The Golden Chair

by A J Fontenot

  “Building Four.”

  “First on the left,” he said, pointing forward. He took a step back and reached for something in his booth. As he did, he motioned her forward. The bar in front of her car lifted, and he waved the vehicle behind her forward.

  She drove forward slowly, trying to find some indication of where to go next. She was looking around so intensely that she had to slam on her brakes. There was a man standing directly in front of him. If she were going any faster, she would have run him over.

  He was dressed in the same tan uniform as the entrance guard, but he held an automatic rifle over his shoulder. He stood, looking directly at her, not speaking.

  She waited for him to move, as he was clearly standing in the middle of the road. He continued to stand, squared off to her vehicle, not saying anything.

  Seeing he wasn’t going to move, she opened her door to get out and see why he was standing here and maybe ask for direc—

  “Do not exit,” he barked at her, as soon as she’d opened her door. “No vehicles beyond this point,” he said.

  She shut her door again and leaned out the window. “I’m looking for Building Four,” she said, realizing she’d have to at least pretend she was going to follow the instructions the last guard gave her.

  He pointed to his right, her left. In block letters, painted on the front of a one-story building, she saw the embarrassingly large words, “BUILDING 4.” It was thirty feet away from her.

  She glanced back at him. But he seemed only interested in standing stock still and making sure no vehicles got past him.

  “Thanks,” she said, though he probably didn’t hear her. Or he didn’t react if he did. She turned her truck and drove to Building Four, parked out front, and then walked inside.

  71

  Building Four

  Erin pulled open the glass door of Building Four and walked inside. The inside was a typical non-descript government building. A few pictures of officials on the wall and a Ghanaian flag in the corner. Directly in front of her was a man sitting behind a desk, looking at her. He wore a tan uniform, like the one who checked her ID at the gate. But he didn’t have a gun, not that she could see.

  “Sign in here, please,” he said.

  Erin walked to the counter, scribbled something illegible. She dropped the pen and looked around, trying not to appear out of place. The make-it-up-as-you-go approach was a lot harder in real life than in the movies. In real life, people paid attention. And there were checks and balances in place.

  The man, she noticed, didn’t seem to care much about what she was here for.

  She walked to the far wall where she saw an electronic board, like in airports that showed flight statuses. Except, this one appeared to be for shipping vessels. It was split into five columns: Vessel name, ETA, ATA, ETD, and ATD.

  She studied it. ETA, she knew, stood for estimated time of arrival. That means ETD is probably estimated time of departure. She looked at the other two columns, ATA and ATD. They all had times in them, too. Some were the same as their corresponding ETA and ETD column. But others were different. Some were flashing. The A must be actual. This board is showing her the port at a glance: all the vessels, their scheduled times in and out, and then their actual times.

  That means…she did the calculation in her head, backing up to the time Marisol had called her. Marisol kept repeating, five hours left. That means, with the drive down to Accra, the time it took her once she arrived here, and then…how long had it been between the time Marisol called and she left? Best she could tell, five hours put the departure time between 6:00 and 6:30, which was, she looked down at her watch, between thirty to sixty minutes from now.

  She scanned down the ETD, estimated time of departure, column. Which vessel leaves at —

  “What are you doing?” The voice came from behind, causing her to jump.

  She turned around. The voice belonged to the man sitting behind the counter. In all of her thinking, she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  “I’m, uh,” she said, turning back to the board, maintaining her inspector-character — in case she needed to use that again. “I’m just looking for —” Forget it, she thought, turning back around.

  “I’m new here,” she smiled.

  “Yes,” he said, as if he was thinking the same thing.

  “And,” she went on, “I work with the American embassy, who is partnering with the Ghana Department of Agriculture”—why was she changing her story?—“and I have to sign some paperwork for the vessel leaving at, er, 6:15 today,” she said, splitting the difference on her estimate.

  He walked around the counter without responding. He walked up next to her and pointed directly at the board.

  “You’ve got two,” he said. “One leaves at 6:10 and the other at 6:22. But,” he gave a quick look over the board. “None at 6:15.”

  “Okay,” she said, “well…I’ll just…check on them both then,” she smiled.

  “Don’t you have a manifest, telling you what the vessel name is?” he said.

  “A manifest…” she said. “Yes…I do.” She didn’t. “It’s…eh,” her eyes darted to the door, “it’s in my truck. Outside. The manifest is in my truck outside. So I’ll just…go…check it when I go out there.”

  He looked at her.

  “Okay,” he shrugged and turned to walk back to sit behind his desk.

  She started to walk out of the door.

  “And,” he said, before she could reach the door. “Don’t forget, since you’re new, you can’t drive any farther at this point.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “So…,” he said, “you’ll want to get the manifest before you go down that way.”

  “Oh, yes. Right.”

  She put her hand on the door.

  She looked back at him, “you wouldn’t happen to know which direction the 6:10 and 6:22 are, would you? I mean, I’ll just get directions for both, depending which is on my manifest, then I won’t have to come back in, and bother you,” she finished lamely.

