Anderson shrugged. “Maybe we had a guardian angel. Anyway, what’s up?”
Holt handed Anderson the e-mail and waited while he read it.
“What the hell is Maritime Protection Services?”
“Just what it says,” Holt said. “Hired guns to protect us through the Malacca Straits.”
Anderson looked skeptical. “Are we talking gunmen running all over the ship?”
“I don’t think so. I think they just shadow us in a boat.”
“Still sounds hinky,” Anderson said. “I’ll bet they know jack about tanker safety. We get all sorts of training about no matches, cigarette lighters, no spark-producing equipment, et cetera, et cetera, and now we’re supposed to be OK with a bunch of trigger-happy assholes circling the ship with machine guns?”
“I agree,” the captain said, “but the charterer hired them, and our owner agreed, so that’s that. As long as they keep their distance, it should be all right.”
“Yeah, well, like you say, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Anderson grinned. “Besides, I bet somebody’s getting a kickback. They’ll get an invoice for a hundred grand, and we’ll be escorted by an old guy in a canoe with one tooth and a pellet gun.”
Holt laughed. “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute.”
Chapter Fifteen
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
25 June
Gardner glared at Ward. “No. And stop beating a dead horse, Ward. The answer was no two days ago, and it’s still no.”
“We should notify MALSINDO,” Ward persisted, using the acronym for the alliance of Malaysia, Singapore, and Indonesia policing the Malacca Strait.
“And tell them what? Your boy Dugan and his terrorist buddy have a gut feeling?”
“Listen, Larry—”
“No, YOU listen, Ward. Me, chief. You, Indian. Understand?”
Ward bit back a sharp reply. “At least let’s notify our own guys.”
“Ward. It’s a goddamned VLCC,” Gardner said. “It will check into the traffic system, so I see no need to cry wolf and look stupid. You’ve screwed this up enough, so let’s just lie low and avoid embarrassment.”
Great, Ward thought, all this asshole is worried about is image. There was a huge difference in the scrutiny China Star would get if the authorities suspected trouble.
“Look, Larry. You have to understand—”
“No, YOU look. I haven’t handed you your ass for your boy Dugan fucking things up by the numbers, but if you mention China Star to Singapore, I will HAVE YOUR ASS! Clear?”
Ward managed an angry nod.
“Fine. We’re done. I’m invited to a congressional prayer breakfast, and I’m late.”
Ward stifled an impulse to suggest Gardner pray for some fucking brains and stalked to his own office. After a moment of indecision, he glanced at his watch and called London.
***
“The bloody wanker,” Lou Chesterton said. “So what now?”
“I follow orders and hope you’ll do the same, but I know you Brits are blabbermouths.”
“Yes, we are a loose-lipped lot,” Lou said. “Why, given that the British High Commission is next door to your embassy, I suspect our Singapore lads gossip over the fence like old hens.”
“No doubt,” Ward said. “However, I hope if they do somehow hear about China Star, that they keep their efforts low-key. My ass is hanging out here a bit, Lou.”
“Understood,” Lou said. “I’m sure things will work out.”
M/T Asian Trader
Pacific Ocean Bound for Panama
26 June
Medina frowned. The sun had pounded the deck for a week, and the steel deck grew hotter each day. He wore gloves now for push-ups, and even the wind rebelled, veering astern and matching their speed to leave the deck becalmed. He watched a nearby thunderhead and willed it closer, with its promise of cooling rain and concealing wind.
His eyes moved toward the bow as the bosun descended from the forecastle with a grease gun. He knew fumes were thick on deck just aft of the raised forecastle and watched the bosun for a reaction. Sure enough, upon reaching the deck, the man tilted his head, and Medina saw cognition in his eyes. The sailor squatted and sniffed at a tank vent. He rose to find Medina beside him.
“We have a bulkhead leak. We must tell the chief mate,” the bosun said, starting aft.
