by Carlos Luxul
In the corner of his eye he could see Bulent’s stony face. Words were not required. He knew exactly the same thing would be racing through his mind – if the security services knew so much about them, they would know everything about the Ocean Dove. There was a stark image in his imagination: a cargo ship on blue water, an armada of naval vessels circling it, jet fighters screaming overhead, helicopters lowering men in balaclavas. Smoke and flames were pouring from the shattered bridge of the Ocean Dove, its decks littered with cartridge cases and the bloody bodies of the crew where they had made their futile stand against an overwhelming force.
The van slowed and turned onto a track into the desert. For the next twenty minutes they bumped along slowly before the track crested a dune and petered out into a flat plain of grey grit. The ground beneath them was smooth, their speed increasing to what felt like a steady sixty, plumes of smoky dust streaming behind.
In the centre of the windscreen, in the shimmering distance, there was a shadow on the ground. They were heading straight towards it. Jawad couldn’t make out what it was, gauge their distance from it or judge its size. It could have been as small as a sheep or as big as a truck, but it was the only thing to be seen in the featureless landscape. He pressed his knee against Bulent’s and looked ahead.
Ten minutes later the engine revs dropped and they slowed to a halt. Mr Gold stepped out and slid the door back on Jawad’s side.
A wave of burning air swept over him as he swapped air conditioning and carpeting for sand and grit. The other van pulled up behind and the men got out, stretching and looking around. One of them spat in the dust and he heard him say ‘Faswat-at-ajuz’ – the hag’s cunt.
So that’s where we are, he thought, turning and looking again at the shadow thirty metres away – just a mound of earth, a windbreak for an old dried-up well. Now it made sense. He’d heard of this place, loosely of legend, though evidently real enough now. The nomads spoke of it in stories a hundred years old, already poisoned and putrid, full of dead goats and the victims of tribal blood feuds.
Standing there in the middle of nowhere, in dead silence, with the plain stretching to the horizon, he became aware that the other men had shifted away, leaving them to one side, alone. They were in a line, exposed. Gold walked across, a pistol in his hand.
He stopped a few paces from them, his feet planted, looking each of them in the eye. In front of Rashid his penetrating stare dropped momentarily, his head shaking with disappointment.
Jawad shifted his head a fraction, glancing from the corner of his eye at the darkening crotch in Rashid’s grey trousers. A simple truth flashed through his mind. Everyone connected with the Network and the Ocean Dove was to be summarily executed. There would be no trials and no publicity. The public did not need to know how close they had come to disaster. Tonight they would sleep easily in their beds once again. Standing in the desert, his bowel muscles working overtime, legs locked back to disguise the shaking, it seemed so obvious.
Two shots rang out. Rashid spun backwards. He was twitching as Gold walked across, reached down to an ankle and dragged him across the sand. At the side of the well he heaved at Rashid’s belt, carefully finding a dry grip and bending him over the lip, his head down the well, backside in the air, legs dangling.
Gold slipped the wallet from the back pocket, pulled an arm out of the well and twisted a ring from a finger and a watch from the wrist. He reached down again, grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head up, putting a bullet in the back of his skull. With a cursory glance at shattered bone, he let the head flop before reaching down to Rashid’s feet and tipping him headfirst into the hag’s cunt.
Shoving the pistol in his waistband, Gold leant his hands on the wall and peered down for a moment, swatting at an angry mist of flies, his face screwing up as the disturbed air rose from the well. Then his back straightened. He turned and looked across.
Jawad’s stomach churned at the stench of rotting and decay that had drifted over from the well, the flies buzzing at his sweating face. His feet were rooted to the spot as final and silent prayers raced through his mind.
‘You two. Back in the van,’ Gold said.
Jawad sat in silence. They were alive and it seemed they had a chance of remaining so. Gold offered no explanation and he didn’t dare ask for one. The other van was leading. When they reached the highway it turned west towards the city. Their van turned east. No answers were sought and none were given.
After a while Gold turned. ‘His father died last night. There was nothing to be gained from telling him. And you? You’re going on a dhow cruise.’
Gold turned back. He’d said his piece and it didn’t appear that he was inviting discussion.
‘But you’re Sharjah police,’ Bulent blurted. ‘Some kind of special security?’
Gold looked over his shoulder. ‘It’s just a day job.’
The driver’s eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Now that was a man, but the son? Don’t even think about him, no good for anything. But you two are, and soon you’ll be balls-deep in Indonesian babes.’
He smiled over the last few words. At his side, Gold’s head was nodding in agreement.
The relief was palpable. There was no reason not to believe in the future – any future. Jawad felt confident enough to risk a question.
‘You seem to know a lot, about everything?’
‘For the last two years I’ve known every time you farted,’ Gold said. ‘And I’ll know for the next two as well.’
There was no good reason not to believe him, he thought. They had to be the Emir’s men, part of the internal security system. It was rarely discussed, but such a group had to exist. It was taken for granted that it did. They might number thousands around the world and if they knew everything about him, they would know about Rashid, who hadn’t been killed for fun. If it had been stage-managed for their benefit, it had certainly been effective. However, it still left the main question, why Rashid?
