Deep Black

by Sean McFate

  The first mate looked down.

  “Well, neither am I.”

  Chapter 57

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, gesturing away the young man. Winters sat across from me, impeccably groomed and dressed in Jermyn Street’s finest bespoke cloth. So was I. The tailor had finished with the suit an hour ago, and we’d come straight here. Even my new Berluti leather shoes were so au courant they hadn’t yet come into fashion. I can’t lie. It felt good, especially after four months of living in the dirt.

  I’d had a good dinner after the private jet landed, six fingers of Woodford Reserve in a “sky bar” at a five-star London hotel, and, most important, a good night’s sleep on five-hundred-thread-count sheets and three pillows. I’d had a good shit, shower, and shave, in that order, making me feel like a new man. No one would have guessed I had been fighting a battle in the Jazira desert almost exactly twenty-four hours before. I suppose that was the point.

  “Try the tea,” Winters said. “It is quite good, and we may be here awhile.”

  The small antechamber was richly appointed with upholstered chairs, a Qom rug from ancient Iran, oil paintings, an eighteenth-century chandelier, and a marble fireplace. It was perfectly quiet save the tick tock of a grandfather clock somewhere downstairs.

  “The scones are dry to my taste,” Winters added, offering me the plate.

  “No thanks.”

  The music from The Sorcerer’s Apprentice stuck in my brain, a running theme since I’d boarded the Gulfstream back at Camp Speicher. It was Dukas’s orchestral fantasy, based on Goethe’s poem, about a student wizard who tries to imitate his master and nearly dies from his arrogance. Faced with endless chores like fetching water, the young apprentice enchants a broom to do the work for him. It works, until the apprentice realizes he never fully learned how to un-enchant the broom. Even Mickey Mouse knew the feeling. And yet few, I kept reminding myself, could avoid the pitfalls.

  Nine gongs of the grandfather clock. Nine o’clock. Outside, London plodded along in a morning rush hour rain, the damp and rheumy opposite of the dry desert heat. Eventually, the large pocket doors slid open.

  “Mr. Winters,” an Indian gentleman said. He looked healthy, happy, and put together by a valet.

  “Kabir,” Winters said, rising to shake hands. He didn’t introduce me, and Kabir didn’t ask. He barely looked my way. It was only after I’d followed on Winters’s heel that I realized the young man serving tea had followed on mine.

  The private office looked extracted from a Pall Mall social club circa 1850. Lit portraits hung from crown molding along red silk damask walls and oak paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows with polished brass fixtures and frothy curtains overlooked an English garden. A four-tier crystal chandelier hung from a twelve-foot coffered ceiling, and wall-to-wall Persian carpets obscured the parquet floor. Decanters lined a credenza near a Venetian marble fireplace. At the far end of the room sat an enormous carved desk that could have been plucked from the lord chancellor’s personal office.

  We took the leather chairs across from it, as Kabir seated himself behind the desk.

  “Tea?” he asked, as the young man slid to the silver set on the credenza. He poured carefully and stirred in a cube of sugar. He was late twenties, dressed in Savile Row with ostentatious pinstripes. It struck me that he wasn’t a manservant, as I had assumed, but Kabir’s protégé. He took a seat in the back, eyeing me silently as he passed.

  “Prince Khalid has been arrested,” Winters said. “Prince Abdulaziz has accused him of trying to buy a nuclear weapon in a palace coup attempt.”

  “What is Khalid saying?”

  “Nothing. He is in Abdulaziz’s black cells. If he meets an unfortunate accident, there will be trouble, but many will understand. A man is not fully in control when his two sons and heirs have been recently murdered, especially a man like Abdulaziz. The evidence, when it comes to the nuclear deal, will point to Khalid.”

  Kabir nodded. “And Farhan’s death?”

  “Unfortunate. He was a troubled boy, but not the first prince to join the extremists. It is the death of the other son, Mishaal, who perished mysteriously in a Mabahith prison, that will hang Khalid . . . although a hanging will most likely be unnecessary.”

