CHAPTER 8
Kyle looked up from the book he was reading and said, “Fascinating country. Pity Ceauşescu and his cronies looted it, or it could have had a lot more historical interest.”
“It’s getting there,” Wade said.
“Yeah, I suppose twenty years or even fifty isn’t that long. It just seems like a hell of a long time from personal perspective.”
“That it does,” Wade agreed. “Harp for dinner again?”
“I guess I can manage that,” Kyle said. It would get boring eventually, but the place had a big enough menu to last several days without repeating.
Besides, it got them out of the hotel and killed some time.
After dinner, they went back to the room. Neither felt up to tackling the nightlife.
They were just sitting down to a mix of local and online news when Kyle’s phone rang.
He stood and dug the phone out of his jacket pocket. “Monroe,” he answered.
“Kyle, this is Mick.”
“Yes, Mick?”
“I’ve got a lead for you guys. Right now.”
Kyle snapped his fingers and pointed at Wade, who rolled off the bed and started grabbing gear.
“Shoot,” Kyle prompted.
“There’s a ship coming in tonight,” Cafferty said. “Our marine mammal friends”—that would be the SEALs—“have got a probable ID on explosives from a sniff. We’ve decided to let this one through so you can follow it. It’s big,” he said, hesitating.
“How big?” Kyle asked.
“Might be a ton of conventional explosive, likely blasting gelatin. Not as sexy as Semtex or C4, but plenty for a dozen small missions or one huge blast.”
“What do you want us to do?” Kyle asked. This was a bit more than they’d planned on.
Across the room, Wade had the weapons bagged and was changing into local working-class clothes.
Cafferty said, “Go to the port in Constanta. The ship Chernomertvetz is arriving now. We can’t imagine they’ll let that stuff sit for long; it’s standard to turn around fast. So they likely have an ally handy who’ll clear them through customs, or a bribe or some evasion and they’ll unload fast. Follow them wherever they go, report back, get photos of people and take further action if necessary.”
“We’re on it. Got a map and more data?”
“Yes, I just emailed your laptop. It’s all there, including a phone contact for our friends. They’ll give you regular updates on position and schedule.”
“Will do. We’re rolling now,” Kyle said, nodding from habit even though it couldn’t be seen. Wade did see it and nodded back.
“Good luck,” Cafferty said and clicked off. Kyle shoved the phone into the pocket, snapped it closed, and went about getting dressed himself. He logged the laptop in with a touch and watched as it started downloading mail. A three-meg file. Lots of stuff.
“How did you know it was working-class clothes?” he asked Wade, in regard to his partner’s dress.
“It’s 8:00 p.m. No way are we going out to a ball on short notice, if these guys even do balls.”
“Right,” he agreed, pulling on well-worn khakis. “Who’s driving?”
“That depends,” Wade said. “I grew up in central Illinois, flatland.”
“It’s hilly. I’m from southern Ohio. Better let me do it.”
“Suits me. I’ll navigate, take pictures, shoot if needed, and flirt with any chicks.”
In ten minutes, they were stuffing gear into the backseat and scrambling into the front.
“This time, we’re actually using the laptop,” Wade said. He was opening it to read routes and docking info. The Pakistan mission had resulted in much lost and damaged equipment, and other pieces that proved largely useless. So far this time, everything was working nominally.
So far.
“Hey, I’ll take any advantage we can get,” Kyle said. “What’s our route?”
Wade navigated them out of the city very professionally. “Left at the third light,” he’d say. “Two blocks, then right, immediate left.” Bucharest was old. Even the new parts were built on ancient, twisting routes that hadn’t been intended for modern vehicles.
“This is like old New England or the most cramped parts of Philly,” Kyle said.
“Worse, I think. Left again up ahead. That’s our route.”
“Roger.”
The highway was one designated as an “E,” or European road. It was therefore in decent repair. Kyle waited impatiently at traffic lights and stop signs, then powered away, swapping fuel efficiency for precious seconds.