‘Unhinged,’ Gold said. ‘Firing off stupid messages to the Emir about his own importance and how he could do things better. Too risky. Especially now the old man’s gone. What he was really looking for was a way out, so we gave him one.’
Jawad turned to Bulent. ‘Indonesia in a dhow – it could mean weeks at sea? We’ll be out there and they’ll be searching. Do you think we’ll know what happens?’
From behind the wheel the driver said, ‘You’ll know.’
‘The whole world will.’ Gold nodded.
Twenty-nine
Choukri was at the head of the ladder to welcome the pilot on board just before six o’clock on Friday morning. They lingered for a moment, taking their bearings, the pilot pointing out landmarks to the shore before leaning on the rail for one last look out to sea.
‘Going to be a glorious day,’ he said.
The low sun was flashing like crystal on the water, blazing a celestial path from the horizon to the hull of the Ocean Dove.
‘Exactly.’
Faisel stood up when they came through the doorway. ‘Pilot on bridge,’ he announced.
Captain Rowley was tall, though grey hair, a gaunt appearance and metal-framed spectacles couldn’t disguise a twinkle in his eye.
Introductions were made and he went through the preliminary safety checks, familiarising Mubarak and the bridge crew with the route on the charts, general procedures and when he would like to take his breakfast. The pilot was in charge and the crew would carry out his orders, though as ever, it would ultimately be Mubarak’s ship.
‘And with your permission,’ the pilot said.
He had effective control now, checking the helmsman’s inputs, monitoring the instruments, adjusting speed and course and periodically taking his binoculars to the wings for a visual check. Mubarak gave the crew reassuring nods, observing and reconfirming with the pilot, each referring to the other as Captain.
Tariq had control of the helm, repeating each instruction aloud before carrying
it out. After a while Rowley turned to him, a quizzical look on his face.
‘Is that a bit of a Birmingham I’m hearing?’
Tariq smiled. ‘Yeah, it is.’
‘And where am I from, son?’
Tariq pondered for a moment. ‘Lancashire?’
Choukri stiffened as a look of horror shot across the pilot’s face.
‘Yorkshire, please … You tell ’em, son,’ the pilot said, throwing his head back and laughing, chuckling to himself as Tariq explained his good-natured – and well taken – faux pas.
For the first hour they were in the open sea before turning into the estuary, which was now beginning to narrow. The low outline of the Isle of Grain was to one side, Canvey Island to the other. The wide mouth tightened further as they slipped between Gravesend and Tilbury. It was more like a river now, sinewy in its twists and turns by Grays and Greenhithe.
Cookie brought the pilot his breakfast, scrambled eggs on toast, which he ate standing up at the console, observed by some of the crew from the corner of their eyes. Assam and Snoop were stealing glances at him through the open doorway, like vultures circling the lame.
‘Yours?’ Rowley said, his eye drawn to the crossword on the console.
‘It’s from your Observer newspaper. I download it every week,’ Mubarak said. ‘Do you do it too?’
‘No.’ Rowley smiled. ‘Partial to a sudoku though.’
‘Shame,’ Mubarak said. ‘Eight down’s giving me a bit of trouble.’
Choukri looked around. The sun was shining and the pilot was happy. Choukri had told Cookie to prepare his special scrambled eggs, the ones with the subtle addition of a little Parmesan cheese and a dash of Dijon mustard. They always went down well with visiting officials. Nothing was out of place or giving rise to disquiet. He knew pilots liked to work with a well-maintained ship and a professional crew who responded accurately to instructions. On top of that, a little courtesy and charm went a long way.
Regardless, Choukri was taking nothing for granted, underplaying his role on the bridge, conscious he was Mubarak’s subordinate and not the mission leader. Tariq had stepped outside for some air. It looked as though the crew were quizzing him.
They received no proper reply as Choukri called Tariq back and substituted his presence with his own. ‘Move along,’ he said quietly, motioning with his eyes to Snoop and Assam.
Faisel had the helm now. Captain Rowley saw him looking ahead at the graceful arc that spanned the river and filled the windscreen.
‘The Queen Elizabeth bridge,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’re making good time. We’ll be there in an hour.’
‘And the Rotherhithe Tunnel underneath,’ Tariq added, looking up to Rowley, who acknowledged his lack of local geography with a kindly smile.
‘Dartford Tunnel, son.’
Emerging from the bridge’s shadow, to the left was the Littlebrook power station with the Purfleet container terminal on the opposite bank. The river snaked around Erith and Rainham, the tide turning and the mudflats receding, the landscape industrial with dull grey piping and shining white storage tanks. The sun added an autumnal gleam of russet to rust along the waterfront, broken in places by a little greenery, a patch of scrub grazing or a park. Here and there a church spire rose in the background or a finger pier jutted out into the river.
‘Reduce speed one knot,’ the pilot said.
‘Reduce by one,’ Faisel confirmed, the engine note subduing, the vibration through the floor smoothing.
