“I’m sending you my chiropractor bill when this is all over,” Alex complained as the group followed Frank as he headed for a nearby truck stop. “I’ve spent two days with my knees in my throat and my head cranked sideways to avoid smacking it against that low angled hatchback lid.”
“Still beats sharing a shipping container in the hold of a ship with a thousand others for three weeks while crossing the Pacific Ocean,” Frank countered. “Plus you get to avoid the additional seven years of slave labor to pay for the voyage like most Chinese people trying to reach the United States through less than legal channels. I’d say you’re getting a real deal here.”
“We’re not home yet. What’s the plan from here?” Gallono asked.
Frank stopped the group at a crosswalk and pointed to the three dozen trucks parked at the nearby diner and the ones refueling at the pumps. “Hong Kong has over seven million citizens and very few resources to provide for all of them. That means just about everything they consume is shipped in. We just have to find a trucker who needs to earn a little extra cash.”
“How do you plan on finding such a person without revealing our rather needy circumstance?” Professor Russell asked.
“I’m going to listen for the right accent,” Frank responded with a wink and headed for the diner.
For two hours, Gallono watched Frank mill about the establishment listening in on conversations and making small talk. He was surprised to see that most of Frank’s targets were truck drivers with a Caucasian ethnicity to them. Gallono was attempting to understand the strategy when he noticed Frank taking a particular interest in an unshaven individual wearing a ratty baseball cap from the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Gallono moved a few stools closer, allowing him to listen in on the conversation.
“When I finished primary school I took me dad’s advice, sold everything I had and went walkabout. Was supposed to take a year and see the world, but I run out of money when I reached Tibet on the way from Moscow. That was three years ago now,” the rugged man explained in a thick Australian accent.
Hearing that little bit, Gallono understood Frank’s plan. Australians, in general, were the most broadly traveled people on the planet. The impulse no doubt stemmed from their nation being so isolated from the rest of the globe. Whatever the cause, many traveled the world extensively, and they did it in a unique manner.
Most travelers of the world took a few weeks off from their job, went somewhere, and then returned to their life as if they had never been gone. Aussies, more often than not, went all in on their travels. They sold their house, car, furniture, and anything else they had to untether themselves from home and boarded a plane with everything they had left in the world strapped to their back. If they ran out of money, they would work odd jobs until they had enough to move on to the next destination. If this man’s story was right, he might be a good fit to take the risk of sneaking their party of four across the border.
“I took a job herdin’ sheep for three months until I got enough to reach Beijing, but there I got rolled in a back alley and lost me money and papers,” the man went on. “Consulate wouldn’t do nothin’, dad and mum are gone now, so here I am. Two years in workin’ off the books trying to save enough to pay for some documents to be made so I can get home.”
“I know the feeling,” Frank responded. “A few years back I got stuck on the wrong side of a border without the right paperwork. Findin’ the right sort of person to make the right documents isn’t easy. I got beat up and mugged a couple times by thieves posing as document makers. You need to watch yourself.”
“I hear yah, but I’m actually past that part of it. I’ve found the right guy on the HK side; already seen him get a few guys out. The trouble now is his fee. He’s good; he knows it, and he charges a lot for it.”
“How close are you from gettin’ it?” Frank asked.
The Aussie’s face contorted into a pained grimace as he answered, “Got at least another year of this, assumin’ the price don’t go up again before then.”
Frank lowered his voice a bit as he motioned for his furry companion to lean in closer. “Sounds like we’re both in a bit of a spot, but I reckon we might be able to help each other out. What are you haulin’?”
“Rice, great big hundred-fifty pound bags of rice stacked from floor to roof. What do you have in mind?”
“If I could get you on a plane home by tomorrow night, would it be worth you replacing four of those rice bags with my cargo before crossing the border tonight?”
“We’re not talking illegal drugs here now are we mate? They take that stuff serious over here. I mean a .22 bullet to the head without a trial kinda serious. I’m not messin’ with that kind of trouble no matter the fee.”
The arrangement had reached the pivotal moment for Frank. He could either walk away with his anonymity intact, or he could go all in and reveal everything to the man; trusting he would not turn them over to the authorities for a reward.
“This would be human cargo. Four adults without criminal histories, but with the financial means to get home once they are on the right side of the border. Does that work for you?”
“If I had some proof you were good for it, I see no reason for me to pay much attention to what goes on in the cargo hold.”
“Half now, half when we meet your document guy?” Frank suggested with an outstretched arm offering a handshake to seal the deal.
“It’s always nice to make new friends I say,” the Aussie replied as he accepted the handshake with a broad, genuine smile.
Chapter 6: Detour
It was a tragic waste to watch five-hundred pounds of rice get poured down a sewer drain in a world where half the population bordered on starvation each day. Still, it allowed Frank, Alex, Professor Russell and Gallono to hide inside those empty bags while making the border crossing. All four of them were buried a couple of rows back from the semi truck’s rear doors in case the Hong Kong police officers decided to inspect the contents.
