He approached a short man in a neon vest who was checking containers as trucks brought them around.
“Where are these ships headed?” Zac asked as he flashed Assad’s badge.
The man glanced over at Zac and his badge, but kept walking as he spoke.
“All over the world, my friend.” He grinned, clearly enjoying the hectic pace of his work. “Inside these containers come electronics from Japan, wine and clothes from France, and once in a while a Ferrari or a Lamborghini from Italy.”
“Where, specifically, is this ship headed?” Zac asked with an edge to his voice.
“That I don’t know. I just scan this barcode and the crane takes it from there.” Within seconds a mammoth yellow gantry crane was overhead, lowering its giant claws toward the forty-foot-long metal box. “There’s a monitor over there if you want to know where it’s going.” The man pointed to a hut a few hundred feet away.
Zac found the monitor. It listed the destinations and the arrival and departure times at Jebel Ali. He scanned the list quickly. There were several vessels destined for ports in China, Africa, and Western Europe, but two in particular caught his eye: the Simmons Acadia was leaving for Southampton, England, in fifty minutes and the M/V Castor would sail for Marseille, France, in two hours. Either one would suit his needs, but steaming straight to England would be far better. Zac consulted a map next to the monitor and started walking.
Zac soon found the Simmons Acadia. She was preparing to leave with a pair of tugboats off her bow. With roughly thirty minutes until departure, he had to find a way aboard. He spotted a group of men huddled at the foot of the gangway. Two uniformed agents were reviewing a sheaf of documents with a pair of sailors. Zac scrutinized the ship for another entrance, but the sloping aluminum stairs were the only way aboard. He leaned against an idle crane for several minutes and watched the discussion.
The sailors ascended the gangway. Zac took a few steps toward the ship but stopped short. The uniformed men weren’t leaving. He looked desperately for anything that might grab their attention, but they stood quietly and watched the sailors step onto the ship’s deck. The foot of the gangway lifted off the dock and rose up onto the ship.
A few minutes here, a random chance there, and the course of his life had again been dramatically altered. There would be no landing on British soil where there were proper laws and human rights, no quick phone call to the U.S. authorities to extract him from his predicament. The Acadia sounded a loud blast from its horn, punctuating his defeat.
Getting aboard ship had been harder than he’d expected. He needed a plan if he was going to stow away to Marseille. He was deep in thought as he walked quickly toward the next berth.
The smaller M/V Castor was a hive of activity. Five gantry cranes were picking containers from waiting trucks and hoisting them aboard ship, where an army of riggers was lashing them into place. Zac stepped over a pair of thick hoses as a forklift sped by.
A lone sailor in a khaki uniform stood watch atop the gangway. Zac made a conspicuous show of pulling a piece of paper from Assad’s wallet and looking up at the ship before starting up the gangway. The uniformed deckhand watched carefully. Men in suits were rare in a seaport. They were either management or cops, and neither was good news when you were due to cast off in an hour.
Zac adopted a stern expression and gave a cursory nod to the sailor, a swarthy, hirsute man with broad shoulders and Mediterranean features.
Just pray he doesn’t speak Arabic, thought Zac.
Zac used his accented English again. “This is the M/V Castor?”
“Yes. Can I help you?” responded the sailor in competent English. He eyed Zac warily.
“I need to speak with your captain.”
Zac again held out his badge in a way that revealed the weapon holstered on his hip. The sailor reached for the radio strapped to his belt.
“No radio.” Zac shook his head. “This is a criminal matter. Please fetch the captain for me.”
“I cannot leave this station unattended.”
“It will not be unattended. I will be here.”
“It has to be a ship security officer.”
“A police officer should suffice.”
“I am sorry. I cannot.”
Zac scowled. “Let me see your identification.”
The crewman pulled a lanyard from inside his shirt and held up a photo ID. Zac pretended to scrutinize the information. He made eye contact and held it while he spoke slowly for effect.
“Mr. Roselli, get the captain down here, now.”
The sailor hesitated. Zac could see the uncertainty in his face.
“Either you fetch the captain right now,” Zac said, “or this ship is not leaving port and you are coming into custody for interfering with a police investigation.”
Additional days in port would cost the shipping company tens, or possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars and likely cost the seaman his job . . . once he was out of jail.
“I’ll take you to see the captain.”
“So the fugitive can escape? No, thank you. I will be right here when you return with the captain.”
The crewman nodded and walked aft toward the superstructure. Zac looked around, waiting for the sailor to disappear. The container racks above deck were almost filled to capacity. Three of the five gantry cranes were already idle and the last two had just a few containers left to load. He didn’t have much time. The ship would be ready to leave on schedule.
Zac bolted for the interior of the ship the instant the sailor stepped out of view. It was his first time on a cargo ship and he soon found that, aside from the walkways, the containers on deck were packed wall-to-wall with only thin steel racks between them. There was nowhere to hide and no room to open any of the container doors.
