‘So how do we play this, Saul?’
I’d just joined the southbound lane of US-101 in the direction of LA, and was hustling the Roadmaster as fast as I could get away with. And the mood in the car was different now. We had an exact time we were racing against, and a clear idea what was going on. And as a result, though the situation was tense, we were buzzing.
‘Well, as ever, we sure as hell can’t tip-off, since we can’t let Yuelin know we’re onto her. We know from Manek’s USB stick that Yuelin has dirt on Assistant Chief of Operations at the LAPD, so we better believe tipping off is a risk. So we’ve got to do this ourselves.
‘But while there is security at the port, if we play our cards right, it should be possible to get in. When I was at the FBI’s Office of Intelligence, the name of the game was assessing terrorist risks and potential targets, and my superiors would tear their hair out over the vulnerabilities of our ports. Port of Los Angeles is enormous – we’re talking forty-three miles of shoreline – yet there’s no more than a hundred police officers on site. And they’re from a host of different agencies, so there are all sorts of jurisdictional squabbles. And though these issues have been reiterated to government time and again, they simply don’t cough up the dough to improve things. Port of Los Angeles received $25 million over the five years after 9/11. About the same amount as the State of Washington spends in two days on its airports.
‘In fact, I remember, back in 2006, a journalist with the Seattle Times managed to get through security at Port of Los Angeles simply by hitching a ride with a truck driver with the relevant paperwork. He was asked to present identification only once, and flashed an expired driver’s license. It caused a world of frustration at the Bureau; yet, very little’s changed.’
‘But surely, given my status, I can’t sneak in under the radar,’ said Ellen.
I nodded my agreement. ‘And to make things worse, we’re on a tight time-schedule, meaning hitching a leisurely ride ain’t an option. So we need a more nuanced approach.’
I ground my teeth. ‘And by nuanced, I mean the old gun-to-the-head approach. Don’t get more nuanced than that. I say we head to a truckers’ cafe at the edge of LA – I know one in Oxnard which caters pretty much exclusively to truckers heading for the port. Then the moment we spot a driver get in a truck, we hijack the son-of-a-bitch, and get him to step on it to the port. We’ll have to put you in the back of the truck, but that can be arranged.
‘Of course, this plan also means inconveniencing some unlucky sap. But I see little alternative.’
‘How will I get in the truck? Don’t they seal them to stop just that?’
I nodded. ‘But most have fiberglass panels on the roof to let light in during loading and unloading. It’d be possible to cut through the fiberglass with the Swiss-army knife, lower yourself in, and rest on top of the cargo: they never fill trucks right to the brim.’
Ellen grunted her understanding. ‘Then how do we get to the right terminal?’
‘Should be simple enough. If memory serves me, all the security gates are at the main entrance. So, once we’re through, I’ll get the driver to take us to our terminal. I’m confident a truck heading to the wrong terminal won’t raise eyebrows: folk simply won’t notice.’
‘Okay. And then?’
‘Then we get on board. I’m not sure how we’re gonna do that; but if need be, we’ll do more of the same – gun-to-the-head stuff. The important thing is to ensure that the captain doesn’t get wind of what we’re doing. After all, it’s not impossible Yuelin’s given him a walkie-talkie, and told him to report any problems.’
‘So, we’re either gonna have to catch him by surprise, or get someone else to lead us to the crate?’
‘Bingo.’
‘And if the ship leaves the port while this is all going on?’
I shrugged. ‘Some ways, that’s a good thing. Prevents Yuelin interfering if she does get wind.’
‘And you don’t think this plan is even the slightest bit lunatic?’
I puffed my cheeks. ‘It’s completely lunatic. But lunatic’s all we got.’
We fell silent a spell; then Ellen said darkly:
‘What about Yuelin?’
I sighed. ‘There’s not much we can do about her – she’s home free. We just have to take solace in the fact that, though we can’t take revenge, we’ll hopefully be able to prevent others from needing to be avenged.’