It was quiet enough as they left town, but even this late at night, there were a few obstacles—chuckholes, horse- and mule-drawn carts and drivers in rattly old Yugos or medieval Fiats that could barely keep up—even an old diesel Volvo that smoked and sputtered as Kyle passed it. The road was a divided highway at first, a second pair of lanes obviously built alongside the older two-lane. There were quite a few intersections where “largest vehicle has right of way” was the unstated rule.
Wade got on the phone and called the number they’d been given. “Curtis here,” he said. “How’s it going? . . . Okay. Yes, two hours at least . . . Will you be meeting us? . . . Okay. Stand by.” He started hooking the phone up to the laptop.
“What’s up?” Kyle asked.
“Getting an image. We should be there in time. It takes a while for docking and clearance. Then they have to get cranes and ramps into position. But after that, they think it might be the first load off.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to observe from shore while they observe from sea. They’ll let us know when they think it’s the right load. I get the impression they were hoping to plant a tracer of some kind on it, and couldn’t quite get close enough to the load.”
“Damn. That would have made things much easier for everyone.”
“Yeah. We’d just have to zoom in and shoot.” They passed through Dragalina, Fetesti, and several smaller, unremarkable towns, each one a delay on what was a nominal hundred-and-twenty-mile trip. It was a two-hour trip if all went well, but it was near midnight when they rolled into Constanta.
“I’m not sure we want to get too close to the port,” Kyle said. “We’ve got radios, would you feel safe making a recon on foot? I’ll circle and recon by car and be ready to roll.”
“Safe, no. But I’ll do it,” Wade agreed. “No weapons, I want deniability, but if the radio isn’t answering, you’ll need to come get me.” He sounded nervous.
“Take the Beretta,” Kyle decided. “A magazine full of ammo might get them to duck long enough for you to get out, and I’ll be ready with the AK. If they’ve got too many for us to tackle, just bow out early.”
“Got it,” Wade agreed. “But I’d rather not have a firefight here.”
“Agreed,” Kyle said.
Constanta was old, grimy, and broad. It had been named after Constantine, and had been a port even before that. Parts had been built by the Turks, the Romanians, the Communists, Ceauşcescu’s regime, and again by free Romanians. The architecture ran the gamut from Turkish to baroque and to modem, and the streets were as snarled and twisted as any others in this country. They came in on the Bulevardul Tomis, past a sign for the Roman baths and then south toward the port.
The port wasn’t quite what they’d expected it to be. It was bigger than they would have thought, and alternated between arc-lit operations and dark industrial sections. There was a rail yard that went on for miles, and docks ashore and along a breakwater. Ships were moving in at a steady clip, and others departing. APM Terminals had a sign up, as did SC Socep. Workers, mostly men, were everywhere, loading, unloading, hauling, opening crates, backing vehicles.
Wade said, “It’s the second pier from the south. The southernmost has petrochemical storage.”
“You know what we’re looking for?” Kyle asked. He’d been busy driving and had everything secondhand from Wade. He was having trouble visualizing things.
“Yes, it’s a smaller, older ship. Diesel drive, no stacks, and is very low and curvy. I have the image they sent. It’s grainy, but I think I can spot it.”
“Good.”
“It won’t take long, I’m told. Ships don’t like sitting in port, because they only make money when moving, kinda like truckers. So we can expect them to haul ass once they get docked.”
The gate was guarded, but there was no fence. There were dark, shadowy areas, and it was toward one of those that Wade was angling in a crouch.
It took Wade only a few seconds to cut a slice in the fence and slip in. Kyle watched him disappear, his right foot catching for a moment, then gone. He had no idea what the inside of the facility looked like, other than it was full of containers and piles, rails and cranes. Wade would have to walk quite some distance without being identified, then walk back out unseen if he were to be able to ride with Kyle on the chase.
If not, he had cash and could arrange transport back by himself. On the other hand, with a silenced Beretta, cash, and communication gear, anyone finding him would suspect him of crime or terrorism.
And that was Wade’s worry, Kyle reminded himself. His was out here, ready to chase. Wade had the inside watch.
