Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1)

by McDermott, R. E.

  The only female in the house who still liked him was Cassie, but she was in bed when he got home now, and his first morning absence had not gone unnoticed. Her inquisition the following morning had been curtailed only by a “proper young lady is not nosy” dictum from Mrs. Farnsworth, accompanied by an icy stare at Dugan.

  It had come to a head on the ride in this morning, with Alex’s repeated throat clearing.

  “You better spit it out before you get a sore throat, Alex,” Dugan said.

  “It’s… awkward, Thomas. Your involvement with this Walsh woman is upsetting the household.”

  “Agreed,” Dugan said, “but I’ll be damned if I know why. My private life’s my own.”

  “True, Thomas. But the ladies”—Alex smiled—”except Mrs. Farnsworth, of course, all held you in high regard. I’m sure they didn’t think you a monk, but assumed you would choose a more… appropriate partner. Hiring a woman for her looks just to bed her is just so… unsavory.”

  “Anna’s a damn good secretary.”

  “Indeed,” Alex said, “a fortunate accident according to Mrs. Coutts.”

  “How about you, Alex? Do you share the ladies’ opinion?”

  Silence answered.

  “That’s the pot and the kettle, old friend,” Dugan said. “Kathleen was your secretary.”

  He regretted the words immediately. Alex purpled.

  “Don’t you dare imply my marriage was the product of some cheap office dalliance. Kathleen worked for me for years before we dated. I am your friend, but if you ever, ever repeat that, I will be no longer. Is that clear?”

  “That was a cheap shot, Alex. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just confused by everyone’s reaction. I certainly don’t want to upset your household. Should I move out?”

  “Perhaps that’s best,” Alex said, still angry. “But where? In with Miss Walsh?”

  “That’s my business, Alex,” Dugan said, and they’d ridden the rest of the trip in silence.

  ***

  And now I’m homeless in London, thought Dugan as Anna popped her head in the door.

  “How about dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m with you,” Dugan said, standing to leave. “We’ve weighty matters to discuss.”

  “Oh?”

  Dugan smiled. “How’d you like a roommate?”

  ***

  Perfect, thought Braun as Dugan and Anna left. The timing on Sutton’s visit had been spot on, and if the Yank moved in, perhaps they’d spend more time in the apartment, and he could off-load some of the surveillance. A celebration was in order. A nice dinner courtesy of Kairouz and some entertainment. He dialed his cell as he left the office.

  “Send me the little brunette at ten,” he said into the phone. “I forget her name.”

  “Yvette,” a voice said, “and the price is triple. You bloody near killed her last time. I couldn’t work her for days. I expect payment for lost time.”

  “No problem,” Braun said. “Make sure she brings the toys.”

  He hung up and hailed a cab, smiling as he settled in the seat—things were going well.

  ***

  Dugan and Anna stepped out into a beautiful evening, pleasantly full and mellow from wine. He’d recounted his trouble with Alex over dinner as Anna feigned delight at the prospect of cohabitation. Dugan played along, though less than eager to exchange a good bed for a lumpy sofa. Anna clung to him now, head against his shoulder as he started to hail a cab.

  “No, don’t,” she said. “It’s lovely. Let’s walk.”

  Foot traffic was light, but as they reached Anna’s building, a short, bald man, head down and phone to his ear, rushed down the steps to collide with Anna, moving on without slowing. Dugan glared after him.

  “Easy, Tarzan,” Anna said, a restraining hand on Dugan’s arm. “I’m fine. Let it go.”

  Anna tugged Dugan’s arm and they moved inside.

  In the safe haven of the apartment, Dugan relaxed, but before he spoke, Anna clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “I think I’ll shower. Care to wash my back, Tiger?” she asked.

  “Sounds delightful,” Dugan said, nodding as she removed her hand.

  He stood in the bathroom in mute confusion as Anna arranged the showerhead so the water drummed loud against the plastic curtain. She removed her shoes and motioned him to do the same, then led him on tiptoe through the small kitchen and out the back door of the apartment. There were two apartments per floor, all with front entrances served by the residents’ elevator and rear entrances with a common service elevator. As she closed her own door, a tall man in a rumpled suit beckoned from the open back door of the next apartment. Anna entered the apartment with Dugan in tow and followed the man into the living room.

