He moved to the manhole and stared down into the black void. They’d removed the temporary lights. He pulled an elastic headband from the fanny pack and donned it, slipping a small flashlight into it like a headlamp to free his hands and light his way down the ladder. He left the ladder at the uppermost horizontal stringer plate and moved forward through the tank, one of twelve forming the double hull between the cargo tanks and the sea, counting the frames forming the ship’s ribs as he went. When he reckoned himself in position, he looked up and smiled as his light illuminated the vent opening near the shipside, the fine wire he’d placed dangling out, almost invisible.
Structural members marched up the outer hull like widely spaced shelves or rungs of a giant ladder, and Medina climbed, stretching and straining to pull himself up to the underside of the main deck. At the uppermost member, he clung one-handed, his feet on the next member down as he reached toward the ship’s side with a charge. He gave a relieved grunt as the magnet sucked the charge to the steel, and then examined the placement. It sat on the uppermost member, like a box at the back of a high shelf, invisible unless someone scaled the structure as Medina had.
He groped under the vent and pulled the dangling wire to the charge antenna and twisted the two together, locking them with a tiny wire nut with trembling fingers. Sweat stung his eyes and soaked his coveralls, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand to study his work in the beam of his little light. Perfect, he thought, and began to inch his way down.
Clang. The sharp ring of steel on steel sent Medina’s heart into his throat, and he clung motionless, listening as more noise indicated activity on the main deck above him. He recovered and continued his descent, faster now. Back on the horizontal stringer, he moved aft toward the ladder with no clear plan. Should he go up? He still had to drill and plug a tiny hole near the top of the common bulkhead between this tank and the adjacent cargo tank. But what was happening on main deck? What if they were bolting the manhole? No one knew he was here. He’d be trapped until he starved to death or drowned when they flooded the ballast tank.
Medina took a deep breath and controlled his fear. His hand fell on the fanny pack, and he felt the small cordless drill through the fabric. He gathered his resolve and moved across the tank to the cargo-tank bulkhead.
Twenty minutes later, Medina eased his head out of the manhole and surveyed the main deck. Whoever had been there was gone, and he pulled himself from the manhole and stood on deck. His legs ached from climbing, but he felt the weight of the remaining charge in his pocket and pressed on. A half hour later, he exited the last ballast tank, sweating and dirty but exultant. He entered the deckhouse and went to the Cargo Control Room, where he walked to a control panel labeled “Mariner Tek—Model BT 6000—Ballast-Tank Gas-Detection System.”
He extracted a pair of needle-nose pliers and a spool of wire from this fanny pack, then secured the power to the panel and opened it. This was the easy part. He’d studied the schematic in the technical manual for days and knew it cold. His fingers flew as he wired in jumpers, then arranged them within the existing wiring so that nothing looked amiss. He stepped back and admired his handiwork before closing the panel and powering up the system.
Green lights glowed, showing all ballast tanks safe and gas-free. He smiled again, knowing those lights would stay green, regardless of conditions in the tanks. He powered down the system and hummed a little tune as he climbed to his cabin for a shower.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping Ltd.
London
3 June
Dugan wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of fresh paint and watched through the door as Anna scooped up folders from her own desk and maneuvered around a ladder in the outer office. Over Alex’s objections, Dugan was working full days, even though his new office was a work in progress. Conversion of the storeroom to office space was all but complete, and throughout the process, Anna deferred to Mrs. Coutts completely. She’d managed to assuage the older woman’s antipathy by following suggestions to the letter, including counsel as to proper dress. Unfortunately, Anna’s sensuality defeated even Mrs. Coutts’s wardrobe hints. The elderly secretary concluded the poor child was destined to look a tart, with no help for it.
“Last of the lot, Tom,” Anna said, dumping folders on his desk.
“Thanks,” Dugan said. “Computers?”
Anna sighed. “I’ve been on to Sutton four times today.”
“OK. Keep on him,” Dugan said.
