The Ocean Dove

by Carlos Luxul

  The next track was Errol Dunkley, ‘Created by the Father’.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said out loud, yanking the headphones off and sitting up sharply. Okay, he thought. He got it. He was out of his depth, but it didn’t stop the resentment rising, the subliminal message being shoved down his throat.

  Created by the father? Was that Mick Brooks, the chancer from Dublin, or was it the only real father figure he’d known: Dalton, his mother’s long-term boyfriend after her short-lived marriage. Dalton, the market-stall dealer in early reggae who had introduced Dan to the music. Dalton, shot dead on the estate, a casual drive-by, a casual case of mistaken identity, casually investigated by the local police and casually dropped.

  He slipped the box back under the sofa and thought of Julie, who would turn instinctively in her sleep when he got into bed. There was a choice: dwell on work, doubt, the prospect of the Monday meeting and the apparent significance of randomly shuffled song tracks; or there was the comfort of Julie’s breath on his back.

  Two

  A party of a dozen climbed the ladder to the Ocean Dove. Lieutenant Boissy looked about, pleasantly surprised as he checked his tropical whites for grease stains. He was impressed once again when he exchanged handshakes with the smartly turned out captain and mate, both cleanly shaven, in fresh white shirts, gold braiding, badges on their chests with name and rank under the company logo.

  His frigate had arrived on station at six o’clock on Monday morning, four hundred metres off the port beam. It had been a busy and pressured time for Lieutenant Boissy as the frigate steamed at full speed towards the Ocean Dove. He’d fielded a stream of communication flowing between his ship and headquarters, which was coordinating between the Danske Prince’s owners, the cargo owners, coastguard stations, InMarSat, the AIS and a host of other parties with a stake in understanding what had happened. Government security agencies had begun to sniff the air, their noses twitching for a scent of incongruity. It had put Boissy on his guard, wary that his own conduct would be under scrutiny.

  But one significant fact had relieved the pressure. All the data established that the Ocean Dove had clearly been miles from the Danske Prince when it disappeared. He had received precise confirmation. The Ocean Dove was under no suspicion.

  ‘These are very good,’ he said, brushing crumbs from his lips, enjoying coffee and cakes on the bridge.

  His eye caught a framed certificate on the wall, some familiar capital letters drawing him in. CMA CGM, a French container line, had awarded it to the ship for one hundred and eighty days of accident- and injury-free service.

  ‘We were on charter to them last year. A first-class company,’ Mubarak said.

  ‘Very good,’ Boissy nodded, the last shreds of scepticism evaporating. ‘Now, Captain, I need copies of your AIS and VDR, and your written report in say, twenty-four hours?’

  ‘No problem,’ Mubarak replied, glancing across to the equipment that recorded the ship’s voice and positional data. ‘We’ll make some copy disks and I’ll send you the report this evening. Our VDR is limited to twelve hours, so that’s only since six last night, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ Lieutenant Boissy nodded; he knew the relevant maritime regulation.

  The Automatic Identification System transmitted a ship’s name, speed, course, destination and other data constantly. Other ships, land-based transmitters and satellites repeated the transmissions so that every vessel afloat could get a clear picture of others around them and where they were going. Shipowners, port authorities, pilots and marine authorities were able to plot movements on their office computers and manage operations in real time. Naval ships had AIS too, but often switched it off to conceal their presence.

  And the Voyage Data Recorder was a ship’s black box, performing the same function as a commercial plane’s, logging technical information and recording what was said on the bridge.

  ‘Can I see the ship’s log please?’ Boissy said.

  ‘I write it in Arabic before entering it in English in the computer,’ Mubarak said, handing a book across.

  It was incomprehensible to Boissy, but he could see it was neat and ordered. Mubarak showed him the computer version, reading entries from the book and pointing to their duplicates on the screen.

  ‘We saw on the monitor that the Danske Prince had stopped – and why not?’ Mubarak shrugged. ‘Ships stop all the time …’

  Boissy nodded. He knew it was so.

