Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (27 page)

Starboard Bridge Wing
M/T Contessa di Mare

Basaev lay on his back in a pool of blood, his feet toward the wheelhouse and the Beretta in a two-hand grip and pointed at the shattered window. The Russian scum would come soon, and he thanked Allah the Merciful for the opportunity to send another of them to Hell before he died.

But they did not come, and he heard shouting through the shattered windows and then the sound of heavy boots on steel stair treads, loud at first, then growing faint. He smiled. The scum was fleeing. He shoved the pistol into his waistband and reached up to grab the wind-dodger handrail. He bit back the pain as he hauled himself to his feet.

Main Deck Port Side

Dugan was already crawling over the rail when the Russians got to main deck. He paused and screamed encouragement.

“Wait,
Dyed
!” Borgdanov screamed back as he rushed toward the rail.

Wait my ass, Ivan, my enlistment is up, Dugan thought, going over the rail.

He hit the water feetfirst and plunged deep, spreading his arms to slow descent, then kicking upward. He rose slowly, sinking if he slacked at all. The armor. Kicking hard, he tore off the helmet and clawed at the vest for straps. He found one and parted the Velcro to free the vest at his waist as he sank, despite his frantic kicking. No time, he thought and dove downward to slip the vest like a tee shirt, with a gravity assist. Hope surged as it slipped, yielding to panic when it trapped his arms.

His lungs were near bursting, and ice picks drove into his ears when he finally fought free to stroke hard for the surface. But he was too deep, too tired, and too old. Unable to suppress the breathing reflex, he sucked in water like life itself, and his larynx spasmed and clamped shut. His panic subsided, almost as if he watched from a safe place, disinterested. He didn’t see his life pass before his eyes or a white light, only growing dimness broken by his last conscious thought.

Christ, Dugan. What a dumb-ass way to die.

Starboard Bridge Wing

Basaev leaned against the wind dodger and stared back at Sultanahmet astern, a multicolored tapestry, details indistinct. He was calm now, accepting the Will of Allah. Had the Turk been correct? he wondered. Was hatred now his faith? He felt weary, the Beretta leaden in his hand as he turned and aimed down over the wind dodger at the hatch of the nearest cargo tank.

“
Allahu Akbar
,” he said softly and fired. The gun bucked in his hand, and he dropped it and watched it tumble toward the deck, almost in slow motion. He never saw it land because his aim was true at last, and a great explosion rocked the ship, throwing his mangled body skyward and releasing him from the pain in his heart. Was that not indeed Paradise?

Chapter Thirty-One

Office of the President
Tehran, Iran
9 July

“Always a pleasure, Mr. President. See you soon.”

Motaki hung up, elated. What a difference a day made. Knowing the Iranians were pinched, only last week the Russians were cool to the idea of a crude-for-gasoline swap except on outrageously favorable terms, even hinting they might vote in favor of sanctions at the UN. But now, with the cork in the bottle at Istanbul, the Russian president was calling him, seeking an audience. God willing, Iran would be awash in cheap petrol.

He smiled to himself. It was an ingenious plan indeed and succeeded even when it failed. Intelligence was limited, especially since Braun had been apprehended, but it seemed clear the Chechens had failed. How ironic that the Turks, shaken by the near miss, had only to look to the unintended devastation in Panama for a reminder of just how catastrophic the attack could have been. The message was clear, and the Turks had unilaterally closed the strait to all tanker traffic until further notice. With Russian oil off the market, crude prices had doubled overnight, other producers enjoying a windfall as Russian foreign exchange plummeted.

Now the Russians were pinched, and when the Russian gasoline flowed freely into Iran, calm would be restored. Motaki’s political opposition would evaporate, along with the foolish calls for the dismantling of his nuclear program and rapprochement with the West.

His single regret was Braun. He could have used the German for future projects. But then again, Motaki always assumed Braun might be captured. That’s why he employed a freelancer with no connection to Iran in the first place and hired him through Rodriguez. Any trail would stop in Caracas. He smiled again. The Americans may have invented the term “plausible deniability,” but it had taken a Persian to perfect it.

Braun was the single loose end, and he lifted his phone to snip it.

American Hospital
Istanbul, Turkey
9 July

Dugan drifted awake, unable to understand his inability to touch his throbbing nose. He blinked in the fluorescent glare at a man rising from a bedside chair.

“Easy,” the man said. “You’re in the hospital.” He stepped back, replaced by a man in a white coat.

“Mr. Dugan,” the doctor said, “you survived a near drowning. We left you intubated as a precaution. I’ll remove the tube now. I apologize for the restraints,” he continued, freeing Dugan’s wrists, “but you kept pulling at the tube. You also,” he added, talking as he removed the tube, “have a nasal fracture, aggravated by CPR. I realigned and splinted it. You will feel discomfort for several days.”

“Thanks,” Dugan croaked when the tube was out.

The doctor nodded. “You’re welcome, but in truth you should thank your Russian friends.” He checked the time. “I’m due on rounds. Call if you need anything.”

