Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (31 page)

“So you’re accepting my offer?”

Dugan smiled as he offered his hand. “I guess I am, partner.”

Central Prison
Monrovia, Republic of Liberia
8 September

Concrete grated Braun’s knees as he lapped at the puddle, grateful for the leaky roof; rain water was cleaner than the murky liquid his jailers dispensed. Mold thickened the walls over his rotten, sodden mattress, and he’d long ago sacrificed his shirt and underwear as rags to keep himself as clean as possible. His ragged pants hung loose, a legacy of the gruel ladled into his bowl with indifferent frequency. He devoured the sludge, saving some to attract cockroaches and other protein, and saving some of those to bait up geckos and rats. His thin face, framed by a beard and greasy hair, smiled back from the puddle. He was a survivor.

But he was concerned. He’d sent word to Macabee weeks ago, yet here he rotted. He was considering the likelihood of a double cross when a key rattled in the lock and Macabee entered, impeccably dressed and nose wrinkled, taking pains to avoid touching anything.

“Well, Mr. Braun, here I am.”

“Where the hell have you been, Macabee? Why the delay?”

Macabee shrugged. “I felt time would make you more fully appreciative of the benefits of my assistance. Then there was the matter of a trial. The court docket is quite full.”

“And when is my trial?”

Macabee smiled. “Last week. You pled guilty and were sentenced to hang.”

“What—”

“Don’t be tedious, Mr. Braun. A timely ‘death’ is perfect. Unless you want to stay?”

“No, no. I’m quite ready to leave.”

Macabee nodded. “Let’s hear your offer.”

“It hasn’t changed from what I offered on the plane, Macabee. Two million dollars.”

“Method of payment?”

“I’ll give you the number of my solicitor in London along with a code word. He, in turn, will give you account numbers and authorize the bank to verify availability of funds to you directly. I text you the authorization code to withdraw funds once I’m safely away.”

Macabee laughed. “And I’m to trust you? That’s as idiotic as your offer. Let’s settle that first. Ten million US dollars.”

“Preposterous,” Braun said. Macabee turned to go.

“Wait! Ten million leaves me nothing. Make it five.”

“Your ultimate solvency is both unknowable and irrelevant, Mr. Braun.” Macabee smiled at a gnawed rat carcass in the corner. “Ten million—final offer.”

Braun hid his elation. “Very well. Ten million.”

“Good,” Macabee said. “How is the money held?”

“Three accounts. Approximately two, three, and five million, respectively. Why?”

“You’ll give me the account number and authorization code to withdraw the two million now as a deposit,” Macabee said. “I’ll confirm the existence of the rest with your solicitor, in the manner you indicated. I’ll fly you under guard to wherever you want, but you won’t be released from the plane until the remaining eight million is in my account. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Braun said, mulling plans to outwit the Liberian.

Macabee pulled out a notebook and pen. “Details, please.”

***

Four hours later, Macabee sat at his desk, undecided and regretful he hadn’t squeezed more from the German. He’d realized his mistake later as he mulled how easy it had been. He’d expected Braun to up the ante, especially after he’d tasted weeks of Central Prison hospitality, but still, it had been a bit too easy.

He sighed; perhaps he shouldn’t be too greedy. He hesitated a moment more, then made his decision. He picked up the phone and dialed a London number.

Central Prison
Monrovia, Republic of Liberia
10 September

Braun trudged, wrists tied behind him and sandwiched between ragged guards with feet bare as his own, as the trio picked their way between puddles to the gallows. The ragged shirt provided by Macabee hid a wide belt around his torso. At the back of the belt, accessible through a rip in the shirt, was a strong eyelet. A thin wire braided into the rope above the noose would be hooked into the eyelet, transferring the force of the drop into the belt. The death certificate was signed, and the space below the trapdoor was shielded from prying eyes by plywood, concealing men waiting to help Braun down and into a coffin for his ride to freedom.

“Ah, Macabee,” he said, topping the crude stairs, “good of you to see me off.”

Macabee nodded as Braun was moved onto the trapdoor and hooded. Braun smiled under the hood as the noose was snugged and a metal tape unrolled to touch him at the heel and back of the head, measuring to set slack in the rope. Good showmanship.

