Read Online The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller by Andrew Britton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Britton
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way the classes functioned, had functioned, and probably would continue to function for the rest of his life. Which was why, when the government gave him an assignment in defiance of sanctions and outside lawful maritime practice, he closed his eyes and accepted. Not only could he use the additional income, it kept him connected with members of the military and intelligence communities. There was no way of knowing when those relationships might prove useful.
So when he received a message at 156.575 MHz, channel 70 on his digital signaling device, he plugged the encryption drive into the USB port and answered. The filter would sift the static that would be all a casual eavesdropper would hear. Even American or Israeli surveillance would require hours to pull the words from the variable frequency interference.
The beep that brought him to the radio secreted in his cabin was from the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. Parvin did not know the name of the caller: only that he must do as he was told. The requests were typically to make pickups and drop-offs along whatever route he was traveling. Upon completion, payment would be made to his special bank account in Tehran. It was a profitable low-risk arrangement.
The Ghorbani had just left the Norwegian port with a cargo of shipbuilding equipment and parts bound for ports along North Africa and the Mediterranean. Parvin was told to divert to a spot in the Norwegian Sea ninety-eight kilometers due south of Sørkappin Svalbard, an Arctic archipelago. The caller provided the exact longitude and latitude and informed the captain that he should be prepared to receive, at ten p.m., and immediately conceal in its entirety, under tarpaulin, a Toufan helicopter. The pilot and his cargo were to be taken below, the aircraft was not to be approached by any of the crew once it had been secured, and the Ghorbani was to proceed to its initial port of call—Rabat, Morocco. Parvin was informed that he would receive further instructions, by radio, upon arriving.
The captain’s only comment during the entire recitation was to acknowledge it at the end. He passed the new destination to the helm. They informed him that the transit would take approximately an hour. Parvin would hold off on informing the radio room of their instructions until after the rendezvous. Then he grabbed a cola from the mini-refrigerator and sat on his bunk, where he hand-rolled a cigarette. He used Balkan shag tobacco, one of his few personal indulgences.
Parvin felt the faint, faint tickle of the constantly vibrating metal hull. He heard the distant hum of the ship’s powerful two-stroke, ten-cylinder engine. The order from Tehran was unprecedented. It made the captain afraid, as if the eyes of the world were somehow upon him. Certainly the eyes of the Minister of Intelligence were. The one constant in his occasional activities for the government is that they were not watched very closely and were relatively risk-free.
Why would they want me to quarantine an aircraft ? he wondered. And why under the shadow of night ?
He wished he felt excited or patriotic or something other than worried.
“Whoever thought the shipping business would be more dangerous than the navy?” he asked himself with a nervous laugh after he had lit the cigarette with a wooden match and drained the can.
He thought about his sister and his parents and how this was helping them. That calmed him somewhat, and he reminded himself that he was not alone; he had a very powerful ally in this particular assignment. The ministry itself was going to make sure that the harbormasters who were expecting him would stand down. That gave him a slight thrill of importance—not enough to offset the fear but not a bad sensation.
The captain finished his cigarette, washed his face in the small basin beside his fold-down desk, and went up to the bridge. He would not be able to tell the crew anything about their mission, but that, too, was a consolation. It would
So when he received a message at 156.575 MHz, channel 70 on his digital signaling device, he plugged the encryption drive into the USB port and answered. The filter would sift the static that would be all a casual eavesdropper would hear. Even American or Israeli surveillance would require hours to pull the words from the variable frequency interference.
The beep that brought him to the radio secreted in his cabin was from the Iranian Ministry of Intelligence. Parvin did not know the name of the caller: only that he must do as he was told. The requests were typically to make pickups and drop-offs along whatever route he was traveling. Upon completion, payment would be made to his special bank account in Tehran. It was a profitable low-risk arrangement.
The Ghorbani had just left the Norwegian port with a cargo of shipbuilding equipment and parts bound for ports along North Africa and the Mediterranean. Parvin was told to divert to a spot in the Norwegian Sea ninety-eight kilometers due south of Sørkappin Svalbard, an Arctic archipelago. The caller provided the exact longitude and latitude and informed the captain that he should be prepared to receive, at ten p.m., and immediately conceal in its entirety, under tarpaulin, a Toufan helicopter. The pilot and his cargo were to be taken below, the aircraft was not to be approached by any of the crew once it had been secured, and the Ghorbani was to proceed to its initial port of call—Rabat, Morocco. Parvin was informed that he would receive further instructions, by radio, upon arriving.
The captain’s only comment during the entire recitation was to acknowledge it at the end. He passed the new destination to the helm. They informed him that the transit would take approximately an hour. Parvin would hold off on informing the radio room of their instructions until after the rendezvous. Then he grabbed a cola from the mini-refrigerator and sat on his bunk, where he hand-rolled a cigarette. He used Balkan shag tobacco, one of his few personal indulgences.
Parvin felt the faint, faint tickle of the constantly vibrating metal hull. He heard the distant hum of the ship’s powerful two-stroke, ten-cylinder engine. The order from Tehran was unprecedented. It made the captain afraid, as if the eyes of the world were somehow upon him. Certainly the eyes of the Minister of Intelligence were. The one constant in his occasional activities for the government is that they were not watched very closely and were relatively risk-free.
Why would they want me to quarantine an aircraft ? he wondered. And why under the shadow of night ?
He wished he felt excited or patriotic or something other than worried.
“Whoever thought the shipping business would be more dangerous than the navy?” he asked himself with a nervous laugh after he had lit the cigarette with a wooden match and drained the can.
He thought about his sister and his parents and how this was helping them. That calmed him somewhat, and he reminded himself that he was not alone; he had a very powerful ally in this particular assignment. The ministry itself was going to make sure that the harbormasters who were expecting him would stand down. That gave him a slight thrill of importance—not enough to offset the fear but not a bad sensation.
The captain finished his cigarette, washed his face in the small basin beside his fold-down desk, and went up to the bridge. He would not be able to tell the crew anything about their mission, but that, too, was a consolation. It would
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