As Anna left, Dugan stole a glance at her well-shaped backside before forcing himself back to work. He opened the folder on top of the stack to find a note.
Dugan, ask me to dinner tonight. We must talk.
Dugan pocketed the note. About time. Ward said contact would be through Anna. So far, there hadn’t been any. He felt isolated, and for the first time, ill at ease in Alex’s presence.
He pressed the intercom.
“Yes, Tom,” Anna said.
“Can you stay late? I may need you to pull more files for me. I’ll make it up with dinner. You pick the place.”
She laughed. “Quite the best offer I’ve had all day. Bring your gold card.”
“No problem. Thanks,” Dugan said, picking up the phone to call Alex.
“Yes, Thomas,” Alex answered, looking at his caller ID.
“Alex, I’m working over. Please give Mrs. Hogan my regrets.”
Alex paused. “I’ve things to do as well. She’ll put something back for us.”
“Alex, that’s not necessary. I’ve made—”
“No problem, Thomas. I’ll just call home—”
“Alex. I have other plans.”
A silence grew. “Very well,” Alex said at last. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Dugan hung up, troubled by his friend’s behavior. He sighed and returned to the file he was studying.
***
“It’s seven,” Anna said from the doorway. “Starving me is nonproductive. I’m more agreeable on a full stomach.”
Dugan stood and walked to the door. “Sorry. Lost track. You picked a place?”
Anna nodded and gathered her things. As they walked out, she pointed to light leaking beneath a door. “Captain Braun’s working late.”
Dugan shrugged. “He’s always here when I leave.”
***
About bloody time, thought Braun, irritated at Kairouz’s failure to control Dugan. Not that he was too concerned. Working late was an obvious ploy to have a go at the slut. Took him long enough. Braun smiled. If they became lovers, bugging her flat might be worthwhile.
***
Anna listened as Dugan talked. After deflecting his attempts to discuss business with a quick hand squeeze and almost imperceptible head shake, she’d hung on to his every word. She deserved an Oscar. Despite knowing it was an act, he was enjoying himself.
“Dessert?” the waiter asked.
Dugan gave Anna a quizzical look.
“I’m stuffed,” she said. “How about coffee at my place?”
Dugan asked for the check.
In the cab, Anna crawled onto his lap and kissed him, keeping at it all the way to her building. Dugan exited the cab, unable to hide his arousal from the smirking cabby, as Anna pulled him into the lobby for a smoldering kiss and kept at it in the elevator, kissing his neck and giggling. She dragged him to her door and fumbled with the key before pushing him in, lips on his, and closing the door behind them with her foot. Then she stopped.
“Sit.” She pointed to a sofa as she threw the bolt, then moved to a chair.
Dugan stood in the entryway, his confusion complete.
“Surely you knew that wasn’t genuine,” she said.
He glanced down. “Part of me was hopeful.”
Her face turned cold. “Yes, well, hope springs eternal. Sit.”
Dugan complied. “OK. What now?”
She softened. “First, I’m sorry if I overdid it. We don’t yet know how closely we’re being watched. I was unsure y
ou could fake it. So I aroused you.”
“Superbly,” Dugan said.
Anna colored. “Understand, Mr. Dugan, I’m happily married. I will deal with you professionally and expect no less.”
“Married? Really?” Dugan said. “Must be tough.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re right. Sorry,” he said. “Let’s just consider this, for the purposes of our cover only, our first spat and put it behind us?”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Tonight we set our cover. We can speak freely here. This place will be swept daily. Assume you’re under surveillance elsewhere, for sure at the office.”
“Are you sure?” Dugan asked.
“We put an undercover on the janitorial staff to do a sweep. Our offices and Kairouz’s are bugged. From Braun’s office.”
“So Braun’s running things. And he’s bugging Alex, so Alex isn’t involved.”
“He’s involved. Maybe he’s using Braun to create deniability.”
“I can’t believe Alex is a willing party to terrorism.”
