Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (28 page)

“This is first-rate, Tom,” Anna said. “It will take some work on the diplomatic front, but the Russians should go for it. Motaki will be right back to square one—short of fuel and facing domestic unrest.”

“Actually,” Dugan said, “I’ve been thinking about that. I think maybe our Russian friends should give Mr. Motaki all the fuel he wants.”

“What do you mean?” Ward asked.

“I mean sometimes you should be careful what you wish for,” Dugan said.

Heathrow Airport
London
12 July

“Thank you once again, Agent Ward,” Reyes said, shaking Ward’s hand.

“The pleasure was mine, Lieutenant,” Ward said. “Have a safe trip home.”

Reyes nodded. “I wonder if I might have a word alone with
Señor
Dugan.”

Ward shot Dugan a puzzled frown. Dugan shrugged. “OK by me,” he said.

“Ah… fine,” Ward said. “I’ll just go get the car and meet you at the passenger pickup point, Tom.” Ward turned back to Reyes. “I’ll be in touch about our joint operation in your area, Lieutenant.”

Reyes nodded, and Ward walked away, leaving Dugan alone with the big Panamanian. Reyes waited until he was sure Ward was out of earshot.

“First,
Señor
Dugan, let me apologize for my regrettable behavior during our first meeting,” he said.

“Understandable,” Dugan said, “given the circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Reyes said. “I wished to speak to you alone because I have some concerns to which I believe you will be more sympathetic than your colleagues.”

“Ah… how’s that?”

“I do not know quite how to phrase this,” Reyes said, “but I am not completely comfortable with the way things stand. Up to the point of the bastard Braun’s death, I was fully involved in the operation. I was napping in the hospital lounge, to be notified immediately when he regained consciousness so that we could resume interrogation, and the next thing I knew he was dead. Since that time, I have been kept a bit at arm’s length.”

“I’m sure Jesse—”

Reyes held up his hand. “Please,
Señor
Dugan. Do not feel the need to defend Agent Ward. I know he is your friend, and I’m sure he is merely doing his job. But that is my problem.”

Dugan looked confused, and Reyes continued.

“You see,” Reyes said, “I am a simple policeman, not an intelligence agent. Agent Ward promises a “joint operation” against Rodriguez and assures me I will “participate.” However, I suspect my definition of participation will be quite different from his.”

“Go on,” Dugan said.

Reyes continued. “I want to be present when we deal with Rodriguez, but I strongly suspect that because of my personal loss Agent Ward considers me too emotionally involved—in short, a liability. I believe that the operation timetable might be arranged so that I am otherwise engaged and unable to participate in the main mission.”

“Even if that’s true,” Dugan said, “how can I change that?”

Reyes took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Dugan.

“Not change,
señor
,” he said, “merely inform. I know that you are… shall we say “quite close” to Agent Walsh. I need only know the real date and time of the operation. If you learn of this and call me, I will be forever in your debt.”

Dugan was noncommittal. “I probably won’t know, but if I do, I’ll think about it.”

Reyes extended his hand. “I can ask no more. Thank you,
señor
.”

“So what did Reyes want?” Ward asked as Dugan got in the car.

“He apologized for kicking my ass,” Dugan said. “I told him I understood. And the thing is, I really do. When Ginny died, I was ready to find someone to pin it on and kill them on the spot. I can’t imagine how much harder it must be to really know who was responsible and have to bottle up your rage. It must be eating the poor guy alive.”

Ward nodded. “Well, hopefully the Venezuelan op will bring him some closure.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

On Final Approach
Moscow, Russian Federation
14 July

“Landing in ten, ma’am.”

The secretary of state smiled her thanks up at the steward before stuffing a file into her briefcase and fastening her seat belt. It had been a whirlwind seventy-two hours, with stops in Ankara, Turkey, and Baku, Azerbaijan. She still couldn’t quite believe what she’d managed to accomplish in such a short time. She looked at the file and smiled. She was no great admirer of the intelligence community, but the spooks had outdone themselves this time. The plan was masterful.