  The tall man grinned. “And how is our Phoenix Shipping slut?”

  “Sod off, Harry,” Anna said. “Lou back yet?”

  “Any minute,” Harry said as a key rattled in the front door and Lou entered.

  “You’re the guy who ran into us,” Dugan said, still confused.

  “Guilty,” Lou said. “I had to let Anna know about the bugs.”

  Anna nodded at the new arrival. “Tom, this is Lou Chesterton and”—she indicated the tall man—”Harry Albright. My colleagues in the Anti-Terrorism Unit.”

  Dugan shook hands as she continued. “Who wired us?” she asked.

  “Sutton,” Lou said. “Professional job. Multiple booby-trapped relays. Untraceable.”

  “Christ,” Dugan said, “there goes our time outside the fish bowl.”

  “Welcome to our world, Yank,” Lou said, turning to Anna. “Shower running?”

  “Less than five minutes, but we don’t have long.” She turned to Harry. “Cover audio?”

  Harry smiled. “Some of the finest sex sounds the Internet has to offer.”

  “Voices?” she asked.

  “Not a problem,” Harry said. “Talk is minimal and a bit… repetitive. I distorted it, and you can put on music to help mask it. It’ll do for tonight.”

  “What’s after the sex sounds?” Anna asked.

  “Snoring in an endless loop. To buy time for you two to come back and do some recordings for alternative sound feeds.”

  “I don’t snore,” Dugan said.

  “Actually, you do. Like a bloody train,” Anna said. “At least on my sofa.”

  “Actually, you both do. At least on my recording,” Harry said as Dugan smirked.

  “Right,” Lou said, “we best get to it. Harry, get Anna the portable CD player while she briefs Mr. Dugan here.”

  Minutes later, they crept into Anna’s apartment. She turned off the water and gave a sensuous moan as she placed the CD player by the bedside phone. Dugan, per instructions, grunted sexual sounds, looking so self-conscious Anna was hard-pressed not to laugh. She put music on her sound system and started the sex sound track on the portable player. Satisfied, they slipped out the back door and into the other apartment.

  Chapter Nine

  Offices of Phoenix Shipping

  9 June

  Braun read the decrypted message and cursed. He pulled the sat phone from a drawer. The encryption algorithm was unbreakable, and calls were routed through random and changing links, but still, he preferred to minimize voice contact. He sighed; anxiety was to be expected, he supposed, when one dealt with amateurs. He dialed. In Tehran, an identical phone rang.

  “Yes,” Motaki answered.

  “I got your message,” Braun said. “All is proceeding. Asian Trader sailed from Singapore on schedule, and I chartered a VLCC named China Star to the Iranian National Oil Company. She must depart Kharg Island no later than 21 June to arrive in the Malacca Straits as Asian Trader reaches Panama. Please ensure there are no loading delays in Iran.”

  Braun had learned that giving his principals some simple task within their control always had a calming influence.

  “I will see to it,” Motaki said. “But what about Panama? I’m concerned we do not have sufficient contro
l. Rodriguez might be a problem if his pet project goes awry.”

  “Our man on Asian Trader has minimal resources. It is not a problem.”

  “All right,” Motaki said. “And this man Richards?”

  “On standby pay. He knows nothing yet. I’ll move him to Jakarta when the time is right.”

  “So, the sideshows move ahead. What of the main attack?”

  “The Chechens are at the training facility. They can’t become experts, but they will learn enough to serve our purposes.”

  “Their Russian is better than their English,” Motaki said. “I still think a facility in Eastern Europe would have been better.”

  “Chechen-accented Russian,” Braun replied. “Chechen seamen are rare, Mr. President. Here in UK their accents are unrecognizable, and if they say something that reveals them to be other than seamen, it can be covered as language misunderstanding.”