Anna was noncommittal. “We’ll see. Anyway, this is where we communicate. As lovers, it’ll be natural to come here evenings or even to sneak off for afternoon trysts. We’ll raise eyebrows but not suspicions.”
“But won’t whoever it is just bug this place?”
“We’ll handle that. I’ll tell you about it if and when necessary.”
Dugan bristled. “Do let me know when I’m deemed trustworthy.”
“Tom, we compartmentalize. You needn’t be so touchy.”
He considered that. “Yeah, I understand. Sorry I overreacted. Let’s put the hostility behind us and go back to being Tom and Anna.”
“Fine by me. Provided you stop being so damned cheeky.”
Dugan smiled. “But that’s my most endearing quality.”
She shook her head and moved to the kitchen to brew coffee. When she returned, they settled down to discuss strategy.
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Dugan said. “I must admit Alex is behaving strangely. Like he’s going out of his way to minimize my office time. We arrive late every day, then he has me out the door at the dot of five. Totally out of character for him; the guy’s a workaholic. Braun must be coercing him somehow, maybe through threats to Cassie.”
Anna looked skeptical. “I’ve seen Kairouz’s file. He isn’t someone easily intimidated. After his entire family was killed in the Lebanese civil war, he came to London as a penniless teen with no prospects and managed to build a major shipping company from scratch. Now he’s wealthy and connected. If he’s being threatened, why wouldn’t he turn to the authorities?”
“I don’t know. But Alex Kairouz is no terrorist.”
Anna sighed. “Let’s start with what we do know. This Farley arrived on the scene right after Braun’s employment. We can assume he’s a player, and the computer guy is in on it for sure. Word among the clerical staff is that Braun dismissed the IT people and brought Sutton on right after he joined the company. I suspect Hell will freeze over before we get any sort of reliable computer access.”
“The biggest problem,” Dugan said, “is how to snoop without raising suspicion if we’re caught. If Braun’s somehow squeezing Alex, he’s pretty damn smart. We don’t want to put his guard up.”
Anna smiled. “We just need a believable motive. You have one made-to-order.”
Dugan looked confused.
“Think about it,” Anna said. “You and Braun are rivals. We style our snooping as an attempt to uncover some incompetence or malfeasance on Braun’s part, so you can undermine him with Alex. Even if we’re caught, it will look like corporate politics.”
Dugan nodded, impressed. “Pretty sharp.”
Anna smiled at the compliment and spent the next half hour briefing Dugan on how they would develop their cover relationship. At midnight, she let him out.
“Must keep up appearances,” she whispered at the doorway, sending him off with a smoldering kiss.
***
Braun slumped in the driver’s seat. He’d just decided the Yank was making a night of it when Dugan exited the building and turned up the walk. I overestimated him, thought Braun. When he’s gone, I’m sure the bitch will enjoy having a real man.
Chapter Eight
M/T Asian Trader
ExxonMobil Refinery
Jurong, Singapore
4 June
The chief mate tensed at the console, focused on the rising level in the last cargo tank.
“Stop,” he barked into his radio, commanding the terminal to stop pumping. The load was complete, and at a nod from the chief mate, Medina left to check the drafts.
It was a relieved Medina that rushed down the gangway. They’d taken minimal ballast for the short transit to the refinery; water hadn’t even risen to his plugs. The ballast tanks were empty now, and the plugs had held as powerful fans pushed inert gas into the empty cargo tanks, displacing oxygen-rich air before gasoline surged into the tanks.
He’d been terrified that the gas pressure—slight though it was—would unseat the shredded bits of Styrofoam cup he’d packed into the tiny holes. He’d paced the deck, alert to telltale whiffs from ballast-tank vents or the loud keening of gas whistling through an unplugged hole.
But they all held, praise be to Allah, high on the bulkheads, submerged now under a foot of gasoline on the cargo-tank side. It wouldn’t take long for the cargo to dissolve them.