Hands released him, and the trapdoor shifted as the others stepped off. Braun turned his hooded head toward Macabee. “The wire,” he whispered.

“Alas, Mr. Braun. There will be no wire. I’m afraid you’ve been outbid.”

“What? You can’t do this, Macabee!”

“Actually, I can.”

“Wait, Macabee! We can work this out. There’s more money, much more. I lied.”

“I know, Mr. Bruan,” Macabee said, “and it’s such a pity you waited until this late date to be forthcoming. And by the way, I’ve a message from Alex Kairouz. He asked me to tell you to enjoy your trip to Hell.”

Macabee nodded, and the hangman pulled the lever.

M/T Luther Hurd
Gatun Lake Anchorage, Panama
15 September

Milam clung to the ladder and looked down into the tank, bright with work lights, the crackle of the welding arcs mixing with the clang of steel on steel—the din of progress. He grabbed the top rung and pushed his head through the manhole to find himself gazing at worn boots and an outstretched palm.

“Need a hand, old timer?” Captain Vince Blake asked, grinning down at Milam.

Milam smiled back and gripped Blake’s hand to haul himself up onto main deck. He tugged sweat-drenched coveralls away from his skin as he moved to the rail in search of a breeze. “Christ. And the sun’s barely up. Calderon was right about more productivity on the night shift. By noon it’ll be tough to work down there.”

Blake nodded, watching a line of passing ships. “Good to see the canal at full capacity,” he said. “I can’t wait to get in that line.”

The ship had been refloated two days earlier, Blake and Milam dogging the salvage master’s steps until he threatened to put them ashore. They’d maintained silence with difficulty and shared relieved grins when
Luther Hurd
was finally towed sternforemost to the lake for temporary repairs.

They had debated taking other assignments, but leaving
Luther Hurd
to others didn’t seem right. Arnett had rejoined them, promoted to chief mate at Blake’s behest. A new first engineer completed the group, a man Milam recruited. They’d ride on the tow north, inspecting and making repair lists.

Blake looked around and shook his head. Generator sets and welding rigs crowded the deck amid debris of ongoing repair work. Clean decks and bright paint had fallen victim to blowing sand and dirt from dam construction, and rains had washed the filth into hard-to-reach places or carried it to leach down the sides in dirty streaks. The port side and starboard stern were masses of rust, twin legacies of rocks and equipment that laid the steel bare and impact with the guide wall. The ship rode deep at the stern, exposing the mangled bulbous bow.

“God, she’s a shit house.”

“Yep,” Milam agreed, “damn sand went everywhere: glands, seals, you name it.”

Blake nodded. “How’s the engine room?”

“Not as bad,” Milam said. “I closed the dampers, so not much got below. Crankshaft deflections are in limits. We’ll recheck when the engine is warm, but there’s no bottom damage aft; at least none that carried to the engine. Prop and rudder are OK. Except for the tank holed by the anchor and the forepeak tank, the hull’s tight. Divers are plugging those outside so we can make temporary repairs inside. When she’s tight and we patch the holes between tanks, we can go. Two days maybe.” His eyes narrowed. “If Little Dutch Boy gets his head out of his ass.”

Blake suppressed a groan as he saw Pedro Calderon approach with Captain Frans Brinkerhoff, the salvage master’s face flushed bright red. The Dutchman zeroed in on Milam.

“Vat is this nonsense about running the main engine, Milam?”

“I need to test it. I figure we leave on the main engine and make up tow outside.”

“Oh, you do? I must remind you that it is not your decision to make.”

Here we go, Blake thought as Milam reddened. By agreement, the Panamanians were responsible for returning the ship to service, including the return to the builder’s yard in San Diego for repairs. They had in turn contracted a Dutch salvage company, relegating Blake and Milam to observers, a part neither liked but which Blake handled better than Milam.

“Actually, Captain Brinkerhoff,” Blake said, “the chief is right. I’m sure you won’t break tow at sea to let us test the engine. This will be our only chance.”

“
Nee
. This is not my problem. We lock down with tugs and make up tow at Miraflores guide wall and tow straight to sea. This is most efficient,
ja
?”

