Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (6 page)

Anna nodded and gathered her things. As they walked out, she pointed to light leaking beneath a door. “Captain Braun’s working late.”

Dugan shrugged. “He’s always here when I leave.”

***

About bloody time, thought Braun, irritated at Kairouz’s failure to control Dugan. Not that he was too concerned. Working late was an obvious ploy to have a go at the slut. Took him long enough. Braun smiled. If they became lovers, bugging her flat might be worthwhile.

***

Anna listened as Dugan talked. After deflecting his attempts to discuss business with a quick hand squeeze and almost imperceptible head shake, she’d hung on to his every word. She deserved an Oscar. Despite knowing it was an act, he was enjoying himself.

“Dessert?” the waiter asked.

Dugan gave Anna a quizzical look.

“I’m stuffed,” she said. “How about coffee at my place?”

Dugan asked for the check.

In the cab, Anna crawled onto his lap and kissed him, keeping at it all the way to her building. Dugan exited the cab, unable to hide his arousal from the smirking cabby, as Anna pulled him into the lobby for a smoldering kiss and kept at it in the elevator, kissing his neck and giggling. She dragged him to her door and fumbled with the key before pushing him in, lips on his, and closing the door behind them with her foot. Then she stopped.

“Sit.” She pointed to a sofa as she threw the bolt, then moved to a chair.

Dugan stood in the entryway, his confusion complete.

“Surely you knew that wasn’t genuine,” she said.

He glanced down. “Part of me was hopeful.”

Her face turned cold. “Yes, well, hope springs eternal. Sit.”

Dugan complied. “OK. What now?”

She softened. “First, I’m sorry if I overdid it. We don’t yet know how closely we’re being watched. I was unsure you could fake it. So I aroused you.”

“Superbly,” Dugan said.

Anna colored. “Understand, Mr. Dugan, I’m happily married. I will deal with you professionally and expect no less.”

“Married? Really?” Dugan said. “Must be tough.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. Sorry,” he said. “Let’s just consider this, for the purposes of our cover only, our first spat and put it behind us?”

She ignored the sarcasm. “Tonight we set our cover. We can speak freely here. This place will be swept daily. Assume you’re under surveillance elsewhere, for sure at the office.”

“Are you sure?” Dugan asked.

“We put an undercover on the janitorial staff to do a sweep. Our offices and Kairouz’s are bugged. From Braun’s office.”

“So Braun’s running things. And he’s bugging Alex, so Alex isn’t involved.”

“He’s involved. Maybe he’s using Braun to create deniability.”

“I can’t believe Alex is a willing party to terrorism.”

Anna was noncommittal. “We’ll see. Anyway, this is where we communicate. As lovers, it’ll be natural to come here evenings or even to sneak off for afternoon trysts. We’ll raise eyebrows but not suspicions.”

“But won’t whoever it is just bug this place?”

“We’ll handle that. I’ll tell you about it if and when necessary.”

Dugan bristled. “Do let me know when I’m deemed trustworthy.”

“Tom, we compartmentalize. You needn’t be so touchy.”

He considered that. “Yeah, I understand. Sorry I overreacted. Let’s put the hostility behind us and go back to being Tom and Anna.”

“Fine by me. Provided you stop being so damned cheeky.”

Dugan smiled. “But that’s my most endearing quality.”

She shook her head and moved to the kitchen to brew coffee. When she returned, they settled down to discuss strategy.

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Dugan said. “I must admit Alex is behaving strangely. Like he’s going out of his way to minimize my office time. We arrive late every day, then he has me out the door at the dot of five. Totally out of character for him; the guy’s a workaholic. Braun must be coercing him somehow, maybe through threats to Cassie.”

Anna looked skeptical. “I’ve seen Kairouz’s file. He isn’t someone easily intimidated. After his entire family was killed in the Lebanese civil war, he came to London as a penniless teen with no prospects and managed to build a major shipping company from scratch. Now he’s wealthy and connected. If he’s being threatened, why wouldn’t he turn to the authorities?”

“I don’t know. But Alex Kairouz is no terrorist.”

