Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

Herman takes a deep breath.

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” I say. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Okay, I shot my wad.” He laughs.

“I thought African Americans were supposed to like government?”

“That’s why you never wanna get hooked on stereotypes,” he says. “We better get back inside.”

“Who is this Rhytag?” As soon as we sit down again, Maricela wants to know.

“Later,” says Herman.

So far we have avoided telling her anything about the FBI or the fact that I am charged as a codefendant in Pike’s murder. Herman and I haven’t talked about this, but we seem to have come to a mutual understanding. Neither of us can be sure whether her cooperation will continue once she realizes I’ve been charged along with her daughter.

“Problem is, we’re missing the same piece to the puzzle he is, the location, where it is. So where do we go from here?”

“It sounds to me like we’re going to Panama,” says Herman.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Goudaz comes in behind us holding a notepad in one hand, twirling a pen in the other. He’s picked up only the last bit of the conversation.

It turns out his friend at the docks at Puntarenas is a storehouse of information.

“He has a line on containerized shipping from all over the world,” says Goudaz. “According to him, any container cargo coming out of that area, southwest Colombia on the Pacific side, would ship from a place called Tumaco. His computer shows only one vessel leaving Tumaco bound for Balboa within the next four days, a ship called the Mariah . It left Tumaco this morning and is scheduled to make port in Balboa day after tomorrow.”

“Then that’s it,” says Herman. “That’s gotta be it.”

“There’s one problem,” says the mayor. “The Mariah left Tumaco empty. No cargo. It’s supposed to be taking on cargo in Balboa. It’s not showing any ports of call between Tumaco and Balboa. But here’s the interesting part. The records at the other end in Balboa show preliminary arrangements for transshipment of one cargo container from the Mariah to another vessel. So far, the other vessel is unidentified.”

Maricela is shaking her head, a perplexed look on her face. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re wondering how the Mariah could leave Tumaco empty and arrive in Panama with a container?” says Goudaz.

“Yes.”

“Colombian magic,” he says. “According to the man in Puntarenas, anything is possible in Colombia. A mystery container gets put on at sea, or they make an uncharted stop in some cove along the coast. He tells me it’s also possible the Mariah may never show up in Balboa at all.”

“How is that?” I say.

“He says smugglers often fog the shipping records. They’ll show one destination and sail to another, create false bills of lading for cargo. Sometimes they’ll even change the name of the ship en route. They identify a registered container ship, same size as the one they’re sailing. The other ship could be in dry dock somewhere or in another port halfway around the world. They borrow the ship’s name for a few days. If they plan ahead and create a paper trail and a new destination for the new ship, nobody is going to ask any questions when it arrives on time. And if the paperwork shows the port of origin as a place that’s not known for smuggling, officials at the port of destination probably won’t check the cargo that closely. Customs will collect any duty, and before you know it the container is on the back of a truck headed someplace else.”

“So what you’re tellin’ us,” says Herman, “is we don’t know where Nitikin is or the container?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere out on the big blue. That’s the bad news,” says Goudaz. “The good news is, we may know more by tomorrow. If by then the computer shows the name of the other ship, the one that’s supposed to receive the container, and the Mariah actually shows up at Balboa the next day, then the transfer is likely to take place, in which case we should get a final destination.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” says Herman.

“I’d sit tight, have another beer if I were you,” says Goudaz.

“A man after my own heart.” Herman laughs and gets up out of the chair, the whole hulking six foot four of him. He puts his arm around Goudaz’s shoulder, dwarfing the man.

“Just one more thing. I hate to even ask, but we don’t know who else to turn to. And you’re such a helpful guy.” This is Herman in full bullshit mode.

Goudaz laughs. “What do you want?”

“Paul and I are afraid the prosecutor in Katia’s case may have attached a couple of investigators to us when we traveled down here. If we’re going to find information we can use at trial, we need to lose them. We’re not going to be able to do that traveling under our own passports. I’m betting you might know someone in town who could produce a couple of good passports on short notice.”

“U.S. or foreign?” Goudaz doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Too many holograms and threads running through the paper on U.S.,” says Herman. “Let’s say Canadian.”

“When do you need them?”

“Yesterday,” says Herman.

“It’s gonna cost you.”

Herman looks my way for approval.

“Sounds like a business expense to me.”

Alim felt the steel sides of the cargo container shudder as the unremitting chop of the rotors suddenly changed. The noise woke him as his stomach told him they were descending. He checked his watch and then jumped to his feet, grabbed his rifle, and reached into the duffel bag where he found a pocket pouch containing four more loaded clips.

He strapped the pouch over his shoulder and glanced at the bag of grenades in the bottom of the duffel. Alim decided to leave them. He took one last look at Nitikin, on the floor. The Russian hadn’t stirred since they’d checked his eyeballs earlier that day.

Moving quickly around the wooden crate, he stepped over one of his subordinates who was fast asleep, and kicked the other one who was cowering like a whipped dog.

He got down in his face and told the man, “Get a rifle and load it. You are to guard the container and the Russian. If anything happens to either one, I will cut off your head and feed your body to the sharks. Do you understand?”

The man nodded.

“Move,” said Alim.

The man scurried on his hands and knees, around him and toward the duffel bag on the floor.

Alim moved to the two brothers, tapping one of them on the shoulder with the butt of his rifle to wake him. The movement woke the other as well. Afundi gestured for them to stand and join him as he unfolded a sheet of paper and laid it out on top of the wooden crate. He pointed to an area on the drawing and then to one of the two brothers.

The man nodded. He understood what he was supposed to do.

Alim gestured to the other one and pointed to another area on the drawing. The man nodded.

“According to the information there should only be seven targets. But we must get them all. If one of them gets away, there are too many places to hide. If they’re wearing red shirts, don’t shoot. Do you understand?”

Both men nodded.

They had spent two days practicing, but now they were shorthanded. They would simply have to move faster to make up the difference. He reached into the pocket pouch and gave each of the brothers an extra thirty-round clip.

“Use short bursts, and make them count.”

The descent seemed to take forever. At one point they hovered for several minutes, then climbed again, swung out, and circled. Centrifugal force sent the container in a wide arc as the three men grabbed the sides of the wooden crate and struggled to maintain their footing on the steel floor. It was the reason they were confined in the container. The chopper couldn’t land on board, but the container could be settled on the deck. And once there, their confederates would open the steel door and they could surge out and take control.