Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Chow ignored the workmen, drifted out into the sunken living room, and found himself looking at an unobstructed view of Elliott Bay. Though not as high as his father’s condominium, the view was every bit as good, and that pleased him. The snakehead knew that a Feng Shui mastet would have commented on the fact that chi, or positive energy, would flow well through the space, but was determined to ignore his father’s old-world superstition. “I’ll take it,” Chow proclaimed. “How much?”

  Dexter, who was used to waiting through a good deal of hemming and hawing while people made up their minds, was pleasantly surprised. “That’s wonderful! I’ll need the first and last months’ rent plus a one-thousand-dollar damage deposit. Would you like to see the rest of the unit?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Chow replied, but the snakehead’s mind was already made up as he stuck his head into a couple of smaller rooms prior to entering the master suite. Not only was it huge, it boasted a nice view of downtown, and an oversized mirror on the wall opposite the spot where a bed would go. Chow imagined what it would be like to screw Ling from behind while he watched her face in the mirror. He felt his penis start to harden and knew he had made the right choice.

  Ling knew it was important to maintain her makeup and took the opportunity to peer into the mirror. She recognized the face as being hers—but the eyes belonged to someone else.

  The rain was so fine that it accumulated on the windshield as a thousand tiny dots, all of which were swept away by a single swipe of Rossi’s wipers as the agent made a hard right-hand turn into the SEACON terminal. It consisted of a vast concrete wasteland presided over by orange cranes so tall that they dwarfed the white, green, and blue cargo containers stacked around their skeletal legs. The lunch that the FBI agent had prepared for her daughter slid across the passenger seat, bounced off the door, and tumbled to the floor. Missy had intentionally or unintentionally forgotten to grab the brown paper sack as she bailed out of the car in front of her school, and Rossi hadn’t noticed in time, a mistake that the hyper-efficient Vanessa would never be guilty of.

  Rossi was still fussing over her own inadequacies as the tractor trailer rig in front of her slowed and then stopped next to a small guard station. Security was a big concern in the Port of Seattle, and had been ever since 9/11.

  Rossi pulled forward as the truck cleared the check point. She offered the uniformed security guard her credentials and was pleased to see that the man took the time required to compare the photo with her face. If he was impressed by the badge, there was no outward indication of it. He nodded politely. “Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”

  Rossi consulted the fax that the SNAKE EYE team leader had sent her. “I’m meeting some people at SEACON B-4. Which way do I go?

  The guard gave some concise directions, and the agent followed them through a maze of stacked cargo containers and entered an open area. Yellow crime tape had been used to mark off one of the big forty-foot-long shipping containers. Patches of red rust had corrupted the gray paint and were nibbling at the four-foot tall letters that spelled “SEACON.” A thick black cable led from a diesel generator to the isolated shipping container. It seemed like an odd location for a meeting, but given the presence of some sedans with tax-exempt plates, Rossi figured she was in the right place. That impression was reinforced when she saw the small group of people who stood talking under a blue awning.

  Conscious of the fact that she was running ten minutes late, the agent parked in the first available slot, got out, and hurried across the worn concrete to the spot where the crime tape barred her way. She lifted the plastic ribbon high enough to slip underneath and was halfway across the open area beyond when a man came out to meet her. He wore a big hat, with a western cut gray suit and fancy boots. His face was brown, as if he had spent a lot of time out in the sun, and the sunglasses he normally wore had left white ovals around pale blue eyes. The man grinned and stuck out his hand. It was large, warm, and firm. “I’m Hawkins. You must be Rossi.”

  Based on what she’d been able to learn from the unofficial network that binds federal law enforcement officers together, the FBI agent knew that Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dale Hawkins was not only a customs agent, but a legendary customs agent, who had spent most of the last twenty years working to slow if not halt the flow of illegal aliens into the southern United States. There was something about his no-bullshit style that Rossi liked. She smiled in return. “Yes, I’m Christina Rossi. Sorry I’m late. It won’t happen again.”

