Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (3 page)

“Here. I’m hit bad, ” came a weak reply.

“Hang on, and keep talking,” Broussard shouted, swimming toward the voice. He arrived as his friend slipped below the surface, and he dove, groping until he grabbed an arm. He kicked them to the surface and gulped air as he made out Hopkins’s face in the moonlight, tape dangling from a cheek. Hopkins coughed.

“C’mon, buddy. You can make it. Hang in there.”

“I’m all sh … shot up,” Hopkins said, “… got a full clip into m … me.”

“Knock that shit off, Hopkins. You gotta make it, or Vega will kill me,” Broussard said.

Hopkins rewarded him with a feeble smile before he closed his eyes and spoke no more.

Broussard ran hands over Hopkins’s body, confirming by touch the accuracy of Hopkins’s diagnosis, as he struggled to apply pressure to more wounds than he had hands. The lightening sky found them bobbing in a circle of bloodstained water as Hopkins stared through lifeless eyes. Near exhaustion, Broussard checked for a pulse one last time, then blinked back tears of anger and grief as he closed Hopkins’s eyes and let his friend sink.

***

An hour later aboard a Super Lynx helicopter of the Royal Malaysian Navy, vectored to the last-known coordinates of the
Alicia
by the Singapore Operations Center, Broussard looked over the straits. Sheibani’s smirking face rose unbidden.

“Keep smilin’, asshole,” he said, “payback’s gonna be hell.”

Chapter Four

US Embassy
Napier Road, Singapore
26 May

Christ. What an ugly building. Dugan walked up the rise to the embassy entrance. Singaporean civilian guards confirmed his identity and business, and he moved through a metal detector and bombproof doors, past a Marine guard to passport services. Minutes later, he stood in a windowless conference room as Jesse Ward appeared, trailed by a younger man.

Dugan hadn’t seen Ward in person in some time. The man’s wiry black hair was thinner and flecked with gray now, and his dark face lined. Intellect still sparkled behind the soft brown eyes, but in khakis and a rumpled blue blazer, he looked ordinary and forgettable. The perfect look for an intelligence agent.

“Good to see you, Tom,” Ward said, pumping Dugan’s hand as he nodded toward his companion. “This is my boss, Larry Gardner.”

Quite a contrast, thought Dugan, shaking Gardner’s hand. Gardner was much younger, with a flawless tan, movie-star looks, and black blow-dried hair. His suit had never graced a store rack, high-end or otherwise, and his silk tie sported a perfect knot. The cuff of his snowy dress shirt protruded from his jacket to reveal monogrammed initials, and a gold Rolex advertised resources beyond a government salary. He looked like a lawyer. Dugan disliked him on sight.

“OK, what gives?” Dugan asked as they sat. “It must be important to get you all the way from Langley to Singapore.”

Ward opened his mouth, but Gardner cut him off.

“What’s your relationship with Phoenix Shipping, Dugan?” he asked.

Dugan shot Ward a questioning look, then shrugged. “Alex Kairouz is my biggest client and a good friend. I’m taking one of his ships through yard period up in Sembawang right now.” He paused. “Why? What’s this all about?”

“Would it surprise you to know Kairouz has links to terrorists?”

Dugan’s face registered surprise before his eyes narrowed in anger.

“Alex Kairouz? Terrorists? Bullshit. He hates those Muslim fanatics.”

“Who said anything about Muslims, Dugan?”

Dugan glared at Gardner. “It was a wild guess. The IRA and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Kansas haven’t blown anyone up lately.”

Gardner colored and opened a folder, pretending to study the contents. “He’s given you a lot of money.”

“He hasn’t ‘given’ me a damn thing. He paid me for services rendered.”

“Perhaps,” Gardner said, “but your association, and other things, put you under a cloud. Ward here speaks well of you, but until we’re sure where your loyalty lies—”

“Where my loyalty lies?” Dugan interrupted, looking first at Ward, then refocusing on Gardner. “You know, if I were sensitive, this would hurt my feelings.”

“Look, Dugan,” Gardner said, “lose the attitude. Your duty as an American citi—”

“Mr. Gardner. Larry. May I call you Larry?” Dugan asked, continuing without waiting for a response. “Larry, I assure you, I will cooperate.”

Gardner flashed Ward a smug smile.

“However,” Dugan went on, “cooperation is about relationships. For example, the bond Agent Ward and I enjoy. But Larry, I don’t feel that same chemistry here. I’m sure it’s my fault, but I think I should continue with one of your associates.” He paused. “Is Moe or Curly Joe available?”

Gardner’s smile faded. “You son of a bitch,” he said, rising to stalk out, then slamming the door behind him.