He walked toward the monolithic superstructure. He had no intention of following the crewman inside but, towering almost one hundred feet above the deck, it was the hub of the ship. At its base was a metal staircase that descended into the cargo hold. Zac frowned at the tightly packed containers, but at the bottom of the stairs was a steel-grated walkway that ringed the ship’s interior. He dashed down the steps. The air was stuffy and hot. He went aft, stepping over the thick wire lashings that held the containers in place. Far above him on deck, workers were securing the last of the load. If he couldn’t find a place to hide, he would never survive the trip to France. He ran farther into the stern.
For most of its length, the ship’s sides were perfectly straight, allowing the containers to be fitted atop and against one another. But as the hull faired to the narrower stern section, the curve in her sides left dead space where Zac could reach some of the container doors. Most were fitted with thick padlocks, but a few had been left unsecured. He spied a newer container along the port side and went to investigate.
In the distance he heard a siren wail briefly, followed by an enormous engine rumbling to life. Zac hauled the container door open and the screech of ungreased metal hinges echoed throughout the hull. The interior was dark and smelled of chemicals, but there was just enough light for him to see that it was empty.
Zac pulled the door closed and immersed himself in blackness. As he felt his way to the middle of the container and sat down on the steel floor, he wondered aloud what the hell he’d just gotten himself into.
FORTY
CHRISTINE KIRBY WALKED into Ted Graves’s office. “I have something important on SNAPSHOT.”
“Good. So do I,” said Graves.
“Me first,” said Kirby.
Graves looked sideways at her. “What are you, six years old?”
“I walked over to see you. I should go first.”
“Fine.” Graves shook his head. “What’s so important?”
Kirby sat down and leaned toward Graves’s desk.
“We just received a call from SIS. Apparent
ly an elderly Englishwoman contacted them and said that Miller didn’t commit the Singapore murder. She said . . .”
“Who is this woman?”
“She met Miller on the flight from London to Singapore. She . . .”
“Wait a second. So some old lady calls in saying that Miller seemed like such a nice young man and he couldn’t possibly have killed someone?”
“That’s not exactly . . .”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Graves was angry. “This is like the neighbor of some goddamned serial killer who goes on television after the killing spree and says, ‘I never would have guessed.’”
“Ted, there’s more to it than that.”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, there isn’t. Besides, Miller called from Dubai.”
“Dubai?!” Kirby slammed her hands down on Graves’s desk. “That wasn’t even on our radar. What’s he doing there?”
“He called Peter and asked to be brought in.”
“That’s great! Do we have him yet?”
“No. It’s not great. It’s not great at all. I sent a security team from the embassy immediately, but Miller was a no-show and he hasn’t checked in again.”
“So what do you think?”
“The strikes are piling up, Christine. So far it looks as if he’s completely disregarded his mission, murdered two women in cold blood, and is working with a foreign intelligence agency. The guy has lost it. He has no training, no concept of covert action, and he even told Clements that he wanted to bring a woman with him out of Dubai. I’m telling you, he’s a massive liability to the Agency and the country. Zac Miller seems to think he’s James Bond.”
Kirby nodded slowly as she processed the facts. “What can I do for you?”
“Get him off the street. I’ve got the original team in Dubai searching the city, but I’m not a hundred percent sure he was even there. He might be playing us to buy more time for whatever he’s up to with DGSE or the Iranians. I need you to assemble more resources. I want feelers out in Iran, Saudi, Oman . . . Cover the entire Middle East. I want as much focus on this as we can muster without drawing attention to it. For whatever reason, Clements has a blind spot as far as this guy is concerned. He’s only seeing what he wants to see. For his own sake, we need to keep him out of it until we have Miller.”
“What languages does Miller speak?”
“Just English and French as far as we know. Aside from London, he’s never lived abroad. I don’t see him melting into the countryside anywhere. He has a little family money, but we’re watching it. Tighten up the surveillance on Marchand too. It’s possible the whole Dubai story was a red herring and she’s planning on leaving the country to meet with him again.”
“I’ll whistle up the troops,” Kirby said.
“Christine, I just spoke with the deputy director. This is now officially Operation REVOCATION. You’re authorized to use whatever level of force is necessary to get Miller off the street.”
Kirby looked up from her notebook and made eye contact with Graves. Despite what most people thought, CIA rarely used deadly force against anyone but high-value terrorists. It was practically unheard of for the Agency to issue a capture or kill order for one of their own.
“Just to clarify, sir . . .”
“In his current state of mind, Zac Miller represents a potentially serious threat to the security of this agency and the United States of America. Make every effort to bring him in alive and intact, but bring him in.”
FORTY-ONE
ZAC OPENED HIS eyes but saw nothing. The stifling heat made him think for a moment that he might be dead, but the noise of the ship’s engine reminded him that he was inside a shipping container and not a coffin. He rose to his feet and felt the floor shift underfoot. They were at sea. He made his way along the wall to the end of the container and pushed against the door. It didn’t move. He leaned into it and pushed harder. Nothing. The door must have locked as the ship rolled among the swells of the open ocean. Zac’s knees felt weak. He might be able to survive a few days without water, but not long enough to reach Marseille.
