Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1)
Page 4
In the aft end of the hold, men emptied the weapons container, hoisting its contents over the main deck to the crumbling concrete dock, while forward, the chief engineer squatted on the deck, cutting through plating. The hissing torch changed pitch, and a neat circle of steel tumbled into the water of the ballast tank below, hot edges belching steam. Sheibani glanced up through the hatch at patches of blue sky through overhanging tree limbs and camouflage netting, then moved to the ladder, reviewing preparations as he climbed to the main deck. All that remained was rigging a web of wires around the hold, tight between the pad eyes at the bottom of the hold and the top of the hatch, to corral the boats directly under the open hatch. God willing, he could sink his prison at dawn. He would not miss Alicia or the heat or the Indonesian monkeys.
***
The sky was lightening as Sheibani stood with the crew on the dock. Alicia was below the dock now, and a short, steep gangway led down to main deck. The camouflage netting was gone and the hatch open to the sky as the chief engineer climbed the gangway.
“It is done, Major,” he said. “She’s down past her marks with the bow a bit deeper. I’ve started flooding the cargo hold through the broached ballast tanks. The water will run to the forward end and speed the sinking of the bow. The engine space aft will flood last. By the time the water shorts out the pumps, she will be free-flooding.” He paused. “God willing, she will settle straight down.”
Sheibani nodded and watched. Water rose in the hold, and the boats floated free, rising as the ship sank beneath them. Then Alicia’s deck went under, and water poured over the hatch coaming, cascading down on the boats from all sides like a waterfall. The boats bounced and bobbed under the torrents, and within seconds Alicia fell out from under them with a great bubbling swirl. A relieved grin split the chief engineer’s face as the boats bobbed to the surface unharmed, and a spontaneous shout of “Allahu Akbar” rose from the throats of Alicia’s former crewmen.
***
The tile was cool on DeVries’s cheek as he lay trussed hand and foot. His head throbbed from the beating, and he felt the deck tilt beneath him as the hull moaned under unfamiliar stresses. The lights winked out and he closed his eyes and wished for an end to the bad dream, opening them as water wet his cheek. He flopped about in the deepening flood, cursing ships and the sea and his stiff-necked family. In the end, his grave was marked by a section of the bridge deck and the tops of the masts and king posts, rusted brown and blending with the surrounding jungle, the only sign that Captain Jan Pieter DeVries, master after God of the good ship Alicia, had gone down with his vessel.
Chapter Five
US Embassy
Singapore
27 May
Dugan sat in the same conference room, waiting. When Ward appeared, Dugan raised his eyebrows. “Where’s the Boy Wonder?”
“Gardner flew back to Langley this morning,” Ward said. “Management conference.”
Dugan snorted, then continued. “Any news on Alicia?”
Ward shook his head. “Negative. The Indonesians are being their usual noncooperative selves, but we have our own assets on the ground tracking down every available crane. And we’ve tasked the satellites to collect imagery of every dock capable of supporting a large crane and every anchorage deep enough to support a floating crane. We still got bubkes.”
“Crap.”
Ward shrugged. “It’s still our best lead. Obviously they’ve found a hiding spot, but, sooner or later, they’ll have to come to a crane or a crane has to come to them. Intelligence is a game of patience, Tom.”
Ward changed the subject. “You call Kairouz yet?”
“Since you’re bugging my calls, you know the answer to that.”
“Make the call.”
“So,” Dugan asked, “what happened to ‘intelligence is a game of patience’?”
Ward scowled.
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar. My relief arrived last night, and I showed him around Asian Trader and gave him my turnover this morning. Alex will be expecting a call. I was just waiting until it seemed natural.”
“No time like the present,” Ward said.
Dugan sighed and pulled out his cell phone.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
Alex’s stomach boiled from too much coffee, even at this early hour, and he was tense and irritable from lack of sleep. Nothing had been the same since Braun’s arrival with his thug Farley. He eyed his overflowing in-box. His productivity had suffered as well, and he’d instructed Mrs. Coutts to hold all calls while he attempted to clear the backlog.
