by Carlos Luxul
Nuttall’s message was to both of them. He was going back to DHL. His old boss had seduced him, or perhaps it had been the other way around. Either way, he was going to be their new Executive Vice President – Strategic Land Services Europe.
‘Strategic?’ Dan pondered. ‘And how exactly do you leave MI5?’
Vikram shrugged. ‘I think it’s complicated.’
‘I didn’t pay attention, you know, at the start.’ He paused, thinking. ‘JC was in a bad mood, so I guess she knew about him?’
‘Must have done,’ Vikram said, his eyes drifting upwards. ‘Sea, land and air,’ he mused. ‘Land has slipped. The tide in the sea is turning and it’s starting to look as if she’s going to be left with just air – up in the air …’
‘Won’t look good on her CV – us three were her idea,’ Dan said. He paused, waiting to catch Vikram’s eye. ‘And I said I’m putting it in writing, full assets.’
Vikram sat back. Both of them knew what that meant. An official request, in writing, ensured it would have to go through the process. There were established procedures. Senior management would have to review it. JC would have to involve her own boss. Flesh might be winkled from shells. Private agendas might not remain quite so private.
As Dan looked at Vikram, gauging his reaction from the lines spreading across his forehead, he wondered what breed of cat he might have let out of the bag and what others would have to say about it, particularly LaSalle.
He turned back again and scrolled through his files to the Ocean Dove. It would be quick and easy to close it. There was a tangible benefit. The case was currently a negative, dragging his score down. It could rise with a single click, should he so choose, should he do what Clymer wanted him to.
‘By the way,’ Vikram said. ‘I took a call from Perkowski. You need to get back to him – what’s happening there?’
‘Dunno,’ Dan said without turning round. ‘The only good bit is JC didn’t mention it. Suppose she forgot …’
~
An hour later, Dan stood on the platform at Westminster Tube station. The cacophony of announcements, the cloying scent of fast food, the flurry of pigeons surrounded him, commuters brushing by with unseeing eyes locked on private missions. His own disengaged eyes were drifting vaguely into the distance. Across the rails, a man in a raincoat looked in his direction. It took a while for his attention to register, but then Dan realised he knew him. He was someone who had come out of Monday’s meeting room at ten o’clock when he was going in, someone whose greeting should be discreetly acknowledged. What would the guy be thinking – never mind, the poor chap’s had a hard day and there’s a problem on his mind that evidently must be kept warm and taken home? Dan managed a nod a moment before the guy’s train came rattling along the platform, the cold backwash shutting him out from the back of his mind and filling the void with more self-examination.
The image of the van driver refused to leave his mind. It was only a single freeze-frame; a long-peaked cap pulled down low, big-framed sunglasses, a thick beard, possibly false, filling every last bit of face. The face was set in a single expression that failed to express regret or panic or ineptness, a single expression that spoke only of resolve.
He’d walked the street countless times, gauging the precise location from all angles – no street furniture, no trees, no nothing, just forty metres of uninterrupted pavement, with a low kerb … How often do you get that in London?
He felt alone, a minority of one, his mind returning to the same fundamental questions. Why did he still think he was right? What had he got that everyone else hadn’t – a better brain or an overdeveloped imagination fuelled by an overt ego and a latent fear of ordinariness? Was that why he had taken the job? Were others seeing through him? Were they way ahead and he was far behind? Had he actually found his right level – a small fish in a big pond? Why couldn’t he just go with the flow? Wasn’t that what Julie and he had discussed?
Thoughts were becoming more outlandish. He could leak something to a subversive rag. They were well known to him, with their journalists hanging around the local bars, their ears cocked.
And what about an anonymous email to Bulent Erkan?
Danske Prince, Bofors guns, Ocean Dove, Bar Mhar. All being watched … A sympathiser.
A London Tube station was not an ideal place to have a crisis of confidence. Luckily, the train arrived, snapping him from his introspection. The doors hissed back and a blast of hot air greeted him. There was a seat, still warm. The man next to him was engrossed in a spy novel. Naturally. At least someone hasn’t lost his sense of humour. And he clearly knew he needed to hang on to his own.