  The ASAC released her hand. “No problem. I figured the bureau would send me a rookie, a pencil pusher, or some old geezer who was coasting to retirement. You can’t imagine how happy I was when they assigned a real agent to the team. Someone who can think, act, and shoot if it comes to that.”

  Rossi was used to receiving more criticism than praise and couldn’t help but feel complimented, especially since her built-in bullshit detector hadn’t gone off. “Thank you, Agent Hawkins. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Call me Hawk, or hey asshole,” the customs agent said breezily. “Everyone else does. Come on. I want you to meet the rest of the team.”

  The rest of the team consisted of a crisp-looking Coast Guard Lieutenant named Tom Olman, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents Olivia Inez, Chuck Hagger, and Ellen Moller, plus a Seattle Police Detective named George Tolley. Some were already working on the illegal immigrant problem on behalf of their various agencies. All were pleasant, but reserved, as if waiting to see how the FBI agent would square with the media hype.

  “All right,” Hawkins said once the introductions had been made, “let’s get to work. If you would be so kind as to step inside the cargo container we’ll start the meeting.”

  Tolley was an African-American with a receding hairline, wire-rimmed glasses, and a ready smile. He motioned for Rossi to enter the metal box ahead of him. “I believe that FBI agents should always enter dark cargo containers before members of the Seattle Police Department.”

  Rossi made a face at the policeman and entered the box. The agent noticed that a table and chairs had been set up in the middle of the floor. She wondered why the enclosure smelled so bad, but was then startled when the door slammed closed. Total darkness was accompanied by the sound of Hawk’s voice. “Welcome to SEACON container 7306, ladies and gentlemen. Please remain right where you are. If you have had the pleasure of visiting Hong Kong, you saw hundreds, maybe thousands of containers like this one as the train carried you from the airport to Central. Mountains of boxes frequently protected by little more than a cyclone fence. About eight million of these suckers enter the U.S. each year—and only six percent of them are inspected.

  “Now, I want you to imagine that you were one of the eighteen Chinese nationals who were loaded into this particular container. You were strangers to each other at first, but you had plenty of things in common. All of you were from the Chinese province of Fujian, which is located north of Hong Kong, and only one hundred miles from Taiwan. And you weren’t the first to make such a journey. ICE estimates that more than two hundred thousand of your countrymen settled in the New York area alone during the last twenty years.”

  It had already become close in the container, very close, and the smell made it worse. Light splashed the ceiling as Hawkins produced a small flashlight and positioned the device directly below his chin. The glow made him look gruesome, and Rossi was reminded of a camping trip when she had used the same technique to tell Missy a ghost story. The then-third-grader had been scared all right, too scared to sleep, and cranky the next morning.

  “You sat in container seven three oh six for five days waiting for it to be loaded,” Hawkins continued. “Followed by two weeks at sea. You had a few flashlights, like this one, but the batteries ran out after a few days which left you to live in total darkness. What little fresh air there was came in through holes and the gaps around the doors. Some of you had the runs, others were seasick, and it didn’t take long to fill the five-gallon bu
ckets that served as toilets. A corner was designated as the John, but ships roll, so the mixture of feces, urine, and vomit had a tendency to slosh back and forth.”

  “And it was cold, very cold, with no way to generate heat. Rations consisted of rice, crackers, and water. The food ran out with a week left to go. So it was no surprise when people started to die. Three in all, leaving just fifteen of you huddled together, sealed in what might become your tomb. Finally, having been unloaded here in Seattle, the Americans found you. Or what was left of you, before they carted you off to jail.”

  Hawkins let the words hang there, giving each member of the team the time necessary to assimilate them before bringing a small radio up to his lips. “Okay, Larry. The horror show is over. Open the doors.”

  There was a clang as a vertical locking bar was released, followed by the squeal of unoiled hinges as a heretofore unseen agent pulled the double doors open. Daylight entered the container along with a welcome surge of fresh air. Rossi drew it deep into her lungs. Hawkins grinned knowingly. “Excuse the drama, folks. But my presentation lasted about two minutes. Imagine nineteen or twenty days of that.”

