Lost

by James Patterson

  Hanna wanted to let down her guard for just a moment and enjoy the train ride. She wanted to appreciate the scenery and think about the future. She was starting to believe they had a future. But she just couldn’t relax.

  Josie and Tasi were oblivious as they searched their phones for information on Florida and Disney World. It made Hanna smile, seeing Josie so excited. It was a childhood Hanna would’ve liked. All that mattered to her was Josie’s happiness.

  Albert came back to the car.

  Hanna snapped, “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  “Rostoff won’t be happy we slipped away from Amsterdam.”

  “All will be forgotten when we pay him. The Russians will help us in Miami because they need our load. It will all work out. So just sit down and relax.”

  He plopped into the seat facing the girls and Hanna felt like they were a little family.

  Fifteen minutes later, two young men came into the car and sat near the door. They smiled and nodded when Hanna and Albert looked up at them, the only other people in the car. One of the men lowered the wide window, and the noise of the train boomed through the car. Cool air rushed in.

  Albert gave Hanna a look.

  She said, “No, relax. They’re just passengers.”

  Albert sat for a minute more, then stood up and casually strolled down the aisle. The girls, who were facing forward, were still engrossed in their phones. They couldn’t see the new passengers without turning around.

  Albert headed toward the loo at the far end of the car. As he passed the men, he said, in Dutch, “How’s it going?”

  The thinner of the two, a man about twenty-five years old, answered, “Good, and you?”

  Hanna heard the slight Russian accent in the greeting. Damn. Albert was onto something.

  Her brother turned just as the man stood and popped open a switchblade.

  Albert moved like lightning as he parried a blow, then threw his elbow into the young man’s clean-shaven jaw.

  His head twisted, and a tooth flew out of his mouth and bounced off the seat. A line of spittle with blood in it streaked across the clean tan wall.

  Somehow, Albert ended up with the knife in his hand.

  Hanna watched, stunned, wondering how she could help. The girls were still in their own little world, and the sound from the open window had drowned out the commotion.

  Albert moved again before the second man could draw a weapon. He put the point of the switchblade to the man’s bearded throat and took a small automatic pistol from him. Albert turned to his sister, winked, and smiled.

  The young man’s eyes were wide. The neatly trimmed beard made him look like a boy pretending to be a man. So did the ease with which Albert had disarmed him.

  Albert put the pistol to the man’s head and gave him an order in a low voice.

  The bearded man helped his dazed Russian friend up and Albert escorted the two of them to an electrical and maintenance closet wedged next to the restroom. Albert said something else, opened the locked closet door with the first man’s knife, and forced the two inside.

  Thirty seconds later, he flopped, exhausted, into the seat next to Hanna.

  She said, “How do you know they won’t scream for help?”

  Albert tapped the pistol in his waistband. “I explained that if they didn’t keep quiet until I told them they could come out, there would be plenty of air holes in the door. Young pretty boys aren’t used to people fighting back. We’ll be fine.”

  Hanna had known her brother was tough, but this was spectacular. He looked like a movie spy. How could she not feel safe traveling with him?

  Chapter 59

  Miami

  I’D BEEN BURNING up my contacts trying to keep an eye on everything that came through the ports in Florida. The problem was that Florida, being a long peninsula, had a lot of damn ports. I didn’t even bother to consider what would happen if the ship came into a port outside of Florida.

  It was easy to get overwhelmed with data and details, and this was where my background in sports came in handy. If I viewed major cases the way I used to view football games, I kept a better attitude and was able to manage each task that popped up a little more easily.

  This wasn’t a game, but that’s how cops have to look at major cases. Every cop has some form of psychological trick to help cope with the stress that gets piled on us from all sides by the administration, the public, and our own natural desire to make arrests in every case. Not to mention the stress that comes from department infighting, though in my experience, the hardworking cops who want to solve cases don’t care much about promotions or office politics.

  Still, it didn’t pay to ignore them completely. As Plato said, “One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.” That’s especially true in police work, and I was experiencing it on the task force. Luckily, our supervisor left decisions about assignments up to my discretion.

  Chill, Steph Hall, and Lorena Perez were all looking at the Rostoff connection. It bugged me that the smug son of a bitch Roman Rostoff thought he could sit in his fancy office and count his money without facing any consequences for his illegal activities. Maybe that’s how it worked in Moscow, but it wouldn’t fly in Miami. I didn’t care how many Russians lived here.

  Now Marie Meijer and I were in my FBI-issued Explorer heading to Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale. The way Marie took in everything that flashed past as we drove made me feel like I’d brought her to an alien world.

  “It’s all so green,” she said.

  “It’s the subtropics. That’s what happens. Wait until summer and you’ll understand why things are green—they get watered every single afternoon.”

  “Why don’t they call this the port of Fort Lauderdale instead of Port Everglades?”

  I shrugged. “No one consulted me when they were naming it. It’s a big port with the second-busiest cruise terminal in the world.”

  “Where is the busiest cruise terminal?”

