Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) (5 page)

Farley leered. “I’ll be a regular bleedin’ Sir Galahad. She’ll be cryin’ when she has to leave me, she will.”

Chapter Seven

Offices of Phoenix Shipping
1 June

“How many more?” Dugan asked into the intercom.

“Just one, sir,” Mrs. Coutts said. “A Ms. Anna Walsh in ten minutes.”

“Send her straight in, please,” Dugan said.

He was worried. Had he missed a signal? Ward had told him he’d recognize the agent when she appeared and just to “follow her lead,” whatever that meant. If the last applicant wasn’t the agent, Dugan had screwed the pooch big time.

He looked out the big windows at the Thames just across Albert Embankment and wondered again at Alex’s insistence he use his office. Strange, given Alex’s resistance to hiring a new secretary and his irritation when Dugan pressed the point.

***

Braun sat in his office across the hall multitasking, checking schedules and listening with one ear. The interviews were in Kairouz’s office at his insistence. He wanted a feel for the American, and it was far easier to move Dugan than to bug his temporary office in the conference room. He was pleased Dugan demanded a secretary. The more he fixated on such details, the less time to meddle. And perhaps he’d hire something one might actually want to get a leg over. Braun had shelved his own plan for a playmate with regret. Someone close by was a liability unless they were in on the operation, and he didn’t want to expand the team. He smiled. Maybe Dugan would help him out.

***

“Come in, Ms. Walsh,” Dugan said, leading the final job seeker to the sofa.

She was five four with shoulder-length auburn hair, green eyes, a freckled nose, and looked much younger than the thirty-eight years on her resume. A well-tailored wool skirt stopped above the knee, accentuating legs encased in dark silk. The neckline of her designer blouse was revealing, and she exuded sexuality.

She smiled. “My updated CV,” she said, handing Dugan several pages.

He settled in his chair as he read the note attached.

We may be under audio or video surveillance. Follow my lead. Must convey impression I am a tart you are hiring for looks. Conclude by hiring me on the spot.

Dugan nodded. “Ah, well, Ms. Walsh. Tell me about yourself.”

Her recitation was captivating. At typing speed, she crossed and uncrossed her legs; at spreadsheets and software, she leaned in and smiled. By then he was beyond listening. He only belatedly realized her lips had stopped moving.

“Yes… very impressive, Ms. Walsh,” he said, befuddled, turning a page to stall.

“Pardon my digression, Mr. Dugan,” she said, “but your office is beautiful.”

“Actually, I’m borrowing it from the managing director while mine is completed.”

“Well, it’s lovely. And the sofa so comfy.” She smiled. “Will you have one like it?”

“Why don’t I hire you and you can make sure I do?”

“I’d love to,” she said, “depending on salary, of course. The range indicated is below expectations, I’m afraid. Might there be flexibility?”

“We could go a bit higher,” Dugan said. “How’s 10 percent sound?”

“I suppose I could start there until you’re satisfied with my… services.” She smiled. “Then I’ll expect a 25 percent increase.”

Dugan stood and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Walsh.”

Anna rose, moving closer as she took his hand. “Anna, please.”

“All right, Anna. Let’s get the ball rolling.”

***

Mrs. Coutts gave Anna a withering look before turning to Dugan.

“And when is she to start, sir?” she asked, ice in her voice.

“Tomorrow if possible,” Dugan said. “We’ll put her on outfitting my new office.”

Mrs. Coutts looked as if she’d been slapped.

“Under your supervision, of course,” Dugan added, but the damage was done.

“Very good, sir. Come along, Ms. Walsh,” Mrs. Coutts said, moving into the hallway as Anna hurried after.

Dugan watched them disappear and wondered how to patch things up with Mrs. Coutts.

***

Braun stood in his doorway and watched Anna’s retreating backside. Bloody well perfect. And more than enough to distract Dugan. And when Dugan was out of the way, he’d double the slut’s salary if she was accommodating. It was only Kairouz’s money, after all.

