by Mark Pryor
“If Freed was prepared to burn his business down . . .”
“Yeah, I know. Let’s just hope they see Amy as an asset, not a hindrance. How are we going to do this?”
“I’m sending an incident commander to work with the port authorities. They’ll try to identify the precise container, work through the night if they have to. Hopefully we can narrow it down to the right one, I’ll need whatever paperwork you have for that, the sales log, there should be an identifying number on there.”
“Then what?”
“If we can find the container tonight, we’ll clear the area as discreetly as we can and then set up around it. If we can get a look inside, we’ll do that, too. Either way, at first light we’ll make contact and try to talk them out of there.”
“Talk them out?”
Garcia nodded. “Of course. If that doesn’t work, we’ll use a giant can opener and pry them out, maybe with the help of some tear gas.”
“Good plan. You’re going to let me do the talking, right?”
“I figured you’d ask that. And I don’t know the answer right now. I’ll have to run it by my superiors. I’m guessing they won’t be wild about the idea, but I can try.”
“At the very least, I want to be there to advise.”
“That might be a good compromise. In the meantime, I suggest you go get some rest. I’ll send a car for you at four tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be waiting. What about you?”
Garcia looked at his watch. “I’ll grab some sleep in a couple of hours, but I have a few things to do first. You should go now, though. One of us needs to be fresh in the morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
At ten minutes before four o’clock, Hugo stepped out of the apartment. The city was quiet around him, light falling onto the street in yellow patches from the lamps along the sidewalk. The previous night, he’d dissuaded Tom from coming along, worried that his friend’s special brand of recklessness might be especially dangerous to the mission at this juncture. When Hugo mentioned the time he was being picked up, Tom went back to his bottle of Rioja and didn’t put up much of an argument.
Somewhere in a neighboring street, a moped puttered along. The sound of its engine echoed against the stone walls of the winding, narrow streets, the only sign of life. The storefronts that he could see where shuttered, the apartment windows were dark, and even the bars along this street had shoveled out the last of the night owls hoping for one more drink, their doors now locked and gated.
Hugo leaned against a crumbling wall between two grilled windows, his imagination spinning with tiredness and nerves. He imagined himself like a World War II spy in his hat and coat, waiting for his nighttime rendezvous with an attractive contact. His imagination didn’t deceive, at least in part, because it was Grace Silva who showed up at four a.m. in her pint-sized police car. Any mystique or romance vanished, though, when Hugo slid into the front seat and looked over at her. Her eyes were heavy, and she barely nodded, just checked the rearview mirror and started the car forward.
“Thanks for coming to get me,” Hugo said. “Do you know if they found the container?”
“They did. It’s at the top of a stack of five, so we’ve not been able to get very close yet.”
“Yet?”
“We’re assuming that Bhandari’s inside and knows how the port works. She probably doesn’t, but we’re playing it safe.”
“Which means?”
“That we didn’t want to move the container too early. She might be expecting the next movement to be the loading, so we didn’t want to move it just a few feet and then leave it for a few hours. If she can see out and realizes it’s not on the boat, well, that wouldn’t be good.”
Hugo nodded. “So when we get there, it’s moved to somewhere we can access it, isolate it.”
“Right.”
“Makes sense to me,” Hugo said. “Was I right about where the container is headed?”
“Yes, you were. Tripoli.”
“Into the waiting arms of her brother. Nice family business they have.” He looked at her. “You get any sleep?”
“A few hours. I’ll sleep tonight when this is over.”
“You and me both.” It was a loose double entendre at most, but they both smiled anyway.
Silva pulled out of a side street and turned onto the B-10, heading south. They started to see more cars, their headlights like sparks of light whipping past.
“I memorized some information about the port for you,” Silva said.
“You did?”
“It has two international terminals, TCB and TerCat, and I think is the third busiest port in the whole of Europe. And the trip they are planning is one-and-a-half thousand kilometers, which usually takes eight days.”
“So Chief Inspector Garcia was telling me. What else?”
“Well, containers come in different sizes, usually twenty and forty feet in length. The largest ships can carry ten thousand containers and, in fact, a ship lost between six and seven hundred containers in the Bay of Biscay recently, and that was a small percentage of its load.”
“Wouldn’t want to be in one of those when it goes overboard.”
“No, and it’s definitely a risk they’re taking. Anyway, Barcelona’s port handles about two thousand forty-foot containers a day. When a ship arrives, the yard unloads them all and has the same number of containers ready to load. Turnaround can be as little as twenty-four hours in some ports, with ships coming and going at all times of day and night.”
“Well now, you have been studying.”
“That’s just background. Each container has a unique number, which was marked on the paperwork you gave us, and which is also matched to a bar code that can be scanned wherever the container goes. That’s how they are tracked, how they know where to place them on the ship, and which ones to unload at the destination port.”
“And how you found their container at the dock.”
“Exactly.”
As they grew closer, Hugo felt the tiredness leave his body, washed away by the adrenaline that was starting to make him fidget. Silva glanced over. “We have a good team out there, it’ll be fine.”