Anna sighed. “Let’s start with what we do know. This Farley arrived on the scene right after Braun’s employment. We can assume he’s a player, and the computer guy is in on it for sure. Word among the clerical staff is that Braun dismissed the IT people and brought Sutton on right after he joined the company. I suspect Hell will freeze over before we get any sort of reliable computer access.”

“The biggest problem,” Dugan said, “is how to snoop without raising suspicion if we’re caught. If Braun’s somehow squeezing Alex, he’s pretty damn smart. We don’t want to put his guard up.”

Anna smiled. “We just need a believable motive. You have one made-to-order.”

Dugan looked confused.

“Think about it,” Anna said. “You and Braun are rivals. We style our snooping as an attempt to uncover some incompetence or malfeasance on Braun’s part, so you can undermine him with Alex. Even if we’re caught, it will look like corporate politics.”

Dugan nodded, impressed. “Pretty sharp.”

Anna smiled at the compliment and spent the next half hour briefing Dugan on how they would develop their cover relationship. At midnight, she let him out.

“Must keep up appearances,” she whispered at the doorway, sending him off with a smoldering kiss.

***

Braun slumped in the driver’s seat. He’d just decided the Yank was making a night of it when Dugan exited the building and turned up the walk. I overestimated him, thought Braun. When he’s gone, I’m sure the bitch will enjoy having a real man.

Chapter Eight

M/T Asian Trader
ExxonMobil Refinery
Jurong, Singapore
4 June

The chief mate tensed at the console, focused on the rising level in the last cargo tank.

“Stop,” he barked into his radio, commanding the terminal to stop pumping. The load was complete, and at a nod from the chief mate, Medina left to check the drafts.

It was a relieved Medina that rushed down the gangway. They’d taken minimal ballast for the short transit to the refinery; water hadn’t even risen to his plugs. The ballast tanks were empty now, and the plugs had held as powerful fans pushed inert gas into the empty cargo tanks, displacing oxygen-rich air before gasoline surged into the tanks.

He’d been terrified that the gas pressure—slight though it was—would unseat the shredded bits of Styrofoam cup he’d packed into the tiny holes. He’d paced the deck, alert to telltale whiffs from ballast-tank vents or the loud keening of gas whistling through an unplugged hole.

But they all held, praise be to Allah, high on the bulkheads, submerged now under a foot of gasoline on the cargo-tank side. It wouldn’t take long for the cargo to dissolve them.

But it would be long enough.

Offices of Phoenix Shipping
London

Braun smiled. Sutton had hacked backdoor access to several porn sites, making tracking his communications like looking for a needle in several thousand haystacks. Only the logic of the method had convinced Motaki to disregard his revulsion at accessing the sites. Braun’s smile widened. Perhaps this might expand the Iranian’s horizons a bit.

He opened an encrypted file. Motaki had done well. The Chechens looked European, and below each picture was age, height, weight, and hair and eye color. Braun printed the pictures and erased the file before typing the Web address of the Baltic Maritime Job Exchange, to begin his search for unemployed ex-Eastern Bloc mariners resembling the Chechens.

Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
8 June

Joel Sutton, dressed in a British Telcom uniform and with toolbox in hand, rang Anna Walsh’s doorbell. Showing his face was a risk, but he’d confirmed Dugan and the bitch were at work, and no one else would know him. When no one answered, he picked the lock and went to work.

He hid transmitters in the phones and throughout the small apartment and a tiny receiver on a high closet shelf, tapped into a spare circuit in the existing phone wiring. Satisfied, he left things as he’d found them and rode the elevator to the lobby, leaving his toolbox there as he went to the van. He returned with a heavy shopping bag, its handles biting into his hand, to collect his toolbox and ride the elevator to the basement.

The telephone box was well marked and he set to work, stepping back twenty minutes later to survey the results. Concealed under a stack of boxes and connected to the panel by a hidden wire sat a lead-lined wooden box with a near-invisible antenna wire run to a high window. The box was soundproof, with a speaker inside echoing any sound from the apartment. Inches away was a cell phone, voice activated to dial at any sound. There was no connection between the devices but sound waves, eliminating a trace. The outgoing cell signal was detectable, but isolating it would be difficult. Difficult became impossible as the audio was relayed through two identical boxes, both hidden far away in high-cell-traffic areas.