  “And what of these men whose identities you’ve stolen? What if one of them should make an inconvenient appearance?”

  Braun smiled. “Those men are being well paid to stay home. I employed them for fictitious ships under construction in China and put them on full pay to stand by, ready to fly at moment’s notice. The seamen get paid for nothing, and the agency gets their commission. All courtesy of Kairouz. Everyone is happy.”

  “Very well,” Motaki said, his acknowledgment grudging, “and the last ship?”

  “I have several options, but it’s too early to—”

  “Mr. Braun, need I remind you—”

  “You need remind me of nothing, Mr. President, but the main attack is the most difficult. Runs from Black Sea ports to the target are short, with no chance to manipulate arrival time. Additionally, the ports involved are not the most efficient, and there may be lengthy delays. There are many things that can go wrong,” Braun said. “With respect, sir, too many cooks spoil the broth. Please leave this to me.”

  “Very well,” Motaki said, “but keep me informed.”

  “Of course.”

  Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building

  1915 Hours Local Time

  9 June

  Dugan sat with the Brits in the apartment next to Anna’s. Dugan and Anna had returned there the first night, to work with Harry recording scripts for additional cover audio, including, to their discomfort and Harry’s amusement, breathless sexual audio. Anna had colored and pointed a smirking Harry from the room as she moaned “Yes, yes, yes,” into the mike.

  Dugan had been skeptical.

  “How do you turn a few hours into days of fake audio?” he’d asked.

  “Bloody magic, Yank, and the wizardry of British intelligence,” Harry had replied. “But we don’t need ‘days.’ You spend nights there, and most of that sleeping. Sex will occupy some time and Internet tracks laced with your recordings will work there.” Harry had shrugged. “That leaves hours, and conversation varies little day to day. Our lads have software to assemble daily dialogues, then they review and tweak it. Mornings, you’ll need to mind what you say, but we’ll craft evening dialogues for you to play at Anna’s while you stay here. We’ll add sex as it seems to fit, and that will be that.”

  And so it had. To his delight, Dugan traded Anna’s lumpy sofa for the bed in the surveillance apartment, creeping into her place each morning to begin the daily charade. The surveillance apartment became their center of operations, a meeting place by day, and a refuge where Dugan and Anna could escape the bugs for a while each evening while the fake audio ran.

  ***

  “I smell a rat,” Dugan said, holding up a copy of the daily ship-position report.

  “What do you mean, Yank?” Lou asked.

  Dugan tapped the page. “This ship. The China Star. She’s a VLCC Phoenix chartered from a competitor, then subchartered to the Iranian National Oil Company. I can’t see any way we can make money on that sort of deal at prevailing rates.”

  Harry looked confused. “A vee bloody what?”

  “Sorry,” Dugan said. “VLCC is short for ‘very large crude carrier.’ Supertanker to you.”

  “But what’s it mean?” Anna asked.

  Dugan shrugged. “Maybe nothing, but it might be a lead. At any rate, it’s the only thing I’ve been able to turn up so far. If I can get a look at the charter agreement, I might be able to make some other connections.”

  “Can you get at it?” Anna asked.

  Dugan shook his head. “That’s another thing that makes me suspicious. There’s neither a copy of the agreement on the server nor is it in the hard-copy files. I could just ask for it, but if I’m right, that might set off all sorts of alarms.”

  “So how are you going to get it?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Dugan said.

  Head Hill Training Center

  Southampton, Hampshire, UK

  11 June

  Khassan Basaev’s monitor flashed a congratulatory message and a prompt to move to the next training module. He yawned and arched into a stretch, rubbing his blue eyes before he reached out of habit to stroke a nonexistent beard. He grimaced at his unfamiliar reflection in the monitor and hoped he looked “European” enough. His three companions were also freshly barbered, with lighter lower faces stark against tanned necks and foreheads, a difference fading under application of the sunlamp. All the men’s hair was light, blond to brown, and they looked Nordic rather than the mujahideen they were.

  “Ah. Another milestone,” Shamil whispered in Russian from his seat next to Basaev. “Quite impressive for a mountain peasant.”