Ellen made no reply. But her silence said it all. She was a noble sort, and was happy to be risking everything to pursue the path we were currently on. But she knew it wasn’t going to sate her thirst for revenge, and that was frustrating. And I could empathize, because I felt the same way. I wanted Yuelin’s blood.
I kept on navigating the road, going heavy on the gas, and keeping a sharp eye out for squad cars and on the dashboard clock.
We were making good time.
It was 7:15 p.m. when we arrived at the Valley Truck Stop in Oxnard: a sizeable blacktop just off the US-101, at the far end of which was a gas station and diner put there specifically to cater for truckers; a blacktop currently containing well over fifty trucks, parked in long lines.
We parked with the very few other cars on the opposite side, and immediately started walking over to the trucks.
As we did so, I could tell Ellen felt exposed: she was glancing around furtively. But we had little choice but to get on with the job. And fortunately – for now – there was little risk: the sun had set; the blacktop was pretty much empty.
‘Okay, Ellen,’ I said authoritatively, attempting to focus her mind. ‘The middle line of trucks – the seventeen or so completely out of view from the road and the diner – we need to wait for the driver of one of those: hijacking one of the others is too risky. I’m gonna stand by the last truck of the row closest to the diner. You stand just behind me. When someone comes, I’ll give you a signal; then I’m gonna get in the passenger seat at the same time the driver gets in. I’ll then stall, while you climb on the roof – if you can, climb up on the neighboring truck, then climb across, because I think it’ll alarm the driver less – then bash three times on the roof to signify you’re in.’
Ellen – already looking a good deal more focused – gave a nod.
As we reached the first of the trucks, I felt a couple of drops of rain hit my forearms. Then, by the time we’d walked between the rows of trucks, to the opposite side of the blacktop the rain was coming down freely.
I knew this weather would do us no favors, since it was likely to delay the truckers from leaving the diner. But there was nothing we could do.
I turned to Ellen:
‘Make sure not to remove the fiberglass. Bend it to give yourself room to get in, then close it up again. Water’ll still get in, but it’ll make a difference.’
Ellen nodded. Then she took out the Swiss-army knife which she’d put in her pocket earlier, and passed it hand to hand.
Then, the next instant, we took up our positions – me by truck nearest the diner, with my head peaking round the edge; Ellen behind me. Then, as the heavens really started taking it out on us, we played the waiting game.
Minutes went by, and I just concentrated on keeping my cool, because that was the only thing I could do. Five minutes later, a burly guy left the diner, and walked quickly across the parking lot; but it was hard luck for us, as he got in a truck in the row closest to the diner.
After another five minutes, I was starting to feel real tense. But scarcely had I registered this than another trucker left the diner. A tall guy, slack jawed, wearing a California Angels cap. I held my breath. When he reached the trucks – and I carefully tracked back to where Ellen was standing – I saw him approach one of the vehicles in our row.
I nodded at the now rain-drenched Ellen, and started heading off round the back of the truck. As I started creeping up towards the passenger-side door, the engine started.
This was the third time I was sneaking up on a driver via the passenger side door in as many days. And in the midst of all the tension and fear, I suddenly found myself grinning at the thought I’d been taking the whole riding shotgun thing a little too literally.
And in almost the same moment as this went through my head, I was at it again: I opened up the door, raised my Walther, and got in.
‘Here’s the deal, buddy: you’re gonna do what I say. If you play ball, nobody gets hurt. I’m a dangerous guy – I was in Iraq, and know my way round a weapon – so don’t pull any funny stuff.’
The guy was paralyzed with fear, his hands white on the steering wheel. I took the opportunity to reach over, and frisk him, on the off-chance he was packing heat. Then I checked the glove compartment – the usual place you’d find a weapon. There was nothing in there except a driver’s license, which I pocketed.
‘Okay, buddy, breathe. Nice deep breaths.’
He did, and calmed a fraction.
‘Where you headed?’
‘Port.’ His voice wavered, then firmed. ‘Port of Los Angeles.’