His visitor smiled as the doctor left. “Discomfort is doc speak for ‘hurt like hell.’”

“Do I know you?” Dugan rasped.

“Wheeler, Jim Wheeler.” He extended his hand. “Cultural attaché.”

Friend or foe? Dugan wondered as he regarded the hand and thought of Gardner.

“Also a friend of Ward’s. I think you got a shitty deal.”

“That makes two of us,” Dugan said, taking the hand. “What’s this about the Russians?”

“They jumped in after you. You were all underwater a hundred yards from the ship when it blew. They got you clear of the burning gasoline and were burned in the process, but not badly. A Turkish chopper brought you all here.”

“What’s the situation?”

“You’ve been out two days, and it’s bad, but not like Panama. There are thirty dead, counting the Turk pilot and Coast Guard boat and the Russians. The rest were passengers on a ferry that ignited the patch of dumped gas. More were burned, so the death toll’s rising.”

“The Italians?”

“They all made it,” Wheeler said. “Now everything’s political. What’s left of the ship is still afloat. They’ve contained the fire and are waiting for it to burn out so they can tow it. The Turks reopened the strait, but they’ve banned tankers. Globally, radical environmentalists support them, though no one seems to know how Europe is going to run without oil. Russia’s vowing intervention, which puts NATO on the spot. It’s total chaos.”

Dugan nodded. “Where’s all this leave me?”

“With a jet standing by. Gardner wants you in Langley for debriefing.” Wheeler smiled. “But you refuel in London.”

Dugan smiled back. “When?”

“The doc said tomorrow or the next day, but I’ll see what I can do,” Wheeler said, moving for the door.

“Thanks, Jim. Can I see the Russians?”

“I’ll let ‘em know you’re awake,” Wheeler said as he left.

They arrived in minutes, wearing hospital pajamas and grins. Their hands were bandaged, and angry red skin, shiny with ointment, marked patches of their scalps.

“So,
Dyed
, just when I think you are clever fellow you leap into sea with kilos of armor. If Ilya here was not number-one swimmer, I think you are now very dead.”

“You’re right,” Dugan said. He looked at the sergeant. “Thank you.”

The sergeant looked embarrassed and said something in Russian.

“Ilya says you save him from washing into sea by petrol, so is even,” Borgdanov translated.

Dugan nodded. “Your burns?”

“They are nothing, though Ilya is hoping for a scar to impress ladies when he tells of bravely defeating fanatics,” Borgdanov said.

The sergeant grinned.

“What will you do now?” Dugan asked.

The Russian’s face clouded. “I do not know. I failed, so nothing good I think.”

“But you saved thousands of lives.”

Borgdanov shook his head. “The Turks close strait to tankers. I failed at what matters,
Dyed
. There is talk of war.”

Surgical Step-Down Unit
Saint Ignatius Hospital
London

The soft whir of the floor buffer whispered down the corridor, lulling the guard toward sleep. He jerked upright and rose to pace as the buffer operator felt the syringe in his pocket and cursed the cop’s diligence. The more heavily staffed day shift would begin soon, making it even harder to get at the German.

A piercing alarm sounded, and the cop stepped aside as medical personnel rushed into the room. The killer edged the buffer closer, straining to hear.

“Time of death 5:23 a.m.,” he heard at last.

***

“So he’s dead then?” the cop asked as a nurse emerged from the room.

She nodded.

“Christ. Couldn’t wait now, could he. The brass’ll have their knickers in a knot on this one right enough. They wanted to sweat this bugger proper.”

The nurse shrugged. “Not your fault.”

“Aye, but try telling that to my sergeant.” He sighed. “Oh well, I best grab a cuppa tea and get to the bloody paperwork.”

***

The killer kept buffing, watching for an opportunity. He was just past the door when a nurse rolled the corpse out, leaving the gurney unattended to go to the nurses’ station. He swung close, holding the buffer one-handed and lifting the sheet with the other to compare the pasty face with the photo he’d memorized.

He grinned. Easiest hit ever. His secret, of course, to preclude any quibbling about the remaining fee. He eased the buffer down the hallway and abandoned it near the stairwell door. He raced down the stairs, shucking his coveralls as he descended to reveal street clothes. He jammed the wadded coveralls in a trash bin as he left. Several blocks away, he called to report Braun’s death, then tossed the throwaway phone down a storm drain.

Saint Ignatius Hospital
London
11 July

When the CIA Gulfstream plane touched down at Heathrow at eight the previous evening, Anna had marched aboard and officially detained Dugan “for debriefing on orders of Her Majesty’s Government.” She’d then taken him home and “debriefed” him so enjoyably he’d had difficulty getting out of bed this morning. Beat the hell out of water boarding, thought Dugan as they walked toward Alex’s room.

“He’s doing well, Tom. No brain damage. They say the vocal chords will mend in time, though he’ll be hoarse.” Anna paused. “Gillian’s my concern. She’s hasn’t left his bedside. She even eats there—when she eats at all. Mrs. Hogan is looking after Cassie. Gillian needs rest, but she acts like he’s at death’s door.”