The truck started and stopped for the tenth time while crawling its way through the checkpoint line. This time was different, however, as the sudden lurch was followed by a long hiss from the vehicle’s hydraulic brakes being locked into place. Moments later Gallono heard a muffled exchange between the driver and the border guards. He drew in a deep breath as the voices made their way to the rear of the truck.
A metallic screech announced the opening of the back cargo door. It was impossible to make out anything through the thick canvas bag and darkness outside until a pair of floodlights held by the border officials lit up the interior. Despite being two rows back, Gallono had an unobstructed view of the action from his elevated vantage point. A sudden surge of adrenaline filled his veins when he spotted a German Sheppard being prompted to have a sniff around.
The dog took a few sniffs high and low in the cargo hold before its handler took it for a walk around the truck. While that went on, two border officials pulled down a bag of rice and cut into it to verify the contents. Finding nothing but rice, which matched the cargo manifest, the Australian born truck driver gained admittance into Hong Kong without any further hassle. A half hour later, the truck rolled to a stop and the back doors opened once more.
“We’re bloody lucky that dog was only lookin’ for drugs,” the driver commented as he helped the four individuals down from on high.
“I don’t see how they could smell anything other than that dry, dirty rice stench. It was all I could do not to gag and throw up in there,” Alex complained.
Frank shook his head at the absurdity of her comment. “When one of those dogs is trained for certain smells, there is no getting away from it. I have personally witnessed a drug sniffing dog locate a kilo of cocaine smothered in peanut butter, vacuumed sealed in plastic, while hidden inside a two hundred thousand square foot warehouse stocked floor to ceiling with shelving. Took the dog about five minutes and would have been faster, but the handler was out of shape and had trouble keeping up.
The Auss
ie finished helping Alex down from the truck and turned to face Frank. “Well mate I did my part, and browned my skivvies in the process I might add; time for you to do the rest of yours. My document maker friend has a coffee shop storefront around the corner.”
“Listen, I’m sure he does good work, but I trust my people who make the official documents a whole lot more,” Frank said and followed his words by sticking the business end of his revolver into the truck driver’s ribs. “I’m absolutely a man of my word and will get you on a plane home tonight along with the money I already paid you. In exchange, I need you to remain quiet and go with the flow for a bit.”
“Flow? Ah stuff the money then mate, just let me go, we never met. Okay?”
“We are going to a safe house the NSA maintains nearby. They’ll be able to get us all new travel documents and arrange our flights home,” Frank stated with assurance.
“That’s right,” Gallono added, “first class to Sydney for you and Cairo for the rest of us.”
“Cairo?” Frank repeated along with Professor Russell and Alex. “We’re going straight to D.C.”
“Your boy, Terrance, left us a couple of loose ends that need tidying up before heading back to the states. Did I forget to mention that?”
“What if I refuse?” Frank challenged. “My safe house, my documents, in fact it’s my plane. That all means where we go is my decision, not yours.”
“Are you really okay with leaving Terrance in the hands of Egyptian authorities? The most recent events aside, he knows the ins and outs of your agency better than any man alive. His cracking under interrogation will make the defection of Snowden to Russia seem, by comparison, like a kindergartener handing over a Crayola drawing of a nuclear reactor they saw on a field trip. You’re too smart to leave that sort of liability hanging out there,” Gallono challenged.
Frank’s head and shoulders sank as he visibly resigned himself to Gallono’s point, giving their Australian companion an opening to deliver an oddly playful taunt. “Gotta love a sudden change of plans, ay mate?”
“Everybody follow me,” Frank grumbled as he tucked away his pistol and headed down the street shaking his head in frustration.
Chapter 7: Tora, Tora, Tora
On the twelve-hour flight from Hong Kong to Cairo, Gallono gained a whole new level of respect for Frank. Barely a moment passed that the NSA agent was not on the phone planning the risky extraction operation, securing approval, getting assets where they needed to be, or arranging cover identities. There were dozens of moving parts and Frank managed them all with a competence his down-home accent would never have suggested.
“You two stay onboard the plane,” Frank ordered Professor Russell and Alex when the plane taxied to a stop inside a private hanger. “If all goes well, this shouldn’t take long. Gallono, you’re with me.”
“What shouldn’t take long?” Alex inquired, but only saw Frank’s back descending the exit steps as a reply.
“Have a seat, close your eyes, and picture your favorite spy movie climax scene. Might come close to the real thing in this case,” Gallono said with a wink on his way off the plane.
On the tarmac, he stepped into an awaiting ambulance emblazoned with the bright red plus sign logo of the International Red Cross on the side panels and back doors. Inside, Gallono met a pair of operatives who joined him and Frank around a printed satellite image and building schematics while the driver navigated the streets of South Cairo.
“This is Tora Prison,” Frank began. “We know it well because the CIA and NSA used it as a rendition site from 1995 until 2006.”
Hearing that made Gallono let loose a soft laugh. “Rendition; such an innocent sounding word for such a barbaric practice. By law, you couldn’t torture prisoners. You got around that little constitutional inconvenience by handing them over to the Egyptian Intelligence Service to do the dirty work. That way you could lean against the wall as the ‘interrogation’ took place, listen for any interesting tidbits to escape the prisoner’s lips, and technically not break any of your laws.”
