by Carlos Luxul
Mubarak considered the pair of them, his eyes coming to rest on Assam, sitting in profile in repose, his mouth open and lower lip jutting. In repose, he felt, a mouth should be closed. An open mouth and jutting lip rendered a face lumpen and stupid. It irked him. It also worried him that he should worry about such things, or about Assam.
‘Your head. It’s all right?’ he said, his voice lowered, leaning across with a look of apparent concern, though his greater interest lay in turning the conversation.
Assam’s hand dropped from where it had absently been probing the back of his skull.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said sheepishly. ‘One of those doorways on the Danske Prince. You know, it was low, it was dark – doh …’
‘Do you need me to take a look?’
‘No, no. It’s nothing,’ Assam said, his eyes flitting in the direction of Choukri, whose attention appeared to be focused on a second helping of mangoes and ice cream, though Mubarak knew that when Choukri’s eyes were in one place, it did not mean his ears were there too.
‘Okay,’ Mubarak said. ‘If it doesn’t settle, you come and see me.’
He had seen a bruise the size of an egg in Assam’s short hair when he passed behind him to take his seat at the table. And on Saturday afternoon, through his binoculars, he’d seen Choukri inflict it with the butt of a pistol.
Just along from him, Tariq returned to the ethical discussion. He’d seemed satisfied by his captain’s explanation but something was still troubling him. He turned to Faisel. ‘So, it’s okay then?’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
‘But why are the civilians the guilty ones?’
‘Because they vote for the governments that have the policies they agree with.’
‘I see …’
‘Isn’t that how you voted, in England?’
Tariq looked up. ‘I never did.’
‘What, vote for the ones you agreed with?’
He shook his head. ‘I never voted.’
In the rumble of voices and chink of cutlery, Mubarak was close enough to follow their discussion, his understanding strengthened by Tariq’s puzzled expression and Faisel’s evident consternation. He knew the sense of dislocation they’d felt in their earlier lives, before they had joined either the Network or his crew; they were no different from the rest. They had all been drifting, with neither a sense of belonging nor purpose. Often thwarted in their ambitions, regardless of whether or not those ambitions had been realistic, the resentment they’d felt was real enough. Now they had camaraderie and excitement. They belonged and had something to believe in. They were strong on the ship and could hold their heads up. For the first time in their lives they no longer had to avert their eyes and stare at the ground in apology for their intrusion.
Mubarak’s thoughts about political awakening and inner-city youth were broken by Cookie attracting his attention from the doorway.
‘The rattler?’ Cookie said, putting the ship’s backgammon board on the edge of the mess table. It was made from light boxwood and named by the crew for the clattering sound of the dice and counters that echoed about.
‘Sure, why not. I’ll be in my quarters,’ he said, as Cookie began clearing plates away to the sound of chairs being pushed back.
In the quiet of his cabin, Mubarak saw Cookie’s eyes light up at the six and one he had thrown, but his attention was broken by the bark of a familiar voice in the corridor.
‘Assam! Snoop!’
Cookie raised an eyebrow. Mubarak met his eyes as the last echoes of Choukri’s voice faded away.
Cookie grinned. ‘What have they done now?’
‘Or not done.’ Mubarak sighed, pushing up from the table.
Along the passageway, Choukri was in his cabin doorway flashing a torch.
‘Look at it,’ he said as Mubarak arrived at his side. ‘The fuckers didn’t dirty the heads up.’
Mubarak stepped through the doorway, his eyes following the torch beam darting over the panelling at the side of Choukri’s bed. Behind it, the ship’s small arms were hidden in a concealed chamber. Assam and Snoop had put the guns away on Saturday night after the hijack, and, he remembered, Choukri had told them clearly to dirty the screwheads.
Scowling at the glinting reflections, Choukri crouched down, ran his fingers along the crack where the floor met the wall and scooped up some dust. A little bit of spittle held it in place as he worked his finger over the screws. He stood back, checking them in turn, flashing the torch at varying angles until he was satisfied the panel appeared as if it had been unmolested for years.
