Ben hastily wrote a nonexistent email address on the paper Sensen had given him and ripped the piece off, handing it over. “Send it to this address. Use the old schoolhouse code.” He turned to go, then glanced back. “By coming here, I’ve violated my severance. I know you have a duty to report in. What will you do if the Company escalates to a kill order?”
“I’ll do my job. And when the bullet enters your skull, you’ll know I had no choice.”
27
The trek north to the Netherlands took most of the day, including a stop for brunch and some fashion shopping in the military town of Bitburg, Germany, where Americans driving beat-up cars had been a fixture since 1952. He also stopped at a print and copy shop in Liege, Belgium. As before, Ben avoided the highways. He used the utility roads near the North Sea coast to work his way east into the industrial port of Rotterdam. He knew the place well. All the Company men and women did.
Rotterdam has been a smuggler’s paradise for centuries, once the largest port in the world, with river access as deep into Europe’s interior as Switzerland. Thirty-five kilometers of warehouses, petroleum depots, and megaship piers make it a perfect covert hub, one of Europe’s most well-transited entry points for spies, second only to the military airlift center at Spangdahlem.
Ben had passed through Rotterdam no less than eight times in the last four years, once in a shipping container outfitted by Dylan as a tactical command center.
He bristled at the thought of the young tech.
How could Dylan do that to Giselle? Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe someone had stolen the demolition package from him.
Unlikely.
From where Ben sat, Dylan looked like the real traitor.
Superstructures towered above the Peugeot’s cracked windshield on the port’s main road. Containers were stacked like city blocks, filled with textiles and ore, rubber dog toys and clown marionettes—anything and everything imaginable. At some point, one of those containers had brought a Leviathan acolyte to town, and a backpack filled with CRTX, the world’s newest and most powerful explosive.
The slip of paper with Sensen’s six-letter address brought him to a cargo pier that looked like all the others—containers, cranes, and giant ships. A guardhouse and a ten-foot spiked fence blocked access for all traffic but the big rigs. Ben parked in the dockworker lot as far out of sight as he could manage, in the shadow of some containers stacked on the fence’s other side. A be-on-the-lookout alert on a damaged cream Peugeot 308 had likely spread across Western Europe. Before day’s end, he’d need to dump it in a river.
He stuffed the paper into his go-bag and took a last look at the PVC badge he’d made at the print and copy shop. Confident it would hold up, he smiled in the mirror. “Agent Tom Porter, Interpol.”
The days of fake ID badges made from laminated paper and alligator clips are long gone. White PVC access badges with magnetic strips have become the norm, from government agencies to the corner grocery store. The US military still likes to pretend their badges are special, but anyone can purchase blanks online at eight cents a pop and add a name and face with the right printer.
Alongside the egg white bars and bullets in his go-bag, Ben always kept a stack of PVC blanks. The identity he’d made at the copy shop would last the day, at least—long enough to do some investigating. He pressed his badge against the turnstile reader, then waved it at the guard across the road, careful to cover the logo with his fingers. “A little help? Reader’s not working!” He didn’t need to speak Dutch. Aussie dominance in the dockworker field had made a corrupted form of English the universal language of industrial piers.
The turnstile buzzed, ending in a pronounced click. “Thanks,” Ben said, pushing through. He’d run that game a hundred times. No guard had ever challenged him.
“Oi! You! Whaddaya think yer doing!”
Ben had barely made it past the fence. A burly dockworker came hurrying toward him, and Ben answered with a look that said Who, me?
The dockworker pointed upward to a four-ton shipping container swinging high above them on the way to the stacks next to the parking lot. “Hard hat.” He slapped the top of the one on his head. “Where’s yours?”
An Aussie. No surprise, and this one carried himself like a foreman. He had the walk—forward leaning, a touch of swagger. Forklifts had left slick tracks in the previous night’s snow. The Aussie rolled over them without the slightest misstep, dropping his voice from a shout to a boisterous bleat as he drew closer. “Your hard hat, mate. Where is it?”
“Agent Tom Porter. Interpol.” Ben took control of the encounter, trumping safety with the universal authority of a well-known law enforcement agency. He flashed the badge, then clipped it to his lapel. “Official business. Point me to the temporary crew quarters, please.”