  ‘Then my cook was on the wings having a cigarette. He saw smoke on the Danske Prince behind us. The duty officer hailed them but received no reply. We continued to hail them. The smoke was increasing so we turned and steamed back at full speed. I roused the crew and prepared the emergency and firefighting equipment. Then there was the first explosion. Then a few minutes later a series of explosions, four, maybe five, I think, all very close to each other. We were still an hour from them and by the time we arrived, well, there was just nothing.’

  Mubarak clasped his hands together and looked down in reflection.

  ‘We have the cargo manifests,’ Boissy said, breaking the silence. ‘It was mostly hazardous cargo and some explosives. But to go just like that … and there’s nothing useful from any other ships, and nothing from the Danske Prince itself. You’re the only witness.’

  ‘I wish we could have done more,’ Mubarak said.

  ‘You did everything you could,’ Boissy said. ‘I’ll note that in my report. And now, Captain, you might as well resume your voyage. Time is money and I think we both know we aren’t going to find any survivors.’

  Mubarak looked out through the bridge door, sighed, and turned back to Boissy. ‘No. I think you’re right.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Captain,’ Boissy said. ‘And if I may say, you run a very smart ship.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  Above them the frigate’s helicopter circled. Dinghies in the water were taking samples, photographing, gathering anything on the surface into nets. Every item would be tagged, logged and taken on board the frigate, pending the investigation.

  A French sailor stepped onto the bridge and went across to Boissy. ‘There isn’t much out there, just some lifebelts, a hard hat, a binocular case, a cooking pot and some other stuff. And there’s a lot of wood,’ he added.

  ‘Wood?’

  ‘Yes, wood. We’re bundling it all up.’

  ‘Okay.’ Boissy nodded.

  The Frenchmen stepped from the bridge, their hands full of data disks, clear plastic wallets of photocopied documents and doggie bags of pastries. Choukri ushered them down the stairs to the main deck where Boissy shouted across to some marines lounging on the hatch smoking cigarettes, contentedly gazing out to sea, their backs leaning against the shaded side of a bright orange shipping container.

  ~

  ‘So, let’s kick off, guys.’

  The weekly meeting started punctually at ten o’clock on Monday morning, led by Jo Clymer from MI5’s Executive Liaison Group. Her sharp voice cut through the chatter of a dozen people, each representing a specialist field with an emphasis on potential connection to terrorism, the focus of more than eighty per cent of the agency’s resources.

  The first item was the usual update. Clymer went round the table, checking the progress of open files, asking what was new, her eyes probing the room under a haircut that other women considered ‘practical’. It had come with her from McKinsey, the global consultancy, where she had specialised in the qualitative and quantitative analysis of management process. After her fast-track entry to the agency, she still preferred the consultant’s uniform of a sober blue suit and modest cream blouse, set against an idiosyncratic taste in shoes.

  Her eyes came to rest on Dan Brooks.

  ‘There is something new but it’s a bit early to say how it might develop,’ Dan said, keying his laptop and putting a photo of a ship on the meeting room screen.

  ‘The Danske Prince sank in the Indian Ocean on Saturday afternoon. It carries the stuff
the mainstream ships can’t or won’t – toxic, military, flammable, explosive …’

  Dan was one of a three-man team monitoring everything moving in or out of the country by sea, air and land – materials and people. If something was unusual, suspicious, or suggested potential to develop into a threat, they investigated and passed their findings into the wider intelligence community, linking mostly with the Special Branch Counter Terrorism Unit. The work was mainly analytical and acting on it in the field was in the hands of others. They had no powers of arrest and they didn’t carry guns.

  He clicked another slide: a map of the Indian Ocean with the ship’s positions marked, followed by another one, the Ocean Dove.

  ‘This was the nearest ship, ten or twenty miles away. It turned to help but the Danske Prince blew up and sank before it could get close.’

  ‘So, going forward, where’s the relevance?’ Clymer said.

  ‘We could be involved. The main cargo was four Bofors guns and forty thousand rounds of ammunition for some new destroyers the Indian navy are building. As you know, Bofors is Swedish but it’s owned by BAE.’

