Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

The ship Amora was a coastal cargo carrier but with sufficient fuel capacity for long-range travel. Because it had been traveling empty-handed to Guatemala to pick up a load of lumber, it was operating with a skele ton crew. Its tanks had been topped off with cheap Venezuelan diesel for ballast. It had been designed originally as a Great Lakes freighter, with the wheelhouse and superstructure forward, near the bow.

It was less than three hundred tons in gross weight. This meant that it was exempt from the international automatic identification system, otherwise known as AIS. The system tracked the location and identity of large cargo ships around the world by using satellites. It broadcast information as to their identity and location every two minutes over VHF radio frequencies. Originally designed for collision avoidance, the AIS system was now being used increasingly to guard against terrorism and escalating acts of piracy.

Alim had coordinated with the Tijuana cartel. Two of the cartel members had joined the Amora’ s crew in Colombia. Armed with handguns, they had disabled the radio and seized the bridge just moments before the container was delivered on board.

Alim and two of his gunmen cornered the last crew member shortly before midnight. By one in the morning, the bodies of the dead were weighted with chain, pitched over the side, and the decks washed clean with high-pressure hoses.

Only the captain remained alive, up on the bridge where Afundi held him at gunpoint until he could rendezvous with the other boat. He would be replaced by a skipper provided by the cartel, along with a new crew, and the Amora’ s captain would join his men in the eternal chain locker at the bottom of the sea.

“The Costa Rican government is getting nervous. They’re asking a lot of questions. They want to know why the FBI is making such a big deal out of a case involving a single fugitive.” James Rhytag sat behind his desk in his Washington office and talked into the telephone as he looked at the report from Thorpe’s agents in San José.

“Listen, Jim, give us another day and my people will have him. We’re that close.” Thorpe was on the other end of the line, trying to buy more time.

“The State Department and the White House are getting nervous,” said Rhytag. “There’s a complaint from Costa Rican law enforcement that U.S. agents are conducting electronic surveillance on Costa Rican soil without their government’s knowledge or approval. The Ticos are threatening to file a formal diplomatic note with our ambassador, in which the government is going to start asking questions in the international press. The White House wants a lid on it.”

“My men have locked in on a weak signal from Madriani’s cell phone twice in the last two days. They’re telling me one more time and they’ll have him. Have you seen the report?”

“I’m looking at it now,” said Rhytag.

“The house belonged to Nitikin’s daughter. According to the neighbors, two men got her out just before the place went up. The two men fit the description of Madriani and the guy he’s traveling with. The three of them, the daughter, Madriani, and his friend, all disappeared off the street after the fire. That means if we nab Madriani we may get the daughter as well. And if she took the pictures, she knows where Nitikin is.”

“Who the hell blew up the house?” said Rhytag.

“That’s the point,” said Thorpe. “I can smell it. Something is happening. This thing’s going down. Get somebody to tell the people in the White House that if they shut us down now, they may end up having to answer some very painful questions later.”

Yakov woke to the sound of a train, the diesel engine switching gears somewhere off in the distance. He was lying facedown, spittle running from the corner of his mouth. What looked like a gray linen sheet and the open end of a matching pillowcase inches from his face transformed itself to soiled white as it slowly came into focus. There were stains that looked and smelled like motor oil or grease.

For some reason he was famished. The rumbling in his stomach competed for attention with the noise of the diesel engine. He tried to recall when he had eaten last. It was at dinner in the common dining area. Since he never ate much, the meal, some chicken, potatoes, a healthy portion of salad, and bread, should have been plenty.

He began to roll over, then covered his eyes with his hand. Nitikin’s head felt as if it were a melon about to split. He could tell by the bright sunlight that it was morning, but he had no idea where he was.

He remembered waking up on the cot in his hut, the piercing beam of the flashlight in his eyes, and the helicopter with its giant rotors whipping the air in the clearing. In his mind he could see the large steel container with its open door yawning wide, waiting to swallow him.

Yakov lay there for what must have been several minutes. But try as he might he could remember almost nothing after entering the cargo container. He recalled seeing the wooden crate, the pressure of his back against the hard metal wall. He had a foggy image of Alim, his cold, evil eyes looking down, his lips moving, saying something. Nitikin couldn’t be sure if the image was real or imagined.

He touched his naked wrist and realized that his watch wasn’t there. He remembered trying to find it in the bag under his bed but being stopped by the interpreter. Then suddenly he reached down and felt for the shape and the hard plastic of the cell phone in his pants pocket. It was still there. Yakov took a deep breath, brought his hands up, and pressed his fingers to his temples. He closed his eyes and tried to stop the spinning motion.

As the fog in his head began to clear, his eyes focused farther out, on the room and his surroundings. He was dizzy with the constant sensation of motion. The shaft of light piercing the room through the small round window in the wall was also in motion, as were the thin gauze drapes that seemed to dance from the rod above the window. Slowly it settled on him, he remembered the Port of Tumaco, and realized he was on board a ship, but for how long?

Yakov struggled to sit up. He lifted his leaden legs and dropped his feet onto the floor. No wonder they were so heavy, he was still wearing his boots. He crunched with his abdominals as he pushed with his arms, lifting his upper body until he was sitting upright at the edge of the bed. The blood raced to his stomach as his head pounded.

He sat there for two or three minutes unable to move as he collected his strength and looked at the door. The nausea rising in his stomach suddenly curbed his appetite.

Yakov stood up and then stumbled over to the washbasin in the small bathroom. He doused his face with water, then checked the phone in his pocket for any sign of a cell signal. The little screen read NO SERVICE. The time on the screen read 11:22. It was almost noon. He couldn’t remember if there was a change in time zones between the encampment in Colombia and Panama City.

When Nitikin tried to open the door to the cabin he found it was locked. He tried releasing the four steel-handled levers that sealed the door tight. Yakov couldn’t budge them. Somehow they’d been jammed from the outside. He went back into the bathroom, grabbed a tin cup, and started banging on the steel door until, a few seconds later, the door swung open, revealing one of Alim’s minions standing there with an assault rifle pointed at him.

As he was escorted along the deck at the point of a rifle, Yakov looked to see if he could find any sight of land off to his right. He saw nothing but open ocean. He wondered how long before they would get to Panama. His mind began to search for methods to slip away, to make his phone call to Maricela, and perhaps to escape. But first he had to know that his daughter was safe. He would tell her to run, to get away from her house. She had relatives in Limón, on the Caribbean coast. He would tell her to go there and hide out. If he survived, he would try to find her.