  It occurred to me these men were casually discussing the framing of an innocent man, while drinking tea, no less. In some other state, it sounded as if this Khalid was powerful. In his home, at least, he must have been loved. In this office, he was merely a convenient prop.

  “And the . . . key?” Kabir asked.

  “I have it,” Winters said.

  “In your possession?”

  “No, but I will have it soon.”

  I fought the urge to speak up. I expected him to reference me, or simply to look in my direction, but neither man seemed aware I was in the room. It was clear that, like Kabir’s protégé in the back, my job was to listen and learn. So many brooms to control. So much sweeping.

  “That was a clusterfuck,” Kabir said suddenly, dropping the uptight British tone. I didn’t know if that was for Winters or for me, but it was startling. “I don’t expect to ever be put in that position again.”

  “All’s well that ends well,” Winters said.

  “No, it’s not. Shoddy practices make shoddy partners.”

  Winters hesitated. He looked contrite, but I could see the act. “You’re right, of course, Kabir. It was a clusterfuck, as you so accurately put it. But the crisis was averted, Abdulaziz has been managed, and the Saudis won’t go looking for nukes again in our lifetime, not after this . . . clusterfuck. Bagging that madman Khalid, and pushing our chosen faction closer to the throne: that was a stroke of genius.”

  “And luck.”

  “They go together, of course.”

  Kabir laughed. He couldn’t keep his anger. He was too relieved. In fact, for British aristocracy, he was positively giddy. The knot around his neck must have been quite tight before Brad Winters cut him free. “Mr. Winters,” he said, “you are certainly confident. I will give you that.”

  “I’m an American,” Winters replied. “Confidence is our greatest quality.”

  Chapter 58

  Balloch took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled calmly as he studied the envelope the intel NCO gave him.

  I hate these conversations, he thought. Twenty-seven years in the Pakistani navy didn’t make such talks easier. When Islamabad assigned him command of this multilateral task force, CTF-151, he had mixed feelings. On paper he commanded a fleet of twenty-six ships, drawn from a dozen countries, but in reality the only thing he controlled was this Pakistani frigate. International politics dictated the rest.

  Yet a command is a command, he thought as he stubbed out his cigarette. Like many multinational forces, the admiralship rotated among the participating countries. This year, it fell to Pakistan, and he was the next available Pakistani admiral. Not the command he hoped for, but the command he got.

  The time had come. “Enter,” he said.

  The XO walked in with his head down, like a sullen child, then stood at attention. It looked like the XO hadn’t slept since they received the mission to hunt down the Eleutheria. The admiral wasn’t surprised.

  “You’re a good officer, Commander Jalbani. A good officer follows orders, even if he doesn’t understand them.”

  “I am not so sure, Admiral.”

  The admiral motioned to the table between them, which took up a large portion of his private quarters. “A crisis of confidence, then? Don’t worry. We all have them.” The younger man didn’t answer. “Join me in a cup of tea.”

  The man sat. He was a good officer, a loyal follower of protocol. He would go far, if he could make it past this first test. “No thank you on the tea, sir,” he said. “I just want an explanation.”

  “I don’t owe you that.”

  “No sir. But I need it.”

  Admiral Balloch poured his tea. “Orders are orders, Commander Jalbani,”
he said as he stirred his cup. “I must follow them just like you. We are Pakistani taking orders from Washington, DC, as happens in international task forces. The Americans said to board the smuggler ship Eleutheria.”

  The commander nodded agreement.

  “But our secret orders,” Admiral Balloch pulled out the envelope from his uniform’s inner pocket, “in this envelope, are from Islamabad. They countermand the American orders. They say to let the ship pass. Now, which orders do you think have priority?”

  “But why the contradictory orders?” Jalbani asked.

  “For twenty-seven years,” Admiral Balloch said, “I have served my country proudly as a Pakistani naval officer. When this ship became part of CTF-151, I didn’t abandon that loyalty. We are one of thirteen nations in this task force. We work with them for the greater good. But our allegiance remains to our country. Always. That is why these multinational forces fail.”

