'Okay. I'll start for'd, but where do I concentrate?'
'In the safety lockers, right aft, by the car ramps. Search there…'
Hendriks remained silent, impressed by the man's intensity. Beads of sweat speckled Dmitri Sysoyov's forehead and his fingers clenched spasmodically.
'Take me seriously, sir,' Sysoyov whispered. ' Give me protection. They're waiting to kill me.'
Watching the master of Arcturus Star, Hendriks felt relieved: he had taken the precaution of contacting his Chief before tackling the Russian; he had also doubled-up his squad for the search and was covering the wharf with the remainder of his dutymen. Now that the new regulations were in force, he was fully equipped and armed with a search warrant.
'Thank you, Captain. I'll start forward. As this is a full search, I need someone with the ship's keys. I shall search each compartment.'
The Russian master had at last given up, though he had tried every trick in the book, even threatening to put to sea forth' with — but Hendriks had thrown the Port Regulations at him.
'Okay, Bruno,' he said, nodding at his deputy. ' Start in the forepeak. I'll stay on the gangway. Ring me there, if you need me.'
Bruno met Hendriks' glance: they had been through this so often before and had learned from their mistakes.
'I'm sorry, Captain,' Hendriks said, ' but this is my duty.'
'So Lieutenant Sysoyov's been talking?' The master flicked cigarette ash from the flap of his reefer jacket. 'An unreliable officer, Sysoyov.'
'Perhaps, Captain,' Hendriks said quietly. 'But we're trying to stamp out the drug rackets here.'
'You're wasting your time in my ship, Inspector. My crew can never get hold of the stuff.'
'I'm sure you're right, Captain. I'll let you know when we're finished.'
The master remained seated, smirking while Hendriks let himself out. Bruno was an efficient customs officer; the police sentries were unobtrusively placed at all the key points. Hendriks did not relish a lengthy wait in this cold — but the head of the gangway was the right place for him, in spite of the Russian officer and the two seamen sullenly manning it. Hendriks' burly sergeant of the patrol, a steady and experienced man at this game, was a reassurance at two o'clock on this morning, with his three constables strolling stolidly along the deck.
At 0218, earlier than Hendriks expected, Bruno appeared through the screen door, his search party close behind him. He spoke in Dutch:
'They're a cagey lot, sir. I've found nothing.'
'Have you searched right aft yet?'
'Up to the stern door, sir. Nothing there: the car deck is crammed with Ladas waiting to trundle down the ramp.'
Bruno stifled a yawn, his breath steaming beneath the deck-head lighting, a whisp of vapour in the freezing night. Could Sysoyov have hoaxed them?
'I'll take the sergeant and three men. I want another look at the unloading deck.' He caught the glance that flickered between Bruno and the sergeant.' Wait here,' Hendriks snapped.
The Russian deck officer and his bloodhound seaman with the keys followed Hendriks down the three deck levels. The Dutchman, flanked by the sergeant and his three weary policemen, finally emerged through the car deck door. Vehicles, bumper to bumper, jammed the car deck from one side of the ship to the other. Hendriks stood there, daunted by the task facing him: heroin could be concealed in any of these hundreds of vehicles. But 'right aft' Sysoyov had said. The Russians knew that the cars could never be searched efficiently… Hendriks unconcernedly peered into a score of Ladas, then strolled aft until he was standing beneath the huge stern doors. The operating controls were sited in a cabinet perched on the port side, close to the unloading ramps.
'Hydraulic?' he asked, nodding towards the controls.
The Russian officer said nothing. He glanced impatiently towards the exit doors along the ship's side. ' I was on watch last night,' he said sullenly in passable, Americanized English. ' We had much bad weather. Hurry, please.'
Hendriks halted opposite a heavily constructed locker, the replica of another on the starboard side. Large red Russian lettering and the number 137 were stencilled on the door. The locker was built into the deck and a power-hoist was sited alongside, plumbed above the hinged lid.
'What are these?' Hendriks asked. 'Life-saving equipment?' He noted the surprise in the Russian's eyes, sensed the covering-up as the officer replied too casually:
'Safety-gear,' he said loudly. ' Usual stuff.' He began edging away, towards the exit doors.
'Open up, please,' Hendriks ordered.
The Russian and his bloodhound continued to walk away.
'Open these lockers, please,' Hendriks repeated, — an edge to his voice. ' I wish to look inside.' He nodded to two of his men who placed themselves between the exit doors and the Russians.
'I wish to speak to my captain.' The young Russian was beginning to fluster. Hendriks snapped in guttural Dutch, ' Grab the keys, Sergeant.'
The Russians were shocked at the speed and decision. The sergeant, the circlet of keys in his hand, firmly shoved the seaman towards the locker, while the other two held the officer.
'137, Sergeant,' Hendriks said.
'Open it, please,' Hendriks repeated, continuing to stare impersonally at the Soviet officer.
'It is forbidden…' The young man was shouting. ' You have no right. You must allow me to telephone the captain.'
'Open the lockers,' Hendriks ordered in Dutch, glancing at his sergeant. ' Hold our friends by the door, while I search.'
The sergeant extricated the correct key, inserted it in the heavy lock; he prised open the heavy door, hooking the lid against the bulkhead beneath the control panel.
'Abandon ship gear, sir,' the sergeant said. 'Same type as ours, by the look of it.' Hendriks peered perfunctorily inside. He was surprised to see that the locker floor was part of the ship's structure and went deep into the bilges.
'This inflatable equipment is almost international kit now, Sergeant. Lend me your torch.' Hendriks sensed his sergeant's impatience.
'Tell your men to escort the Russians up top,' he said. ' Give me the keys. I'll lock up.'
Hendriks waited until the exit doors had sprung shut. Alone on the echoing car deck, he took off his jacket. He leaned into the locker, grasped the first life-raft and yanked the circular container from the compartment. He cleared away a coil of rope. Beneath it, he was surprised to see a deep well where something glinted from the deck-head lighting.
He pushed clear another raft-container, propping it into his right arm. Using his left hand he shone his torch into the hollow void beneath. He whistled softly, and slipped out his miniature camera. Seconds later, the flash blinded him. He replaced the gear, lowered and snapped shut the lock on Number 137. Threading his way swiftly through the cars he was back at the gangway in less than two minutes. He spoke in English:
'That's all, Sergeant: the search is finished.' He handed the keys to the Russian officer. 'Please thank your captain for his co-operation.' Hendriks returned the salute and walked briskly down the gangway to the quayside below.
Three days after this incident, Arcturus Star moved to the RO/RO terminal for discharge. In spite of intense pressure from the Soviet Consul, Holland's Foreign Minister accorded political asylum to Lieutenant Sysoyov, the deserter from the Russian ship.
Sysoyov was escorted from the docks area and handed over to the immigration department.
Eight days later, a week-end fisherman was securing his launch when he found the bloated corpse of a man wedged between the fenders of the two inboard boats.
In spite of decomposition and the ravages of fish, Police Inspector Johann Hendriks found no difficulty in identification.
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