One hundred and fifteen enthused computer division supervisors had entered the first-floor briefing auditorium at nine in the morning, and by four that afternoon only a handful of them went away with any understanding of what Otto had told them. The rest of what Otto called the geek squad left Langley wondering if perhaps they should change professions.
“For the moment at least I’ve got to go with the Cabimas lead, it’s the only thing I have, unless you come up with something new from his navy file,” McGarvey said.
“He had a four-day head start,” Otto said. “Why’d he blow two days of it staying there in Maracaibo to piss off a whore?”
Another possibility suddenly came to McGarvey. On the way in from the airport Gallegos had given him some background on Maracaibo. It was Venezuela’s second-largest city with a metro-area population of more than one million. “What’s the population of Cabimas?”
“Just a sec,” Otto said. A moment later he came back. “A hundred twenty thou.”
“Anonymity,” McGarvey said. “Maracaibo is ten times the size of Cabimas. He got down here too early, and it’s easier to hide out in a big city than in a small town.”
“He was waiting for something,” Otto said. “A ship.”
“A specific ship,” McGarvey said.
“I’m on it,” Otto said. “Give me an hour and I’ll have the name and crew complements of every ship out of Cabimas in the past forty-eight hours.”
“They’ll have a specific target, and whatever it is, it will be big.”
“He’s most likely after an oil tanker, which would probably head for the California refineries. If they blew it up at the unloading dock, it could hurt us pretty badly. The gas shortages would all but cripple us until a new refinery came on line. And that could be years.”
“You’d better give the Bureau a heads-up.”
“We’re supposed to go through Don Hamel’s office—” Otto said, but McGarvey cut him off.
“Say hello to Fred Rudolph for me,” McGarvey said. Rudolph had risen to head the FBI’s Counter-Terrorism Division. He was the one man over at the J. Edgar Hoover Building for whom McGarvey had total trust and respect.
“Will do,” Otto said. “I’ll get back to you within the hour.”
“Do that,” McGarvey said. He telephoned the front desk and asked that Gallegos call as soon as he arrived.
“Señor Gallegos has just walked in the door,” the front desk clerk said. “Un momento.”
Gallegos came on a house phone in the lobby. “He refused, and I can’t blame him. Graham has broken no Venezuelan laws.”
“Never mind that,” McGarvey said. “How far is it to Cabimas?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Gallegos said. “Is that where he went?”
“I think so. I’ll meet you out front, we’ll drive down there now.”
“What have you learned?” the intelligence officer asked, his tone guarded.
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
“First thing in the morning,” Gallegos said. “We won’t do any good down there this time of night.”
McGarvey figured the man was right, but it was frustrating to spend the night doing nothing. “I think he’s here to hijack one of your ships.”
“Impossible,” Gallegos said. “I’ve already told you that Vensport security is airtight.”
“There’s no such thing,” McGarvey said. “But I’ll have the names of some possibilities for you within the hour. You can at least alert security down there to be on the lookout.”
“Look, Señor McGarvey, this is Venezuela. My service has agreed to offer you whatever help it can. But believe me when I tell you that our shipping security is the best in the world. It has to be, because oil is our lifeblood. If anything were to happen to that industry we would be in more trouble than you can imagine. Do you understand this?”
“If Graham’s not after a crew, he came to hijack a ship.”
“Sí, you’ve already said that.”
“He evidently figured out a way to do it, otherwise he would not have wasted his time coming here.”
“Then he’s in for a surprise, because his picture has been sent to Vensport Security.”
“When?”
“This morning,” Gallegos said. “Get some sleep. We will drive to Cabimas after breakfast, and you will see.”
The call from Otto came a few minutes after eleven. In the past forty-eight hours, twenty-seven ships had departed the various oil-loading facilities along the lake, bound for ports from Salvador, Rio de Janeiro, and Montevideo in the south, to St. Croix and New York in the north, and seven transiting the Panama Canal for ports in the Pacific, three of which were in California. Another eleven ships were due to head out over the next twenty-four hours, six of which were bound for U.S. ports.
“There’s been no trouble reported from any of the ships already at sea,” Otto said. “And the Vensport Lake Terminal Security net has been quiet. If Graham went to Cabimas he’s kept his head down.”
“Fax the list to the hotel,” McGarvey said.
“No need, Mac. While we were talking I downloaded the entire list to your sat phone. Just key your address book.”
“Good,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime give Homeland Security the heads-up on all the U.S. ports on the list. My bet would be the California refineries.”
“Me too, I think,” Otto said, somewhat distantly. “But we’ve got a little time. The Apurto Devlán, which is the first ship on the list, isn’t due at Long Beach for another ten days.”
“Keep me informed, Otto,” McGarvey said.
“Will do.”
TWELVE
Thirty minutes after they dropped their hook in the holding basin off Colón, a small ex — U.S. Coast Guard gig flying the Panama Canal Transit Authority pennant came alongside and tied up at the lowered boarding ladder. Immediately four men and two small dogs on leashes started up.
It was a few minutes after seven in the morning, and a soft warm breeze came from the southeast, bringing with it the pleasant, damp earthy odors of the rain forest that made the operation of the canal possible. The Apurto Devlán flew the tricolor Venezuelan flag from her stern, and the Panamanian courtesy flag and yellow quarantine pennant from her starboard spreader atop the superstructure.
Graham and his second officer, Mohammed Hijazi, watched from the port bridge wing as the boarding party was met by Ali Ramati, who was presenting himself as First Officer Vasquez.
“Why the dogs?” Hijazi asked.
“I expect they’re looking for explosives,” Graham said. Seeing the dogs and their handlers coming on deck, he’d had a momentary stab of fear that somehow this mission had been blown. But if that were the case, he reasoned, the ship would never have been allowed to come this far. They would have been stopped by a U.S. Navy warship while they were still well at sea.
Hijazi laughed disparagingly. “They should have brought trained fish.”
There was something about the two men with the dogs that was bothersome, however. They were taller than the other two, and they weren’t wearing uniforms, just dark jackets and dark baseball caps. One of them turned and looked up. Graham involuntarily stepped back. Emblazoned on the front of his cap were the initials FBI.
Hijazi spotted the cap at the same time. “Is it a trap?” he asked, his hand going to the pistol beneath his light jacket.