‘I told them …’ Choukri muttered, his eyes narrowed on the offending wall.
Mubarak nodded, edging past him to the door. ‘Well, deal with it.’
Returning to his cabin, he had just managed to close the door and resume his place at the table by the time two sets of feet came down the stairs.
‘Your move,’ Mubarak said, his eyes settling on the board and studying the options, trying to ignore the muffled though clearly agitated voices along the corridor. ‘And don’t be so bullish. It’s better to walk past. There’s a forty-seven per cent chance I’ll hit that. Go for the seven – that’s only seventeen per cent and it’s eighty-nine per cent sure I’ll get back in.’
It was good advice. The aggressive choice would leave a counter exposed.
‘Shit,’ Cookie rued, moments later, the side of his mouth screwing up as Mubarak moved his man to the bar without ceremony.
Cookie had been on the ship from the start, though it was curious, Mubarak thought, that they had shared few words. Time at table, cramped in the mess with his crew, he’d seen them all from a different, a more personal perspective, away from their duties. He knew them as sailors: some bright, willing and dutiful, some sloppy and slower minded. Most he knew as individuals, but not Cookie, who never ate with them. Though they whiled evenings away on the rattler, he concentrated his attention on feisty tactics and didn’t linger when the board was folded at the end.
Why was Cookie here? He was well liked, though shyly caring for his own company more than that of others. And as with most of them, there was that familiar something that hinted at a void, some inner disappointment that had driven him to look for solace. Perhaps more than others, he’d found it, through purpose, place or people. Whatever it was, he seemed to have arrived at some form of contentment or equilibrium.
It buoyed Mubarak to enrol a colleague as a kindred spirit, to place another in his camp, whose motives were considered, on a higher plane and justifiable according to belief and doctrine. History would judge them. More than anything he wanted his legacy to be interpreted as an intellectual and spiritual act of faith. It was the inner demon of his doubt that it should be dismissed as mania, in the company of other maniacs.
Four
Late on Thursday afternoon, Dan was updating his casework. Jo Clymer would review it over the weekend in preparation for the Monday meeting. His personal dashboard had to be completed – a graphic display of all his files culminating in a summary of timescales and trends. It was a useful tool for both the individual and the manager, where each could see progress and effectiveness, but Dan was beginning to feel that Clymer was too quick to recommend the dropping of files that weren’t displaying the right kind of key performance indicators. The trajectory had to point north, with fast files, results and demonstrable inter-agency coordination.
He breathed a sigh of relief, clicked the dashboard shut and checked his inbox. There was an email that needed dealing with. He’d received it late last night from Clymer.
‘Speak to Salim Hak at 6 about Bofers,’ it said – Bofors misspelt, no greetings or regards, cc-ed to her boss and a string of other people whose names he knew only vaguely but were no doubt high-ups. LaSalle’s name, he noted, was not one of them. But he did wonder why she had become interested at close to midnight in something she’d so recently dismissed as inconsequential.
He typed a reply as a new message arrived in his
inbox. It was from Lars Jensen. Checking it through, his eyes widened. It was all there – voyage schedules, cargo manifests, packing lists, stowage plans, statements from the shipowners, crew lists. He sent a quick thank you and started to read. The last attachment was the crew list. It wasn’t the usual stark register of names and ranks. This time the shipowners had included photos, ages, marital status, children and so on. Scrolling through it felt uncomfortable, as though he was prying, voyeuristic. The names were personal: Morten (Pedersen, the captain), Troels, two Jacobs, a Mogens, Henning, Anders. Last of all, there was Mads. As Lars had said, Mads was supposed to have celebrated his eighteenth birthday the day before yesterday.
Under a shock of red hair, bright blue eyes stared from the screen in a nest of freckles. His mother would be weeping at a memorial service before long, a Lutheran church, no body to bury, just some words, perhaps magical from Hans Christian Andersen, perhaps philosophical from Soren Kierkegaard.
