Dugan nodded, then seemed to think of something. He opened up his briefcase and pulled out his laptop to punch at the keyboard. He brought up the Searates.com Web site and began entering information.
“Shit,” Dugan said.
“What is it?” Anna asked.
“At her current speed, China Star should be in the middle of the Straits of Malacca on the Fourth of July. Now what are the odds of that?”
Steven “Bo” Richards slouched in a chair with his feet on an ottoman, clad in boxer shorts and nursing a hangover. He’d woken at noon and roused the whore to deal with his morning erection before shoving her into the hall, throwing money after her and slamming the door as she struggled into her clothes. He drained the beer and dropped the bottle on the carpet before scratching his stomach. The bed lay in tangled disarray, and a cart held the remains of a room-service breakfast. The room needed tidying, an event deferred by the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob outside.
He checked the time and stood to slip on a pair of jeans and pull on a tee shirt. He was tying his shoes when he heard a knock.
Sheibani stared at the Do Not Disturb sign, calming himself. The scum inside was a thug of the Great Satan, and Sheibani longed to kill him sight unseen. But the deception required Americans, and Richards’s citizenship and record were documented. He forced a smile as the door opened a crack.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Richards, I am Ali. May I come in?”
Richards opened the door and stood aside, nodding toward the sitting area. Sheibani entered and took a seat with his back to the wall as Richards settled across from him.
“Your accommodations are to your liking?” Sheibani asked.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” Richards said. “What’s the job?”
How American. Sheibani struggled with anger.
“In a week or so,” Sheibani said, “a ship named China Star will transit the Malacca Straits, escorted by a security force comprised of private contractors and US Navy personnel. Or rather, men disguised as US Navy personnel. You will lead that force.”
“Why me?” Richards asked. “I’m no sailor, and the pay is far beyond anything offered for a straight security job.”
“In good time, Mr. Richards. For the moment let’s just say—”
“You plan to sink the ship and block the strait,” Richards guessed.
Sheibani once again swallowed his ire. “On the contrary. We will avoid blocking the strait, while appearing to attempt just that. We will ground in Indonesian waters and escape.”
“Won’t that be obvious to the crew?”
“The crew will be dealt with,” Sheibani said.
Richards nodded. “ Resources? How many in our team? Weapons?”
“The makeup and armament of the team will be as you require; in fact, I want you to recruit some of the team. The goal is deception. We will be joined by a young Arab-American naval officer.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Insurance,” Sheibani said. “Survivors will report an attack led by Americans.”
“But you have an American.”
Sheibani shook his head. “The ship is Liberian flag, but the senior officers are American. We will present them with an unusual situation. We must gain control fast, before they have a chance to think too much about it. Our young mujahideen is untested, and he looks like the Arab-American he is. They will likely be less suspicious of a countryman who shares their ethnicity.”
Richards smirked. “So I’m your token white man.”
Sheibani nodded. “I suppose you could say that. Questions?”
Richards shook his head. “No questions,” he said, then smiled. “But seeing as how I’m such a valuable commodity, I think we need to renegotiate.”
Sheibani suppressed a smile. So predictable. He feigned resistance and then yielded to Richards’s exorbitant demand. After all, he’d never live to collect the money.
“Make your course one seven five,” said Captain Dan Holt of the VLCC M/T China Star over his shoulder as he squinted out at the ship traffic.
“One seven five, aye,” the helmsman repeated, then a moment later, “Steady on one seven five, sir.”
Holt watched as the Strait of Hormuz widened and ships spread out in the increased sea room. He walked over to study the radar.
“OK, put her on the mike,” he said to the helmsman.
“Aye, sir. Steering one seven five. Transferring control to the mike,” the sailor said, switching control to the autopilot, or “Iron Mike,” and watching the gyrocompass repeater a moment before he stepped away from the wheel.
“OK, Ortega,” Holt said to the second mate, “call me if necessary. And don’t let me catch you with your nose glued to the radar. Visibility’s good, so use the radar to confirm a bearing or distance, not as a substitute for your goddamned eyes.”
“Yes, Captain,” Ortega said.
“OK. You have the conn. Helm’s on the mike, steering one seven five.”
“I have the conn, sir. Helm’s on autopilot, steering one seven five,” Ortega said.
Holt gave a curt nod and strode out the door, down the single flight to his office. He settled into his chair and glanced at a printed e-mail before reaching for the phone.
“Engine Room. Chief speaking,” Jon Anderson said.
“Chief, can you come up?”
“OK,” Anderson said. “I’m buttoning up the transfer pump. Give me a minute.”
Ten minutes later the chief stood at Holt’s door in oil-stained coveralls and carrying a clean piece of cardboard. He slipped off dirty work shoes to avoid staining the carpet and moved to the sofa in stockinged feet, placing the cardboard down to protect the fabric before sitting.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Holt said, “aren’t you friggin’ engineers ever clean?”
Anderson grinned. “Some of us work for a living instead of sitting on our ass. You said come, so here I am. Want me to leave?”
Jon Anderson was one of Captain Daniel Holt’s very few friends, a relationship rooted in mutual respect and the fact that Anderson took no crap from Holt.
“No, God damn it,” grumbled Holt as he sat. “Coffee?”
“Nah. I’ve had my quota.” Anderson smiled as the ship rolled. “God it’s good to be out of there and back at sea.”
“That’s for sure,” Holt said. “I’m just surprised they didn’t give us a big ration of shit when they boarded and found Americans aboard. I can’t say I was happy to be there.”
Anderson shrugged. “Maybe we had a guardian angel. Anyway, what’s up?”
Holt handed Anderson the e-mail and waited while he read it.
“What the hell is Maritime Protection Services?”
“Just what it says,” Holt said. “Hired guns to protect us through the Malacca Straits.”
Anderson looked skeptical. “Are we talking gunmen running all over the ship?”
“I don’t think so. I think they just shadow us in a boat.”
“Still sounds hinky,” Anderson said. “I’ll bet they know jack about tanker safety. We get all sorts of training about no matches, cigarette lighters, no spark-producing equipment, et cetera, et cetera, and now we’re supposed to be OK with a bunch of trigger-happy assholes circling the ship with machine guns?”
“I agree,” the captain said, “but the charterer hired them, and our owner agreed, so that’s that. As long as they keep their distance, it should be all right.”
“Yeah, well, like you say, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Anderson grinned. “Besides, I bet somebody’s getting a kickback. They’ll get an invoice for a hundred grand, and we’ll be escorted by an old guy in a canoe with one tooth and a pellet gun.”