“Wait,” Medina said. “I smelled it before on the starboard side too. Let’s check it out before we get everyone excited.”
Unwilling to appear an alarmist while a green third mate remained calm, the bosun followed Medina under the centerline pipe rack, out of sight of the bridge watch high above.
Medina stopped under the pipes. “There’s the problem,” he said, pointing to a rising stem valve, the spiral threads of its stem protruding vertically from its center.
The bosun scoffed. “How can that be the problem?”
“Look closely,” Medina said.
The bosun hid his amusement as he bent low over the irrelevant valve. Junior officers became senior officers and were to be humored. He was about to straighten when strong hands on the back of his head slammed his face toward the valve, and he lost his balance, adding to his downward momentum. His last memory was the tip of the valve stem rushing toward him and a searing pain as it mangled his left eye and pushed into his brain.
Medina kept his full weight on the bosun’s head until the flailing stopped. He removed the man’s shoe and dabbed the sole with grease from the man’s grease gun, then pressed the shoe to the deck, simulating a slip in grease. He put the shoe back on the bosun’s foot and laced it.
A freshening wind cooled Medina’s face as he ran aft for help. A cooling rain was washing the bosun’s blood into the sea by the time he returned with that help two minutes later.
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
28 June
“Why does anyone have to go?” Braun demanded. “For that matter, why even have a damned inquiry? The captain logged it as an accident.”
Alex gritted his teeth. “Because it’s the law, Braun. Whenever—”
“Captain Braun.”
“All right. Captain Braun. Whenever there’s a death at sea, international law requires an inquiry at the next port of call with a company representative in attendance.”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not letting you go, and I’m not going.” Braun smiled. “Wait a minute. Send Dugan.”
“I don’t think—”
“Didn’t Dugan take Asian Trader through the yard in Singapore just last month?”
“He started her through, yes,” Alex said. “But I don’t think—”
“I don’t care what you think, Kairouz. He knows the ship. He’s available. Send him. Now get out.”
Alex stiffened and left Braun’s office as the German reflected on how often adversity is opportunity in disguise. He was a bit concerned that the accident might draw unnecessary attention to Asian Trader, but that effort was a sideshow anyway. He was sure the expendable lunatic there would manage to kill himself in spectacular fashion. Now, with luck, Dugan would be there to take the fall after it happened. Braun hummed a little tune as he brought up the Web site of the National Bank of the Caymans and opened a new account in Dugan’s name.
Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
2135 Hours Local Time
28 June
Dugan and Anna’s team sat around the coffee table in the surveillance apartment, his sat phone open in speaker mode on the table.
“Braun’s adamant,” Dugan said. “Alex called me into his office and told me I was going to Panama. We carried on a conversation for Braun’s benefit while we scribbled notes back and forth. I made the expected excuses—said it was Braun’s job, I was too busy, et cetera, and Alex made a show of forcing me.”
“But why is Braun so keen for you to go?” Anna asked.
Dugan shrugged. “After the China Star deal, I guess he wants me ou
t of the way.”
“It makes sense,” Ward’s voice from the speaker said. “He isn’t likely to allow Alex out of his control, and Tom knows the ship. I don’t think we should read too much into this.”
“I agree with Ward,” Lou said. “He has China Star under satellite coverage, and we still have Anna in the office to keep an eye on things. If Dugan pushes back at this point, it may make Braun suspicious.”
Anna nodded. “OK, let’s keep Braun happy then. Between China Star and the Caracas intercept, we’re finally getting somewhere. We don’t want to upset him now.”
“I’ll pack a bag,” Dugan said.
Chapter Sixteen
House of Islamic Knowledge
Dearborn, Michigan
29 June
Borqei stared at the message, sighed, and dialed the phone. He had a conversation in Farsi, including code words. An hour later, Yousif’s adoptive mother went to her doctor, who admitted her to his private clinic and called her clergyman, Borqei, of course. Borqei informed the navy that Ensign Hamad’s mother was gravely ill, along with the doctor’s number for verification. In hours, Hamad was on a plane from San Diego, with connections in Los Angeles.
