Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (10 page)

Chapter Twelve

Constrained by the driver’s presence, Anna was quiet during the cab ride as Dugan pondered a way to break the news. He hadn’t found one by the time they walked into the apartment.

“So, how’d it go?” Lou asked.

“Well, I think,” Anna said, turning to Dugan. “Tom, did you learn anything from Alex?”

He tried to ease into it. “We discussed
China Star
. He thinks—”

“Bloody hell, Dugan,” Lou said. “How did that come up? You weren’t supposed to—”

Anna waved Lou to silence and gestured for Dugan to continue. He took a deep breath and made a clean breast of it, finishing to dead silence.

“Bloody unbelievable,” Lou said. “You revealed an operation to a prime suspect.”

“He’s a victim,” Dugan said. “How much evidence do you need?”

“More than a bloody fairy tale,” Lou said.

“Bullshit. He made up a story complete with video, then waited weeks to present it? No way. We can use him, and I decided to enlist him.”

Anna exploded. “YOU decided! On whose bloody authority? I’m lead agent, not you. You might have at least discussed it before charging in on a white horse to save the bloody day.”

“Things were happening fast,” Dugan said. “I wasn’t sure I’d have another chance. Maybe I should have discussed it first, but what’s done is done.”

“Yes, Tom. Maybe you should have,” Anna said, ice in her voice.

“Actually,” Harry said, “we can verify Kairouz’s story. Phone records will confirm calls to Scotland Yard and from the security firm, and we can question the security firm under the Official Secrets Act. If that checks out, I doubt it’s a fairy tale. British Telcom has a night shift. We can confirm the calls straightaway.”

Dugan shot Harry a grateful look.

“Do it,” Anna said, and Harry dialed. Moments later, he hung up and nodded.

“Phone records corroborate Kairouz’s story,” Harry said.

“OK,” Anna said, “we’ll deal with the security firm tomorrow. Perhaps this can be salvaged. But we have to tell Ward.” She gave Dugan a withering look. “I believe that will be your job, Tom.”

Dugan gave a resigned nod, pushed a preset on his sat phone, and set it on the coffee table in speaker mode.

***

Five time zones away, Ward’s phone trilled as he worked late. He saw Dugan’s number on the display.

“Hold one, Tom,” he said into his own sat phone as he reached for the office phone.

Gardner wanted in on field agents’ calls, but in reality, disturbing him after hours incurred his wrath. Ward protected himself by leaving voice mail on Gardner’s office number to verify attempted contact. Gardner was seldom there after hours, so Ward preferred to talk with field agents then just to avoid his boss’s interference.

“Gardner,” came the answer. Shit, Ward thought.

“Yes, Larry,” Ward said, “I’ve got Dugan. You want in?”

“Damn. Yeah, OK. Come down here.” Gardner hung up without awaiting a reply.

Ward told Dugan he’d call him right back and went down the hall to Gardner’s office. Gardner was in a tux.

“Don’t you look spiffy,” Ward said.

“I’m due at the symphony with the Gunthers in twenty minutes. This better be good.”

Ward understood. Image enhancement. Senator Gunther chaired the Senate Intelligence Committee, and Gardner would spin a tale of having to stop by the office to handle a problem. The indispensable man.

Gardner pointed at the conference table. “Use the speakerphone,” he said.

“Hello, Tom,” Ward said as Dugan answered, “Larry Gardner is with me on speaker.”

Dugan paused. “Hello, Jesse. Hello, Larry. I have—”

“Cut to the chase, Dugan,” Gardner said. “I’m running late.”

Dugan hadn’t expected Gardner. He led with
China Star
again, stalling.

“We have suspicious activity on a ship named
China Star
, now loading at Kharg—”

“Where?” Gardner asked.

“Kharg Island, Iran,” Ward said. “Go ahead, Tom.”

“If there’s anything to it,” Dugan continued, “the mostly likely target would be the Malacca Strait near Singapore.”

“When does she sail?” Ward asked, scribbling.