But it would be long enough.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
Braun smiled. Sutton had hacked backdoor access to several porn sites, making tracking his communications like looking for a needle in several thousand haystacks. Only the logic of the method had convinced Motaki to disregard his revulsion at accessing the sites. Braun’s smile widened. Perhaps this might expand the Iranian’s horizons a bit.
He opened an encrypted file. Motaki had done well. The Chechens looked European, and below each picture was age, height, weight, and hair and eye color. Braun printed the pictures and erased the file before typing the Web address of the Baltic Maritime Job Exchange, to begin his search for unemployed ex-Eastern Bloc mariners resembling the Chechens.
Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
8 June
Joel Sutton, dressed in a British Telcom uniform and with toolbox in hand, rang Anna Walsh’s doorbell. Showing his face was a risk, but he’d confirmed Dugan and the bitch were at work, and no one else would know him. When no one answered, he picked the lock and went to work.
He hid transmitters in the phones and throughout the small apartment and a tiny receiver on a high closet shelf, tapped into a spare circuit in the existing phone wiring. Satisfied, he left things as he’d found them and rode the elevator to the lobby, leaving his toolbox there as he went to the van. He returned with a heavy shopping bag, its handles biting into his hand, to collect his toolbox and ride the elevator to the basement.
The telephone box was well marked and he set to work, stepping back twenty minutes later to survey the results. Concealed under a stack of boxes and connected to the panel by a hidden wire sat a lead-lined wooden box with a near-invisible antenna wire run to a high window. The box was soundproof, with a speaker inside echoing any sound from the apartment. Inches away was a cell phone, voice activated to dial at any sound. There was no connection between the devices but sound waves, eliminating a trace. The outgoing cell signal was detectable, but isolating it would be difficult. Difficult became impossible as the audio was relayed through two identical boxes, both hidden far away in high-cell-traffic areas.
All the phones were untraceable, purchased for cash, and modified with long-life batteries. Each box held enough plastic explosive and white phosphorus to destroy the contents and anyone opening them without first calling the phone inside and entering a disarming code.
Sutton dialed Anna Walsh’s number on another throwaway phone and let her voice mail greeting play wit
hout responding. In the basement of the Iranian embassy, another cell phone disconnected after Anna’s words were recorded, and a technician phoned his superior. His superior walked to a window of his second-floor office and smoothed his hair with his right hand in full view of another man standing across the street pretending to read a newspaper. The man walked to a public phone and dialed a number from memory.
“Hello,” Sutton said.
“I’m sorry. I was ringing George McGregor. I misdialed,” the man said and hung up.
Sutton disconnected and reached for his toolbox. Surveillance was established for whoever the hell was running it. He left the building to ditch the van.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
Dugan cursed as his monitor went black for the third time. He checked his watch. Might as well pack it in. Ever since he and Anna had begun their “affair,” they’d stayed late every night to establish a pattern of being in the office after hours. They left together every evening, and twice Dugan slept on her sofa, arriving the next morning in the same clothes—a fact noted by office gossips. What Dugan had failed to anticipate was the impact of his relationship with Anna on his other relationships.
Mrs. Coutts registered disapproval in every icy glance, addressing him with cold formality, while Anna was somehow transformed in Mrs. Coutts’s view into a poor innocent led astray by her lustful boss, a sexual predator. It got worse. Daniel, the driver, shared the gossip with Mrs. Hogan, the cook, who, certain he was wrong, passed it on to Mrs. Farnsworth. After admonishing Mrs. Hogan on the evils of gossip, Mrs. Farnsworth phoned Mrs. Coutts so that she might find the source of the malicious rumor and squash it, only to learn the rumor was true.
Mrs. Farnsworth, never one of Dugan’s fans, now addressed him, when she spoke at all, as if he was only slightly less unpleasant than something she couldn’t get off her shoe sole. Mrs. Hogan registered disapproval in her own way. His eggs this morning had been rubber, served with black toast and orange juice with a half-inch layer of seeds in the bottom of the glass.
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 6