‘Is it good?’ he said.
The guy looked around. ‘Very. You should try it.’
‘I’ve read some of his others,’ Dan said.
‘They’re very realistic, aren’t they?’
‘Oh yeah, very.’
‘Ah, my stop,’ the guy said, closing the book and standing up. ‘He really knows about espionage and the security services and stuff.’
Dan smiled. Lucky him, he thought; it’s a good job someone does if we want to sleep peacefully in our beds.
Sixteen
Bulent was putting the phone down when Jawad appeared in the doorway.
‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing to his screen.
‘Our modelling analysis for the next eighteen months indicates now is the optimum time to sell the Ocean Tern and assign the funds to the agreed ongoing investment strategy.’
It was an email from the Network’s financial management company, Alpine Capital Partners in Zug, Switzerland, with a copy to their Dubai office.
Bulent knew it wasn’t advice. It was an instruction. The euphemistic ‘ongoing investment strategy’ was actually a liquidation. The Ocean Tern, a sister ship to the Ocean Dove, would be sold, though the market would be led to understand this was just to enable OceanBird to move up and invest in newer and larger ships.
‘What will you get?’ Jawad said, helping himself to coffee.
‘Three and a half. I’ve just spoken to Hugh Pinchon – you remember him, from our London brokers? He was out here last year.’
‘Yeah.’ Jawad nodded. ‘And that’s three point five million towards the Moritz costs. We’ll get the same message at STC soon. I’m sure there’s half a dozen parties already doing their due diligence. Sovereign wealth funds and venture capitalists will all be contenders to buy us.’ He paused and smiled. ‘STC’s attractive, poised to grow, and the acquisition of the Moritz plant is a major step towards new markets and revenue streams.’
‘Smart investment.’ Bulent grinned. ‘Just hope the buyers have got a good crisis-management team.’ He stood up, a hand outstretched as though he was holding a piece of paper, a prepared statement, pretending to read it. ‘We assure our valued stakeholders and partners that STC remains committed to its ethical charter. Health, safety, environment and community are part of our core values and vision, and we will conduct a rigorous internal enquiry to ensure we never again blow the fuck out of …’
Jawad shook his head. ‘Sick bastard.’
‘It’s the company I keep.’ Bulent sat back in his chair and turned towards the window. ‘Do you think Choukri knew how the Emir was going to balance the books?’
‘Did he need to? The Emir said he’d get the money and that was good enough.’
‘Yeah, probably.’
‘And where’s the Ocean Dove now?’
‘Left Mombasa on Thursday for Umm Qasr.’
‘And then?’
‘Don’t know. Ideally I need about eight weeks’ local trading, so I’d better get my finger out.’
Bulent looked across the files on his desk. The first thing he needed to do was to reply to Khan, who had rejected his claim for the faulty work carried out on the Ocean Dove.
After sending a strong message he turned to the matter of the next contract for the Ocean Dove. It would shortly be available for employment in Umm Qasr, Iraq, and the market was
quiet. He checked through his records. There were no requests for feeder ships to work in the Gulf. There were virtually no requests for anything. Feeder work would be good. It was simple, clean, and usually under contract to a reliable partner, one of the big container lines, like CMA CGM, whose certificate Lieutenant Boissy had admired on the bridge.
Nothing at the moment, he thought, but it’s a fast-moving game and tomorrow is another day. He prepared a message to send to his push list.
‘MV Ocean Dove. Open in Umm Qasr 4 March. Prefer intra-gulf trading. Pleased to receive your proposals.’
~
Jawad had enjoyed the coffee and the exchange of news, but there was plenty of work of his own to get on with and the prospect of instructions coming from Alpine was looming. He chewed it over in the lift down to his own office. The sale of the Ocean Tern matched the outlay for the Moritz plant. In addition there were the costs for the contractors to dismantle and pack the plant, around three quarters of a million dollars. Then there was the funding the Ocean Dove would need for its final voyage – fuel, port costs and other running expenses. Key people from OceanBird and STC incurred an administration burden too – flights, new identities, accommodation and so on.
