For Nitikin the safety device had but a single purpose: it made him indispensable and kept him alive. It had one other advantageonly he knew whether the safety device was engaged or not.
He wants to know if there is any damage.
Nitikin was startled by the voice coming from behind him. He looked out and saw the brooding face of the interpreter standing in the bright sunlight just outside the open door of the container.
No, it looks fine. Im just checking the last few items.
Then I can tell him the device is in working order? Youre sure?
Yes, Im sure. Yakov spoke from inside the box, without looking. When he didnt hear any further comment, he stuck his head out and saw the larded backside of the interpreter twenty feet away, walking in the other direction along the deck, toward the bridge.
Nitikin turned back to the bomb. He used the flashlight hed borrowed from the interpreter to check and make sure that the minute groove cut into the safety wire was properly aligned, a quarter turn, ninety degrees, in a clockwise direction. Once satisfied, he took hold of the wire and turned it counterclockwise until the groove in the wire was facing straight up.
Very gently, so as not to break the delicate bond holding the wire to the safety disk, Yakov eased the wire toward himself until he saw the fine red line painted on it at the outer edge of the bomb case. The safety disk was now clear of the gun barrel. It was housed in a separate supporting container welded to the inside of the bomb case. Reinserting the safety in the barrel would take knowledge of the settings as well as fine hand skills that even Nitikin doubted he possessed any longer.
Yakov crawled from the crate, closed the wooden side panel, and screwed it down tight.
Arming the bomb had fulfilled his duty as a soldier even though he had no intention of informing Alim until the last moment, and then hopefully through a note or a message delivered by another. Now Yakov was free to escape and join his family, if he could only find the means.
FIFTY-SIX
Unfortunately the Gulfstream had everything on board but an in-flight phone system. The copilot who saw me trying to talk to Harry on takeoff told me to shut it down. The cell phone might interfere with their avionics.
An hour into the flight and the passengers seemed to settle down. The other two couples paired off to seats and settled in for the ride. Herman and I spent the time in the rear of the plane trying to explain to Maricela what wed found when we returned to Lorenzos apartment.
At first she couldnt believe that he was dead, and when she finally came to accept it, she blamed herself for leading the killer to his front door.
You dont understand, I say. Lorenzo was selling them information. I showed her the fax from his machine.
As she read it her eyes gravitated to the name at the bottom of the page. Thats it. I remember. I heard only once, but his last name was Afundi. I knew that Id heard it. I just couldnt remember. But why? Why would Lorenzo be working with them?
The oldest reason in the world, says Herman, money.
You mean he sold Katias life for a few dollars?
He may not have known that they would try to kill her, but I doubt if theres any question that he fingered Pike.
How did he meet such people? she says.
He was dealing with the same people your father is, I tell her.
Yes, but my father has no choice.
Regardless, the result may be the same. We need your help.
How?
We cant identify either Alim or your father. We need to find them and track the container until we can get the authorities to stop it. If we dont, a great many people are going to die. Do you understand?
She doesnt say anything. She just looks at me. I cannot believe my father would do something like that.
Perhaps, as you say, he has no choice. If thats the case, were going to have to do what we can to help him get free.
She looks at me, then nods. Then I will help you, she says.
Good.
Three hours later we land in Mexico City to off-load the first passengers. I tell the pilot that my cell phone is on the fritz and ask him if there is any way he can send a message over the planes VHF radio to a friend in San Diego. I cant very well tell him about the bomb without raising eyebrows and being arrested.
Instead the man lets me use his cell phone. I take it to the back of the plane for privacy.
It is after hours. The office will be closed, so I call in the open to Harrys unguarded cell line. I dont have Rhytags phone number or I would make the call myself.
Harry doesnt answer. I cant be sure if he is even carrying his regular cell phone any longer. Harry hates cops. With the federal government now listening in, he has probably flushed the phone down the toilet.
Nonetheless I leave the message to have Harry call Rhytag and tell him about the bomb. I give him the name of the ship, Amora, and its estimated time of arrival in Ensenada. I am hoping that the feds are listening in.
Then I call Harrys house. Again he doesnt answer, so I leave the same message on his home phone. For the moment, at least, its all I can do.
Liquida got bounced like a Ping-Pong ball all over the hemisphere trying to get back to northern Mexico. From San José he shuttled to Houston and from there caught a connecting flight to San Diego. He didnt even try to fly south from there. Instead he rented a car and stopped for coffee at one of his haunts, a twenty-four-hour Internet java shop just outside National City.
Inside he ordered a latte and sat down at a computer to check his e-mail. He was anxious to snag the Arabs message and read his lies. Liquida knew that between the coffee and the ragheads brazen deceit, it should be enough to get his blood going again, to keep him awake at least until he could get across the border.
