by TJ Tucker
John listened intently to Frank, anticipating what Troy might be saying.
“Me? I’m already in up to my eyeballs as usual.”
“Great, we definitely don’t want to attract too much attention.”
“I need financial information on Morningstar Security Services. Any material changes in their creditworthiness since losing those Afghanistan contracts. Any significant borrowing they’ve done. And if you have information on any new investors then that also.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it was them.”
“Okay, thanks for everything. Bye.”
Frank disconnected and said, “He’ll get back to us in a few minutes.”
“Fine,” replied John, “Let’s see what else we can dig up.”
John altered his internet search criteria to exclude any references to Afghanistan and ran the search again. He quickly found a recent interview with Derek Ellis, touting a restructuring program for Morningstar, including the formation of a subsidiary called “Nightwatch.”
“They were on the memo Robbie discovered,” said Frank. “And now that I’ve thought about it, I’m sure I’ve heard that name before at Tilbury.”
With another brief phone call, Frank learned that Nightwatch had been retained by Tilbury to run security at their port facilities across the country. “When were they retained?” asked Frank. He nodded, then listened a while longer with a look of surprise on his face. “I’m going to lay low for a while. You never heard from me, okay?”
“Well, the FBI has come around Tilbury asking about me and if they know where I am.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. These guys have long puppet strings and they’re starting to pull on them. What else did you learn?”
“Tilbury hired Nightwatch just after Torres booted Ellis and Morningstar from Afghanistan. Nightwatch controls the operations at our ports. It’s more extensive than just security. They’re creating some friction with the unions by messing with operations. Word is they don’t know the business considerations at all. But despite all the complaints about the setup, the new owners seem to like it this way. And it’s an expensive contract to boot. Whatever else turns up, I don’t doubt that this contract alone will keep Morningstar afloat financially.”
The phone rang and Frank answered it: “Hi Troy, so what did you learn?”
“Really, when?”
“Yeah, we have that range of dates already, they formed the Nightwatch subsidiary right around then.”
“That’s interesting. Anything else?”
“Okay, thanks, you too.”
“What’s up?” asked John.
“For a short time, Morningstar was scrambling for money and getting turned down at every turn, until right around when they formed Nightwatch. They haven’t talked to a single bank since then.”
“So that confirms it. They formed Nightwatch for a preset purpose that included getting a ton of money from Tilbury. Frank, where is Tilbury’s nearest big port?”
“Newark’s one of our biggest anywhere,” said Frank.
John pulled up a satellite view of Tilbury’s Newark operation, just off the New Jersey turnpike. They guessed there were about 2,000 containers in the area just beside the channel where the ships unloaded. “I’d like to see how much security this place has, or needs. Frank, we’re going to Newark.”
“That sounds like a great idea John,” said Frank. “Why don’t we call in advance so they know to expect us? Maybe they’ll give us a guided tour of the port facility.”
John disregarded the sarcasm. “That would be good, but the port of Newark is not on most tour stops,” he replied. “And it’s a safe bet they’re not expecting us to drop by in person. It’s probably the last place they’d think to look for us. The guys working there won’t have any idea who we are. I’ll bet Morningstar controls information so tightly that the employees have no idea of what they’re into.”
Chapter 42: Contadora
After a light breakfast in the shadow of Montreal, the “Feldsteins” boarded their flight to Aruba without a hitch and by evening made it to Panama City. Lyle reminded himself to again thank Ahmed for the passports. It could not be easy keeping up with new technologies and coded linkages to databases. After another night in a hotel near the airport in Panama City, they boarded the short flight to Contadora again without so much as a second look from security. The airport on Contadora was so small that Lyle was suddenly a little unsure of himself. It would be impossible to leave anonymously if anything went awry.
They arrived at the Hotel Contadora and changed into swimsuits to enjoy a brief respite from the drama. Lyle gave Jess an approving nod for the new bikini she’d picked up before they left. She blushed when he made a show of whistling at her, at the same time appreciating that he was appreciating her.
The hotel was small by resort standards, but was one of the biggest on the island, which was built up mostly with small Inns. The atmosphere was decidedly casual and there was a small bar area near the beach, with shaded tables and a nice view of the water.
Climbing out of the water, Lyle put on a Hawaiian shirt and announced that he was going to arrange a boat. “What can I do in the meantime?” asked Jess.
“Talk to the locals. See what you can learn about San Marcos, and what’s going on there,” answered Lyle. “Seeing you in that bikini, I can’t imagine you having any problem getting their attention.”
Jess walked down to the bar, sat down and ordered a Margarita. “You alone honey?” asked the bartender.
“Might as well be,” answered Jess, adopting the role of a bored, abandoned young woman. “He’s off arranging some scuba trip out to San Marcos or something like that. Like I care about scuba.”
“San Marcos?” asked the bartender, astonished. “He’s not going to have much luck there. That place is bad news. There are soldiers on patrol and aircraft will buzz anyone who gets too close. I don’t know that anyone will agree to take you anywhere near that island.”
