Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (23 page)

Moments later, Anna cleared the house by requesting all the local police to help cordon off the landing zone. As people trooped into the street, Ward hung back a bit, his hand on Dugan’s shoulder. They locked eyes.

“I guess sometimes maybe it has to be red is positive and black is negative,” Ward said.

Dugan nodded, and Ward moved off with the others.

***

“Where did everyone go, and what are you doing here?” Braun demanded.

Dugan locked the door and squatted by Braun, forearms across his knees. He smiled.

“I slipped back for a chat about the next attacks. It’ll help at your trial.”

“What trial? Kairouz confessed. Worry about your own trial, you idiot.”

Dugan changed tacks. “Think of the thousands that will die.”

Braun’s laugh finished in a bloody cough.

“They mean nothing to me,” he said as he recovered. “You look ridiculous, squatting there like some movie cowboy. Say something appropriate. Yippee tie yie yay, perhaps?”

Dugan rose and grabbed Braun’s ankles, jerking the man from the wall so fast his head bounced on the hardwood. Dugan ripped the tape off the wound and got in Braun’s face.

“Yee haa,” he said, spraying spittle. “How’s that, asshole?

“You’ve fucked me all right,” Dugan continued. “Maybe a little too hard. I got nothing left to lose. You think I give two shits about your evil masters or your motives. News flash. I don’t. I can use info about the attacks to save my own ass. If you won’t provide it, I’ve no reason to keep you alive. I’ll watch you drown in your own blood, then slap the tape back and sit you up. There’s no downside, Karl. I can’t be any worse off than I am.”

Braun gasped, and Dugan patted his shoulder.

“I know it hurts. And I want you to know, I’m still open to a trade. But don’t take too long, because you’re looking a little blue.” He paused. “What was that phrase you like? Oh yeah. Tick. Tick. Tick.”

Braun’s lips moved. “O… OK,” he said.

“Great, Karl. Let’s start easy. How many more attacks? I’ll say numbers, and you nod or shake your head. OK?”

Braun nodded.

“Here we go. Three or more?”

Braun shook his head.

“Good,” Dugan said. “Two more attacks?”

Again, Braun shook his head.

“Great, Karl. So there’s one more attack?”

Braun nodded. Eyes closed. Face a blue mask. Dugan slapped his cheeks.

“Stay with me, Karl. Where?”

Braun’s lips moved, and Dugan put his ear close. “Is… Is… Ista…”

“Istanbul? The Bosphorus Straits?”

Braun managed a nod.

Dugan slapped him harder. “What ship? What load port? Talk to me.”

Braun opened his eyes and tried to speak as frothy blood whistled from his wound. “O… o…” he began. His head fell to one side.

Dugan slapped the tape back and dragged Braun upright just as paramedics entered the house. Dugan ran outside.

“One more attack,” Dugan shouted over chopper noise. “Istanbul.”

Anna shouted back. “We’ve good news too. Alex survived, but he’s in serious condition.”

Dugan closed his eyes and nodded as Ward gripped his shoulder. He opened them to see paramedics rush Braun to the chopper.

Anna had called in their own chopper, and as they flew back to Thames House, Dugan’s thoughts turned eastward to Istanbul, city of thirteen million astride the winding Bosphorus.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Intensive Care Unit
Saint Ignatius Hospital
London

Dugan looked up as Anna entered the waiting room.

“How’s Braun?” he asked.

“Still under from the surgery,” Anna said. “And Alex? What’s the doctor say?”

“That he’s lucky to be alive,” Dugan said. “The activation bulb in the sprinkler head he rigged the rope to fractured and set off the sprinklers. They got to him fast, but we won’t know about brain damage unless… until… he wakes up.”

“Have you been in?”

Dugan shook his head. “Visitation’s limited. I didn’t want to deprive Cassie and Mrs. Farnsworth of any time in case…”

Anna nodded, and Dugan fell silent, composing himself before continuing.

“Thank you for Gillian. She couldn’t bear being locked away now.”