He was feeling pretty good. He had spent several hours snoozing on the planes, dreaming of ways to entertain his employer. He wondered if the man had family, and if so whether they had any money, and how much an ear or part of a nose might go for among relatives in the Middle East. He could give them a discount and sell him by the pound, a piece at a time. Liquida dreamed that maybe he could take the Arab alive, and get him alone somewhere, in which case the one thing he could promise the man was that he wouldnt die fast.
At least Liquida could now relax. According to the note he took from the dead cartoon critic at the apartment in San José, he had plenty of time to meet the boat at Ensenada. It wasnt due in until sometime around noon tomorrow.
He punched up the screen on the computer and waited a second to enter the floating ether of his endless e-mail domains. Then he slipped down through the junk mail and found what he wanted.
Liquida opened the message and sure enough there was text on the screen, so he knew that the Arab was lying again. The e-mail was filled with irritating false praise for the fine job he had done. Because of this, his employer wished to reward him with valuable commoditiesgold and fully marketable narcotics and hints that they might even throw in the moon and the stars. But Liquida would have to stop by to pick it all up personally since FedEx was balking at delivering the heroin and the springs on their van couldnt seem to take the weight from the mountain of gold they had for him. They apologized for the inconvenience and said they hoped hed understand.
Liquida was angry with todays e-mail provider. If their bullshit checker had been working properly, every word in the message should have been underlined, flashing and depositing little drips of brown down the screen by now.
The Arab translator even gave him an address in Tijuana where Liquida could hook up his trailer to haul this treasure trove home, and told him tomorrow, four oclock sharp, not to be late. The Arabs other assassins must charge overtime, thought Liquida.
He wrote down the address, signed off on the computer, finished his coffee, then looked at his watch. He wondered if it was too late to drop b
y one of his suppliers and pick up some stuff, or whether the guy would still be awake. Then he dismissed the thought; after all, thats what doorbells were for.
And if he didnt answer, there was always the fire alarm.
FIFTY-SEVEN
It was edging up toward ten oclock at night by the time the sleek Gulfstream dropped us at the airport just a few miles south of the port at Ensenada. In less than ten minutes we had our luggage, and had cleared customs as well as immigration. A single sleepy-eyed officer took one look at our bags, then searched for a blank page on our passports, hit them with the stamp, and welcomed us to Mexico.
We took a taxi and laid up overnight in a small hotel on the waterfront near the pleasure-boat docks on the harbor. We booked a separate room for Maricela, while Herman and I bunked together to save cash. We were now down to a little under seven hundred dollars. As a last resort I could always try my ATM card, though by now I am certain that Templeton will have it blocked.
The following morning we get up early and grab breakfast at a small restaurant on the waterfront. Most of the stores and shops arent open yet. We find an outdoor market that has what we need.
I open our piggy bank and we use a little over a hundred dollars of the cash we have left to buy a beach bag, some items of clothing for Maricela, and a few snacks. Since the fire, except for a few sundries and necessities she purchased yesterday morning on her way to the phone company in San José, Maricela has nothing.
Back in our room I stand at the window and look out at the small boats in the slips that line the floating docks in front of the hotel. Off to the left is the cruise terminal with its long concrete dock that, at the moment, is empty.
About a mile away on the other side, I can see the international cargo terminal. It lies along a jetty that forms the breakwater between the harbor and the Pacific Ocean. My best guess is that we are now roughly eighty miles south of San Diego.
There is a large container ship the size of a small city tied up to the dock across the harbor and being off-loaded. It is riding high in the water and appears to be almost empty. Four enormous container cranes silhouetted against the open sky stand like steel giraffes. One of them is digging deep into the hold of the ship. It lifts out two containers at a time and stacks them on the dock. Smaller portable gantries roll up and down the wharf lifting cargo onto trucks that are lined up waiting to carry materials to the factories up north.
What time do you have? My watch has stopped.
Ten forty, says Herman.
By now Harry should have gotten my messages, and Rhytag should be mustering his forces, contacting the Mexican Federal Judicial Police and making arrangements to send agents south from the border.
If the fax is accurate and the ships on time, says Herman, that gives us less than ninety minutes. Any ideas how you want to do this?
Do you have your binoculars?
In my bag, he says.
Can I borrow them?
Sure. Herman fishes through the bag, finds the small Zeiss four-power glasses, and hands them to me.
From where I am standing, even with the field glasses I can barely make out the name on the bow of the container ship. Just enough to know that its not the Amora.
One things for sure, we need to find a place where we can see better. Why dont we pack up and leave the bags by the door? Then lets get Maricela and take a walk.
We go two blocks away from the water, then head along a main drag until we come to a bridge that crosses the canal. We turn right and follow the path along the canal out to where the cruise ships dock. By the time we get there, the container ship is buttoned up and two tugs have moved in to ease it away from the dock across the harbor.
We find a bench and the three of us sit like bumps on a log to wait.
Maricela watches through the field glasses as the tugs, with meticulous care, nudge the huge ship out into the center of the channel. They assist the empty cargo container as she turns in her own length. Ten minutes later the ship gets her bow pointed out to the open sea, and the massive screws begin to churn the water under her stern. In less than five minutes she is out beyond the jetty with the two tugs trailing alongside.
