Crooked River

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? Français? 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.

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.

Pendergast slipped a small penlight from his pocket and shone it around, then bent down and examined the foul matter. He removed a small evidence collection kit, along with some minuscule test tubes with stopper-swabs. He swabbed here and there, took some samples, and sealed them up.

“Let us go outside, Agent Coldmoon,” said Pendergast, sniffing again, his brow furrowed in displeasure. “You stay in the rear, Captain, until we’re out, and then you may emerge.”

They exited, the captain following, sweat pouring down his face. Coldmoon gulped the sultry air, feeling his nausea recede.

Pendergast was examining one of the test tubes. Suddenly, he turned to the captain with a pained expression on his face. “Captain, how could you? What a tragedy!”

The captain stared at Pendergast, uncomprehending.

“How many pounds were in here? Five hundred? A thousand? Good heavens! To think, to just think, of the waste!”

Pendergast swung toward Coldmoon, face stricken, dropping the evidence collection kit in his agitation. “Agent Coldmoon, what we had here were not human feet. Rather, this was the transportation of cargo in direct violation of U.S. sanctions.”

“What cargo?”

“If I’m not mistaken, this container was filled with tins of the finest Iranian imperial gold caviar, dumped into the sea in a moment of panic. My God, I could weep!”