He smiled to himself. It was an ingenious plan indeed and succeeded even when it failed. Intelligence was limited, especially since Braun had been apprehended, but it seemed clear the Chechens had failed. How ironic that the Turks, shaken by the near miss, had only to look to the unintended devastation in Panama for a reminder of just how catastrophic the attack could have been. The message was clear, and the Turks had unilaterally closed the strait to all tanker traffic until further notice. With Russian oil off the market, crude prices had doubled overnight, other producers enjoying a windfall as Russian foreign exchange plummeted.
Now the Russians were pinched, and when the Russian gasoline flowed freely into Iran, calm would be restored. Motaki’s political opposition would evaporate, along with the foolish calls for the dismantling of his nuclear program and rapprochement with the West.
His single regret was Braun. He could have used the German for future projects. But then again, Motaki always assumed Braun might be captured. That’s why he employed a freelancer with no connection to Iran in the first place and hired him through Rodriguez. Any trail would stop in Caracas. He smiled again. The Americans may have invented the term “plausible deniability,” but it had taken a Persian to perfect it.
Braun was the single loose end, and he lifted his phone to snip it.
Dugan drifted awake, unable to understand his inability to touch his throbbing nose. He blinked in the fluorescent glare at a man rising from a bedside chair.
“Easy,” the man said. “You’re in the hospital.” He stepped back, replaced by a man in a white coat.
“Mr. Dugan,” the doctor said, “you survived a near drowning. We left you intubated as a precaution. I’ll remove the tube now. I apologize for the restraints,” he continued, freeing Dugan’s wrists, “but you kept pulling at the tube. You also,” he added, talking as he removed the tube, “have a nasal fracture, aggravated by CPR. I realigned and splinted it. You will feel discomfort for several days.”
“Thanks,” Dugan croaked when the tube was out.
The doctor nodded. “You’re welcome, but in truth you should thank your Russian friends.” He checked the time. “I’m due on rounds. Call if you need anything.”
His visitor smiled as the doctor left. “Discomfort is doc speak for ‘hurt like hell.’”
“Do I know you?” Dugan rasped.
“Wheeler, Jim Wheeler.” He extended his hand. “Cultural attaché.”
Friend or foe? Dugan wondered as he regarded the hand and thought of Gardner.
“Also a friend of Ward’s. I think you got a shitty deal.”
“That makes two of us,” Dugan said, taking the hand. “What’s this about the Russians?”
“They jumped in after you. You were all underwater a hundred yards from the ship when it blew. They got you clear of the burning gasoline and were burned in the process, but not badly. A Turkish chopper brought you all here.”
“What’s the situation?”
“You’ve been out two days, and it’s bad, but not like Panama. There are thirty dead, counting the Turk pilot and Coast Guard boat and the Russians. The rest were passengers on a ferry that ignited the patch of dumped gas. More were burned, so the death toll’s rising.”
“The Italians?”
“They all made it,” Wheeler said. “Now everything’s political. What’s left of the ship is still afloat. They’ve contained the fire and are waiting for it to burn out so they can tow it. The Turks reopened the strait, but they’ve banned tankers. Globally, radical environmentalists support them, though no one seems to know how Europe is going to run without oil. Russia’s vowing intervention, which puts NATO on the spot. It’s total chaos.”
Dugan nodded. “Where’s all this leave me?”
“With a jet standing by. Gardner wants you in Langley for debriefing.” Wheeler smiled. “But you refuel in London.”
Dugan smiled back. “When?”
“The doc said tomorrow or the next day, but I’ll see what I can do,” Wheeler said, moving for the door.
“Thanks, Jim. Can I see the Russians?”
“I’ll let ‘em know you’re awake,” Wheeler said as he left.
They arrived in minutes, wearing hospital pajamas and grins. Their hands were bandaged, and angry red skin, shiny with ointment, marked patches of their scalps.
“So, Dyed, just when I think you are clever fellow you leap into sea with kilos of armor. If Ilya here was not number-one swimmer, I think you are now very dead.”
“You’re right,” Dugan said. He looked at the sergeant. “Thank you.”
The sergeant looked embarrassed and said something in Russian.
“Ilya says you save him from washing into sea by petrol, so is even,” Borgdanov translated.
Dugan nodded. “Your burns?”
“They are nothing, though Ilya is hoping for a scar to impress ladies when he tells of bravely defeating fanatics,” Borgdanov said.
The sergeant grinned.
“What will you do now?” Dugan asked.
The Russian’s face clouded. “I do not know. I failed, so nothing good I think.”
“But you saved thousands of lives.”
Borgdanov shook his head. “The Turks close strait to tankers. I failed at what matters, Dyed. There is talk of war.”
The soft whir of the floor buffer whispered down the corridor, lulling the guard toward sleep. He jerked upright and rose to pace as the buffer operator felt the syringe in his pocket and cursed the cop’s diligence. The more heavily staffed day shift would begin soon, making it even harder to get at the German.
A piercing alarm sounded, and the cop stepped aside as medical personnel rushed into the room. The killer edged the buffer closer, straining to hear.
“Time of death 5:23 a.m.,” he heard at last.
“So he’s dead then?” the cop asked as a nurse emerged from the room.
She nodded.
“Christ. Couldn’t wait now, could he. The brass’ll have their knickers in a knot on this one right enough. They wanted to sweat this bugger proper.”
The nurse shrugged. “Not your fault.”
“Aye, but try telling that to my sergeant.” He sighed. “Oh well, I best grab a cuppa tea and get to the bloody paperwork.”
The killer kept buffing, watching for an opportunity. He was just past the door when a nurse rolled the corpse out, leaving the gurney unattended to go to the nurses’ station. He swung close, holding the buffer one-handed and lifting the sheet with the other to compare the pasty face with the photo he’d memorized.
He grinned. Easiest hit ever. His secret, of course, to preclude any quibbling about the remaining fee. He eased the buffer down the hallway and abandoned it near the stairwell door. He raced down the stairs, shucking his coveralls as he descended to reveal street clothes. He jammed the wadded coveralls in a trash bin as he left. Several blocks away, he called to report Braun’s death, then tossed the throwaway phone down a storm drain.
When the CIA Gulfstream plane touched down at Heathrow at eight the previous evening, Anna had marched aboard and officially detained Dugan “for debriefing on orders of Her Majesty’s Government.” She’d then taken him home and “debriefed” him so enjoyably he’d had difficulty getting out of bed this morning. Beat the hell out of water boarding, thought Dugan as they walked toward Alex’s room.