Anna shrugged. “She was bringing the gun to us, and it accidentally discharged.”

“You’re OK with that?”

“When the law is at odds with justice, I’ll take justice.”

“Thank you,” he said again. Then added, “I have to get to Russia.”

“Why? It’s up to the Russians and Turks now.”

A known target had cut Dugan’s list to six ships, and he’d called each with news of the office fire and updated their positions in the process. Only the M/T
Phoenix Orion
, loading crude at Novorossiysk, Russia, was close enough. Braun’s ‘”O… o…” had meant “Orion.”

“Someone has to protect Alex’s interests. Liability from the
Asian Trader
alone could ruin him, and you can count on the underwriters denying claims on the premise of criminal activity.”

“But what’s that have to do with the next attack?”

“Because he’ll need all his assets to survive this.
Orion
is a profitable ship, and I need to be on the ground to persuade the Russians not to impound her after they stop the attack. And there’s the crew. Remember that school incident? The Russians killed half the kids along with the terrorists. You think they care about our crew?”

“But what can—”

“Ingratiate myself. Offer advice. Whatever. I’ll play it by ear.”

Ward walked in during Dugan’s discourse and was nodding.

“Can you even get there in time?” Anna asked.

“I need help,” Dugan admitted. “Commercial flights are via Moscow with long layovers, but it’s only five hours by business jet. The airport is daylight only, but if I leave by eleven, I’ll be there at dawn.”

Anna stared. “Aren’t you forgetting something? You’re still in ‘Panamanian custody,’ and even if you weren’t, with Alex’s confession, Scotland Yard considers you a suspect. We can look the other way, but neither Jesse nor I can openly provide transport.”

Ward cleared his throat. “I don’t think the Panamanian custody thing will be too big a problem. Being a good cop, Reyes has figured out where the bodies are buried. He’s sticking to Braun like glue. He seems to have lost interest in Tom.”

“And I don’t expect either of you to provide transport, Anna,” Dugan said. “I’m betting Braun prepaid that charter outfit to take Alex to Beirut. How would they react to a call from MI5 questioning their involvement?”

“Nervously, at the very least,” Anna said.

Dugan smiled. “Now suppose you implied Her Majesty’s Government would be grateful if the forfeited payment were used to take me to Russia?”

She nodded. “Devious, Dugan, but it might work.”

She pulled out her phone, then noticed a No Mobile Phone sign and moved to an exit.

Dugan turned to Ward.

“So Jesse, how are things at the Langley Puzzle Palace?”

“Shaky. With these latest developments, Gardner’s back up on the fence ready to hammer us or take credit, depending on the outcome. But he hates your guts. I’m concerned about you going to Russia solo.”

“Come with me.”

Ward shook his head. “I need to stick near Braun. He’s still the key. But I’ll try to watch your back. With Gardner involved, anything could happen.”

Dugan nodded as Anna returned.

“Air Dugan departs tonight at ten thirty,” she announced.

Airborne En Route to Russia

Dugan jerked awake.

“Dugan,” he said into the phone.

“Tom. Jesse.”

“Is Alex—”

“No change there, but Braun talked. But we had to cut a deal—”

“We’ve got the ship. Why rush to cut a deal with that—”

“No, we don’t. He was saying ‘Odessa,’ not ‘Orion.’”

“We got nothing loading in Odessa. I couldn’t—”

“An unrecorded charter. Not your fault, Tom.”

Dugan sighed. “OK. Let’s hear it.”

“
Contessa di Mare
, owned by Fratelli Barbiero Compagnia di Navigazione, loading gasoline in Odessa for Genoa. Four Chechen terrorists aboard.”

“I’ll divert.”

“Too late. She sailed yesterday. ETA at the Bosphorus pilot station is 1100 local today. Langley notified everyone, but the Turks seem skeptical. Our earlier misstep didn’t reassure them. And the Russians are still involved. They won’t ignore a threat to the Bosphorus.”

“Christ. What should I do?”

