“Uh, OK, your call. Anything else?”
“No,” Anna replied, “unless you or Agent Ward have anything.”
“No,” Gardner said, disconnecting without looking at Ward, who had a great deal to add but nothing he wanted to say in front of Gardner.
***
“That was amazing, Anna. Thank you,” Dugan said.
“Yes, well, everything’s relative,” she said. “This Gardner twit infuriated me even more than you, something I scarcely thought possible twenty minutes ago.”
Harry grinned. “I dunno, I think the Yank redeemed himself. I rather enjoyed the ‘ten feet of snow’ bit. I woulda loved to have seen the wanker’s face.”
The men laughed as Anna struggled to suppress a smile.
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“How in hell did you let this get so out of control, Ward? Dugan just blew the whole operation, just to protect his raghead buddy. He’s dirty. Get the finance guys on this: bank accounts, e-mails, phone records, foreign-held companies, the lot.”
“We’ve had Dugan’s complete financials for years,” Ward said. “He doesn’t need money. I share your concern about his actions, but if Walsh and her team are comfortable, we have to respect that. Besides, if Dugan wanted to scuttle us, he’d do it quietly.”
“Just because he’s fooled the crumpet munchers doesn’t mean he’s not a traitor.”
“OK, OK, I know you’re upset, but try to calm down. Go enjoy your evening.”
The reminder of the social engagement worked as intended. Nothing was more important to Gardner than a chance to rub shoulders with the power elite.
Gardner nodded and rose. As they walked out and Gardner locked his door, Ward got in a subtle dig.
“Enjoy the ballet with Congressman Gaynor,” he said.
“It’s the symphony with Senator Gunther,” Gardner said.
Ward shrugged. “Whatever.”
Gardner stalked off, appalled at Ward’s ignorance. No wonder he was still an agent.
Minutes later, Ward sat at his computer, requesting a flyover of Kharg Island, Iran, with a specific request for updates on the China Star. He’d refrained from mentioning satellite coverage to Gardner, fearing the man might object because it was Dugan’s idea. If you didn’t ask, no one could say no.
Chapter Thirteen
M/T Asian Trader
South China Sea
Bound for Panama
16 June
Medina jogged down the deck, his routine well established after two weeks at sea. The afternoon sun was warm on his back as he moved along the deck and dropped to do push-ups near a ballast-tank vent. His exercise attracted no notice now other than jokes about his sanity. It was the perfect way to keep check on events unfolding unseen below the deck at his feet.
The gasoline had eaten through the Styrofoam by now, he was sure of it. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the gasoline weeping down the bulkheads of the empty ballast tanks, evaporating in the process. As the sun warmed the deck each day, the expanding air in the empty tanks whispered out the vents, and at night, sea water rushing past the outer hull cooled the air and reversed the process, sucking in oxygen-rich sea air. Fumes would escape each day, but most would remain, slowly filling each tank from the bottom up as it “breathed” through each cycle, mixing its contents into explosive vapor.
He put his nose near the deck as he did push-ups and smelled the faint odor wafting from the nearest vent to lie invisible along the deck before being swept away by a breeze. He smiled. The tanks were ripening and chances of discovery slight as the wind dissipated the fumes. His plan would work, inshallah.
Sterling Academy
Westminster, London
17 June
The car lurched to a stop, and Farley watched Gillian Farnsworth’s face in the mirror, disappointed that she was ignoring his provocation. She got out and went into the school, returning with a glum-looking Cassie in tow.
“Take us to the doctor’s and wait,” she said. “We should be out by half two.”
Farley grunted and shot off with squealing tires, pondering the change in the woman over the last two days. She’d never hidden her disdain or hesitated to challenge him, but always with an undercurrent of fear, despite her brave words. She was different now, more confident. A subtle change, felt rather than spoken. Should he tell Braun? He dismissed the notion, sure he’d get a scornful response.
