Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (53 page)

 
          
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.

 
          
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.