  Inez was short, petite, and pretty. “The sonovabitch is crazy,” the ICE agent muttered darkly as the generator started to chatter outside. “I’ll have to burn these clothes.” Rossi laughed and realized that the other woman was correct. The combined odors of decaying flesh, raw sewage, and vomit would be hard if not impossible to get rid of. The blue suit was toast.

  Portable lights had been hung inside the container and they came on as someone flipped a switch. “Okay, people,” Hawkins said cheerfully. “Welcome to conference room seven three oh six. Take any seat that’s open. While most of this is old news to some of you, the rest need to hear it, so listen up. The background stuff is on the CDs that have been prepared for you—so there’s no need to take a whole lot of notes.”

  The customs agent withdrew a laser pointer from an inside pocket and projected a red dot onto the surface of a large, wall-mounted map. “I got most of my experience with human smuggling down in the southwest, but having just completed a crash course on Asian trafficking, I know just enough to be dangerous. As I mentioned earlier, a lot of the illegals who come through Vancouver and Seattle originate in Fujian province. It’s about the size of Delaware. The capital city of Fuzhou is home to a liudong renkou, or floating population of a quarter million displaced farm workers who migrated there hoping to find work, but lack the skills and education necessary to get factory jobs.

  “Having heard stories about life in the United States, which they commonly refer to as the ‘Golden Mountain,’ many displaced workers want to come here. And that makes sense since workers in Shanghai earn eight times what the folks in rural China do—and the average worker in the United States makes twenty times more than that! Which is why criminals called snakeheads have such an easy time signing them up to come here. Never mind the fact that the would-be immigrants have to borrow between fifty and sixty grand to buy their passage, then work eighty-to ninety-hour weeks to pay the money back, all at a wage of four to five bucks an hour. Oh yeah, and did I mention that the smugglers charge interest? It all adds up to what some experts say is an eight-billion-dollar per year business worldwide.”

  Hawkins paused to eye those in front of him. “Task Force SNAKE EYE can’t put a stop to the trade—it’s way too big for that—but we can sure as hell put a dent in it. And this particular bastard would be a good place to start.”

  The little red dot wobbled across the wall and came to rest on a poster-sized mug shot of an Asian male. “For those of you who aren’t already acquainted with this piece of shit, his name is Sam Chow. Over the last thirty years he’s been accused of everything from spitting on the sidewalk to premeditated murder. None of the charges have stuck. He’s getting old now and plans to hand the business over to his son, but it ain’t over till it’s over.”

  “Has anyone tried going after him on taxes?” Rossi wanted to know. “Maybe the IRS could help.”

  “They nailed Al Capone,” Hawkins agreed, “but no, Chow is too smart for that. Our guess is that profits generated from human trafficking are taken out of country where they are washed through seemingly legitimate corporations prior to being repatriated. Then he pays whatever taxes are owed and uses the remainder to buy more fishing boats for his fleet, trucks for his shipping company, and lots of real estate.

  “So, having failed to nail him in the past, the powers-that-be decided to create a task force that will go after Chow the old-fashioned way. We’ll put some pressure on the bastard, spook him if we can, and wait for him to make a mistake, which would be good, because the intelligence folks believe that the old man has developed a new way to smuggle illegals into the country by sea, but we haven’t been able to figure out how. A body washed ashore a few days ago. An Asian male dressed in a survival suit. But there must have been more. Lots more. But where are they? We have a full-court press in place but nothing to show for it. Maybe this team can come up with the answer.”

  “It sounds good,” Tolley allowed cynically, “but where do we start? The SPD has been chasing Chow for years without success.”

  When Hawkins smiled it had a predatory quality and Rossi felt a sudden sense of sympathy for the coyotes who worked the Mexican border. “That’s simple, Detective Tolley,” the customs agent replied. “We’ll go after Chow the same way we would go after you.”

  Tolley raised his eyebrows. “Which is?”

  “Which is through your children,” Hawkins answered coldly.

  Rossi thought about how much she loved Missy, and judging from the expression on Tolley’s face, knew that the detective felt the same way about his children.

