The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  He turned to her, shaking his head. ‘It all just kinda spun out, got complicated. I was just, I dunno, getting lost, I suppose. I guess I was out of my depth. I thought I knew what was going on, but I didn’t, and I couldn’t tie the ends together, and everything just kept getting looser, just slipping away. But I wouldn’t let go. Couldn’t let go …’ he added, as Julie put her hand in his. ‘I told LaSalle this business had crushed me, really crushed me. And it was true, sort of. But it’s the system, their system that crushed me, not the facts, not the evidence, not because I accept I was wrong – he can think what he likes …’ He shrugged. ‘But worst of all,’ he said, pulling his head back and looking directly into her eyes. ‘Worst of all …’

  ‘Don’t doubt yourself,’ she said, squeezing a little tighter. ‘Not over the big things. I don’t.’

  He looked out from the bench over the park, seeing nothing, content in the closeness of the silence and Julie’s presence by his side. There was a feeling of lightening, an unburdening of weight over the guilt for his actions professionally and, even more so, personally. As tension loosened in mind and body, he thought he might finally begin seeing through the haze to the other side, to a bright blue yonder. But as much as he tried to reach out to it, his mind kept returning to the unshakeable belief that something about the Ocean Dove stank.

  Julie turned to him. ‘I’ve been thinking. Perhaps we should go to Suffolk.’

  The joy of those few short words was almost physical. He could feel them coursing through him like endorphins. It was something he’d hoped to hear her say but had not pressed. Friends had recently inherited a cottage on the Suffolk coast from an elderly aunt. Though basic and isolated, it was in a glorious position and they could have it for a fortnight. At first, Julie had resisted the idea, arguing carefree sabbaticals rather than constructive work were indulgent. They had only seen pictures of the cottage, but the garden with its fruit trees and a path over fields to the beach looked so inviting. The future held uncertainties and a day like this only served to reinforce the imperative to press on, with hope, to have confidence in the long term. Their six-month plan would come to an end soon, so why not bookend it with something refreshing?

  ‘We can go together at the beginning for a long weekend and I’ll come back here from Tuesday to Friday to get some work done,’ she said.

  ‘Then you can stay all the next week at the start of June,’ Dan said, checking the calendar on his phone. ‘And when you’re back here I can get on with some things.’

  By way of thanks and a payment in kind he had offered to help sort the place out, give the garden an overhaul and do some odd jobs.

  ‘Phoebe can watch you from under an apple tree,’ Julie said.

  Dan lifted his shoulders from the bench and peered into the pram. ‘I’d like that. It might be her first memory.’

  ‘Like the boy at school …’ Julie said.

  Dan turned to her. He nodded, remembering.

  There had been a boy in his class who always went to Suffolk whenever there was a holiday. With luck, other children may have got a day at Canvey Island, but not Dan. Suffolk had come to be some sort of ideal. He had no idea where this boy went – to a caravan, chocolate-box cottage or five-star hotel. It hadn’t mattered. What counted was that he went, and perhaps now their daughter’s first memory would be sweet compensation, something precious he had not been able to have.

  ‘Suffolk,’ he said.

  ‘Suffolk,’ she repeated. ‘An end to all this.’

  Twenty-seven

  Choukri was on the wings, sweeping his binoculars over Algoa Bay, South Africa, a natural horseshoe forty miles across. To the east was a sandy shoreline and what looked like wilderness beyond. On the west were the industrial ports of Coega and Port Elizabeth, where the Danske Prince had loaded ammonium nitrate and the Ocean Dove had sailed straight past. Port Elizabeth appeared benign today, with its familiar outline of port cranes in the foreground and tall buildings flashing sunlight from glass behind.

  It was just after 09.00 on Tuesday, 10 May, sixteen days after sailing from Bar Mhar.

  Through the open doorway he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Good morning, Algoa Bay. This is Captain Mubarak of the Ocean Dove. We’re dropping anchor at the bunker station.’

  ‘Good morning, Captain. We were expecting you. Please contact the suppliers on channel 14. They’ll be listening.’