“I know.” Hugo looked out of the side window, quiet for a moment as the lights of the city blinked at him. When he spoke, he heard the anxiety in his own voice. “But if Amy’s in there, she’s shut in a metal box with one, possibly two murderous lunatics. If we rattle that cage the wrong way, if things go bad and we’re not quick enough, they’ll kill her.”
And if she’s not in there . . .
Soon they left the highway and sped along the arrow-straight Carrer de la Lletra A, sweeping left out of a traffic circle into the port itself. Silva announced their arrival over the radio, and Hugo saw that their path had been cleared. He shivered involuntarily as they drove between two rows of shipping containers, neat stacks of yellow, blue, white, and red, like Lego bricks pressed into place by a giant. Hugo lowered his window, and the cold morning air rushed in, filling the car with the smell of diesel oil and the sea. He looked up at the sky, more gray than black now, and saw the long, dark arms of the dockyard cranes stretching over them. They reached the end of the row, and Silva slowed.
“It’s here somewhere, can you see—?”
“There.” Hugo pointed, and Silva directed the car past a shorter stack of containers, pulling up behind a longer row where the Barcelona police had staged. Hugo counted twelve police cars sitting in a square of light created by portable lamps. Most were the small patrol cars like the one he’d arrived in, but he also saw four SUVs and a military-style combat vehicle. Twenty or so police officers stood in small groups, about half in green fatigues, and the other half in the blue of the city police.
Garcia was in the closest group, and he turned as Silva parked the car. He strode over and opened Hugo’s door for him.
“Hola, Hugo. You didn’t bring coffee?”
“I’ll buy you one after,” Hugo said. “Are we ready to go?”
&nbs
p; “Pretty much. There’s an open area on the other side of these containers, and on the other side of that is where theirs is located, the top of a stack. We’ll drop it gently into the open area, surround it, and then start talking.”
“I’m ready to advise, if that’s still allowed.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve managed a special treat for you.” Garcia’s skin was gray with tiredness, but for a moment his eyes sparkled.
“What’s that?”
“You’re in business.” He handed Hugo a bullet-proof vest. “Put this on. I told my superiors that the one thing the people have inside is that they all speak English.”
“Wait, do we know who’s inside?”
“No, but we’re operating under the assumption that all three are: Bhandari, Freed, and young Amy. Anyway, I told them that if Amy hears your voice, can understand what you’re saying, that might be helpful somehow.” He shrugged. “They weren’t buying it initially, but then I told them you were trained in this stuff by the FBI, and I think they got a little,” he hesitated, “how do you say? Like when you see a famous person?”
“Starstruck?” Hugo offered.
“Sí, exactamente. So, they agree to let you lead the negotiation.”
Hugo took off his coat, slipped into the vest, and then pulled his coat back on. He put a hand on Garcia’s shoulder. “Thank you, Bartoli, I’m very grateful and I’ll do my best.” He looked around. “Are you the senior officer here?”
“Yes, but I have a colleague who will lead the assault on the container, if it comes to that. I’ll introduce you.”
Garcia led Hugo toward a group of four men in dark-green fatigues and combat boots, and when they were close, he called out to them. “Miguel.”
The largest in the group, and the only one wearing epaulettes, turned and looked Hugo up and down. He thrust out a hand. “Miguel Luna.” The man’s serious face melted into a wry smile. “I’m sorry, my English is not good.”
“Nice to meet you.” Hugo shook his hand and returned the smile. “Lo siento tambien, porque mi Español es peor.” He’d hoped to say, I’m also sorry, because my Spanish is worse, and since the two policemen chuckled, Hugo assumed he was at least close to getting it right.
“No problem,” Luna said, his voice a deep rumble. In America, he’d have been a shoe-in for a linebacker, with the wide shoulders and narrow waist of a bodybuilder. He thumbed at Garcia. “He will, err . . .”
“Translate,” Garcia finished for him. He turned to Hugo. “Why don’t you tell us what you think, how we should approach this. We don’t have much time for planning.”
“Agreed. Are we going to be able to see inside the container?”
“Probably not,” Garcia said. “We have a special camera, a small one, but I don’t know what you call it in English.”
“Fiber-optic? Like on the end of a wire?”
“Yes, that. Perhaps there is an opening, but on most of these,” he waved a hand at the stacks of containers, “there is not. That also means they can’t see us, which is a benefit.”
“But they’re not soundproof?”
“No. We have a loud speaker—that will work.”
“How will they communicate with us?” Hugo frowned, not happy with the practicalities. “We might not be able to hear them respond.”
Garcia grinned. “We have mics we can put on the container, don’t worry. Also, they’re at the top of a stack right now, so we flew a helicopter over the top to see if our thermal camera could tell us anything.”
“And did it?”
“Only that there are people inside. It’s not like the movies, where we can see outlines, but there was heat detected, so we can be sure someone’s in there.”
“But we can’t tell how many?”
“No, but in about twenty minutes, you can just ask them.”
Hugo’s plan, like all his best plans, was simple.
As dawn broke, a crane growled into place beside the stack of containers topped by Bhandari’s. Its arm stretched up over the metal box, and Miguel Luna barked a command at his men, the armed response team. They snapped into action, burly men with grim faces and more than enough firepower for this job shuffled in their gear to form a circle around the empty patch of dock where the container was to be lowered.