  Some eyebrows around the table lifted. BAE Systems was an independent British company, but its links to national defence were so close that it was practically an arm of government.

  ‘What do we know about this Dove ship?’ Clymer said.

  ‘Seems legit.’

  ‘So it’s just something for the insurance companies – pay up and move on?’

  ‘The information’s thin. A French frigate was on the scene this morning and the ship’s Danish flag, so they’ll lead the investigation. I know the guy there. The insurance for the ship and cargo was underwritten in London, and the Indian navy is seriously unhappy at the loss of its guns.’

  At the mention of India, Clymer’s eyes switched to Vikram Mehta, who did not meet them. Vikram was ex-British Airways. Sitting next to him was the third member of the team, Richard Nuttall, who had previously been with DHL’s European land-transport network. They had both joined the agency shortly after Dan – the trio constituting one of Clymer’s initiatives to manage threats from the sea, air and land.

  ‘And these guns are what, exactly?’ she said, turning back to Dan.

  ‘They fire four computer-guided shells a second, range up to ten miles.’

  ‘And this will all be verified by the salvage operation?’

  ‘It’s six thousand metres deep there – almost impossible.’

  ‘And the French are inspecting this ship?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It’s the open sea. No jurisdiction.’

  Clymer frowned. ‘So, we’ve got four guns and forty thousand rounds of ammunition – probably at the bottom of the Indian Ocean?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘And why is this your concern – or mine?’

  ‘I’m just flagging it up. I’m not sure it is yet.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  Clymer knew that ‘evidently’ referred to the second part of his reply, that he wasn’t sure, rather than the first – the flagging up.

  ‘As I said, I’m just flagging it up. In the wrong hands these guns …’

  ‘But why assume they’re in the wrong hands?’ Clymer cut in, her voice rising around the quiet table.

  ‘I’m not assuming anything,’ Dan said. ‘I just want to flag it up and monitor it. These guns are dangerous in the wrong hands.’

  ‘Thank you for the expert analysis, but I really don’t see why you or I should have an interest. It’s the middle of the Indian Ocean. It’s an international incident and, if it’s for anyone, it’s for MI6. Going forward you really must focus on domestic security – that is key. And remember the budget,’ she added, making a note on her iPad before moving summarily to the next update.

  The meeting wrapped up punctually at eleven. Clymer stayed in her seat, glancing away from the window as the sharp winter sun reflected from the river, pondering the prospect of four Bofors guns not lying on the bottom of the Indian Ocean, trying to connect it with any intelligence she had picked up.

  It was her job to sift information from the group and take action when she saw fit, linking with section heads internally and a network of outside agencies. Nothing came to mind. It’s just an accident at sea, she reasoned, far away and someone else’s problem. She opened her iPad and made a note: ‘Dan. Future? Tendency matters outside remit – irritating. Focus, team priorities, network, influence!’

  ~

  As he crossed the road with Vikram and Richard Nuttall, Dan looked back over his shoulder at Thames House, MI5’s head office. It was the former headquarters of ICI, once a global powerhouse of the chemicals business. Overlooking the river, one bridge upstream from Parliament, it was still outwardly grand and hinted of empire, though the building had been toned down internally to reflect a more democratic age.

  Their team’s office was a five-minute walk away in Bell Street, shared with another twenty or so who couldn’t squeeze into Thames House. They had been left to organise it much as it suited them, but it was an overspill, not head office.

  Nuttall broke the silence.

  ‘What does JC fucking know, eh?’ he said. He turned to Dan before raising an eyebrow to Vikram.

  ‘She knows the system,’ Vikram said. ‘And we don’t, yet …’

  ‘Yeah, and fuck all else,’ Nuttall said, giving him a prod in the back.

  ‘Okay. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Easy there, Vik. You don’t want to fall off that fence, mate. She’s just using us. It’s all about her.’

  Vikram carried on walking ahead of them with a light shrug. ‘I guess you’re right.’

