“I’ll pack a bag,” Dugan said.
Chapter Sixteen
Borqei stared at the message, sighed, and dialed the phone. He had a conversation in Farsi, including code words. An hour later, Yousif’s adoptive mother went to her doctor, who admitted her to his private clinic and called her clergyman, Borqei, of course. Borqei informed the navy that Ensign Hamad’s mother was gravely ill, along with the doctor’s number for verification. In hours, Hamad was on a plane from San Diego, with connections in Los Angeles.
In a toilet stall in LAX, a man slipped Yousif an envelope under the divider. He opened it to find a ticket to Jakarta, a forged passport, and a wallet holding cash, a driver’s license, and credit cards. The hand reappeared under the divider, and Yousif passed over his own boarding pass and ID. His seat on the plane to Detroit would be occupied by a man looking very much like him. It wouldn’t do for the airline to record him as a no show.
An hour later, Yousif sat in the international terminal, in civilian clothes with boarding pass in hand, baffled at his trip to Indonesia but trusting Imam Borqei.
Sheibani stood with Richards, watching in the growing light as his men spread netting over the boats moored fifty meters away under overhanging limbs. A good staging point, he thought, where the Andaman Sea narrowed into the Malacca Strait. Sheibani felt secure in Aceh Province. Holy Jihad had strong support here, where Islam first arrived in Indonesia.
“Is the cover sufficient?”
Richards nodded. “Between the trees and net, they’ll be invisible to the satellites.”
“And you have everything you need?”
Richards grinned. “Enough C4 to blow ‘em and enough clay to fool your bomber boys.”
“Do not ridicule them,” Sheibani snapped. Deceiving brave men was regrettable. He hoped they would be welcomed in Paradise, and he would not allow them to be mocked by this infidel.
“I leave tomorrow to collect our American in Jakarta,” Sheibani said. “You must finish before we return tomorrow night.”
“What? Why? We got four days.”
“The others will not understand, but this man may. Finish and cover it.”
“Shit,” Richards said.
Sheibani left Richards to his work, and the next morning as he got into his SUV, the American had the material stacked next to the boats.
“Gonna be broilin’ under that camo net,” the American said.
“Just make sure you finish before I return.”
Sheibani left Richards cursing, as he drove off down the jungle track, the American soon forgotten. Success was only a matter of degree. Even if they failed to dupe China into believing the attack was an American ruse to justify seizing control of the strait, the attack alone was enough to raise oil prices and divert suspicion from Iran. Sheibani smiled and mulled his plans for “spontaneous” street demonstrations once American treachery was discovered.
The chair groaned as Lieutenant Manuel Reyes reached for a file.
“One day, Manny,” Sergeant Juan Perez said, “your fat ass is gonna hit the floor.”
“You’re just jealous, shrimp,” Reyes said, with some truth. At six four and powerfully built, Reyes towered over his diminutive partner. Perez stifled a reply as Captain Luna approached and handed Reyes a folder.
“What’s this?” Reyes asked.
“You boys are taking a little boat trip,” Luna said. “Fatality on a tanker.”
“Shit. Why us? Why not those SMN assholes?” Perez asked, referring to the Servicio Maritimo Nacional. “Wait. Let me guess. She arrives on a weekend.”
“You know the drill, Perez,” Luna said. “Suspected foul play comes here.”
“Foul play?” Perez asked, interested now.
“Looks like it,” Reyes said, looking up from the file. “You read this, Captain?”
Luna nodded. “No witness except the guy that reported the accident. Victim a skilled seaman in good health. Good weather. Yeah, it warrants a look.”
Reyes continued, “Says he fell on a valve stem that pierced his brain through the eye.”
“No way,” Perez said. “With his hands free? I can see a broken arm or jaw, or even losing an eye. But the thing couldn’t go into his brain unless he came straight down on it with force. Sounds like he had help.”
Reyes and Luna nodded.
“Any bad blood between the victim and the witness?” Perez asked.
“Nothing in the file,” Luna said. “Her agent will update you on the ETA. Keep me posted.” He grinned. “Perez has time to stock up on seasick pills.”
Reyes smiled. His partner’s aversion to anything that floated was a department joke. Perez got violently ill, even riding a launch in the smooth water of the harbor. Reyes decided to let him stew for a bit before volunteering to work the case solo. Served him right for that fat-ass remark.
“This’ll screw up the weekend for sure,” Perez muttered at Luna’s retreating back.
“I hope not,” Reyes said, nodding at a framed photo of his eight-year-old twins in soccer uniforms. “The boys have a game this weekend, and I don’t want to miss it.”
Braun smiled as he read. He was managing message traffic for both Asian Trader and China Star now, sending or modifying messages in Dugan’s name. The ruse wouldn’t work long, but the attacks were imminent. Asian Trader had increased speed per “Dugan’s” earlier orders, with a new ETA of 0100 hours on July 4, ready to start canal transit at first light. The ship would arrive a full twenty-four hours before anyone else in the office had a clue it had reached Panama.
He accessed the Panama Canal Authority webpage auctioning transit slots, signing in as Dugan. Bidding for the July 4 slot was heavy. He doubled the current bid and grinned as no challenger emerged. The slot secured, he pulled up an outgoing message he’d intercepted and held, asking the agent to arrange a hotel and airport pickup for Dugan. He added orders to advise the authorities that Asian Trader had transit priority and to request the inquiry be postponed until after transit. Braun hit send and leaned back, satisfied.
Dugan would arrive after the attack — in time to be detained. An investigation would reveal Dugan’s Cayman Island account, owned through a series of fronts, with recent transactions totaling a million dollars from sources with known terrorist links. The money had stayed in the account just minutes before Braun whisked it away, causing it to vanish through another series of skillful transfers. A frame was one thing, but a million dollars was not something he abandoned lightly.
Things were progressing, despite a few hiccups. China Star and Asian Trader were on schedule, and the Chechens were in position for the final act. He could hardly ask for more.
Basaev paced the room. He was impatient, as they all were. They’d been in the seedy transient hotel a week, keeping to themselves as they studied their course notes and identity documents, preparing to board the ship as a riding repair crew. Their weapons waited in the load port, concealed among the tools to be loaded aboard for the “riding crew” to use during the voyage. They would take the first flight from Paris to the load port as soon as they received word the ship had moved to the loading berth. They would board the ship just before sailing, when they would receive less scrutiny.