He curbed the tires in the waiting area of the doctor’s building, bringing the car to a rocking halt. The housekeeper ignored it as she exited the car, hurrying Cassie along with her. She’ll get hers, he thought as they bustled into the building. Maybe he’d make the old bitch watch while he shagged the retard. Now wouldn’t that be sweet.
***
“Why do I have to get a jab?” Cassie whined as the elevator opened on the third floor.
“It’s a flu shot,” Mrs. Farnsworth lied. “Now out you go.”
They were expected and led to an exam room, where a nurse took Cassie’s vital signs and directed Mrs. Farnsworth to the doctor’s office. Anna Walsh sat across from the doctor. She motioned Mrs. Farnsworth to an empty chair.
“Doctor,” Anna said, “might I speak to Mrs. Farnsworth alone?”
He smiled. “Certainly. I’ll check on Cassie.”
“You do know what’s going on?” Anna asked as the doctor left.
“I know you’re MI5. Mr. Kairouz told me. I assume you’ll take Cassie to safety.”
“It’s not that simple,” Anna said. “Removing Cassie makes it obvious Alex is cooperating, but we don’t have enough evidence to hold either Braun or Farley. You would all likely still be targets.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We have to play this out, making the best of the hand dealt us. Here’s what we’re going to do….”
Tehran, Iran
17 June
Motaki was anxious. Gasoline shortages ate at his support like a cancer. Former allies grew distant, rumors abounded, and even Imam Rahmani was under pressure. How ironic, he thought, that he had been so successful in importing material for his nuclear program, only to be undone by something as prosaic as gasoline. But, God willing, that would soon change. The intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Ahmad?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but President Rodriguez is calling.”
He sighed a thanks.
“Mr. President. Nice to hear from you.”
“Good day, my friend,” Rodriguez said, “are you well?”
Motaki curbed his impatience. “Yes, thank you. How may I help you?”
“It’s about the… our project. I’ve heard no reports and—”
Camel shit for brains, thought Motaki. Not on an open line.
“Yes, the petrol shipments,” Motaki said. “I will arrange an update via secure means.”
“All right… fine,” Rodriguez said. “It’s just I’ve heard little and—”
“Never a bother, my friend,” he said as he silently cursed Braun. “Anything more?”
“No. No. Thank you,” Rodriguez said before saying a polite good-bye.
Motaki frowned as he tapped out a terse message on his computer.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
17 June
Braun returned from lunch to find a telltale spam message. He downloaded a video clip from the porn site and decrypted the embedded message.
CONTACTED BY OUR FRIEND. UPDATE HIM TO PREVENT REPETITION.
That bloody Venezuelan. Like Motaki, Rodriguez had a secure sat phone, but to preclude overuse, Braun first locked it into receive-only mode. Anticipating problems, Braun also allowed Rodriguez backdoor access to a single porn site, used by him alone to isolate him from the real operation. He’d still been a pest, deluging Braun with frequent inane messages and suggestions to the point the German no longer even downloaded them. The idiot must have contacted Motaki on a landline. He’d underestimated the Venezuelan’s stupidity.
&
nbsp; Caracas, Venezuela
17 June
Rodriguez answered the sat phone on the sixth ring.
“Mr. President,” Braun said, “forgive me. I was awaiting updates before reporting.”
“You do well to remember who is in charge, Braun. Now report.”
Braun stifled a laugh. “Yes, sir. China Star arrived at Kharg, and our Chechen friends—”
“Yes, yes,” Rodriguez said, “what of Panama?”
“Asian Trader is en route from Singapore. All is according to plan.”
“Remember,” Rodriguez said. “Minor damage. And we must not be implicated.”
“Don’t worry, sir. Our man can kill himself and those around him, but little more. And even if he survives, he knows nothing.”
“Are we still on schedule for July 4?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Braun said. “Is there anything more, sir?”
“No. That is sufficient, Karl, but do not fail to keep me informed.”
“You may rest assured I will, sir.”