Meanwhile, Kyle sat and waited. Every minute or two he revved the engine up to 1200 or so, just to stop it from fouling. It likely wasn’t necessary in a modern fuel-injected car, but it was habit and ensured the engine was responsive. He used the heat to keep his feet warm, leaving the window open for Wade. But he ensured all the doors were locked and held firmly to his Ed Brown, suppressor in place, the whole assembly tucked under his left arm inside his coat.
“Arriving,” Wade whispered hoarsely in his ears. Seconds later, his shape rose near the door, disturbing and macabre despite the fact that it was a perfectly reasonable act.
Calm down, Kyle reminded himself, taking a deep breath.
“This is a job for White Man!” Wade said softly. “Gypsies and Romanians all over the place. You’ll blend in fine. I won’t.”
“Okay,” Kyle agreed. “Let me see the maps and pics.” He sighed. It wasn’t Wade’s fault, dammit, but anything that changed his plans was exasperating.
The ship looked easy to spot; it was very rounded at the ends. The bow and stern, he reminded himself. It had a large yellow crane at the rear third. The map told him where it was supposed to be docking.
“Okay, call our friends and make sure they have my number,” Kyle said. “Call me to confirm, and I’ll let you know what I find.” It was cool enough to justify wearing a polyester ski cap rolled down to hide his radio earpiece. With the microphone dangling inside his upturned collar, it should be invisible, and he should look like any common laborer.
He took the smaller of their two still cameras so he could try for images if needed, and climbed out, adjusting his collar as he did so.
From where the car was, it was easy to walk across the rail yard. There were several other people in sight, and no one seemed to care about the fact that it was unsafe and potentially threatening. Which in this case, Kyle reflected, was good. For him at least.
There was also a sea fog moving in. That worked both ways. It would hide him, but it would also mean he’d need to get close to the ship. Meanwhile, he had to maintain a lookout so he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone. He could badly pretend to be Spanish, or hope to pass off as a Brit, or even just grunt a bit in passing. But if the conversation lasted more than two sentences, he’d be obvious.
A buzz surprised him. It was the phone in his pocket, set to vibrate to keep it discreet.
“Monroe,” he answered.
“This is Kabongo, on the water.” The voice was clear, but there was background noise, probably a boat engine.
“What have you got?”
“They’re docking and tying up now. I’ve got someone watching from the water, but his angle is limited.”
“I’ll be there soon. How close do I need to be?” He was trying to keep his voice at a mutter but loud enough for audibility. It wouldn’t do to be heard in English without a believable cover story.
“Five hundred meters should be close enough. We think the cargo you’re looking for is a pallet of wooden crates. Should be one of the first loads off.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Let me know if anything else happens.”
“Will do. Out.”
“Out.”
Once at the docks proper, there was plenty of cover. People were all over the place, but not in concentrations except where unloading a ship.
Some sauntered, some loitered, some walked briskly. People were hanging off cranes, trucks, and ramps. Lots were smoking. It occurred to Kyle that cigarettes would help them blend in for tasks like this, and they should buy some. All he had to do was sit and hold one and he’d be presumed taking a break, whether authorized or not. He could also offer one and grunt to kill five seconds of interaction, then pretend not to speak the language. If he tossed a few broken words out and was happy to share his smokes, few would question him. In fact, he was getting the hang of this. Act as if you belong and people assume you do.
He saw Chernomertvetz quite far out, past a much larger cargo craft named Yebar’ Volgi, a huge ocean freighter, and another huge ship he couldn’t identify. The Chernomertvetz was small in comparison, only about two hundred feet long. Even from this far away in fog, she was worn and old, with rust running down her anchor ports.
Now to find a place to observe from. There were plenty of conex containers in rows, awaiting loading or removal. There were also stacks of crates and drums awaiting palletization. To skulk around anything would be to suggest an intent to steal. The best cover was just to stand out in front, shirking, leaning against the corner of a conex. It was wet with mist, but that was a minor issue. It didn’t bother Kyle, and it didn’t bother the men and few women who worked here, who were rough and burly and used to working in all weather.
