Andrew Britton - The American

“ ’Scuse me,” Vanderveen said as he approached. No one noticed him, and he gave it a minute before tapping the man on the shoulder. “ ’Scuse me, sir.”

The captain turned with an annoyed expression on his face. “Yeah, can I help you?”

Vanderveen set his jaw, narrowed his eyes slightly, and carefully added a generous measure of hard Southern inflection to his own voice. “Sorry t’ butt in.” Fishing some paperwork out of his folder, flashing the captain a sincere but unapologetic smile. “I need to get m’ consignment, but I’ve never used NIT before. Can I bring m’ own truck in here?”

“No, I’m sorry, son,” the man drawled. He paused. “Well, hold on jes’ a sec. Yer gettin’ it l.c. l?”

“Yes, sir, I sure am.”

“Well, now, that’s another story. They might let you bring ’er in.” He pointed to a barrier in the distance. “Other side a’ that fence, there’s an access road to the l.c. l yard. You jes’ show ’em your ID and ya bill a’ ladin’ and you’ll be set.”

Vanderveen nodded his thanks. “Well, I ’preciate it, sir. Hey, where can I get me some a that?” he asked, pointing to the man’s steaming cup.

The captain laughed and spit noisily on the ground. “Hell, you don’t want none a this, son. Tastes like shit.”

Ten minutes later, Vanderveen was pulling a rented U-Haul cargo van up to the gatehouse outside the smaller yard reserved for l.c. l shipments, otherwise known as less than container loads. These, as the name implied, were exports that did not require the use of a whole container. It was an excellent way for small companies to save money on shipping.

It was a very useful tool for people in certain other lines of work as well.

The gate guard stuck his head out the sliding window when Vanderveen pulled up.

“Help ya?”

“Jes’ here to collect some crates.” Falling straight back into the role. “Got m’ license if ya need it.”

“Gotta see ya bill of lading, too.”

Vanderveen frowned. “I ain’t got one a them, buddy. Got m’ waybill, though. They tole me that was good enough.”

“Yeah, that’ll work. Lemme see it.”

When he was satisfied that everything was in order, the guard turned to his computer and pulled up the Yard Management System. Then he handed back Vanderveen’s ID and waybill, both of which identified him as Timothy Nichols. “Okay, sir. Ya already been cleared through Customs. They got yer crates in Warehouse Three. Can’t have no personal vehicles in the yard, though.”

“Aw, come on now.” He was laying it on thick. “How else am I gonna get m’ stuff out?”

The guard nodded sagely. “I hear ya. They don’ tell people shit around here. Happens all the time.” A brief hesitation. “Tell ya what. You jes’ go on ahead… I’ll take care of it fer ya.”

Vanderveen allowed a relieved expression to slide over his face. “I ’preciate it, buddy. Jes’ down here, ya say?”

“That’s it. Two rows down, then take a left. Can’t miss it.”

“Gotcha.” The thin wooden barrier lifted and he drove through, following the guard’s directions until the warehouse came into view. He pulled up next to the enormous metal structure and hopped out of the van, ambling into the brightly lit interior of the building.

Almost immediately, he was approached by a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman, wearing a hard hat and a frown. Looking her over, Vanderveen’s eyes drifted down to the identification badge pinned to her clean chambray shirt: Bobbie Walker, Warehouse Manager.

“Sir, you can’t be in here without a hard hat. Can I help you?”

She was clearly not a Southerner, but he couldn’t stop now. There was no way of telling how well she knew the captain and the gate guard. He gave her a rueful grin. “Sorry ’bout that, ma’am. Man at the gate tole me t’ come on up here and get m’ crates. Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout the hard hats.”

Her face softened a little bit. “Well, that’s okay.” She took a few steps and snagged one from the top of a nearby locker. “Put this on, please. Now, you have your documentation on you, Mr…?”

“Nichols, ma’am, Tim Nichols. I sure do.” He handed her his driver’s license and the waybill. Her forehead creased as she considered the name, but her mind couldn’t quite make the leap.

They walked across the warehouse floor past heavy piles of aluminum girders and rolls of wood pulp. She was checking numbers against her list when they stopped in front of a stack of small wooden crates.

“Here we go: forty crates, seventy-five pounds each. That’s a heavy load.” She looked at him curiously. “Whatcha got in here, anyway?”

“Jes’ some computer stuff, far as I know.” The lie rolled effortlessly off his tongue. “Can’t really tell ya, t’ be honest. Company just puts m’ name on there for convenience. I do what I’m told, Ms. Walker. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

She laughed, her small blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Everyone works for the man, Mr. Nichols. That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Vanderveen was looking around the warehouse. He didn’t spot any watchers, but they didn’t get the job by being obvious. If they had a line on him, they would make their move in the next few minutes. “So, Customs already through with me, huh?” He tried to pass it off as a casual question, but he watched her reaction carefully.

“Yeah, they just do a spot check most of the time.”

“So they didn’t open ’em up, then.” She’ll lie to you. If she lies, kill her. Do you have your knife? His hand involuntarily drifted back to an object hooked to his belt. Yes, there it is. Use it now. Now. NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW.

She was shaking her head. So was he, but for very different reasons. “Things have been crazy around here lately, what with the terror alert and all. We got people from OSHA and Customs all over the terminal. Cause more problems than they solve, you ask me. They don’t bother too much with us, though. Spend their time looking at the dry-bulk and open-top containers on Pier Two. Government don’t got time to be looking through everything that comes out of our little yard.”

She seemed sincere. He breathed a very soft sigh of relief and nodded along with her. “They’s troublemakers, all right. Ms. Walker, you think I might pull m’ van in here t’ get this stuff? Only take me ’bout twenty minutes, tops.”

She looked reluctant. “I don’t know… It’s against policy.”

Another smile. “Come on now. Think I don’t know a woman in charge when I see her? Hell, you’re th’ one makin’ the rules around here anyway, right? Anyone gonna break ’em, might as well be you.”

She blushed very slightly and touched his arm. “You’re a charmer, I’ll give you that. Okay, you bring it on in. Twenty minutes, though, and that’s it. Fair enough?”

“I’ll be in and out b’fore ya know it.”

She giggled like a teenage girl at his choice of words. “I don’t think so, Mr. Nichols.” Her face was a deep scarlet now. “In fact, I highly doubt it.”

Twenty-five minutes later Vanderveen rolled out of the gate. A cold can of Coke rested in the cupholder next to him, a parting gift from the blushing Bobbie Walker. A brief wave to the gate guard and he was leaving Terminal Boulevard, taking the right turn onto Hampton, a smile on his face and 3,000 pounds of SEMTEX H in the cargo hold of his rented van.

Eight days to go, he thought. In eight days he would change the world.

David Brenneman watched as a gentle rain drifted over the gardens spread out before him. He was seated in a simple chair in the Blue Room, sipping steaming coffee from a delicate china cup. For once he was alone, and he took advantage of the solitude to admire the beauty of his surroundings.