  ‘Course I’m right. She’s full of shit. “I’m a team builder – it’s what I do …”’ Nuttall added, mimicking Jo Clymer. ‘If anyone has to tell you what they do, you can be sure they don’t fucking do it. And you shouldn’t take that bollocks from her. I wouldn’t. My old boss is ringing me every week.’

  Dan ignored him.

  Nuttall started up again. ‘But I don’t get it. You don’t back down. What about the Queen’s, eh?’

  The three of them often had a beer on a Friday night in the Queen’s Head to chew over the week before heading home. A month ago, Vikram had accidentally bumped into some guys from a local building site. Drinks were spilled and they had needlessly taken offence. When it looked as though things were about to escalate, Dan had stepped between Vikram and the ringleader, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Don’t be fooled by the suit, mate.’

  Dan shook his head at the memory. He eyed Vikram’s narrow shoulders, his thin wrists and small hands swinging without natural rhythm, unable to imagine anyone less inclined or more ill suited to a meaningless pub fracas. He would have been cleaning his glasses on his neatly folded handkerchief before he literally would have known what had hit him. ‘I didn’t know those guys and it was nothing to do with work,’ Dan said.

  Nuttall shook his head. ‘Don’t see the difference. But doesn’t JC fuck you off?’

  ‘Let’s just leave it out.’

  ‘We’ll trot on then,’ Nuttall said, turning and striding ahead, his shoulders bulging in a tight suit, thick neck hunched against the chill wind coming off the river.

  ‘What do you think?’ Dan said, letting Nuttall get ahead.

  Vikram looked up from his apparent study of the pavement.

  ‘You’re right not to rise – which I think is what you mean – to either of them. Your case holds water.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, no pun intended. I’d have flagged it up too.’

  ‘Really,’ Dan said, hearing the lack of conviction in his own voice.

  ‘Stick to your guns,’ Vikram said, realising his second pun and raising his hands.

  ‘Yeah, but same old Monday morning. My balls in the mincer. She doesn’t like me and I don’t like her. And him,’ he added, nodding along the street, his nose twitching at the cheap aftershave gusting back on the wind.

  ‘Do
things your way. He’s got his own style.’

  ‘Yeah, sarf London.’

  ‘Aren’t you the same, but norf?’

  An innocent comment, made without pretext, but it still hurt if he acknowledged it wasn’t far from the truth. Nuttall wasn’t made of the right stuff for the service. And if Dan could see it, then by definition – or association – he too must also be the wrong stuff. Vikram had meant no harm, so he ignored it.

  ‘He’s all bollocks. And no bollocks when they’re needed. Slow out of his chair in the Queen’s when it all kicked off. I saw it, and he knows I saw it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Vikram said quietly.

  ‘Good for you.’

  At the bottom of Bell Street was an Italian café, old school, no Wi-Fi. The coffee was good, the prices fair and the owner, Alfredo, looked after them.

  As they turned the corner, Nuttall was waiting. ‘Alf’s?’ he said. ‘I’m buying.’

  They took a corner table, passing the sugar shaker around and spooning chocolate-speckled froth absently, waiting for someone to make the first move.

  ‘Must be my face,’ Dan said. ‘Doesn’t seem to fit.’

  He glanced across at Vikram.

  ‘I don’t feel it …’

  ‘It’s like in the navy,’ Dan continued. ‘At officer training the others were all shoo-ins from smart homes, the right schools, the right stuff.’

  ‘Posh wankers,’ Nuttall said.

  Dan’s eyes remained on Vikram’s.

  ‘They’re not that different – just from a different world.’

  ‘Like how?’ Nuttall said.

  ‘Like at weekends. They’d go to each other’s places, big spreads, and they’d invite me, and they had these girls with names like Verity and Venetia – I’d never heard of names like that. But I couldn’t enjoy it and I couldn’t exactly invite them back to my place.’ He paused, opening his hands. ‘My mother’s flat was on an estate all right, but the wrong kind of estate. And there was plenty of shooting, but the wrong kind of shooting.’