“Exactly, and since you’re familiar with the policy I can skip the educational portion of the briefing and get right to the point,” Frank said without remorse. “In ’06 the last detainee was moved to Guantanamo Bay prison as part of a congressional mandate.”
“Brilliant move,” one of the other agents commented with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “With the publicly announced act, they all but acknowledged the existence of our black-site prisons abroad in which the transferred prisoners were held.”
The mission briefing was getting woefully off topic, which Frank moved to correct. “We’re not here to debate policy; we’re here to get a target out of that prison. This ain’t no small undertakin’ neither considering Tora was one of the few Egyptian prisons that held up under repeated attacks that freed thousands of prisoners during the Arab Spring uprising. This is the big time boys so shut up and put your game faces on.”
Having his order met with obedient silence allowed Frank to continue. “Here are your assignments when we get in there…”
As the ambulance approached Tora prison, Gallono marveled at how ambitious Frank’s operation truly was. The thick, concrete walls were almost twenty-five feet high and crowned with barbed wire. Inside, the complex was subdivided into seven cellblocks with increasing levels of security. Naturally, Terrance was in the innermost Tora Liman block, a maximum security area reserved for capital and political prisoners.
Their cover as International Red Cross inspectors would no doubt get them into the prison. However, if everything did not go exactly as planned, none of them would be leaving any time soon.
The ambulance drove through two checkpoints where the team’s visiting papers faced inspection and verification before the guards allowed them to park outside the Tora Liman main building. Frank, Gallono and the other two operatives got out of the vehicle and proceeded to unload a stretcher, placing three heavy medical supply bags upon it.
Their escorts led them down a gravel path flanked by chain-link fencing on either side that hummed with a soft crackle of electricity running through them. At the end of the path, they were confronted by a group of eight guards whose leader said to Frank in Arabic, “No visitors today.”
Frank did not bat an eye as he stepped forward to counter, “The Geneva Convention’s mandate, which the Egyptian government signed, says that you will receive us as visitors. The International Red Cross is to have unrestricted access to any prisoners to ensure international norms and standards are maintained.”
The lead guard inclined his head to the side, prompting three of his sidekicks to chamber a round in their AK-47’s before he said in a voice filled with annoyance, “Are you hard of hearing? I said no visitors. Now turn around and leave. Immediately!”
Without saying a word, Frank grabbed a clipboard off the loaded stretcher and handed it to the guard as if it were the ultimate trump card. “This is a letter of prisoner access signed by your president. Like it or not, this is happening.”
The frustrated guard snatched the clipboard from Frank’s hands, took a moment to read the document, and then tossed it back at Frank’s chest. “Spineless politicians ought to be shot right alongside terrorists like the man you’re so concerned with visiting.”
“Attitudes like that are why we’re here,” Frank shot back.
“Pat them down and inspect the contents of their bags. If we find anything besides some stethoscopes, sterilizing pads and reflex testing hammers, all four of you will be shot.”
Frank cracked a cocky grin toward the lead guard as one of his men performed a pat down that was more for show than real effect. “In the interest of full disclosure, there might be a needle or two in those bags. I’d hate to get shot over a syringe full of penicillin.”
That remark earned him a swift jab to the stomach from the butt of a guard’s rifle. Frank doubled over at the waist in pain and vomited to the side, narrowly missing the assaulting guard’s shoes. In that br
ief moment of distraction, Gallono watched Frank swallow a tiny capsule as he wiped the chunks of bile away from the side of his mouth.
Way to sell it, Gallono thought as he took note that the clock was now ticking. They had less than five minutes to reach the next phase of their operation before Frank keeled over on them.
The guards took their good, sweet time rummaging through the bags as Frank massaged his stomach. The pained look on his face was for show at first, but as the overly thorough inspection dragged on, Frank’s condition took a hard turn for the worse. The moment Gallono noticed Frank visibly struggling to remain standing he went into action.
“Enough of this. By now you know damn well there’s nothing out of the ordinary in our bags. We will see the prisoner now,” Gallono demanded as he took three determined steps heading for the lead guard.
“Stop right there.”
Ignoring the warning, Gallono kept prowling forward. “You’ve drawn enough trouble for yourselves by striking one of our team members. Don’t compound your mistake.”
“I said keep back,” a guard shouted and shoved Gallono backwards using the rifle grasped between his two hands.
Frank summoned enough energy to step in front of Gallono’s harasser and shoved the man back two steps. The guard was having none of that and threw Frank to the side and out of the way. This caused Frank to trip over his own feet and fall against the nearby electrified fence.
Sparks flew and Frank let loose a teeth-rattling shriek until the fence rebounded and flung his limp body back into the cluster of guards.
“My god, are you crazy?” Gallono yelled and went for the closest medical bag. With three rifles trained on him, Gallono withdrew a stethoscope, tore open Frank’s shirt, and listened for a heartbeat. Not finding one, he leaned in with his ear. “He’s not breathing. We need to get him into your medical ward.”
Origins: A Greater Good Page 4