  A call for fuel and stores in Algoa avoided the usual formalities. The ship would remain clearly offshore by some miles, without troubling the customs and immigration authorities. A small tanker would come out, tie up alongside and pump fuel in. The same arrangement was made for ship’s stores, which would arrive by supply launch. Offshore in a sheltered bay was quick and easy and, more importantly, it was without inspection or prying eyes. Choukri lowered the binoculars and nodded to himself with satisfaction. Algoa Bay had been identified carefully, one of the few facilities of its kind on the Ocean Dove’s route.

  Bunkering offshore was all well and good as far as the crew were concerned. It required more or less the same input as being in port. Replenishing the stores was another matter, and their arms were aching after days of carrying ammunition. Two hundred and forty tonnes of shells had to be transferred by hand from the storage containers at one end of the hold to the carousels at the other, a distance of fifty metres to the furthest gun and twenty to the nearest. They had started with the greater distance, reasoning the work would only get easier, but the benefit of their logic still seemed far away. Heavy weather near the equator had stopped work for three days. Squalls and a driving wind had seen the ship pitching in troughs, the crew unable to keep their balance, searching for the next handrail as they moved about. Choukri had been pleased to learn the forecast for the next seven days promised fine weather.

  The bunker vessel manoeuvred alongside. Lines were thrown down, some to secure the ships together, others as lead lines to attach to the fuel hoses, which would be hauled up and screwed into the manifolds of the ship’s fuel tanks.

  It was business as usual with all the courtesies. The chandler’s clerk enjoyed coffee and Cookie’s pastries. The bunker technician’s eyes lit up when Mubarak slipped a bottle of whisky in his bag.

  ‘Not bad,’ Mubarak said, glancing at his watch before looking across to Choukri.

  It was five hours since they had dropped anchor. Now they were under way again.

  ‘Next stop, Moritz pilot,’ Choukri said. It had a definite finality to it.

  Faisel gripped the console, concentrating on the horizon before looking around, first to Choukri, then Mubarak.

  Breaking the quiet, Mubarak said, ‘Take her out to twenty.’

  The international convention on territorial waters was set at twelve miles from the shoreline. Beyond that, at a clear twenty miles, a ship could feel secure from interference.

  Choukri turned the figures over in his head. It would be nearly two hours before they were twenty miles offshore, approaching four in the afternoon. It would leave little time for ammunition shifting.

  ‘Okay, no ammo today,’ he said, looking over his shoulder as cheers came from the wing door behind him. ‘Double shift tomorrow,’ he added without a smile.

  They were in whale country now, where the Indian Ocean met the Atlantic. Some had been seen off the port bow in the early light that morning, perhaps a dozen, but too far away to identify. Great white sharks were not uncommon either. Cookie had been told to take extra care when he hauled up his fishing lines in the mornings.

  For the next two days the ship would head due west under the tip of Africa. At breakfast time on Thursday morning, after rounding the Cape of Good Hope, the rudder would turn and point them north.

  Choukri knew how the weather was set for the next week, but the future prospects were troubling him.

  ‘Let’s check the long-term forecast again,’ he said, glancing across.

  Mubarak looked up from the console. ‘We did do it last night,
remember …’

  They logged into the weather-service website, a studious quiet on the bridge as they ran through the voyage scenarios, independently making their own calculations according to speed, distance, wind and current, and the unknowns that only experience could prepare for.

  Mubarak leant in at Choukri’s side as they studied the meteorological charts. It all looked good, the winds minimal, currents steady, sea temperatures as expected, and in a week’s time they would enter a high-pressure zone that was expected to remain constant.

  ‘And here,’ Choukri said, running a finger over the screen, scanning the chart out in the middle of the Atlantic and looking for signs of trouble in the fickle coastal weather systems along America’s eastern seaboard.

  Mubarak nodded his head. ‘No problem there.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ~

  Most of the crew were in their cabins. Only two were on the bridge: Faisel manning the helm and Mubarak staring down at the crossword, his upturned hands under his chin.

  He put his pencil down, glancing around.

  ‘What’s that,’ he said. ‘Do you hear it?’

  Faisel’s eyes searched around in concentration before he eventually shook his head.