‘Me too. You’re gonna drive us over there, chop-fucking-chop. Then you’re gonna get me through security. That all clear?’
‘Clear.’ He said. His neck then twitched at the sound of scrambling towards the back of the truck – Ellen climbing onto the roof.
‘Keep your eyes dead ahead. I’ll let you know when I want you to set off.’
‘I’ve got kids, man. A wife.’
‘Like I said: if you do as I say, you’ll be fine.’
He nodded.
We sat in tense silence as the rummaging continued in back. My jaw rock hard with tension. The quicker we got out of there, the better because, though it’d taken a good while for Slack Jaw to make an appearance, I had a feeling that Murphy’s law would prevail, and the next driver to leave the diner would own the truck next to this one.
After a long minute, I heard the three taps that signified Ellen was ready to go.
‘Okay buddy, pull out, and head for US-101.’
He didn’t reply. He did one better: he did what I said.
I took a deep breath. The rain was coming down hard now. Real damn hard.
At 8:37, we hit Harbor City – the district of LA just north of the Port.
The past hour and a quarter with Slack Jaw – real name, Callum Jones, according to his driver’s license – had been fairly seamless. And in fact, Jones had cooled down a good deal as the journey wore on. But while conversation had been near non-existent, now that we were approaching our destination, I decided to squeeze what information I could out of him.
‘So am I right in saying, Callum, that when we get over the bridge, the security checks are at the main entrance?’ I said, abruptly breaking the silence.
He blinked twice. ‘That’s right.’
‘How long do they usually take?’
‘Not long. This time of day, maybe ten minutes.’
Given that the ship was due to be leaving at 9:25 p.m., that was still a long time. But there was little I could do about it.
‘Can you get me to the West Basin Container Terminal, Berth 102?’
He nodded.
‘And nobody’s likely to notice us heading in the wrong direction?’
His eyebrows twitched. ‘Thirty thousand crates come through this port, daily. That’s a lot of trucks. If somebody notices, it’ll be bad luck.’
‘Alright. And the ships themselves, do you know anything about the boarding procedure? In particular, do you know how long the gangway stairs are left in place before the ship sets off?’
‘Right up until the last moment: they’re affixed to the side of the ships. Or, at least, that’s usually the case.’ He looked at me out the corner of his eye. ‘I can’t promise you; but since you’re heading for West Basin, you’re dealing with a China Shipping boat, right? If so, then yeah, the ship’s got stairs affixed to its side.’
I turned to him. Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe I’d underestimated him; that maybe he knew more than I’d assumed. And this could potentially be useful.
‘You ever been on one of these China Shipping cargo carriers?’
His bottom lip trembled. He was reticent to share with someone he thought could be a terrorist. But I didn’t have time to fuck around.
‘Don’t make this difficult,’ I said harshly, poking the Walther into his side.
Jones’s face purpled; then he said softly: ‘Alright. What do you wanna know?’
‘These Chinese Shipping cargo boats – what do they look like?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve only been on one, and have no clue if they’re all alike. But basically, we’re talking a 700 foot long structure – similar in length to the Titanic – and able to hold 2,600 containers. When you hit the top of the gangway stairs, you arrive on deck, maybe 200 feet from the back of the boat. That’s where the entrance to the deckhouse is: a slim six-story tower in which a crew of maybe twenty lives. The engine room’s beneath the deckhouse.’
He looked at me. I nodded encouragement.
‘The rest of ship’s full of twenty-foot shipping crates – both in front and behind the deckhouse – and these occupy the majority of the space above and below deck. But they’re not stacked to form one continuous block: they’re stacked in such a way that there are spaces between columns of containers so that, if need be, the crew can navigate the main container holds below-decks to deal with problems.’
I nodded. ‘So they almost form corridors?’
‘Right. And at the back of the ship’s the main escape boat. A little orange pod. Contains enough seats, all tightly packed, for the whole crew. Looks more like a submarine, and is designed to eject straight into the water.’ He paused. ‘That’s all I can remember.’
