Sword of Allah

Port Botany, Sydney, Australia

The two Australian Customs officers walked slowly through the corridors between containers stacked as high as five-storey buildings. Daisy went ahead, the slack on her leash played out. The cool breeze quickened as it funnelled down these aisles and, despite the fact that it was late summer, both of the customs investigators were pleased to be wearing caps and windcheaters over their dark blue overalls. Daisy, a labrador — kelpie crossbreed, snuffled from side to side, shoving her snout into various cracks, hunting for the stray molecules of an array of different substances.

There were over a hundred containers on the wharf. On this day, they would try to inspect three, but probably only get through two. One of the agents carried the manifest for the first container to be inspected: 2209LK. The officers were going to make it hard for the wharfies today because this one was buried right in the middle of a stack. That meant getting to it would require other containers to be shifted and restacked. The labourers weren’t keen to cooperate because of the extra work involved. But the customs officers couldn’t care less. ‘The buggers get paid to move the things around, so what’s the fucking problem?’ said Craig in an aside to his older partner when the shift foreman bitched and moaned as he walked off.

The officers and their dog reached the end of the aisle and walked into bright sunshine, a cool breeze blowing the scent of salt and diesel fuel off the waters of the bay. The wharfies were shifting the containers one at a time with an enormous crane that hoisted the steel boxes up under its belly like a giant four-legged squid. It would take another half an hour at least, the agents realised, for the particular container they wanted to inspect to be freed from the stack.

The customs men sat down in the sun, out of the breeze, and soaked up the warmth. Daisy, too, took the opportunity to rest, half lying, half sitting up, her long red tongue waggling as she panted. ‘What are we looking at again?’ asked Robert, older by ten years and a considerable number of beers, all of which seemed to hang precariously over his belt.

Craig handed him the manifest. ‘Here, check it out.’

Robert pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. ‘Okay, we got a whole bunch of pots and furniture. Indoor and outdoor stuff, plus half a dozen snooker tables. Out of Denpasar. Should be pretty straightforward.’

‘Sweet,’ said Craig.

Robert’s mobile struck up a jaunty rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’.

‘When are you going to change the ring on that phone, man?’ Craig shook his head. His partner was a bit of a dag.

‘Never. This way, it’s Christmas all year round.’ Robert let it play, answering it at the last moment. ‘Rightee-ho,’ he said, speaking into it. The officer hitched the phone back on his belt. ‘C’mon, ace, they’re ready for us. Jeez, these guys are getting quicker by the day,’ Robert said, grunting as he stood. Daisy was making figure eights in her expectation of getting on with it. The two agents walked through the dark aisles of containers and back out again into the sun. The container chosen for inspection had been isolated on the dock. They strolled up to it and met representatives from both the stevedoring company and the shipping line. The various forms were signed and in order, so the container was cracked open. The door swung wide with a rusty groan that rang in the men’s ears.

The agents snapped their flashlights on and strode into the darkness, directing Daisy here and there by tugging on her lead. Daisy surged forward, scampering over, through and under the cargo neatly stacked inside.

‘Nice of whoever to leave so much room for us,’ said Craig, swinging the flashlight about.

‘Yeah.’ Robert illuminated the far back end of the container. The air smelled of dry wood and earth. The container would have to be fumigated and any biological nasties eradicated. Daisy snuffled up and down, retracing her steps, but nothing seemed to excite her. They walked to the far end where the air was close and hot, the sun’s power amplified by the metal of the container. The younger man led his dog under a pair of snooker tables. The animal took its time, placing its nose into the cracks and joins, its keen olfactory senses reaching out for the minutest trace of illicit cargo.

‘Nice table,’ said Craig. ‘Look at this — solid mahogany. You know, they just walk into the rainforest and cut this shit down. Jesus,’ he said, envy interwoven with new-age sensitivity to the environmental implications of such behaviour. ‘Did I ever tell you my old man was the local snooker champion?’

‘Nope.’

‘Yeah, used to beat all them rich wankers, the ones who could afford to have a table like this at home. They cost a fortune, these bloody things — and then you’ve got to have a room big enough to put it in. I’ll never earn that sort of money — not doing this shit, anyway.’ He leaned under one of the massive tables and shone his torch up onto the underside. ‘The best ones have slate under the baize,’ Craig said.

‘Yeah,’ said Robert, not really listening. ‘Looks clean.’

‘Only another four hundred containers to go,’ Craig said with some aggravation in his voice, the realisation of his future low net worth well and truly under his skin. ‘C’mon,’ he said, ‘let’s go have some lunch.’