As soon as they were in place, Garcia gave orders to his men to take their positions, a secondary ring out of the immediate line of fire, there in case someone fled from the container and made it past Luna’s men. Unlikely in the extreme, Hugo thought, but best to be prepared. They moved a little more slowly than Luna’s men, several of them dropping cigarettes onto the dock and grinding them out before heading to their assigned places.
The last piece of preparation trundled around a stack of containers, then backed into the clearing. Six policemen hopped out of the bed of the truck and went to work, unloading and stacking sandbags to shoulder height, about a dozen feet from where the mouth of the container would be sitting. They’d scrambled to get the bags after a conversation Hugo had with Garcia and Luna when he first arrived.
“Do we know if these containers are bulletproof?” Hugo had asked.
Garcia had looked surprised. “You think they have guns with them?”
“No idea.” Hugo said. “But I don’t want us to be standing there unprotected if we find out they do.”
Garcia turned to Luna and spoke rapidly in Spanish. Luna replied, an answer that began with “No,” and when he’d finished speaking, Garcia said, “He doesn’t think so. He said the metal walls might stop a .22 caliber, but not much more than that.”
“I agree,” said Hugo.
The sandbag wall in place, they waited and watched as the crane picked up the container, a light-blue cube that had seen better days. Metal groaned as it cleared the container below it, and all eyes followed its progress as it swung into the open air and began its slow descent.
Hugo, Garcia, and Luna started forward and took their places behind the sandbags as the container neared the ground. With them came a police technician whose name Hugo hadn’t caught. The man carried a shoe-box-sized speaker that was connected by a twenty-foot loop of wire to a magnetic, cuplike device. This would be their set of ears.
All four men instinctively stepped back as the container reached eye level, giving the heavy metal box some respect. The technician waited a moment longer, then left their refuge and approached it. He pressed the cup to the side wall, then knelt and flipped a switch on the speaker. He stood and gave Hugo the thumbs-up just as the container settled onto the dock, giving a tired groan and throwing out a skirt of dust. The tech walked backward to the sandbags, spooling the wire as he went.
The crane operator had done well; Hugo was no more than eighteen feet from the end of the container, and he inspected the heavy padlock that kept it shut. It was encased in a white plastic skin, a thin seal designed to break when the lock opened, a measure to prevent anyone from tampering with the contents, and a way to know if they had.
Miguel Luna handed Hugo a small bullhorn and gave him a nod. “Good luck.”
Hugo nodded back and turned the megaphone on. He walked past the sandbags to the container and banged his fist on the cold metal. He waited a moment, then banged again before returning to his position. He held the mouthpiece to his lips.
“Nisha Bhandari, Gregor Freed, this is Hugo Marston. I’m with the Barcelona police, and your container is surrounded. I’m very much hoping we can resolve this without anyone getting hurt.”
They waited for a reply, and when none came, Hugo looked at the police technician. The man knelt by the speaker and checked the wire running into it, then put his ear to the speaker. He nodded to let them know it was all working fine. Hugo tried again.
“Nisha, this is Hugo. Can you let me know that you and Gregor are OK. And Amy, too.” He felt his throat catch when he said her name, hoping desperately that he was right and that she was there, with them. Alive.
A sound came from the speaker, not words, more of a rus
tling and a gentle clink as though someone was moving inside. Hugo looked over at Miguel Luna, who was inspecting the container through a pair of binoculars, looking for a crack, a sight-line into the metal box.
“Nisha, this container isn’t going anywhere. It’s over.” It suddenly struck Hugo that if Amy was in the container, other girls might be, too. “We have food and water for you and for anyone with you.”
The silence persisted and Hugo lowered the bullhorn.
“What are they doing?” Garcia asked.
“Considering their options. And we need to make sure they know that surrendering is the best one.” He raised the megaphone. “We have a couple dozen armed men here, Nisha. You need to talk to us, let us know you’re OK, and who’s in there with you.”
The men froze as the speaker came to life, a muffled grunting sound and the shuffling of feet, or . . . something.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” Hugo said into the megaphone. “We can’t wait forever, so if you want to talk to us, now would be the time.”
The movement inside the container stopped, and the four men all stared at the silent speaker, willing it to come to life, hoping for the sound of a human voice.
Hugo wasn’t ready to give up. “Nisha and Gregor, one of you needs to speak up, say something. I don’t want my friends in uniform pumping gas in there—you’ll spend the rest of the week throwing up in a concrete cell. Talk to me and we can make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Beside Hugo, Miguel Luna shifted from foot to foot. He’d been the one to pull the plug on smoking the container out. It had been a close call, but several factors weighed against. First, they didn’t know if Amy would be in there, injured or unable to move. If she was already in poor condition, subjecting her to a few minutes of smoke could be fatal. Second, the tightness of the container and the fact that it had just one point of entry rendered the gas as much a hazard to the police as to the occupants. Finally, Luna had pointed out that the only way to get smoke in was to open the container doors, and if they’d done that, they might as well go straight in.