  He squinted back at the board. “6:10’s at Berth 1, in the north quay,” he pointed, “and the other,” he said, still looking at the board, “is down near the warehouses, in the south quay.” He looked back down at his desk.

  “Thanks.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, not looking up at her.

  She walked out, immediately holding her hand up to cover her eyes. The sun was falling and was now directly in front of her. It would be dark soon.

  South quay, she thought, looking around. The sun was setting in front of her. Which means, south was to her left. She turned and began to walk.

  The port felt a bit like a long tarmac. Wide and expansive. Off to the side was buildings. And instead of walking past planes, she’d walk past large stacks of shipping containers.

  Ahead of her, about a mile down the port, she could see a series of warehouses.

  She thought back to her call with Marisol. It didn’t sound like she was outside when she called. And it sounded like she was hiding, at least part of the time. A warehouse could fit that description. And if they took Ben here — which she realized was really no more than a guess at this point — then holding him in a warehouse would probably be the easiest way to stay under the radar.

  She tried not to think about the odds. The chance that she was going to the right place was disparagingly small. But what else did she have?

  She picked up her pace, walking faster.

  72

  Loose Ends

  Three liabilities. Three assets. And thirty-one minutes.

  “Check it,” Jonah Lennox said.

  “We’ve just checked,” Keeler said, in a tone that would suggest he was responding to an insubordinate toddler.

  Lennox paced, hands behind his back. “Check it again,” he said without looking up at Keeler.

  Keeler motioned to the two men under his control and they both walked out the door.

  Lennox stopped walking and looked at the
Customs official, standing against the wall. The man was staring at him but immediately looked away. Lennox looked back down and resumed his pacing.

  “What are you going to do with the girl’s body?” Lennox said.

  Keeler was looking out of the warehouse window, and he didn’t immediately respond.

  Lennox looked up, toward Keeler, while continuing to pace. “Keeler…the girl,” he repeated.

  “How many years have we been doing this, Jonah?” Keeler said with a sigh.

  The problem with guns, Lennox thought, was the level of confidence they inspired. Or, rather, the level of false confidence. You have a gun and all of a sudden you’re an optimist. Or lazy. Neither was acceptable.

  “What if someone finds the body and makes the connection to us?”

  “They won’t,” Keeler said.

  “They won’t?” Lennox stopped walking. “How do you know they won’t?”

  “Because John and I,” he said, nodding to the Customs official standing off to the side, whose name was clearly not John, “we have it worked out.” He looked to the Customs official, “Right?”

  The man’s eyes darted from Keeler to the girl’s lifeless body. Lenox looked at the Customs official now. Then the Customs official nodded, understanding.

  “Keeler…” Jonah said, “if you…”

  “You handle your part,” Keeler said, forcefully, “and I’ll handle mine. Like always.”

  Lennox turned away and continued his pacing.

  “And what about him,” he said, without motioning, referring to the man they’d captured at the logging site.

  Keeler looked down at him.

  “I don’t think he’ll make it.”

  73

  The Sound

  The size of the port was weighing on Erin’s mind as she kept walking.

  To her right was a wall of shipping containers arranged in rows, with streets in-between, like a small city. Towering above them all was a seventy-foot high machine, shaped like a giant staple with a crane hanging down in the center, which she watched lift and stack containers, building the container-city. Beyond the containers, she could see the ocean vessels, docked. She caught a glimpse of one through a space between containers, and it was easily three football fields long.

  The distant metallic clanks of the port followed her as far as she went. She continued walking. On her left now was a long series of nondescript buildings. It was a moment before she realized it was all the same building. It seemed to stretch on forever.

  She looked down at her watch. 5:55 p.m. She had as little as fifteen minutes, and she still wasn’t close to finding out which vessel the smuggled golden chair was on. And even if she did find it, she didn’t have the slightest idea about how to stall an entire vessel. Add to all that, finding Ben in the process…if he was even here, or — it hurt to think it — if he was still alive.

  Erin was moving forward now, not because it was the logical thing to do. She was doing it simply because something inside of her wouldn’t let her do anything else.

  The sun was fading fast now. The only thing she could really say confidently about her trek was that she was heading south. The number of workers didn’t seem to be dwindling with the sun, however. It looked like the port would continue working into the night. She kept walking.

  Then she heard it.

  What was that sound? It was hauntingly familiar, but she couldn’t place it. Like a word she knew but couldn’t recall.

  She kept walking, thinking about it.

  Then, that’s it. The low thumping. It was the sound she’d heard when she was talking to Marisol. When Marisol was… a feeling like a bucket of ice water came over her, causing her to stumble as she walked. Focus, she told herself.

  She looked around for the sound. Above her, thirty feet up, a large fan built into the side of the wall was making a whump…whump…sound. The blades on the fan must be ten feet long.