The potential sale of STC would bring in an even larger chunk of money, though he realised that it was merely the beginning. There were huge gains to be made from shorting the corporate stocks and indices that would suffer directly from the attack, and conversely from backing the stocks and indices that would benefit. There was no getting away from the fact that he was excited at the prospect and impressed by the strategic thinking. It seemed outlandish that when all was said and done, the Network would show a colossal profit. How was it, he reflected, that the Emir could sit in his counting house, pat himself on the back and say, ‘And I made money on it too, a veritable fortune, thank you.’
Seventeen
Edmund LaSalle strode towards the door, stopping a few paces short of his guest and briefly dipping his head in greeting.
‘I thought we’d eat in,’ he said. ‘You sit here – much the better view.’
The fifth-floor stewards were used to discreet lunches and welcomed what were usually more generous tips. The meeting table in LaSalle’s office had been transformed with a piece of crisp linen, cutlery, glasses and a spray of seasonal crocuses and snowdrops. The walls were oak panelled under an ornate plasterwork ceiling. LaSalle stood at one of three tall windows looking down over the river, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed out. Akhtar Azmi stood at another, his hands likewise.
‘I’m sending this Bofors business across the river. But not to you,’ LaSalle said, his eyes following the progress of a single scull as it skimmed downstream with the tide.
Azmi turned to him briefly before resuming his contemplation of the South Bank. ‘And leave me between India and Pakistan?’
‘Which you are more than capable of,’ LaSalle said, gesturing to Azmi, both of them turning at the sound of a knuckle on the door and the squeak of a trolley wheel. ‘The beef’s usually good,’ he said, picking up a jug of iced water and filling Azmi’s glass. ‘The crux of the matter is neither India nor Pakistan, but Sharjah – if there’s anything to Brooks’ supposition. What did you make of him?’
‘I don’t like him.’
‘I rather do.’
‘Bloody trouble. Not our type.’
LaSalle smiled. He also thought better of drawing a comparison with the arm Azmi frequently threw around Salim Hak’s shoulder. He knew the defence anyway. He’d heard it many times before. Hak had suffered. He deserved their indulgence. And it was always bookended with ‘He bloody well does what I say and I don’t bloody well ask more from any man.’
‘I rather like Brooks’ instincts and I think he’s precisely our type,’ LaSalle continued. ‘And we might find our answer in Sharjah. India did not frustrate its own shipment and, if Pakistan is involved, it’s only subsidiary. Either the Ocean Dove has a crew of seamen or a platoon of highly trained killers. If they’re seamen it was an accident. If they’re not, we have our link – to whatever it is we have to identify. Was it an accident?’ he added, looking up.
‘Of course it was.’ Azmi sighed, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Your bloody man’s just pushing an agenda. He’s new, the taste of drama. A bloody fantasist, I mean, this assassination attempt with a van …’
‘Your words, not his,’ LaSalle countered neutrally. ‘But wiser heads must prevail.’
‘When the ship arrived in Bar Mhar it was cleared by Pakistan Customs, all perfectly normal, all arranged well in advance. He told you?’
‘He did,’ LaSalle said. ‘And I ran the names through the databases. Nothing registered.’
‘We did too and everything was clean. So why are you wasting your time on this? Ridiculous. Give it to Hak. He’ll clear it up.’
‘There I must disagree with you. And I’m perfectly satisfied this is not some petty intrigue between India and Pakistan.’
‘No,’ Azmi agreed, ‘it’s not. And I don’t need to remind you that it’s never petty,’ he added stiffly. ‘And now India’s threatening to take matters into their own hands – on my patch.’
