Brown, Dale - Independent 02

by Hammerheads (v1. 1)

  “Well, here’s the difference, Duncan,” Bolan told him. “The FBI says they blame rising cocaine prices for increases in violent urban crime, gang-related violence, and a rise in the felony crime rate. Stick that up your portfolio. This FBI report is supposed to highlight the enormous tension these price increases are causing, and the turf wars and crime it’s causing. The pressure to import a kilo of coke is really getting bad. It’s also supposed to highlight the security question, guys and girls—the bad guys will be pulling out the stops to get their product. They haven’t called for increased security measures yet, but they might be implementing tighter restrictions and added security soon. That line about a commodities report might be a good analogy, Duncan—the higher the price of street drugs rise, the greater the profit margin becomes and the more players want to get into the action. When the price gets really high and the quantity goes down, things really might get tense.

  “Along with that FBI report, we’re also getting an alert from Border Security about increased activity from aircraft trying to break through the air cordons. It’s hard to believe, children, but smugglers are still trying to go right through the cordons instead of around them. Activity is picking up along the Mexico border and in the southwest, and Border Security predicts that our area will become the new Caribbean very soon. Border Security isn’t planning on expanding into the southwest for a few years, so the bad boys will take advantage of a relative gap in offensive border coverage.” He closed the briefing folders and set them down on a table. “Okay. Questions?” No reply. “Everyone fat and happy? Good. The Maria will be in shortly, so let’s get to work.”

  Processing an incoming freighter, even a medium-sized one like the Maria Star, was a monstrous task for the Customs Service. Because the Maria was making its first port call in the United States, the crew had to process through the port of entry before anything else for passport, baggage, and records checks. The ship’s records would be checked, and the Coast Guard would conduct a safety inspection before the ship would be allowed to navigate American waters. Bolan’s Contraband Enforcement Team was responsible for inspecting the vessel and its cargo for illegally or undeclared goods being brought into the United States. As soon as the in-processing and standard port of entry inspections were finished, a huge overhead rolling crane was wheeled into position and the Cargo Automated Inspection process began.

  Each container was hoisted off the freighter and onto a trailer mounted on a railway inside the “carnival,” and the container would be automatically towed to its programmed stops inside the inspection facility. The first stop for the container, the CAI routing clerk, logged the container in and checked the number and integrity of the steel strap seals that secured the locks on each container, to be sure there was no tampering—any seal that was broken, missing, or if the seal numbers did not match or appeared to have been altered meant that the container was suspect and would immediately be confiscated. The clerk would then issue computer commands to direct the container for processing to one or more of three areas of inspection— the “sniffer,” the ultrasound/radar chamber, or the manual inspection docks.

  At least half of all goods could be directed into the Atmosphere Analysis Chamber, the “sniffer,” a sealed chamber large enough for a container to be wheeled inside. Once inside, the chamber was closed off and the air pumped out. As the air was evacuated it was analyzed by high-speed computers and compounds in the air were catalogued. Compounds found in narcotics, explosives or any specified item could be scanned and if found would sound a warning and alert Bolan’s inspectors.

  The sniffer was not perfect. Smugglers could seal drugs so firmly in airtight bags or deeply within thick heavy products that the sniffer couldn’t find them.

  For items the sniffer couldn’t sniff, the US/EM chamber, Ultrasound/Electromagnetic Chamber, a.k.a. the “buzz box,” was used. The buzz box could take an electronic photograph of the interior of almost any container, from huge fuel tanks down to small aerosol bottles. If the reflections became distorted or different from other similar containers, it signalled that there was something foreign inside deflecting the beams. The largest and busiest area was the manual inspection facility. The most high-tech piece of equipment here was a good old fork lift and strong backs to lift the pallets out of the containers. Bolan had help here from National Guard troops—a dramatic result of the relaxing of the post-Civil War Posse Comitatus Act, which normally prevented the military from participating in civil law enforcement.

