by John Lutz
As the car bounced and shook, she said, “There’s a stretch up here that isn’t covered by cameras.”
“Have we got wire cutters?”
“I picked some up.”
“Nothing else we’ll need?”
“Just my gun.”
They left the car in the arroyo where it was out of sight and scrambled up the bank. Laker went at the chain link with the long-handled, short-bladed clippers. He peeled the section of fence back for Terry and stepped through after her, dropping the clippers.
Now they were standing on a wide stretch of asphalt, among parked trucks, front-loaders and other vehicles, and stacks of containers. A freighter was moored to the dock under a set of gantry cranes, which were unloading it. There were a lot of men, some working, more standing around, in hard hats and yellow vests, who paid no attention to them. He followed Terry to a kiosk at the water’s edge. It had a flagpole, flying the Mexican flag, and two men were sitting in it. Next to it was a dock, where a motorboat was tied up. It was a flashy little rig, with a blue and yellow paint job, sirens and searchlights. Tires were strapped to the sides at intervals to serve as fenders. On the bow was painted the word PILOTO.
“So that’s your plan,” Laker said.
Terry jerked a thumb at the men in the kiosk. “They’ll be getting the call from Comercio Marinero any minute. But they’re not going out. We are. I’ll drive the boat and you’ll board the ship.”
“Terry, how am I supposed to pass myself off as a pilot? I’ve got no clue how to guide the ship to the pier.”
“You’re not going to. You’re going to run it aground.”
“Oh,” Laker said.
“I’ll explain it all, but first we’ve got to take care of these guys. We have to be on the radio when the call comes in.” She pulled the Glock from her belt and jacked a round into the chamber. “You ready?”
She went in first. Pushing open the door, she leveled her pistol on the man standing at the chart table. Shifted it to the man sitting at the radio. Terry told them in Spanish not to move and they’d come out of this okay.
The men seemed unable to move anyway. Both stared fixedly at the gun. One was middle-aged, with glasses and a gray moustache. The other was young and skinny. Laker had enough Spanish to order them to lie on the floor. Where there were boats, there was rope, and he found a supply of mooring line neatly coiled in the corner. He knelt and tied the men, hands and feet.
Terry was poking around in a cabinet. She found a light blue epauletted shirt and cap, which she dropped on the chair next to Laker.
He noticed that the shirt was the same as the ones the men were wearing. “Okay, I’ll look the part,” he said. “But I don’t speak Spanish well enough to pass as a native.”
“You don’t speak Spanish well, period. But it doesn’t matter. English is the lingua franca of shipping. And you’ll be talking to a Polish captain, European mates. They won’t notice anything off about your accent.” She bent over the radio and adjusted dials. Static thinned and a jabber of voices came through. “Not the Comercio,” she said.
Finished with his knots, Laker stood, peeled off his sweaty shirt, and put on the uniform shirt. He could barely fasten the buttons.
“Mexicans don’t come in your size,” Terry said. She was standing over the chart table now. With her forefinger she traced a course into the harbor. “After the entrance channel, there’s this dogleg to the freight pier. You’ll direct the helmsman to cut the turn too tight, and the ship will run over this sandbar here. It’ll be stuck fast. They’ll wait for the tide to turn and hope it will lift them, but it won’t. Then they’ll bring lighters alongside and unload containers onto them. It’ll take hours and hours. Days, even.”
“Buying us the time we need.” Laker smiled at her. “This’ll work, Terry.”
She smiled back. Turning back to the cabinet, she whipped off her black top. Terry still didn’t bother with a bra. She put on a blue uniform shirt, yellow vest, belt with flashlight and utility knife.
The radio gushed static and a new voice came on. Terry sat down and put on the headset. After a moment, she turned to him and nodded. It was the Comercio Marinero. A brief exchange and she shucked the headset and rose. “They’re approaching the harbor mouth. Let’s go.”
The men on the floor had their heads turned away. It was a silent plea: we won’t be able to describe you. Please let us live. They’d feel better once he and Terry were away, Laker thought. But they wouldn’t be able to wriggle free of their bonds in time to interfere with the plan.