She thought again about leaving the Chinese out of the plan and again reluctantly concluded it was for the best. She had provided her Chinese counterpart the basic intelligence, enough to assuage any concerns about US duplicity in the Malacca attack. But there were enough moving parts in the spooks’ plan as it was; Chinese involvement would just complicate things unnecessarily. Russia was the key.

The Kremlin

The secretary sat with the Russian president and Russian foreign minister, watching their faces as they, in turn, watched the video, their rage barely contained. When it was over, the foreign minister turned to face her.

“This is obviously most disturbing, Madam Secretary,” he said, glancing at the Russian president. “We will analyze this and act on it accordingly, but I think it is obvious that nothing can be done in the short term. And as much as we appreciate you bringing it in person, we are puzzled as to your intention in doing so.”

The secretary of state looked at the Russians. “I came to seek your cooperation in, to use a Russian proverb, killing the wolf closest to the door.”

The Russian president spoke for the first time. “It will be difficult to hide our outrage, but until the strait reopens to tanker traffic, we must play Motaki’s game. The first cargoes of Iranian oil to fill our European contracts are in transit to Rotterdam, and payment in Russian fuel is arriving in Iran even now.”

“And if the strait does not reopen to tanker traffic?”

His face colored. “Unacceptable! That threatens our entire economy. International law and long-established precedent are on our side. If the Turks persist, military response is inevitable.”

“Your points are sound, but the Treaty of Montrose was signed over seventy years ago. Given current world public opinion, I doubt the Turks will respond to ultimatums.”

“What would you propose? The Black Sea Straits”—he used the Russian name—”are open to all by treaty. Failure to defend that right puts control of our only warm-water ports in foreign hands. Would the US accept a Cuban blockade of the Florida Strait? And we cannot deal with Iran until our oil flows again.”

“Must it flow through the straits?”

The Russian president snorted. “How then? Pipelines? All are inadequate and cross Turkey or Georgia, involving contracts of dubious enforceability. You ask us to abandon legal rights of free passage to place ourselves at the mercy of other countries?”

“Not abandon, Mr. President, merely assert more strategically.” She spread a map.

“If I may,” she said. “Five percent of Black Sea exports can be moved north to Baltic ports through your own pipelines. Correct?” He nodded.

“As you know,” she continued, “Western interests are in constructing a pipeline across Turkey, from Samsun on the Black Sea to Ceyhan on the Mediterranean, projected operational in six months. Completion can be accelerated to six weeks or less, allowing tankers to shuttle between your ports and Samsun. From there the oil can be pumped across Turkey to Ceyhan, bypassing the straits. That can handle half your exports.” The Russian listened, nodding.

Her finger moved east. “At Baku in Azerbaijan, the Baku-Novorossiysk line, formerly carrying Azeri oil to your oil port, lies idle as the Azeris now prefer the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan line.”

The Russian grunted at the reference to yet another incidence of Western companies undermining Russian influence. “What has that to do with anything?”

“The terminals for the Baku-Novorossiysk and the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan lines are two kilometers apart. There is spare capacity on the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan line, and a connection could be built in days, allowing you to reverse the direction of the Baku-Novorossiysk line and pump your oil from Novorossiysk to the Mediterranean via Baku. These steps combined could see 95 percent of your exports flowing to Western markets in weeks.”

“And the remaining 5 percent?”

“Will transit the Bosphorus via tanker, maintaining your right of free passage.”

The Russian looked skeptical. “The Turks and Azerbaijanis accept this?”

“They do, pending negotiation of pipeline tariffs. The Turks will accept the tankers with increased security against accidents and terrorism. They want joint inspection teams to include a Russian, a Turk, and a neutral-country observer on a rotating basis. Ships will be inspected before departure from Russian ports, by ‘invitation’ of your government. No one will be seen as ‘conceding.’ This arrangement can be publicized as a cooperative international effort to deal with a difficult issue. Mutual cooperation and diplomacy at its best.”