  ‘It’s like a vibration. The prop shaft?’ Mubarak added. ‘There, it’s louder now.’

  After a few moments a smile spread across Faisel’s face. ‘Okay, it’s music …’

  Mubarak shook his head and returned to the crossword, satisfied that the equilibrium of his ship was under no suspicion. A minute later, he pushed the paper aside, the corner of his mouth twisting. Coming up through the deck was a steady bass note, its unwelcome vibration competing disharmoniously with the only vibration he wanted to hear – the contented heartbeat of an efficient vessel running smoothly and making good progress.

  Faisel stole a glance from the corner of his eye as the volume cranked up, accompanied by both top notes and an additional rhythmic thumping.

  Mubarak slipped from his chair, pacing around agitatedly and staring at the bridge floor. He tossed his head towards the stairs.

  ‘Get down there and find out what the bloody hell’s going on.’

  Standing at the console, checking the readings, the sound increased once more. Now he could hear men’s voices and catcalls, and barely hear or feel his own ship. A message came into the communications monitor. He saw it flash on the screen but didn’t hear the ping.

  Faisel was back a minute later, the smile on his face reassuring and partly relieving Mubarak’s irritation.

  ‘Yesterday, when you filmed us …’ Faisel began to explain.

  The pieces fell into place. Mubarak had been on the wings, looking down through the open hatch to the chain gang ferrying ammunition to the carousels. After a while he’d started to film it. A couple of hours ago, Snoop had asked to borrow the phone and had transferred the footage to his computer, setting it to music, running through his namesake’s back catalogue until he found a match of rhythm and time.

  There had been symmetry in the crew’s movements when Mubarak watched them, like some bastardised line dance, the men stepping in sequence, three paces in one direction empty-handed, three back again cradling a shell like a baby. After days of practice they had settled on a rhythm that worked seamlessly, each man in sync, spread equally apart in a line from container to carousel. They knew the pace, shifting one way to receive, then the other to offload, repeating their steps like machines.

  Faisel beamed, extending a hand to the door. ‘You’ve got to see it!’

  With a knowing shake of his head, Mubarak made his way to the stairs, descending to the crew deck. Staring along the corridor, the dance and the music was clear in an instant. He glanced down, surprised to see his own foot tapping, his amusement rising as the crew became aware of him and turned the heat up, repeating the moves, camping them up with a flourish and chanting the hook in the soundtrack.

  Snoop’s head was banging. ‘That’s kickin’ tight!’ he yelled, the beat in perfect time with the chain gang’s motion, a line of the crew in the cramped passageway, three steps forward, three back, their arms swaying under the imaginary weight of shells. The volume was at maximum, the men shouting, their faces animated, their boots crashing down in symmetry.

  Mubarak threw his head back. It was good to laugh. It had been a while since the last time he’d felt his ribs ache.

  Turning unobtrusively on his heels, he slipped up the stairs to the bridge. Through the windscreen, the bows ploughed a steady course towards a setting sun that was streaking the horizon in great belts of orange, coral and pink. He looked at the majestic colours for a moment, a wistful smile creeping over his face. Below him, the unfamiliar vibrations of the ship from music and the thumping feet of a happy crew filled him with optimism.

  Twenty-eight

  Jawad pulled into the yard and parked next to Bulent’s car. He checked his watch. It was five thirty in the morning. As he got out of the car, Rashid pulled in behind him.

  Rashid came over, greeting the two of them cautiously. They waited together, saying nothing. The sound of an engine revving in the street had them all turning nervously.

  ‘Not us,’ Bulent said as the car sped up the road and turned out of sight.

  Jawad thought about the instructions they had all received – report to the office car park at six o’clock with their passports, phones, personal computers and one travel bag. There had been nothing more, no destination, no plan.

  He looked around the deserted car park. It was Friday, the weekend, the offices closed. Bulent had told him that all of OceanBird’s people were to be moved. They were a small team and they were all complicit. At STC it was another matter. Only a handful were Network insiders. The majority of the two hundred and fifty staff worked innocently at their careers, particularly the new venture-capitalist owners, who were only now beginning to get their feet under the table. They had owned the company for nine days and were excited at the prospect of the Moritz plant arriving in Sharjah at the end of the month for recommissioning.