Terry jumped to the dock, then boarded the boat. She started the motor as Laker cast off. Gulls rose from the water, grudgingly getting out of their way as they motored slowly into the main channel, passing the freighter the cranes were unloading. Traffic in the harbor was light, just a few pleasure boats bound for the marina. Terry opened up the throttles and the bow rose. Laker sat on a bench at the stern. He lifted the lid next to him, took out a life vest, and put it on.
A few minutes later, they left the harbor. The boat bobbed with the waves, but gently. The sea was calm. The bottom rim of the sun was just touching the horizon, casting a long yellow streak toward them across the blue water. They didn’t need GPS coordinates to locate the Comercio. It was the only ship in sight.
As they closed the distance, Laker rose to stand beside Terry at the wheel and get a better look at the ship he’d chased half-way across the world. It was a typical, small-sized cargo vessel, about 120 meters long. The bow wave was only a low curl of white water, because the ship was moving very slowly. Containers were stacked on the flat area aft of the bow. Only a few stacks, and not tall; the ship wasn’t fully laden. At the end was the sterncastle containing the crew quarters and the bridge, which was topped with communication masts and disks.
Terry slowed down and flashed her navigation lights. She got on the radio as she passed along the ship’s port side, turned, and came in close. Now the rust-streaked, tugboat-scuffed, roughly-painted, rivet-studded hull loomed over them. From an opening ten feet above the waterline, a rope ladder was tossed out to unfurl down the hull, its lowest rung awash. Terry gave Laker the nod.
He climbed out of the cockpit. The wind blew his cap off. Grasping the low railing that ran around the bow, he stepped forward and stood with feet far apart and knees bent. Terry slowed the boat further and maneuvered it closer to the ladder. She was good at this. The boat was matching the ship’s speed exactly and the rope ladder was only a yard or so away. An easy hop. He stepped over the rail to stand at the very edge of the deck. Let go the rail and crouched to jump.
The boat veered away, pitching Laker face-first into the sea.
Warm salt water filled his mouth and stung his eyes. Blindly he flung out a hand, grasped the bottom rung of the ladder. The ship’s momentum almost tore it from his grip. He kicked hard and was able to grasp the next rung and pull himself up. His head broke the surface. Coughing, he struggled to breathe. The air he was drawing in was filled with spray, making him cough harder.
Two men were leaning out of the opening in the hull. Their faces were Asian. They were shouting and waving, maybe trying to tell him to hang on and they’d pull him up.
He swiveled his head the other way. The pilot boat was still there, running alongside the ship, a few yards away. He could just see Terry’s head above the gunwale. She looked at him.
Only then did he realize that she had deliberately turned the wheel to throw him into the water. That her plan had never been to put him aboard the ship but to kill him. And she wasn’t through trying yet.
He saw the bob of her shoulders as she spun the wheel. She meant to crush him. But it was one of the tires tied to the boat’s hull that hit him. Together with the life vest it cushioned the impact. Even so the pain made him cry out. One of his hands lost its grip and his head went under.
His feet kicked, his hand probed and grasped. His head came up. Terry was waiting for that. Her shoulders dipped as she spun the wheel.
Again it was the tire that hit him. The pain in his ribs was fierce. He let go of the rope ladder and grabbed at the tire. His fingers scrabbled and found grips—on the rim of the tire, and on the rope that held it to the side.
When he was able to raise his face out of the water and take a breath, the rusty black iron hull and the dangling rope ladder were receding. Terry was satisfied. She couldn’t see him and figured he was on his way to the bottom of the sea.
He knew what she’d do next. He took a tighter grip on the tire-rim and the rope. A few feet aft there was another tire he could rest his feet on. He breathed deep and held it as the boat accelerated. Terry was heading back to shore.
The next few minutes were bad. Laker’s grip held, but the speeding boat kicked up so much spray that he could hardly breathe. He felt as if a spear had pierced his side and knew from experience that meant a cracked or broken rib. He was afraid he was going to black out.
That would mean he’d drown. And Terry would get away.
Unacceptable, Laker thought. He held on, and coughed, and fought the pain.