  Basaev gave a brief smile as Aslan and Doku chuckled. “Joke as you will, Shamil,” Basaev said, “but don’t forget our mission.”

  “I never do,” Shamil said, serious now, as all the men turned back to their terminals.

  Basaev looked around the computer training lab, empty on a Saturday except for the four men. The instructor had been surprised at Basaev’s request to use the training facility on the weekend for review, declining an opportunity to relax in town with the rest of the class after a grueling week of instruction. The Chechens had no desire to mix with the other—mostly British and Western European—students. Basaev’s men were known collectively as “the Russians” by the others, an insult not normally tolerated. Now it comforted him. The infidels couldn’t tell a Chechen from an Eskimo.

  Shamil’s joke aside, they were no peasants, but university graduates, fluent in several languages. They’d met in university in Grozny a lifetime ago, before Russian aggression drove them to the Cause of Allah and Free Chechnya. They escaped the city just before the Russians encircled it, fleeing to a mountain village, where weeks had grown to months and then years as their war ground to a fitful stalemate, neither side capable of victory. In time, they were ignored, and if it was not victory, it was better than living under the Russian heel. The village became home, and they started families. Life had been simple but full.

  So much so that Paradise for Basaev was not a place of willing virgins but a vision of his village. A place to hold his wife, as she whispered he would be a father once more, as he watched his toddler move around a modest hut. A place gone forever when the guns of a helicopter gunship tore his family into bloody refuse, identifiable only by shreds of clothing.

  He’d been away at the time, leading a dozen others on a routine patrol. They returned to bury their dead and move into hiding, asking Allah only for Russians to kill, a wish come true as Russians arrived in force to crush the holdouts. It became a long, hard war of attrition, and they killed many Russians, but there were always more. Iranian agents were frequent guests in his mountain hideaway, asking nothing in return for their aid. Until last month.

  “We are not seamen,” Basaev had protested, “and why strike our Muslim brothers? Killing Russians is pleasing in the sight of Allah.”

  “You do the work of Allah,” the Iranian said, “but there are tasks more urgent. We can teach you the skills required but cannot make our other brothers look European.”

  “An
d the Faithful who die?”

  “Most casualties will be infidel tourists, and the Faithful who die will be gathered into Heaven. And ask yourself this, Basaev: are those that whore themselves to gawking tourists really our brothers? Are the governments that fawn on the Americans in return for military aid really true Muslims? When was the last time you saw a Saudi or Egyptian or a Turk or anyone but an Iranian in these mountains, bringing you guns and ammunition and medicine?” The Iranian had paused. “You should reflect upon who stands by your side during your darkest hour.”

  Basaev had conceded the point but continued to resist. “We know how to kill Russians and should continue until Allah calls us to Paradise.”

  “Look around you,” the Iranian said. “Four left. And in these mountains, groups of two or four or seven fight on, growing fewer as the Russians grow stronger, financed by the sale of oil. If, God willing, you sell your lives for a hundred Russians each, there will be four hundred infidels in Hell. A drop in the ocean. Take my offer and slay infidel tourists by the thousands and bring down the Russian economy. Think, my brother.”

  “I have,” Basaev said, “and it is clear to me this will raise oil prices and enrich Iran.”

  The Iranian smiled. “The better to support world Jihad,” he said.

  In the end, Basaev had acquiesced, and now he slipped into silent prayer, asking for Allah’s favor, for he thought himself a godly man and sought divine approval often. The self-deception was so complete he never understood he’d converted to a more elemental faith, kneeling among the bloody remains of his family at the altar of vengeance. His religion was the destruction of all things Russian.

  Basaev pulled himself back to the present and clicked his mouse to bring up the next module, “Cargoes and Possible Ignition Sources.”

  Offices of Phoenix Shipping

  11 June

  Dugan got off the elevator and walked through the deserted offices, illuminated by the morning sun filtering through hallway windows. He left the overhead lights off and made his way past the cubicle farm to an office marked CHARTERING. He looked around nervously, then opened the door and entered, turning to ease the door closed.