  “But why the contradictory orders?” Jalbani said again.

  “Politics,” the admiral said. “That’s all men like us need to know.”

  The admiral could sense the man was ill at ease. He needed Commander Jalbani’s full commitment; they would both be recalled and punished if any of this was ever spoken of again. “What’s on your mind, Commander? Speak freely.”

  Jalbani hesitated. “I don’t like lying to our fellow naval officers in the task force. I respect them. They respect me. They are good allies and personal friends. This”—he knocked on the ship’s bulkhead—“is American made, a decommissioned U.S. Navy Oliver Hazard Perry–class frigate. This”—he gestured vaguely toward the Pakistani order—“is not why I joined the navy. It is unprofessional and immoral. We are not . . . spies.”

  Balloch sighed. The man was upset. He is young, the admiral reminded himself.

  “Just because Pakistan bought this frigate from the Americans,” he said slowly, “does not make us their slaves. We steer by our stars. They steer by theirs. Don’t think the Americans would do differently, if the situation was reversed.”

  Jalbani hesitated. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Yes, you do. You know the Americans work for themselves, first and foremost.

  “Don’t forget that doubt,” the admiral said. “Don’t forget that nothing is clear in this command but one thing: we follow the orders of our superior officers. If you are going to wear stars one day, that knowledge will serve you well.”

  The commander was still not convinced, and the admiral could see it. He didn’t have time for such insubordination. “We have done a difficult thing. We will be rewarded. Don’t let a poor attitude undermine the good we have done, for ourselves and for our country. High command would not have issued this secret order unless it was important.”

  Jalbani looked like a beat boxer, clinging to the ropes. The admiral softened, realizing how hard this was for him. The real world was always a shock to the young.

  “Your morality is a virtue,” the admiral said. “I am pleased you came to me with these concerns. You are a man of solid timber, Commander Jalbani. But I expect you to follow my orders. I won’t explain myself to you again.”

  The XO nodded, then turned and left.

  Lewis dumped the last of her personal items into a burn bag. They didn’t even give her a box to clear out her cubicle.

  “You got a bum deal,” Hernandez said.

  “Brooks is a dick,” she said.

  “Affirmative.”

  “I was so sure the Eleutheria was our ship. I still am. All the data points to it. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Hernandez let out a sigh. “But it wasn’t our ship.”

  “I failed,” Lewis said, unaccustomed to the feeling. The admiral expended considerable political capital in Washington to reassign CTF-151 to their search mission, over the official protests of Pakistan. Then he ordered the task force to intercept the Eleutheria, on her hunch. When the ship was cleared, it proved too much for American-Pakistani relations, and the National Security Council decided to cut CTF-151 loose rather than risk a diplomatic incident. It didn’t look good for the admiral; it looked worse for her.

  “Shit rolls downhill,” she said. “Brooks was just waiting for me to slip up, then he could fire me.”

  “Fate of the contractor.”

  She slumped into her chair, feet up on her desk, as she stared at the ceiling. Her exhaustion was palpable.

  “What are you going to do now?” Hernandez asked.

  “Go home. Have a glass of chardonnay. Break out a dance movie.”

  Chapter 59

  “The thirty-year Château de Montifaud XO,” Winters said. “Two, please.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The waiter disappeared through a doorway hidden in the golden walls. Bookcases of bound leather spines surrounded us, with a Greek-themed relief lining the twenty-foot ceiling and a palatial Persian carpet covering the floor. The private library could have been the set for a Jane Austen movie, or it could have been Mr. Darcy’s actual house. Most important, this library was rentable to members. Brad Winters and I were dining alone.

  “It’s good to be back at the Travellers Club,” Winters said, running a cigar under his nose. The club had a strict no-smoking policy, but that too was rentable.

