Ian Hamilton - The water rat of Wanchai

“Stupid,” Uncle said.

“We’ve seen worse.”

“He is supposed to a professional.”

“He finances purchase orders. Who is more credit-worthy than Major Supermarkets?”

“True. What will you do?”

“I’ll start off by finding the shrimp and/or the money.”

“Will that be hard?”

“No, I should get it done this morning.”

“And then?”

“I’ll have to find Seto and Antonelli.”

“That’s an unusual combination for partners: a Chinese and an Italian. They usually like to stick to their own.”

Ava hadn’t thought about it, but it was true. “I might have to come to Hong Kong and I’ll probably have to go to Bangkok.”

“When?”

“In a day or two.”

“Let me know your schedule. I’ll meet you at Chek Lap Kok.”

“Uncle, I may need some help in Bangkok.”

“I’ll call our friends.”

“If I go, I’d like a car and a driver who can speak English and handle himself, and I’ll need some of the usual odds and ends.”

“It will be a cop. That is who we are connected to. It has to be either the police or the army, and since we don’t smuggle drugs or sell rocket launchers, the cops are the best choice.”

“That’s fine. As soon as my schedule is set, I’ll send it to you.”

She had called Uncle from her land line. She put down that phone and pulled out her cell, opened the back, and took out her local SIM card. From a drawer in her desk she pulled out a business card organizer, but there were no business cards in the clear plastic sleeves. Instead there were about forty SIM cards, each neatly identified by city and country; in the back were prepaid phone cards. She found the SIM card she wanted and slid it into her cell. When the phone was turned on, it read WELCOME TO AT amp; T 202-818-6666 — a Washington, D.C. number.

The Andrew Tam file was open in front of her. She found the phone number for the trucking firm that moved most of the shrimp and punched it in.

“Collins Transport,” a woman said.

“This is Carla Robertson from the Food and Drug Administration,” Ava said. “I need to speak to the person who runs this business.”

There was a pause. Any mention of the FDA always caused a pause. “That would be Mr. Collins.”

“Then put me through.”

Another pause. “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting.”

“Ma’am, I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. It’s imperative that I speak to him. Please interrupt whatever he’s doing and put him on the line.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

It was a few minutes before Collins picked up the line. Ava guessed that he really had been in a meeting. “Hello,” he said, “this is Bob Collins.”

“Mr. Collins, good morning. My name is Carla Robertson and I’m a senior inspector with the FDA here in Washington.”

“Yes, Ms. Robertson, what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Collins, about eight weeks ago your firm picked up multiple truckloads of shrimp from the Evans Cold Storage Warehouse in Landover, Maryland.”

“We did.”

“That shrimp, Mr. Collins, had been inspected by us and found to violate several FDA regulations. It was our intent to put it on formal hold, but before the paperwork could be processed the product was moved by your trucking firm.”

“Ms. Robertson, we had no idea about any FDA involvement,” he said quickly. “We were given the business and treated it like we would any other. The cold storage facility would never have released the order if it was on hold.”

“As I said, we were slow to act, but the product should not have been moved. Who authorized it?”

“A company called Seafood Partners.”

“Have you done business with them before?”

“Actually, no. We got the business through a freight broker. We never talked to them.”

“Where did the product go?”

“Biloxi, Mississippi,” he said.

“Where in Biloxi?”

“The Garcia Shrimp Company.”

“I would like an address, phone number, and contact name for that firm.”

“I don’t have it at my fingertips. Can I email it to you later?”

“No, I’ll wait.”

She heard him mutter and then put the phone down. The next voice she heard was that of the receptionist, who gave Ava the information she wanted. Their contact at the Garcia Shrimp Company was a man named Barry Ho. What was a Chinese guy doing running a shrimp company with a Mexican name in Mississippi?

She dialled the Biloxi number Collins’s receptionist had given her. The phone went directly to voicemail. She debated about leaving a message, but in the end she did, emphasizing how important it was for someone to get back to her.

Twenty minutes later her cellphone rang. “Carla Robertson, FDA.”

“This is Barry Ho.”

“Thanks for returning my call so promptly.”

“When it comes to the FDA, we take things very seriously,” he said, with a slight trace of a Chinese accent and a stronger trace of stress.

“We appreciate that. It makes our job a lot easier when we get cooperation.”

“So what can I do for you? Your message said it was important.”

“Do you do business with a company called Seafood Partners?”

Ho hesitated, and Ava swore she could hear him wondering whether he should try to bullshit her or not. “Yeah, I do. Not that often.”

“According to our sources, they trucked a substantial amount of shrimp to your plant about eight weeks ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Why did they ship it to you?”

“They needed it repacked. That’s our specialty — repacking.”

“Repacked how?”

“They had a couple of problems.”

“Such as?”

“Ms. Robertson, I’m not sure I should be talking to you without their permission.”

“Mr. Ho, we inspected this product just before they moved it. We were about to put it all on hold, but they beat us to the punch. Now, there’s no way you could have known that, and we’re not going to hold you responsible for acting as if everything was above board. But let me assure you, it would be beneficial for you to tell me what you know.”

Ho sighed. There was no upside to refusing her. “Well, the product was packed in retail bags for sale at Major Supermarkets, and it was short weight. We repacked a lot of it for another retail chain, and the rest we put up in a Seafood Partners bag.”

“With the correct weights?”

“Of course, and it wasn’t easy. Usually we need to overpack by about five percent to make up for glaze. This time we were at ten percent and more.”

“Who was the retailer?”

“G. B. Flatt.”

“In their bags?”

“Yeah.”

“How much product?”

“Twenty truckloads.”

“Do you still have any of the product?”

“No, no, we shipped it out as soon it was repacked.”

“Where did the G. B. Flatt product go?”

“To their central distribution centre in Houston.”

“And the balance?”

“To a warehouse in Seattle.”

“Which one?”

“Continental. They only have the one freezer.”

“Care of?”

“Seafood Partners.”

“Have you been paid?”

“We wouldn’t let product leave our warehouse unless we were paid.”

“By cheque?”

“Yeah.”

“From Seafood Partners?”

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t have a copy of that cheque handy, would you?”

“Sure.”

“Please get it for me.”

She heard a filing cabinet opening and closing, paper rustling.

“I have copy in front of me,” he said.

“Give me the particulars,” she said.

It was from Northwest Bank, a major financial institution headquartered in Seattle. Seafood Partners had an account at a branch near Sea-Tac Airport. Ho provided the address, phone number, and account number.