“Since you brought that up—”
“Christ, Alex. Not again.”
“Look, Thomas, we’re all getting older. I mean, you’re what, fifty now—”
“Forty-seven my next birthday.”
“OK, forty-seven. But you can’t crawl through ships forever. And it’s a waste of talent. Plenty of fellows can identify problems. I need someone here to solve them.”
“OK, OK. I’ll think about it. How’s that sound?”
“Like what you always say to shut me up.”
“Is it working?” Dugan asked.
“All right, Thomas. I give up. For now. But we’ll talk again.”
Dugan changed the subject.
“How’s Cassie?”
“Ah … she’s …”
“What’s wrong?” asked Dugan.
“Sorry, my mind was just wandering a bit, I’m afraid. Cassie’s fine, just fine. Looking more like her mother every day. And Mrs. Farnsworth says she’s making remarkable progress, considering.”
“And how is the Dragon Lady?” Dugan asked.
“Really, Thomas, I think you two would get on if you gave it a chance.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who needs that advice, Alex.”
“Well, if you were around more and Mrs. Farnsworth got to know you, I’m sure she would warm to you,” Alex said.
Dugan laughed. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
Alex sighed. “You’re probably right. At any rate, I’ll have Mrs. Coutts e-mail you the repair specifications for Asian Trader straightaway. Can you get up to the yard in Sembawang tomorrow morning and begin preparations for her arrival?”
“Will do, pal,” Dugan said. “I’ll call you after she arrives and I get things started.”
Alex thanked Dugan and hung up. He’d maintained a good front with Dugan, and, for that matter, everyone else. But it was draining. The everyday minutia of running his company he’d so enjoyed just a few days ago seemed pointless now — there’d likely be no Phoenix Shipping when this bastard Braun was finished. But that didn’t matter. Only Cassie’s safety mattered. His eyes went back to the photo of his once-complete family, and he shuddered anew as the images from Braun’s video flashed through his memory.
Ali Reza Motaki, president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, stood at the window, gazing out at the well-manicured grounds. He tensed as his back spasmed. Even in the comfort of the presidential jet, the long flight from Tehran to Caracas had taken its toll. He massaged his lower back and stretched to his full five foot five.
“And is this Kairouz controllable?” asked a voice behind him.
Motaki turned to the speaker, President Hector Diaz Rodriguez of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela.
“He is devoted to his daughter,” replied Motaki. “He will do anything to keep her from harm. Don’t worry my friend, Braun has it well in hand.”
Rodriguez smiled. “And what do you think of Braun? Is he not everything I promised?”
“He seems … competent.”
Rodriguez’s smile faded. “You seem less than enthusiastic.”
“I am cautious, as you should be. Acting against the Great Satan is one thing. Duping China and Russia simultaneously is another. We cannot afford mistakes,” Motaki said.
“But what choice do we have?” Rodriguez asked. “For all their fine words of friendship, neither the Russians nor the Chinese have acceded to our requests. If we must maneuver them into doing the right thing, so be it.”
Motaki shrugged. “I doubt the Russians and Chinese would view it as mere maneuvering.”
Rodriguez nodded as Motaki moved from the window to settle down in an easy chair across from the Venezuelan.
“And now it is even more critical that we succeed,” Motaki continued. “The damage at the Bandar Abbas refinery is worse than reported in the media. Iran will have to import even more of our domestic fuel requirements, just as the Americans are pressing the UN for tighter sanctions. It is strangling our economy, just as your own lack of access to Asian markets for Venezuelan crude cripples your own.”
“That’s true,” Rodriguez said. “And to be honest, I am concerned we’re using only one company. We are putting all our eggs in one basket, as the yanquis say.”
Motaki shook his head. “No, Braun is right about that. With widely separated attacks, the plan is complicated. Braun’s selection of Phoenix was astute — a single company with ships trading worldwide, controlled by one man without outside directors. Control Kairouz, control Phoenix, no questions asked.”
Rodriguez nodded. “So we proceed. When will Braun confirm the strike date?”
“I got an encrypted message this morning through the usual channels,” Motaki said. “July fourth looks promising. Perhaps we can, as they say, rain on the Americans’ parade.”
“Excellent.” Rodriguez rubbed his hands together. “That will allow me to include some sympathetic remarks in my speech on our own Independence Day on July fifth. Perhaps I can even get an early start in laying these terrible deeds at the feet of the Americans.”
Motaki smiled and nodded. And, perhaps in so doing, become the sacrificial lamb should things go awry, he thought.
Chapter Two
Jan Pieter DeVries scratched his bare belly and looked down from the bridge wing. He wore dirty khaki shorts and a wrinkled shirt hanging open from missing buttons, and was shod in flip-flops. A dark tan and tangle of long brown hair made the thirty-year-old look more like an itinerant fisherman than a captain and ship owner, but M/V Alicia was his free and clear.
At just over two hundred feet, fifteen hundred tons deadweight, and a shallow draft, she was a trim little ship. She’d been well maintained in prior years, when she was named Indies Trader and operated by his stiff-necked family back in Holland. She’d been a “parting gift” of sorts — a convenient way for the family DeVries to prune one of their less desirable branches. It was a parting that suited Jan Pieter as well. Even with no maintenance, Indies Trader could trade years before cargo surveyors questioned her seaworthiness — longer in remote ports of Asia, far from the disapproving oversight of the family DeVries. She was perfect for his plan — just as he’d promised a broker named Willem Van Dijk.
He renamed the ship Alicia, after a girl whose last name he’d forgotten but whose sexual appetites and flexibility were vivid memories. He moved his first cargo for Van Dijk and never looked back. The broker handled everything, and each voyage included clandestine calls at remote anchorages where illicit goods changed hands, with revenue split between the partners.
As crewmen left on vacation, Van Dijk arranged Indonesian replacements, among the first a competent chief mate named Ali Sheibani. Soon Sheibani was running the ship, and DeVries became a pampered passenger, spending little time on the ship in port and sea passages in his cabin, listening to music through state-of-the-art headphones, smoking dope, and reviewing his burgeoning account balances. M/V Alicia had perhaps five years of life left, assuming breakdown maintenance, then he would scrap her and retire a rich man.
But first he must satisfy the US Navy. He peered down into the open cargo hold, where Sheibani escorted three men, two in blue coveralls and a third in white. A blue-clad figure looked up and DeVries nodded, receiving a return wave before the man lowered his gaze and turned to speak to his companions. The other men laughed. At least they were in a good mood.