M/T Asian Trader
Sembawang Shipyard, Singapore
1 June

Medina leaned on the rail, mentally hurrying his shipmates down the steep gangway in their “goin’ ashore” clothes. The ship floated at a wet berth now, the main deck high above the dock, her tanks mostly empty. The second mate smiled and waved up at Medina, then said something to the man beside him, who shook his head and laughed, undoubtedly at a joke at Medina’s expense. Let them laugh, thought Medina; the last laugh would be his.

He’d volunteered for night watches, citing his desire to explore Singapore by day. He spent those days in internet cafés and, as plans evolved, the electronics shops of Sim Lim Tower, returning to nap each afternoon in preparation for evenings alone on board. Or almost alone. The yard night shift was populated by the sick, the lame, and the lazy—they topped the gangway in search of a sleeping place, never to be seen again except as man-hours on the yard invoice. It had been dicey at first when the American Dugan was around. He’d had an unfortunate tendency to show up at all hours, checking on progress. But with the yard period almost over and the little Italian in charge, things were more predictable on the night watch.

Medina entered the deckhouse, climbed the stairs to the bridge deck, then began a slow deck-by-deck descent, walking each passageway to ensure everyone was ashore. He continued into the engine room, where he found yard workers dozing in scattered corners, and then walked the main deck from bow to stern, finding no one. Satisfied, he went to his cabin and locked the door behind him before rooting in his wardrobe locker.

He placed two items on his bed, and then sat in his desk chair and looked at them, still amazed that he’d been expected to strike a mighty blow with such meager weapons. An ancient Makarov pistol with a single clip and a martyr’s vest, now disassembled, were his entire arsenal. His contact had given him the things, said “Allah will guide you,” and left, leaving Medina uncertain and trembling at the prospect of failure.

He smiled now, thinking of his initial doubt, for Allah had been generous in His guidance. Had not Allah given him the interest in electronics years before, and had He not opened Medina’s eyes to the canal’s weak point? And did not the Holy Quran tell of David slaying Goliath with a single stone?

Medina unlocked a desk drawer and pulled out two plastic-wrapped bundles, the last two of twelve to be placed. Each was the size of a cigarette pack, and a length of antenna wire extended from each. They contained plastique, scavenged from his martyr’s vest, and each held a detonator, a tiny remote-ignition circuit of his own devising, a nine-volt battery to power it all, and a small but powerful magnet. Their destructive force was minimal, but each would produce a significant flash, and that was all he needed.

Medina’s mouth was dry. Tomorrow the ship shifted to the refinery loading berth. He had made great progress since Dugan’s departure, but he had to finish tonight. He slipped a charge in each front pocket, donned a fanny pack, and went down to the main deck.

The yard was quiet save distant shouts and welding flashes from the dry docks, but Medina felt exposed in the glare of deck lights. He breathed deep and forced himself to an unhurried walk, up the deck to the vent for number one port ballast tank. Near the vent, he scanned the deck, then pulled a spool of wire and cutters from his fanny pack. He fed the fine wire into the vent pipe slowly to prevent kinks, and when an ample length dangled into the tank below, clipped the wire and bent the free end under the vent opening and wrapped it securely around a bolt head, almost invisible.

He moved to the manhole and stared down into the black void. They’d removed the temporary lights. He pulled an elastic headband from the fanny pack and donned it, slipping a small flashlight into it like a headlamp to free his hands and light his way down the ladder. He left the ladder at the uppermost horizontal stringer plate and moved forward through the tank, one of twelve forming the double hull between the cargo tanks and the sea, counting the frames forming the ship’s ribs as he went. When he reckoned himself in position, he looked up and smiled as his light illuminated the vent opening near the shipside, the fine wire he’d placed dangling out, almost invisible.

Structural members marched up the outer hull like widely spaced shelves or rungs of a giant ladder, and Medina climbed, stretching and straining to pull himself up to the underside of the main deck. At the uppermost member, he clung one-handed, his feet on the next member down as he reached toward the ship’s side with a charge. He gave a relieved grunt as the magnet sucked the charge to the steel, and then examined the placement. It sat on the uppermost member, like a box at the back of a high shelf, invisible unless someone scaled the structure as Medina had.

He groped under the vent and pulled the dangling wire to the charge antenna and twisted the two together, locking them with a tiny wire nut with trembling fingers. Sweat stung his eyes and soaked his coveralls, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his free hand to study his work in the beam of his little light. Perfect, he thought, and began to inch his way down.