  Each box, crate, piece of furniture of the freighter was unloaded onto the warehouse floor, catalogued and opened. Sniffer probes were run through boxes of clothing, cookware, papers. Canine sniffers were used on furniture and some of the boxes. They found several crates of what appeared to be large pieces of South American pottery wrapped in thick sheets of liquid-filled shock absorbers.

  “Let’s run ’em through the ultrasound and X-ray to see if they’re hollow. After that I think we can pass them,” Bolan said. The pottery and statues were unwrapped from their high-tech packaging, placed on fiberglass carts and taken to the ultrasound /X-ray chamber for analysis.

  An hour later, nothing, inside or out.

  “Well, I thought for sure there might be something here,” Bolan told Bartolo, as a phone call came in on his portable.

  “Inspector Bolan, this is Deputy Simpson’s office,” a secretary told him. “I am inquiring for the Deputy Consul on the status of his household goods. I’ve been told by the shipping company that you have the shipment.”

  “That’s correct. I—”

  “Please hold, Inspector.” A few moments later another voice came on the line, definitely much more agitated than the first. “This is Deputy Consul Simpson. Bolan? You have my household goods?”

  “Yes, sir. I—”

  “I specifically received assurances from Customs through State that we’d receive priority treatment for the delivery of our goods. We’ve been living in a hotel at three hundred dollars a night for nearly three weeks. Our things were supposed to be shipped to Washington—what in God’s name they’re doing in San Diego, I have no idea. Now I want those things released and I want it done now.”

  Bolan hadn’t heard of Simpson before, but at three hundred dollars a night, he didn’t feel too sorry for him. Most diplomatic people in the administration were appointed because of their financial support for the President and his political party. Simpson must have been one of those fat cats. “The inspection on your shipment has been completed,” Bolan told him. “When the entire shipment has cleared you can arrange for—”

  “Well, when will that be?”

  “Late this afternoon or first thing in the morning.”

  “As soon as my shipment is inspected I want it picked up. I’ll have the movers there in two hours.”

  “We can’t release it unless the entire—”

  “Inspector Bolan, you’ll be hearing from your superiors. I advise you to have my things ready to go in two hours.”

  “All this stuff belongs to some political pencil-pusher,” Bolan told Bartolo. “He’s pissed because the only place he can stay costs three hundred dollars a night.”

  Bartolo shook his head. “Poor baby.” He motioned toward the National Guardsmen, who were drifting back from the break area preparing to move the shipment back into the container.

  Bolan glanced at the stuff lying around the dock. “I was so sure about this one, it seemed so . . . wrong.” He paused. “How’s the rest of the inspection going?”

  “Clean as a whistle,” Bartolo said. “Thought we had a positive on some of the lumber containers but it was a false alarm from the resin that set off the sniffer. They’ve checked eight containers of coffee, all clean.”

  Bolan nodded toward the National Guardsmen rewrapping the pottery and statues with the special anti-shock material. “I would’ve bet a month’s salary that the junk was in those statues.”

  “They checked out clean,” Bartolo told him.

&n
bsp; Bolan didn’t seem to be listening as he stared at the National Guardsmen, who finished covering the biggest statue. There was a cotton sheet that first covered the statue, then the liquid-filled padding was placed over the statue, suspended by an iron frame. The entire mass was then secured to the frame by rubber cords and the wooden crate reassembled around it. The first statue was just being completed and work starting on the second when Bolan noticed one of the Guardsmen wiping his hands on his camouflaged BDU pants. He went quickly over to the man. “What’s that on your pants?”

  The Guardsman shrugged as he wrestled with another anti-shock blanket. “You got me, Inspector. A leak in one of these shock absorber things?”

  Bolan grabbed the guy’s hand and smelled it. “Sergeant, you ever smell cocaine before?”

  The Guardsman smelled his hand. “No, sir, I don’t do that shit.”

  “That’s the first thing we ought to do with you guys,” Bolan said. “Give you a class in what cocaine smells like. Break down that statue you just wrapped. Find the leak in the blanket. Bartolo . . . seal off the warehouse and alert security.”