The foreman bowed up to him. “I don’t care if you’re the king of Sweden. You step onto my pier, you wear protection. No exceptions.”
Ben liked this guy, but he didn’t back down. “I’ll get the necessary gear Mr.”—he read the man’s badge, tensing his jaw—“Kent, just as soon as you point me to the temporary crew quarters.”
Kent fixed him with a hard stare for a long moment, then tilted his head toward four stories of rusted steel and dirty windows. Nothing but the best for the anonymous cargo sailors keeping the world in motion. “Over there. Talk to old Alard.”
He left the man standing there without a thank you.
“Oi!”
Ben paused, gritting his teeth, but he didn’t turn.
“What’s Interpol want, eh? Is it that bomber again? I thought you cops had given up.”
“We never give up, Mr. Kent.” He walked on.
The bomber remained unidentified. No identification had been found at the scene. At least, that’s what the public reports said, and Ben had no access to the classified versions. But the sketch Clara had drawn from Sensen’s description might get him somewhere if the guy had spent any time at all in the crew barracks.
“Mag ik u helpen?” A gray-haired man with a bushy mustache sat in a folding camp chair outside the front door. The stench in there must have been pretty bad for him to prefer sitting out in the freezing cold.
“Alard?”
“Yes.”
As Ben’s lips parted for his Agent-Tom-Porter spiel, a reflection in the glass doors of the barracks gave him pause.
Alard stood up from his chair. “Sir? May I help you?”
Ben ignored him and turned. A forklift had moved a container stack down the pier, clearing his view of a massive ship. On the bow he saw a white sea serpent with three coils wrapped around a globe. The lettering beneath read Sea Titan Cargo.
Sea Titan. Leviathan.
If the bomber spent any time in the barracks at all before the dog flagged him, he’d have spent hours at most. But he’d have spent days, maybe more than a week, on the ship that brought him in, probably living inside a container, venturing out at night when the only lights were the spots focused on the ship’s tower logo. He’d have spent enough time on board for that logo to become so seared in his brain that he absentmindedly doodled it on his backpack.
No coincidences.
“Sir,” Alard said, becoming more insistent. “May I help you? You speak English, correct?”
“Correct.” Ben wheeled on him, flashing his PVC badge. “Agent Tom Porter, Interpol. I need you to get me on that Sea Titan Cargo freighter. Can you do that?”
“I can introduce you to a deck officer staying in the barracks.”
“Good. Let’s go.” In the corner of his eye, Ben saw the foreman, Kent, watching him. He touched Alard’s shoulder. “And before we go to the ship, I’ll need to borrow a hard hat. Safety first.”
28
With a borrowed hard hat in place, Ben followed a sleepy boatswain—or bos’n, as he called himself—up the Sea Titan freighter’s gangplank. A painted name, pale green against the hull’s deep blue, identified her as the Princess of Sheba.
The creature
on the bow held the world in the crushing embrace of its coils, and up close, the dragon eyes seemed to follow Ben. He shuddered and shifted his gaze to the back of his escort’s head. “Again, thank you for your time. I’m sorry Alard had to wake you, but a look at your operation will help me wrap my head around the circumstances of this case.”
“Don’t mention it.” The boatswain’s response lacked a certain sincerity. He bobbled his broad head back and forth. “To tell the truth, ya might’ve done me a favor,” he said in a South African accent. “Ya violated my rest period near the end o’ the cycle. By regs, as soon as we’re done here, I can restart the clock fer another six hours o’ rack time.”
At the gangway’s top, an Asian sailor in jeans and a Sea Titan sweatshirt sat slumped in a folding chair. The bos’n kicked a chair leg, and the deckhand snapped to wakefulness. “Mr. Mallory.” He jumped to attention, wiping a bit of drool from his chin. “You are awake.”
“Which is more than I can say fer you, Mr. Shen. This is Agent Porter from Interpol. I’m helpin’ him with an investigation.”
The real Interpol had about as much authority as Barney Fife. But the name’s mystic power still opened doors. Even better, the Interpol gag took advantage of the human propensity for self-inflation.