  ‘You got any better idea where we’re going?’ Rashid said.

  Bulent shook his head. ‘Not really.’

  Jawad looked across. Why speculate? he thought. Some people might be flown out to the far corners of the world, while others would perhaps go overland, perhaps into the vastness of Saudi Arabia, though no one knew where. They had simply been given times and meeting points and, very evidently no one else had been told to assemble at the office car park at 6.00 a.m.

  ‘The baggage weight limit means tourist class,’ Rashid added, the corner of his mouth turning up at the prospect. ‘We should go business at least.’

  Jawad eyed him, scraping his foot on the ground as though he’d picked up some tourist-class shit on his shoe. But he said nothing, knowing Rashid wouldn’t understand anyway.

  ‘If you think about it,’ Bulent said. ‘It stands to reason we’ll be held somewhere today, a safe house or something. If the Ocean Dove has to back off for some reason and take another run at it in a few days or whatever, we can all be back behind our desks tomorrow as if nothing happened.’

  Makes sense, he thought. ‘What time is it on the Ocean Dove?’

  ‘About two,’ Bulent said. ‘The pilot will be on board at six.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Four hours to the berth.’

  Jawad looked down, shuffling a piece of gravel contemplatively with his foot. The Moritz terminal in winter was vivid in his mind. He wondered what it would look like today, in summer.

  They all swung round at the sound of tyres coming over the pavement. A pair of Mercedes van taxis with blacked-out windows pulled across and stopped on either side of them.

  Three men got out of the back of the nearest van. Its side window lowered, revealing a heavyset face staring coldly at them from the passenger seat. A gold tooth flashed in the morning sun.

  Jawad froze, his heart pounding. He turned his head, meeting Bulent’s haunted
eyes. They were filled with an unequivocal confirmation – my God. Sharjah police!

  ‘Passports, phones, laptops and car keys,’ Mr Gold said, nodding to a man who was stretching a holdall open. ‘Now!’ he barked, when no one moved.

  Jawad’s legs were slow to respond. He stepped across and fumbled on the ground. When the holdall was full, hands clamped roughly on his shoulder and bundled him through the van’s passenger door. He got in, sliding across to the far side, followed by Bulent and Rashid. Two men occupied the jump seats behind them.

  The convoy pulled out of the car park: his own Audi, Bulent’s Porsche and Rashid’s Mercedes, followed by the two taxi vans. Slowing for the interchange at the end of the street, the cars switched lane but the vans stayed where they were.

  ‘Hey, the airport’s that way,’ Rashid said petulantly.

  No one answered. For God’s sake, shut up, Jawad thought, not daring to speak, his eyes staring resolutely ahead.

  Rashid turned in his seat, his eyes darting. ‘Where are we going?’ he demanded, giving Gold’s shoulder an impatient jab.

  There was no response. Rashid gave him another prod and this time Gold swung round but said nothing, his scowling eyes and raised finger speaking for him.

  The outer fringes of Sharjah slipped by. They were heading east into the sun, on the main coastal highway, the sea on their left and the desert to the right. Jawad looked over his shoulder. There was a flash of white as the driver in the van behind smiled. The passenger in the front remained expressionless behind dark glasses. Across the back seat, lit clearly by the low sun, were the outlines of two more men.

  He tried to rationalise the overload of information, to set some sort of order. If the authorities had rounded them up at six o’clock, they must also have everyone else, including the Network’s logistics people who were handling the escapes. It seemed inconceivable that this was some sort of eleventh-hour breakthrough. The nonchalance with which they had picked them up suggested they had known for a long time, confident the drama of helicopters and squads of soldiers would be unnecessary. On the contrary, it had been low-key but pinpoint. They knew their targets were just three unarmed businessmen waiting for a ride. How long had they known, he wondered – a month, six months, a year? Waiting until the last moment was smart, he thought. It allowed the net to widen. But just how deeply had they penetrated? Surely not all the way to the Emir?