***
In a toilet stall in LAX, a man slipped Yousif an envelope under the divider. He opened it to find a ticket to Jakarta, a forged passport, and a wallet holding cash, a driver’s license, and credit cards. The hand reappeared under the divider, and Yousif passed over his own boarding pass and ID. His seat on the plane to Detroit would be occupied by a man looking very much like him. It wouldn’t do for the airline to record him as a no show.
An hour later, Yousif sat in the international terminal, in civilian clothes with boarding pass in hand, baffled at his trip to Indonesia but trusting Imam Borqei.
Coast North of Idi
Aceh Province, Indonesia
30 June
Sheibani stood with Richards, watching in the growing light as his men spread netting over the boats moored fifty meters away under overhanging limbs. A good staging point, he thought, where the Andaman Sea narrowed into the Malacca Strait. Sheibani felt secure in Aceh Province. Holy Jihad had strong support here, where Islam first arrived in Indonesia.
“Is the cover sufficient?”
Richards nodded. “Between the trees and net, they’ll be invisible to the satellites.”
“And you have everything you need?”
Richards grinned. “Enough C4 to blow ‘em and enough clay to fool your bomber boys.”
“Do not ridicule them,” Sheibani snapped. Deceiving brave men was regrettable. He hoped they would be welcomed in Paradise, and he would not allow them to be mocked by this infidel.
“I leave tomorrow to collect our American in Jakarta,” Sheibani said. “You must finish before we return tomorrow night.”
“What? Why? We got four days.”
“The others will not understand, but this man may. Finish and cover it.”
“Shit,” Richards said.
Sheibani left Richards to his work, and the next morning as he got into his SUV, the American had the material stacked next to the boats.
“Gonna be broilin’ under that camo net,” the American said.
“Just make sure you finish before I return.”
Sheibani left Richards cursing, as he drove off down the jungle track, the American soon forgotten. Success was only a matter of degree. Even if they failed to dupe China into believing the attack was an American ruse to justify seizing control of the strait, the attack alone was enough to raise oil prices and divert suspicion from Iran. Sheibani smiled and mulled his plans for “spontaneous” street demonstrations once American treachery was discovered.
Judicial Investigative Directory HQ
Panama City, Panama
1 July
The chair groaned as Lieutenant Manuel Reyes reached for a file.
“One day, Manny,” Sergeant Juan Perez said, “your fat ass is gonna hit the floor.”
“You’re just jealous, shrimp,” Reyes said, with some truth. At six four and powerfully built, Reyes towered over his diminutive partner. Perez stifled a reply as Captain Luna approached and handed Reyes a folder.
“What’s this?” Reyes asked.
“You boys are taking a little boat trip,” Luna said. “Fatality on a tanker.”
“Shit. Why us? Why not those SMN assholes?” Perez asked, referring to the Servicio Maritimo Nacional. “Wait. Let me guess. She arrives on a weekend.”
“You know the drill, Perez,” Luna said. “Suspected foul play comes here.”
“Foul play?” Perez asked, interested now.
“Looks like it,” Reyes said, looking up from the file. “You read this, Captain?”
Luna nodded. “No witness except the guy that reported the accident. Victim a skilled seaman in good health. Good weather. Yeah, it warrants a look.”
Reyes continued, “Says he fell on a valve stem that pierced his brain through the eye.”
“No way,” Perez said. “With his hands free? I can see a broken arm or jaw, or even losing an eye. But the thing couldn’t go into his brain unless he came straight down on it with force. Sounds like he had help.”
Reyes and Luna nodded.
“Any bad blood between the victim and the witness?” Perez asked.
“Nothing in the file,” Luna said. “Her agent will update you on the ETA. Keep me posted.” He grinned. “Perez has time to stock up on seasick pills.”