I’m helping him with an investigation.
After no more psychological prodding than a fake ID and a confident request, the bos’n had appointed himself Ben’s deputy and enforcer.
“An investigation?” Shen asked. “Into the Princess?”
Ben held up a hand. “No, no. Nothing like that. I’m taking a second look at the October bombing.”
“But Sea Titan had no ships at Rotterdam that day.” Shen’s gaze shifted to Mallory, seeking confirmation. “I heard two berthed at this pier were both from Jaspen. The police should talk to them.”
His information made sense. If the bomber came in on a Sea Titan ship, he’d have been offloaded in a container as cargo, left to sit until the ship moved out again. The smart move, as Ben had learned from his own travels through the port, was to let a truck carry the container off-site, well away from port security. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the truck didn’t come. Maybe the bomber grew impatient. Terrorist organizations ran into unreliable personnel and contractor issues all the time.
Ben kept his smile congenial. “I’m taking over this investigation now that Agent Bolz is in medical retirement. Prostate cancer. Sad story. I’ll talk to the Jaspen crews when they come in day after tomorrow. Right now, I’d like to get a feel for how cargo ops are run when a ship like yours comes in.”
Usually, a download of unnecessary information worked during a con like this, but Shen reached for his radio. “Having Interpol on board is . . . important. I should call the watch officer—ask him to call the captain.”
Not good. Ben had steered Alard toward the bos’n for a reason—a senior deck officer with enough clout to get him on board, but still a bit of a minion, easier to control. Ben didn’t need the captain interfering. He’d stonewall Ben either because Leviathan owned him or because no captain wanted cops boarding his ship without corporate approval.
“Brave man,” Ben said. “I wish I had guts like yours, waking my captain from his crew rest at a five-star hotel.”
Shen paled.
Self-Appointed Deputy Mallory jumped in to help, requiring less prodding than Ben expected. “Ya sayin’ I can’t handle this, Shen?”
“N-no, Mr. Mallory.”
“Ya claimin’ ta know the regs better’n me?”
“No. But I—”
“Shut up, man your post, and don’t bother the cap’n. I’ve got this.”
Shen answered with a fearful nod. “Y-yes, Mr. Mallory.”
He moved to take his seat, but Mallory stole his chair, folding it up with a loud swack. “I daresay ya won’t be needin’ yer chair, since ya jus’ volunteered ta stand for the rest o’ yer shift.” He charged ahead into the underdeck passage with Ben close at his shoulder.
Metallic clangs reverberated through the tunnel in a slow, steady pound—heartbeats in the belly of the beast. They hit Ben’s body with palpable force. The loading and unloading of containers never ceased during a mega freighter’s time at port. “What are you carrying? If you don’t mind me asking.”
The bos’n leaned his stolen chair against the white-painted steel wall and shrugged. “Everythin’ from frozen fish and microwave dinners in the bulk holds ta forty-foot containers filled with glass marbles, picked up in Shanghai.”
“Marbles?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Ever lose any?”
“Ha. Never heard that ’un before. Tell me, Agent Porter. Why’re ya really askin’ me to show ya the Princess? Shen is right. Jaspen had this berth that day. Not us.”
The sleep had worn off, letting the bos’n think more clearly and making Ben’s job harder. In circumstances like this, Ben had always found a touch of truth worked best. He lowered his voice—a man sharing an important secret with a trusted confidant. “We have new evidence.” Ben looked over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure Shen hadn’t followed them. “Our bomber had a fixation on Sea Titan Cargo. I need to know why.”
Mallory burst into laughter, supporting himself with a hand on the rail of the stairway to the upper container bed. “Well, yeah. I don’t wanna insult yer intelligence, Agent Porter, but ev’ry sailor has a fixation on Sea Titan.” He made an about-face and blew past Ben. “C’mon. Let me show ya somethin’.”
29
Ben didn’t follow the bos’n at first. The containers towering above—the rhythmic pound of loading and unloading—held him transfixed. What deadly items might be hidden among the glass baubles and frozen fish in that vast Aladdin’s Cave? Maybe none. Maybe thousands.