I nodded, and I let him get on with driving. We were now rumbling towards the bridge, and the rain was hitting the truck so hard that no amount of noise Ellen could possibly have made would have been detectable.
She was no doubt soaking wet and uncomfortable. But so long as she’d folded the fiberglass back in place, she’d be fine.
Next thing, the truck was in a line passing over the bridge to Terminal Island – the artificial land-mass on which the Port of Los Angeles’s situated – and I took that as a cue to put the gun behind my jacket, so I could keep it aimed at Jones yet concealed. I could tell Jones was getting nervous again, but I felt confident that so long as he kept it together, we’d get through fine. And sure enough, as we then passed through a number of checkpoints, we got through every time without a hitch: Jones presented his paperwork, they waved us through. Only at the very last check did a guy – a security guard, not a cop – ask to see my ID; and just like the journalist, I flashed a driver’s license, and it did the trick.
Within ten minutes, just as Jones had predicted, we were through, and had begun navigating the port’s internal road system. There were signs clearly demarcating the way to West Basin Terminal. As we did so, I watched the procession of cargo ships – each towering two hundred feet above the water, many with cranes heaving and bowing nearby, all bathed in strategically placed lights – go past one window. Out the other, expanses of tarmac, interpolated by the occasional warehouses.
I watched the dashboard clock nervously as we continued through the seemingly interminable complex – it was fast approaching 9:05 – until we finally approached Berths 100 to 102. They were the last three at the end of this portion of Terminal Island, all side by side, with a large, squat warehouse opposite, clearly there to cater to all three. And while 100 and 101 were empty, 102 had a large green ship, full of containers, moored side-on to it, with the words China Shipping in white letters along the side. It was bathed in a strategically placed light that looked like one you might find by a football field and looked just as Jones had said.
And I was encouraged by what I was seeing. Because though the ship and gangway stairs were illuminated, the road was lined with only intermittent lights, and everything else was shrouded in darkness, meaning that getting close to the boat on foot would be simple.
What’s more, the warehouse offered a good place to stow the truck. Yes, there were further berths opposite, plus a further warehouse, which, unlike this one, had its lights on. But they were a good two miles off, and I was primarily concerned about concealing the truck from the occupants of the ship.
My biggest worry was that someone would notice the truck approaching as there were no other trucks along this portion. But I decided that if someone had spotted us, that turning off the headlights before we parked would only arouse further suspicions. So we just had to try our luck. As it was, I could see nobody on the ship watching on.
‘Pull in behind this warehouse,’ I told Jones. ‘Then kill the engine and headlights.’
My gun was now on show again, and Jones gave a sharp nod. A few moments later, he’d parked up.
I opened my door, climbed out backwards into rain which hit me with enormous force and, while keeping my gun trained on Jones, walked round to his door, and opened it.
‘Out. Then unlock the back of the truck.’
He climbed out, and led the way to the back of the truck. Took out his keys, undid the hefty locks, and opened the doors. Water that’d undoubtedly gotten in via the roof washed out. And though there was, of course, a shipping container inside, there was a bit of space between the door and the cargo. Space enough to fit Jones.
‘Get in,’ I said.
‘You ain’t gonna shoot me?’
‘If I wanted to just shoot you, I would’ve done so. Get in.’
He did. I produced the handcuffs I’d taken from the police back in Fresno, attached one end to his right wrist, and the other to the interior door handle.
‘I’m sorry about putting you through all this, but you’re in the clear now.’
Jones said nothing, but his eyes were full of relief. He knew that, though he would be left in the truck, he’d escaped with his life.
I shut the door and locked it, just to be sure.
Then I walked to the side of the truck, bashed it twice as hard as I could – to make it felt over the thudding rain – and shouted: ‘All clear.’
A pause; then Ellen appeared out of the roof, wet and disheveled. She clambered down and arrived at my side.
‘Let’s roll,’ she said.