Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (11 page)

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.”

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 out 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.