The Russian scoffed. “Except, of course, the tariffs. We pay ransom to transport oil that is now moving freely. This is behind the Turks’ fine talk of safety and environment.”

“The tariff they’ve agreed to barely recoups their operational costs.”

“But it increases our own. And why a low tariff? That alone is suspicious.”

“Because, Mr. President,” the secretary said, “the Turks know a 95 percent traffic reduction achieved peacefully is a bargain.” She paused. “And the tariffs are a pittance compared to the cost of military action against Turkey, which will draw NATO in on Turkey’s side.”

The Russian glared. “This leaves Turkish hands on our jugular.”

“With respect, sir, history and geography placed those hands long ago.” Her voice hardened. “Will you fare as well in the grip of Iranian fanatics?”

He sighed, then gave a wan smile. “Points well-taken, Madam Secretary. You are disturbingly familiar with our oil distribution network.”

She smiled back. “I take it you concur with our analysis?”

He nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “Fifty percent in days and full resumption in six weeks seems possible. But perhaps we can be secure much sooner. The Iranians are being quite accommodating. If we press them, I believe we can convince them to export heavily now, and put a six-week reserve on the water beyond their control. We will use the excuse that the recent disruption has us nervous, and that we are renting extra storage capacity in European ports. I think we’ll be back to business as usual in a week, or perhaps ten days.” He smiled a hard smile. “And then we will see about choking off their fuel.”

The secretary of state smiled back.

“Again with respect, Mr. President,” she said, “perhaps you might wish to supply them even more.”

The Russians looked at each other.

“Another ‘suggestion,’ Madam Secretary?” the foreign minister asked.

She nodded and presented the rest of the plan.

Dearborn, Michigan
18 July

Borqei limped along on a leg full of Iraqi shrapnel, troubled after a meeting with Yousif’s adoptive parents. The couple had been shocked beyond belief when the boy’s bullet-riddled corpse was found on the street outside their home, the apparent victim of a drive by shooting. How Yousif got there remained a mystery, and the boy’s parents were hardly comforted when Borqei shared with them Motaki’s message describing Yousif’s death as heroic. He doubted they believed it any more than he did.

The press had lionized “Joe Hamad,” all-American boy, and linked his death to a Latino gang, prompting a reprisal. The Defenders of Islam was a motley collection of delinquents of Arab descent, none devout, but nonetheless determined to uphold the honor of Islam. Their single foray into southwest Detroit wounded a member of Los Pumas, the dominant gang, and tensions rose, with calls for calm from all sides. Borqei had been on television twice and received death threats, but that didn’t bother him like the loss of his protégé for doubtful ends. He trudged along, thinking of Yousif, praying he was enjoying the rewards of Paradise.

***

Lieutenant Manuel Reyes sat in the front passenger seat. He had suspected Dugan was an honorable man and was thus unsurprised at last evening’s phone call. He was equally unsurprised that the little “favor” he was undertaking now for Agent Ward seemed to be planned so that it would be impossible for him to take part in the Venezuelan operations. That is, it
would
have been impossible if he performed the favor tomorrow as requested. That’s why he was performing the little favor a day early.

“This is embarrassing, Manny,” Perez said from the driver’s seat of the lowrider, shouting over the Spanish rap. “If I have to listen to this
pinche
‘music’ much longer, the only one I’m going to kill is myself.”

Reyes nodded. Both wore blue bandannas of Los Pumas with faded jeans and tank tops exposing garish, but temporary, gang tattoos. They dripped gold chains.

“That him?” Reyes asked, pointing across a vacant lot to a cross street.

Perez followed the finger. “That’s him. He looks just like the picture.”

“Move into the street,” Reyes said, “and raise the front.”