After closing the file with the lightest of clicks he sat back in his chair, reflecting on a kid’s face and how difficult it was for a ship to vanish. And how easy, if someone wanted it to.
His mind was drifting in the Indian Ocean when the phone snapped him upright with a start.
‘So, have you touched base with Salim Hak yet?’
‘Hello, Jo. Yeah, I have.’
‘Who initiated contact?’
‘Actually, he did.’
‘When was that?’
‘He phoned on Monday afternoon.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
The line cut summarily. Dan pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it quizzically. What’s her angle now? he wondered. One minute she’s stone cold on the subject and the next she’s hotly chasing me?
Bell Street was quiet as he walked south. The more he delved into his suspicion of the Ocean Dove, the less precise it became. More facts, more possibilities. Simply adding multiple scenarios and driving him further away from anything resembling a conclusion. One step forward, three steps back, he thought, reaching into his pocket for his mobile.
‘Lars, it’s Dan. How are you?’
‘Fine, and you?’
‘Everything’s good here, thanks, and—’
‘Sorry,’ Lars cut in. ‘I’m at my mother-in-law’s right now. We got a family thing, you know.’
‘Okay, got you, I just wanted to catch you away from the office.’
‘Oh yeah …’
‘There’s something I want to talk to you about. I can come over to Denmark any time.’
‘No need,’ Lars said. ‘I’m in Hull next week.’
Dan slipped the phone into his pocket and walked on, pleased to have caught Lars – doubly so at his plans to be in England.
~
It was a traditional London pub, tucked away in a side street off the King’s Road, Chelsea. Dan hadn’t been in it before. He cast an eye around the large high-ceilinged room with its cream walls and ornate iron pillars spread uniformly across wide floorboards. The bar was three sides of a square, jutting out like a peninsula from the back wall. At 6.30 the early drinking crowd were making noise and keeping the bar staff busy.
That must be him, Dan thought, setting his pint down as a guy stepped through the door, his eyes checking left and right briefly before starting across the floor. He was about six feet two, clearly Asian, with about three days of stubble on his face. His hair was long and dark, swept back behind his ears. There was a bohemian air about him, Dan thought, with the dark roll neck under a herringbone coat, the collar turned up. He strode over with purpose but without drawing attention. His gait appeared athletic – at first. Then Dan noticed an unevenness.
He smiled, said, ‘Salim Hak,’ and offered his left hand. ‘How do you do?’
Dan shook it, awkwardly, with his right, which he had already extended.
‘Sorry,’ Hak said, glancing down and turning his right hand over in what seemed to Dan to be half apology and half incredulity.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Merlot,’ Hak said, nodding to the far end of the bar where there was an unoccupied space.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dan saw Hak’s wine barely touch the sides of the glass before he caught the barman’s eye, ordered another large one and a pint of Guinness for Dan.
Hak smiled conspiratorially. ‘An imperfect Muslim. Deceptive, isn’t it?’
‘We’re told to be open-minded at MI5.’ Dan smiled back.
‘By Jo Clymer?’ Hak said dryly, his eyes wandering around the bar. He turned back, raised an eyebrow and added, ‘So, what time does the fight start?’
Evidently, gossip about minor disturbances in backstreet pubs travels quickly within the services, Dan thought. ‘Just let me know when you’re ready.’ He smiled, before adding, ‘That’s if you’re up for it?’
Hak acknowledged with a nod. They chatted for a few minutes, breaking the ice, referring to the recent initiatives to foster greater cooperation between the services.
At a lull, Hak reached into a pocket, handed some papers across and excused himself. Dan watched him cross the floor, identifying the tic in his walk as a drop of the right shoulder with every other step.
When he disappeared from view, Dan turned to the first of the documents. It was a presentation from the shipyard in Bar Mhar: six PowerPoint pages about the yard’s capability. They didn’t have a dry dock, so all work was carried out afloat. From the photos it appeared their clients were from the lower end of the market – mainly coasters, fish-factory ships and so on. But there was a photo of work being carried out on one of the Ocean Dove’s sister ships. There were also the names of the yard’s directors.
