, looking back over the guns towards the bridge. All four of them were installed in a uniform line, ammunition carousels at their sides, barrels pointing over his head, synchronised to the millimetre. The main fitting out had been completed the previous evening, leaving the final coupling of hydraulics and electrics, cable protectors and walkways for today. There was even a folding table, a command centre, hinged in place on the hold wall.

  Each gun placement was identical, but it wasn’t stopping him from checking where one had a small red cable, the next did too. His eyes switched from gun to gun, his boot shuffling a hose across the floor to match the line and angle of its brother. He turned at the sound of a hold door creaking on its hinge.

  It was Khan. Under his arm was a laptop. He smiled and started across, picking his way carefully, taking time to inspect his men’s work. ‘Like it?’ he said, looking around.

  ‘I don’t have the words,’ Choukri said, reaching a hand to a barrel, allowing his touch to express his admiration. He shook his head. ‘It’s the quality. I just never imagined.’

  ‘The men have done a good job,’ Khan said.

  Choukri looked at him. ‘It’s your work.’

  ‘But your vision.’ Khan patted the laptop. ‘The target programming is in here,’ he said. ‘But we have to go through the manual procedures, how you can stop for a minute if you need to, then fire independently.’