  “Miami. Where else? That’s part of what’s making everything so difficult. There are so many ships coming into the ports daily, not even counting the cruise ships, and it’s impossible to investigate them all.”

  I drove into the port off Seventeenth Street so that Marie could get an idea of the size of it. Even the county convention center was at the port. The cruise terminal was bustling as I eased past a security checkpoint and inched toward the cargo terminal. While not as elaborate as the cruise terminal, this area sprawled over acres of the port.

  There were oil and natural-gas storage containers on the property between the port and US 1. I had visited them once during a class on terrorism, and I didn’t like to consider the damage that would be done to downtown Fort Lauderdale if a terrorist managed to puncture one of the tanks and ignite the contents.

  I didn’t mention that to Marie. Tourists don’t like to hear about potential terror threats.

  I found a spot near the southernmost part of the port. This part of the port wasn’t too busy today. In fact, it felt a little isolated. A few cars were parked haphazardly. One crane was working to unload a small freighter farther down the dock, and the sound of metal against metal echoed through the port.

  We stepped out of my car and looked at the three ships that had docked since last night. None of them would have been confused with the Queen Mary.

  The middle ship held about fifteen containers on the bow and dozens more amidships and on the stern. One of the containers caught my attention. A rail-thin man smoking a cigarette was playing with the lock on the front of it.

  I nudged Marie and pointed at the ship.

  Marie said, “I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It looks like a normal cargo ship to me. I don’t see anything unusual.”

  “The container near the bow of the ship has air vents along the sides. We’ve got to get a better look.”

  Chapter 60

  IT’S HARD TO overestimate the importance
of cell phones in modern police work. As I hustled down to the ship with Marie, all I could manage was a quick check with an FBI analyst on my phone; I gave her the ship’s name and said that it was docked at Port Everglades. The analyst told me right away that the ship had left from Belgium and had made several other stops before arriving in Florida, and she was working on the registration as I reached the gangplank.

  It wasn’t a particularly large ship. I guessed it had about fifteen crew members. It wouldn’t have drawn my attention if I hadn’t noticed that one container; I’d seen enough containers to know they usually didn’t have air vents.

  As we approached, I slipped on a blue FBI windbreaker and draped a police badge on a chain around my neck so there would be no confusion that I was a cop.

  A muscle-bound fortyish Hispanic man wearing a shirt with the shipping company’s logo on it stepped onto the gangplank at the other end and walked forward. He raised his hand like a crossing guard and said, “The ship is not open to the public.” He held his crossing-guard pose for a few seconds to show off his massive biceps, then added, “Step back. They’re gonna unload.”

  I stared at the man for a moment. “What about this windbreaker makes you think we’re part of the general public?” I asked. “And I don’t see the crane down here ready to unload anything.”

  The man stood straight and flexed his chest muscles, a move a bouncer might make to intimidate someone. He said, “Look, pendejo, I don’t give a shit who you are. You ain’t coming on this ship.”

  “Are you a member of the crew?”

  “I’m a security officer for the shipping company. Move away from the gangplank. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “Listen, Paul Blart, Mall Cop, we just want to get a quick look at one container, then we’ll be on our way. It’ll take only a minute or two.”

  The muscle-head was a couple of inches shorter than me, and clearly not used to having to look up at someone. He pointed at my FBI jacket and said, “Why do you have an FBI jacket but a City of Miami badge?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. I said, “I’m sorry to confuse you, but we’re coming aboard, and I mean right now.” I stepped onto the gangplank with Marie directly behind me. The man gave a few inches but didn’t get out of the way.

  He said, “Don’t you need a warrant to search the ship?”

  “Not for this. I have concerns about someone’s safety. It’s called exigent circumstances. And you’d be smart to step aside.”

  “What are you, a lawyer?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. But this is police business and someone’s life might be in danger.” I began marching forward, Marie right behind me. It wasn’t until we reached the far side of the gangplank that the security officer offered any resistance. He braced himself at the end of the gangplank as if he thought his big chest and biceps would be enough to stop a determined cop who was six foot four and weighed 240 pounds.

  He was wrong.

  Chapter 61

  ALL IT REALLY took was a slight body twist, just like a coach had taught me at the University of Miami. I quickly shifted everything to my left, and the security officer squirted past me. He fell face-first onto the gangplank. I never actually touched him. That was the best kind of confrontation.

  I liked how Marie calmly stepped over the man without saying a word.

  We wasted no time heading to the bow of the ship and the container with the air vents. I didn’t want to think about what it would’ve been like to cross the Atlantic in something like this. I was scared to see what was inside.

  The security officer picked himself up and caught up to us. Like an angry little kid, he said, “I called my supervisor. Only Customs can come on the ship at any time. You’re not with Customs. That’s about the only police-agency ID you don’t have on you.”

  I said, “Did you call your supervisor over to the ship? I’d like to speak with him or her.”

  That brought the man up short. “No. She’s not on-site. But she said you don’t have permission to be on the ship.”

  All I said was “Noted,” and we continued making our way to the bow of the ship.

