Джеймс Паттерсон - Lost

Still, it didn’t pay to ignore them completely. As Plato said, “One of the penalties for refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.” That’s especially true in police work, and I was experiencing it on the task force. Luckily, our supervisor left decisions about assignments up to my discretion.

Chill, Steph Hall, and Lorena Perez were all looking at the Rostoff connection. It bugged me that the smug son of a bitch Roman Rostoff thought he could sit in his fancy office and count his money without facing any consequences for his illegal activities. Maybe that’s how it worked in Moscow, but it wouldn’t fly in Miami. I didn’t care how many Russians lived here.

Now Marie Meijer and I were in my FBI-issued Explorer heading to Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale. The way Marie took in everything that flashed past as we drove made me feel like I’d brought her to an alien world.

“It’s all so green,” she said.

“It’s the subtropics. That’s what happens. Wait until summer and you’ll understand why things are green—they get watered every single afternoon.”

“Why don’t they call this the port of Fort Lauderdale instead of Port Everglades?”

I shrugged. “No one consulted me when they were naming it. It’s a big port with the second-busiest cruise terminal in the world.”

“Where is the busiest cruise terminal?”

“Miami. Where else? That’s part of what’s making everything so difficult. There are so many ships coming into the ports daily, not even counting the cruise ships, and it’s impossible to investigate them all.”

I drove into the port off Seventeenth Street so that Marie could get an idea of the size of it. Even the county convention center was at the port. The cruise terminal was bustling as I eased past a security checkpoint and inched toward the cargo terminal. While not as elaborate as the cruise terminal, this area sprawled over acres of the port.

There were oil and natural-gas storage containers on the property between the port and US 1. I had visited them once during a class on terrorism, and I didn’t like to consider the damage that would be done to downtown Fort Lauderdale if a terrorist managed to puncture one of the tanks and ignite the contents.

I didn’t mention that to Marie. Tourists don’t like to hear about potential terror threats.

I found a spot near the southernmost part of the port. This part of the port wasn’t too busy today. In fact, it felt a little isolated. A few cars were parked haphazardly. One crane was working to unload a small freighter farther down the dock, and the sound of metal against metal echoed through the port.

We stepped out of my car and looked at the three ships that had docked since last night. None of them would have been confused with the Queen Mary .

The middle ship held about fifteen containers on the bow and dozens more amidships and on the stern. One of the containers caught my attention. A rail-thin man smoking a cigarette was playing with the lock on the front of it.

I nudged Marie and pointed at the ship.

Marie said, “I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It looks like a normal cargo ship to me. I don’t see anything unusual.”

“The container near the bow of the ship has air vents along the sides. We’ve got to get a better look.”

Chapter 60

IT’S HARD TO overestimate the importance of cell phones in modern police work. As I hustled down to the ship with Marie, all I could manage was a quick check with an FBI analyst on my phone; I gave her the ship’s name and said that it was docked at Port Everglades. The analyst told me right away that the ship had left from Belgium and had made several other stops before arriving in Florida, and she was working on the registration as I reached the gangplank.

It wasn’t a particularly large ship. I guessed it had about fifteen crew members. It wouldn’t have drawn my attention if I hadn’t noticed that one container; I’d seen enough containers to know they usually didn’t have air vents.

As we approached, I slipped on a blue FBI windbreaker and draped a police badge on a chain around my neck so there would be no confusion that I was a cop.

A muscle-bound fortyish Hispanic man wearing a shirt with the shipping company’s logo on it stepped onto the gangplank at the other end and walked forward. He raised his hand like a crossing guard and said, “The ship is not open to the public.” He held his crossing-guard pose for a few seconds to show off his massive biceps, then added, “Step back. They’re gonna unload.”

I stared at the man for a moment. “What about this windbreaker makes you think we’re part of the general public?” I asked. “And I don’t see the crane down here ready to unload anything.”

The man stood straight and flexed his chest muscles, a move a bouncer might make to intimidate someone. He said, “Look, pendejo, I don’t give a shit who you are. You ain’t coming on this ship.”

“Are you a member of the crew?”

“I’m a security officer for the shipping company. Move away from the gangplank. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Listen, Paul Blart, Mall Cop, we just want to get a quick look at one container, then we’ll be on our way. It’ll take only a minute or two.”

The muscle-head was a couple of inches shorter than me, and clearly not used to having to look up at someone. He pointed at my FBI jacket and said, “Why do you have an FBI jacket but a City of Miami badge?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. I said, “I’m sorry to confuse you, but we’re coming aboard, and I mean right now.” I stepped onto the gangplank with Marie directly behind me. The man gave a few inches but didn’t get out of the way.

He said, “Don’t you need a warrant to search the ship?”

“Not for this. I have concerns about someone’s safety. It’s called exigent circumstances . And you’d be smart to step aside.”

“What are you, a lawyer?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. But this is police business and someone’s life might be in danger.” I began marching forward, Marie right behind me. It wasn’t until we reached the far side of the gangplank that the security officer offered any resistance. He braced himself at the end of the gangplank as if he thought his big chest and biceps would be enough to stop a determined cop who was six foot four and weighed 240 pounds.

He was wrong.

Chapter 61

ALL IT REALLY took was a slight body twist, just like a coach had taught me at the University of Miami. I quickly shifted everything to my left, and the security officer squirted past me. He fell face-first onto the gangplank. I never actually touched him. That was the best kind of confrontation.

I liked how Marie calmly stepped over the man without saying a word.

We wasted no time heading to the bow of the ship and the container with the air vents. I didn’t want to think about what it would’ve been like to cross the Atlantic in something like this. I was scared to see what was inside.

The security officer picked himself up and caught up to us. Like an angry little kid, he said, “I called my supervisor. Only Customs can come on the ship at any time. You’re not with Customs. That’s about the only police-agency ID you don’t have on you.”

I said, “Did you call your supervisor over to the ship? I’d like to speak with him or her.”

That brought the man up short. “No. She’s not on-site. But she said you don’t have permission to be on the ship.”

All I said was “Noted,” and we continued making our way to the bow of the ship.

Before we even reached the container, the thin sailor who I’d seen smoking a cigarette in front of it earlier turned to face me. He was wearing a faded red Def Leppard T-shirt with a frayed edge where the collar should have been. His laminated ID and port card were attached to his belt.