Clang. The sharp ring of steel on steel sent Medina’s heart into his throat, and he clung motionless, listening as more noise indicated activity on the main deck above him. He recovered and continued his descent, faster now. Back on the horizontal stringer, he moved aft toward the ladder with no clear plan. Should he go up? He still had to drill and plug a tiny hole near the top of the common bulkhead between this tank and the adjacent cargo tank. But what was happening on main deck? What if they were bolting the manhole? No one knew he was here. He’d be trapped until he starved to death or drowned when they flooded the ballast tank.

Medina took a deep breath and controlled his fear. His hand fell on the fanny pack, and he felt the small cordless drill through the fabric. He gathered his resolve and moved across the tank to the cargo-tank bulkhead.

Twenty minutes later, Medina eased his head out of the manhole and surveyed the main deck. Whoever had been there was gone, and he pulled himself from the manhole and stood on deck. His legs ached from climbing, but he felt the weight of the remaining charge in his pocket and pressed on. A half hour later, he exited the last ballast tank, sweating and dirty but exultant. He entered the deckhouse and went to the Cargo Control Room, where he walked to a control panel labeled “Mariner Tek—Model BT 6000—Ballast-Tank Gas-Detection System.”

He extracted a pair of needle-nose pliers and a spool of wire from this fanny pack, then secured the power to the panel and opened it. This was the easy part. He’d studied the schematic in the technical manual for days and knew it cold. His fingers flew as he wired in jumpers, then arranged them within the existing wiring so that nothing looked amiss. He stepped back and admired his handiwork before closing the panel and powering up the system.

Green lights glowed, showing all ballast tanks safe and gas-free. He smiled again, knowing those lights would stay green, regardless of conditions in the tanks. He powered down the system and hummed a little tune as he climbed to his cabin for a shower.

Offices of Phoenix Shipping Ltd.
London
3 June

Dugan wrinkled his nose at the faint smell of fresh paint and watched through the door as Anna scooped up folders from her own desk and maneuvered around a ladder in the outer office. Over Alex’s objections, Dugan was working full days, even though his new office was a work in progress. Conversion of the storeroom to office space was all but complete, and throughout the process, Anna deferred to Mrs. Coutts completely. She’d managed to assuage the older woman’s antipathy by following suggestions to the letter, including counsel as to proper dress. Unfortunately, Anna’s sensuality defeated even Mrs. Coutts’s wardrobe hints. The elderly secretary concluded the poor child was destined to look a tart, with no help for it.

“Last of the lot, Tom,” Anna said, dumping folders on his desk.

“Thanks,” Dugan said. “Computers?”

Anna sighed. “I’ve been on to Sutton four times today.”

“OK. Keep on him,” Dugan said.

As Anna left, Dugan stole a glance at her well-shaped backside before forcing himself back to work. He opened the folder on top of the stack to find a note.

Dugan, ask me to dinner tonight. We must talk.

Dugan pocketed the note. About time. Ward said contact would be through Anna. So far, there hadn’t been any. He felt isolated, and for the first time, ill at ease in Alex’s presence.

He pressed the intercom.

“Yes, Tom,” Anna said.

“Can you stay late? I may need you to pull more files for me. I’ll make it up with dinner. You pick the place.”

She laughed. “Quite the best offer I’ve had all day. Bring your gold card.”

“No problem. Thanks,” Dugan said, picking up the phone to call Alex.

“Yes, Thomas,” Alex answered, looking at his caller ID.

“Alex, I’m working over. Please give Mrs. Hogan my regrets.”

Alex paused. “I’ve things to do as well. She’ll put something back for us.”

“Alex, that’s not necessary. I’ve made—”

“No problem, Thomas. I’ll just call home—”

“Alex. I have other plans.”

A silence grew. “Very well,” Alex said at last. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Dugan hung up, troubled by his friend’s behavior. He sighed and returned to the file he was studying.

***

“It’s seven,” Anna said from the doorway. “Starving me is nonproductive. I’m more agreeable on a full stomach.”

Dugan stood and walked to the door. “Sorry. Lost track. You picked a place?”