“Unknown,” Dugan said. “I’ll keep on it, but you might initiate satellite surveillance—”

“Just worry about your end, Dugan,” Gardner said. “What else? Or did you call just to alert us to a ship which ‘might’ be suspect and may be days away from leaving port?”

There was a long pause, then Dugan spoke in a rush, as if eager to finish his recitation of the events of the last few hours before he was interrupted. He needn’t have worried; both Ward and Gardner were shocked speechless. Gardner recovered first.

“YOU FUCKING DID WHAT?” Gardner screamed, launching an abusive tirade punctuated with a list of Dugan’s violations of the Patriot Act. Then he turned on Ward.

“God damn you, Ward, where the hell is that limey cunt you had sitting on this idiot?”

Dugan interrupted before Ward could respond.

“Look, Larry, calm down,” Dugan said. “I’ve explained that Alex Kairouz is not—”

“That’s not your call, asshole. Leave that to the intelligence professionals.”

Dugan lost it. “’Intelligence professional’? And that would be you? You couldn’t track a fucking elephant through ten feet of snow.”

The Brits regarded their shoes in the sudden silence.

“You’re done, asshole,” Gardner’s voice whispered through the speaker. “You’ve killed the operation. I’ll have the Brits arrest you. You and Kairouz can be cell mates in Gitmo.”

“Actually, Mr. Gardner,” Anna said, “the operation is far from compromised.”

“Who’s that?” Gardner demanded. “Damn it, Ward, this line was supposed to be secure.”

“We’re perfectly secure,” Anna said. “I’m Agent Anna Walsh, AKA the ‘limey cunt.’”

Oh shit, can this get any worse, Ward thought as Gardner gaped at the phone.

“I do not intend to end this operation,” Anna continued, “and expect your continued support. Of course, we’re recording now as standard procedure, as, I’m sure, are you. Should you proceed with action against Mr. Dugan, I will ask for an official review, including this conversation. Dugan’s remarks were intemperate, but he was provoked, and your language was equally foul. On that subject, while I admire your ability to malign my nationality, gender, and character in the space of two words, your terminology was most objectionable. I believe our superiors will agree, should it come to that. So let’s just move on, shall we?”

“Yes, of course,” Gardner said. “Uh… what do you propose?”

“We’ll work out a way to communicate with Kairouz, and I’ll detail assets to shadow the girl and her nanny and to intercede if necessary,” Anna said.

“Why? You might tip off Braun.”

“Risks are minimal. It will reassure Kairouz, and it’s the right thing to do,” she said.

“Still, it seems a waste of assets,” Gardner said.

“British assets, protecting British subjects, at the discretion of Her Majesty’s representative. That would be me,” Anna said.

“Uh, OK, your call. Anything else?”

“No,” Anna replied, “unless you or Agent Ward have anything.”

“No,” Gardner said, disconnecting without looking at Ward, who had a great deal to add but nothing he wanted to say in front of Gardner.

***

“That was amazing, Anna. Thank you,” Dugan said.

“Yes, well, everything’s relative,” she said. “This Gardner twit infuriated me even more than you, something I scarcely thought possible twenty minutes ago.”

Harry grinned. “I dunno, I think the Yank redeemed himself. I rather enjoyed the ‘ten feet of snow’ bit. I woulda loved to have seen the wanker’s face.”

The men laughed as Anna struggled to suppress a smile.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

“How in hell did you let this get so out of control, Ward? Dugan just blew the whole operation, just to protect his raghead buddy. He’s dirty. Get the finance guys on this: bank accounts, e-mails, phone records, foreign-held companies, the lot.”

“We’ve had Dugan’s complete financials for years,” Ward said. “He doesn’t need money. I share your concern about his actions, but if Walsh and her team are comfortable, we have to respect that. Besides, if Dugan wanted to scuttle us, he’d do it quietly.”

“Just because he’s fooled the crumpet munchers doesn’t mean he’s not a traitor.”

“OK, OK, I know you’re upset, but try to calm down. Go enjoy your evening.”