“Ya comin’, Agent Porter?”
“Right behind you.”
Ben turned to find Mallory only a step away, eyeing him.
“See much action in yer line o’ work, Agent?”
“I’m not sure I get your meaning.”
Mallory held up his fists, and it took all of Ben’s control not to flinch. The bos’n grinned and touched his cheek below his eye, indicating Ben’s shiner from the fight with Hagen.
Ben had almost forgotten about it. “Oh that. I wish I could say, ‘You should see the other guy,’ but this black eye came from a shower door. When the hotel provides you with a no-slip mat, make sure to use it.”
“Right. Shower door.”
Two decks down, Mallory cranked open a steel hatch and waved Ben through. “Take a look.”
Ducking to avoid the bulkhead, Ben stepped into a huge space, like a dystopian underworld. “Speaking of Aladdin’s Cave,” he muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” The two stood on a platform overlooking an Olympic-size pool. Four vertical support beams rose from the water to the ceiling three stories above. The place looked like an upscale health club dropped into a prison yard, with a tennis court, two racquetball courts, and a half basketball court.
“You’ve no idea o’ the challenges o’ tennis at sea,” Mallory said, clapping him on the back. The bos’n thrust his chin at three stories of rooms at the far end. “Showers, Ping-Pong, billiards. The top floor is the crew bar. The one man universally loved on the Princess ain’t the cap’n. It’s Francisco the bartender.”
“Impressive. Truly. But why are you showing me all this?”
Mallory looked at him as if he had asked why it snows in winter. “Don’t ya see? Ev’ry cargo hugger-mugger from here ta Singapore wants ta sail for Sea Titan. Bigger ships. Better facilities. Better life. I’m afraid yer bomber’s fixation with Sea Titan is a dead end.”
A dead end. Sensen had told him the same about the entire Rotterdam angle. Who was Ben to personally bring down Leviathan, anyway? A Company team could sweep through the containers at night with microwave scanners, searching for weapons-grade material or infiltrate Sea Titan to get at the truth. What could a se
vered spy do?
“You may be right.” Ben fought to maintain his smile. He’d take one last long shot, then call it a day, dump the Peugeot, and regroup. “I appreciate the tour. Could I trouble you to show me the bridge while I’m here?” He finished by pressing a psychological button. “You do have access to the bridge, right?”
“’Course I’ve got access. Whodaya think yer talkin’ to?” Mallory directed him out through the hatch again and shoved it closed. “Hope yer in good shape, Mr. Interpol. We’ve a half kilometer o’ passages and stairs ahead with a grand total sixty-meter vertical climb, more than the Leanin’ Tower of Pisa.”
Lefts. Rights. Stairs. Ladders. Down one story. Up two.
Mallory never wavered in his path, where Ben felt utterly disoriented. If the bos’n worked for Leviathan, playing the fool to set a trap, he had Ben at his mercy.
“How far now?” Ben found the question difficult, his breathing coming harder than expected. He sucked at the air, seeking oxygen, legitimately embarrassed. “Why is this . . . so hard? Feels like . . . a mountaintop.”
“Stale air.” The bos’n glanced down from the top of a canted ladder. “We rest the diesels in port, meanin’ the air pumps gotta shut down. That’s why the crew has ta use the dock barracks. It’ll be better up here. C’mon.”
Ben emerged into fresh, cold air, but Mallory gave him no time to breathe. He went straight across the deck to the first ladder of the ship’s upper superstructure, interlocking levels reminiscent of a Jenga tower. Fresh air or not, by the time they reached the flying bridge, he was spent.
At the door to the bridge, the bos’n had a word with the watch officer, but he’d left Ben too far behind to hear. Whatever passed between them, the watch officer didn’t give Ben so much as a passing glance when he caught up.
The tour began with the radar tower and emergency equipment. Ben could not have cared less. He left Mallory and headed for a bank of computer screens. “And what are these?”
“Er, that’s navcon, our navigation controls. These are the radar screens, fed by yer tower out there. And this’n . . .” He gestured to a map screen filled with moving targets, voice fading. Ben had clearly pushed past the limits of his knowledge.
The Paris Betrayal Page 12