Dugan saw for himself as they found an unkempt Gillian dozing in a chair under Alex’s worried gaze. Alex frowned up at Dugan’s nose splint, then relaxed as Dugan smiled.

“Thomas,” he croaked.

“The pad, Alex,” Anna reminded him, nodding toward a pad and pen on the side table. Gillian roused and jumped up like a soldier caught sleeping on guard duty.

“Mr. Dugan…” She stopped, befuddled.

“Gillian,” Anna said, “please go home and rest. Harry’s waiting to drive you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t possibly. He may need something.”

“He’ll be discharged soon,” Anna said, “and when he really needs you, you’ll be exhausted. I insist you go rest.”

“Oh,
you
insist, do you…” Gillian started, then she sagged, on the verge of tears. “May… maybe you’re right. I’m just so confused.…”

Alex held up his pad, a message scrawled in block letters.

ANNA’S RIGHT, LUV. GO REST. I’M FINE.

Mrs. Farnsworth nodded, and Anna embraced her. “Don’t worry. We’ll look after him,” she whispered as she walked Gillian to the elevator.

“Alex,” Dugan said as they left, “I’m responsible for this. If we’d leveled with you sooner, you wouldn’t be in that bed. And if we hadn’t let the bastards grab Cassie—”

Alex scribbled furiously and held up the pad.

DID YOUR BEST. CASSIE SAFE. ALL THAT MATTERS.

Before Dugan could reply, Anna returned, Ward at her side.

“Look whom I found getting off the lift.” She smiled as Ward advanced with outstretched hand, shaking first Alex’s hand, then pumping Dugan’s.

Ward cocked an eye. “How the hell do you break your nose drowning?”

“I had help. Russian this time. I’m an equal-opportunity punching bag.”

Ward chuckled, then turned serious. “You know about Braun?”

Dugan nodded. “Can’t say it breaks my heart, but where do we stand?”

“If by ‘we’ you mean you and Alex,” Ward said, “I’d say you’re in good shape. We got enough out of Braun before he passed to combine with what we knew from other sources to piece together the plot.” Ward smiled at Anna. “And using a rather liberal interpretation, we classified the info from Braun as a deathbed confession, which carries legal weight. The Panamanians have dropped the charges against you, and no charges will be filed against either you or Alex in the UK or the US.”

“Anna told me,” Dugan said, “but is Gardner really signing off on that?”

Ward smiled again. “A lot of folks up the food chain are looking now. Larry Boy wants to take a bow. Given your results in Turkey, he can hardly throw you under the bus again without looking like the asshole he is.”

Ward’s smile faded. “If only everything had worked out as well.”

“What do you mean?” Dugan asked. “You got it figured out. Can’t you go public or to the UN or the World Court or someplace?”

“Knowing and proving are not the same, Tom,” Anna said. “And for all our efforts, the plotters succeeded.”

“Well, not Venezuela,” Ward said. “Best we figure there, Rodriguez wasn’t trying to destroy the canal, merely spook China into backing a second canal through Nicaragua. One big enough for VLCCs to get his crude to Asian markets without a competitive disadvantage. That literally blew up in his face. Ironically, the disaster in Panama worked to his buddy Motaki’s advantage. When the Turks dodged the bullet, it didn’t take too much imagination to figure out just how bad it could have been.”

“So you can’t prove it in court,” Dugan said, “so what? Surely you have enough to share with the Russians and the Chinese? I can’t believe they’ll sit still for this.”

“What choice do they have even if we convince them?” Ward asked. “The Chinese won’t even openly admit they were victims, because to them, it would be a big loss of face. They’ll likely internalize it and make the plotters pay, but it may be years from now. And Motaki’s got Russia by the balls. He needs Russia as a safe, overland supplier of fuel—a source we can’t use our naval presence to interdict, but now Russia needs Iran’s crude even more.”

“I don’t see how that necessarily makes Iran any more secure,” Dugan said. “If our navy can cut off gasoline going into Iran by tanker, surely we can do the same for crude coming out by tank—” He stopped. “Oh yeah.”

“Right,” Ward said, “no one in the West is going to get too upset if we embargo gasoline into Iran, but the crude coming out to fulfill Russian supply contracts is going to our European allies. The idea of stopping Iranian crude exports is unlikely to get much traction, not with Russian crude off the market.”

Dugan looked thoughtful. “Then maybe we should concentrate on getting Russian crude back on the market,” he said.

Security Service (MI5) HQ
Thames House, London

“That should just about do it,” Dugan said, nodding at the pile of maps and intelligence briefing reports piled on the table in front of him. “This was terrific—a hell of a lot more information than I’m used to working with.”

Beside him, Harry scratched his head. “So tell me, Yank, how is it a ship bloke knows so bloody much about overland pipelines?”

Dugan smiled. “I’m a graduate of Tanker Trade 101 at the prestigious Alex Kairouz School of Economics. At some point or another, almost all pipelines end at a marine terminal where ships pump something in or take something out. Alex figured that out a long time ago. Pay attention to new pipelines—get a leg up on future trade patterns.”