The reminder of the social engagement worked as intended. Nothing was more important to Gardner than a chance to rub shoulders with the power elite.

Gardner nodded and rose. As they walked out and Gardner locked his door, Ward got in a subtle dig.

“Enjoy the ballet with Congressman Gaynor,” he said.

“It’s the symphony with Senator Gunther,” Gardner said.

Ward shrugged. “Whatever.”

Gardner stalked off, appalled at Ward’s ignorance. No wonder he was still an agent.

Minutes later, Ward sat at his computer, requesting a flyover of Kharg Island, Iran, with a specific request for updates on the
China Star
. He’d refrained from mentioning satellite coverage to Gardner, fearing the man might object because it was Dugan’s idea. If you didn’t ask, no one could say no.

Chapter Thirteen

M/T Asian Trader
South China Sea
Bound for Panama
16 June

Medina jogged down the deck, his routine well established after two weeks at sea. The afternoon sun was warm on his back as he moved along the deck and dropped to do push-ups near a ballast-tank vent. His exercise attracted no notice now other than jokes about his sanity. It was the perfect way to keep check on events unfolding unseen below the deck at his feet.

The gasoline had eaten through the Styrofoam by now, he was sure of it. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the gasoline weeping down the bulkheads of the empty ballast tanks, evaporating in the process. As the sun warmed the deck each day, the expanding air in the empty tanks whispered out the vents, and at night, sea water rushing past the outer hull cooled the air and reversed the process, sucking in oxygen-rich sea air. Fumes would escape each day, but most would remain, slowly filling each tank from the bottom up as it “breathed” through each cycle, mixing its contents into explosive vapor.

He put his nose near the deck as he did push-ups and smelled the faint odor wafting from the nearest vent to lie invisible along the deck before being swept away by a breeze. He smiled. The tanks were ripening and chances of discovery slight as the wind dissipated the fumes. His plan would work,
inshallah
.

Sterling Academy
Westminster, London
17 June

The car lurched to a stop, and Farley watched Gillian Farnsworth’s face in the mirror, disappointed that she was ignoring his provocation. She got out and went into the school, returning with a glum-looking Cassie in tow.

“Take us to the doctor’s and wait,” she said. “We should be out by half two.”

Farley grunted and shot off with squealing tires, pondering the change in the woman over the last two days. She’d never hidden her disdain or hesitated to challenge him, but always with an undercurrent of fear, despite her brave words. She was different now, more confident. A subtle change, felt rather than spoken. Should he tell Braun? He dismissed the notion, sure he’d get a scornful response.

He curbed the tires in the waiting area of the doctor’s building, bringing the car to a rocking halt. The housekeeper ignored it as she exited the car, hurrying Cassie along with her. She’ll get hers, he thought as they bustled into the building. Maybe he’d make the old bitch watch while he shagged the retard. Now wouldn’t that be sweet.

***

“Why do I have to get a jab?” Cassie whined as the elevator opened on the third floor.

“It’s a flu shot,” Mrs. Farnsworth lied. “Now out you go.”

They were expected and led to an exam room, where a nurse took Cassie’s vital signs and directed Mrs. Farnsworth to the doctor’s office. Anna Walsh sat across from the doctor. She motioned Mrs. Farnsworth to an empty chair.

“Doctor,” Anna said, “might I speak to Mrs. Farnsworth alone?”

He smiled. “Certainly. I’ll check on Cassie.”

“You do know what’s going on?” Anna asked as the doctor left.

“I know you’re MI5. Mr. Kairouz told me. I assume you’ll take Cassie to safety.”

“It’s not that simple,” Anna said. “Removing Cassie makes it obvious Alex is cooperating, but we don’t have enough evidence to hold either Braun or Farley. You would all likely still be targets.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We have to play this out, making the best of the hand dealt us. Here’s what we’re going to do….”

Tehran, Iran
17 June

Motaki was anxious. Gasoline shortages ate at his support like a cancer. Former allies grew distant, rumors abounded, and even Imam Rahmani was under pressure. How ironic, he thought, that he had been so successful in importing material for his nuclear program, only to be undone by something as prosaic as gasoline. But, God willing, that would soon change. The intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Ahmad?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but President Rodriguez is calling.”