The container was made from heavy-gauge steel. There would be no breaking through the walls. He would have to find a way to unlock the door. He’d seen the locking levers outside, near the floor, when he’d entered. Zac dropped to his knees and searched frantically for an interior release, but there was none to be found. Curiously, there was also no doorjamb, no edge, and no seam.
He shook his head in dismay and walked to the opposite end of the container. A gentle push opened the door with a creak of the hinges. It was nighttime and only a dim, artificial light leaked in from the deck above. He followed the metal walkway around the hold. The ship’s main deck was seventy-five feet straight up. Occasionally a star or a sliver of a moonlit cloud was visible between the tightly packed containers. The only noises were the rhythmic chugging of the engine and the muted sound of the ocean washing alongside the hull. The huge space was eerily still. Even at sea, nothing moved. He walked forward until he came to the multistory engine room. Zac found a spot in the shadows where he could observe the rhythm of the ship.
Two full hours passed until a lone crewman appeared. The sailor looked briefly inside the engine room before continuing up the starboard side. Zac stepped silently from the dark recess and followed him.
The watchman occasionally shined a flashlight around the hull, but he never broke stride. He was the perfect tour guide, walking through most of the hold and the upper deck before disappearing into the superstructure. Except for a dim glow from the bridge, it seemed as if the ship was asleep for the night. Zac stayed in the shadows until he was at the foot of the superstructure. There would be no explaining away his presence if he were caught. He ran his hand over the pistol and opened the door.
The gray-painted interior was lit by a single row of fluorescent lights. The only sound was the hum of the giant engine. Zac walked deeper into the superstructure. There were cabins along the second floor, like a cruise ship, and even a small lap pool. On another deck he found a workout room and a lounge with a pair of flat-screen televisions. But it wasn’t luxuries he was after. On the fourth level he found what he was looking for: the ship’s galley. The small cafeteria was closed, but cereals, fruits, and microwavable foods had been left out for the night watches. He stuffed his pockets with a little bit of everything and grabbed two large bottles of water. He ascended to the uppermost level, outside the bridge, but returned to his container when he heard men talking.
* * *
• • •
IN THE FOLLOWING days, Zac left the container only at night. He stole more food and a few plastic bags for his growing pile of garbage. One night he even chanced a shower in one of the common-area heads. He longed to stay under the hot water but was dressed and back outside in under three minutes.
Though he’d learned the rhythm of the ship and worried less about being discovered, the daytime hours spent holed up in the container were brutal. With no way to tell time, he could leave only after the night watchman had made his rounds. Zac risked discovery if he left even a minute too early. To pass the time, he did push-ups and paced the length of the container in the dark. It was easy to keep his body occupied, but his mind was adrift.
He occasionally thought of Emma. He’d initially been furious with her for calling her client against his explicit instructions, but gradually he came to understand how her fear had driven her to action. She was caught up in something she couldn’t comprehend. She didn’t know how much was at stake. Now Zac wished only for her safety.
Other times he wondered what was happening back at CIA. Peter Clements was a smart man who understood that life didn’t move in a straight line. Zac just hoped that his boss hadn’t lost faith in him. Between blowing the mission in Iran, failing to reach Singapore, and screwing up the rendezvous in Dubai, Peter’s patience might be running out.
About the only positive thoughts that flashed through his mind were memories of Genevieve. He recalled the first time he’d seen her, at a conference in Brussels. She’d been speaking with a group of people and Zac had just stared at her. Roughly his age, she was a study in contrasts. She’d been wearing a plain blue business suit, but it was finely tailored, and highly flattering to her tall, athletic figure. Her hair was luxurious and dark, but it was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were sculpted and alluring, but she wore almost no makeup. He’d found her incredibly sexy.
He had desperately wanted to know more about her but they’d each been busy with their own colleagues. The two of them had exchanged a few lingering glances, but an opportunity to speak hadn’t presented itself. A few months later he saw her at another conference in London. Having chastised himself many times for letting her slip away the first time, he’d immediately excused himself from his group and introduced himself in English. At first she’d pretended not to recognize him, but after torturing him for a minute, she recounted exactly what he’d been wearing when they’d first seen each other. They’d exchanged phone numbers and spoken several times before he mentioned that he’d soon be staying at his friend’s apartment in Paris, and if she was around when Zac was there, they might, you know, get together for lunch, or dinner, or something . . .
* * *
• • •
ZAC’S MENTAL DIVERSIONS kept him from focusing too much on the present, but despite his best efforts, his mind would ultimately return to his compromised mission, the trials he’d endured in Iran and Dubai, and his desperate need to reveal to his CIA superiors what he’d discovered in Iran. But he was like a prisoner in solitary confinement, forced to sit alone and wrestle only with his thoughts.
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