So much so that Paradise for Basaev was not a place of willing virgins but a vision of his village. A place to hold his wife, as she whispered he would be a father once more, as he watched his toddler move around a modest hut. A place gone forever when the guns of a helicopter gunship tore his family into bloody refuse, identifiable only by shreds of clothing.
He’d been away at the time, leading a dozen others on a routine patrol. They returned to bury their dead and move into hiding, asking Allah only for Russians to kill, a wish come true as Russians arrived in force to crush the holdouts. It became a long, hard war of attrition, and they killed many Russians, but there were always more. Iranian agents were frequent guests in his mountain hideaway, asking nothing in return for their aid. Until last month.
“We are not seamen,” Basaev had protested, “and why strike our Muslim brothers? Killing Russians is pleasing in the sight of Allah.”
“You do the work of Allah,” the Iranian said, “but there are tasks more urgent. We can teach you the skills required but cannot make our other brothers look European.”
“And the Faithful who die?”
“Most casualties will be infidel tourists, and the Faithful who die will be gathered into Heaven. And ask yourself this, Basaev: are those that whore themselves to gawking tourists really our brothers? Are the governments that fawn on the Americans in return for military aid really true Muslims? When was the last time you saw a Saudi or Egyptian or a Turk or anyone but an Iranian in these mountains, bringing you guns and ammunition and medicine?” The Iranian had paused. “You should reflect upon who stands by your side during your darkest hour.”
Basaev had conceded the point but continued to resist. “We know how to kill Russians and should continue until Allah calls us to Paradise.”
“Look around you,” the Iranian said. “Four left. And in these mountains, groups of two or four or seven fight on, growing fewer as the Russians grow stronger, financed by the sale of oil. If, God willing, you sell your lives for a hundred Russians each, there will be four hundred infidels in Hell. A drop in the ocean. Take my offer and slay infidel tourists by the thousands and bring down the Russian economy. Think, my brother.”
“I have,” Basaev said, “and it is clear to me this will raise oil prices and enrich Iran.”
The Iranian smiled. “The better to support world Jihad,” he said.
In the end, Basaev had acquiesced, and now he slipped into silent prayer, asking for Allah’s favor, for he thought himself a godly man and sought divine approval often. The self-deception was so complete he never understood he’d converted to a more elemental faith, kneeling among the bloody remains of his family at the altar of vengeance. His religion was the destruction of all things Russian.
Basaev pulled himself back to the present and clicked his mouse to bring up the next module, “Cargoes and Possible Ignition Sources.”
Dugan got off the elevator and walked through the deserted offices, illuminated by the morning sun filtering through hallway windows. He left the overhead lights off and made his way past the cubicle farm to an office marked CHARTERING. He looked around nervously, then opened the door and entered, turning to ease the door closed.
“May I help you, Mr. Dugan?”
Dugan spun to see Abdul Ibrahim sitting at his desk with a perplexed expression. Even on a Saturday, the little Pakistani wore a well-tailored suit and a perfectly knotted silk tie.
“Uh… Mr. Ibrahim. Forgive me for not knocking. I didn’t know you were here. I was uh… just going to leave a note on your desk to call me. I would have messaged you, but I’m having some problem with my e-mail.”
Ibrahim smiled and gestured to a chair. “No apology necessary. Please. Sit and tell me how I may be of service.”
Dugan took the chair, his mind racing. Shit.
“I’m just curious,” he said. “I saw a VLCC on the position report… China Star, I think her name is. I noticed she was subchartered to lift a cargo to Japan. I figure if rates are good enough to charter in, then subcharter on that route, I should check it out. If that trade picks up, it means I can get our ships positioned in the Far East much more cheaply for repairs. That will really help our maintenance budget.”
Christ, thought Dugan, pretty smooth. That even sounded believable to me.
Ibrahim looked uncomfortable. “I have only a vague recollection of the details, but I will look into it and get back with you Monday, if that’s all right.”
He’d hit a nerve. Dugan started to back off, then realized that any damage was already done. He may as well find out what he could. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“You’re head of chartering,” Dugan said. “This is a big-money deal that went down three days ago.”
Ibrahim was sweating. “I… I…”
“Mr. Ibrahim,” Dugan said, “I’ve known you almost ten years and know you’re honest. If you’ve somehow caught up in something illegal—”
Ibrahim shook his head. “Not me,” he said, lowering his voice. “Braun put together the charters. I went to Mr. Kairouz, but—”
He stopped and looked around, then lowered his voice further. “I will not speak of it here. But I know you are Mr. Kairouz’s friend, and something is very, very wrong. I will tell you what I know. Meet me near the entrance to Vauxhall tube station in one hour.”
Dugan nodded and rose to leave. He opened the door quietly and looked around before slipping out and down the corridor to his own office. He closed his office door just as the elevator doors opened down the hall.
Braun stepped off the elevator and swiveled toward the quiet click of Dugan’s office door closing. What the bloody hell was Dugan doing here?
Braun watched Dugan and Ibrahim from a distance as they stood on the platform, staring straight ahead as they pretended to be disinterested strangers waiting for a train. He couldn’t see their faces but noted tension in their postures. They were obviously conversing. Amateurs.
Braun mulled the possibilities. Dugan’s fumbling attempts to catch him in some malfeasance or incompetent action were apparent and concerned him not at all. Nor did Ibrahim know anything except the barest financial essentials of the China Star deal, and Braun had arranged those to look like a kickback scheme. So even if Dugan learned of China Star, he couldn’t go to the authorities without implicating his friend Kairouz.
Braun considered killing them both, just to be sure, but dismissed the idea. Two dead executives from the same company were bound to attract unwanted attention. But there was the problem of perception. He’d promised Kairouz that if he couldn’t control the little Pakistani, the man would die, along with his family. Braun hated breaking promises. Kairouz had to understand Braun was a man of his word. Otherwise, when things got really challenging, Kairouz might feel insufficiently motivated.
It was a conundrum, and he now regretted the specificity of his threat. Killing the Paki and his entire family would be far too sensational and sure to attract media attention. Braun sighed. How tedious. He continued to mull things over as he waited until the men boarded separate trains. He had no need to follow. He knew where Ibrahim lived.