Occasionally, Kyle nodded back at a passerby. Someone made a fingers to lips gesture for a cigarette, and he shrugged and shook his head. Apart from that, nothing to speak of happened for an hour. Chernomertvetz was tied up and the only action was the clattering of hatches and planks preparing for a massive offload. The sounds were discernible with effort and observation, because a bigger, closer ship was undergoing the same preparation. Then there were several powering in or out of the harbor.
It was quite practical for Kyle to look around, surreptitiously watching from the corners of his eyes while not actually staring directly. But after an hour of even that, he was gathering more curious looks than he thought was healthy, and moved a little closer and across the way. Chernomertvetz was well to his left, at nine o’clock to him. He had a good view of her entire side, as cranes started swinging into place and pulling loads from her holds.
He hadn’t been told, but assumed there’d be other cargo, most of it legitimate. Either it would be done as cover, or the crew really might not know what was being carried, apart from one or two conspirators. So it was no surprise to see several large containers being withdrawn. He used the camera without flash to get several pictures, trying to time them for when no observers were looking in his direction. He was point-shooting rather than risk raising it to his face. It was entirely possible people snapped photos all the time, but probably not lone men leaning against boxes, with no apparent job waiting and using a US$1000 camera set for infrared as well as visible frequencies.
After five loads of the front crane, something came up that caught Kyle’s interest.
That was definitely a pallet inside plastic. It looked like wooden crates, being too light in color for cardboard, and with corners too sharp. But was it the right package? The only way to tell would be to follow it, and there were a lot of trucks along here.
It was down behind an old Mercedes box van and being stripped to load individually. That was likely a good indication, he thought. It would be easier to load the whole pallet onto a larger vehicle, which would mean cheaper. To break this up here indicated a desire to conceal it shortly, and the small enclosed truck meant they didn’t want it seen.
He made a quick note of the license plate on the blunt-nosed vehicle, noted the color—dark blue—and turned casually back the way he’d come.
Steady walk, he reminded himself. To run would attract attention. But he did need to walk briskly. He stretched out his pace, being careful of his footing and trying to find a good route. He wanted one that was reasonably direct, but wasn’t an obvious beeline out.
He was a good halfway out, striding through the rail yard, when two men came toward him. He quivered alert, in case they were port guards or thugs from his quarry. But they waved casually for attention. He shook an arm back and kept walking.
One of them shouted, “Ţigară?” Cigarette?
“Îmi pare rău,” he replied. Sorry. It might have been a simple attempt to mooch, but they kept getting closer.
Mugging in progress, he thought. Should he run, fight, or worse?
The decision wasn’t an easy one, but there were matters at stake here. He had to get this info out and follow up on it. He couldn’t be dragged in locally or he’d blow the whole mission. These men weren’t his friends and did mean ill. He couldn’t think of a way out that was particularly safe. So he’d have to do something obvious and hope to be gone before it was discovered. He scanned for witnesses, backup, anything that might change his decision. Then, sighing, he slipped his hand inside his coat for his pistol.
In a gully between tracks, about three feet deep, wet and muddy, he saw a section of slender pipe. Perhaps eighteen inches long, one inch diameter, and thick walled. That should help. He bent and scooped it as he dropped down into the rut, then stood back up with it in his left hand. He laid it casually over his shoulder and walked toward the two probable hostiles. Would it work?
They hesitated for just a moment as he raised the pipe. Then they resumed their approach, but at a slower pace.
Kyle increased his and plastered a smile on his face. Look at the man with the grin and the pipe. He’s hoping for a good rumble to settle his late dinner. You can be his playmates. Come on, you bastards, run. Don’t make me shoot you.
Because that was the only alternative he could think of—shoot them with a silenced .45 and hope no one noticed until he was gone. Unless a passerby interfered before the fight started by being awkwardly present, he would have to take them out. And he wasn’t sure they didn’t have clubs or knives or even guns of their own. Probably not guns, but he couldn’t risk his mission over it.
In another moment, the two had made their own calculations, and decided Kyle was too eager to meet them. They angled sharply away to seek easier prey.
Smart move, Kyle thought. For all of us.