  Before we even reached the container, the thin sailor who I’d seen smoking a cigarette in front of it earlier turned to face me. He was wearing a faded red Def Leppard T-shirt with a frayed edge where the collar should have been. His laminated ID and port card were attached to his belt.

  The man spoke to the security officer in English with a thick Dutch accent. “Hey, what’s this? The captain said no one was to come aboard until the crane was ready to start unloading.”

  I pointed to the badge on my chest and said, “Police business. I’d like to look at this container more closely.”

  The crew member said, “And I’d like to get a blow job from a Hooters waitress. Both of us are going to be disappointed.”

  I scooted around the man, secretly hoping he’d make the mistake of putting his hands on me. I don’t know if it was my size or my official position that gave him a little bit of common sense, but all he did was follow me, complaining in my ear the whole way.

  “We can’t open any of these containers,” he said. “They have special locks. You’re wasting your time. You’re wasting my time.”

  Marie looked at the door and said, “This lock has been tampered with. It’s not even an official transport lock.”

  I didn’t hesitate to pull a rescue tool off the wall. It looked like a thick crowbar with a pointy end.

  Now the crewman stood directly between me and the door to the container. He looked serious. I hoped I wouldn’t have to fight him or, God forbid, go for my gun, although I would if he or the security officer drew a weapon.

  We stood there in silence. Marie sensed the tension and, like a good partner, moved into position to take action if she had to. She was behind the men, neither of whom was paying any attention to her. I’d seen her in action and had no doubt she could stop these two idiots from doing anything stupid.

  Sweat poured down the security officer’s face. He was nervous. This was way outside his experience.

  Finally, the crewman said, “The captain’ll have something to say about this.”

  He looked toward the bow. I stepped past him to the shipping container, avoiding the security guard like I was a hockey player skating past a defender. No one had touched me and I still had the crowbar in my hand.

  I paused at the door for a moment. I thought I heard something move inside the container. Marie knocked on the side of the container, and I heard more movement. My heart started to race. I prayed that we weren’t too late to save everyone inside.

  Then the security officer said, “What’s that noise?” It was like a light bulb went on over his head. He realized what was going on and what was at stake. When the crewman started to move toward me, it was the security officer who stopped him.

  I nodded my thanks to the security officer, then set the crowbar against the lock. It broke off with the right leverage and my full weight against it.

  I pulled one side of the door open. The smell that hit us was ferocious. It turned my stomach and made my eyes water.

  Behind me, I heard Marie mumble, “Oh my God.”

  Chapter 62

  ASIDE FROM THE stench that was making my eyes water, the first thing I noticed was the strange light inside the container. There were two scratched Plexiglas panels across the top that allowed sunlight inside, but the light that came through the hazy plastic was yellow and gave the entire container a freaky look.

  Something flashed out of the corner and made me duck my head to one side. Then a shriek tore the air. I was completely confused.

  All at once, things came into focus, and I understood much more clearly. There were no people inside the container. It was filled with exotic parrots and macaws.

  I stepped inside and saw feathers raining down from the birds in the top row of cages. A battery-operated light dangled from a cord. The man in the red T-shirt must have
just been in to check on the birds.

  I tried to get an idea of how many birds were crammed into the container. At first, I thought it was dozens, then I realized it was more than a hundred, all of them extravagant, with lavish colors and powerful vocal cords, or whatever birds use to make noise.

  Marie stood just outside the door, which was wise. She said, “These are all African. A number of different species. I’d say they’re really, really valuable.”

  Here I’d been thinking we were about to set twenty or so people free. I turned to ask the thin man in the Def Leppard T-shirt about the container and cargo, but he was already racing for the gangplank.

  I looked at the security officer and said, “Can you call someone to stop him?”

  The muscle-bound man raised his hands and said, “My job is to make sure no one gets on the boat.”

  “Don’t you have the sheriff’s office or Customs on your radio somewhere?”

  He shook his head. “They made me take their channel off my radio. They said I was too enthusiastic and made too many calls for assistance.”

  I looked at Marie.

  She said, “Isn’t this still a crime? I mean, he is a smuggler.”

  I wasn’t happy about it, but I started to jog after the man. This day was not going the way I’d thought it would.

  Chapter 63

  BY THE TIME I was off the ship and on the dock, the thin man in the Def Leppard T-shirt was jogging west, away from the water. He headed toward the wide-open fields that housed the storage containers for gas and oil. This was not the kind of chase people saw on police shows or in the movies. Most criminals aren’t in particularly good shape, and most cops avoid running after suspects unless they’ve committed a serious crime.

  I kept the man in sight easily enough, but this was not an impressive foot chase. We weren’t going terribly fast, and there were no obstacles or traffic. Just as real-life fistfights tend to be messy events, real-life foot chases generally aren’t that exciting either. I could have just let him run—the guy lived on the ship, and he’d be easy to find. But secretly, I didn’t want to disappoint Marie. This was the kind of story I’d have to embellish a few years down the road. Maybe I’d add a parrot sitting on his shoulder…