Ward shook his head. “You could get me canned, Tom.”

“Nah. Even the government needs a few competent people around. Why don’t you buy me dinner while you brief me on my duty as a loyal American?”

Ward nodded.

“Great. See you in the lobby of Trader’s at eight. And grab a nap. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Ward said.

“Seriously,” Dugan said. “If you drop dead, I might have to deal with that asshole.”

***

Ward drained his mug. Crab shells overflowed a plate, surrounded by mostly empty dishes of fried noodles and other Singaporean delicacies. Dugan lifted a pitcher of Tiger beer and raised his eyebrows, but Ward declined. Dugan refilled his own mug and looked around. They sat alone on the roof terrace of the restaurant, above the bustle of open-air eateries that lined Boat Quay. Access via a cramped spiral staircase made service difficult, but Dugan’s status as an old customer and generous tipper allowed secluded dining.

“Secure enough for you?” Dugan asked.

Ward nodded.

“So tell me, Jesse, how’d you end up with that asshole as your boss?”

Ward shrugged. “The agency occasionally buys in to the ‘nutty management theory of the week,’ in this case, ‘leadership candidates’ rotating through supervisory positions. Ops is usually exempted, but not this time. Gardner’s our first. I got him because maritime terrorism isn’t as sexy as falling planes.”

“Surely everyone sees through him. He’s got the personality of a dose of clap.”

“He can be slick when he wants to, and he’s connected. He has political aspirations.” Ward grinned. “Maybe you shit on a future president.”

Dugan shuddered. “God help us.”

“Anyway, I’ll handle him.”

“Handle him while we do what exactly?” Dugan asked.

Ward looked Dugan straight in the eye. “Tom, I need you to accept Kairouz’s offer.”

Dugan looked puzzled. “How did …”

Then he understood. “Son of a bitch. You bugging my phone?”

Ward didn’t blink. “Of course you’re bugged. And so am I, and so is everyone else. You might not have read it, but you signed that waiver a long, long time ago. Way back when you agreed to keep your eyes and ears open and to take some pictures for us now and again. How could it be otherwise? There’s too much at stake not to monitor ourselves.”

After a long moment, Dugan nodded. “All right, point taken. That doesn’t mean I like it. So what’s the deal with Phoenix? Oh yeah, and what the hell did Gardner mean when he said my association with Alex ‘and other things’ put me under a cloud. What other things?”

“You inspected a ship for MSC last week,” Ward said.

Dugan nodded. “The
Alicia
, but how’s that relevant?”

“She was hijacked en route to Thailand.”

“Hijacked? No way,” Dugan said. “What about the navy protective detail?”

“Three dead,” Ward said. “The only survivor was the team leader, a young petty officer named Broussard. He managed to get off a warning and was picked up floating in the strait by the Malaysians.”

Dugan grew quiet. “I met him,” he said at last. “Seemed like a nice kid.”

Ward only nodded, and Dugan continued. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with Phoenix … or me.”

“MSC chartered the ship through Willem Van Djik in Rotterdam,” Ward said. “Van Djik was told about the job by a call from someone at Phoenix. He was under surveillance by the Dutch for unrelated smuggling issues. The phone conversation itself was secure, but they heard his side through bugs in his office and traced the source to Phoenix in London. They only put two and two together after the hijacking.

“Thing is,” Ward continued, “MSC chartered
Alicia
because she was the only available tonnage, and that was no accident. Backtracking it, Van Djik spent a lot of money chartering other suitable tonnage though a variety of fronts just to take the other ships out of play.”

Ward looked Dugan in the eye. “People don’t jack gunboats to water ski, Tom, and you’re tied to this from both ends. There’s your connection to Phoenix and the fact that you inspected the ship before she was hijacked and knew the cargo—”

“Along with about a thousand other people,” Dugan said.

Ward held up his hands. “I’m not saying I think you’re involved, Tom, but it is a coincidence, and folks in my business don’t much like coincidences. I’ve known you a long time, but for someone like Gardner, you look a lot like a suspect. I’m sticking my neck out here bringing you in. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t, except for our long relationship and the fact that, with your relationship with Kairouz, you’re our best shot at getting inside Phoenix quickly.”

“Jesse, I’m not trained for this.”

“Mainly you’ll be helping us place a British agent,” Ward said.

Dugan hesitated, toying with the idea of telling Ward about Alex Kairouz’s recent strange behavior. No, he thought, best leave that for now. “I just don’t feel right spying on Alex,” Dugan said instead.

“What’s better for Kairouz? Having you there or a stranger?”

Dugan grew quiet. “All right, I’ll do it,” he finally said.

“Good. Assuming you accept the possibility Kairouz is guilty.”

