Braun read the decrypted message and cursed. He pulled the sat phone from a drawer. The encryption algorithm was unbreakable, and calls were routed through random and changing links, but still, he preferred to minimize voice contact. He sighed; anxiety was to be expected, he supposed, when one dealt with amateurs. He dialed. In Tehran, an identical phone rang.
“Yes,” Motaki answered.
“I got your message,” Braun said. “All is proceeding. Asian Trader sailed from Singapore on schedule, and I chartered a VLCC named China Star to the Iranian National Oil Company. She must depart Kharg Island no later than 21 June to arrive in the Malacca Straits as Asian Trader reaches Panama. Please ensure there are no loading delays in Iran.”
Braun had learned that giving his principals some simple task within their control always had a calming influence.
“I will see to it,” Motaki said. “But what about Panama? I’m concerned we do not have sufficient control. Rodriguez might be a problem if his pet project goes awry.”
“Our man on Asian Trader has minimal resources. It is not a problem.”
“All right,” Motaki said. “And this man Richards?”
“On standby pay. He knows nothing yet. I’ll move him to Jakarta when the time is right.”
“So, the sideshows move ahead. What of the main attack?”
“The Chechens are at the training facility. They can’t become experts, but they will learn enough to serve our purposes.”
“Their Russian is better than their English,” Motaki said. “I still think a facility in Eastern Europe would have been better.”
“Chechen-accented Russian,” Braun replied. “Chechen seamen are rare, Mr. President. Here in UK their accents are unrecognizable, and if they say something that reveals them to be other than seamen, it can be covered as language misunderstanding.”
“And what of these men whose identities you’ve stolen? What if one of them should make an inconvenient appearance?”
Braun smiled. “Those men are being well paid to stay home. I employed them for fictitious ships under construction in China and put them on full pay to stand by, ready to fly at moment’s notice. The seamen get paid for nothing, and the agency gets their commission. All courtesy of Kairouz. Everyone is happy.”
“Very well,” Motaki said, his acknowledgment grudging, “and the last ship?”
“I have several options, but it’s too early to—”
“Mr. Braun, need I remind you—”
“You need remind me of nothing, Mr. President, but the main attack is the most difficult. Runs from Black Sea ports to the target are short, with no chance to manipulate arrival time. Additionally, the ports involved are not the most efficient, and there may be lengthy delays. There are many things that can go wrong,” Braun said. “With respect, sir, too many cooks spoil the broth. Please leave this to me.”
“Very well,” Motaki said, “but keep me informed.”
“Of course.”
Dugan sat with the Brits in the apartment next to Anna’s. Dugan and Anna had returned there the first night, to work with Harry recording scripts for additional cover audio, including, to their discomfort and Harry’s amusement, breathless sexual audio. Anna had colored and pointed a smirking Harry from the room as she moaned “Yes, yes, yes,” into the mike.
Dugan had been skeptical.
“How do you turn a few hours into days of fake audio?” he’d asked.
“Bloody magic, Yank, and the wizardry of British intelligence,” Harry had replied. “But we don’t need ‘days.’ You spend nights there, and most of that sleeping. Sex will occupy some time and Internet tracks laced with your recordings will work there.” Harry had shrugged. “That leaves hours, and conversation varies little day to day. Our lads have software to assemble daily dialogues, then they review and tweak it. Mornings, you’ll need to mind what you say, but we’ll craft evening dialogues for you to play at Anna’s while you stay here. We’ll add sex as it seems to fit, and that will be that.”
And so it had. To his delight, Dugan traded Anna’s lumpy sofa for the bed in the surveillance apartment, creeping into her place each morning to begin the daily charade. The surveillance apartment became their center of operations, a meeting place by day, and a refuge where Dugan and Anna could escape the bugs for a while each evening while the fake audio ran.
“I smell a rat,” Dugan said, holding up a copy of the daily ship-position report.
“What do you mean, Yank?” Lou asked.
Dugan tapped the page. “This ship. The China Star. She’s a VLCC Phoenix chartered from a competitor, then subchartered to the Iranian National Oil Company. I can’t see any way we can make money on that sort of deal at prevailing rates.”
Harry looked confused. “A vee bloody what?”
“Sorry,” Dugan said. “VLCC is short for ‘very large crude carrier.’ Supertanker to you.”
“But what’s it mean?” Anna asked.
Dugan shrugged. “Maybe nothing, but it might be a lead. At any rate, it’s the only thing I’ve been able to turn up so far. If I can get a look at the charter agreement, I might be able to make some other connections.”
“Can you get at it?” Anna asked.
Dugan shook his head. “That’s another thing that makes me suspicious. There’s neither a copy of the agreement on the server nor is it in the hard-copy files. I could just ask for it, but if I’m right, that might set off all sorts of alarms.”
“So how are you going to get it?”
“I’ve got an idea,” Dugan said.
Khassan Basaev’s monitor flashed a congratulatory message and a prompt to move to the next training module. He yawned and arched into a stretch, rubbing his blue eyes before he reached out of habit to stroke a nonexistent beard. He grimaced at his unfamiliar reflection in the monitor and hoped he looked “European” enough. His three companions were also freshly barbered, with lighter lower faces stark against tanned necks and foreheads, a difference fading under application of the sunlamp. All the men’s hair was light, blond to brown, and they looked Nordic rather than the mujahideen they were.
“Ah. Another milestone,” Shamil whispered in Russian from his seat next to Basaev. “Quite impressive for a mountain peasant.”
Basaev gave a brief smile as Aslan and Doku chuckled. “Joke as you will, Shamil,” Basaev said, “but don’t forget our mission.”
“I never do,” Shamil said, serious now, as all the men turned back to their terminals.
Basaev looked around the computer training lab, empty on a Saturday except for the four men. The instructor had been surprised at Basaev’s request to use the training facility on the weekend for review, declining an opportunity to relax in town with the rest of the class after a grueling week of instruction. The Chechens had no desire to mix with the other — mostly British and Western European — students. Basaev’s men were known collectively as “the Russians” by the others, an insult not normally tolerated. Now it comforted him. The infidels couldn’t tell a Chechen from an Eskimo.
Shamil’s joke aside, they were no peasants, but university graduates, fluent in several languages. They’d met in university in Grozny a lifetime ago, before Russian aggression drove them to the Cause of Allah and Free Chechnya. They escaped the city just before the Russians encircled it, fleeing to a mountain village, where weeks had grown to months and then years as their war ground to a fitful stalemate, neither side capable of victory. In time, they were ignored, and if it was not victory, it was better than living under the Russian heel. The village became home, and they started families. Life had been simple but full.