Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (7 page)

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 control. 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.”

“And 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.

“May I help you, Mr. Dugan?”

Dugan spun to see Abdul Ibrahim sitting at his desk with a perplexed expression. Even on a Saturday, the little Pakistani wore a well-tailored suit and a perfectly knotted silk tie.

“Uh… Mr. Ibrahim. Forgive me for not knocking. I didn’t know you were here. I was uh… just going to leave a note on your desk to call me. I would have messaged you, but I’m having some problem with my e-mail.”

Ibrahim smiled and gestured to a chair. “No apology necessary. Please. Sit and tell me how I may be of service.”

Dugan took the chair, his mind racing. Shit.

“I’m just curious,” he said. “I saw a VLCC on the position report…
China Star
,
I think her name is. I noticed she was subchartered to lift a cargo to Japan. I figure if rates are good enough to charter in, then subcharter on that route, I should check it out. If that trade picks up, it means I can get our ships positioned in the Far East much more cheaply for repairs. That will really help our maintenance budget.”

Christ, thought Dugan, pretty smooth. That even sounded believable to me.

Ibrahim looked uncomfortable. “I have only a vague recollection of the details, but I will look into it and get back with you Monday, if that’s all right.”

He’d hit a nerve. Dugan started to back off, then realized that any damage was already done. He may as well find out what he could. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“You’re head of chartering,” Dugan said. “This is a big-money deal that went down three days ago.”

Ibrahim was sweating. “I… I…”

“Mr. Ibrahim,” Dugan said, “I’ve known you almost ten years and know you’re honest. If you’ve somehow caught up in something illegal—”

Ibrahim shook his head. “Not me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Braun put together the charters. I went to Mr. Kairouz, but—”

He stopped and looked around, then lowered his voice further. “I will not speak of it here. But I know you are Mr. Kairouz’s friend, and something is very, very wrong. I will tell you what I know. Meet me near the entrance to Vauxhall tube station in one hour.”

Dugan nodded and rose to leave. He opened the door quietly and looked around before slipping out and down the corridor to his own office. He closed his office door just as the elevator doors opened down the hall.

***

Braun stepped off the elevator and swiveled toward the quiet click of Dugan’s office door closing. What the bloody hell was Dugan doing here?

Vauxhall Tube Station
London

Braun watched Dugan and Ibrahim from a distance as they stood on the platform, staring straight ahead as they pretended to be disinterested strangers waiting for a train. He couldn’t see their faces but noted tension in their postures. They were obviously conversing. Amateurs.