  As the shift chief went to alert the rest of the area, Bolan began to direct the National Guardsmen in taking apart the protective wrapping around the first statue. After the wooden crate and rubber cords had been removed he carefully searched the cotton cover around the statue. After a few moments he found a softball-sized wet spot near the bottom.

  “Building and compound secure,” Bartolo reported. “Bolan grunted and got down on his hands and knees around the bottom of the anti-shock blanket, where he found a small rivulet of moisture and a few drops of liquid. He reached into a breast pocket and extracted a thin plastic vial of cobalt thiocyanate. By tapping on the blanket he got one drop of the clear liquid into the vial, put the cap on the vial, bent the plastic vial to break a tiny glass capsule inside and shook it to mix the chemicals. When he held it up to the light, the liquid in the vial was blue.

  “Liquid cocaine, ” Bartolo said. “I heard about it but I never seen it until now.”

  Bolan nodded, ‘'Supersaturated solution. Hard to detect on X- rays—a container filled with this stuff will still look empty in X-rays— and sometimes even the sniffer can’t pick it up. One kilo of coke in every gallon of fluid in these blankets—that could account for a hundred pounds of weight alone.” He looked at the National Guardsman. “Fifty kilos of coke, and you had your hands all over it.” He turned and gave Bartolo a very pleased smile. “Notify Brad Elliott at Alladin City. I think our antsy Deputy Consul will have a few other things to worry about than his hotel bill.”

  Office of the Assistant Secretary of State, Washington, D.C.

  That Same Day

  The Assistant Secretary of State for Latin America, Wilson Riley, stood as Geoffrey Simpson, the former deputy chief of mission at the American Embassy in Peru, entered the office. “Good to see you again, Geoffrey. Sit down, sit down.

  “Thank you, sir ...”

  Riley returned to his desk and folded his hands on his desk. “They miss you in Lima already, Geoffrey,” he said. “You seemed to have found a home down there. Made some real strong bonds to the people.”

  “I thank you, but of course I shouldn’t take all the credit—”

  “Well, the evaluations I’ve received from the Peruvian government and from the ambassador look good.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The phone buzzed, and Riley picked up the receiver. “Give me a minute,” he said, and hung up. To Simpson: “Well, when your evaluation comes through you have to be ready to get down to work here in Washington—I’m sure you’ll be slated for a job in this section, or perhaps on the European side. That’s what you wanted, right? I’d hate to lose you, Geoffrey, but someone else with more juice than me will undoubtedly snatch you up.” Simpson was beginning to relax, smiling and nodding, nodding and smiling. “Anything I can help you with? You found a place in Williamsburg, I heard.”

  “Sure did,” Simpson said. “Just signed the papers yesterday. We should get our goods today or tomorrow and I’ll be all settled in.”

  Suddenly Riley’s face seemed to drain of its good humor. “Yes . . .” There was a knock at the door and a new somber-faced Riley said, “Come.” Simpson turned in his seat to see none other than General Brad Elliott come in, followed by a man he did not recognize. Simpson got to his feet when he recognized Elliott. “General Elliott, this is Geoffrey Simpson, formerly deputy consul in Peru. Geoffrey, General Elliott, Border Security Force, and Special Agent Michael Farmer, FBI.”

  Simpson broke into a sweat when he heard the words “Border Security Force,” but his sweat turned to ice when he heard FBI. Elliott found a chair beside the assistant secretary’s desk; Farmer went to the other side of the room, facing Simpson but far enough away so Simpson couldn’t see him without turning toward him.

  Riley said, “Geoffrey, it seems Customs found some contraband in your household goods shipment.”

  “Oh, my God . . .”

  “Listen to me, Mr. Simpson,” Farmer said. “We’re not placing you under arrest at this time, but I am going to read you your rights so we can question you. We’re expecting, of course, to get your full cooperation.”

  “I want an attorney,” Simpson said.

  “Mr. Simpson, if you do not cooperate we’ll have to detain you.”

  “I thought you said you wouldn’t have to arrest him,” Riley said.

  “He’s a flight risk, sir. He has friends in Peru and Bolivia, overseas bank accounts, contacts ... I can’t take the chance. I assumed he would cooperate.”

