by Matt Lincoln
“We’re almost there,” I said to Hills as he sat up fully and buckled himself back in.
“Yeah, I could tell, my ears are popping like crazy,” he said, turning his neck this way and that in order to crack the tensed muscles.
“How did you sleep so well?” I asked, honestly curious. “I couldn’t get comfortable, no matter how I moved around.”
“Eh, I’ve slept in worse spots,” he said, shrugging his suit jacket back on. “There was one time I slept in a train car full of tree trunks. Whole, freshly cut tree trunks. It was horrible, and I got covered in splinters, but the car was right near the engine, which gave off a huge amount of heat, and it was in the middle of winter, so it was either that or freeze to death.”
For a second, I thought he was kidding, but his voice was completely serious, and when he didn’t follow it up with a laugh or some kind of joke at my expense, I realized he was telling the truth.
Part of me wanted to hear more, but I got the feeling that Hills didn’t particularly enjoy talking about his past, so I stifled the urge to pry. We landed in Athens about twenty minutes later, and as soon as we did, I was trembling with anticipation again. I’d already been a federal agent for a few years, but none of my work had involved international travel. There was something about being in a completely foreign place that made what was basically the same job feel like even more of an adventure.
I was buzzing with nervous anticipation as we got off the plane and moved quickly through the terminal. Waiting for us when we left the airport was a pair of uniformed police officers.
“Hello, you are Agent Hills and Agent Chapman from the Military Border Liaison Investigative Services, correct?” One of the officers asked in heavily accented but otherwise perfect English. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that gave him a serious look. “I am detective Cirillo, and this is Detective Hatzis. We are detectives with the Hellenic Police here in Greece. We’ve been instructed to accompany you today on your investigation. Please rest assured that the Greek government is willing to provide any and all help we can in order to assist you in your case. We want the criminals who are using our ports to be captured as quickly as possible.”
He led Hills and me to an awaiting van that was significantly more conspicuous than anything we would have used back in Las Vegas. We all piled in and made our way out of the airport traffic before he continued, “The cruise ship that you believe is being used to transport the animals into the United States is docked at a port just a few minutes away. We alerted the captain to your suspicions, and we have managed to delay its departure. That will be our first stop, as we believe it will be our best opportunity to catch the traitor red-handed.”
“What do you mean, traitor?” I asked as I watched the scenery go by. I knew I should be focusing all my attention on the mission, but I couldn’t help but admire the architecture of the buildings as we passed by. Athens truly was a beautiful city, and the houses near the port were stark white, cresting up over the hillside. I hoped that we would have at least a little time to go sight-seeing at some point during the mission.
“I mean that we believe that at least one member of the crew is helping to smuggle the animals on board,” he said as we approached the dock. “It would be nearly impossible for someone to sneak them on otherwise, and the captain is eager to find out who is using his ship for such nefarious purposes.”
I could see small boats and ships of various sizes docked all along the edge of the water, and in the distance, I could see a massive, imposing white ship that I assumed was our target.
We parked just a few feet from the edge of the water. The Greek police exited the car, and Hills and I climbed out after them, letting them take the lead as they clearly seemed to know where they were going. As we approached the ship, a man in a white uniform flanked by two other men in similar, but blue-colored uniforms, stepped out from a small door in the side of the vessel and descended a staircase that led from the ship down to the dock.
The Greek police officers greeted the man and exchanged a few words with him in Greek before turning back to us.
“Agents, this is the captain of the ship, Captain Adrian Mallos,” Detective Cirillo said. “Captain, this is Agent Hills and Agent Chapman from the Military Borders Liaison Investigative Services.” He moved to one side, and the captain moved forward to shake both of our hands, his expression serious and tense.
“Thank you, gentlemen, for coming to help me,” he said. His accent was thicker than Cirillo’s, but his English was good as well. It made sense, considering he was the captain of a ship that most likely housed hundreds of English-speaking tourists regularly. “I am deeply ashamed and angry that my ship has been used as an accessory to a crime. I want nothing more than to find the culprit responsible and have him removed immediately. Please feel free to investigate as you feel is necessary. We have moved the departure of the ship until tomorrow, so please take the time you need.” He turned and said something in Greek to the officers before nodding back at us and then finally turning and entering the ship once again.
“He said we’re free to enter the ship now, and that he is leaving one of his stewards with us to ensure we aren’t blocked from accessing any part of the ship,” Cirillo said, and sure enough, one of the men who had come out with the captain had stayed behind and was now standing off to the side with Detective Hatzis. “He said he did not inform any of his other crew members about our investigation today because he could not be sure who the traitor was, and he did not want to tip anyone off that we would be coming.”
“So, we have the element of surprise on our side?” Hills asked. “Well, that sounds just fine to me.”
He made a good point, although I was surprised that the captain was letting us have free rein of his ship without even informing the majority of his crew. It spoke volumes to how seriously he was taking this and how upset he must have been about his ship being used by an organized crime group. Not wanting to waste any more time, the five of us quickly boarded the ship, hoping we’d be able to catch the smugglers off-guard and in the act.