I am wondering if I should try and call Harry again, though Im not sure how.
The two tugs have peeled away from the larger ship, but they arent coming back to port. Instead they are sitting there. They appear to be dead in the water, maybe a couple of miles out. If I strain my eyes I can see what appears to be a dot just this side of the horizon.
Somethin out there, says Herman.
Yeah, I see it.
Can I see the glasses?
Maricela hands them to Herman.
He peers through the binoculars for ten seconds, maybe longer, trying to fine-tune the focus. Its a cargo ship. Looks like it might be empty, but I cant tell.
Why wasnt I informed? said Rhytag. He was standing at his desk barking into the phone. So I was in a meeting. So you should have interrupted me.
I dont care if the agents thought it was a hoax.
I know. I know. Im aware that Madriani and his partner know weve been monitoring them. So what if theyre playing games. I still want to know. Has anyone checked out the information?
What Im sayinghis voice went up a whole octaveis do we know if theres a ship named the Amora scheduled to dock at Ensenada?
Well, then find out! And call me back, Rhytag shouted into the phone. He didnt even bother to hang up. He just pushed the button for the other line and dialed a new number. He waited a few seconds and the instant the phone on the other end was picked up he said, Zeb. Jim here, have you heard? Last night a phone call came in on the wiretap at Madrianis partners house. There was no answer, so the caller left a message. He identified himself as Paul. The agents say the voice sounded like Madriani. He told his partner to call me and tell me that the bomb was on board a ship. According to the message, the ship is named the Amora and its scheduled to dock at Ensenada, Mexico, sometime today. They didnt bother to report it because its clear that Madriani and his partner know the offices are bugged and the phones are tapped. The agents are certain it was a hoax.
Why? Because yesterday afternoon there was another phone call. Presumably it came in over the lawyers encrypted cell phone, so the agents couldnt hear the actual conversation. But according to what they heard over the bug in the office, the partner appeared to be using our wire to jerk the agents around. He was taking them right to the cusp of something important, apparently pretending to repeat information he was getting over the phone and then pretending the phone went dead Zeb, Zeb, are you there? I thought I lost you, said Rhytag.
Whats that?
Rhytag listened to the long explanation about triangulation and jamming as the blood seemed to drain from his head. He was getting the details when his secretary came through the door with a handwritten note and handed it to him.
He read the note as he was listening to the litany of excuses from Thorpe: Confirmed. Panamanian-registered ship Amora, currently docked container port Ensenada, Mex. Agent M. Trufold.
Zeb, never mind that. Shut up and listen
We sit quietly on the bench and watch as the Amora clears the jetty and heads into the channel. Shes much smaller than the other container ship that left port almost an hour earlier, and shes riding high in the water. As she swings her stern to clear the breakwater, I see a single cargo container resting on the deck, near the stern.
You think thats it? says Herman.
Its gotta be, unless there are more containers belowdecks, I say.
I scan with the glasses back in the other direction hoping to see a train of police vehicles streaming into the port. Instead all I see are trucks hauling cargo containers in the other direction, up the coast highway toward Tijuana and the border.
Can I see? said Maricela. Apparently she see
s something on the ship she wants to look at.
I hand her the field glasses.
She puts them to her eyes and adjusts the focus, looks for a moment, and then says, Thats him!
Your father? I ask.
No. Alim, she says. On the stairs. She hands the glasses back to me. Up at the top.
I adjust them and look. A slender man with dark hair, wearing white coveralls, is standing on the wing of the bridge and just starting to make his way down the steps. I get a good look at him as he climbs to the main deck and disappears through a door in the tower section of the ship.
Are you sure its him? I ask.
Yes. I would know that face anywhere. But wheres my father? She wants the glasses back.
I hand them to her.
I turn to Herman. If thats the container on the deck, its not going to take them long to off-load. If they get it on the back of a truck and clear customs, theyll be out along the jetty and up on the highway before we can move. Do you see a road coming in here anywhere?
Herman turns, scans the parking area behind us. Its all fenced off. But back along the path by the canal, there was a street that came in.
Listen, see if you can get out on the road and flag down a taxi. Take it to the street by the canal and wait for us. Ill stay here with Maricela, see if we can catch a glimpse of her father and keep an eye on the container. Just wait for us out there.
Herman heads out on the run.
By the time I look back, the tugs have the Amora pressed up against the cargo dock across the way. It appears as if they arent even waiting to tie her up. One of the huge cargo cranes is lining up to lift the container from the aft deck.
Maricela is frantically scanning the deck from bow to stern looking for any sign of her father.
In no time at all the container is in the air and lifted free of the vessel. The mammoth arm of the crane swivels as the container swings over the side and disappears from sight down onto the dock on the other side of the ship.
Guardian of Lies: A Paul Madriani Novel Page 39