All the phones were untraceable, purchased for cash, and modified with long-life batteries. Each box held enough plastic explosive and white phosphorus to destroy the contents and anyone opening them without first calling the phone inside and entering a disarming code.

Sutton dialed Anna Walsh’s number on another throwaway phone and let her voice mail greeting play without responding. In the basement of the Iranian embassy, another cell phone disconnected after Anna’s words were recorded, and a technician phoned his superior. His superior walked to a window of his second-floor office and smoothed his hair with his right hand in full view of another man standing across the street pretending to read a newspaper. The man walked to a public phone and dialed a number from memory.

“Hello,” Sutton said.

“I’m sorry. I was ringing George McGregor. I misdialed,” the man said and hung up.

Sutton disconnected and reached for his toolbox. Surveillance was established for whoever the hell was running it. He left the building to ditch the van.

Offices of Phoenix Shipping

Dugan cursed as his monitor went black for the third time. He checked his watch. Might as well pack it in. Ever since he and Anna had begun their “affair,” they’d stayed late every night to establish a pattern of being in the office after hours. They left together every evening, and twice Dugan slept on her sofa, arriving the next morning in the same clothes—a fact noted by office gossips. What Dugan had failed to anticipate was the impact of his relationship with Anna on his other relationships.

Mrs. Coutts registered disapproval in every icy glance, addressing him with cold formality, while Anna was somehow transformed in Mrs. Coutts’s view into a poor innocent led astray by her lustful boss, a sexual predator. It got worse. Daniel, the driver, shared the gossip with Mrs. Hogan, the cook, who, certain he was wrong, passed it on to Mrs. Farnsworth. After admonishing Mrs. Hogan on the evils of gossip, Mrs. Farnsworth phoned Mrs. Coutts so that she might find the source of the malicious rumor and squash it, only to learn the rumor was true.

Mrs. Farnsworth, never one of Dugan’s fans, now addressed him, when she spoke at all, as if he was only slightly less unpleasant than something she couldn’t get off her shoe sole. Mrs. Hogan registered disapproval in her own way. His eggs this morning had been rubber, served with black toast and orange juice with a half-inch layer of seeds in the bottom of the glass.

The only female in the house who still liked him was Cassie, but she was in bed when he got home now, and his first morning absence had not gone unnoticed. Her inquisition the following morning had been curtailed only by a “proper young lady is not nosy” dictum from Mrs. Farnsworth, accompanied by an icy stare at Dugan.

It had come to a head on the ride in this morning, with Alex’s repeated throat clearing.

“You better spit it out before you get a sore throat, Alex,” Dugan said.

“It’s… awkward, Thomas. Your involvement with this Walsh woman is upsetting the household.”

“Agreed,” Dugan said, “but I’ll be damned if I know why. My private life’s my own.”

“True, Thomas. But the ladies”—Alex smiled—”except Mrs. Farnsworth, of course, all held you in high regard. I’m sure they didn’t think you a monk, but assumed you would choose a more… appropriate partner. Hiring a woman for her looks just to bed her is just so… unsavory.”

“Anna’s a damn good secretary.”

“Indeed,” Alex said, “a fortunate accident according to Mrs. Coutts.”

“How about you, Alex? Do you share the ladies’ opinion?”

Silence answered.

“That’s the pot and the kettle, old friend,” Dugan said. “Kathleen was your secretary.”

He regretted the words immediately. Alex purpled.

“Don’t you dare imply my marriage was the product of some cheap office dalliance. Kathleen worked for me for years before we dated. I am your friend, but if you ever, ever repeat that, I will be no longer. Is that clear?”

“That was a cheap shot, Alex. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just confused by everyone’s reaction. I certainly don’t want to upset your household. Should I move out?”

“Perhaps that’s best,” Alex said, still angry. “But where? In with Miss Walsh?”

“That’s my business, Alex,” Dugan said, and they’d ridden the rest of the trip in silence.

***

And now I’m homeless in London, thought Dugan as Anna popped her head in the door.

“How about dinner?” she asked.

“I’m with you,” Dugan said, standing to leave. “We’ve weighty matters to discuss.”

“Oh?”

Dugan smiled. “How’d you like a roommate?”