20
Charlie
“First stop should be the cargo hold, right?” I asked as we moved swiftly through a utility corridor. “I somehow doubt they’re hiding the animals in the passenger cabins, so I’m betting that’s where they’ll be.”
Unlike the rest of the ship which was insanely elegant, and frankly, over-the-top to the point of being gaudy, the utility corridors used by staff to move quickly from one part of the ship to another were cramped, bare, and reminded me a little of the inside of a jail, all function, and no flair.
“That makes sense to me,” Junior said. “Although, with the number of curveballs this case has continued to throw at us, it wouldn’t surprise me if the animals are riding along in the passenger cabins.” He wasn’t wrong, so I tried to prepare myself for the possibility that anything might happen. Still, it made sense to start at the most obvious place, so I asked Cirillo to tell the steward we wanted to see the cargo hold. After a brief exchange, the steward nodded and quickly led us down a narrow side corridor.
A few minutes later, the steward stopped in front of a door that was latched closed with a heavy bar and a lock. He pulled out a key and turned to say something to Cirillo.
“He says that this is one of the entrances to the main cargo hold area,” Cirillo translated for us. “He thinks that there are currently workers inside and wants to make sure you’re ready to enter.”
“We’re ready,” I said, and the steward must have understood what I meant because a moment later, he was unlocking the door without bothering to wait for a translation from Cirillo.
Inside the cargo hold area, there were indeed several workers moving about, arranging and checking on various pieces of cargo ranging from small pieces of luggage to a few cars lined up against one end of the cavernous area.
The steward shouted something in a commanding voice, and a moment later, all the men dropped
what they were doing and gathered around closely, confusion evident on their faces. The steward said something to the workers in Greek, and Cirillo leaned over to explain to Junior and me that he was telling the workers that we were federal agents from America and that they were to cooperate fully with us and answer everything we asked. I realized then that whatever element of surprise we had would quickly vanish now that word was sure to spread around the ship that we were here, but it was too late to worry about that now.
Looking back at the workers, I noticed that one, in particular, seemed more fidgety than the other men. They all looked confused and a little nervous, but there was something about the way this specific man kept shifting from foot to foot and seemed to be carefully avoiding eye contact that caught my attention.
“Short brown hair in the red shirt looks nervous, don’t you think?” I asked Junior without turning to look at him. I kept my voice low enough that it didn’t carry over the sound of the steward speaking.
“I thought so too,” Junior muttered. “I’ll go talk with him as soon as the steward’s finished.”
We’d already established that Junior was the better communicator between the two of us, so I didn’t really have a problem with that. Still, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling in my gut I was getting about this guy, so when the steward finished his speech and moved aside to let us step forward to speak with the men, I made sure to keep an eye on Red Shirt even as I was conducting my own interview. We split up in order to conduct the interviews more quickly, with Cirillo going with Junior and Hatzis joining me as a translator. The process was slow, as every question we asked had to be translated into Greek for the workers, and all of their answers had to be translated back into English for us. The questions were fairly basic, mostly asking if they’d seen or heard anything unusual or if they’d noticed any of their coworkers engaging in suspicious activity. We were paying attention to their answers, but the real purpose of the interview was to gauge their physiological reactions to what was being asked. If someone looked away or became nervous or angry when we asked a certain question, it could be a good indicator that they were involved somehow.
The man I was interviewing hadn’t noticed anything suspicious and didn’t seem to react negatively to any of my questions. I concluded it was unlikely he had anything to do with the smuggling or even knew about it and was about to move on to the next man when I heard a loud thump. I looked up and saw the fidgety man from before sprinting away from a lump on the floor and toward a staircase on the far end of the cargo hold. My immediate reaction was to chase after him, but as I moved to do so, my brain finally registered what the thump had been, and I realized that the lump on the floor was actually Junior.
I ran over to check on him as chaos erupted all around me. I could hear the workers chattering in confusion and the steward yelling something I couldn’t understand. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a flash of what looked like a police officer’s uniform, and I assumed that either Cirillo or Hatzis had taken off after the suspect. Junior was starting to get up by the time I got to him, blinking in confusion and pressing his hand against the side of his head.
“Are you okay? What just happened?” I asked, checking his eyes for any sign of cranial damage. I wasn’t sure exactly where or how he’d been hit, but a single hit to the head at just the right angle could kill a person, and abnormalities with eye movement or pupil size were a good indicator that something has gone wrong neurologically. His pupils didn’t seem dilated, but it was honestly difficult to tell in the low light of the room, and I wasn’t exactly a medical professional. He seemed to be making eye contact just fine, though, and aside from obviously being in pain, he seemed alert.
“He had a scratch on his arm,” he said, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I asked him about it. Geez, my head hurts. I asked him about it, and his whole attitude changed. I knew right away just from his reaction that something was up, but before I could do anything else, he hauled off and punched me. I think I hit my head when I fell too because the side of my head actually hurts more than my face where he hit me.” He moved his hands away, and I could see a bruise starting to form on his cheek beneath his left eye.