LaSalle picked up the dish of beef and offered it across as a peace offering. He understood Azmi’s position, how his life was dominated by the mutual distrust between India and Pakistan. He felt some sympathy for India. Pakistan was virtually their own country. At least it had been, though it seemed its ownership now was very clearly in Azmi’s proprietorial hands. And he knew only too well that the last thing anyone wanted was a hotbed of activity in one’s own territory. The waters became muddied. Priorities were sidelined. Too much time was spent spying on spies.
‘I’m sure you will make them see the error in that,’ LaSalle said reassuringly.
‘But why are you, of all people, going at this head-on, straight to Sharjah?’ Azmi said. ‘It’s not your style.’
LaSalle shrugged. ‘It’s less than ideal, I agree. But fences need to be mended,’ he said, referring to the historic problems with the UAE.
He reflected on the situation for a moment as Azmi tucked into the beef. All sides agreed the root of the problem lay at the feet of MI6’s Gulf section, where a new broom was heading the department now. LaSalle had recently been with her and other colleagues on the same joint-services mission to Abu Dhabi, where they had met the UAE’s new head of security and agreed he was a shrewd operator they could all do business with.
‘And Brooks, he’ll keep his nose out of it?’ Azmi said.
‘As far as I’m aware JC’s told him to close the file. But somehow I doubt it,’ LaSalle added matter-of-factly.
‘Bloody trouble,’ Azmi muttered.
The steward returned to clear the main course, moving around the table without drawing attention to himself. LaSalle eyed the cheese board at his side. The Stilton looked good, the yellow mottled and earthy, the blue veins blackening, the crust properly scabby. Mindful of his guest, the prospect of a glass of port was only a fleeting temptation.
‘But Brooks, he’s of no consequence – is he?’ LaSalle said lightly, his head cocked to one side. ‘He seems to have got under your skin.’
As Azmi offered no more than a scowl, LaSalle sensed now would be opportune to fill the silence. ‘There we are then. I’ll do the handover and I sincerely hope it’s the last either of us hears of the matter.’
A reply came quickly. ‘You’ll do the handover?’
‘Just some minor details I want to add – nothing really.’
Eighteen
Late winter was a quiet time of year. Friends were on diets, off the booze and shoring up their finances after the festive overspend. Dan was babysitting at home. He had been keeping his head down and so had Julie, though she was going out for the evening with an old girlfriend from university.
Striking a high note, the think tank paid their outstanding account and increased Julie’s workload. She’d felt a personal responsibility for it, as if
her own selfish indulgence risked the family finances and stability. It had hung over her like a cloud, but then the sun had broken through and Dan felt the reflected warmth. Perhaps their Christmas resolutions had cleared the air and reinvigorated them both.
From a work point of view, he had kept his word and knuckled down. The security protocols he’d helped to introduce on passenger ferries were showing results already. His own contribution had drawn praise from more than one of the other agencies involved. It seemed ironic to him that nothing he’d done had been due to any specialist knowledge and was little more than common sense. But the team earned plaudits internally and externally – to JC’s undisguised pleasure.
Keeping the Ocean Dove in the background, he’d realised the less said about it and the more he was seen to be getting on with other matters, the better it was for everyone, and hiding behind the unofficial licence issued by LaSalle would only have been antagonistic.
Julie smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to this evening.’
‘Do you good,’ Dan said.
‘By the way, how’s your ankle? You don’t seem to be limping any more.’
Dan looked down and stretched his leg out. ‘Hundred per cent.’
Julie nodded. ‘What’s that?’ she said, peering over his shoulder as she passed behind the kitchen table.
‘Just some website.’
‘Backgammon? You don’t play, do you?’
He glanced round and shook his head.
‘So what’s the interest?’
‘It’s just something at work. Some of the guys, you know?’
‘Online gambling … a new vice to go with the drink and drugs?’ She winked.
‘Yeah. I’ve only lost six hundred quid so far this week,’ Dan said, grinning and turning round. ‘Seriously, it’s not that sort of site. It’s for professionals. Come on, you’re going to be late. All that time in the wardrobe – but you’re looking good.’