“Well then, maybe I won’t be alone after all,” replied Jess, glad for the information.
As she was speaking, another resort employee joined in. “I’m José. If there’s anything you need, you come and see me. I can take care of whatever you want.”
He had a beaming smile and his eyes scanned the whole length of her. Jess quickly understood his interest, but decided to play along for what it was worth. “Well thanks, José. I’m Rachel. My stupid husband is off trying to scuba dive at San Marcos where I hear they waterboard you for passing within a hundred miles, so I’m stuck here. I am interested in the history of the place, though.”
“It was nothing just a year ago,” said José. “Then the North Koreans bought it and turned it into an armed camp. Me and my buddy we went there a few months back and –.”
“José!” snapped the bartender, putting his finger to his lips.
“Well, I won’t go back and I don’t think you’ll go either. Nobody will take you there. They’re all too scared.”
Jess wasn’t going to be scared off, and decided to see what gentle mockery might achieve. “I guess they’re all afraid of the fire-breathing dragon. Or maybe Doctor No lives there. Maybe I should go there to collect conch shells.”
José seemed embarrassed. “Well, there’s one guy who would probably take you there, but I don’t recommend doing it.”
“Great!” exclaimed Jess. “Call him up for me, José. You said you’d take care of anything.”
She slipped him a $20 bill. After a skeptical glance at her, he picked up his phone and made a call. “He can come by at 4:00. In the meantime how about a nice massage? I’m known for giving great massages.” He was again eyeing her up and down, so Jess laughed and thanked him, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and returned to the room for a nap.
Lyle returned about an hour later, just as she was waking up on her own. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” replied Jess with a yawn.
“I struck out. As soon as you say San M
arcos, it’s like you asked them to march through Mecca waving an Israeli flag.”
Jess rubbed her eyes and spoke while yawning. “Our ride will be here at 4:00. We’ll get to see Dr. No yet.”
“How’d you manage that?” asked Lyle.
“I did what you told me and used my charms.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Lyle, rolling his eyes.
Chapter 43: Fred’s
John and Frank set off southward from the Ferguson estate, driving John’s Audi past New York City and onto the New Jersey turnpike. They took a convoluted trip to Corbin Street, where Tilbury’s port facilities were located. “Frank, did the other container yards seem reasonably full to you?” asked John.
“Yes. Now that you mention it, they were. And Tilbury’s are half empty. Take a look back over there away from the loading area. It looks like hundreds of black pickup trucks.”
They parked the car, and walked to the edge of the fence surrounding the containers. The port was tightly access-controlled, effectively separated from the outside world. “Customs has to screen these before the American people can have their billion pieces of plastic junk,” remarked Frank. He removed a camera from his pocket and took a tightly zoomed picture of the cranes unloading containers before quickly putting it away.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, John, but aren’t those pickups over there Chevys?”
“Yeah, I think they are. They’re made here in the United States so they’re not being imported. Do you think they’re exporting them to China?”
“I can rule that out completely,” said Frank. “This is a container terminal. Cars are shipped in specially designed ships that they just drive on for loading, and drive off for unloading. It’s not done in containers.”
It took little time before a black Chevy Cobalt parked behind their car, and a large man in a green uniform stepped out. He walked over, forced a smile, and asked, “Are you gentlemen looking for something?”
Frank looked at him and noticed the Nightwatch logo embroidered on the man’s shirt. “I’m an economist,” he said. “I wanted to see for myself the impact of extended low interest rates on container traffic at a typical US port. I find the Baltic Dry Index too global in its focus, don’t you agree?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said the security guard. “If you don’t have permission to be here I’ll ask you to be on your way. I don’t want to ask twice.”
Scanning the area, John noted no fewer than a dozen men in similar attire taking notice of them from within the complex. Many of them had started to walk slowly in their direction. They pulled away slowly, with the guard following closely behind. The guard followed them as far as the turnpike.
“That was just a local told to watch the perimeter,” said John. I think we’d have had worse hassles if he’d called the Federal port cops. Then we’d have to answer all sorts of questions about what we were doing there.”
Frank wasn’t satisfied. “How do you know that about him?”
“He didn’t move like a soldier. It was obvious he had no training in combat. Not even very much in the way of sports, for that matter.”
They sat quietly for a while and became completely enmeshed in stop-and-go traffic. “You hungry?” asked Frank. John remembered they hadn’t had lunch and took the cue, pulled off the turnpike at the next exit and stopped at a diner near the exit.
“You took some pictures, didn’t you?”
“Just one,” replied Frank, pulling out his camera. He zoomed the display to the activities of the crane unloading the shipping containers. There must have been 50 men in green uniforms, some lightly armed, and all of them paying very close attention to the unloading process. “The place is crawling with Nightwatch uniforms. What do you suppose they’re up to?”
“Whatever the endgame requires. That’s what we’re trying to learn. Did you notice the union guys doing the actual work? I’ll bet they aren’t too thrilled with all the extra attention. They may talk to us.”