***

Perfect, thought Braun as Dugan and Anna left. The timing on Sutton’s visit had been spot on, and if the Yank moved in, perhaps they’d spend more time in the apartment, and he could off-load some of the surveillance. A celebration was in order. A nice dinner courtesy of Kairouz and some entertainment. He dialed his cell as he left the office.

“Send me the little brunette at ten,” he said into the phone. “I forget her name.”

“Yvette,” a voice said, “and the price is triple. You bloody near killed her last time. I couldn’t work her for days. I expect payment for lost time.”

“No problem,” Braun said. “Make sure she brings the toys.”

He hung up and hailed a cab, smiling as he settled in the seat—things were going well.

***

Dugan and Anna stepped out into a beautiful evening, pleasantly full and mellow from wine. He’d recounted his trouble with Alex over dinner as Anna feigned delight at the prospect of cohabitation. Dugan played along, though less than eager to exchange a good bed for a lumpy sofa. Anna clung to him now, head against his shoulder as he started to hail a cab.

“No, don’t,” she said. “It’s lovely. Let’s walk.”

Foot traffic was light, but as they reached Anna’s building, a short, bald man, head down and phone to his ear, rushed down the steps to collide with Anna, moving on without slowing. Dugan glared after him.

“Easy, Tarzan,” Anna said, a restraining hand on Dugan’s arm. “I’m fine. Let it go.”

Anna tugged Dugan’s arm and they moved inside.

In the safe haven of the apartment, Dugan relaxed, but before he spoke, Anna clamped a hand over his mouth.

“I think I’ll shower. Care to wash my back, Tiger?” she asked.

“Sounds delightful,” Dugan said, nodding as she removed her hand.

He stood in the bathroom in mute confusion as Anna arranged the showerhead so the water drummed loud against the plastic curtain. She removed her shoes and motioned him to do the same, then led him on tiptoe through the small kitchen and out the back door of the apartment. There were two apartments per floor, all with front entrances served by the residents’ elevator and rear entrances with a common service elevator. As she closed her own door, a tall man in a rumpled suit beckoned from the open back door of the next apartment. Anna entered the apartment with Dugan in tow and followed the man into the living room.

The tall man grinned. “And how is our Phoenix Shipping slut?”

“Sod off, Harry,” Anna said. “Lou back yet?”

“Any minute,” Harry said as a key rattled in the front door and Lou entered.

“You’re the guy who ran into us,” Dugan said, still confused.

“Guilty,” Lou said. “I had to let Anna know about the bugs.”

Anna nodded at the new arrival. “Tom, this is Lou Chesterton and”—she indicated the tall man—”Harry Albright. My colleagues in the Anti-Terrorism Unit.”

Dugan shook hands as she continued. “Who wired us?” she asked.

“Sutton,” Lou said. “Professional job. Multiple booby-trapped relays. Untraceable.”

“Christ,” Dugan said, “there goes our time outside the fish bowl.”

“Welcome to our world, Yank,” Lou said, turning to Anna. “Shower running?”

“Less than five minutes, but we don’t have long.” She turned to Harry. “Cover audio?”

Harry smiled. “Some of the finest sex sounds the Internet has to offer.”

“Voices?” she asked.

“Not a problem,” Harry said. “Talk is minimal and a bit… repetitive. I distorted it, and you can put on music to help mask it. It’ll do for tonight.”

“What’s after the sex sounds?” Anna asked.

“Snoring in an endless loop. To buy time for you two to come back and do some recordings for alternative sound feeds.”

“I don’t snore,” Dugan said.

“Actually, you do. Like a bloody train,” Anna said. “At least on my sofa.”

“Actually, you both do. At least on my recording,” Harry said as Dugan smirked.

“Right,” Lou said, “we best get to it. Harry, get Anna the portable CD player while she briefs Mr. Dugan here.”

Minutes later, they crept into Anna’s apartment. She turned off the water and gave a sensuous moan as she placed the CD player by the bedside phone. Dugan, per instructions, grunted sexual sounds, looking so self-conscious Anna was hard-pressed not to laugh. She put music on her sound system and started the sex sound track on the portable player. Satisfied, they slipped out the back door and into the other apartment.