He sighed a thanks.

“Mr. President. Nice to hear from you.”

“Good day, my friend,” Rodriguez said, “are you well?”

Motaki curbed his impatience. “Yes, thank you. How may I help you?”

“It’s about the… our project. I’ve heard no reports and—”

Camel shit for brains, thought Motaki. Not on an open line.

“Yes, the petrol shipments,” Motaki said. “I will arrange an update via secure means.”

“All right… fine,” Rodriguez said. “It’s just I’ve heard little and—”

“Never a bother, my friend,” he said as he silently cursed Braun. “Anything more?”

“No. No. Thank you,” Rodriguez said before saying a polite good-bye.

Motaki frowned as he tapped out a terse message on his computer.

Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London
17 June

Braun returned from lunch to find a telltale spam message. He downloaded a video clip from the porn site and decrypted the embedded message.

CONTACTED BY OUR FRIEND. UPDATE HIM TO PREVENT REPETITION.

That bloody Venezuelan. Like Motaki, Rodriguez had a secure sat phone, but to preclude overuse, Braun first locked it into receive-only mode. Anticipating problems, Braun also allowed Rodriguez backdoor access to a single porn site, used by him alone to isolate him from the real operation. He’d still been a pest, deluging Braun with frequent inane messages and suggestions to the point the German no longer even downloaded them. The idiot must have contacted Motaki on a landline. He’d underestimated the Venezuelan’s stupidity.

Caracas, Venezuela
17 June

Rodriguez answered the sat phone on the sixth ring.

“Mr. President,” Braun said, “forgive me. I was awaiting updates before reporting.”

“You do well to remember who is in charge, Braun. Now report.”

Braun stifled a laugh. “Yes, sir.
China Star
arrived at Kharg, and our Chechen friends—”

“Yes, yes,” Rodriguez said, “what of Panama?”

“
Asian Trader
is en route from Singapore. All is according to plan.”

“Remember,” Rodriguez said. “Minor damage. And we must not be implicated.”

“Don’t worry, sir. Our man can kill himself and those around him, but little more. And even if he survives, he knows nothing.”

“Are we still on schedule for July 4?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Braun said. “Is there anything more, sir?”

“No. That is sufficient, Karl, but do not fail to keep me informed.”

“You may rest assured I will, sir.”

“Thank you, Karl. That will be all.”

Braun shook his head and hung up. Bloody pompous fool.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
17 June

“Caught any bad guys today?” asked a familiar voice.

Ward chuckled into the phone. Mike Hill worked for NSA, tasked with global electronic snooping. “Not yet, Mike, but the day’s young. Whatcha got?”

“You know that London site the Brits are monitoring and sharing intel on with us?”

“Yeah, Phoenix Shipping. What about it?”

“Well, we also have ongoing surveillance on that nut job in Caracas,” Hill said, “and El Presidente received a scrambled sat phone call this morning from guess where?”

“Phoenix Shipping?”

“Bingo, brother. The Brits had the outgoing, too, but not the Caracas end. We aided our cousins who were pathetically grateful, though they covered it with British reserve—”

Ward grinned. “OK, OK, Hill. I get the picture.”

“Jeez, nerds are never appreciated. Anyway, the bad news is we couldn’t unscramble it.”

“Well, even the connection is a breakthrough,” Ward said.

“Ah, but our legerdemain continues,” Hill said. “Earlier El Presidente called Iran, rather stupidly in the clear. We recorded one President Motaki shitting his pants at the mention of a ‘project,’ and El Presidente’s failure to be updated on same. Motaki says not to worry, and presto, El Presidente gets a call from London.” Hill paused. “A reasonable man might conclude a connection between Iran and Venezuela running through Phoenix Shipping.”

“Outstanding,” Ward said. “When next we meet, my friend, drinks are on me.”

“Don’t be cheap. You have an expense account. I want dinner.”

“Done,” Ward said.