He looked over, annoyed, as the intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Mrs. Coutts?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Dugan is on line one.”
He smiled despite the tension. Trust Dugan to charm his way past Mrs. Coutts. He mashed the flashing button.
“Thomas. How are you? Did Guido arrive?”
“I’m fine, Alex,” Dugan said. “I picked him up at Changi airport last night, and we walked the ship together this morning. She’s off the dry dock now and should shift to the ExxonMobil refinery to load sometime next week. Guido’s got it.”
“Excellent, Thomas, and thank you for helping me out in a bind.”
“No problem, Alex, but there’s something else I want to discuss. I think I’m ready to take you up on your offer and come to work for you full-time.”
Alex sat stunned. Thomas couldn’t come. Not now. If he sensed something wrong and went to the authorities—
“Alex, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, Thomas. I’m just … surprised. Why the change of heart after all these years? Are you serious? What about your consulting practice?”
“Serious as a heart attack,” Dugan said. “As to why, I guess you’ve finally convinced me I should spend more time behind a desk. And since you’re seventy percent of my billings anyway, I’m not concerned about the practice. If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll just go back to the way it was. You know money’s not an issue for me anyway, thanks to Katy’s financial wizardry.”
“What about Katy?” Alex asked. “Won’t she be upset if you move to London?”
Dugan laughed. “Let’s face it, Alex, I’m traveling most of the time anyway, and just because my kid sister lets me crash in her pool house between trips, doesn’t mean I’ll be missed that much. I’ll still get back home for holidays, which is about as much as they see me now, anyway.” Dugan paused. “But what’s with all the objections? You trying to talk me out of something you’ve spent ten years talking me into?”
“No, no, not at all. It’s just unexpected, and the timing is a bit … awkward. You see, I just hired a fellow as director of operations,” Alex lied on the fly, “with the understanding that he’ll eventually move into a newly created general-manager slot. I had no idea you’d reconsider, but if I bring you on now as general manager, he’ll take it as bad faith.”
“I see your problem, Alex. How about this? I don’t mind competing for the GM spot, so why don’t you hire me for a trial period as this guy’s equal, say director of engineering. Then after a while, you decide who’s the best fit. If I later decide to leave, you have this new guy in place. If we decide I should continue, you’ll have a choice. It will be no hardship for me to resign later if necessary.”
The logic was unassailable. Alex stalled again.
“You’ve really caught me by surprise, Thomas. May I call you back?”
“Sure, Alex,” Dugan said, “take your time.”
“Fine, Thomas. Talk to you soon.”
Alex Kairouz disconnected and buried his face in his hands.
***
“Captain Braun, Mr. Kairouz is not to be disturbed,” Mrs. Coutts said.
Braun stood in Alex’s door, hand on the knob as he glared back over his shoulder.
Mrs. Coutts gave Alex a look of helpless apology.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Coutts,” Alex said.
She n
odded and retreated to her desk.
Braun shut the door and moved to Alex’s favorite armchair.
“You should sack that old bitch, Kairouz, and get someone easier on the eyes,” he said, pointing to the sofa. “But come sit. I don’t have all day.”
Alex stood, stiff with rage. “I’m cooperating, Braun, so don’t abuse my staff. Clear?”
“That’s Captain Braun, and you’re not cooperating, or that old hag wouldn’t interfere. She’ll have an accident if she isn’t careful. Is that clear? Now sit,” Braun said, pointing again.
Defeated, Alex complied.
“Now,” Braun said, “who is this American?”
“Thomas Dugan, a consultant and friend. I’ll get rid of him.”
“Won’t that arouse curiosity, given his rather logical offer?”
“Perhaps,” conceded Alex, “but I can hold him off. Long enough for you to finish whatever this business is and be gone.”
Braun shook his head. “I think not. I don’t want some curious Yank starting to ask questions. Better to keep him close and watch him. Besides, he may prove useful.”
