Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 50

The Malay captain called the snowcapped volcano el Teide.

The peak was visible a full half day before they could make out the rest of the land mass that was the island of Tenerife in the Canary Islands. Rafiq stood on the bridge wing, enjoying the warm sea air and fretting about the next port of call. The trip to Tenerife had been excruciatingly slow, as the Malay breakbulk freighter made stops along the coast of South America. Even the bribe of more money would not sway the Malay captain.

“Breakbulk freighter make many stops. Act natural,” was all he would say, and offer Rafiq a gap-toothed grin.

He was right, of course. Arriving at their destination early only opened them up for more scrutiny. Better to arrive the day of the event.

Jamil joined him at the railing, sleep still marking his face. Rafiq felt little need for sleep these days; time enough for that after his mission was complete.

The Lumba made the turn around the point of land that hid their destination. Santa Cruz de Tenerife, despite the exotic-sounding name, was a dump, a dirty port filled with ships like the Lumba. Cranes loomed over the edge of the concrete piers, where piles of pallets, cargo containers, and trucks sat in huddled confusion.

It was perfect. Chaos meant lax, easily bribed officials.

The tugs came out to meet them, their whistles piping sharply as they came alongside. A local pilot scrambled up the rope ladder to the deck on his way to the bridge. Rafiq and Jamil regrouped on the main deck, out of sight of the bridge, but where they could watch the approach.

The ship was being placed in a berth at Dique del Este, one of the busier piers, where it would take a half day for the Malay captain to offload his cargo from Brazil and take on fuel. Rafiq looked at the sky; they’d be gone by nightfall. Without him.

He turned to Jamil. “You have everything you need? Any final questions?”

Jamil shifted his feet on the steel deck. After nearly a decade of waiting, this was goodbye.

The Lumba rocked gently as the tugs pushed her close to the pier and the lines went across. A crane lifted the gangway into place and a pair of customs officials came onboard to meet with the captain. Rafiq waited until they had gone to the bridge and the pilot had left the ship before he turned to Jamil. “This is goodbye, my friend. May Allah keep you safe in your travels and shine his mercy upon your mission.”

Jamil’s eyes were wet, and when he hugged Rafiq, his grip was strong. Rafiq felt a tickle of worry. Jamil had been off ever since his brother had died, more emotional, softer. He wondered for a brief moment about their plan to split up. No, only he had the skills to perform this final leg of their mission.

He broke the hug and grasped the handle of the hand truck, leaning back to balance the weight on the wheels. He went first down the gangway, using his body to ease the load down the sloped walkway. He reached the bottom and met the customs official stationed there.

“Passport.”

Rafiq handed him his Canadian passport, the gold crown emblem on the cover nearly worn off with use.

The customs official gestured at the black packing case on the hand truck. “What’s in the case, sir?” he said in heavily accented English.

Rafiq smiled. “I’m a surveyor. The tools of my trade, senor.”

The man nodded as he flipped through the passport pages. When he found a blank one, he stamped it and handed the booklet back to Rafiq.

“Have a good trip home, sir.”