“Thank you, Karl. That will be all.”
Braun shook his head and hung up. Bloody pompous fool.
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
17 June
“Caught any bad guys today?” asked a familiar voice.
Ward chuckled into the phone. Mike Hill worked for NSA, tasked with global electronic snooping. “Not yet, Mike, but the day’s young. Whatcha got?”
“You know that London site the Brits are monitoring and sharing intel on with us?”
“Yeah, Phoenix Shipping. What about it?”
“Well, we also have ongoing surveillance on that nut job in Caracas,” Hill said, “and El Presidente received a scrambled sat phone call this morning from guess where?”
“Phoenix Shipping?”
“Bingo, brother. The Brits had the outgoing, too, but not the Caracas end. We aided our cousins who were pathetically grateful, though they covered it with British reserve—”
Ward grinned. “OK, OK, Hill. I get the picture.”
“Jeez, nerds are never appreciated. Anyway, the bad news is we couldn’t unscramble it.”
“Well, even the connection is a breakthrough,” Ward said.
“Ah, but our legerdemain continues,” Hill said. “Earlier El Presidente called Iran, rather stupidly in the clear. We recorded one President Motaki shitting his pants at the mention of a ‘project,’ and El Presidente’s failure to be updated on same. Motaki says not to worry, and presto, El Presidente gets a call from London.” Hill paused. “A reasonable man might conclude a connection between Iran and Venezuela running through Phoenix Shipping.”
“Outstanding,” Ward said. “When next we meet, my friend, drinks are on me.”
“Don’t be cheap. You have an expense account. I want dinner.”
“Done,” Ward said.
Chapter Fourteen
Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
London
22 June
“It’s been a friggin’ week since Jesse made the Iran/Venezuela link,” Dugan said, “and we’ve still got squat.”
Anna shrugged. “That’s not surprising. Braun’s smart, and we probably got a bit lucky on the China Star thing. With increased electronic surveillance here and in Caracas and Tehran, something will break soon.”
“Yeah,” Dugan said, “but until then, all we have is China Star, and only suspicions at that. I wish there was some way we could be sure.”
“But we have some time there as well, Yank,” Harry said. “She just sailed. She’ll be in the middle of the ocean for a while, out of harm’s way.”
Dugan nodded, then seemed to think of something. He opened up his briefcase and pulled out his laptop to punch at the keyboard. He brought up the Searates.com Web site and began entering information.
“Shit,” Dugan said.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“At her current speed, China Star should be in the middle of the Straits of Malacca on the Fourth of July. Now what are the odds of that?”
Crowne Plaza Hotel
Jakarta, Indonesia
23 June
Steven “Bo” Richards slouched in a chair with his feet on an ottoman, clad in boxer shorts and nursing a hangover. He’d woken at noon and roused the whore to deal with his morning erection before shoving her into the hall, throwing money after her and slamming the door as she struggled into her clothes. He drained the beer and dropped the bottle on the carpet before scratching his stomach. The bed lay in tangled disarray, and a cart held the remains of a room-service breakfast. The room needed tidying, an event deferred by the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob outside.
He checked the time and stood to slip on a pair of jeans and pull on a tee shirt. He was tying his shoes when he heard a knock.
***
Sheibani stared at the Do Not Disturb sign, calming himself. The scum inside was a thug of the Great Satan, and Sheibani longed to kill him sight unseen. But the deception required Americans, and Richards’s citizenship and record were documented. He forced a smile as the door opened a crack.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Richards, I am Ali. May I come in?”
Richards opened the door and stood aside, nodding toward the sitting area. Sheibani entered and took a seat with his back to the wall as Richards settled across from him.
“Your accommodations are to your liking?” Sheibani asked.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” Richards said. “What’s the job?”
How American. Sheibani struggled with anger.
“In a week or so,” Sheibani said, “a ship named China Star will transit the Malacca Straits, escorted by a security force comprised of private contractors and US Navy personnel. Or rather, men disguised as US Navy personnel. You will lead that force.”