Reyes smiled. His partner’s aversion to anything that floated was a department joke. Perez got violently ill, even riding a launch in the smooth water of the harbor. Reyes decided to let him stew for a bit before volunteering to work the case solo. Served him right for that fat-ass remark.
“This’ll screw up the weekend for sure,” Perez muttered at Luna’s retreating back.
“I hope not,” Reyes said, nodding at a framed photo of his eight-year-old twins in soccer uniforms. “The boys have a game this weekend, and I don’t want to miss it.”
Offices of Phoenix Shipping
2 July
Braun smiled as he read. He was managing message traffic for both Asian Trader and China Star now, sending or modifying messages in Dugan’s name. The ruse wouldn’t work long, but the attacks were imminent. Asian Trader had increased speed per “Dugan’s” earlier orders, with a new ETA of 0100 hours on July 4, ready to start canal transit at first light. The ship would arrive a full twenty-four hours before anyone else in the office had a clue it had reached Panama.
He accessed the Panama Canal Authority webpage auctioning transit slots, signing in as Dugan. Bidding for the July 4 slot was heavy. He doubled the current bid and grinned as no challenger emerged. The slot secured, he pulled up an outgoing message he’d intercepted and held, asking the agent to arrange a hotel and airport pickup for Dugan. He added orders to advise the authorities that Asian Trader had transit priority and to request the inquiry be postponed until after transit. Braun hit send and leaned back, satisfied.
Dugan would arrive after the attack—in time to be detained. An investigation would reveal Dugan’s Cayman Island account, owned through a series of fronts, with recent transactions totaling a million dollars from sources with known terrorist links. The money had stayed in the account just minutes before Braun whisked it away, causing it to vanish through another series of skillful transfers. A frame was one thing, but a million dollars was not something he abandoned lightly.
Things were progressing, despite a few hiccups. China Star and Asian Trader were on schedule, and the Chechens were in position for the final act. He could hardly ask for more.
Paris, France
2 July
Basaev paced the room. He was impatient, as they all were. They’d been in the seedy transient hotel a week, keeping to themselves as they studied their course notes and identity documents, preparing to board the ship as a riding repair crew. Their weapons waited in the load port, concealed among the tools to be loaded aboard for the �
��riding crew” to use during the voyage. They would take the first flight from Paris to the load port as soon as they received word the ship had moved to the loading berth. They would board the ship just before sailing, when they would receive less scrutiny.
Allah make it soon, prayed Basaev.
Chapter Seventeen
M/T China Star
Andaman Sea
East of Banda Aceh, Indonesia
3 July
Holt peered into the predawn gloom as China Star crept along at dead slow. He muttered and moved to the radar, his escort’s late arrival just the latest irritation. He still chafed at the peremptory e-mail from this Dugan, ordering him to board the “escort team leader” for a “pre-transit conference.” And his own company hadn’t backed his protest.
The VHF squawked. “China Star, this is MPS team leader. Do you copy, over?”
“I copy, MPS,” the captain said. “I have two targets to starboard. Is that you, over?”
“Affirmative, China Star. Five minutes out. Are you rigged for boarding, over?”
“Starboard side. I’ll light it up.” He walked over and threw a breaker, and floodlights bathed the boarding area and the adjacent sea in a circle of light.
“Thank you, China Star. I have a visual on the ladder. See you in five, out.”
“Bonifacio,” Holt barked. “Make yourself useful. Go meet our guest and escort him to the bridge.” Third Mate Bonifacio scurried out, cursing the curiosity that led him to hang around after he was relieved.
Holt heard the engines now, a growing roar that subsided as the boats cut speed, one paralleling the ship as the second moved crab-like into the light to the pilot ladder. I’ll be damned, he thought, looking at the flag. US Navy. Then he cursed as not one but six black-clad figures scrambled aboard. He waited until an agitated Bonifacio arrived with visitors in tow.
Holt looked at the group. “You seemed to have lost a few, Bonifacio.”
“Captain, I told them—”
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 12