“If the fax is accurate and the ship’s on time,” says Herman, “that gives us less than ninety minutes. Any ideas how you want to do this?”
“Do you have your binoculars?”
“In my bag,” he says.
“Can I borrow them?”
“Sure.” Herman fishes through the bag, finds the small Zeiss four-power glasses, and hands them to me.
From where I am standing, even with the field glasses I can barely make out the name on the bow of the container ship. Just enough to know that it’s not the Amora.
“One thing’s for sure, we need to find a place where we can see better. Why don’t we pack up and leave the bags by the door? Then let’s get Maricela and take a walk.”
We go two blocks away from the water, then head along a main drag until we come to a bridge that crosses the canal. We turn right and follow the path along the canal out to where the cruise ships dock. By the time we get there, the container ship is buttoned up and two tugs have moved in to ease it away from the dock across the harbor.
We find a bench and the three of us sit like bumps on a log to wait.
Maricela watches through the field glasses as the tugs, with meticulous care, nudge the huge ship out into the center of the channel. They assist the empty cargo container as she turns in her own length. Ten minutes later the ship gets her bow pointed out to the open sea, and the massive screws begin to churn the water under her stern. In less than five minutes she is out beyond the jetty with the two tugs trailing alongside.
I am wondering if I should try and call Harry again, though I’m not sure how.
The two tugs have peeled away from the larger ship, but they aren’t coming back to port. Instead they are sitting there. They appear to be dead in the water, maybe a couple of miles out. If I strain my eyes I can see what appears to be a dot just this side of the horizon.
“Somethin’ out there,” says Herman.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Can I see the glasses?”
Maricela hands them to Herman.
He peers through the binoculars for ten seconds, maybe longer, trying to fine-tune the focus. “It’s a cargo ship. Looks like it might be empty, but I can’t tell.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” said Rhytag. He was standing at his desk barking into the phone. “So I was in a meeting. So you should have interrupted me.
“I don’t care if the agents thought it was a hoax.
“I know. I know. I’m aware that Madriani and his partner know we’ve been monitoring them. So what if they’re playing games. I still want to know. Has anyone checked out the information?
“What I’m saying”-his voice went up a whole octave-“is do we know if there’s a ship named the Amora scheduled to dock at Ensenada?
“Well, then find out! And call me back,” Rhytag shouted into the phone. He didn’t even bother to hang up. He just pushed the button for the other line and dialed a new number. He waited a few seconds and the instant the phone on the other end was picked up he said, “Zeb. Jim here, have you heard? Last night a phone call came in on the wiretap at Madriani’s partner’s house. There was no answer, so the caller left a message. He identified himself as Paul. The agents say the voice sounded like Madriani. He told his partner to call me and tell me that the bomb was on board a ship. According to the message, the ship is named the Amora and it’s scheduled to dock at Ensenada, Mexico, sometime today. They didn’t bother to report it because it’s clear that Madriani and his partner know the offices are bugged and the phones are tapped. The agents are certain it was a hoax.
“Why? Because yesterday afternoon there was another phone call. Presumably it came in over the lawyer’s encrypted cell phone, so the agents couldn’t hear the actual conversation. But according to what they heard over the bug in the office, the partner appeared to be using our wire to jerk the agents around. He was taking them right to the cusp of something important, apparently pretending to repeat information he was getting over the phone and then pretending the phone went dead…Zeb, Zeb, are you there? I thought I lost you,” said Rhytag.
“What’s that?”
Rhytag listened to the long explanation about triangulation and jamming as the blood seemed to drain from his head. He was getting the details when his secretary came through the door with a handwritten note and handed it to him.
He read the note as he was listening to the litany of excuses from Thorpe: “Confirmed. Panamanian-registered ship Amora, currently docked container port Ensenada, Mex. Agent M. Trufold.”
“Zeb, never mind that. Shut up and listen…”
We sit quietly on the bench and watch as the Amora clears the jetty and heads into the channel. She’s much smaller than the other container ship that left port almost an hour earlier, and she’s riding high in the water. As she swings her stern to clear the breakwater, I see a single cargo container resting on the deck, near the stern.
“You think that’s it?” says Herman.
“It’s gotta be, unless there are more containers belowdecks,” I say.
I scan with the glasses back in the other direction hoping to see a train of police vehicles streaming into the port. Instead all I see are trucks hauling cargo containers in the other direction, up the coast highway toward Tijuana and the border.
“Can I see?” said Maricela. Apparently she sees something on the ship she wants to look at.
I hand her the field glasses.
She puts them to her eyes and adjusts the focus, looks for a moment, and then says, “That’s him!”
“Your father?” I ask.
“No. Alim,” she says. “On the stairs.” She hands the glasses back to me. “Up at the top.”
I adjust them and look. A slender man with dark hair, wearing white coveralls, is standing on the wing of the bridge and just starting to make his way down the steps. I get a good look at him as he climbs to the main deck and disappears through a door in the tower section of the ship.
“Are you sure it’s him?” I ask.
“Yes. I would know that face anywhere. But where’s my father?” She wants the glasses back.
I hand them to her.
I turn to Herman. “If that’s the container on the deck, it’s not going to take them long to off-load. If they get it on the back of a truck and clear customs, they’ll be out along the jetty and up on the highway before we can move. Do you see a road coming in here anywhere?”
Herman turns, scans the parking area behind us. “It’s all fenced off. But back along the path by the canal, there was a street that came in.”
“Listen, see if you can get out on the road and flag down a taxi. Take it to the street by the canal and wait for us. I’ll stay here with Maricela, see if we can catch a glimpse of her father and keep an eye on the container. Just wait for us out there.”
Herman heads out on the run.
By the time I look back, the tugs have the Amora pressed up against the cargo dock across the way. It appears as if they aren’t even waiting to tie her up. One of the huge cargo cranes is lining up to lift the container from the aft deck.
Maricela is frantically scanning the deck from bow to stern looking for any sign of her father.
In no time at all the container is in the air and lifted free of the vessel. The mammoth arm of the crane swivels as the container swings over the side and disappears from sight down onto the dock on the other side of the ship.
“We’re gonna have to go,” I tell her.
“But where is my father?” she says.
“He could be on the other side of the ship, behind the superstructure, or in one of the cabins. Or possibly he’s already down on the dock.”