“Look, asshole,” Milam said, “no ship I’m chief on leaves port on a rope, so—”

“Ahhh… so this is about saving the pride of the chief engineer,
ja
? And who is to pay?”

“Pay for what?” Milam asked.

“Extra cost for harbor tugs to stand by, launch to return line handlers to shore, time lost, all costs not in our quoted price,” Brinkerhoff said. “We follow my plan.”

Milam glared as Calderon spoke. “Perhaps I can help,
Capitán
Brinkerhoff. The ACP will provide the needed services at no charge. Is that satisfactory?”

Brinkerhoff glared at Milam. “
Ja
,” he said at last before stalking away in disgust.

“Thank you,
Señor
,” Blake said as Milam nodded.

“It is nothing,
Capitán
,” Calderon said. “I can at least ensure your departure is dignified.”

M/T Luther Hurd
Gatun Lake Anchorage, Panama
18 September

Chief Mate Lynda Arnett stood at the main-deck rail, peering straight down as the pilot boat inched closer to the ship’s side. The pilot stepped off the boat onto the rope ladder and began his climb toward her, showing her only the top of his head as he concentrated on the swaying ladder and the task at hand. As he neared the deck, Arnett stepped back to give him room to come aboard.

“Captain McCluskey,” Arnett said as a smiling face appeared.

“You didn’t think I’d let anyone else take you out, did you?” Roy McCluskey asked as he ignored Arnett’s outstretched hand to fold her in a hug.

“I have to say, this is the first time I’ve ever hugged a second mate,” McCluskey said, releasing her.

“Chief mate,” Arnett corrected him.

His smile widened. “Fantastic. And well deserved.”

Arnett tried not to glance at McCluskey’s feet and failed.

“How’s the… how are you?” she asked, her eyes back on his face.

“Right as rain.” McCluskey stamped his prosthetic foot on the deck for emphasis. “They were able to save the knee, and that made a huge difference.”

Arnett nodded, smiling back, and they stood for a moment in awkward silence.

“Lynda. If it wasn’t for you—”

“Just doing my job, Captain,” Arnett cut him off.

“Well, thank you just the same,” McCluskey said.

Arnett nodded again, thankful he’d sensed her discomfort and cut his thanks short.

“Now,” McCluskey said, “let’s go see Captain Blake and start you on your way.”

Bridge of the Americas
Balboa, Panama

No event save the opening of the canal itself had impacted Panama like the attack of July 4. It was named by consensus, but unlike 9/11, date alone was unsuitable, the people instinctively rejecting a name that relegated their tragedy to second place behind the birthday of their huge northern neighbor. Instead, it became simply “Pedro Miguel,” a division in time. Things occurred “before Pedro Miguel” or “a week after Pedro Miguel,” spoken with sadness and growing pride as the story unfolded.

Many stories, actually: the pilot who delayed the flames, quick-thinking tug captains who herded burning gasoline with their propeller wash, firefighters who abandoned traffic-snarled vehicles to run kilometers in the heat in a heroic but unsuccessful bid to save children at Miraflores; the list was long. But in a visual age, none was quite like the plunge of the
Luther Hurd.

The video was viewed globally, but as the Bosphorus, then Iran and a dozen fresh stories dominated the news, it faded. But not in Panama, where it was shown repeatedly, and the
yanqui
ship with the strange name became, regardless of her flag, a Panamanian icon. Her repair progress was widely reported, unnoticed by the four Americans, lacking the time to watch the news and the Spanish to understand it if they had. But the people of Panama had no intention of letting
Luther Hurd
slip away quietly.

***

Manuel Reyes stood on the walkway, peering through the chain-link barrier, a hand on the shoulder of each of his boys. His sons held flags, Panamanian in one hand and American in the other. He’d been uneasy with the gringo flag, but the old plea of “But Papa, all the other kids…” had stolen his resolve. And, he thought, the
yanquis
helped him avenge Maria. He gave each shoulder a gentle squeeze. They were beginning to show signs of their old spirit.

“Look, Papa.” Miguelito pointed. “There. Where the little boat is shooting water.”

“Hah. A lot you know, Miguel,” scoffed Paco, irritated his twin had spotted the ship first. “That is a fireboat. You should use the right name.”