  She looked down at the building. It was mostly a brick building. Probably another warehouse. And it had a series of panel windows. The only entry point was a door, about forty feet away. She moved closer to the brick wall, staying low enough so that anyone inside would not be able to see her through the windows.

  The sun was almost gone now.

  Whump…whump… The low bass sound was immediately above her. This was the place, she was sure of it. This was the place where Marisol was when she called her. As she stood there, a surreal feeling came over her. And then, another completely different emotion. Not sadness. Not fear. Rage. Pure rage at the people responsible.

  Erin didn’t try to control the emotion. Instead, she let it flow through her. She let it fill her up, because she would need it for what she was about to do.

  74

  Out

  Three American soldiers entered the building, not acknowledging the jailer behind his desk reading his magazine.

  They walked directly to Paul Dannon’s cell.

  By the time the jailer started paying attention, the three were already standing in front of Paul’s cell.

  “Open it,” said the older soldier, standing behind the other two.

  The soldier closest to Paul’s cell door reached down and put a key in the lock and, with a metallic click, turned it.

  The jailer stood up, looking at the three men. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t seem to get the words out.

  The soldier who unlocked the cell grabbed the bars with one hand and swung it open.

  “Hey,” came the wobbly voice of the jailer standing behind them. None of them turned to look at him.

  Paul stood from his bed and walked out, as if this were normally how a person leaves a Ghanaian jail.

  “Good to see you, Bill,” Paul said, reaching out to shake hands with the older soldier in the back.

  The other two soldiers stood to the side, looking ahead not making eye contact with Paul or Bill.

  “Tell me,” Paul said to Bill, “what’s the latest?”

  “We have their location,” Bill said.

  None of the four men had yet acknowledged the jailer. And the jailer, for his part, hadn’t said anything else. Probably deciding whether he should push the issue. After all, three armed men had just walked in with keys to the cells he was responsible for.

  “The team is mobilizing now,” Bill said. “Be ready in…,” he looked down at his watch, “six minutes. Then another fourteen, fifteen until we’re in position.”

  The four men began walking to the exit. Bill and Paul walked first, and the other two followed.

  “Uh…,” the jailer said, apparently beginning to find his courage, “you, er…” he stumbled for what to say as he made eye contact with Paul.

  Paul’s look was not unkind. “It’s okay,” he said. “Call your superior. Tell him exactly what happened. He knows I’m leaving.”

  The jailer stared at Paul and then looked to where the other men had just been standing. Paul nodded to him, signaling the exchange was over, and walked out of the building.

  Outside waiting for them was a large black humvee. The two soldiers climbed into the back. Paul opened the front passenger door, resting a leg on the step up, getting ready to hoist himself in. As he did, he looked over his shoulder and saw Kwami’s truck still sitting a few hundred yards down the street. He couldn’t see him inside of it from this distance. But he knew he was in there. He also noticed that his own truck was not where he left it. Good man, Paul smiled. He pulled himself in the large vehicle and shut the door behind him.

  Across from him, Bill was in the driver seat. He cranked the humvee’s diesel and it bubbled to life.

  “What about the object?” Paul said, continuing his previous debriefing. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Still narrowing it down,” Bill said.

  The humvee backed out into the street and drove down the road.

  “Bill,” Paul said, looking over at him, “I’m going in with your team.”

  “Paul…,” Bill said.<
br />
  “Non-negotiable, Bill,” he said, looking straight ahead, “you know what’s at stake.”

  They were moving along Accra backroads, and so there were not many other cars. The humvee’s tires gripped the pavement as Bill took a corner at speed. Humvees don’t have air condition, so all of the windows were down. Paul could feel the hot coastal wind coming in as Bill drove through the city.

  “Fine,” Bill said. “But,” he looked at Paul, “it’s my command. Understand? You come with me, you do what I say.”

  Paul nodded, “I got it, Bill.”

  The humvee pulled up to a steel gate. From the road, all that could be seen was the large metal perimeter wall. An American soldier, from the inside, walked the gate open. The humvee drove forward.

  “You’ve got eight minutes,” Bill said to Paul, “to suit up before we leave.”

  75

  By the Drum

  Erin crouched down next to the endless wall of the warehouse.

  Above her, the wall-mounted fan, the one she’d heard in the background when Marisol called her, continued to thump.

  Apart from the windowless door near her, she couldn’t see any other entrance. Along the warehouse’s brick wall was a series of square-paned glass windows — windows she’d be careful to stay away from. But none of them looked like they could be opened. Getting in there was only an option if she broke the glass. And she wasn’t ready to make that kind of noise yet.

  She looked over her shoulder toward the water. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and an orange light flickered to life high above her.

  She looked at the door again. She wondered if it had any kind of alarm on it. She couldn’t see any wires or magnetic clips nears the edge. If it was unlocked, and if there was no alarm…then she may be able to quietly slip in. But…she didn’t know what was on the other side of it. And, if this really was the place they killed Marisol, then would they still be here? Probably, as she reached her hand up to turn the handle, and make a quick, quiet entrance, they’d already —