Perez nodded. The car lifted with a whine as Reyes silenced the throbbing music. They crept forward, a malevolent predator, high in front with the rear almost dragging.

Borqei was well into the street when they struck him waist high, trapping his body between the pavement and the rear bumper. They striped the street with gore to the end of the block, where Perez raised the rear and sped away, leaving just another gang-related death.

F.A.R.C. Training Camp
Santa Maria de Barrinos
Venezuela
20 July

Manuel Reyes and Juan Perez stood before a crude shack, dressed in sweaty camouflage, eyeing a group of similar buildings. A paved runway lay in contrast to the dirt track providing access to the camp from the Venezuelan interior to the east and the Colombian border ten kilometers west. A man emerged from a building and trotted over.

“The gringos finished,
Teniente
,” said Corporal Vicente Diaz, “the camp is secure.”

“
Bueno, Vicente
,”—Reyes checked the time—”eat and rest. You too, Juan.” He nodded at Perez. “I’ll join you in a moment.”

As they moved away, Reyes watched with approval. For two years, young Diaz had played a disaffected Panamanian in FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. He’d been invaluable, monitoring activity in the Darien, the jungle sprawl between Panama and Colombia used by FARC as safe haven. He wouldn’t be able to return undercover, but Reyes and Captain Luna agreed this mission justified the loss.

Reyes turned as the leader of the “gringos” approached and smiled at the term. Sergeant Carlos Garza, US Army Special Forces, and his five men were hardly gringos. Natives of places from Puerto Rico to Texas, they shared Hispanic heritage and a desire to be the best soldiers on the planet. Special Forces had seen to that, then immersed them in language training. Now, whether their native dialect was East LA slang, Puerto Rican Spanglish, or Tex-Mex, they could pass as native in any Spanish-speaking place on earth.

Reyes and Perez had had to scramble to meet “Garza’s Gringos” the night before to crash the Venezuelan border with Colombian forces in hot pursuit, bolstering the illusion with a hail of intentionally inaccurate gunfire. The FARC commander had been waiting at the training camp, alerted by the Venezuelans at the border. He saw a truckload of new recruits led by Diaz, a man known to him and trained in that very camp. Such arrivals were not unprecedented, and the FARC leader decided to bed them down and deal with it all in the morning. A day that never dawned for the twenty narco-terrorists in the camp.

“The camp is secure, Lieutenant,” Garza said as he reached the shack’s porch.

“Diaz told me. What now?”

“We take their places and wait. After the hit we’ll place bodies to mimic a firefight, dressing a few with no tattoos or other marks in Colombian uniforms and mangling them with grenades. Make it look like a cross-border action.”

“Need help?”

“No, sir,” Garza said, “my men are more convincing FARC if we get visitors. Diaz gave us passwords.” He paused. “A good man, Diaz.”

Reyes smiled. “I agree,
Sargento
, though it is nice to hear from another professional.”

Garza hesitated. “Sir, can I ask something, one professional to another?”

“Ask away,
Sargento
.”

“I expected Diaz, but not you and Perez.” He paused. “Your presence is unplanned, and unplanned is risky. I don’t know what numb nut OK’d this, but if it ends up costing casualties, I assure you that individual and I are going to have a discussion.”

“Apologies,
Sargento
. There is no ‘numb nut’ involved, and I suspect your superiors may be equally upset when they learn of our presence. Now that we can’t be sent back, I will tell you the truth. We invited ourselves, knowing that you were observing radio silence and gambling that if we just appeared, you would accept us at face value.” He shrugged. “I will face any consequences when we return.”

Garza stifled a curse, then said, “All right. You’re here now, but you’re strictly observers. Got that?”

Reyes looked the American in the eye. “I may have to disappoint you there,
Sargento
. I have a promise to keep.”

Garza studied the ground. “It’s your wife, isn’t it?”

Reyes stiffened. “How do you know that?”

“I overheard your men. I can’t let your hard-on for Rodriguez compromise the plan.”