“Do you feel dizzy or anything?” I asked, anxious to go after the suspect but also concerned about my partner.
“No, I think I’m okay,” Junior said, moving to stand up. “Don’t worry about me. Go after the suspect. He’s clearly got something to hide, and you’re wasting time right now.”
I was still a little hesitant to go considering how unsteady Junior seemed, but I realized he was right. Every second we stood there talking, the suspect was getting one step further away. I took off in the direction I’d last seen the suspect heading and hurried up a metal staircase against the far wall of the cargo hold area. The staircase led up to a door that opened into a long corridor lined with more doors. I took off down the hall as quickly as I could, and as I passed, I caught glimpses through the windows embedded in the doors of cooks rushing around stoves and counters. I realized I must be by the kitchens right now, and for a moment, I wondered if the suspect might have run into one of the rooms to hide. I didn’t have time to dwell on it, though, so I made the split-second decision to keep running down the corridor.
I nearly cursed out loud when I finally reached the end of the corridor and realized it forked in two different directions. Before I could decide which way to turn, though, I heard a yell and the sounds of a scuffle coming from the left, so I turned and continued running full speed, hoping that what I was hearing was the suspect. As I turned, I could see Cirillo on the ground about halfway down the corridor, with the suspect not far ahead.
“Freeze!” I yelled, drawing my gun and attempting to aim while still maintaining my running speed. The suspect turned only for a moment but continued to flee. I fired a shot toward his legs, hoping to incapacitate him enough to catch up, but my shot missed, and before I could fire off another one, he was rounding the corner.
“Damn!” I yelled as I made it to Cirillo, who was lying on his side, gripping his stomach. Beneath his hands, I could see the handle of a long knife. From what I could see beyond the blood that was quickly soaking into Cirillo’s uniform, the suspect had managed to plunge it in pretty deeply. I knelt down to help him, but he shook his head furiously.
“No! Go after him! Go!” he yelled, craning his head toward the hallway the suspect had disappeared into.
After a moment of indecision, I nodded in agreement and took off once again, sprinting down the hallway as fast as I could. I turned past the same corner he had, relieved to see that there was only one door at the very end of this hallway. I burst through the door, and any relief I’d felt earlier swiftly disappeared as I realized I was now in the main promenade of the ship, surrounded by hundreds of other workers and passengers. I looked around frantically, trying to catch sight of a dark red shirt and cropped brown hair. Every flash of red had me turning wildly, but as the seconds continued to tick by, I knew that my efforts were in vain. He’d gotten away.
I doubled back to check on Cirillo. By the time I got back to him, Junior and the steward had already caught up to him.
“We’ve called an ambulance already,” the steward said as she hovered over him. “They should be arriving soon.”
The next hour passed by in a blur as Cirillo and Junior both got checked out by the paramedics. They let Junior go after checking him over and concluding that he’d be fine apart from some bruising. Cirillo, unfortunately, hadn’t been as lucky, and the paramedics hauled him out to a waiting ambulance.
Junior and I watched as they loaded Cirillo into the back of an ambulance. Hatzis had gone with him and said he would be back as soon as he was checked in and settled at the hospital. Once they had left, Junior and I headed up to the bridge to speak to the captain about what had happened.
“I am deeply sorry,” the captain said. “Perhaps it would have been best to remove the passengers before the investigation took plac
e.”
“No, if you’d done something as big as having all the passengers get off after they’d already boarded, it would have been obvious what was going on,” Junior said, holding an ice pack against his cheek. “At least this way, we managed to catch him off guard.”
“Ezio Galanis is that scoundrel’s name,” the captain said, handing us a sheet of paper containing the suspect’s name, address, and a host of other personal information. “That is his application and employment contract. He may have gotten away, but hopefully, with this, you will be able to track him down.”
“Kapetánios!” The steward from before came bursting into the room, along with a police officer, quickly saying something in Greek. The captain looked shocked for a moment before turning back to us.
“Agents, they have found animals on board in the cargo area,” he said finally. “Please follow me.”
He didn’t have to tell us twice, and Junior and I quickly fell into step beside him. Back down in the cargo hold area, we were met by several officers, all gathered around a group of three large crates. The outside was printed with a dancing cartoon orange sporting a huge smile. It was a logo I recognized, having seen it in local grocery stores but never having tried it myself. It was the logo for some popular kids’ fruit juice. Anyone looking at the crate would have just assumed it was filled with pallets of juice boxes. However, in one corner of the crate, burned onto the wood so small most people would just mistake it for a scratch or imperfection in the wood itself, was the interlocking flower symbol we’d seen on the cougar’s shipping container.
I approached the crates, which the police officers had already opened, and peered into the one closest to me. Inside, curled up against each other amid a pile of straw, were two baby cats. I wasn’t familiar enough with wild cats to be able to tell if they were lion or cougar or jaguar cubs, only that they were still very young. Still though, even as babies, they were each about twice the size of an average house cat, and their paws looked about as big as my fist. They were clearly in a drug-induced sleep, as otherwise, they’d have woken up with all the commotion, but aside from that, they looked okay.