It was now approaching 2 pm, so they decided to try to meet some workers at the end of their shift. They returned to Corbin Street and found a neighborhood pub called Fred’s.
They entered Fred’s around 4:30, just as a few patrons started to file in. John and Frank took a seat at the bar and ordered beers. Trying to stay inconspicuous, they were intently paying attention to the people and the conversations at each of the tables. After listening quietly for about a half hour, they noticed one group make reference to “those friggin’ greenshirts.” The rest of the group reacted with uniform disgust.
“Should we go and buy them a round?” asked Frank. “Or would that be too weird?”
“Ideally, we could just chat up one of them. Group chemistry can be tricky,” said John.
“They might just split anytime, John. I don’t think we have a choice.”
“Okay then. Do you want to be lawyers or investigative journalists?”
“Lawyers, without a doubt,” replied Frank.
“Why so sure of yourself?”
“Investigative journalists have fallen much lower than lawyers in my book,” answered Frank. “They haven’t really investigated anything since Watergate, and I think that one was cherry-picked because Nixon had lost favor with the elites anyway.”
“There are reporters who investigate, but they don’t work for the major networks and newspapers, so their voices aren’t heard. But your point is valid. These guys aren’t likely to know that.”
“We’ll have to be damn good,” said Frank. “These guys don’t have advanced degrees, but I’d wager my house on their bullshit sensors.”
“They probably expect lawyers to be sleazy, so we can play to that stereotype. This could be fun.”
…
Frank and John stood up from their bar stool, and walked over to the table they’d been monitoring. “Gentlemen, is it alright if we buy you a round and ask a few questions while we drink?” asked John, doing his best to produce a contemptible smirk. They were met instantaneously with suspicious looks.
“Strictly off the record,” added John.
“You haven’t told us who you are,” said one of the men.
“Oh, sorry,” said John. “We’re with a law firm in Baltimore, where we represent a labor group that has certain issues with the greenshirts. We’re looking for some context. Patterns in their behavior. We heard some of your comments, and thought maybe you’d be willing to talk. I’m not interested in anyone’s name, and it’s only for as long as it takes to have a round of beers together.”
Their expressions softened noticeably at the prospect of getting some digs in at the greenshirts. Frank and John noticed the body language and took that as their cue to sit down.
The comments from the men started coming so quickly they didn’t even need to ask questions. “I’ve been unloadin’ ships for 15 years,” one man started. “And now the new security guys tell us how to do our jobs. There’s more security than workers. They tell us the order to unload containers, where we can put ‘em, and which end first. Sometimes they make me unload ‘em backwards to the way the trucks come in, so that slows everythin’ down. They don’t give a shit about efficiency. They have some kinda’ ballet choreography they’re makin’ us follow. They’re sure not helpin’ Tilbury. And the foreman’s just told to shut up and follow instructions. No one knows what the hell these guys’re up to.”
“They turned the place upside-down,” said another man. “They’re so screwed up, the place is half empty. Then everythin’ shows up at once and we start our ballet dance, as Joe called it. It’s like the opposite of efficiency. Tilbury used to work on efficiency, even brought guys in to organize us and find efficiency. Now it’s the opposite.”
A third man could hardly wait to speak. “It used to be Tilbury managers running the show. Then they were all fired and a new guy came in with the greenshirts. Now they run the place. But I can tell you this. They don’t know squat about running a port.”
John posed a q
uestion to the group. “So would it be fair to say they have inordinate influence on operations beyond any fair scope of ‘security,’ to the detriment of efficiency, employee morale and profitability?”
“They don’t influence shit,” said one previously silent worker. “They run the show. Other than that, it’s as you say.”
“Well, at least they built us a social complex,” said another man, laughing mockingly. “Get this. They put in dozens of showers and bathrooms. Do they think we like it here so much we wanna’ move in?”
“So you think you gonna’ sue them? I don’t think that’s a great idea,” said the final man.
“Why not?” asked Frank. “What’s nice about being scumbag lawyers is we can sue someone for farting in the office if we want to.”
“You’d make a killing off Larry’s office!” added one of the men, to raucous laughter.
“Seriously,” said the final man, a quiet man about 40 with thinning red hair and slender build. “These guys are tight with Morningstar Security and they’ll kill you before you can spend your money.”
“We’ll let the senior partners worry about that,” said John. “If there are going to be any threats, they’ll go to the decision makers. What do you think they’re up to here with all this meddling?”
The first man to have spoken wasted no time responding: “We’re rehearsin’ some sorta’ fast unload of a few hundred containers. It’s the same thing over an’ over. If it were drugs, they’d care ‘bout efficiency. But the order of everythin’s so important to them, it’s gotta’ be somethin’ different. I couldn’t tell ya’ what it is.”
“Well, maybe we could make some phone calls and get some Feds to show up when they’re doing one of their unloads,” said Frank, more provocatively than seriously.
“Not a good idea unless you plan to bring an army,” replied the red haired man. “And even then, they’ve got enough firepower in the warehouse to put up a good fight. No SWAT team could stand up to ‘em, that’s for sure.”