  “Indeed,” I said, still slicing my rare filet mignon, although it was so red it barely needed the knife. I was still working on my glass of 2006 Les Forts de Latour, a Bordeaux red, but I couldn’t begrudge Winters the premature digestifs. He had pushed his steak away five minutes ago, barely touched. And the thirty-year Château de Montifaud cognac was impeccable.

  From the outside, the Travellers Club looked like all of London’s most prestigious social clubs: unassuming. There were never any signs or other markings on these venerated two-hundred-year-old institutions. There was only a nineteenth-century building with an address: usually St James’s Square or Pall Mall. In this case, 106 Pall Mall, a five-minute walk to Buckingham Palace. Inside, as the library attested, the club was a time capsule of Victorian splendor.

  “I’m sure you have questions about the meeting today, Tom,” Winters said, rolling a cigar in the flame of a wooden match. It was a Cuban. Nicaraguans were better, but Winters had never truly known cigars.

  Finally, the invitation. I chewed slowly, laid my knife and fork carefully across my plate, and touched my lips with my cloth napkin. God, I was a million miles from the Tip Top and its rowdy crowd. I couldn’t help but wonder if Wildman was having a drink there for lunch right now.

  “Who is Kabir?” I asked, starting at the beginning.

  Winters laughed. “That’s Sir Basrami-Heatherington to you, Dr. Locke, a descendant of a long line of British-Indian bankers dating back to the British East India Company in the 1700s. Now a senior banker, although senior to what even I am unsure. One of the most powerful men in England, and possibly the world.”

  “He who controls the purse strings,” I said.

  “Oh, that bank controls much more than purse strings,” Winters said casually, still rolling his cigar. “He trades in power, not money. It’s not even technically a bank.”

  The waiter returned with our digestifs. He looked at my plate, but I signaled that I was still working. It was the best meal I’d had in six months. I wasn’t going to waste a bite.

  “Leave us, please,” Winters said, as he relit his cigar with a six-inch wooden match and puffed smoke toward the gilded ceiling. “We will ring you if we need assistance.” A small silver bell lay beside his snifter.

  “Now,” Winters said, turning to me with his cigar, “to us.”

  He raised his cognac. I raised my wine.

  “You put together the nuclear deal. Why?”

  “Because it was inevitable. It was the wisest move for the Saudis, or more specifically for an ambitious prince with the right connections. I saw that Abdulaziz was going to reach that conclusion himself, and soon, so I gave him a push.”

  “How?”

  “We infiltrated his organiza
tion, had a trusted aide whisper the idea in his ear. I have been close to Abdulaziz for years, his most trusted outside contact. Once he made the decision, he would ask for my help. We knew he would need outside assistance structuring the finances, help on the delivery, and—most of all—utmost secrecy, since he was concealing this from his own government. That is one of the primary services I sell: plausible deniability.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “In this case, one billion dollars. Ten percent of the deal price.”

  I swallowed hard on the number, but Winters ignored it. He was puffing hard on his cigar to get the ember started. Eventually, he shook out another match.

  “How did you slip that much through the international monitors?”

  “Kabir can manipulate SWIFT.” The Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication, or SWIFT, is the brain stem of international banking. It’s the conduit big banks use to wire money to each other.

  “SWIFT is airtight. Impossible to hack or manipulate.”

  “Nothing is impossible to hack or manipulate. We’ve done it. Besides, money is fungible. There are far more precious things.”

  “Like nuclear weapons?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But the deal went sideways. The Paris convoy was hit, and the nuclear weapons controller stolen. Only Khalid knows where it’s hid, and I assume he’s dead now.”

  “You’re right about Khalid being dead. Not much else.”

  He waited for me to pick through the clues. If Paris wasn’t the mysterious Khalid, then who else had the knowledge and the skill for such a high profile . . .

  “You,” I whispered. “You stole the briefcase in Paris.”

  Winters grinned. “Yes, an Apollo team ambushed the Paris convoy. I have the briefcase.”

  “And you framed Khalid for it, and I assume had Mishaal murdered.”

  “Just to dust my tracks.”

  “But the Istanbul hit didn’t go as planned.”