  “That’s right,” the ASAC said knowingly, “and consider this: The name Chow comes from Zhou, which means to encircle. And, as it happens, the Zhou Dynasty ruled China from ten twenty-seven to two twenty-one B.C. Something Sam Chow not only takes pride in, but continues to identify with, as he prepares to found a dynasty of his own.

  “And that,” Hawkins said, “brings us to this piece of shit.” Rossi watched the red dot land on a second mug shot. “This is Joe Chow,” the customs agent added, “also referred to as ‘Little Chow’ by the denizens of the International District. He is not only Sam Chow’s right-hand man, but his heir apparent, and chance for immortality. That makes him the old geezer’s weak spot, which is why Rossi is going to bug his apartment and see what we can find out about him. Isn’t that right, Rossi?”

  The FBI agent looked up at the mug shot and nodded her head. “Yes, sir. Assuming we can get a judge to sign the Title III paperwork and the proprietor will cooperate.”

  “He’d better cooperate,” Inez put in mischievously, “or Rossi will shoot him.”

  Everyone laughed, and Rossi smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. The FBI agent could still see the flames, still smell the burning flesh, and still feel the gun bucking in her hands.

  The meeting broke up two hours later, but the smell followed Rossi into the rain and all the way home. A bath took care of the odor in her hair, but not the loneliness that went with an empty house and a life focused almost entirely on work. She had her job but very little else. With Snowball on her lap, and CNN for company, Rossi fell asleep.

  Careful not to make any noise Dexter entered his closet, pushed his carefully hung clothes out of the way, and slid the hidden door to one side. Then, with his heart beating a little faster than normal, the businessman peered through the window into the dimly lit bedroom next door. But there are problems associated with being a voyeur, not the least of which has to do with the fact that the victim or victims determine when they will be victimized.

  The reality of that served to remind Dexter of the deep recons that he and his men had carried out along the border between Iraq and Iran. Long, often boring missions during which the SEALS spent up to six days waiting for bad guys to transit a remote mountain pass, hold a meeting in an isolated cave, or hunker
down around a campfire. Of course they, just like Joe Chow and his mistress Lena Ling, frequently failed to show.

  Once all the paperwork had been signed Joe Chow had moved into the Bayview apartments with surprising speed. A wave of brand new furniture had been followed by some starkly modern art and a dozen cardboard boxes. Hardly anything at all compared to the tons of stuff that most tenants trucked in.

  Then, once his belongings had been unpacked by two well-coiffed interior designers, Chow and a small entourage of what Dexter took to be bodyguards arrived. That was problematical since the businessman didn’t want renters who needed that kind of protection living in his building—not to mention the fact that at least two of the heavies could be found slouched in their employer’s SUV at all hours of the day and night, a development that annoyed Pasco no end since the maintenance man regarded the parking garage as his turf.

  Still, if Dexter was ready and waiting when Chow and Ling decided to enter the adjoining bedroom, then the subsequent show might be worth all the trouble. The couple were home, the businessman knew that, so he dropped into his easy chair and opened a book. It was The Fermata, by Nicholson Baker, which seemed perfect for the occasion. There were times when the missing leg felt as though it was still there, and for whatever reason, such was the case as the businessman began to read. The ex-SEAL was well into chapter eight, in which Marian finds interesting ways to entertain herself inside a UPS truck, when the lights came up and Ling was propelled into the room beyond the glass. The young woman stumbled, tripped, and fell.

  Chow rounded the corner with a beer in his hand. He smiled, said something Dexter couldn’t hear, and used his left hand to release his belt and pull it free. The ex-SEAL felt his stomach muscles tighten as the leather dangled next to the other man’s leg.

  Having placed the beer on a night stand, Chow went over to where Ling cowered on the floor. He grabbed a handful of the girl’s thick black hair and jerked her up onto her feet. Then, having ordered her to remain there, the snakehead brought the belt around. The resulting crack was loud enough for the apartment house owner to hear through the interconnecting ventilation system. Dexter came to his feet. His hands were balled into fists. The strap struck again.