“I’ll just get rid of him,” Alex repeated.
“On the contrary,” Braun said, his voice hardening, “offer him the job, effective immediately.”
“No. Best keep him away.”
Braun sighed. “How tiresome.”
He rose from the chair to snatch Cassie’s photo from the desk and toss it into Alex’s lap. Alex set the picture on the end table and glared.
“Time for a reminder, Kairouz? Must we review the videos?” Braun paused. “Then again, she does look like your dead wife. Perhaps you’ve already begun her education. Bedding the retard are you, Kairouz? Perhaps I can help. Have her broken in by a dozen big fellows while you watch. Sound appealing?” Braun laughed and awaited the expected response.
Alex charged, but Braun was younger, fit, and well trained. In seconds, Alex was face down, his right arm twisted behind him, as Braun ground his face into the carpet.
“I grow tired of these lessons, Kairouz. The next time you cross me, Farley will rape the retard in front of you as a down payment. Understand?”
Alex nodded and Braun released him. “Good. Now phone Dugan.” He sneered. “After you pull yourself together, of course. You’re pathetic.”
Alex heard Braun leave as he lay unmoving, and tears of impotent rage stained the carpet.
US Embassy
Singapore
“That’s great, Alex,” Dugan said into the cell phone. “I’ll e-mail Mrs. Coutts my flight information. I assume I can stay at your place as usual until I find a place of my own?”
“Of course, Thomas,” Alex said. “Cassie will be excited when I tell her.”
“I look forward to seeing you all. Bye now,” Dugan said and hung up.
He sat silent for a moment until Ward spoke.
“So what do you make of that, Tom?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Dugan said. “He … he has been acting a bit strange lately, and he definitely seems a bit less enthusiastic than I anticipated.”
“Yeah, something’s up, all right,” Ward said.
Dugan didn’t respond.
“Having second thoughts?” Ward asked.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Jesse. I may have taken a few photos and snooped around for you a bit, but I’m not a spy, and I sure as hell can’t learn to be one in twenty-four hours.”
“Don’t worry. The Brits will backstop you. MI5 is putting together a team now.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re talking about, pal,” Dugan said.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
Karl Enrique Braun, freelance “problem solver,” formerly of the East German Ministry for State Security (Stasi), returned to his spacious new office, the former home of three disgruntled ship superintendents now displaced to the cubicle farm. He was sated from an excellent lunch, courtesy of his new Phoenix Shipping credit card, and he smiled at the sign on the door: Captain Braun—Director of Operations. The “captain” was a nice touch and as real as his name, after all. He’d been many people in service to the state. When the end had come, he’d forecast it a bit more clearly than his former colleagues and arrived in Havana hours after the wall fell. The Cuban Ministry of the Interior (MININT) was a Stasi clone and always in need of talent, especially talent with fluent Spanish and Cuban roots. He touched his face. The Cubans had excellent plastic surgeons.
His Nordic good looks and native fluency in a half a dozen languages provided the Cubans an asset of incalculable value, and he parlayed that to his own advantage. He’d become a “consultant” and then a free agent, protected by the Cubans in exchange for sharing intelligence. Capitalist by default now, he worked for anyone with his fee, from drug lords to African dictators. His best clients to date were Latin American demagogues, champions of a failed model, buying the votes of the dispossessed with promises no economy could make real, especially not the bungled economics of the neo-socialism.
Braun smiled again. No client had been as malleable and oblivious to fees as that idiot Rodriguez in Venezuela. It would be a shame to lose the cash flow should it prove necessary to sacrifice him as damage control. Then again, the Iranian had proven to be more than generous and deserved his fire wall. Braun was looking forward to a very comfortable retirement.
He settled in behind his desk and contemplated the latest turn of events. He didn’t like this American lodging with Kairouz, but it was apparently an arrangement of long standing; best to keep to routine. Besides, Kairouz was thoroughly cowed, and this Dugan was one more American he could throw into the mix to make things all the more believable.