The Thamesmead housing estate slipped by to the left, brownstone and uniform. On the facing bank was the Ford car plant. Rounding the next bend, ahead of them was the London City Airport and the twin piers of the Woolwich ferry bookending the north and the south banks. A mile further was the Thames Barrier and, just minutes beyond, the Moritz terminal.
Everywhere was becoming familiar. Choukri recognised places from his research, the detail embellished by the pilot’s commentary. The names were important. He felt his pulse quickening. When they passed through the Thames Barrier he mentally checked his estimations. A spring tide was due in two weeks, an unusually high one.
‘Marvellous piece of engineering,’ the pilot said.
Choukri shook his head. ‘Exactly. To hold a tide like that …’
The Ocean Dove began its approach, edging towards Moritz. They were already facing in the right direction, making it a straightforward manoeuvre to berth alongside, little more complicated than pulling in and parking at the side of the road.
Tariq was on the radio to the Vessel Traffic Service, advising them they were starting their approach.
‘We have you on screen,’ VTS confirmed.
Men were on the quay, linesmen employed for the day, or more accurately for about fifteen minutes. After securing mooring ropes to bollards they would be free to go home.
Set back from the waterside was the dismantled plant, packed and ready for shipment. Two thousand tonnes of machinery stretched across the terminal. The contractors had completed their contract and laid the cargo out in regimented rows, in sequence for loading. Some was in wooden cases and crates, some in containers or neatly bundled pipework. Storage tanks, vessels and columns rested on supports at the back. It covered an area close to the size of a football pitch, forming a protective barrier between the ship, the main building and the outside world.
Captain Rowley followed Mubarak and Choukri down the gangway. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he said, shaking their hands in turn. ‘Are you going to load now? I can see there’s plenty to do.’
‘We’ve got a day’s work first to prepare the ship,’ Mubarak said. ‘We start on Monday.’
The linesmen’s foreman stepped across to them, gesturing to his men standing by their minibus.
‘Are we done, boss?’
‘All done,’ Choukri said. ‘We’ll see you again on Wednesday after completion of loading.’
As the van pulled away, Choukri saw a man heading towards them from across the terminal, weaving his way through the banks of cargo.
‘Sorry, bit late,’ the man said, introducing himself as the customs officer. ‘I’ll do the crew immigration first and then the ship, starting in the hold.’
‘This way, please,’ Choukri said, ushering him towards the gangway.
Mubarak pulled out two chairs on the bridge. The ship’s documents and the crew’s passports and seamen’s books were laid out neatly on the chart table. The customs man scrutinised each in turn and made entries on a laptop. He was a little guy, about forty-five, pinched, nervous, with a shaky hand. He was also punctiliously slow.
‘Okay, Captain. I’ll leave my stuff here if that’s all right?’ he eventually said.
‘Of course,’ Mubarak said, extending a hand to the door.
~
Assam led the way down to the hold, the customs officer behind him with Snoop bringing up the rear. At the well of the stairs he opened a doorway and went into a dimly lit passageway. After a few paces he stopped, turned the handle of the hold door and flicked the light switches. The customs officer and Snoop followed him in, all three of them allowing a moment for their eyes to adjust to the light.
The customs man turned his gaze along the hold and stepped forward automatically, before hesitating, his mouth open. ‘What the f—’
Assam’s fingers tightened around a cosh in his waistband and brought it down on the back of the customs officer’s head in one swift movement.
Snoop prodded the prone figure with his boot. There was no response. He turned and went across to the weapons store.
‘And some rags,’ Assam called out.
There was neither sound nor motion from the floor as Snoop grabbed the man’s collar and lifted, shuffling rags under the head with his boot before stepping to one side, raising his arm and looking at Assam.
‘No way, man,’ Assam said, taking the Glock from his hand and striking a pose.
‘Okay, got it. More flava, yeah,’ Snoop said.
Ass
am screwed his face up. ‘That’s still so fucking lame. Bust him like this!’ He snatched the gun again, but this time he squeezed the trigger, twice.
Snoop spun around and brought his boot crashing down. ‘Motherfucker!’
The word spat from his contorted mouth as Assam blew over the end of the silencer and raised an eyebrow. They both turned at the sound of footsteps behind them, their faces straightening.
Choukri looked at them, at the crumpled body on the floor, at the rags oozing blood into old grease stains. ‘It’s done?’
Assam nodded.
‘Then stop fucking about and clear it up!’
There was no time for bickering. Assam dragged the body to an empty container and dumped it on the floor. Head and rags had become separated. Snoop put his boot on the rags, prodding them along the blood trail before kicking them into the container.
~
Choukri checked his watch as he stood on the wings. It was just before eleven. Below him the hatch was rumbling open. Just one panel would be raised, leaving a gap large enough for the crane to lift the explosives through. The chief was rigging a pump for the fuel oil and Choukri could see Tariq crouched behind a stack of pipework on the terminal, keeping an eye on the security guards in the hut. The pilot’s taxi had been and gone. The back of the linesmen’s minibus had long since disappeared up the road, and no one was going to miss the customs officer for hours. The terminal was theirs.