“Nothing. Things are too unstable. Langley, Moscow, Ankara, and God knows who else are in the act. Land, refuel, and leave before the shit hits the fan. If you’re met, give what advice you can and leave.”

“Got it,” Dugan said. “By the way, what’s the target? The strait’s pretty long.”

“Unknown. Braun was having problems. The docs made us stop. We’ll try later.”

“OK, pal. See you soon,” Dugan said.

M/T Contessa di Mare
Black Sea Due North of Istanbul
0130 Hours Local Time
7 July

Khassan Basaev’s gut knotted from weeks of stress, but it was almost over. The Chechens and their weapons, boxed as “ship spares in transit,” sped through the airport behind liberal bribes. The midnight boarding had gone equally well.

Awakened from his attempt at a few hours rest before a predawn sailing, the chief engineer was predictably confused by the forged work order. He’d ordered no riding gang. On cue, Basaev suggested riding to Istanbul, a day away, confirming the orders in transit. If there was a mistake, he promised his team would disembark at no cost. Happy to avoid spending the rest of the night on the phone to Genoa, the captain and chief engineer agreed.

They seized the bridge just after departure, Basaev holding the captain at gunpoint as his comrades corralled the crew in the aft rope locker. The Chechens freed a few crewmen at a time to raise cargo-tank covers and remove the steel blanks from the manifold discharge flanges as Doku and Shamil rigged charges along deck.

Then they used their recent training, and fumes boiled from the hatches as they ventilated the cargo tanks with fresh air. Inert gas hung above the deck in a cloud, changing to an explosive mix of air and gasoline as the inert gas was purged. Finally, they concealed their work, stopping the fans and moving the hatch covers almost, but not quite, closed. The wind dissipated the explosive cloud, but the fans would force it from the tanks again when the time was right.

Basaev touched the detonator in his pocket. He’d increased speed to claim the first morning transit slot. Soon he would be in Paradise, and the Russian scum would be choking on their oil. He thought of his loved ones’ deaths and wrapped himself in hate like an old, familiar blanket. A poor substitute for love, but it was all he had.

Vityazevo Airport
Anapa, Russian Federation

“Welcome to Mother Russia,” the copilot said from the cockpit door as the plane rolled to a stop. “We’ll refuel and stand by, but I think you’ll have a welcoming committee. They asked for you by name when we requested clearance.”

Not good, Dugan thought.

Three men waited on the tarmac: two in black behind a short man in a baggy brown uniform. Shorty glanced over his shoulder before turning back to Dugan and extending his hand.

“Passport,” he said, exhausting his English. Dugan surrendered his passport, and Shorty passed it to the larger of the men behind him.

Mr. In Charge studied the passport and Dugan’s battered face as Dugan reciprocated, ignoring Shorty. The others were tall, midthirties, with old faces. They wore tailored combat utilities with the Russian tricolor on the shoulder.

Mr. In Charge pocketed the passport and barked at Shorty in Russian, and the little bureaucrat scurried away without a backward glance.

“You come,” Mr. In Charge said as he and his subordinate turned.

“Wait,” Dugan said, “I’m returning to London.”

“Nyet,” the Russian called back, walking away.

Dugan hustled past them to stop in their path, his arm extended palm outward. Soon it pressed against Mr. In Charge’s chest.

“OK, let’s try that again. Give me my damned passport and tell me who the hell you are. If I like your answer, we’ll talk.”

The Russian glared at the hand until Dugan removed it. Then he nodded.

“I am Major Andrei Borgdanov, and this is Sergeant Ilya Denosovich. We belong to Federal Security Service, Special Operations Detachment, Krasnodar, Directorate V, Counterterrorism Unit.” He paused. “And your plane leaves when I say. So if you want me to authorize this, you come. Or plane will be here long, long time.”

The Russians resumed their walk toward a Humvee-like vehicle. Left with no choice, Dugan followed. The sergeant pointed to the rear seat before crawling behind the wheel, as Borgdanov took shotgun. They roared away, Dugan groping for a nonexistent seat belt, up the taxiway to a service area and a helicopter surrounded by men in the same black uniforms.