Willingly to the slaughter. Braun could hardly believe his good fortune.
Chapter Six
House of Islamic Knowledge
Dearborn, Michigan
27 May
Mohammad Borqei stood, balled fists in his back as he stretched to ease the stiffness of the old shrapnel wound. American shrapnel, for the Great Satan had been generous in aid to Saddam when the madman had been murdering Iranians. Borqei swallowed his anger. He moved from the window to his desk and picked up the message from Tehran.
A wistful smile crossed his bearded face at thoughts of Iran, a home he’d never see again. It had taken years to craft his “legend” as a moderate, advancing viewpoints he despised in mosques across Tehran, enduring the hostility of colleagues, and finally imprisonment for seditious acts. Then he’d “escaped” to the US via Canada, and the foolish Americans had tugged the Trojan horse through the gate.
He’d settled in Dearborn, with its large Muslim community, joining interfaith groups and preaching tolerance. When the Imam of the House of Islamic Knowledge died in a car crash, he was the logical choice to assume leadership of the community’s preeminent mosque. Able to count Islamic voters, the local congressman fast-tracked Borqei’s citizenship application and stood smiling as he took the oath. Indeed, Borqei’s public “assimilation” was so convincing that it undermined his mission. His inner circle of the faithful was small and resistant to all efforts at expansion.
For, despite cynicism about American ideals as preached and practiced, the Muslims of Dearborn were optimistic. Conflicts with their “real” American neighbors were frequent but waged with words during meetings, not by stone-throwing mobs or suicide bombers. Each grudging compromise was a small victory, as their sons played American football and ate halal pizza, and they built new lives, much better than those they’d left behind.
Borqei had faced the paradox. His need for “assimilated” Americans would never be met by American-born Muslims, who were corrupted beyond redemption. Hezbollah had come to his aid, trolling teeming refugee camps for orphans. While they trained in Iran, Borqei prepared the ground, helping the faithful of his inner circle get citizenship, allowing them in turn to use the Child Citizenship Act to adopt “foreign-born children,” all graduates of Hezbollah training.
They arrived, committed to serving Islam by becoming ever more American in appearance. He had a dozen now, and the first was the finest.
Yousif Nassir Hamad, or “Joe” Hamad, was finishing college, with honors, on a US Navy ROTC scholarship. Fluent in Arabic, he was courted heavily, and Borqei had been helping him review his options, deciding just where in the navy he could best serve Islam. Now it had been decided for them. Borqei gazed at the message with distaste.
Kairouz Residence
London
28 May
“No!” Cassie glared defiance, flopping the hair bow on the table. “This dorky uniform is bad enough. Please, Papa, tell her I don’t have to wear it.”
Alex studied the bow over his cup, remembering Cassie’s delight when Mrs. Farnsworth first made it. As Cassie, at age fifteen, struggled between her physical and mental ages, conflicts had become frequent—difficult for Cassie, but harder still on Mrs. Farnsworth.
“Cassie, the bow makes you even prettier,” he said.
“I hate it, I hate it,” Cassie spoke into her cereal, pouting.
“Cassie,” Mrs. Farnsworth said, “a proper young lady does not pout. People respond to courtesy, not petulance or angry demands. Would you like to ask me again, young lady?”
Alex stiffened. The proper-young-lady campaign was difficult for him, but Mrs. Farnsworth was insistent that repeated challenge strengthened Cassie’s abilities. He accepted the theory but was incapable of causing Cassie discomfort. He bit his tongue and left correction to Mrs. Farnsworth, thankful she was made of sterner stuff.
“Please, Mrs. Farnsworth, must I wear it?” Cassie asked, barely audible.
“Not if you don’t wish to,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “Now go up and tidy your hair. It’s almost time to go.”
“Oh thank you, thank you,” Cassie cried, rushing to the door. She stopped midstride and turned. “Oh. I almost forgot. When will Uncle Thomas be here, Papa?”