Crooked River(51)
The entire bridge crew—maybe five—had ceased work and were staring with naked hostility on their faces. Coldmoon wondered how the hell this was going to turn out. Most of these people looked like criminals or thugs.
“Captain Yaroslav Oliynyk?” Pendergast said, removing his shield, Coldmoon following his lead. “Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, United States of America. And Special Agent Coldmoon.”
The deck officer handed the captain the warrant. He was a tall, lugubrious man, unshaven, with hollow cheeks and watery eyes. He took it and stared, flipping through the pages. Coldmoon got a whiff of alcohol breath. He also noted a sidearm in a holster at the captain’s waist.
“Do you speak English?” Pendergast asked.
The man hesitated and Coldmoon had the distinct impression he was thinking about lying. “Yes.”
“This is a judicial warrant authorizing us to search the entire ship,” Pendergast said, “and requiring the assistance of such crew and officers necessary to facilitate that process, upon pain of arrest. I will remind you that the ship is in United States territorial waters and subject to our laws and regulations.”
The captain took the warrant between his fingers, held it up with both hands as if to examine it more carefully, then slowly tore it in half, carefully layered the torn pieces together, tore those in half, did so a third time—and then let the pieces flutter to the ground. He looked back up at Pendergast with rheumy eyes and said: “Fuck you.”
As if not having heard, Pendergast reached into his jacket and removed a small piece of paper on which a number was written. “We wish to examine this particular container. It is located at the bow of the ship.”
Captain Oliynyk seemed not to have heard and did not glance at the paper. He turned to the crew members standing by and spoke sharply in a language Coldmoon couldn’t identify. They suddenly surged forward as the captain stepped back and yanked out his sidearm. But before it could clear the holster, Pendergast flashed out as fast as a striking viper, jabbing the man in the face with his fist, and the captain’s head snapped back, the gun going off harmlessly. Simultaneously, two crewmembers rushed Coldmoon; he kicked one in the balls as he pulled his Browning, dodged an inept punch from the second, and slashed him across the face with the barrel of his gun. Both men went down and a sudden silence fell as the rest froze. Pendergast had the captain in a hammerlock, his Les Baer 1911 pressed into his ear.
Coldmoon stepped over and picked up the captain’s firearm, which had been lying on the deck—a crappy old German Luger—and covered the stunned crew with both weapons. Nobody besides the captain seemed to be armed.
“On the floor,” Coldmoon said. “All of you: facedown, arms extended.”
They stood stupefied, doing nothing.
Pendergast twisted the barrel of the gun in the captain’s ear. “Tell them.”
The captain said something and they quickly complied. Now what? Coldmoon wondered. Call in backup? They were still outnumbered and God knew how many armed men there might be elsewhere on the ship.
Pendergast spoke to the captain in a mild voice. “Are you ready to take us to that container now?”
The captain nodded.
“Good. Tell your crew to stay put. All of them. Anyone seen moving anywhere, at any time, will be considered a lethal threat and will therefore be shot. Make the announcement.”
He released the man. The captain pulled down a mike from the console and made the announcement—at least, Coldmoon hoped it was the correct announcement.
“And now, Captain Oliynyk, lead the way. Slow and easy. Agent Coldmoon, keep an eye out for snipers.”
The captain shuffled through the door of the bridge and headed down the companionway, Pendergast and Coldmoon following. They came out on deck and the captain led them toward the bow of the ship, along the outside rail next to stacks of containers. At the bow, there was a large cleared area with some cranes. The bright blue container sat there, all by itself.
Pendergast inspected the welded steel lockbox at the container’s door. “Open it, Captain, if you please.”
“It is empty. Nothing in there.”
“Open it.”
“I don’t have key. I must call for key.”
“Then call for the key. Make sure only one deckhand brings it, and that he comes unarmed—otherwise an unfortunate event might take place.”
“Yeah,” added Coldmoon. “Like you getting shot.” He gestured with both the Browning and the Luger, wanting to make sure the captain understood.
The captain removed a portable walkie-talkie and spoke into it. They waited. After five minutes a man arrived and handed the captain a key. He unlocked the padlock and pulled open the door of the reefer.
“See?” the captain said. “Nothing.”
The container was indeed empty. A terrible stench of rotten fish wafted out.
Pendergast sniffed a few times, an expression of disgust on his face. He turned to the captain. “You go in first, Captain, and stand in the back. We will follow.”
The captain stepped inside and moved to the rear. Pendergast and Coldmoon trailed behind, the latter gagging at the nasty, stifling atmosphere. The container was filthy, splattered with sticky brown stuff on the walls and floor. God, did it stink. Coldmoon, who wasn’t fond of fish to begin with, felt he was going to puke.