Finally the pressure of rushing water eased. The boat was slowing down. Terry must be approaching the harbor entrance. Or she was thinking about her next move. He gingerly shifted his hand and footholds till he was out of the water, clinging to the side of the boat. For a while he did nothing but breathe.
The motor cut off. The boat was slowly drifting with the tide. Letting his legs drop into the water, Laker moved hand over hand to the stern. Raised himself till he could see over the gunwale. Terry was eight feet away, at the wheel with her back to him. Her golden-brown hair swirled in the wind. She was shrugging out of her life vest. Her Glock was shoved into the tool belt she’d taken from the pilot kiosk.
Stifling the grunts of pain from his rib, Laker clambered aboard. The noises of wind and water covered him. Terry was gazing toward shore. His eyes fixed on the nape of her neck above her collar. He took three silent steps and rabbit-punched her.
She dropped to the deck. He took the Glock, stepped back, and sat on the bench in the stern. Glanced at the harbor mouth to see if a police boat with lights and sirens was emerging. But the men in the pilot kiosk mustn’t have been found yet.
Terry stirred. Opened her eyes. Took in the Glock in his fist, resting on his knee, pointed at her. He didn’t say anything. She struggled onto her knees. Stood.
He said, “When did you decide to shop me to the Russians, Terry?”
She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “I’ve been working for them for the last three years.”
“How’d they turn you?”
“Please don’t make me tell the whole story. You can fill in the details. I overreached. Didn’t just walk into a trap. Ran into it. This was in Beirut. The Russians said they’d hand me over to Hezbollah. Or I could go home, as a double for them. For three years I’ve been doing things I hated myself for. But nothing as bad as today.”
“Was it really so bad? You’ve always liked life on the edge. And there’s no edge as thin as being a double agent.”
“My controllers have never been happy with me. I wasn’t maneuvering myself into the right positions to provide them the intel they wanted.”
“You were in the right place at the right time when I came along. Your controller must have been delighted.”
“Yes. He was. His orders were to kill you. Make sure you disappeared, so CIA would never know you’d even been in Mexico.”
“What took you so long?”
Terry leaned back against the control panel. She looked weary and defeated, but Laker wasn’t sure. He was watching her hands. There was a utility knife in a sheath on her tool belt. He didn’t know if she was even aware of it.
“I was stalling. I kept telling my controller, what if I just keep you busy till the ship clears port? Won’t that be enough?”
“Yesterday, in Chapultepec Park, you weren’t talking to the embassy. It was your controller.”
“Yes. He gave me the ultimatum. Carry out my orders. Immediately. Or he’d burn me with the CIA. I’d spend the rest of my life in prison.”
Her left hand came up quickly. Laker raised and leveled his pistol. But she was only taking hold of the windshield frame. The wind was picking up as the sun went down and bigger waves were rolling the boat. Laker’s rib throbbed.
“What’s the ship carrying, Terry? Where’s it going?”
“I don’t know. The Russians don’t trust traitors with their secrets. All I can tell you is, your instinct is correct. That ship is hot. It’s the key piece in some big game Moscow’s playing.”
“Did you really call the ship’s agent? Pretend to be Señora Montoya with her load of HVAC components for Guayaquil? Or were you just passing on misinformation from Moscow?”
“Moscow wasn’t interested in misinforming you, Laker. Just killing you. Yes, I did call the agent. The information is good as far as I know. It’s just my guess that only the captain and maybe his officers know what’s in the container that was loaded at Magadan. And that he’s not headed for Guayaquil. But I still think I’m right.”
Laker nodded.
“Seems like we’re through talking, Tom.” She straightened up, letting go of the windshield frame, allowing her right hand to fall to her side.
“Put your hand back where it was.”
Instead she grasped the handle of the utility knife.
“Stop,” he said. “You know the saying. Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”
“That’s if you want to win.”
“Don’t make me kill you, Terry. You don’t want it to end like this.”
“I don’t want it to go on.” She whipped the knife from its sheath and lunged at him.
Laker shot her in the right thigh.
