Crooked River(50)
29
COLDMOON COULD SEE the cargo ship about a mile off, an ugly, rust-streaked vessel stacked with containers of different colors, looking like a bunch of Legos. He couldn’t believe a ship so overloaded wouldn’t just tip over. As the chopper approached, he spied the name stenciled on the side, barely legible through peeling paint. The ship was at anchor; they had received word it was having engine trouble. No wonder, a shitcan like that.
“There it is, Agent Coldmoon,” said Pendergast. “The good ship Empire Carrier, Liberian flagged, Ukrainian owned, crew of eighteen.”
“Eighteen? A big ship like that?”
“These days, apparently, that’s all that’s required.”
Coldmoon found his annoyance increasing as the ship loomed below. What a fool’s errand this was. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “how the hell are the two of us supposed to search that ship? It must be seven, eight hundred feet long, and most of those containers are inaccessible.”
“Ah, but you see, we don’t have to search it. Direct your attention to the cleared space at the bow. Do you see that lone container, sitting next to the crane? That’s our target.”
“Thanks for briefing me,” Coldmoon said sarcastically.
“Why, Agent Coldmoon, I am briefing you. That container is known in the lingo of the shipping business as a ‘reefer.’ A reefer, contrary to the usage I am sure you’re accustomed to, is a refrigerated container carrying either frozen or chilled cargo. But as you can see, it no longer appears to be connected to power, so whatever is or was in it has spoiled—or disappeared.”
“Like a bunch of frozen feet?”
“Possibly.” Pendergast pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and handed them to Coldmoon. “Here are a series of satellite pictures of this same ship, taken five weeks ago, at the approximate time and location the commander’s team thinks the feet were dumped. And as you can see, the ship did indeed dump something—from that very container. You notice, in that first photo, a vessel approaching from the north? It’s a Coast Guard cutter. It appears the Empire Carrier’s crew thought they were about to be boarded and in a panic disposed of the cargo in this particular container. But it was a coincidental meeting. The cutter went on past and it seems they dumped the contents of the container for nothing.”
Coldmoon began flipping through the pictures with growing amazement. They showed the container being lifted by crane, swung out over the stern, tipped, and a loose blurry load splashing into the ocean. “Holy shit, this is a smoking gun!”
“Not quite. There are two problems. The first is that whatever was dumped overboard sank immediately. The feet would have floated, encased as they were in buoyant shoes.”
“Hmmm.”
“The second issue is that while our oceanographer, Dr. Gladstone, hasn’t been able to pinpoint the place where the feet were dumped, she did analyze the commander’s own estimate of the location and found it has a very low probability of being accurate, at least according to her algorithms.” He put away the pictures. “And now, are you ready for a surprise boarding?”
Coldmoon removed his Browning Hi-Power, checked the chamber. “Good to go.”
The FBI chopper passed over the ship, and the pilot spoke through the headphones. “There’s a helipad on the stern where I can land.”
“Excellent. Radio the ship and say we’re coming in with a warrant and expect the captain to be ready to receive us. Then land immediately, giving them no time to react.”
The chopper pilot called the ship’s bridge, causing a storm of protests and threats.
“Land,” said Pendergast.
The pilot swooped around and came in for a landing, just as some crew members came rushing out, waving their arms and blocking the helipad.
“Tell them to clear the pad or we’ll send the Coast Guard in and arrest the captain for obstructing law enforcement.”
That worked and the men backed off. The chopper came down for a landing. Pendergast hopped out with Coldmoon following, keeping low as the rotors whipped the air above them. At the edge of the helipad, several sullen sailors in greasy overalls waited with a deck officer. The officer was small and plump, with long greasy hair combed back, and he was smoking.
Pendergast presented the warrant with a flourish. “Take us to the captain.”
The deck officer took the warrant and peered at it, turning it this way and that. He raised his head. “No English.”
Pendergast scrutinized him. “Italiano? Fran?ais? Hóng bāo?”
The man shook his head again.
“Captain.” Pendergast pointed to the bridge. He made a series of gestures that were unmistakable in meaning.
The man turned and in a shambling walk led them through a forest of stacked containers to the companionway up to the bridge. It was a hot climb. When they arrived at the long bridge, it was almost deserted. There was no A/C and it was sweltering. A man who was apparently the captain stood next to a person who seemed to be the helmsman, even if there wasn’t anything that looked to Coldmoon like a wheel—just some levers and joysticks, along with a row of flat-panel screens displaying charts and radar. The bridge was old and shabby, the Plexiglas windows streaked and faded. It smelled of diesel fuel and vomit.