The sergeant braked hard, dumping Dugan on the floorboard to jeers from the waiting Russians. The major yelled something, stifling the jeers if not the smirks. The sergeant grinned over the seat at Dugan.

Eight of the Russians were dressed like the sergeant, but three had different uniforms, Dugan saw as he got out. Aircrew, he thought, not full members of the Crazy Commando Club. Borgdanov wrapped a big hand around Dugan’s bicep and steered him toward the chopper.

“We must get ready,” he said.

Dugan jerked his arm free. “So what can I tell you?”

“What? Nyet. Get ready.” The major nodded toward black utilities and body armor the sergeant was unloading.

“Whoa. I’m an advisor. I’m not going with you.”

“You are Agent Thomas Dugan of American CIA, here to help us as agreed.” Borgdanov nodded, and the sergeant approached, intent on undressing Dugan, by force if necessary.

Dugan backed away, alarms clanging at “Agent Dugan.”

“Look. I’ll just be in the way.”

“
Da,
but you are American. We go to extreme range and must land in Turkey after, but Turks deny permission because we are Russians. So, we become multinational force,
da
? Turks are in NATO and will accept American-led force. You are only American close enough, so”—he smiled—”you are leader.”

“I’m not CIA,” Dugan insisted.

“Gardner explained you have to say this, but do not worry, Dugan. Now you work with us. This man Gardner agreed on conference call. Is his idea. He is your CIA superior,
da
?”

“Shit,” Dugan said, pulling out his phone. The sergeant snatched it, smirking. Dugan swallowed his anger, his judgment improved since Panama.

“Communications blackout,” Borgdanov said, adding, “Dugan, is safe. You are here for show. You stay with chopper.”

“I am not getting on that fucking chopper.”

Borgdanov’s face clouded as he drew his pistol. “Understand, Dugan. Body of CIA man and American passport is enough I think, maybe easier. Our American leader maybe killed during attack on ship. You decide.”

Dugan swallowed his heart and nodded.

Borgdanov smiled, holstering his gun and unleashing a burst of Russian that had Sergeant Denosovich and another Russian tugging off Dugan’s jacket.

“But why do I have to wear this shit?”

“Must look good for Turks, and armor is in case terrorist bastard shoots at chopper.”

So much for safe, Dugan thought as he struggled with the unfamiliar gear and the sergeant’s running commentary drew chuckles from the others.

“I’d feel better if Sarge here didn’t say ‘dead’ every second sentence.”

“Not ‘dead,’ Dugan. ‘
Dyed.
’ Short for ‘
dyedushka
,’ or grandfather.”

Dugan glared at the sergeant, who grinned back and spit out a stream of Russian.

“What did he say?” Dugan asked, still glaring.

“He says that from looks of grandfather’s face, he has seen recent combat, but he doesn’t think you win this fight.”

Borgdanov struggled to keep a straight face.

“Actually, Dugan,” he added, “
dyed
is term of great respect.”

I guess that explains the shit-eating grins, Dugan thought.

The sergeant looked him over. Satisfied, he ripped the Russian Federation tricolor from Dugan’s shoulder and pressed an American flag patch onto the Velcro. He moved beside Borgdanov, and to Dugan’s amazement, both came to attention and saluted.

“Agent Thomas Dugan of American CIA. I greet you as American component and Commander of Multinational Strike Force One.” Borgdanov snapped his hand down.

“Now get in chopper.”

***

Dugan sat beside the major, facing backward at the others. A man pointed, and Dugan saw another helicopter. He looked quizzically at Borgdanov, who produced a headset, miming for Dugan to put it on as he did the same with another.

“Is Captain Petrov’s team. They assault. We are support and backup. Always we send two teams. How you say? Redundancy?”

Dugan nodded. “What’s the plan?”

“We attack at sea. Both choppers come in high, then drop and sweep bridge with Gatling guns. Then we circle while Petrov closes. They use ropes. How you say…”

“Rappel?”