She cried out as she toppled. The knife fell to the deck. Her hands caught the gunwale to break her fall. Perching on it, she grasped her bloody leg with both hands. He started toward her, but she stopped him with a fierce look.
“You bastard—Laker,” she gritted out. “I would’ve put my bullet—right between your eyes.”
Still looking at him, she leaned back and fell over the side. Laker ran to the gunwale. She’d already disappeared. There were only bubbles and a red tinge in the water. The next wave washed them away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It would take years to sort out his feelings about Terry. Right now, he didn’t even have minutes.
He turned seaward. The Comercio Marinero was half a mile off, and its hull was lengthening out as it turned broadside on to him, away from the harbor mouth. The two crewmen at the top of the rope ladder had witnessed the attempt to murder him. Probably assumed it had succeeded. He didn’t know what they’d reported to the captain, but Korzeniowski had evidently decided not to risk going into Puerto Chiapas. He was heading straight for his next destination.
Whatever it might be.
Laker started the pilot boat’s motor and spun the wheel, turning onto a parallel course with the freighter. He looked over his shoulder at the harbor mouth. Still no police boat.
Fortunately, the sun had dropped below the horizon and the light was fading fast. Tiny, bright navigation lights pricked the gloom around the distant freighter. The pilot boat had an abundant array of lights. He left them all off and opened the throttle a little. He was going to have to get closer. But not close enough that anybody on the freighter would see his bow wave or hear his motor.
Through the night he followed the Comercio Marinero slowly southward along the coast. The sky clouded up, obscuring the moon and stars. He could just make out the faint wake of the freighter. They would be keeping a radar watch, but he was confident that his small boat, low to the waves and moving slowly, wouldn’t show up on their screen. Rummaging through compartments under the instrument panel, he found a bottle of water, which he rationed to last the night. An even luckier find was a small bottle of aspirin, which did a lot to dull the pain of his rib. He decided that it was only cracked, not broke
n. That way it hurt less.
Gradually the sky lightened. A thick mist lay over a calm sea. The coastline was a vague lumpy shape off to port. As the sun rose, he got an almost eerily clear view of the highest point of the freighter, the bridge topped with communication masts and dishes protruding from the mist. The ship was changing course, turning toward land. Working with Navy SEALs in the Persian Gulf, he’d learned a little about small-boat handling, but he couldn’t figure out how to run the electronic chart system of the pilot boat. He could only guess that they’d left Mexico behind. This was probably Nicaragua.
The freighter headed into a narrow harbor mouth between sandy headlands. This was obviously a very small port, and Laker couldn’t follow. He shut down his motor. The mist was gradually burning off, and his boat with its conspicuous paint job and glittering lights and sirens would be spotted. Anyway its fuel gauge was sinking toward empty.
He slid back the hatch lid and clambered down into the engine compartment. He had no idea what a seacock looked like, so he turned handles and opened valves until seawater began to pour in. Back on deck, he picked up his life jacket from the bench.
The boat was already beginning to settle. He jumped into the warm water and stroked toward the headland.
When he judged he was close enough, he put his feet down. There was ground under them. He walked through gently lapping waves to a beach littered with rusty cans and plastic bags. Then he made his way around the point.
The harbor was as small and sleepy as he’d expected. Close by on his left, he could see fishing boats lining battered wooden docks. They were shrouded in their nets. Gulls were flapping around, pecking at dead fish caught in the nets, but there were no people. This puzzled him until he remembered it was Sunday. On his right, farther off, a top-heavy cruise ship, its many tiers of balconies rising above the mist, was moored to a pier.
Straight ahead, in the main channel, was the Comercio Marinero, stern on to him. Its engines were off. With a clatter and splash, it dropped stern and bow anchors. He guessed that the cruise ship was taking up all of the port’s pier space. A heavy chugging reached his ears, and an orange blur gradually emerged from the mist. It was a barge, with PELIGRO painted on its side in giant letters, and rows of tires to serve as fenders along its waterline. Its engines went into reverse as it maneuvered alongside the freighter, then were cut off. Large pipes were extended toward the hull of the freighter, where crewmen were waiting to connect them. An offshore breeze brought Laker the smell of diesel oil.