The other document was a mining consultant’s report, setting out the prospects for reopening the local mine, commissioned by the local enterprise board and dated nine years ago. There had evidently been no takers and the mine was indeed played out.
‘Do they tell you anything?’ Hak said on his return, catching the barman’s eye again.
‘My round,’ Dan reminded him, folding the papers and slipping them in his pocket. ‘Nothing specific,’ he said. ‘But it’s all useful.’
‘Well, it’s not every day India loses four Bofors guns and the nearest ship is heading for Pakistan, so we had to do some digging.’
‘How deep does that go? I’m not clear on the procedure,’ Dan said, acknowledging that Hak had experience on his side while he was still new to the service. Hak might be behind a desk now, but from some of the things they had discussed, it seemed evident he had also known the sharp end. He wished he’d done his research – as he suspected Hak had.
‘Everything checked – the mine, the shipyard, the personnel, everything in the documents – all cross-referenced. And all clean,’ Hak said.
‘I see. And your people there, there’s no, how can I say … compromise?’
‘Insha’Allah …’ Hak said, with the hint of a yawn in his voice.
Fair enough. Hak was no doubt bored with the assumption that cooperation from Pakistan was probably flawed, distorted by split loyalties, one side loyal to traditional Islam and a Western sense of global propriety, the other only to radical Islam.
‘Sorry.’ Dan shrugged.
‘Not at all. It’s no secret we took a sharp knife to the section last year and, since then, treasure, lots of it!’ Hak said, a glint of pleasure in his eye. ‘But Pakistan? There’s only one thing to trust – its untrustworthiness. It’s just the way it is. But hey,’ he added, ‘the weak link could be here. Could be me. Could be you? And we’re more than alert to that. Especially you,’ he said, leaning in with emphasis and no suggestion of irony.
‘Thanks, that’s good to know,’ Dan said lightly, though he was disconcerted by the intense, probing black eyes. When Hak spoke, he looked directly at him. When he listened, his eyes dropped obliquely to the floor. First impressions can be deceptive, he thought. There’s little jazz-cool about him; he was edgy but not manic, but too wired to be playing do
uble bass in a smoky cellar bar.
‘So what happened out there on the sea?’ Hak said, focusing on Dan once more.
‘I can’t say for sure,’ Dan said, taking a long swig from his glass and looking across the room before turning back to him. ‘It’s all scenarios. And none I can prove.’
‘But you have an instinct, and it’s less than positive.’
‘Just a feeling.’
‘Hmm,’ Hak mused, chewing it over for a while. ‘Look, we can be of use to each other. We don’t know about ships, and the boss needs your help.’
Five
Faisel and Tariq had a passage from the Qur’an on the screen in their cabin and were reflecting on the recent discussion at the dinner table.
‘There,’ Faisel said. ‘If you are transgressed against …’
‘The captain’s right,’ Tariq said, nodding to himself and running a finger under the relevant lines.
‘Course he’s right.’
‘And what Choukri said, that’s so true.’
‘I felt sure I’d heard the same thing in the mosque at home,’ Faisel said.
‘At home in Mannheim?’
‘Do you know it?’ Faisel said.
Tariq shook his head. ‘Is it near Paris? I went to Disneyland when I was a kid.’
‘Not really,’ Faisel said, tilting his head to one side, feeling the engine revs drop and the ship’s vibrations settle. He glanced at his watch. ‘I think it’s Bar Mhar. I’ll wake the others.’
The ship was due to arrive there just before midnight, when the crew rota also switched.
He stepped along the passageway to the next door, knocked and opened it. In the half light, Snoop Dogg was on the lower bunk, asleep, his mouth opening and closing rhythmically. Above him, on the top tier, Assam had his laptop propped against the bulkhead, his cock out, bony fingers tweaking his nipples as he watched a muscular black man arse-fuck a skinny teenage blonde.