“Like you accept the possibility that I’m guilty?” Dugan asked.

Ward changed the subject.

“Tell me what you remember about
Alicia.
”

Dugan shrugged. “Not much to remember. She’s a little one-hatch coaster owned by her skipper, a Dutch guy who’s running her into the ground. Chief mate’s name is Ali something — Sheboni, I think. He seems to be running the show.”

“Sheibani,” corrected Ward. “According to Broussard, Sheibani orchestrated the hijacking and murdered three of Broussard’s guys in the process. Two at point-blank range in cold blood.”

Dugan’s face hardened. “That little fucking puke. Do you have any leads?”

Ward shook his head.

“We had the strait blanketed by satellite coverage within hours of the news, with no sighting.
Alicia
couldn’t have cleared the strait by then. We’re assuming she’s on the Indonesian side, and given her last-known position and maximum speed, she could be anywhere along two hundred miles of coastline—a thousand miles, counting islands and inlets. Hundreds of good hiding places.”

Dugan nodded. “I see the problem. You can’t really even rule out too many places due to water depth. As I recall,
Alicia
draws fourteen feet fully loaded. That’s fifteen hundred tons. Those boats and associated gear totaled less than fifty. She can get pretty light.”

“That’s right,” Ward said. “But the real priority is recovering the boats, and we don’t figure the hijackers will waste any time getting them off
Alicia
. The boats alone will be much easier to hide and move through the mangrove swamps.”

“There’s your answer,” Dugan said.

Ward looked confused, and Dugan continued. “
Alicia
’s gear can’t handle the boats. They need a crane. And shore cranes need strong docks, and big floating cranes are few and far between.”

Two Days Earlier
M/V Alicia
Indonesian Coast

Sheibani moved from bridge wing to bridge wing as he calmly issued helm orders, conning
Alicia
up the shallow, twisting passage through the mangrove swamp in the moonlight and on a rising tide. He had his best man on the helm, and he’d lightened
Alicia
to seven feet. The rest of the crew manned the rails with powerful handheld lights and called warnings of obstacles.

With the propeller and rudder only partially submerged, the ship handled poorly, but each time he grounded in the soft mud, he waited for the tide to lift her, then backed off to continue his cautious transit. He regretted no one would know of
Alicia
’s final resting place and appreciate his skill, but duping the infidels was satisfaction enough.

As the sky lightened in the east, he spotted his objective ahead in the predawn: a crumbling concrete dock by a pool of still water. Trees rose from gaping cracks in the dock, some a foot in diameter with tops higher than
Alicia
’s deckhouse, and thick limbs spread over the water. Sheibani shouted a warning, and the crew scurried into the deckhouse as he retreated to the wheelhouse and increased speed. He pushed the helmsman aside and took the wheel himself to slam
Alicia
’s port side toward the dock, her momentum forcing her superstructure, booms, and masts through the foliage. Stout limbs snapped like cannon shots and fell across the deck as the little ship slowed abruptly.
Alicia
listed slightly to starboard as she fought her way through the obstacle, then Sheibani heard the screech of steel on concrete. He killed the engine and
Alicia
shuddered to a stop.

Seconds later, Sheibani stood on the starboard bridge wing, watching as his crew boiled from the deckhouse and went about their prearranged tasks. Some climbed to the dock and began passing mooring lines, while others fired up chain saws and began clearing the deck of broken limbs, tossing the debris over the offshore side of the ship. In minutes, the ship was secured, overhanging limbs shielding most of the vessel. The camouflage netting would do the rest.

He’d first come to this place on a dirt bike, guided by an old man who’d worked here long ago. All that remained was a crumbling dock and dilapidated Quonset hut, its rusted sides covered in vines, the open end a black cave in the greenery. Convincing the International Development Fund to finance a port miles from deep water must have been difficult, even years ago, but the developers had been well connected. They slapped down a dock and dredged a thirty-five-foot-deep hole along it to collect a hefty progress payment. Months later, when a survey party found the site abandoned and overgrown and the deepwater channel into the dock to exist only on paper, the government feigned outrage, the IDF shrugged, and everyone forgot the site until Allah guided Sheibani to it thirty years later. He’d used the site as a smuggling depot for three years, anchoring
Alicia
in deep water miles away and approaching by Zodiac. Both the ship and this place had served his needs well, but it was time to move on.

M/V Alicia
25 May

Sheibani nodded to himself as he moved through the hold, pleased at the progress. He watched as men swarmed the boats, removing the securing straps and lashing heavy vinyl tarps over the cockpit openings before sealing the boats completely with industrial stretch wrap. Soon they would be as buoyant and unsinkable as corks.