  Knowing the Department would hate the bad publicity, Riley turned to Simpson. “Dammit, Simpson, you’ve got to cooperate . ..”

  “I want to speak with an attorney first, sir,” he said in a toneless voice. His hands were beginning to shake.

  “Get him out of here,” Riley said. Farmer moved over to the door, opened it, and two plainclothes investigators entered the room. Simpson got to his feet as one of the agents grasped him firmly by an upper arm. While the other agent read a Miranda statement from a laminated card, the first agent placed Simpson’s arms behind him, handcuffed him and searched him. “Do you really have to cuff him like that?” Riley said. “The whole damn building will see him.”

  Farmer looked at Riley, nodded and instructed his agents to remove Simpson’s jacket and cuff Simpson in front of his body. Then they draped Simpson’s jacket over his wrists just before leading him out of the office. “We’ll contact the section counsel and your wife, Geoffrey. Don’t worry, we’ll get this cleared up in no time ...” He wasn’t sure if Simpson had heard him. He also would have liked to strangle Elliott.

  When they had left, Riley went back to his desk and got on the phone: “Anna, get Bob Turnbull in here on the double.” Then he turned on Brad Elliott: “We handle things in-house around here. We don’t go off to the FBI—”

  “I had no choice.”

  “You could have come to me first, before getting the FBI involved. We have a very good investigative unit here. We would have turned over everything to the FBI and Border Security when our investigation was complete. Besides, maybe he’s got an explanation ...” “Sure, Mr. Riley,” Elliott said, heading for the door. “It may turn out that Simpson knew nothing about the shock absorbers, that he’s an innocent babe. I’m not doing the investigation. My job in this is to find out everything I can about whoever made those shock absorbers and put them around an ambassador’s personal articles.”

  “Why are you getting involved in this, General Elliott? I thought Border Security was only in charge of securing the borders. This doesn’t seem like it’s exactly your beat.”

  “Border Security is the agency in charge of the Drug Enforcement Administration, Mr. Riley. DEA is our intelligence and investigative arm. Customs turns all drug-related incidents concerning border crossings over to us; once the matter involves other government agencies or moves further inland we have to turn it over t
o the FBI.” “Sounds like bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo.” Coming from State, that was almost funny, Elliott thought. “I heard you were the President’s fair-haired boy—looks like you got yourself a real sweet billet. But let me tell you, you start using your leverage to get one of my officers shit-canned without solid evidence and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  Elliott stepped up to Riley’s desk, leaned forward.

  “As long as we’re getting personal here, let me make some observations,” Elliott said in a soft but rumbling voice. “Speaking of bureaucrats, I see one who’s more concerned with his own butt instead of finding out the truth. Your section doesn’t have an investigative unit. I checked. I’m sure you would have come up with one in an instant, but their main focus would have been to lessen the impact on you, not to get at the facts.

  “You’re more shook up about adverse publicity than about what happens to Simpson. You wanted him to talk, knowing that it was the worst possible advice you could have given him—he could have blood all over his hands or a gold halo over his head, but you know he should have his lawyer present before questioning begins. I don’t know a helluva lot about the law or about investigative procedure, Riley, but I do know that having your boss tell you to cooperate and talk is a sell-out.

  “I think you think he’s guilty. You wanted the State Department lawyer here to advise you on what to do. You wanted to hear what Simpson had to say so you could start your own damage control . . .”

  “Get out, damn you,” Riley said. “Just get the hell out of my office.”

  “My pleasure,” Elliott said.

  Later That Day

  The Geoffrey Simpson that walked through the door of Wilson Riley’s office twelve hours later was a different man. His jacket was crooked and rumpled, as if he had slept in it.

  Riley let Simpson stand in front of his desk a few moments as he pretended to write something into a folder, then motioned toward a chair with his eyes. Simpson dropped into it as if his legs had just refused to support his weight any longer. Riley continued his doodling until he saw Simpson begin to fidget in his seat. “I received a call from the FBI. They are releasing you. No charges are being filed.”