“Why me?” Richards asked. “I’m no sailor, and the pay is far beyond anything offered for a straight security job.”
“In good time, Mr. Richards. For the moment let’s just say—”
“You plan to sink the ship and block the strait,” Richards guessed.
Sheibani once again swallowed his ire. “On the contrary. We will avoid blocking the strait, while appearing to attempt just that. We will ground in Indonesian waters and escape.”
“Won’t that be obvious to the crew?”
“The crew will be dealt with,” Sheibani said.
Richards nodded. “ Resources? How many in our team? Weapons?”
“The makeup and armament of the team will be as you require; in fact, I want you to recruit some of the team. The goal is deception. We will be joined by a young Arab-American naval officer.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Insurance,” Sheibani said. “Survivors will report an attack led by Americans.”
“But you have an American.”
Sheibani shook his head. “The ship is Liberian flag, but the senior officers are American. We will present them with an unusual situation. We must gain control fast, before they have a chance to think too much about it. Our young mujahideen is untested, and he looks like the Arab-American he is. They will likely be less suspicious of a countryman who shares their ethnicity.”
Richards smirked. “So I’m your token white man.”
Sheibani nodded. “I suppose you could say that. Questions?”
Richards shook his head. “No questions,” he said, then smiled. “But seeing as how I’m such a valuable commodity, I think we need to renegotiate.”
Sheibani suppressed a smile. So predictable. He feigned resistance and then yielded to Richards’s exorbitant demand. After all, he’d never live to collect the money.
M/T China Star
Strait of Hormuz
23 June
“Make your course one seven five,” said Captain Dan Holt of the VLCC M/T China Star over his shoulder as he squinted out at the ship traffic.
“One seven five, aye,” the helmsman repeated, then a moment later, �
�Steady on one seven five, sir.”
Holt watched as the Strait of Hormuz widened and ships spread out in the increased sea room. He walked over to study the radar.
“OK, put her on the mike,” he said to the helmsman.
“Aye, sir. Steering one seven five. Transferring control to the mike,” the sailor said, switching control to the autopilot, or “Iron Mike,” and watching the gyrocompass repeater a moment before he stepped away from the wheel.
“OK, Ortega,” Holt said to the second mate, “call me if necessary. And don’t let me catch you with your nose glued to the radar. Visibility’s good, so use the radar to confirm a bearing or distance, not as a substitute for your goddamned eyes.”
“Yes, Captain,” Ortega said.
“OK. You have the conn. Helm’s on the mike, steering one seven five.”
“I have the conn, sir. Helm’s on autopilot, steering one seven five,” Ortega said.
Holt gave a curt nod and strode out the door, down the single flight to his office. He settled into his chair and glanced at a printed e-mail before reaching for the phone.
“Engine Room. Chief speaking,” Jon Anderson said.
“Chief, can you come up?”
“OK,” Anderson said. “I’m buttoning up the transfer pump. Give me a minute.”
Ten minutes later the chief stood at Holt’s door in oil-stained coveralls and carrying a clean piece of cardboard. He slipped off dirty work shoes to avoid staining the carpet and moved to the sofa in stockinged feet, placing the cardboard down to protect the fabric before sitting.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Holt said, “aren’t you friggin’ engineers ever clean?”
Anderson grinned. “Some of us work for a living instead of sitting on our ass. You said come, so here I am. Want me to leave?”
Jon Anderson was one of Captain Daniel Holt’s very few friends, a relationship rooted in mutual respect and the fact that Anderson took no crap from Holt.
“No, God damn it,” grumbled Holt as he sat. “Coffee?”
“Nah. I’ve had my quota.” Anderson smiled as the ship rolled. “God it’s good to be out of there and back at sea.”
“That’s for sure,” Holt said. “I’m just surprised they didn’t give us a big ration of shit when they boarded and found Americans aboard. I can’t say I was happy to be there.”
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 11